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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5618-0.txt b/5618-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16f9036 --- /dev/null +++ b/5618-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12691 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Six Plays, by Florence Henrietta Darwin, +Edited by Cecil Sharp + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Six Plays + + +Author: Florence Henrietta Darwin + +Editor: Cecil Sharp + +Release Date: December 18, 2014 [eBook #5618] +[This file was first posted on July 23, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX PLAYS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1921 W. Heffer & Sons edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Florence Henrietta Darwin] + + + + + + SIX PLAYS + By FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + and an Introduction by CECIL SHARP + + + Memoir and Portrait of the Author + + * * * * * + +W. HEFFER & SONS LTD., +CAMBRIDGE, 1921. + + SIX PLAYS + + BY + FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + The Plays may be had in paper covers at + 1s. 6d. net as under + +1. LOVERS’ TASKS + +2. BUSHES & BRIARS + +3. MY MAN JOHN + +4. PRINCESS ROYAL } + +5. THE SEEDS OF LOVE } In one volume + +6. THE NEW YEAR + W. HEFFER & SONS LTD. + CAMBRIDGE + +INTRODUCTION + + +I HAVE been asked to write a few lines of introduction to these volumes +of Country Plays, and I do so, not because I can claim any right to speak +with authority on the subject of drama, but in order that I may associate +myself and express my sympathy with the endeavour which the author has +made to restore to his rightful estate the English peasant with whom my +work for twenty years or more has brought me into close relations. + +There have been few serious attempts to depict English country life on +the stage. Nor, for that matter, can it be said that the English peasant +has fared over well in our literature. Nevertheless, the English +countryman has qualities all his own, no less distinctive nor less +engaging than those of his Irish, Scottish, Russian, or Continental +neighbours, even though his especial characteristics have hitherto been +for the most part either ignored or grossly travestied by the playwright. +Now in these plays, as it seems to me, he has at last come into his own +kingdom and is painted, perhaps for the first time on the stage, in his +true colours, neither caricatured on the one hand, nor, on the other, +sentimentalised, but faithfully portrayed by a peculiarly sympathetic and +skilful hand. + +It is well, too, that an authentic record should be preserved of the life +that has been lived in our country villages year in year out for +centuries before its last vestiges—and they are all that now remain—have +been completely submerged in the oncoming tide of modern civilisation and +progress. Moreover, the songs and dances of the English peasantry that +have become widely known in the last few years have awakened a general +interest and curiosity in all that concerns the lives and habits of +country people and there are many who will be glad to know what manner of +men and women were they who created things of so rare and delicate a +beauty. + +These plays are very simple plays. With one exception, “The New Year,” +they rest for their effects upon dialogue rather than upon dramatic +action or plot. There is nothing harrowing, problematical, or +pathological about any of them. The stories are as simple, obvious and +naïve, and have the same happy endings as those which the folk delight to +sing about in their own songs, and from which, indeed, judging by the +titles she has given to her plays, the author drew her inspiration. + +It will be noticed that Lady Darwin has eliminated dialect from the +speech which she has put into the mouths of her characters. This is not +because the English villager has no vernacular of his own—there are as +many dialects in England as there are counties—but because dialect, as no +doubt Lady Darwin knew full well, is not of the essence of speech. It is +the way in which language is used for the purpose of expression, the +order in which words are strung together, the subtle, elusive turns of +speech, the character of its figures and metaphors, rather than local +peculiarities of intonation and pronunciation, which betray and illumine +character. And it is upon these, the essential characteristics of +speech, that the author of these plays has wisely and, for the most part, +wholly, relied to give life and character to the actors of her dramas. +The results she has achieved by these means is nothing less than amazing. +So accurately has she caught the peculiar inflections, the inversions, +the curious meanderings and involutions of peasant speech, so +penetrating—uncanny at times—is her insight into the structure and +working of the peasant mind, that, did one not know that this was +scarcely the fact, one would have been tempted to suspect that the author +had herself been born and bred in a country village and lived all her +days amongst those whose characters and habits of mind she has described +with such fidelity. + +Take, for instance, the lesson on courtship which My Man John gives to +his master—is not the actual phrasing almost photographic in its +accuracy? Note, too, the frequent use of homely metaphor:— + + ’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the fowls when they be come out from + moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in their new + feathers. + + I warrant she be gone shy as a May bettel when ’tis daylight. + + Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ old mare when + her first comes up from grass. + + I likes doing things my own way, mother. Womenfolk, they be so + buzzing. ’Tis like a lot of insects around of any one on a summer’s + day. A-saying this way and that—whilst a man do go at everything + quiet and calm-like. + +and the following typical sentences:— + + Well, mother, I count I’m back a smartish bit sooner nor what you did + expect. + + There was a cow—well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows as I’ve seen in my + time, but this one, why, the king haven’t got the match to she in all + his great palace, and that’s the truth, so ’tis. + + I bain’t one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got a + poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did carry + a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of + them clean forgot. + +The task of selection has not been an easy one. “The New Year” is the +only Country play on large and ambitious lines which Lady Darwin left +behind her, and it is on this account, as well as for its own merits, +which I venture to think are very considerable, that it has been +included. “Princess Royal” was written for a special occasion, and is +frankly more conventional and artificial than the others, but it will +nevertheless appeal to folk-dancers, and for that reason, rather than +perhaps for its intrinsic value, room has been found for it. The +remaining four are, in their several ways, typical of the author’s work, +and I for one have little doubt but that they will make a wide appeal, +more especially perhaps to those simple-minded people (of whom I am +persuaded there are many, even in these latter-days) who are able to +appreciate the unpretentious beauty of an art that is well-nigh artless +in its simplicity. Some of them may be too slight in design, too +delicate in texture, their beauty too elusive, to succeed on the +professional stage; I do not know. But there is a large demand for plays +of a non-professional character; and that Lady Darwin’s will be acted +with pleasure and listened to with delight in hut or hall or +country-house of a winter’s evening, I cannot doubt. + + CECIL SHARP. + + + + +FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + + +FLORENCE HENRIETTA FISHER was born at 3, Onslow Square, London, in the +year 1864; but to those of a younger generation it seemed that nearly the +whole of her youth had been spent in the New Forest, so largely did it +figure in her stories of the past. It was at Whitley Ridge, +Brockenhurst, that her earliest plays were written, and many marvellous +characters created; their names still live. It was there that she became +a very good violin player, as well as a musician in a wider sense. It +was in Brockenhurst Church that, in 1886, she married Frederic William +Maitland, later Downing professor of the laws of England. + +Mr. and Mrs. Maitland lived in Cambridge; for the first two years at +Brookside, and afterwards in the West Lodge of Downing College. + +Along with her love of music there had begun, and there continued a love +of animals, and, from Moses, a dog of Brockenhurst days, there stretched +down a long procession of dogs, cats, monkeys, foxes, moles, merecats, +mongeese, bush cats and marmosets, accompanied by a variety of birds. If +such a thing as a dumb animal has ever existed it certainly was not one +of hers, for, besides what they were able to say for themselves, they +spoke much through her. Not only were they able to recount all that had +happened to them in past home or jungle, they were perfectly able to give +advice in every situation and to join in every discussion. Neither were +their pens less ready than their tongues, and many were the letters of +flamboyant script and misspelt word that came forth from cage or basket. + +Frederic William Maitland possessed a small property at Brookthorpe, +Gloucestershire; and near this property, in a house in the village of +Edge and at the top of the Horsepools hill, he and his wife and their two +children spent most of their holidays. They were happy days. Animals +increased in number and rejoiced in freedom, fairs were attended, dancing +bears and bird carts came at intervals to the door, gipsies were +delighted in and protected, and it was there that many friendships with +country people were made. Several days a week would find Mrs. Maitland +driving down to Brookthorpe in donkey or pony cart to see tenants, to +enquire for or feed the sick, to visit the school, to advise and be +advised in the many difficulties of human life. With a wonderful memory +and power of reproducing that which she had heard, she brought back rare +harvest from these expeditions. All through her days she was told more +in a week than many people hear in a life-time. + +After much illness, Professor Maitland was told that he must leave +England, and in 1898 the Maitlands set sail to the island of Grand +Canary; and it was there that they spent each winter, with the exception +of one in Madeira, until Professor Maitland’s death in 1906. The beauty +and warmth of the island were a joy to Mrs. Maitland, washing out all the +difficulties of housekeeping and the labour of cooking. The day of +hardest work still left her time to set forth, accompanied by a faithful +one-legged hen, to seek the shade of chestnut or loquat tree, and there +to write. The song of frogs rising from watery palm grove, the hot dusty +scent of pepper tree, the cool scent of orange, the mountains sharp and +black against the evening sky, the brightly coloured houses crowded to +the brink of still brighter sea, were all things she loved, and their +images remained with her always. She became an expert talker of what she +called kitchen Spanish, and her store of country history increased +greatly, for, from Candelaria, the washer-woman to Don Luis the grocer, +she met no one who was not ready to tell her all the marvels that ever +they knew. + +In 1906 Frederic William Maitland landed on the island too ill to reach +the house that Mrs. Maitland had gone out earlier to prepare for him. He +was taken to an hotel in the city of Las Palmas, and there, on December +the 19th, he died. + +In the spring of 1907 Mrs. Maitland returned to England. + +In 1909 she added on to a small farm house at Brookthorpe, and there she +went to live. She was thus able to renew many friendships, and in some +slight degree take up the life that had been so dear to her. It was +during these last eleven years at Brookthorpe that she wrote all her +plays dealing with country people; the first for a class of village +children to whom she taught singing, the later ones in response to a +growing demand not only from other Gloucestershire villages, but from +village clubs and institutes scattered over a large part of England. She +saw several of her plays acted by the Oakridge and the Sapperton players, +and these performances and letters from other performers gave her great +pleasure. + +In 1913 she married Sir Francis Darwin. Their life at Brookthorpe was +varied by months spent at his house in Cambridge. It was there that she +died on March 5th, 1920. + +During her last years she had much illness to contend with. Unable to +play her violin, she turned to the spinet. She practised for hours, +wrote plays, and attended to her house when many would have lain in their +beds. + +Her religion became of increasingly great comfort and interest to her, +and it was in that light that she came, more and more, to look at all +things. + +In the minds of many who knew her in those years rose up the words: I +have fought a good fight. + + E. M. + + + + +THE LOVERS’ TASKS + + +CHARACTERS + + +FARMER DANIEL, + +ELIZABETH, _his wife_. + +MILLIE, _her daughter_. + +ANNET, _his niece_. + +MAY, _Annet’s sister_, _aged ten_. + +GILES, _their brother_. + +ANDREW, _a rich young farmer_. + +GEORGE _and_ JOHN, _servants to Giles_. + +AN OLD MAN. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + + _The parlour at Camel Farm_. + + _Time_: _An afternoon in May_. + +ELIZABETH _is sewing by the table with_ ANNET. _At the open doorway_ MAY +_is polishing a bright mug_. + +ELIZABETH. [_Looking up_.] There’s Uncle, back from the Fair. + +MAY. [_Looking out of the door_.] O Uncle’s got some rare big packets +in his arms, he has. + +ELIZABETH. Put down that mug afore you damage it, May; and, Annet, do +you go and help your uncle in. + +MAY. [_Setting down the mug_.] O let me go along of her too—[ANNET +_rises and goes to the door followed by_ MAY, _who has dropped her +polishing leather upon the ground_. + +ELIZABETH. [_Picking it up and speaking to herself in exasperation_.] +If ever there was a careless little wench, ’tis she. I never did hold +with the bringing up of other folks children and if I’d had my way, ’tis +to the poor-house they’d have went, instead of coming here where I’ve +enough to do with my own. + +[_The_ FARMER _comes in followed by_ ANNET _and_ MAY _carrying large +parcels_. + +DANIEL. Well Mother, I count I’m back a smartish bit sooner nor what you +did expect. + +ELIZABETH. I’m not one that can be taken by surprise, Dan. May, lay +that parcel on the table at once, and put away your uncle’s hat and +overcoat. + +DAN. Nay, the overcoat’s too heavy for the little maid—I’ll hang it up +myself. + +[_He takes off his coat and goes out into the passage to hang it up_. +_May runs after him with his hat_. + +ANNET. I do want to know what’s in all those great packets, Aunt. + +ELIZABETH. I daresay you’ll be told all in good season. Here, take up +and get on with that sewing, I dislike to see young people idling away +their time. + +[_The_ FARMER _and_ MAY _come back_. + +MAY. And now, untie the packets quickly, uncle. + +DANIEL. [_Sinking into a big chair_.] Not so fast, my little maid, not +so fast—’tis a powerful long distance as I have journeyed this day, and +’tis wonderful warm for the time of year. + +ELIZABETH. I don’t hold with drinking nor with taking bites atween +meals, but as your uncle has come a good distance, and the day is warm, +you make take the key of the pantry, Annet, and draw a glass of cider for +him. + +[_She takes the key from her pocket and hands it to_ ANNET, _who goes +out_. + +DANIEL. That’s it, Mother—that’s it. And when I’ve wetted my mouth a +bit I’ll be able the better to tell you all about how ’twas over there. + +MAY. O I’d dearly like to go to a Fair, I would. You always said that +you’d take me the next time you went, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Ah and so I did, but when I comed to think it over, Fairs baint +the place for little maids, I says to mother here—and no, that they +baint, she answers back. But we’ll see how ’tis when you be growed a bit +older, like. Us’ll see how ’twill be then, won’t us Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn’t encourage the child in her nonsense, if I was you, +Dan. She’s old enough to know better than to ask to be taken to such +places. Why in all my days I never set my foot within a fair, pleasure +or business, nor wanted to, either. + +MAY. And never rode on the pretty wood horses, Aunt, all spotted and +with scarlet bridles to them? + +ELIZABETH. Certainly not. I wonder at your asking such a question, May. +But you do say some very unsuitable things for a little child of your +age. + +MAY. And did you get astride of the pretty horses at the Fair, Uncle? + +DANIEL. Nay, nay,—they horses be set in the pleasure part of the Fair, +and where I goes ’tis all for doing business like. + +[ANNET _comes back with the glass of cider_. DANIEL _takes it from her_. + +DANIEL. [_Drinking_.] You might as well have brought the jug, my girl. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, ’twill spoil your next meal as it is. + +[_The girls sit down at the table_, _taking up their work_. + +DANIEL. [_Putting down his glass_.] But, bless my soul, yon was a Fair +in a hundred. That her was. + +BOTH GIRLS. O do tell us of all that you did see there, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a cow—well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows as I’ve seen +in my time, but this one, why, the King haven’t got the match to she in +all his great palace, and that’s the truth, so ’tis. + +ANNET. O don ’t tell us about the cows, Uncle, we want to know about all +the other things. + +MAY. The shows of acting folk, and the wild animals, and the nice +sweets. + +ELIZABETH. They don’t want to hear about anything sensible, Dan. +They’re like all the maids now, with their thoughts set on pleasuring and +foolishness. + +DANIEL. Ah, the maids was different in our day, wasn’t they Mother? + +ELIZABETH. And that they were. Why, when I was your age, Annet, I +should have been ashamed if I couldn’t have held my own in any proper or +suitable conversation. + +DANIEL. Ah, you was a rare sensible maid in your day, Mother. Do you +mind when you comed along of me to Kingham sale? “You’re never going to +buy an animal with all that white to it,” Dan, you says to me. + +ELIZABETH. Ah—I recollect. + +DANIEL. “’Tis true her has a whitish leg,” I says, “but so have I, and +so have you, Mother—and who’s to think the worse on we for that?” Ah, I +could always bring you round to look at things quiet and reasonable in +those days—that I could. + +ELIZABETH. And a good thing if there were others of the same pattern +now, I’m thinking. + +DANIEL. So ’twould be—so ’twould be. But times do bring changes in the +forms of the cattle and I count ’tis the same with the womenfolk. ’Tis +one thing this year and ’tis t’other in the next. + +MAY. Do tell us more of what you did see at the Fair, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a ram. My word! but the four feet of he did cover a +good two yards of ground; just as it might be, standing. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father. + +DANIEL. And the horns upon the head of he did reach out very nigh as far +as might do the sails of one of they old wind-mills. + +MAY. O Uncle, and how was it with the wool of him? + +DANIEL. The wool, my wench, did stand a good three foot from all around +of the animal. You might have set a hen with her eggs on top of it—and +that you might. And now I comes to recollect how ’twas, you could have +set a hen one side of the wool and a turkey t’other. + +MAY. O Uncle, that must have been a beautiful animal! And what was the +tail of it? + +DANIEL. The tail, my little maid? Why ’twas longer nor my arm and as +thick again—’twould have served as a bell rope to the great bell yonder +in Gloucester church—and so ’twould. Ah, ’twas sommat like a tail, I +reckon, yon. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father, such talk is hardly suited to little girls, who +should know better than to ask so many teasing questions. + +ANNET. ’Tisn’t only May, Aunt, I do love to hear what uncle tells, when +he has been out for a day or two. + +ELIZABETH. And did you have company on the way home, Father? + +DANIEL. That I did. ’Twas along of young Andrew as I did come back. + +ELIZABETH. Along of Andrew? Girls, you may now go outside into the +garden for a while. Yes, put aside your work. + +MAY. Can’t we stop till the packets are opened? + +ELIZABETH. You heard what I said? Go off into the garden, and stop +there till I send for you. And take uncle’s glass and wash it at the +spout as you go. + +ANNET. [_Taking the glass_.] I’ll wash it, Aunt. Come May, you see +aunt doesn’t want us any longer. + +MAY. Now they’re going to talk secrets together. O I should dearly love +to hear the secrets of grown-up people. [ANNET _and_ MAY _go out +together_. + +DANIEL. Annet be got a fine big wench, upon my word. Now haven’t her, +Mother? + +ELIZABETH. She’s got old enough to be put to service, and if I’d have +had my way, ’tis to service she’d have gone this long time since, and +that it is. + +DANIEL. ’Twould be poor work putting one of dead sister’s wenches out to +service, so long as us have a roof over the heads of we and plenty to eat +on the table. + +ELIZABETH. Well, you must please yourself about it Father, as you do +most times. But ’tis uncertain work taking up with other folks children +as I told you from the first. See what a lot of trouble you and me have +had along of Giles. + +DANIEL. Giles be safe enough in them foreign parts where I did send him. +You’ve no need to trouble your head about he, Mother—unless ’tis a letter +as he may have got sending to Mill. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, Giles has never sent a letter since the day he +left home. But very often there is no need for letters to keep +remembrance green. ’Tis a plant what thrives best on a soil that is +bare. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother, and what be you a-driving at? I warrant as Mill +have got over them notions as she did have once. And, look you here, +’twas with young Andrew as I did journey back from the Fair. And he be +a-coming up presently for to get his answer. + +ELIZABETH. All I say is that I hope he may get it then. + +DANIEL. Ah, I reckon as ’tis rare put about as he have been all this +long while, and never a downright “yes” to what he do ask. + +[MAY _comes softly in and hides behind the door_. + +ELIZABETH. Well, that’s not my fault, Father. + +DANIEL. But her’ll have to change her note this day, that her’ll have. +For I’ve spoke for she, and ’tis for next month as I’ve pitched the +wedding day. + +ELIZABETH. And you may pitch, Father. You may lead the mare down to the +pond, but she’ll not drink if she hasn’t the mind to. You know what +Millie is. ’Tisn’t from my side that she gets it either. + +DANIEL. And ’tain’t from me. I be all for easy going and each one to +his self like. + +ELIZABETH. Yes, there you are, Father. + +DANIEL. But I reckon as the little maid will hearken to what I says. +Her was always a wonderful good little maid to her dad. And her did +always know, that when her dad did set his foot down, well, there ’twas. +’Twas down. + +ELIZABETH. Well, if you think you can shew her that, Father, ’tis a +fortunate job on all sides. + +[_They suddenly see_ MAY _who has been quiet behind the door_. + +ELIZABETH. May, what are you a-doing here I should like to know? Didn’t +I send you out into the garden along of your sister? + +MAY. Yes, Auntie, but I’ve comed back. + +ELIZABETH. Then you can be off again, and shut the door this time, do +your hear? + +DANIEL. That’s it, my little maid. Run along—and look you, May, just +you tell Cousin Millie as we wants her in here straight away. And who +knows bye and bye whether there won’t be sommat in yon great parcel for a +good little wench. + +MAY. O Uncle—I’d like to see it now. + +DANIEL. Nay, nay—this is not a suitable time—Aunt and me has business +what’s got to be settled like. Nay—’tis later on as the packets is to be +opened. + +ELIZABETH. Get along off, you tiresome child.—One word might do for +some, but it takes twenty to get you to move.—Run along now, do you hear +me? + +[MAY _goes_. + +Well, Father, I’ve done my share with Millie and she don’t take a bit of +notice of what I say. So now it’s your turn. + +DANIEL. Ah, I count ’tis more man’s work, this here, so ’tis. There be +things which belongs to females and there be others which do not. You +get and leave it all to me. I’ll bring it off. + +ELIZABETH. All right, Father, just you try your way—I’ll have nothing +more to do with it. [MILLIE _comes in_.] + +MILLIE. Why, Father, you’re back early from the Fair. + +DANIEL. That’s so, my wench. See that package over yonder? + +MILLIE. O, that I do, Father. + +DANIEL. Yon great one’s for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. O Father, what’s inside it? + +DANIEL. ’Tis a new, smart bonnet, my wench. + +MILLIE. For me, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah—who else should it be for, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Father, you are good to me. + +DANIEL. And a silk cloak as well. + +MILLIE. A silken cloak, and a bonnet—O Father, ’tis too much for you to +give me all at once, like. + +DANIEL. Young Andrew did help me with the choice, and ’tis all to be +worn on this day month, my girl. + +MILLIE. Why, Father, what’s to happen then? + +DANIEL. ’Tis for you to go along to church in, Mill. + +MILLIE. To church, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah, that ’tis—you in the cloak and bonnet, and upon the arm of +young Andrew, my wench. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. But ’tis “yes” as you have got to learn, my wench. And quickly +too. For ’tis this very evening as Andrew be coming for his answer. And +’tis to be “yes” this time. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. You’ve an hour before you, my wench, in which to get another +word to your tongue. + +MILLIE. I can’t learn any word that isn’t “no,” Father. + +DANIEL. Look at me, my wench. My foot be down. I means what I says— + +MILLIE. And I mean what I say, too, Father. And I say, No! + +DANIEL. Millie, I’ve set down my foot. + +MILLIE. And so have I, Father. + +DANIEL. And ’tis “yes” as you must say to young Andrew when he do come +a-courting of you this night. + +MILLIE. That I’ll never say, Father. I don’t want cloaks nor bonnets, +nor my heart moved by gifts, or tears brought to my eyes by fair words. +I’ll not wed unless I can give my love along with my hand. And ’tis not +to Andrew I can give that, as you know. + +DANIEL. And to whom should a maid give her heart if ’twasn’t to Andrew? +A finer lad never trod in a pair of shoes. I’ll be blest if I do know +what the wenches be a-coming to. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father, I told you what to expect. + +DANIEL. But ’tis master as I’ll be, hark you, Mother, hark you, Mill. +And ’tis “Yes” as you have got to fit your tongue out with my girl, afore +’tis dark. [_Rising_.] I be a’going off to the yard, but, Mother, +her’ll know what to say to you, her will. + +MILLIE. Dad, do you stop and shew me the inside of my packet. Let us +put Andrew aside and be happy—do! + +DANIEL. Ah, I’ve got other things as is waiting to be done nor breaking +in a tricksome filly to run atween the shafts. ’Tis fitter work for +females, and so ’tis. + +ELIZABETH. And so I told you, Father, from the start. + +MILLIE. And ’tis “No” that I shall say. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT I.—Scene 2. + + + _It is dusk on the same evening_. + +MILLIE _is standing by the table folding up the silken cloak_. ANNET +_sits watching her_, _on her knees lies a open parcel disclosing a +woollen shawl_. _In a far corner of the room_ MAY _is seated on a stool +making a daisy chain_. + +ANNET. ’Twas very good of Uncle to bring me this nice shawl, Millie. + +MILLIE. You should have had a cloak like mine, Annet, by rights. + +ANNET. I’m not going to get married, Millie. + +MILLIE. [_Sitting down with a sudden movement of despondence and +stretching her arms across the table_.] O don’t you speak to me of that, +Annet. ’Tis more than I can bear to-night. + +ANNET. But, Millie, he’s coming for your answer now. You musn’t let him +find you looking so. + +MILLIE. My face shall look as my heart feels. And that is all sorrow, +Annet. + +ANNET. Can’t you bring yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie? + +MILLIE. No, that I cannot, Annet, I’ve tried a score of times, I +have—but there it is—I cannot. + +ANNET. Is it that you’ve not forgotten Giles, then? + +MILLIE. I never shall forget him, Annet. Why, ’tis a five year this day +since father sent him off to foreign parts, and never a moment of all +that time has my heart not remembered him. + +ANNET. I feared ’twas so with you, Millie. + +MILLIE. O I’ve laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted the pillow +all over so that I’ve had to turn it t’other side up. + +ANNET. And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor nothing? + +MILLIE. Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, Annet. +But, O, he’s none the worse for that. + +ANNET. Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was it when +you and he did part, one with t’other? + +MILLIE. I did give him my ring, Annet—secret like—when we were walking +in the wood. + +ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it? + +MILLIE. Yes, grandmother’s ring, that she left me. And I did say to +him—if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, Giles—look +you at these white stones. + +ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie. + +MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to him, +the stones shall darken. But you’ll never see that day. [_She begins to +cry_. + +ANNET. Don’t you give way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis very likely that +Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,—well, Andrew +he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And ’tis Andrew you have got to +wed, you know. + +MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew—I’m sick at the very name of him. + +ANNET. See the fine house you’ll live in. Think on the grand parlour +that you’ll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you and naught +but Sunday clothes on your back. + +MILLIE. I’d sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me. + +ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. And Uncle +says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good and all. + +MILLIE. O I cannot see him—I’m wearied to death of Andrew, and that’s +the very truth it is. + +ANNET. O Millie—I wonder how ’twould feel to be you for half-an-hour and +to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to say Yes. + +MILLIE. O I wish ’twas you and not me that he was after, Annet. + +ANNET. ’Tisn’t likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever come +courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I’d dearly love to know how +’twould feel. + +[MILLIE _raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in +silence_, _then her face brightens_. + +MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet. + +ANNET. Shall what, Mill? + +MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here—’Tis sick to death I am with +courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and if I’m to wed Andrew come +next month, I’ll not be tormented with him before that time,—so ’tis you +that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll slip out +to the woods and gather flowers. + +ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill. + +MILLIE. In the dusk he’ll never know that ’tisn’t me. Being cousins, we +speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us there’s not much +that’s amiss. + +ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill—why, ’tis a grand young lady that +you look—whilst I— + +MILLIE. [_Taking up the silken cloak_.] Here—put this over your gown, +Annet. + +ANNET. [_Standing up_.] I don’t mind just trying it on, like. + +MILLIE. [_Fastening it_.] There—and now the bonnet, with the veil +pulled over the face. + +[_She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on_ ANNET. + +MILLIE. [_Standing back and surveying her cousin_.] There, Annet, there +May, who is to tell which of us ’tis? + +MAY. [_Coming forward_.] O I should never know that ’twasn’t you, +Cousin Mill. + +MILLIE. And I could well mistake her for myself too, so listen, Annet. +’Tis you that shall talk with Master Andrew when he comes to-night. And +’tis you that shall give him my answer. I’ll not burn my lips by +speaking the word he asks of me. + +ANNET. O Mill—I cannot—no I cannot. + +MILLIE. Don’t let him have it very easily, Annet. Set him a ditch or +two to jump before he gets there. And let the thorns prick him a bit +before he gathers the flower. You know my way with him. + +MAY. And I know it too, Millie—Why, your tongue, ’tis very near as sharp +as when Aunt do speak. + +ANNET. O Millie, take off these things—I cannot do it, that’s the truth. + +MAY. [_Looking out through the door_.] There’s Andrew a-coming over the +mill yard. + +MILLIE. Here, sit down, Annet, with the back of you to the light. + +[_She pushes_ ANNET _into a chair beneath the window_. + +MAY. Can I get into the cupboard and listen to it, Cousin Mill? + +MILLIE. If you promise to bide quiet and to say naught of it afterwards. + +MAY. O I promise, I promise—I’ll just leave a crack of the door open for +to hear well. + +[MAY _gets into the cupboard_. MILLIE _takes up_ ANNET’S _new shawl and +puts it all over her_. + +MILLIE. No one will think that ’tisn’t you, in the dusk. + +ANNET. O Millie, what is it that you’ve got me to do? + +MILLIE. Never you mind, Annet—you shall see what ’tis to have a grand +suitor and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, where I can +think on Giles. + +[_She runs out of the door just as_ ANDREW _comes up_. ANDREW _knocks +and then enters the open door_. + +ANDREW. Where’s Annet off to in such a hurry? + +ANNET. [_Very faintly_.] I’m sure I don’t know. [ANDREW _lays aside +his hat and comes up to the window_. _He stands before_ ANNET _looking +down on her_. _She becomes restless under his gaze_, _and at last signs +to him to sit down_. + +ANDREW. [_Sitting down on a chair a little way from her_.] The Master +said that I might come along to-night, Millie—Otherwise—[ANNET _is still +silent_. + +Otherwise I shouldn’t have dared do so. + +[ANNET _sits nervously twisting the ribbons of her cloak_. + +The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, might be +changed like. [ANNET _is still silent_. + +And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely ’twould be something +different as you might say. + +[_A long silence_. + +Was I wrong in coming, Millie? + +ANNET. [_Faintly_.] ’Twould have been better had you stayed away like. + +ANDREW. Then there isn’t any change in your feelings towards me, Millie? + +ANNET. O, there’s a sort of a change, Andrew. + +ANDREW. [_Slowly_.] O Mill, that’s good hearing. What sort of a change +is it then? + +ANNET. ’Tis very hard to say, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Look you, Mill, ’tis more than a five year that I’ve been +a-courting of you faithful. + +ANNET. [_Sighing_.] Indeed it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And I’ve never got naught but blows for my pains. + +ANNET. [_Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply_.] O +I’m so sorry—No—I mean—’Tis your own fault, Andrew. + +ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words from +another, Millie. + +ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to—I mean, ’tis as well that +you should get used to blows, seeing we’re to be wed, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Then ’tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news—Why, I do +scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming. + +ANNET. [_Very sadly_.] Very likely you’ll be glad enough to be dreaming +a month from now, poor Andrew. + +ANDREW. [_Drawing nearer_.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to +me so kind and gentle, and I’ll ask you to name the day. + +ANNET. [_Shrinking back_.] O ’twill be a very long distance from now, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart and +play with it same as a cat does with the mouse. + +ANNET. [_Becoming gay and hard in her manner_.] Your heart, Andrew? +’Twill go all the better afterwards if ’tis tossed about a bit first. + +ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you’ll wed +me. + +ANNET. [_Warding him off with her hand_.] You shall have my answer in a +new song Andrew, which I have been learning. + +[ANDREW _sits down despondently and prepares to listen_. + +ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over in your mind. +[_She begins to sing_: + + Say can you plough me an acre of land + Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme. + Between the sea and the salt sea strand + And you shall be a true lover of mine? + +[_A slight pause_. ANNET _looks questioningly at_ ANDREW, _who turns +away with a heavy sigh_. + +ANNET. [_Singing_.] + + Yes, if you plough it with one ram’s horn + Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme + And sow it all over with one peppercorn + And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. ’Tis all foolishness. + +ANNET. [_Singing_.] + + Say can you reap with a sickle of leather + Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme + And tie it all up with a Tom-tit’s feather + And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. [_Rises up impatiently_.] I can stand no more. You’ve danced +upon my heart till ’tis fairly brittle, and ready to be broke by a +feather. + +ANNET. [_Very gently_.] O Andrew, I’ll mend your heart one day. + +ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already. + +ANNET. [_In a harder voice_.] But very likely there’ll be a crack left +to it always. + +[FARMER DANIEL _and_ ELIZABETH _come into the room_. + +DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie? + +ANDREW. [_Boldly_.] ’Tis for a month from now. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that? + +ELIZABETH. I’m not deaf, Father. + +DANIEL. [_Shaking_ ANDREW’S _hand_.] Ah my boy, I knowed as you’d bring +the little maid to the senses of she. + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself as +though for church. + +DANIEL. ’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the fowls when they be come out +from moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in their new +feathers. + +ELIZABETH. Well, ’tis to be hoped the young people have fixed it up for +good and all this time. + +DANIEL. Come Mill, my wench, you be wonderful quiet. Where’s your +tongue? + +ELIZABETH. I think we’ve all had quite enough of Millie’s tongue, +Father. Let her give it a rest if she’ve a mind. + +DANIEL. I warrant she be gone as shy as a May bettel when ’tis daylight. +But us’ll take it as she have fixed it up in her own mind like. Come, +Mother, such a time as this, you won’t take no objection to the drawing +of a jug of cider. + +ELIZABETH. And supper just about to be served? I’m surprised at you, +Father. No, I can’t hear of cider being drawn so needless like. + +DANIEL. Well, well,—have it your own way—but I always says, and my +father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine drink, and +that’s how ’twas in my time. + +ELIZABETH. Millie, do you call your cousins in to supper. + +DANIEL. Ah, and where be the maids gone off to this time of night, +Mother? + +ANDREW. Annet did pass me as I came through the yard, Master + +[MAY, _quietly opens the cupboard door and comes out_. + +ELIZABETH. So that’s where you’ve been, you deceitful little wench. + +ANDREW. Well, to think of that, Millie. + +ELIZABETH. And how long may you have bid there, I should like to know? + +DANIEL. Come, come, my little maid, ’tis early days for you to be +getting a lesson in courtship. + +MAY. O there wasn’t any courtship, Uncle, and I didn’t hear nothing at +all to speak of. + +ELIZABETH. There, run along quick and find your sister. Supper’s late +already, and that it is. + +ANNET. I’ll go with her. + +[_She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the door_. + +ELIZABETH. Stop a moment, Millie. What are you thinking of to go +trailing out in the dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. Take and +lay them in the box at once, do you hear? + +DANIEL. That’s it, Mill. ’Twouldn’t do for to mess them up afore the +day. ’Twas a fair price as I gived for they, and that I can tell you, my +girl. + +[ANNET _stops irresolutely_. MAY _seizes her hand_. + +MAY. Come off, come off, “Cousin Millie”; ’tis not damp outside, and O +I’m afeared to cross the rickyard by myself. + +[_She pulls_ ANNET _violently by the hand and draws her out of the door_. + +ELIZABETH. Off with the cloak this minute, Millie. + +MAY. [_Calling back_.] She’s a-taking of it off, Aunt, she is. + +ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the maid. She don’t act like +herself to-day. + +DANIEL. Ah, that be asking too much of a maid, to act like herself, and +the wedding day close ahead of she. + +ELIZABETH. I’d be content with a suitable behaviour, Father. I’m not +hard to please. + +DANIEL. Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ old mare +when her first comes up from grass. + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well for you to talk, Father but ’tis I who +have got to do. + +DANIEL. Come Mother, come Andrew, I be sharp set. And ’tis the feel of +victuals and no words as I wants in my mouth. + +ELIZABETH. Well, Father, I’m not detaining you. There’s the door, and +the food has been cooling on the table this great while. + +DANIEL. Come you, Andrew, come you, Mother. Us’ll make a bit of a +marriage feast this night. + +[_He leads the way and the others follow him out_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_A woodland path_. GILES _comes forward with his two servants_, GEORGE +_and_ JOHN, _who are carrying heavy packets_. + +GILES. ’Tis powerful warm to-day. We will take a bit of rest before we +go further. + +GEORGE. [_Setting down his packet_.] That’s it, master. ’Tis a rare +weight as I’ve been carrying across my back since dawn. + +JOHN. [_Also setting down his burden_.] Ah, I be pleased for to lay +aside yon. ’Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying to and fro with +gold and silver. + +GILES. Our travelling is very nigh finished. There lies the road which +goes to Camel Farm. + +GEORGE. Oh, I count as that must be a rare sort of a place, master. + +JOHN. Seeing as us haven’t stopped scarce an hour since us landed off +the sea. + +GEORGE. But have come running all the while same as the fox may run in +th’ early morning towards the poultry yard. + +JOHN. Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th’ insides +of we. + +GILES. ’Tis very little further that you have got to journey, my good +lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring. + +GEORGE. And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master? + +GILES. ’Tis the place out of all the world to me. + +JOHN. I count ’tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we be +come from brave foreign parts, master. + +GILES. ’Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie beneath +the sun, my lads. + +GEORGE. That’s good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be as +fine as the place? + +GILES. O, you’ll fare well enough yonder. + +JOHN. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that was +over there neither. + +GILES. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the grandest +roof that ever sheltered a man’s head. And you shall sit at a table +spread as you’ve not seen this many a year. + +GEORGE. That’ll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our +legs again. + +JOHN. I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that’s the truth. + +[_The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees_. +_GILES walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at any +delay_. _From time to time he glances at a ring which he wears_, +_sighing heavily as he does so_. + +[_An old man comes up_, _leaning on his staff_. + +OLD MAN. Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen. + +GILES. Good-morning, master. + +OLD MAN. ’Tis a wonderful warm sun to-day. + +GILES. You’re right there, master. + +OLD MAN. I warrant as you be journeying towards the same place where I +be going, my lord. + +GILES. And where is that, old master? + +OLD MAN. Towards Camel Farm. + +GILES. You’re right. ’Tis there and nowhere else that we are going. + +OLD MAN. Ah, us’ll have to go smartish if us is to be there in time. + +GILES. In time for what, my good man? + +OLD MAN. In time for to see the marrying, my lord. + +GILES. The marrying? What’s that you’re telling me? + +OLD MAN. ’Tis at noon this day that she’s to be wed. + +GILES. Who are you speaking of, old man? + +OLD MAN. And where is your lordship journeying this day if ’tis not to +the marrying? + +GILES. Who’s getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly? + +OLD MAN. ’Tis th’ old farmer’s daughter what’s to wed come noon-tide. + +GILES. [_Starting_.] Millie! O that is heavy news. [_Looking at his +hand_.] Then ’tis as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the +brightness has all gone from out of the seven stones. That’s how ’twould +be, she told me once. + +[_He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind_. + +GEORGE. Us’ll see no Camel Farm this day. + +JOHN. And th’ inside of I be crying out for victuals. + +OLD MAN. Then you be not of these parts, masters? + +GEORGE. No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master. + +JOHN. Ah, ’tis a fine gentleman, master. But powerful misfortunate in +things of the heart. + +GEORGE. Ah, he’d best have stopped where he was. Camel Farm baint no +place for the like of he to go courting at. + +JOHN. Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold and marble +with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that you might. + +GEORGE. All painted glass. And each chair with golden legs to him, and +a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of after a +night’s drinking, old man. [GILES _comes slowly towards them_. + +GILES. And who is she to wed, old man? + +OLD MAN. Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, my +lord? + +GILES. Yes. With whom does she go to church to-day? + +OLD MAN. ’Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go. What lives up +Cranham way. + +GILES. Ah, th’ old farmer was always wonderful set on him. [_A pause_. + +OLD MAN. I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, master, +and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water there, and the +shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me at night time. + +GILES. What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that the heart +of you be whole and unbroken? + +OLD MAN. Us poor old wretches don’t carry no hearts to th’ insides of +we. The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and from the +winter’s cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind do moan over +the fields, and when the fox do bark. + +GILES. What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter set +against the cruel torment of a disappointed love? + +OLD MAN. I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got +a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did carry a +heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of them +clean forgot. + +GILES. Then what do you up yonder at the marrying this morning? + +OLD MAN. Oh, I do take me to those places where there be burying or +marriage, for the hearts of folk at these seasons be warmed and kinder, +like. And ’tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food be thrown out to the +poor old dog what waits patient at the door. + +GILES. [_Looks intently at him for a moment_.] See here, old master. I +would fain strike a bargain with you. And ’tis with a handful of golden +pieces that I will pay your service. + +OLD MAN. Anything to oblige you, my young lord. + +GILES. [_To_ GEORGE.] Take out a handful from the bag of gold. And +you, John, give him some of the silver. + +[GEORGE _and_ JOHN _untie their bags and take out gold and silver_. +_They twist it up in a handkerchief which they give to the old man_.] + +OLD MAN. May all the blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, for ’tis +plain to see that you be one of the greatest and finest gentlemen ever +born to the land. + +GILES. My good friend, you’re wrong there, I was a poor country lad, but +I had the greatest treasure that a man could hold on this earth. ’Twas +the love of my cousin Millie. And being poor, I was put from out the +home, and sent to seek my fortune in parts beyond the sea. + +OLD MAN. Now, who’d have thought ’twas so, for the looks of you be +gentle born all over. + +GILES. “Come back with a bushel of gold in one hand and one of silver in +t’other” the old farmer said to me, “and then maybe I’ll let you wed my +daughter.” + +OLD MAN. And here you be comed back, and there lie the gold and the +silver bags. + +GILES. And yonder is Millie given in marriage to another. + +GEORGE. ’Taint done yet, master. + +JOHN. ’Tisn’t too late, by a long way, master. + +GILES. [_To_ OLD MAN.] And so I would crave something of you, old +friend. Lend me your smock, and your big hat and your staff. In that +disguise I will go to the farm and look upon my poor false love once +more. If I find that her heart is already given to another, I shall not +make myself known to her. But if she still holds to her love for me, +then— + +GEORGE. Go in the fine clothes what you have upon you, master. And even +should the maid’s heart, be given to another, the sight of so grand a +cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again. + +JOHN. Ah, that’s so, it is. You go as you be clothed now, master. I +know what maids be, and ’tis finery and good coats which do work more on +the hearts of they nor anything else in the wide world. + +GILES. No, no, my lads. I will return as I did go from yonder. Poor, +and in mean clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth speak one word +for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite of everything, my +sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from her. + +OLD MAN. [_Taking off his hat_.] Here you are master. + +[GILES _hands his own hat to_ GEORGE. _He then takes off his coat and +gives it to_ JOHN. _The_ OLD MAN _takes off his smock_, _GILES puts it +on_. + +OLD MAN. Pull the hat well down about the face of you, master, so as the +smooth skin of you be hid. + +GILES. [_Turning round in his disguise_.] How’s that, my friends? + +GEORGE. You be a sight too straight in the back, master. + +GILES. [_Stooping_.] I’ll soon better that. + +JOHN. Be you a-going in them fine buckled shoes, master? + +GILES. I had forgot the shoes. When I get near to the house ’tis +barefoot that I will go. + +GEORGE. Then let us be off, master, for the’ time be running short. + +JOHN. Ah, that ’tis. I count it be close on noon-day now by the look of +the sun. + +OLD MAN. And heaven be with you, my young gentleman. + +GILES. My good friends, you shall go with me a little further. And when +we have come close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter of a wood +that I know of and await the signal I shall give you. + +GEORGE. And what’ll that be, master? + +GILES. I shall blow three times, and loudly from my whistle, here. + +JOHN. And be we to come up to the farm when we hears you? + +GILES. As quickly as you can run. ’Twill be the sign that I need all of +you with me. + +GEORGE _and_ JOHN. That’s it, master. Us do understand what ’tis as we +have got to do. + +OLD MAR. Ah, ’tis best to be finished with hearts that beat to the tune +of a maid’s tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads with naught but +them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th’ inside. So ’tis. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_The parlour at Camel Farm_. ELIZABETH, _in her best dress_, _is moving +about the room putting chairs in their places and arranging ornaments on +the dresser_, _etc._ MAY _stands at the door with a large bunch of +flowers in her hands_. + +ELIZABETH. And what do you want to run about in the garden for when I’ve +just smoothed your hair and got you all ready to go to church? + +MAY. I’ve only been helping Annet gather some flowers to put upon the +table. + +ELIZABETH. You should know better then. Didn’t I tell you to sit still +in that chair with your hands folded nicely till we were ready to start. + +MAY. Why, I couldn’t be sitting there all the while, now could I, Aunt? + +ELIZABETH. This’ll be the last time as I tie your ribbon, mind. + +[_She smoothes_ MAY’S _hair and ties it up for her_. ANNET _comes into +the room with more flowers_. + +ELIZABETH. What’s your cousin doing now, Annet? + +ANNET. The door of her room is still locked, Aunt. And what she says is +that she do want to bide alone there. + +ELIZABETH. In all my days I never did hear tell of such a thing, I don’t +know what’s coming to the world, I don’t. + +MAY. I count that Millie do like to be all to herself whilst she is +a-dressing up grand in her white gown, and the silken cloak and bonnet. + +ANNET. Millie’s not a-dressing of herself up. I heard her crying +pitiful as I was gathering flowers in the garden. + +ELIZABETH. Crying? She’ll have something to cry about if she doesn’t +look out, when her father comes in, and hears how she’s a-going on. + +MAY. I wonder why Cousin Millie’s taking on like this. I shouldn’t, if +’twas me getting married. + +ELIZABETH. Look you, May, you get and run up, and knock at the door and +tell her that ’twill soon be time for us to set off to church and that +she have got to make haste in her dressing. + +MAY. I’ll run, Aunt, only ’tis very likely as she’ll not listen to +anything that I say. [MAY _goes out_. + +ELIZABETH. Now Annet, no idling here, if you please. Set the nosegay in +water, and when you’ve given a look round to see that everything is in +its place, upstairs with you, and on with your bonnet, do you hear? +Uncle won’t wish to be kept waiting for you, remember. + +ANNET. I’m all ready dressed, except for my bonnet, Aunt. ’Tis Millie +that’s like to keep Uncle waiting this morning. [_She goes out_. + +[DANIEL _comes in_. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother—well, girls—but, bless my soul, where’s Millie got +to? + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not seen fit to shew herself this morning, Father. +She’s biding up in her room with the door locked, and nothing that I’ve +been able to say has been attended to, so perhaps you’ll kindly have your +try. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul—where’s May? Where’s Annet? Send one of the +little maids up to her, and tell her ’tis very nigh time for us to be +off. + +ELIZABETH. I’m fairly tired of sending up to her, Father. You’d best go +yourself. + +[MAY _comes into the room_. + +MAY. Please Aunt, the door, ’tis still locked, and Millie is crying ever +so sadly within, and she won’t open to me, nor speak, nor nothing. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father,—perhaps you’ll believe what I tell you another +time. Millie has got that hardened and wayward, there’s no managing of +her, there’s not. + +DANIEL. Ah, ’twon’t be very long as us’ll have the managing of she. +’Twill be young Andrew as’ll take she in hand after this day. + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well to talk of young Andrew, but who’s a-going +to get her to church with him I’d like to know. + +DANIEL. Why, ’tis me as’ll do it, to be sure. + +ELIZABETH. Very well, Father, and we shall all be much obliged to you. + +[DANIEL _goes to the door and shouts up the stairs_. + +DANIEL. Well, Millie, my wench. Come you down here. ’Tis time we did +set out. Do you hear me, Mill. ’Tis time we was off. + +[ELIZABETH _waits listening_. _No answer comes_. + +DANIEL. Don’t you hear what I be saying, Mill? Come you down at once. +[_There is no answer_. + +DANIEL. Millie, there be Andrew a-waiting for to take you to church. +Come you down this minute. + +ELIZABETH. You’d best take sommat and go and break open the door, +Father. ’Tis the sensiblest thing as you can do, only you’d never think +of anything like that by yourself. + +DANIEL. I likes doing things my own way, Mother. Women-folk, they be so +buzzing. ’Tis like a lot of insects around of anyone on a summer’s day. +A-saying this way and that—whilst a man do go at anything quiet and +calm-like. [ANNET _comes in_. + +ANNET. Please, Uncle, Millie says that she isn’t coming down for no one. + +DANIEL. [_Roaring in fury_.] What! What’s that, my wench—isn’t +a-coming down for no one? Hear that, Mother, hear that? I’ll have +sommat to say to that, I will. [_Going to the door_. + +DANIEL. [_Roaring up the stairs_.] Hark you, Mill, down you comes this +moment else I’ll smash the door right in, and that I will. + +[DANIEL _comes back into the room_, _storming violently_. + +DANIEL. Ah, ’tis a badly bred up wench is Millie, and her’d have growed +up very different if I’d a-had the bringing up of she. But spoiled she +is and spoiled her’ve always been, and what could anyone look for from a +filly what’s been broke in by women folk! + +ELIZABETH. There, there, Father—there’s no need to bluster in this +fashion. Take up the poker and go and break into the door quiet and +decent, like anyone else would do. And girls—off for your bonnets this +moment I tell you. + +[_She takes up a poker and hands it to_ DANIEL, _who mops his face and +goes slowly out and upstairs_. ANNET _and_ MAY _leave the room_. _The +farmer is heard banging at the door of Millie’s bedroom_. + +[ELIZABETH _moves about the room setting it in order_. ANDREW _comes in +at the door_. _He carries a bunch of flowers_, _which he lays on the +table_. + +ANDREW. Good-morning to you, mistress. + +ELIZABETH. Good-morning, Andrew. + +ANDREW. What’s going on upstairs? + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis Father at a little bit of carpentering. + +ANDREW. I’m come too soon, I reckon. + +ELIZABETH. We know what young men be upon their wedding morn! I warrant +as the clock can’t run too fast for them at such a time. + +ANDREW. You’re right there, mistress. But the clock have moved powerful +slow all these last few weeks—for look you here, ’tis a month this day +since I last set eyes on Mill or had a word from her lips—so ’tis. + +ELIZABETH. You’ll have enough words presently. Hark, she’s coming down +with Father now. + +[ANDREW _turns eagerly towards the door_. _The farmer enters with_ +MILLIE _clinging to his arm_, _she wears her ordinary dress_. _Her hair +is ruffled and in disorder_, _and she has been crying_. + +DANIEL. Andrew, my lad, good morning to you. + +ANDREW. Good morning, master. + +DANIEL. You mustn’t mind a bit of an April shower, my boy. ’Tis the way +with all maids on their wedding morn. Isn’t that so, Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn’t make such a show of myself if I was you, Mill. Go +upstairs this minute and wash your face and smooth your hair and put +yourself ready for church. + +DANIEL. Nay, she be but just come from upstairs, Mother. Let her bide +quiet a while with young Andrew here; whilst do you come along with me +and get me out my Sunday coat. ’Tis time I was dressed for church too, +I’m thinking. + +ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the house this morning, and +that’s the truth. Andrew, I’ll not have you keep Millie beyond a five +minutes. ’Tis enough of one another as you’ll get later on, like. +Father, go you off upstairs for your coat. ’Tis hard work for me, +getting you all to act respectable, that ’tis. + +[DANIEL _and_ ELIZABETH _leave the room_. ANDREW _moves near_ MILLIE +_and holds out both his hands_. _She draws herself haughtily away_. + +ANDREW. Millie—’tis our wedding day. + +MILLIE. And what if it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it cuts me to the heart to see your face all wet with +tears. + +MILLIE. Did you think to see it otherwise, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No smile upon your lips, Millie. + +MILLIE. Have I anything to smile about, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No love coming from your eyes, Mill. + +MILLIE. That you have never seen, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And all changed in the voice of you too. + +MILLIE. What do you mean by that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Listen, Millie—’tis a month since I last spoke with you. Do you +recollect? ’Twas the evening of the great Fair. + +MILLIE And what if it was? + +ANDREW. Millie, you were kinder to me that night than ever you had been +before. I seemed to see such a gentle look in your eyes then. And when +you spoke, ’twas as though—as though—well—’twas one of they quists +a-cooing up in the trees as I was put in mind of. + +MILLIE. Well, there’s nothing more to be said about that now, Andrew. +That night’s over and done with. + +ANDREW. I’ve carried the thought of it in my heart all this time, +Millie. + +MILLIE. I never asked you to, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I’ve brought you a nosegay of flowers, Mill. They be rare +blossoms with grand names what I can’t recollect to all of them. + +[MILLIE _takes the nosegay_, _looks at it for an instant_, _and then lets +it fall_. + +MILLIE. I have no liking for flowers this day, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O Millie, and is it so as you and me are going to our marriage? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew. ’Tis so. I never said it could be different. I +have no heart to give you. My love was given long ago to another. And +that other has forgotten me by now. + +ANDREW. O Millie, you shall forget him too when once you are wed to me, +I promise you. + +MILLIE. ’Tis beyond the power of you or any man to make me do that, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, what’s the good of we two going on to church one with +t’other? + +MILLIE. There’s no good at all, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, I could have sworn that you had begun to care sommat +more than ordinary for me that last time we were together. + +MILLIE. Then you could have sworn wrong. I care nothing for you, +Andrew, no, nothing. But I gave my word I’d go to church with you and be +wed. And—I’ll not break my word, I’ll not. + +ANDREW. And is this all that you can say to me to-day, Mill? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew, ’tis all. And now, ’tis very late, and I have got +to dress myself. + +ELIZABETH. [_Calling loudly from above_.] Millie, what are you stopping +for? Come you up here and get your gown on, do. + +[MILLIE _looks haughtily at_ ANDREW _as she passes him_. _She goes +slowly out of the room_. + +[ANDREW _picks up the flowers and stands holding them_, _looking +disconsolately down upon them_. MAY _comes in_, _furtively_. + +MAY. All alone, Andrew? Has Millie gone to put her fine gown on? + +ANDREW. Yes, Millie’s gone to dress herself. + +MAY. O that’s a beautiful nosegay, Andrew. Was it brought for Mill? + +ANDREW. Yes, May, but she won’t have it. + +MAY. Millie don’t like you very much, Andrew, do she? + +ANDREW. Millie’s got quite changed towards me since last time. + +MAY. And when was that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Why, last time was the evening of the Fair, May. + +MAY. When I was hid in the cupboard yonder, Andrew? + +ANDREW. So you were, May. Well, can’t you recollect how ’twas that she +spoke to me then? + +MAY. O yes, Andrew, and that I can. ’Twas a quist a-cooing in the tree +one time—and then—she did recollect herself and did sharpen up her tongue +and ’twas another sort of bird what could drive its beak into the flesh +of anyone—so ’twas. + +ANDREW. O May—you say she did recollect herself—what do you mean by +those words? + +MAY. You see, she did give her word that she would speak sharp and rough +to you. + +ANDREW. What are you talking about, May? Do you mean that the tongue of +her was not speaking as the heart of her did feel? + +MAY. I guess ’twas sommat like that, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O May, you have gladdened me powerful by these words. + +MAY. But, O you must not tell of me, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I will never do so, May—only I shall know better how to be +patient, and to keep the spirit of me up next time that she do strike out +against me. + +MAY. I’m not a-talking of Mill, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Who are you talking of then, I’d like to know? + +MAY. ’Twas Annet. + +ANDREW. What was? + +MAY. Annet who was dressed up in the cloak and bonnet of Millie that +night and who did speak with you so gentle and nice. + +ANDREW. Annet! + +ELIZABETH. [_Is heard calling_.] There, father, come along down and +give your face a wash at the pump. + +MAY. Let’s go quick together into the garden, Andrew, and I’ll tell you +all about it and how ’twas that Annet acted so. + +[_She seizes_ ANDREW’S _hand and pulls him out of the room with her_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT III.—Scene 2. + + +_A few minutes later_. + +ELIZABETH _stands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror on the +wall_. DANIEL _is mopping his face with a big_, _bright handkerchief_. +ANNET, _dressed for church_, _is by the table_. _She sadly takes up the +nosegay of flowers which_ ANDREW _brought for_ MILLIE, _and moves her +hand caressingly over it_. + +ELIZABETH. If you think that your neckerchief is put on right ’tis time +you should know different, Father. + +DANIEL. What’s wrong with it then, I’d like to know? + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis altogether wrong. ’Tis like the two ears of a heifer +sticking out more than anything else that I can think on. + +DANIEL. Have it your own way, Mother—and fix it as you like. + +[_He stands before her and she rearranges it_. + +ANNET. These flowers were lying on the ground. + +ELIZABETH. Thrown there in a fine fit of temper, I warrant. + +DANIEL. Her was as quiet as a new born lamb once the door was broke open +and she did see as my word, well, ’twas my word. + +ELIZABETH. We all hear a great deal about your word, Father, but ’twould +be better for there to be more do and less say about you. + +DANIEL. [_Going over to Annet and looking at her intently_.] Why, my +wench—what be you a-dropping tears for this day? + +ANNET. [_Drying her eyes_.] ’Twas—’twas the scent out of one of the +flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Well, that’s a likely tale it is. Hear that, Mother? ’Tis with +her eyes that this little wench do snuff at a flower. That’s good, +bain’t it? + +ELIZABETH. I haven’t patience with the wenches now-a-days. Lay down +that nosegay at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her room. I +warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now. + +DANIEL. Ah, I warrant as her’ll need a smartish bit of time for to take +the creases out of the face of she. + +[ANDREW _and_ MAY _come in_.] + +DANIEL. Well, Andrew, my lad, ’tis about time as we was on the way to +church I reckon. + +ANDREW. I count as ’tis full early yet, master. + +[_He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the room to the +window where_ ANNET _is standing_, _and trying to control her tears_. + +ANDREW. Annet, Millie will have none of my blossoms. I should like it +well if you would carry them in your hand to church this day. + +ANNET. [_Looking wonderingly at him_.] Me, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Yes, you, Annet. For, look you, they become you well. They +have sommat of the sweetness of you in them. And the touch of them is +soft and gentle. And—I would like you to keep them in your hands this +day, Annet. + +ANNET. O Andrew, I never was given anything like this before. + +ANDREW. [_Slowly_.] I should like to give you a great deal more, +Annet—only I cannot. And ’tis got too late. + +ELIZABETH. Too late—I should think it was. What’s come to the maid! In +my time girls didn’t use to spend a quarter of the while afore the glass +as they do now. Suppose you was to holler for her again, Father. + +DANIEL. Anything to please you, Mother— + +MAY. I hear her coming, Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk. + +[MILLIE _comes slowly into the room in her wedding clothes_. _She holds +herself very upright and looks from one to another quietly and coldly_. + +MAY. Andrew’s gived your nosegay to Annet, Millie. + +MILLIE. ’Twould have been a pity to have wasted the fresh blossoms. + +MAY. But they were gathered for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. Annet seems to like them better than I did. + +DANIEL. Well, my wench—you be tricked out as though you was off to the +horse show. Mother, there bain’t no one as can beat our wench in looks +anywhere this side of the country. + +ELIZABETH. She’s right enough in the clothing of her, but ’twould be +better if her looks did match the garments more. Come, Millie, can’t you +appear pleasanter like on your wedding day? + +MILLIE. I’m very thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink of water before +we set out? + +ELIZABETH. And what next, I should like to know? + +MILLIE. ’Tis only a drink of water that I’m asking for. + +DANIEL. Well, that’s reasonable, Mother, bain’t it? + +ELIZABETH. Run along and get some for your cousin, May. [MAY _runs out +of the room_. + +DANIEL. Come you here, Andrew, did you ever see a wench to beat ourn in +looks, I say? + +ANDREW. [_Who has remained near_ ANNET _without moving_.] ’Tis very +fine that Millie’s looking. + +DANIEL. Fine, I should think ’twas. You was a fine looking wench, +Mother, the day I took you to church, but ’tis my belief that Millie have +beat you in the appearance of her same as the roan heifer did beat th’ +old cow when the both was took along to market. Ah, and did fetch very +near the double of what I gived for the dam. + +[MAY _returns carrying a glass bowl full of water_. + +MAY. Here’s a drink of cold water, Millie. I took it from the spring. + +[MILLIE _takes the bowl_. _At the same moment a loud knocking is heard +at the outside door_. + +ELIZABETH. Who’s that, I should like to know? + +[MILLIE _sets down the bowl on the table_. _She listens with a sudden +intent_, _anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated_. + +DANIEL. I’ll learn anyone to come meddling with me on a day when ’tis +marrying going on. + +[_The knocking is again heard_. + +MILLIE. [_To_ MAY, _who would have opened the door_.] No, no. ’Tis I +who will open the door. + +[_She raises the latch and flings the door wide open_. GILES _disguised +as a poor and bent old man_, _comes painfully into the room_. + +ELIZABETH. We don’t want no beggars nor roadsters here to-day, if you +please. + +DANIEL. Ah, and that us don’t. Us be a wedding party here, and ’tis for +you to get moving on, old man. + +MILLIE. He is poor and old. And he has wandered far, in the heat of the +morning. Look at his sad clothing. + +ANDREW. [_To_ ANNET.] I never heard her put so much gentleness to her +words afore. + +MILLIE. And ’tis my wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted from here. + +ELIZABETH. I never knowed you so careful of a poor wretch afore, Millie. +’Tis quite a new set out, this. + +MILLIE. I am in mind of another, who may be wandering, and hungered, and +in poor clothing this day. + +MAY. Give him something quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that we can +start for the wedding. + +MILLIE. [_Coming close to_ GILES.] What is it I can do for you, master? + +GILES. ’Tis only a drink of water that I ask, mistress. + +MILLIE. [_Taking up the glass bowl_.] Only a drink of water, master? +Then take, and be comforted. + +[_She holds the bowl before him for him to drink_. _As he takes it_, _he +drops a ring into the water_. _He then drinks and hands the bowl back +to_ MILLIE. _For a moment she gazes speechless at the bottom of the +bowl_. _Then she lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but for_ +MAY, _who takes it from her_. + +MILLIE. Master, from whom did you get this? + +GILES. Look well at the stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded and +dim. + +MILLIE. And not more clouded than the heart which is in me, master. O +do you bring me news? + +GILES. Is it not all too late for news, mistress? + +MILLIE. Not if it be the news for which my heart craves, master. + +GILES. And what would that be, mistress? + +[MILLIE _goes to_ GILES, _and with both hands slowly pushes back his big +hat and gazes at him_. + +MILLIE. O Giles, my true love. You are come just in time. Another hour +and I should have been wed. + +GILES. And so you knew me, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Giles, no change of any sort could hide you from the eyes of +my love. + +GILES. Your love, Millie. And is that still mine? + +MILLIE. It always has been yours, Giles. O I will go with you so gladly +in poor clothing and in hunger all over the face of the earth. + +[_She goes to him and clasps his arm_; _and_, _standing by his side_, +_faces all those in the room_. + +ELIZABETH. [_Angrily_.] Please to come to your right senses, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, Andrew, set your foot down as I’ve set mine. + +ANDREW. Nay, master. There’s naught left for me to say. The heart does +shew us better nor all words which way we have to travel. + +MAY. And are you going to marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, who +looks so brave and fine in his wedding clothes, Millie? + +MILLIE. I am going to marry him I have always loved, May—and—O Andrew, I +never bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard words to you +sometimes.—But you’ll not remember me always—you will find gladness too, +some day. + +ANDREW. I count as I shall, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, come, I’ll have none of this—my daughter wed to a beggar +off the highway! Mother, ’tis time you had a word here. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, I’ll leave you to manage this affair. ’Tis you +who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and unruly, and ’tis +to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant position. + +MAY. Dear Millie—don’t wed my brother Giles. Why, look at his ragged +smock and his bare feet. + +MILLIE. I shall be proud to go bare too, so long as I am by his side, +May. + +[GILES _goes to the door and blows his whistle three times and loudly_. + +MAY. What’s that for, Giles? + +GILES. You shall soon see, little May. + +DANIEL. I’ll be hanged if I’ll stand any more of this caddling nonsense. +Here, Mill—the trap’s come to the door. Into it with you, I say. + +GILES. I beg you to wait a moment, master. + +DANIEL. Wait!—’Tis a sight too long as we have waited this day. If all +had been as I’d planned, we should have been to church by now. But +womenfolk, there be no depending on they. No, and that there bain’t. + +[GEORGE, JOHN _and the_ OLD MAN _come up_. GEORGE _and_ JOHN _carry +their packets and the_ OLD MAN _has_ GILES’ _coat and hat over his arm_. + +ELIZABETH. And who are these persons, Giles? + +[GEORGE _and_ JOHN _set down their burdens on the floor and begin to mop +their faces_. _The_ OLD MAN _stretches out his fine coat and hat and +buckled shoes to_ GILES. + +OLD MAN. Here they be, my lord, and I warrant as you’ll feel more homely +like in they, nor what you’ve got upon you now. [GILES _takes the things +from him_. + +GILES. Thank you, old master. [_He turns to_ MILLIE.] Let me go into +the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a few +moments. + +[_He goes out_. + +ELIZABETH. [_To_ GEORGE.] And who may you be, I should like to know? +You appear to be making very free with my parlour. + +GEORGE. We be the servants what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis. + +ELIZABETH. Old Missis, indeed. Father, you shall speak to these +persons. + +DANIEL. Well, my men. I scarce do know whether I be a-standing on my +head or upon my heels, and that’s the truth ’tis. + +GEORGE. Ah, and that I can well understand, master, for I’m a married +man myself, and my woman has a tongue to her head very similar to that of +th’ old missis yonder—so I know what ’tis. + +ELIZABETH. Put them both out of the door, Father, do you hear me? ’Tis +to the cider as they’ve been getting. That’s clear. + +MILLIE. My good friends, what is it that you carry in those bundles +there? + +GEORGE. ’Tis gold in mine. + +JOHN. And silver here. + +ELIZABETH. Depend upon it ’tis two wicked thieves we have got among us, +flying from justice. + +MILLIE. No, no—did not you hear them say, their master is Giles. + +GEORGE. And a better master never trod the earth. + +JOHN. And a finer or a richer gentleman I never want to see. + +ELIZABETH. Do you hear that, Father? O you shocking liars—’tis stolen +goods that you’ve been and brought to our innocent house this day. But, +Father, do you up and fetch in the constable, do you hear? + +MAY. O I’ll run. I shall love to see them going off to gaol. + +MILLIE. Be quiet, May. Can’t you all see how ’tis. Giles has done the +cruel hard task set him by Father—and is back again with the bushel of +silver and that of gold to claim my hand. [GILES _enters_.] But +Giles—I’d have given it to you had you come to me poor and forlorn and +ragged, for my love has never wandered from you in all this long time. + +ANDREW. No, Giles—and that it has not. Millie has never given me one +kind word nor one gentle look all the years that I’ve been courting of +her, and that’s the truth. And you can call witness to it if you care. + +GILES. Uncle, Aunt, I’ve done the task you set me years ago—and now I +claim my reward. I went from this house a poor wretch, with nothing but +the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain me. I have returned +with all that the world can give me of riches and prosperity. Will you +now let me be the husband of your daughter? + +MILLIE. O say ye, Uncle, for look how fine and grand he is in his +coat—and the bags are stuffed full to the brim and ’tis with gold and +silver. + +ELIZABETH. Well—’tis a respectabler end than I thought as you’d come to, +Giles. And different nor what you deserved. + +DANIEL. Come, come, Mother.—The fewer words to this, the better. Giles, +my boy—get you into the trap and take her along to the church and drive +smart. + +ANDREW. Annet—will you come there with me too? + +ANNET. O Andrew—what are you saying? + +DANIEL. Come, come. Where’s the wind blowing from now? Here, Mother, +do you listen to this. + +ELIZABETH. I shall be deaf before I’ve done, but it appears to me that +Annet’s not lost any time in making the most of her chances. + +DANIEL. Ah, and she be none the worse for that. ’Tis what we all likes +to do. Where’d I be in the market if I did let my chances blow by me? +Hear that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. I’m a rare lucky man this day, farmer. + +DANIEL. Ah, and ’tis a rare good little wench, Annet—though she bain’t +so showy as our’n. A rare good little maid. And now ’tis time we was +all off to church, seeing as this is to be a case of double harness like. + +MAY. O Annet, you can’t be wed in that plain gown. + +ANNET. May, I’m so happy that I feel as though I were clothed all over +with jewels. + +ANDREW. Give me your hand, Annet. + +MAY. [_Mockingly_.] Millie—don’t you want to give a drink of water to +yon poor old man? + +MILLIE. That I will, May? Here—fetch me something that’s better than +water for him. + +ELIZABETH. I’ll have no cider drinking out of meal times here. + +MILLIE. Then ’twill I have to be when we come back from church. + +OLD MAN. Bless you, my pretty lady, but I be used to waiting. I’ll just +sit me down outside in the sun till you be man and wife. + +ELIZABETH. And that’ll not be till this day next year if this sort of +thing goes on any longer. + +DANIEL. That’s right, Mother. You take and lead the way. ’Tis the +womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. But I knows how to settle +with they—[_roaring_]—come Mill, come Giles, Andrew, Annet, May. Come +Mother, out of th’ house with all of you and to church, I say. + +[_He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out of the +room_. _When they have gone_, _the_ OLD MAN _sinks on a bench in the +door-way_. + +OLD MAN. I’m done with all the foolishness of life and I can sit me down +and sleep till it be time to eat. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +BUSHES AND BRIARS + + +CHARACTERS + + +THOMAS SPRING, _a farmer_, _aged_ 35. + +EMILY, _his wife_, _the same age_. + +CLARA, _his sister_, _aged_ 21. + +JESSIE AND ROBIN, _the children of Thomas and Emily_, _aged_ 10 _and_ 8. + +JOAN, _maid to Clara_. + +MILES HOOPER, _a rich draper_. + +LUKE JENNER, _a farmer_. + +LORD LOVEL. + +GEORGE, _aged_ 28. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + + _A wood_. _It is a morning in June_. + +GEORGE, _carrying an empty basket_, _comes slowly through the wood_. _On +reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it_, _placing his basket on the +ground_. _With his stick he absently moves the grass and leaves that lie +before him_, _and is so deeply lost in his own thoughts that he does not +hear the approach of_ MILES _and_ LUKE _until they are by his side_. + +MILES. Here’s the very man to tell us all we want to know. + +LUKE. Why, if ’tisn’t George from Ox Lease. + +[GEORGE _half rises_. + +MILES. No, sit you down again, my lad, and we’ll rest awhile by the side +of you. + +LUKE. That’s it, Miles. Nothing couldn’t have fallen out better for us, +I’m thinking. + +MILES. You’re about right, Luke. Now, George, my man, we should very +much appreciate a few words with you. + +GEORGE. [_Taking up his basket_.] Morning baint the time for words, +masters. I count as words will keep till the set of sun. ’Tis otherwise +with work. + +MILES. Work, why, George, ’tis clear you are come out but to gather +flowers this morning. + +LUKE. ’Tis the very first time as ever I caught George an idling away of +his time like this. + +GEORGE. ’Tis over to Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch back a +couple of young chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets what do +lay. + +LUKE. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease afore +July was in. + +GEORGE. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. +But mistress, her says, you can’t sit a maid from town at table unless +there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in their feeding, maids +from town, so mistress do say. + +MILES. That just brings us to our little matter, George. When is it +that you expect the young lady? + +GEORGE. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom since +yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come on their own +feet from where the morning coach do set them down. + +LUKE. Nay, but there’s only one maid what’s expected. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara, what’s master’s sister; and the serving wench of +she. + +MILES. Well, George, ’twas a great day for your master when old Madam +Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the quality. + +GEORGE. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, from +the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place where +’twas seeded. + +MILES. No, no, George, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A +little country wench may bloom into something very modish and elegant, +once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of velvet and +curtains of satin. You’ll see. + +GEORGE. ’Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by +curtains, nor yet carpets, master. + +MILES. Take my word for it, George, Ox Lease will have to smarten up a +bit for this young lady. I know the circles she has been moving in, and +’tis to the best of everything that she has been used. + +GEORGE. [_Rising_.] That’s what mistress do say. And that’s why I be +sent along down to Brook with haymaking going on and all. Spring chicken +with sparrow grass be the right feeding for such as they. So mistress do +count. + +MILES. Stop a moment, George. You have perhaps heard the letters from +Miss Clara discussed in the family from time to time. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara did never send but two letters home in all the while +she was gone. The first of them did tell as how th’ old lady was dead +and had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. And the second was to say +as how her was coming back to the farm this morning. + +LUKE. And hark you here, George, was naught mentioned about Miss Clara’s +fine suitors in neither of them letters? + +GEORGE. That I cannot say, Master Jenner. + +MILES. Nothing of their swarming thick around her up in London, George? + +GEORGE. They may be swarming by the thousand for aught as I do know. +They smells gold as honey bees do smell the blossom. Us’ll have a good +few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we’re many hours older, so I +counts. + +MILES. Well, George, that’ll liven up the place a bit, I don’t doubt. + +LUKE. ’Tis a bit of quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do want. Isn’t +that so, George, my lad? + +GEORGE. [_Preparing to set off_.] I’ll say good morning to you, +masters. I count I’ve been and wasted a smartish time already on the +road. We be a bit hard pressed up at the farm this day. + +MILES. But George, my man, we have a good many questions to ask of you +before you set off. + +GEORGE. Them questions will have to bide till another time, I reckon. +I’m got late already, master. + +[_He hurries off_. + +MILES. Arriving by the morning coach! I shall certainly make my call to +the farm before sunset. What do you say, Jenner? + +LUKE. You’re a rich man, Miles, and I am poor. But we have always been +friends. + +MILES. And our fathers before us, Luke. + +LUKE. And the courting of the same maid shall not come between us. + +MILES. [_Slowly_.] That’ll be all right, Luke. + +LUKE. What I do say is, let’s start fair. Neck to neck, like. + +MILES. As you please, my good Luke. + +LUKE. Then, do you tell me honest, shall I do in the clothes I’m +a-wearing of now, Miles? + +MILES. [_Regarding him critically_.] That neckerchief is not quite the +thing, Luke. + +LUKE. ’Tis my Sunday best. + +MILES. Step over to the High Street with me, my lad. I’ve got something +in the shop that will be the very thing. You shall have it half price +for ’tis only a bit damaged in one of the corners. + +LUKE. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Miles. + +MILES. That’s all right, Luke. + +LUKE. George would look better to my thinking if there was a new coat to +the back of him. + +MILES. Ah, poor beggar, he would, and no mistake. + +LUKE. I warrant as Emily do keep it afore him as how he was took in from +off the road by th’ old farmer in his day. + +MILES. I flatter myself that I have a certain way with the ladies. They +come to me confidential like and I tell them what’s what, and how that, +this or t’other is worn about town. But with Missis Spring ’tis +different. That’s a woman I could never get the right side of no how. + +LUKE. Ah, poor Thomas! There’s a man who goes down trod and hen +scratched if you like. + +MILES. ’Tis altogether a very poor place up at Ox Lease, for young Miss. + +LUKE. [_Pulling out his watch_.] Time’s slipping on. What if we were +to stroll on to the shop and see about my neckerchief, Miles? + +MILES. I’m sure I’m quite agreeable, Luke. ’Twill help to pass away the +morning. + +[_He puts his arm in_ LUKE’S _and they go briskly off in the direction of +the village_. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 2. + + +CLARA, _followed by_ JOAN, _comes through the wood_. CLARA _is dressed +in a long_, _rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with +feathers and ribbons_. JOAN _wears a cotton bonnet and small shawl_. +_She carries her mistress’s silken bag over her arm_. + +CLARA. [_Pointing to the fallen tree_.] There is the very resting place +for us. We will sit down under the trees for a while. [_She seats +herself_. + +JOAN. [_Dusting the tree with her handkerchief before she sits on it_.] +Have we much further to go, mistress? + +CLARA. Only a mile or two, so far as I can remember. + +JOAN. ’Tis rough work for the feet, down in these parts, mistress. + +CLARA. If London roads were paved with diamonds I’d sooner have my feet +treading this rugged way that leads to home. + +JOAN. What sort of a place shall we find it when we gets there, +mistress. + +CLARA. I was but seven when I left them all, Joan. And that is fourteen +years ago to-day. + +JOAN. So many years may bring about some powerful big changes, mistress. + +CLARA. But I dream that I shall find all just as it was when I went +away. Only that Gran’ma won’t be there. + +[_There is a short silence during which_ CLARA _seems lost in thought_. +JOAN _flicks the dust off her shoes with a branch of leaves_. + +JOAN. ’Tis the coaches I do miss down in these parts. + +CLARA. I would not have driven one step of the way this morning, Joan. +In my fancy I have been walking up from the village and through the wood +and over the meadows since many a day. I have not forgotten one turn of +the path. + +JOAN. The road has not changed then, mistress? + +CLARA. No. But it does not seem quite so broad or so fine as I +remembered it to be. That is all. + +JOAN. And very likely the house won’t seem so fine neither, mistress, +after the grand rooms which you have been used to. + +JOAN. What company shall we see there, mistress? + +CLARA. Well, there’s Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily his wife. Then +the two children. + +CLARA. [_After a short silence_, _and as though to herself_.] And there +was George. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress + +CLARA. Georgie seemed so big and tall to me in those days. I wonder how +old he really was, when I was seven. + +JOAN. Would that be a younger brother of yours, like, mistress + +CLARA. No, George minded the horses and looked after the cows and +poultry. Sometimes he would drive me into market with him on a Saturday. +And in the evenings I would follow him down to the pool to see the cattle +watered. + +JOAN. I’m mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the +sight nor the sound of those animals. + +CLARA. You’ll soon get over that, Joan. + +JOAN. And I don’t care for poultry neither, very much. I goes full of +fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about. + +CLARA. [_Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm_.] There, do you see +this little scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese when +the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a piece right +out of my arm. + +JOAN. [_Looking intently on the scar_.] I have often seen that there +mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be living along +of the poultry still? + +CLARA. I wish he might be, Joan. + +JOAN. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall go +with our lives in our hands, as you might say. + +CLARA. [_As though to herself_.] When the days got colder, we would sit +under the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to me. Some of +his songs, I could say off by heart this day. + +JOAN. [_Looking nervously upward_.] O do look at that nasty little +thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever put +such a thing up in the tree I’d like to know. + +CLARA. [_Brushing it gently aside_.] That won’t hurt you—a tiny +caterpillar. + +JOAN. [_After a moment_.] What more could the farm hand do, mistress? + +CLARA. He would clasp on his bells and dance in the Morris on certain +days, Joan. + +JOAN. ’Tis to be hoped as there’ll be some dancing or something to liven +us all up a bit down here. + +CLARA. Why, Joan, I believe you’re tired already of the country. + +JOAN. ’Tis so powerful quiet and heavy like, mistress. + +CLARA. ’Tis full of sounds. Listen to the doves in the trees and the +lambs calling from the meadow. + +JOAN. I’d sooner have the wheels of the coaches and the cries upon the +street, and the door bell a ringing every moment and fine gentlemen and +ladies being shewn up into the parlour. + +CLARA. [_Stretching out her arms_.] O how glad I am to be free of all +that. And most of all, how glad to be ridded of one person. + +JOAN. His lordship will perhaps follow us down here, mistress. + +CLARA. No, I have forbidden it. I must have a month of quiet, and he is +to wait that time for his answer. + +JOAN. O mistress, you’ll never disappoint so fine a gentleman. + +CLARA. You forget that Lord Lovel and I have played together as +children. It is as a brother that I look upon him. + +JOAN. His lordship don’t look upon you as a sister, mistress. + +CLARA. [_Rising_.] That is a pity, Joan. But see, it is getting late +and we must be moving onwards. + +[JOAN _rises and smoothes and shakes out her skirt_. + +CLARA. Here, loosen my cloak, Joan, and untie the ribbons of my bonnet. + +JOAN. O mistress, keep the pretty clothes upon you till you have got to +the house. + +CLARA. No, no—such town garments are not suited to the woods and +meadows. I want to feel the country breeze upon my head, and my limbs +must be free from the weight of the cloak. I had these things upon me +during the coach journey. They are filled with road dust and I dislike +them now. + +JOAN. [_Unfastening the cloak and untying the bonnet_.] They are fresh +and bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning. + +CLARA. [_Retying a blue ribbon which she wears in her hair_.] I have +taken a dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire them, they +shall be yours. + +JOAN. Mine? The French bonnet and the satin cloak? + +CLARA. To comfort you for the pains of the country, Joan. + +JOAN. O mistress, let us stop a moment longer in this quiet place so +that I may slip them on and see how they become me. + +CLARA. As you will. Listen, that is the cuckoo singing. + +JOAN. [_Throwing off her cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing herself +hastily in the bonnet and cloak_.] O what must it feel like to be a +grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time. + +CLARA. I am very glad to be without them for a while. How good the air +feels on my head. + +JOAN. There, mistress, how do I look? + +CLARA. Very nicely, Joan. So nicely that if you like, you may keep them +upon you for the remainder of the way. + +JOAN. O mistress, may I really do so? + +CLARA. Yes. And Joan, do you go onwards to the farm by the quickest +path which is through this wood and across the high road. Anyone will +shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander about in some of +the meadows which I remember. But I will join you all in good time. + +JOAN. Very well, mistress. If I set off in a few moments it will do, I +suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself as I am now, in the +little glass which you carry in your silk bag. + +CLARA. [_Going off_.] Don’t spend too much time looking at what will be +shewn you, Joan. + +JOAN. Never fear, mistress. I’ll be there afore you, if I have to run +all the way. [CLARA _wanders off_. + +[JOAN _sits down again on the trunk of the fallen tree_. _She opens the +silken bag_, _draws out a small hand glass and looks long and steadily at +her own reflection_. _Then she glances furtively around and_, _seeing +that she is quite alone_, _she takes a small powder box from the bag and +hastily opening it_, _she gives her face several hurried touches with the +powder puff_. + +JOAN. [_Surveying the effect in the glass_.] Just to take off the brown +of my freckles. Now if any one was to come upon me sitting here they +wouldn’t know as I was other than a real, high lady. All covered with +this nice cloak as I be, the French bonnet on my head, and powder to my +face, who’s to tell the difference? But O—these must be hid first. + +[_She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the ground_. _She +hastily rolls them up in a small bundle and stuffs them into the silken +bag_. _Then she takes up the glass and surveys herself again_. + +JOAN. How should I act now if some grand gentleman was to come up and +commence talking to me? Perhaps he might even take me for a lady of +title in these fine clothes, and ’twould be a pity to have to undeceive +him. + +[_She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then lowers the +lace veil over her face_. + +[MILES _and_ LUKE _come slowly up behind her_. MILES _nudges_ LUKE _with +his elbow_, _signing to him to remain where he is whilst he steps forward +in front of_ JOAN. + +MILES. Pardon me, madam, but you appear to have mistook the way. Allow +me to set you on the right path for Ox Lease. + +JOAN. [_Letting the mirror fall on her lap and speaking very low_.] How +do you know I am going to Ox Lease, sir? + +MILES. You see, madam, I happen to know that a stylish young miss from +town is expected there to-day. + +LUKE. [_Coming forward and speaking in a loud whisper_.] Now Miles. I +count as you made one of the biggest blunders of the time. Our young +lady be journeying along of her servant wench. This one baint she. + +MILES. If we have made a small error, madam, allow me to beg your +pardon. + +JOAN. Don’t mention it, sir. Everyone is mistaken sometimes. + +LUKE. Well, I’m powerful sorry if we have given any offence, mam. + +JOAN. [_Looking up at_ LUKE _with sudden boldness and speaking in a +slow_, _affected voice_.] There’s nothing to make so much trouble about, +sir. + +MILES. Can we be of any assistance to you, madam? The wood may appear +rather dense at this point. + +JOAN. That it does. Dense and dark—and the pathway! My goodness, but +my feet have never travelled over such rough ground before. + +Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt that the delicate +texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by our stones and ruts. + +JOAN. [_Insensibly pulling her skirts over her thick walking shoes_.] +Well, it’s vastly different to London streets, where I generally take +exercise—at least when I’m not a-riding in the coach. + +MILES. The country is but a sad place at the best, Miss Clara Spring. + +JOAN. [_Looking round furtively and speaking in a whisper_.] O, how did +you guess my—my name? + +LUKE. Come, ’twasn’t a hard matter, that. + +MILES. Missey can command my services. + +JOAN. [_Rallying_, _and standing up_.] Then gentlemen, do you walk a +bit of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation as we go +along. + +LUKE. [_Offering his arm_.] You take my arm, Miss Clara—do—. + +MILES. [_Also offering his arm_.] I shall also give myself the pleasure +of supporting Miss. + +JOAN. [_Taking an arm of each_.] O thank you, kindly gentlemen. Now we +shall journey very comfortably, I am sure. + +[_They all set out walking in the direction of the farm_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm_. _There are three doors_. _One opens to +the staircase_, _one to the garden and a third into the back kitchen_. +_At a table in the middle of the room_ EMILY _stands ironing some net +window curtains_. JESSIE _and_ ROBIN _lean against the table watching +her_. _By the open doorway_, _looking out on the garden_, _stands_ +THOMAS, _a mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread in the +other_. _As he talks_, _he takes alternate drinks and bites_. + +EMILY. [_Speaking in a shrill_, _angry voice_.] Now Thomas, suppose you +was to take that there bread a step further away and eat it in the +garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling it all over my clean +floor. + +THOMAS. Don’t you be so testy, Emily. The dogs’ll lick the crumbs up as +clean as you like presently. + +EMILY. Dogs? I’d like to see the dog as’ll shew its nose in here to-day +when I’ve got it all cleaned up against the coming of fine young madam. + +THOMAS. [_Finishing his bread and looking wistfully at his empty hand_.] +The little maid’ll take a brush and sweep up her daddy’s crumbs, now, +won’t her? + +EMILY. I’ll give it to any one who goes meddling in my brush cupboard +now that I’ve just put all in order against the prying and nozzling of +the good-for-nothing baggage what’s coming along with your sister. + +ROBIN. What’s baggage, Mother? + +EMILY. [_Sharply_.] Never you mind. Get and take your elbow off my +ironing sheet. + +JESSIE. [_Looking at her father_.] I count as you’d like a piece more +bread, Dad? + +THOMAS. Well, I don’t say but ’twouldn’t come amiss. ’Tis hungry work +in th’ hayfield. And us be to go without our dinners this day, isn’t +that so, Emily? + +EMILY. [_Slamming down her iron on the stand_.] If I’ve told you once, +I’ve told you twenty times, ’twas but the one pair of hands as I was +gived at birth. Now, what have you got to say against that, Thomas? + +THOMAS. [_Sheepishly_.] I’m sure I don’t know. + +EMILY. And if so be as I’m to clean and wash and cook, and run, and +wait, and scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other folk must +go without hot cooking at mid-day. + +THOMAS. [_Faintly_.] ’Twasn’t nothing cooked, like. ’Twas a bit of +bread as I did ask for. + +JESSIE. [_Getting up_.] I’ll get it for you, Dad. I know where the +loaf bides and the knife too. I’ll cut you, O such a large piece. + +EMILY. [_Seizing her roughly by the hand_.] You’ll do nothing of the +sort. You’ll take this here cold iron into Maggie and you’ll bring back +one that is hot. How am I to get these curtains finished and hung and +all, by the time the dressed up parrots come sailing in, I’d like to +know. + +[JESSIE _runs away with the iron_. + +THOMAS. [_Setting down his mug and coming to the table_.] I’d leave the +windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form the +suitablest shade for they, to my thinking. + +EMILY. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, take your +hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs shewing +all over the clean net what I’ve washed and dried and ironed, and been +a-messing about with since ’twas light? + +THOMAS. Now that’s what I be trying for to say. There’s no need for you +to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of little Clara +coming back. Home’s home. And ’twon’t be neither the curtains nor the +hot dinner as Clara will be thinking of when her steps into th’ old place +once more. + +JESSIE. [_Running back with the hot iron which she sets down on the +table_.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad? + +THOMAS. [_Shy and abashed under a withering glance from_ EMILY _who has +taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net_.] Her’ll remember, +very like, how ’twas when her left—some fourteen year ago. And her’ll +have her eyes on Gran’ma’s chair, what’s empty. + +ROBIN. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what’s for +dinner. + +THOMAS. And her’ll look up to th’ old clock, and different things what’s +still in their places. The grand parts where she have been bred up will +be forgot. ’Twill be only home as her’ll think on. + +EMILY. I haven’t patience to listen to such stuff. + +THOMAS. [_After a pause_.] I count that ’tisn’t likely as a young woman +what’s been left riches as Clara have, would choose to make her home +along of such as we for always, like. + +EMILY. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, but +when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank you, +Thomas, I’m not going to do it. + +ROBIN. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother. + +JESSIE. What are spangled plumes, Mother? + +EMILY. [_Viciously_.] You’ll see plenty of them presently. + +ROBIN. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she? + +[_A slight pause during which_ EMILY _irons vigorously_. + +EMILY. [_As she irons_.] Some folk have all the honey. It do trickle +from the mouths of them and down to the ground. + +ROBIN. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then? + +EMILY. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts and the +vinegar. + +JESSIE. Like you, Mother—Least, that’s what Maggie said this morning. + +EMILY. What’s that? + +JESSIE. That ’twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, Mother. + +EMILY. I’ll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she +can’t fetch them out respectful like. [_Shouting_.] Mag, come you here +this minute—what are you after now, I’d like to know, you ugly, idle +piece of mischief? + +[MAGGIE, _wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen_. + +MAGGIE. Was you calling, mistress? + +EMILY. What’s this you’ve got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like to +know. + +JESSIE. [_Running to_ MAGGIE _and laying her hand on her arm_.] Dear +Maggie, ’tis only what you did tell about poor mother’s tongue being in +the vinegar jar. + +MAGGIE. O Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. Hark you here, my girl—if ’twasn’t hay time you should bundle up +your rags and off with you this minute. But as ’tis awkward being short +of a pair of hands just now, you’ll bide a week or two and then you’ll +get outside of my door with no more character to you nor what I took you +with. + +THOMAS. Come, come Emily. The girl’s a good one for to work, and that +she is. + +EMILY. Be quiet, Thomas. This is my business, and you’ll please to keep +your words till they’re wanted. + +MAGGIE. O mistress, I didn’t mean no harm, I didn’t. + +EMILY. I don’t want no words nor no tears neither. + +MAGGIE. [_Beginning to cry loudly_.] I be the only girl as have stopped +with you more nor a month, I be. T’others wouldn’t bide a day, some of +them. + +EMILY. Be quiet. Back to your work with you. And when the hay is all +carried, off with you, ungrateful minx, to where you came from. + +JESSIE. O let us keep her always, Mother, she’s kind. + +ROBIN. Don’t you cry, Mag. I’ll marry you when I’m a big man like +Daddy. + +THOMAS. Harken to them, Emily! She’s been a good maid to the children. +I’d not part with any one so hasty, if ’twas me. + +EMILY. [_Very angrily_.] When I want your opinion, Thomas, I’ll ask for +it. Suppose you was to go out and see after something which you do +understand. + +THOMAS. O I’ll go down to the field fast enough, I can tell you. ’Twas +only being hungered as drove me into the hornets’ nest, as you might say. + +EMILY. [_Ironing fiercely_.] What’s that? + +THOMAS. Nothing. I did only say as I was a-going back to the field when +George do come home. + +EMILY. There again. Did you ever know the man to be so slow before. I +warrant as he have gone drinking or mischiefing down at the Spotted Cow +instead of coming straight home with they chicken. + +THOMAS. Nay, nay. George is not the lad to do a thing like that. A +quieter more well bred up lad nor George never trod in shoes. + +EMILY [_Glancing at_ MAGGIE.] What are you tossing your head like that +for, Maggie? Please to recollect as you’re a lazy, good-for-nothing +little slut of a maid servant, and not a circus pony all decked out for +the show. + +JESSIE. Maggie’s fond of Georgie. And Georgie’s kind to Mag. + +MAGGIE. [_Fearfully_.] O don’t, Miss Jessie, for goodness sake. + +EMILY. [_Viciously_.] I’ll soon put an end to anything in that quarter. + +THOMAS. Now, Emily—take it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara upon us +before us knows where we are. + +EMILY. [_Folding the curtains_.] I’ll settle her too, if she comes +before I’m ready for her. + +ROBIN. [_Pointing through the open_.] There’s George, coming with the +basket. + +[GEORGE _comes into the room_. _He carefully rubs his feet on the mat as +he enters_. _Then he advances to the table_. MAGGIE _dries her eyes +with the back of her hand_. JESSIE _is standing with her arm in_ +MAGGIE’S. + +EMILY. Well, and where have you been all this while, I’d like to know? + +GEORGE. To Brook Farm, mam, and home. + +EMILY. You’ve been up to some mischief on the way, I warrant. + +THOMAS. Come, Emily. + +[GEORGE _looks calmly into_ EMILY’S _face_. _Then his gaze travels +leisurely round the room_. + +GEORGE. I was kept waiting while they did pluck and dress the chicken. + +EMILY. [_Lifting the cloth covering the basket_, _and looking within +it_.] I’d best have gone myself. Of all the thick-headed men I ever did +see, you’re the thickest. Upon my word you are. + +GEORGE. What’s wrong now, mistress? + +EMILY. ’Taint chicken at all what you’ve been and fetched me. + +GEORGE. I’ll be blowed if I do know what ’tis then. + +EMILY. If I’d been given a four arms and legs at birth same as th’ +horses, I’d have left a pair of them at home and gone and done the job +myself, I would. And then you should see what I’d have brought back. + +GEORGE. You can’t better what I’ve got here. From the weight it might +be two fat capons. So it might. + +EMILY. [_Seizing the basket roughly_.] Here, Mag, off into the pantry +with them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the road ditch would have +done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with these clean curtains and lay +them careful on the bed. I’ll put them to the windows later. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, did you meet with any one on the way, like? + +EMILY. You’d best ask no questions if you don’t want to be served with +lies, Thomas. + +GEORGE. [_Throwing a glance of disdain at_ EMILY.] Miles Hooper and +Farmer Jenner was taking the air ’long of one another in the wood, +master. + +THOMAS. Miles Hooper and Luke a-taking of the air, and of a weekday +morning! + +GEORGE. That they was, master. And they did stop I— + +EMILY. Ah, now you’ve got it, Thomas. Now we shall know why George was +upon the road the best part of the day and me kept waiting for the +chicken. + +GEORGE. [_Steadily_.] Sunday clothes to the back of both of them. And, +when was Miss Clara expected up at home. + +THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a fair commotion all over these parts already, I +warrant. There wasn’t nothing else spoke of in market last time, but how +as sister Clara with all her money was to come home. + +JESSIE. [_Coming back_.] I’ve laid the curtains on the bed, shall I +gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother? + +EMILY. I’d like to see you! Flowers in the bedroom? I never heard tell +of such senseless goings on. What next, I’d like to know? + +GEORGE. Miss Clara always did fill a mug of clover blooms and set it +aside of her bed when her was a little thing—so high. + +JESSIE. Do you remember our fine aunt, then, Georgie? + +GEORGE. I remembers Miss Clara right enough. + +EMILY. Don’t you flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy piece of town +goods will trouble herself to remember you. + +THOMAS. The little maid had a good enough heart to her afore she was +took away from us. + +JESSIE. Do you think our aunt Clara has growed into a coxsy town lady, +George? + +GEORGE. No, I do not, Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. [_Beginning to stir about noisily as she sets the kitchen in +order_.] Get off with you to the field, Thomas, can’t you. I’ve had +enough to do as ’tis without a great hulking man standing about and +taking up all the room. + +THOMAS. Come, George, us’ll clear out down to th’ hay field, and snatch +a bite as we do go. + +GEORGE. That’s it, master. + +EMILY. [_Calling angrily after them_.] There’s no dinner for no one +to-day, I tell you. + +[THOMAS _and_ GEORGE _go out of the back kitchen door_. EMILY _begins +putting the irons away_, _folding up the ironing sheet and setting the +chairs back against the wall_. + +[JESSIE _and_ ROBIN, _from their places at the table_, _watch her +intently_. + +EMILY. [_As she moves about_.] ’Twouldn’t be half the upset if the +wench was coming by herself, but to have a hussy of a serving maid +sticking about in the rooms along of us, is more nor I can stand. + +[_She begins violently to sweep up the hearth_. + +[_Steps are heard outside_. + +JESSIE. Hark, what’s that, mother? + +EMILY. I’ll give it to any one who wants to come in here. + +JESSIE. [_Running to the open door_.] They’re coming up the path. ’Tis +our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen either side of she. + +ROBIN. [_Running also to the door_.] O I want to look on her too. + +EMILY. [_Putting the broom in a corner_.] ’Tis no end to the vexation. +But she’ll have to wait on herself. I’ve no time to play the dancing +bear. And that I’ve not. + +[JOAN, _between_ MILES HOOPER _and_ LUKE JENNER, _comes up to the open +door_. + +MILES. [_To Jessie_.] See here, my little maid, what’ll you give Mister +Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe up to the farm? + +JESSIE. I know who ’tis you’ve brought. ’Tis my Aunt Clara. + +LUKE. You’re a smart little wench, if ever there was one. + +ROBIN. I know who ’tis, too, ’cause of the spangled plumes in the bonnet +of she. Mother said as there’d be some. + +EMILY. [_Coming forward_.] Well, Clara, if ’twas by the morning coach +as you did come, you’re late. If ’twas by th’ evening one, you’re too +soon by a good few hours. + +MILES. Having come by the morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant +fancy to stroll here through the woodlands, Missis Spring. + +LUKE. Ah, and ’twas lost on the way as we did find her, like a strayed +sheep. + +MILES. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer safely +home. + +EMILY. [_Scornfully looking_ JOAN _over from head to foot_.] Where’s +that serving wench of yours got to, Clara? + +MILES. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent her maid on by +another road. + +EMILY. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have found +something of mischief for her idle hands to do. + +MILES. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat fatigued +by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately framed, +Missis Spring. + +EMILY. [_Pointing ungraciously_.] There’s chairs right in front of you. + +[MILES _and_ LUKE _lead_ JOAN _forward_, _placing her in an armchair with +every attention_. JOAN _sinks into it_, _and_, _taking a little fan from +the silken bag on her arm_, _begins to fan herself violently_. + +EMILY. [_Watching her with fierce contempt_.] Maybe as you’d like my +kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine +maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it concerns +her to attend to. + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O no, thank you. The day is rather warm—that’s all. + +EMILY. Warm, I should think it was warm in under of that great white +curtain. + +JESSIE. Aunt Clara, I’m Jessie. + +JOAN. Are you, my dear? + +ROBIN. And I’m Robin. + +MILES. Now, I wager, if you are both good little children, this pretty +lady will give you each a kiss. + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] To be sure I will. + +JESSIE. Then you’ll have to take off that white thing from your face. +’Tis like what mother do spread over the currant bushes to keep the birds +from the fruit. + +[JOAN _slowly raises her veil_, _showing her face_. + +JESSIE. Shall I give you a kiss, Aunt? + +EMILY. I’d be careful if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies be brittle as +fine china. + +JESSIE. O I’ll kiss her very lightly, Mother. + +[_She goes up to_ JOAN _and kisses her_. ROBIN _then reaches up his face +and_ JOAN _kisses him_. + +ROBIN. [_Rubbing his mouth_.] The flour do come from Aunt same as it +does from a new loaf. + +MILES. [_To_ JOAN.] You must pardon these ignorant little country +brats, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. O there’s nothing amiss, thank you. + +EMILY. Amiss, who said as there was? When folks what can afford to +lodge at the inn do come down and fasten theirselves on the top of poor +people, they must take things as they do find them and not start +grumbling at the first set off. + +LUKE. There, there, Missis Spring. There wasn’t naught said about +grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long distance, and it +behoves us all as she should find summat of a welcome at the end of her +journey, like. + +MILES. [_Aside to_ JOAN.] How strange this country tongue must fall on +your ears, Miss Clara! + +JOAN. I don’t understand about half of what they say. + +EMILY. [_Overhearing her_.] O, you don’t, don’t you. Well, Clara, I +was always one for plain words, and I say ’tis a pity when folks do get +above the position to which they was bred, and for all the fine satins +and plumes upon you, the body what’s covered by them belongs to Clara +Spring, what’s sister to Thomas. And all the world knows what Thomas +is—A poor, mean spirited, humble born man with but two coats to the back +of him, and with not a thought to the mind of him which is not +foolishness. And I judge from by what they be in birth, and not by the +bags of gold what have been left them by any old madams in their dotage. +So now you see how I takes it all and you and me can start fair, like. + +JOAN. [_To_ LUKE.] O Mister—Mister Jenner, I feel so faint. + +MILES. [_Taking her fan_.] Allow me. [_He begins to fan her_.] I +assure you she means nothing by it. It’s her way. You see, she knows no +better. + +LUKE. I’d fetch out summat for her to eat if I was you, missis. ’Tis +famished as the poor young maid must be. + +EMILY. She should have come when ’twas meal time then. I don’t hold +with bites nor drinks in between whiles. + +JOAN. O I’m dying for a glass of milk—or water would do as well. + +MILES. My dear young lady—anything to oblige. [_Turning to Jessie_.] +Come, my little maid, see if you can’t make yourself useful in bringing a +tray of refreshment for your auntie. And you [_turning to Robin_] trot +off and help sister. + +EMILY. Not if I know it. Stop where you are, Jess. Robin, you dare to +move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I’m afeared she must wait till +supper time. + +ROBIN. There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt. + +JESSIE. And a great pie of gooseberries. + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O I couldn’t touch a mouthful of food, don’t speak +to me about it. + +ROBIN. I likes talking of dinner. After I’ve done eating of it, I likes +next best to talk about it. + +LUKE. See here, missis. Let’s have a glass of summat cool for Miss +Clara. + +EMILY. [_Calling angrily_.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great +lazy-boned donkey? + +MAGGIE. [_Comes in from the back kitchen_, _her apron held to her +eyes_.] Did you call me, mistress? + +EMILY. Get up a bucket of water from the well. Master’s sister wants a +drink. + +MAGGIE. [_Between sobs_.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would the +young lady like it in a jug? + +EMILY. [_With exasperation_.] There’s no end to the worriting that +other folks do make. + +JESSIE. Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother. + +ROBIN. [_To_ JOAN.] Do you know what Maggie’s crying for, Aunt Clara? + +JOAN. I’m sure I don’t, little boy. + +ROBIN. ’Tis because she’s got to go. Mother’s sent her off. ’Twas what +she said of mother’s tongue. + +EMILY. [_Roughly taking hold of_ ROBIN _and_ JESSIE.] Come you along +with me, you ill-behaved little varmints. ’Tis the back kitchen and the +serving maid as is the properest place for such as you. I’ll not have +you bide ’mongst the company no longer. [_She goes out with the children +and followed by_ MAGGIE.] + +[_Directly they have left the room_ JOAN, _whose manner has been +nervously shrinking_, _seems to recover herself and she assumes a +languid_, _artificial air_, _badly imitating the ways of a lady of +fashion_. + +JOAN. [_Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan_.] Well, I +never did meet with such goings on before. + +MILES. You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, Miss +Clara. We must not expect to find the same polite ways down here. + +LUKE. Come now, ’tisn’t so bad as all that with we. There baint many +what has the tongue of mistress yonder. + +JOAN. I’m quite unused to such people. + +LUKE. And yet, Miss Clara, ’tisn’t as though they were exactly strangers +to you like. + +JOAN. They feel as good as strangers to me, any way. + +MILES. Ah, how well I understand that, Miss. ’Tisn’t very often as we +lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at my +counters. + +JOAN. I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn’t feel so +terrible faint and sinking. + +LUKE. [_Going to the back kitchen door_.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself +up a bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count. + +JESSIE. [_Runs in with a tray on which is a jug of water and a glass_.] +I’m bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. Maggie’s crying ever so +badly, and Mother’s sent her upstairs to wash her face and put her hair +tidy. + +[JESSIE _puts the tray on the table near to where_ JOAN _is sitting_. +MILES HOOFER _busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in +handing it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to_ JOAN. + +JOAN. [_Drinking_.] Such a coarse glass! + +MILES. Ah, you must let me send you up one from my place during your +stay here. Who could expect a lady to drink from such a thing as that? + +JOAN. [_Laying aside the glass_.] There’s a taste of mould in the water +too. + +JESSIE. It’s fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, she did. + +JOAN. [_Looking disdainfully round on the room_.] Such a strange room. +So very common. + +LUKE. Nay, you mustn’t judge of the house by this. Don’t you recollect +the parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds and the chiney cupboard? + +JOAN. [_Looking round again_.] Such an old-fashioned place as this I +never did see. ’Tis a low sort of room too, no carpet on the boards nor +cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant. + +MILES. Ah, we find the mansions in town very different to a country farm +house, don’t we Miss? + +JOAN. I should think we did, Mister Hooper. Why, look at that great old +wooden chair by the hearth? Don’t it look un-stylish, upon my word, with +no cushions to it nor nothing. + +JESSIE. [_Coming quite close to_ JOAN _and looking straight into her +face_.] That’s great gran’ma’s chair, what Dad said you’d be best +pleased for to see. + +[JOAN _looks very confused and begins to fan herself hastily_. + +JESSIE. And th’ old clock’s another thing what Dad did say as you’d look +upon. + +JOAN. O the old clock’s well enough, to be sure. + +JESSIE. I did want to gather a nosegay of flowers to set in your +bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, she said, no. + +JOAN. [_Languidly_.] I must say I don’t see any flowers blooming here +that I should particular care about having in my apartment. + +JESSIE. And Father said as how you’d like to smell the blossoms in the +garden. And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the clover blooms +when you was a little girl and set them by you where you did sleep. + +JOAN. [_Crossly_.] O run away, child, I’m tired to death with all this +chatter. How would you like to be so pestered after such a travel over +the rough country roads as I have had? + +LUKE. Now, my little maid, off you go. Take back the tray to Mother, +and be careful as you don’t break the glasses on it. + +JESSIE. [_Taking up the tray_.] I’m off to play in the hayfield along +of Robin, then. + +[LUKE _opens the back kitchen door for her and she goes out_. +_Meanwhile_ MILES _has taken up the fan and is fanning_ JOAN, _who leans +back in her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look_. + +LUKE. [_Coming to her side and sitting down_.] ’Twill seem more +homelike when Thomas do come up from the field. + +JOAN. [_Raising herself and looking at him_.] You mustn’t trouble about +me, Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable presently. + +[_The back door opens and_ MAGGIE _comes hurriedly in_. + +MAGGIE. Please, mistress, there be a young person a-coming through the +rick yard. + +JOAN. [_Nervously_.] A young person? + +MAGGIE. Mistress be at the gooseberries a-gathering of them, and the +children be gone off to th’ hay field. + +MILES. ’Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch the +young woman in to you? + +JOAN. My maid, did you say? My maid? + +LUKE. Ah, depend on it, ’tis she. + +MAGGIE. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, +mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white +handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes and +a-calling of the geese and poultry. + +LUKE. That’s her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag. + +JOAN. [_Agitatedly_.] No, no—I mean—I want to see her particular—and +alone. I’ll go to meet her. You—gentlemen—[MAGGIE _goes slowly into the +back kitchen_. + +MILES. [_Placing a chair for_ JOAN.] Delicate ladies should not venture +out into the heat at this time of day. + +JOAN. [_With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going to the +window_.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the garden. +I have need of the services of my—my young woman. But when she has put +me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask you to be good enough to +come back and while away an hour for me in this sad place. + +MILES. [_Fervently_.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss. + +LUKE. That’s right. Us’ll wait while you do lay aside your bonnet. + +[MILES _and_ LUKE _go out through the garden door_. MILES, _turning to +bow low before he disappears_. JOAN _stands as though distraught in the +middle of the room_. _Through the open door of the back kitchen the +voices of_ CLARA _and_ MAGGIE _are distinctly heard_. + +CLARA. Is no one at home then? + +MAGGIE. Ah, go you straight on into the kitchen, you’ll find whom you be +searching for in there. I’d take and shew you in myself only I’m wanted +down to th’ hayfield now. + +CLARA. Don’t put yourself to any trouble about me. I know my way. + +[CLARA _comes into the kitchen_. _She has tied a white handkerchief over +her head_, _and carries a bunch of wildflowers in her hands_. + +CLARA. Still in your cloak and bonnet! Why, I thought by now you would +have unpacked our things and made yourself at home. + +JOAN. [_Joining her hands supplicatingly and coming towards_ CLARA, +_speaking almost in a whisper_.] O mistress, you’ll never guess what +I’ve been and done. But ’twasn’t all my fault at the commencement. + +CLARA. [_Looking her over searchingly_.] You do look very disturbed, +Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. ’Twas the fine bonnet and cloak, mam. ’Twas they as did it. + +CLARA. Did what? + +JOAN. Put the thought into my head, like. + +CLARA. What thought? + +JOAN. As how ’twould feel to be a real grand lady, like you, mistress. + +CLARA. What then, Joan? + +JOAN. So I began to pretend all to myself as how that I was one, +mistress. + +CLARA. Come, tell me all. + +JOAN. And whilst I was sat down upon that fallen tree, and sort of +pretending to myself, the two gentlemen came along. + +CLARA. What gentlemen? + +JOAN. Gentlemen as was after courting you, mistress. + +CLARA. Courting me? + +JOAN. Yes, and they commenced speaking so nice and respectful like. + +CLARA. Go on, Joan, don’t be afraid. + +JOAN. It did seem to fall in with the game I was a-playing with myself. +And then, before I did know how, ’twas they was both of them a-taking me +for you, mam. + +CLARA. And did you not un-deceive them, Joan? + +JOAN. [_Very ashamedly_.] No, mam. + +CLARA. You should have told them the truth about yourself at once. + +JOAN. O I know I should have, mistress. But there was something as held +me back when I would have spoke the words. + +CLARA. I wonder what that could have been? + +JOAN. ’Twas them being such very nice and kind gentlemen. And, O +mistress, you’ll not understand it, because you’ve told me many times as +the heart within you have never been touched by love. + +CLARA. [_Suddenly sitting down_.] And has yours been touched to-day, +Joan, by love? + +JOAN. That it have, mistress. Love have struck at it heavily. + +CLARA. Through which of the gentlemen did it strike, Joan? + +JOAN. Through both. Leastways, ’tis Mister Jenner that my feelings do +go out most quickly to, mistress. But ’tis Mister Hooper who do court +the hardest and who has the greatest riches like. + +CLARA. Well, and what do you want me to do or to say now, Joan? + +JOAN. See here, mistress, I want you to give me a chance. They’ll never +stoop to wed me if they knows as I’m but a poor serving maid. + +CLARA. Your dressing up as a fine lady won’t make you other than what +you are, Joan. + +JOAN. Once let me get the fish in my net, mistress. + +CLARA. Are you proposing to catch the two, Joan? + +JOAN. I shall take the one as do offer first, mistress. + +CLARA. That’ll be Mister Hooper, I should think. + +JOAN. I should go riding in my own chaise, mistress, if ’twas him. + +CLARA. But, Joan, either of these men would have to know the truth +before there could be any marriage. + +JOAN. I knows that full well, mistress. But let one of them just offer +hisself. By that time my heart and his would be so closely twined +together like, ’twould take more nor such a little thing as my station +being low to part us. + +[CLARA _sits very still for a few moments_, _looking straight before +her_, _lost in thought_. JOAN _sinks on to a chair by the table as +though suddenly tired out_, _and she begins to cry gently_. + +CLARA. Listen, Joan. I’m one for the straight paths. I like to walk in +open fields and over the bare heath. Only times come when one is driven +to take to the ways which are set with bushes and with briars. + +JOAN. [_Lifting her head and drying her eyes_.] O mistress, I feel to +be asking summat as is too heavy for you to give. + +CLARA. But for a certain thing, I could never have lent myself to this +acting game of yours, Joan. + +JOAN. No, mistress? + +CLARA. Only that, to-day, my heart too has gone from my own keeping. + +JOAN. O mistress, you don’t mean to say as his lordship have followed us +down already. + +CLARA. [_Scornfully_.] His lordship! As if I should be stirred by him! + +JOAN. [_Humbly_.] Who might it be, mistress, if I may ask? + +CLARA. ’Tis one who would never look upon me with thoughts of love if I +went to him as I am now, Joan. + +JOAN. I can’t rightly understand you, mam. + +CLARA. My case is just the same as yours, Joan. You say that your fine +gentlemen would not look upon a serving maid. + +JOAN. I’m certain of it, mistress. + +CLARA. And the man I—I love will never let his heart go out to mine with +the heaviness of all these riches lying between us. + +JOAN. I count that gold do pave the way for most of us, mistress. + +CLARA. So for this once, I will leave the clear high road, Joan. And +you and I will take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God they do not +wound us past healing at the end of our travel. + +JOAN. O mistress, ’twill be a lightsome journey for me. + +CLARA. But the moment that you reach happiness, Joan, remember to +confess. + +JOAN. There won’t be nothing to fear then, mistress. + +CLARA. Make him love you for yourself, Joan. O we must each tie the +heart of our true love so tightly to our own that naught shall ever be +able to cut the bonds. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress, and I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you. + +CLARA. Ah, I am lending myself to all this, because I, too, have +something to win or lose. + +JOAN. Where did you meet him, mistress? + +CLARA. I did not meet him. I stood on the high ground, and he passed +below. His face was raised to the light, and I saw its look. I think my +love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, Joan. But when he +passed beneath me in the meadow, it awoke. + +JOAN. O mistress, what sort of an appearance has the gentleman? + +CLARA. I don’t know how to answer you, Joan. + +JOAN. I count as it would take a rare, grand looking man for to put his +lordship into the shadow, like. + +CLARA. You are right there, Joan. But now we must talk of your affairs. +Your fine courtiers will be coming in presently and you must know how to +receive them in a good way. + +JOAN. That’s what do hamper me dreadful, my speech and other things. +How would it be if you was to help me a little bit, like? + +CLARA. With all my heart. + +JOAN. How should I act so not to be found out, mistress? + +CLARA. You must speak little, and low. Do not show haste in your goings +and comings. Put great care into your way of eating and drinking. + +JOAN. O that will be a fearsome hard task. What else? + +CLARA. You must be sisterly with Thomas. + +JOAN. I’d clean forgot him. I don’t doubt but what he’ll ferret out the +truth in no time. + +CLARA. I don’t think so. I was but a little child when I left him. He +will not remember how I looked. And our colouring is alike, Joan. + +JOAN. ’Tis the eating and drinking as do play most heavily upon my mind, +mistress. + +CLARA. Then think of these words as you sit at table. Eat as though you +were not hungry and drink as though there were no such thing as thirst. +Let your hands move about your plate as if they were too tired to lift +the knife and fork. + +[JOAN, _darts to the dresser_—_seizes up a plate with a knife and fork_, +_places them on the table and sits down before them_, _pretending to cut +up meat_. CLARA _watches her smilingly_. + +JOAN. [_Absently_, _raising the knife to her mouth_.] How’s that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Not so, not so, Joan. That might betray you. + +JOAN. What, mistress? + +CLARA. ’Tis the fork which journeys to the mouth, and the knife stops at +home on the plate. + +JOAN. [_Dispiritedly_.] ’Tis almost more than I did reckon for when I +started. + +CLARA. Well, we mustn’t think of that now. We must hold up our spirits, +you and I. + +JOAN. [_Getting up and putting away the crockery_.] I’d best take off +the bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn’t I? + +CLARA. Yes, that you had. We will go upstairs together and I will help +you change into another gown. Come quickly so that we may have plenty of +time. + +[_They go towards the staircase door_, CLARA _leading the way_. _With +her hand on the latch of the door she gives one look round the kitchen_. +_Then with a sudden movement she goes up to the wooden armchair at the +hearth and bends her head till her lips touch it_, _she then runs +upstairs_, _followed by_ JOAN. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + +_After a few moments_ MILES HOOPER _and_ LUKE JENNER _come into the +kitchen_. _They both look round the room enquiringly_. + +LUKE. Ah, she be still up above with that there serving wench what’s +come. + +MILES. My good man, you didn’t expect our fair miss to have finished her +toilet under an hour, did you? + +LUKE. I don’t see what there was to begin on myself, let alone finish. + +MILES. ’Tis clear you know little of the ways of our town beauties, +Luke. + +LUKE. Still, I mean to have my try with her, Miles Hooper. + +MILES. [_Sarcastically_.] I’m quite agreeable, Mister Jenner. + +[THOMAS _and_ GEORGE _come in_. GEORGE _carries a bucket of water_. + +THOMAS. Where’s the little maid got to? George and me be come up from +the field on purpose for to bid her welcome home. + +MILES. Miss is still at her toilet, farmer. + +[JOAN, _in a flowered silk gown_, _comes slowly and carefully into the +room_, _followed by_ CLARA, _who carries a lace shawl over one arm_. +_She has put on a large white apron_, _but wears nothing on her head but +the narrow blue ribbon_. _During the following scene she stands +quietly_, _half hidden by the door_. + +[JOAN _looks nervously round the room_, _then she draws herself up very +haughtily_. MILES _comes forward and bows low_. + +THOMAS. [_Looking_ JOAN _up and down_.] Well, bless my soul, who’d have +guessed at the change it do make in a wench? + +JOAN. [_Holding out her hand_, _very coldly_.] A good afternoon to you, +sir. + +THOMAS. [_Taking her hand slowly_.] Upon my word, but you might knock +me over. + +MILES. Miss has grown into a very superb young lady, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Still looking at her_.] That may be so, yet ’twasn’t as such +I had figured she in the eye of my mind, like. [_There is a moment’s +silence_. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, you and sister Clara used to be up to rare games +one with t’other once on a time. [_Turning to_ JOAN.] There, my wench, +I count you’ve not forgotten Georgie? + +JOAN. I’m afeared I’ve not much of a memory. + +THOMAS. Shake hands, my maid, and very like as the memory will come back +to roost same as the fowls do. + +JOAN. [_Bowing coldly_.] Good afternoon, George. + +MILES. [_Aside to Luke_.] Now that’s what I call a bit of stylish +breeding. + +[GEORGE _has made no answer to_ JOAN’S _bow_. _He quietly ignores it_, +_and takes up his pail of water_. _As he does so he catches sight of_ +CLARA, _who has been watching the whole scene from the corner where she +is partly concealed_. _He looks at her for one moment_, _and then sets +the bucket down again_. + +THOMAS. Why, George—I guess as it’s took you as it took me, us didn’t +think how ’twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up. + +GEORGE. [_Quietly_.] No, us did not, master. + +[_He carries his pail into the back kitchen as_ EMILY _and the children +come in_. + +EMILY. What’s all this to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know? + +THOMAS. Us did but come up for to—to give a handshake to sister Clara, +like. + +EMILY. Well, now you can go off back to work again. And you—[_turning +to_ JOAN]—now that you’ve finished curling of your hair and dressing of +yourself up, you can go and sit down in the best parlour along with your +fancy gentlemen. + +MILES. [_Offering his arm to_ JOAN.] It will be my sweet pleasure to +conduct Missy to the parlour. + +[LUKE _offers his arm on the other side_, _and_ JOAN _moves off with both +the young men_. + +JOAN. [_As she goes_.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a comfortable +couch. I’m dead tired of the country air already. + +ROBIN. [_Calling after her_.] You’ll not go off to sleep afore the +chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt? + +[MILES, LUKE _and_ JOAN _having gone out_, EMILY _begins to bang the +chairs back in their places and to arrange the room_, _watched by the two +children_. CLARA, _who has remained half hidden by the door_, _now goes +quietly upstairs_. + +EMILY. [_Calling_.] Here, George, Mag. + +[GEORGE _comes in_. + +EMILY. Well, George, ’tisn’t much worse nor I expected. + +JESSIE. I don’t like Aunt Clara. + +ROBIN. I hates her very much. + +GEORGE. [_Slowly_.] And I don’t seem to fancy her neither. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_Two days have passed by_. + +_It is morning_. CLARA, _wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head_, +_sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief_. MAGGIE, _who is +dusting the plates on the dressers_, _pauses to watch her_. + +MAGGIE. I’d sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor have to +set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you. + +CLARA. I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine. + +MAGGIE. I count ’tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a young +miss such as yourn be. + +CLARA. What makes you say that, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in the +tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis when +she do come to that age. + +CLARA. Why do you think this, Mag? + +MAGGIE. O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor the very +worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word did cost she +more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how destructive she be with +her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore to ribbons last night, and +to-day yon handkerchief. + +CLARA. These things are soon mended. + +[MAGGIE _continues to dust for a few moments_. + +MAGGIE. The day you comed here, ’twas a bit of ribbon as you did have +around of your hair. + +CLARA. [_After a moment’s hesitation_.] I put it on to keep my hair +neat on the journeying. + +MAGGIE. [_Coming nearer_.] I count as you’ve not missed it, have you? + +CLARA. Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the hayfield. + +MAGGIE. ’Tain’t lost. + +CLARA. Where is it then? + +MAGGIE. Look here, I could tell you, but I shan’t. + +CLARA. If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it. + +MAGGIE. ’Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you be, +and to give away ribbons, so ’twould. + +[CLARA _takes no notice of her and goes on sewing_. + +MAGGIE. [_More insistently_.] ’Twasn’t me as found the ribbon. + +CLARA. Who was it then? + +MAGGIE. I daresay you’d like for to know, but I’m not going to say +nothing more about it. + +[MAGGIE _leans against the table watching_ CLARA _as she sews_. + +[EMILY _with both the children now come in_. EMILY _carries a basket of +potatoes_, _and_ JESSIE _a large bowl_. + +EMILY. [_Setting down the basket_.] Maggie, you idle, bad girl, +whatever are you doing here when master expects you down in the meadow to +help with the raking? + +MAGGIE. I be just a-going off yonder, mistress. + +EMILY. I’d thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine young serving +minxes down here—you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but you’ll be a +hundred times worser now. + +MAGGIE. I’ll be off and help master. I’ve been and put the meat on to +boil as you said, missis. + +[MAGGIE _goes off_. + +[CLARA _continues to sew_, _quietly_. JESSIE _has put her bowl down on +the table_, _and now comes to her side_. ROBIN _also comes close to +her_. EMILY _flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously +watches them_. + +JESSIE. We don’t care much about our new aunt, Joan. + +ROBIN. Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good from +London town in them great boxes. + +JESSIE. And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn’t brought +us nothing. + +EMILY. Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy +gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you +children. + +JESSIE. Will Aunt Clara get married soon? + +EMILY. ’Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set out in the house I +have never seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and hearty +having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying in bed till ’tis +noon or later. + +JESSIE. ’Tis only one of them as lies in bed. + +ROBIN. [_To_ CLARA.] Do you think Aunt has got sommat for us upstairs, +Joan? + +CLARA. [_Rising and putting down her work_.] I know she has, Robin. + +EMILY. Don’t let me catch you speaking to Master Spring as though you +and he was of the same station, young person. + +CLARA. Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch the +gifts that your aunt has brought for you. + +[_She goes leisurely towards the staircase door_, _smiling at the +children_. + +EMILY. Ah, and you may tell your young madam that ’tis high time as she +was out of bed and abroad. Hear that? [CLARA _goes out_. + +JESSIE. I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt. + +EMILY. She’s a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the +hands of her, ’tis not a day’s hard work as they have done in her life, +I’ll warrant. + +ROBIN. What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do you think? + +EMILY. Sommat what you don’t need, I warrant. ’Tis always so. When +folks take it into their heads to give you aught, ’tis very nigh always +sommat which you could do better without. + +[EMILY _gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire_, _and fetching +a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays on +the table_. + +[CLARA _enters carrying some parcels_. _She brings them to the table_. +_Both the children run to her_. + +CLARA. [_Holding out a long parcel to_ EMILY _and speaking to the +children_.] The first is for your mother, children. + +EMILY. [_With an angry exclamation_.] Now, you mark my words, ’twill be +sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use ’twill be. + +[_She comes near_, _opens the parcel and perceives it to be a length of +rich black silk_. + +CLARA. My mistress thought it might be suitable. + +EMILY. Suitable? I’ll suitable her. When shall my two hands find time +to sew me a gown out of it, I’d like to know? And if ’twas sewn, when +would my limbs find time to sit down within of it? [_Flinging it down on +the table_.] Suitable? You can tell your mistress from me as she can +keep her gifts to herself if she can’t do better nor this. + +JESSIE. [_Stroking the silk_.] O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor a +dove’s feather. + +ROBIN. [_Feeling it too_.] ’Tis better nor the new kittens’ fur. + +EMILY. Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards you +children. + +CLARA. I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with her +aunt’s dear love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin. + +JESSIE. [_Seizing the beads with delight_.] I love a string of beads. +[_Putting them on_.] How do they look on me? + +EMILY. Off with them this moment. I’ll learn her to give strings of +rubbish to my child. + +JESSIE. [_Beginning to cry_.] O do let me wear it just a little while, +just till dinner, Mother. + +EMILY. Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do you hear. + +JESSIE. [_Taking the necklace off_.] I love the feel of it—might I keep +it in my hand then? + +EMILY. [_Seizing it_.] ’Twill be put by with the silk dress. So there. +’Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl like you. + +ROBIN. [_Looking up from the pages of his book_.] No one shan’t take my +book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep and cows in +it—and no one shan’t hide it from me. + +EMILY. [_Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table_.] Next +time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as she’ll +ask me to come and see her a-doing of it. + +JESSIE. [_Coming up to_ CLARA _very tearfully_.] And was there naught +for Dad in the great box? + +CLARA. Perhaps there may be. + +ROBIN. And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie? + +CLARA. I don’t know. + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him. + +ROBIN. And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner. + +EMILY. [_Sharply_.] Look you here, young woman. Suppose you was to +take and do something useful with that idle pair of hands as you’ve got. + +CLARA. Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something. + +EMILY. Us knows what fine promises lead to. + +CLARA. But I mean it. Do let me help a little. + +EMILY. See them taters? + +CLARA. Yes. + +EMILY. Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against when I +wants to cook them. + +CLARA. [_A little doubtfully_.] Yes—I’ll—I’ll try— + +EMILY. Ah, ’tis just as I thought. You’re one of them who would stir +the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with the poker. + +CLARA. [_Eagerly_.] No, no—it isn’t that. I’ll gladly do them. Come, +Miss Jessie, you will shew me if I do them wrongly, won’t you? + +JESSIE. O yes, I’ll help you because I like you, Joan. + +ROBIN. I’ll help too, when I have finished looking at my book. + +[EMILY _goes out_. CLARA _sits down by the table and takes up a potato +and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work_. JESSIE _stands by +her watching_. + +JESSIE. You mustn’t take no account of Mother when she speaks so sharp. +’Tis only her way. + +ROBIN. Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie’s sent off? + +CLARA. O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think. + +JESSIE. Yes, you don’t do them taters very nice. + +ROBIN. That don’t matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine things +about other parts. + +JESSIE. Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there he comes with +the vegetables from the garden. + +[GEORGE _comes in with a large basket of vegetables_, _which he sets down +in the back kitchen_. _Then he stands at the door_, _silently watching +the group near the table_. + +JESSIE. Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the tales out of +what you do sing. + +GEORGE. What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs this +time of day? + +JESSIE. Mother’s gone upstairs, she won’t know nothing. + +ROBIN. Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt have +brought me. + +GEORGE. [_Slowly approaching the table_.] That be a brave, fine book of +pictures, Master Robin. + +ROBIN. [_Holding up the open book_.] I don’t fancy Aunt Clara much, but +I likes her better nor I did because of this book. + +[GEORGE’S _eyes wander from the book to_ CLARA _as she bends over her +work_. + +JESSIE. Joan doesn’t know how to do them very nicely, does she George! + +GEORGE. ’Tis the first time you’ve been set down to such work, may be, +mistress. + +JESSIE. You mustn’t say “mistress” to Joan, you know. Why, Mother would +be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan’s only a servant. + +CLARA. [_Looking up_.] Like you, George. + +GEORGE. [_Steadily_.] What I was saying is—’Tis the first time as you +have been set afore a bowl of taters like this. + +CLARA. You are right, George. It is the first time since—since I was +quite a little child. And I think I’m very clumsy at my work. + +GEORGE. No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over their +fingers. + +JESSIE. You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, same +as Maggie does. + +GEORGE. Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan. + +[JOAN _puts aside the knife and basket_, _turns back her sleeves_, _and +then resumes her work_. GEORGE’S _eyes are rivetted on her hands and +arms for a moment_. _Then he turns as though to go away_. + +JESSIE. Don’t go away, Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt +Clara now that she’s growed into such a grand lady. + +GEORGE. [_Coming back to the table_.] I don’t like nothing about her, +Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride the big +horses to the trough, Georgie? + +ROBIN. And from the time when th’ old gander did take a big piece right +out of her arm, Georgie? + +GEORGE. [_His eyes on_ CLARA’S _bent head_.] I count her be wonderful +changed, like. + +JESSIE. So that you would scarce know her? + +GEORGE. So that I should scarce know she. + +JESSIE. She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string of coral +beads. But naught for you, Georgie. + +GEORGE. I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance like. + +CLARA. [_With sudden earnestness_.] O that she has, George. + +JESSIE. She didn’t seem to know him by her looks. + +CLARA. Looks often speak but poorly for the heart. + +ROBIN. [_Who has been watching_ CLARA.] See there, Joan. You’ve been +and cut that big tater right in half. Mother will be cross. + +CLARA. O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the same +time. + +GEORGE. [_Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself on the +edge of the table_.] Here,—give them all to me. I understand such work, +and ’tis clear that you do not. I’ll finish them off in a few minutes, +and mistress will never be the wiser. + +CLARA. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle? + +GEORGE. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a mind. +’Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job. + +[CLARA _puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework_. + +JESSIE. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters. + +GEORGE. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day. + +JESSIE. You ask him, Joan. + +CLARA. Will not you sing one little verse, George? + +GEORGE. Nay—strangers from London town would have no liking for the +songs we sing down here among the fields. + +CLARA. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me very +well. + +JESSIE. What was it called? + +CLARA. I cannot remember the name—but there was something of bushes and +of briars in it. + +JESSIE. I know which that is. ’Tis a pretty song. Sing it, Georgie. + +GEORGE. Nay—sing it yourself, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. ’Tis like this at the beginning.—[_she sings or repeats_]— + + “Through bushes and through briars + I lately took my way, + All for to hear the small birds sing + And the lambs to skip and play.” + +CLARA. That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie. + +GEORGE. Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. I can’t say any more. + +CLARA. [_Gently singing or speaking_.] + + I overheard my own true love, + Her voice it was so clear. + “Long time I have been waiting for + The coming of my dear.” + +GEORGE. [_Heaving a sigh_.] That’s it. + +JESSIE. Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it. + +CLARA. Shall I go on with the song, George? + +GEORGE. As you please. + +CLARA. + + “Sometimes I am uneasy + And troubled in my mind, + Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love + And tell to him my mind.” + + “And if I would go to my love + My love he will say nay + If I show to him my boldness + He’ll ne’er love me again.” + +JESSIE. When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear her +a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then? + +CLARA. I don’t know, Jessie. + +JESSIE. I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all what +she did keep in her mind. + +CLARA. Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, that he +never got to the other side for her to tell him. + +GEORGE. Yes, that’s how ’twas, I count. + +JESSIE. [_Running up to_ ROBIN.] I’m going to look at your book along +of you, Robin. + +ROBIN. But I’m the one to turn the leaves, remember. [_The children sit +side by side looking at the picture book_. CLARA _sews_. GEORGE _goes +on with the potatoes_. _As the last one is finished and tossed into the +water_, _he looks at_ CLARA _for the first time_. _A long silence_. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time. + +CLARA. Tell me how it was then, George. + +GEORGE. I did used to put her on the horse’s back, and we would go down +to the water trough in the evening time and— + +CLARA. What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George? + +GEORGE. Us would walk in the woods aside of one another—And I would lift +she to a high branch in a tree—and pretend for to leave her there. + +CLARA. And then? + +GEORGE. Her would call upon me pitiful—and I would come back from where +I was hid. + +CLARA. And did her crying cease? + +GEORGE. She would take and spring as though her was one of they little +wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees. + +CLARA. Where would she spring to, George? + +GEORGE. I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she. + +CLARA. And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, George? + +GEORGE. I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long as her +was in the care of me. + +CLARA. [_Slowly_, _after a short pause_.] I do not think she can have +forgotten those days, George. + +GEORGE. [_Getting up and speaking harshly_.] They’re best forgot. Put +them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and sommat of all +which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and this’n. + +[CLARA _turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief to her +eyes_. GEORGE _looks gloomily on the floor_. EMILY _enters_. + +EMILY. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I’d like to +know? + +[GEORGE _gets hastily off_. _Both children look up from their book_. + +EMILY. [_Looking freezingly at_ CLARA.] ’Tis plain as a turnpike what +you’ve been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, ’tis neck +and crop as you should be thrown from the door. + +CLARA. What for, mistress? + +EMILY. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I’ll soon +tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him and +scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen. + +GEORGE. This be going a bit too far, missis. I’ll not have things said +like that. + +EMILY. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took from—a +grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more’n what you eats nor +what we get of work from out of your body, you great hulk. + +CLARA. [_Springing up angrily_.] O I’ll not hear such things said. +I’ll not. + +EMILY. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your mistress +out of bed—and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the flour on to her +face. ’Tis about all you be fit for. + +CLARA. [_Angrily going to the stair door_.] Very well. ’Tis best that +I should go. I might say something you would not like. + +GEORGE. [_Advancing towards_ EMILY.] Look you here, mistress. I’ve put +up with it going on for fifteen years. But sometimes ’tis almost more +nor I can bear. If ’twasn’t for Master Thomas I’d have cleared out this +long time ago. + +EMILY. Don’t flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man. + +GEORGE. We has always been good friends, farmer and me. ’Tis not for +what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold +together. But ’tis this—as he and I do understand one another. + +EMILY. We’ll see what master has to say when I tell him how you was +found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy piece +of London trash. + +GEORGE. I’m off. I’ve no patience to listen any longer. You called me +roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I was born and on the +road I was picked from my dead mother’s side, and I count as ’tis on the +road as I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I’ll not have road +dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint though I be, there be +things which I do hold brighter nor silver and cleaner nor new opened +leaves, and I’ll not have defilement throwed upon them. + +EMILY. [_Seizing the arms of_ JESSIE _and_ ROBIN.] The lad’s raving. +’Tis plain as he’s been getting at the cider. Come you off with me to +the haymaking, Robin and Jess. + +ROBIN. May I take my book along of me? + +EMILY. [_Flinging the book down violently_.] I’ll book you! What next? + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. He was only +doing the taters for her. + +EMILY. [_As they go out_.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I’ll get her +packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don’t. + +[GEORGE _is left alone in the kitchen_. _When all sounds of_ EMILY _and +the children have died away_, _he sighs_. _Then_, _looking furtively +round the room_, _he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket_. _He +spreads it out on one hand and stands looking down on it_, _sadly and +longingly_. _Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it_. _Just +as he is doing this_ THOMAS _comes into the room_. + +THOMAS. Why, George, my lad. + +GEORGE. [_Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket_.] Yes, +Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Looking meaningly at_ GEORGE.] ’Tis a pretty enough young +maid, George. + +GEORGE. What did you say, Master? + +THOMAS. That one with the bit of blue round the head of her. + +GEORGE. Blue? + +THOMAS. Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time. + +GEORGE. Yes, master. + +THOMAS. ’Twasn’t a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but ’twas +a blossom dropped from her gown. + +GEORGE. Whose gown, master? I’ll warrant ’twasn’t missus’s. + +THOMAS. Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. ’Twasn’t the mistress then. + +GEORGE. Ah, I count as it could not have been she. + +THOMAS. First love, ’tis best, George. + +GEORGE. Ah, upon my word, that ’tis. + +THOMAS. But my maid went and got her married to another. + +GEORGE. More’s the pity, Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Sighing_.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been—with +her and me, like. + +GEORGE. Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master? + +THOMAS. Soft and sweet as the field lark, George. + +GEORGE. Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. Ah, George, don’t you never run into the trap, no matter whether +’tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on. Once in, +never out. There ’tis. + +GEORGE. No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. I baint +worth trapping. + +THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty baggage +from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had +the fortune. + +GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint nothing. + +THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George. + +GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. [_Steps are +heard in the staircase_. + +THOMAS. We’ll off to the meadow then, George. + +[GEORGE _and_ THOMAS _go out_. + +[JOAN, _dressed as a lady of fashion_, _and followed by_ CLARA, _comes +into the kitchen_. + +CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, and +let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more easy and +natural when you are in the air. + +JOAN. O I’m very nigh dead with fright when I’m within doors. ’Tis so +hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at table +’tis worst of all. + +CLARA. You’ve stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the headache, +and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood. + +JOAN. But to-night ’twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have +asked them both to supper again. + +CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man? + +JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time, +mistress. + +CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, and +then I will shew you how it is to be eaten. + +JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the +parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, what +have I got to say to him? + +CLARA. O, I shouldn’t trouble about that. I’d open my fan and take no +notice if I were you. + +JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, mistress. +And with the children, too. + +CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. +Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your way +with the children. + +JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with them. + +CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, Joan. +Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner here and +there. + +JOAN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] ’Tis the here and the there as I finds it +so hard to manage. + +JESSIE. [_Running in breathlessly_.] A letter, a letter for Aunt Clara. +[CLARA _involuntarily puts out her hand_.] No, Joan. I was to give it +to Aunt Clara herself. I’ve run all the way. + +[JOAN _slowly takes the letter_, _looking confused_. + +JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt? + +JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don’t want no children worriting round me +now. [_Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to speak +brightly_.] I mean—no, my dear little girl, I’d rather wait to read it +till I’m by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, my pet. + +JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much. + +JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there’s a sweet little +maid. + +JESSIE. I’d sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like. + +CLARA. [_Taking_ JESSIE’S _hand and leading her to the door_.] Now, +Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter in quiet, but if you will +come back presently I will have a game with you outside. + +JESSIE. [_As she runs off_.] Mother won’t let me talk with you any +more, alone. She says as you’ve made a fool of Georgie and you’ll do the +same by us all. + +JOAN. [_When_ JESSIE _has run off_.] There now, how did I do that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Better, much better. + +JOAN. ’Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of another, with +you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me. + +CLARA. [_After a moment’s thought_.] No. It is not quite like that. +But ’tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly feeling in better garments. + +JOAN. [_Handing the letter to_ CLARA.] There, mistress, ’tis yours, not +mine. + +CLARA. [_Glancing at it_.] Lord Lovel’s writing. [CLARA _opens the +letter and reads it through_.] He will not wait longer for my answer. +And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him. + +JOAN. O, mistress, whatever shall we do? + +CLARA. We had better own to everything at once. It will save trouble in +the end. + +JOAN. Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was closing +upon it, like! + +CLARA. Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, if the man +loves you truly. + +JOAN. Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is +coming up to see me now. I’d bring him to offer his self, if I was but +left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so. + +CLARA. And then, Joan? + +JOAN. And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, mistress, +maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn’t think no +worse of me. + +[CLARA _gets up and goes to the window_, _where she looks out for a few +minutes in silence_. JOAN _cries softly meanwhile_. + +CLARA. [_Turning towards_ JOAN.] As you will, Joan. Very likely ’twill +be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches this place. + +JOAN. O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all may +go as well with you as ’tis with me. + +CLARA. [_Sadly_.] That is not likely, Joan. + +JOAN. What is it stands in the way, mistress? + +CLARA. Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and +hurting thing. + +JOAN. Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when he +do offer next. + +CLARA. I’ll think of what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when the +heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into shelter. [_A +slight pause_. + +JOAN. [_Looking through the window_.] Look up quickly, mistress. +There’s Hooper. + +CLARA. [_Getting up_.] Then I’ll run away. May all be well with you, +dear Joan. [CLARA _goes out_. + +[JOAN _seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan_. MILES +_enters_, _carrying a small box_. + +MILES. Already astir, Miss Clara. ’Tis early hours to be sure for one +of our London beauties. + +[_He advances towards her_, _and she stretches out her hand without +rising_. _He takes it ceremoniously_. + +JOAN. You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper. + +[MILES _places a chair in front of_ JOAN, _and sits down on it_. + +MILES. [_Untying the parcel_.] I’ve been so bold as to bring you a +little keepsake from my place in town, Missy. + +JOAN. How kind you are, Mister Miles. + +MILES. You’ll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see it, +Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. [_Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of bright +artificial flowers_.] There, what do you say to that, Miss? And we can +do you the same in all the leading tints. + +JOAN. O, ’tis wonderful modish. I declare I never did see anything to +beat it up in town. + +MILES. Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can hold our own +with the best of them in Painswick High Street. + +JOAN. I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper. + +[_She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from_ MILES, +_pretending to smell it_. + +MILES. Well—and what’s the next pleasure, Madam? + +[JOAN _drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently_. + +MILES. [_Very gently_.] What’s Missy’s next pleasure? + +JOAN. I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Miles. + +MILES. Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his. + +JOAN. O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are. + +MILES. Ladies never like the sound of business, so we’ll set that aside +for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place of it. + +JOAN. Ah, that’s a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. I loved you from the first, Miss. There’s the true, high born +lady for you, says I to myself. There’s beauty and style, elegance and +refinement. + +JOAN. Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. What about, sir? + +MILES. The answer to my question, Missy. + +JOAN. And what was that, I wonder? + +MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. Will she +oblige her Miles? + +JOAN. O that I will. With all my heart. + +MILES. [_Standing up_.] I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye +my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and such +trifles. + +JOAN. [_Agitatedly_.] O let us not destroy to-day by thoughts of +anything but our dear affection one for t’other. + +MILES. Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified in her +speech. + +JOAN. ’Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear Miles, promise there +shan’t be nothing but—but love talk between you and me this day. I could +not bear it if we was to speak of, of other things, like. + +MILES. [_Getting up and walking about the room_.] As you will—as you +will. Anything to oblige a lady. + +[_He stops before the table_, _on which is laid_ EMILY’S _silk dress_, +_and begins to finger it_. + +JOAN. What’s that you’re looking at? + +MILES. Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, I’ll be +bound. + +JOAN. O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with the old +silk. + +MILES. No, no, Missy, I’m a man of business habits, and ’tis my duty to +go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He and I have +got to talk things over a bit, you know. + +JOAN. Off so soon! O you have saddened me. + +MILES. Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, when life +is in front of us, Miss Clara? + +[_He raises her hand_, _kisses it_, _and leaves her_. _As he goes out by +the door_ CLARA _enters_. + +JOAN. O, Mistress—stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at the meadow! + +CLARA. Why, Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer to talk about +the—the wedding and the money. + +CLARA. The money? + +JOAN. The income which he thinks I have. + +CLARA. I’ll run, but all this time I’ve been keeping Master Luke Jenner +quiet in the parlour. + +JOAN. O what does he want now? + +CLARA. Much the same as the other one wanted. + +JOAN. Must I see him? + +CLARA. Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. He’s at +boiling point already. + +JOAN. Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and keep +Miles Hooper from the farmer. + +CLARA. I’ll run my best, never fear. [_She goes out_. + +[LUKE JENNER _comes in_, _a bunch of homely flowers in his hand_. + +JOAN. [_Seating herself_.] You are early this morning, Mister Jenner. + +LUKE. [_Sitting opposite to her_.] I have that to say which would not +bide till sunset, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be. + +LUKE. ’Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you was +coming down here—“I could do with a rich wife if so be as I could win +her,” I did tell myself. + +JOAN. O, Mister Jenner, now did you really? + +LUKE. But when I met you in the wood—saw you sitting there, so still and +yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. “That’s the maid for me,” I +says to myself. + +JOAN. [_Tearfully_.] O, Mister Jenner! + +LUKE. And if it had been beggar’s rags upon her in the place of satin, +I’d have said the same. + +JOAN. [_Very much stirred_.] O, Mister Jenner, and did you really think +like that? + +LUKE. If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in the deep +ocean, ’twould be the best as could happen. There! + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O, Mister Jenner, why? + +LUKE. Because, very like ’twould shew to you as ’tis yourself I’m after +and not the fortune what you’ve got. + +JOAN. Mister Jenner, I’m mighty sorry. + +LUKE. Don’t say I’m come too late, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, ’tis he and I +who are like to be wed. + +LUKE. I might have known I had no chance. + +JOAN. [_Rising and trying to hide her emotion_.] I wouldn’t have had it +happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner. + +LUKE. [_Laying his bunch of flowers on the table_, _his head bent_, _and +his eyes on the ground_.] ’Twas none of your doing, Miss Clara. You’ve +naught to blame yourself for. ’Tis not your fault as you’re made so—so +beautiful, and yet so homely. + +[JOAN _looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately +leaves the room_. + +[LUKE _folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them in an +attitude of deepest despondency_. _After a few moments_ CLARA _enters_. + +CLARA. O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you? + +LUKE. [_Raising his head and pointing to the window_.] There she goes, +through the garden with her lover. + +CLARA. I wish that you were in his place. + +LUKE. [_Bitterly_.] I’ve no house with golden rails to offer her. Nor +any horse and chaise. + +CLARA. But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love. + +LUKE. What use is the love which be fastened up in a man’s heart and can +spend itself on naught, I’d like to know. [_He rises as though to go and +take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on the table_. +_Brokenly_.] I brought them for her. But I count as he’ll have given +her something better nor these. + +[CLARA _takes the flowers gently from his hand_, _and as she does so_, +EMILY _enters_. + +EMILY. What now if you please! First with George and then with Luke. +’Twould be Thomas next if he wasn’t an old sheep of a man as wouldn’t +know if an eye was cast on him or no. But I’ll soon put a stop to all +this. Shame on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine piece of London +vanity, I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so off with you +upstairs. + +[_She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls_. + + + +ACT IV.—Scene 1. + + +_The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers_. _A long table is +spread with silver_, _china and food_. CLARA _is setting mugs to each +place_. MAGGIE _comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of +salad_. + +MAGGIE. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes to enjoy +themselves among the vegetables. + +CLARA. [_Placing the last mug_.] There—Now all is ready for them. + +MAGGIE. [_Bending over a place at the end of the table_.] Come you and +look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in through the +window. + +CLARA. [_Goes to_ MAGGIE’S _side and bends down over the table_.] O +what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold on him, and his legs are like +feathers. + +MAGGIE. [_Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting it fly +through the window_.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say. + +CLARA. A stranger, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. You mind my words, ’tis a stranger as’ll sit where yon was +stuck, afore the eating be finished. + +CLARA. I don’t believe in such signs, myself. + +MAGGIE. I never knowed it not come true. + +[THOMAS _comes in_. _He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased_, +_yet nervous_. + +THOMAS. Well, maids. Upon my word ’tis a spread. Never saw so many +different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this house. + +MAGGIE. ’Tis in honour of Miss Clara’s going to be married like, master. + +THOMAS. So ’tis, so ’tis. Well—A single rose upon the bush. Bound to +be plucked, you know. Couldn’t be left to fade in the sun, eh, girls? + +CLARA. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going on, +master? Mistress has not told us yet. + +THOMAS. [_Nervously_.] Mistress haven’t told you—haven’t she? +Well—well—at such a time we must all—all rejoice one with t’other, like. +No difference made t’wixt master and man. Nor t’wixt maid and missus. +Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my wenches. Up +against George—How’s that? + +CLARA. That will do very well for us, Master. + +MAGGIE. I don’t expect as missus will let we bide there long. + +THOMAS. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and at the +asking in marriage of my only sister like, ’tis me as shall say what +shall sit down with who. And there’s an end of it. That’s all. + +MAGGIE. I hear them a coming in, master. + +[EMILY, _holding the hands of_ JESSIE _and_ ROBIN, _comes into the room_. +_Her eyes fall on_ THOMAS _who is standing between_ CLARA _and_ MAGGIE, +_looking suddenly sheepish and nervous_. + +EMILY. [_In a voice of suppressed anger_.] Thomas! O, if I catch any +more of these goings on in my kitchen. + +[JOAN, _very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of_ MILES HOOPER, +_follows_ EMILY _into the room_. + +EMILY. I’ll not have the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. If +folk can’t come to the time when they’re asked, they baint worth waiting +for, so sit you down, all of you. + +[_She sits down at the head of the table_, _a child on either side of +her_. JOAN _languidly sinks into a chair and_ MILES _puts himself at her +right_. _A place at her left remains empty_. THOMAS _sits opposite_. +_Three places at the end of the table are left vacant_. _As they sit +down_, GEORGE, _wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief_, _comes in_. + +EMILY. [_Beginning to help a dish_.] You need not think you’re to be +helped first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, like. The +poor little children have been kept waiting a sad time for their supper, +first because you was such a while a having your head curled and puffed +out, and then ’twas Luke Jenner as didn’t come. + +[CLARA _sits down at a place at the end of the table_. GEORGE _and_ +MAGGIE _still remain standing_. + +EMILY. [_Perceiving_ CLARA’S _movement_.] Well, I never did see +anything so forward. Who told you to sit yourself down along of your +betters, if you please, madam serving maid? + +[GEORGE _comes involuntarily forward and stands behind_ CLARA’S _chair_. +CLARA _does not move_. + +EMILY. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you hear? +[_Turning to_ MILES.] To see the way the young person acts one might +think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare and high. But +you’ll not take any fool in, not you, for all that you like to play the +fine lady. Us can see through your game very clear, can’t us, Mr. +Hooper? + +MILES. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the +privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could be +mistook by any of the games played by this young person. + +[CLARA _looks him gravely in the face without moving_. + +EMILY. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes! + +THOMAS. [_Nervously_.] Nay, nay, ’twas my doing, Emily. I did tell the +wenches as they might sit their-selves along of we, just for th’ occasion +like. + +EMILY. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling about +like a lord in my kitchen? + +THOMAS. [_Faintly_.] Come, Emily, I’m the master. + +EMILY. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London impudence? + +GEORGE. [_Comes forward_.] Master Luke be coming up the garden, +mistress. + +[LUKE JENNER _enters_. _He goes straight up to_ JOAN _and holds out his +hand to her_, _and then to_ MILES. + +LUKE. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, my +lad, ’tis rare—rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day. + +EMILY. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you’ve been and kept us waiting more nor +half an hour. Can’t you sit yourself down and give other folk a chance +of eating their victuals quiet? There’s naught to make all this +giddle-gaddle about as I can see. + +LUKE. [_Sitting down in the empty place by_ JOAN’S _side_.] Beg pardon, +mistress, I know I’m a bit late. But the victuals as are waited for do +have a better flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from the +pot like. + +THOMAS. That’s true ’tis. And ’tis hunger as do make the best sauce. + +[GEORGE _and_ MAGGIE _quietly seat themselves on either side of_ CLARA. +EMILY _is too busy dispensing the food to take any notice_. GEORGE +_hands plates and dishes to_ CLARA, _and silently cares for her comfort +throughout the meal_. + +THOMAS. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn’t think to lose my little +sister afore she’d stopped a three days in the place. That I did not. +But I don’t grudge her to a fine prospering young man like friend Hooper, +no, I don’t. + +EMILY. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See if you can’t +make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. [_Turning to_ +LUKE.] We have two serving maids and a man, Mister Jenner, but they’re +to be allowed to act the quality to-day, so we’ve got to wait upon +ourselves. + +LUKE. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, mistress. +That’s my saying at home. + +THOMAS. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me +’tis otherwise. I’ve got another pair of hands in the place as do for me +as well, nor better than my own. + +EMILY. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you’d be without mine. + +THOMAS. I wasn’t thinking of yourn, Emily. ’Tis George’s hands as I was +speaking of. + +EMILY. [_Contemptuously_.] George! You’ll all find out your mistake +one day, Thomas. + +MILES. [_To_ JOAN, _who has been nervously handling her knife and fork +and watching_ CLARA’S _movements furtively_.] My sweet Miss is not +shewing any appetite. + +JOAN. I’m—I’m not used to country fare. + +EMILY. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara can’t +feed ’cause she’s not used to country fare! What next, I’d like to know! + +ROBIN. [_Who has been watching_ JOAN.] Why does Aunt sometimes put her +knife in her mouth, Mother? + +MILES. My good boy, ’tis plain you’ve never mixed among the quality or +you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of acting. +This summer ’tis the stylish thing to put on a countryfied mode at table. + +JESSIE. Joan don’t eat like that, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. Joan’s only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to +distinguish between such people and fine ladles like your aunt. + +JOAN. [_Forcing herself to be more animated_.] Give me some fruit, +Miles—I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. ’Tis far too warm. + +MILES. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of my +Missy’s voice. + +THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. There +was a day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like. + +EMILY. [_Sharply_.] I don’t seem to remember that day, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Sheepishly_, _his look falling_.] Ah—’twas afore—afore our +courting time, Emily. + +LUKE. [_Energetically_.] Prime weather for the hay, farmer. I count as +this dry will last until the whole of it be carried. [_A knock is heard +at the door_. + +THOMAS. Now who’ll that be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the path, +Mother? + +EMILY. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking out of +the window the same time, Thomas? + +THOMAS. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who ’tis. + +[JOAN _looks anxiously across the table at_ CLARA. _Then she drops her +spoon and fork and takes up her fan_, _using it violently whilst_ GEORGE +_slowly gets up and opens the door_. LORD LOVEL _is seen standing on the +threshold_. + +LORD LOVEL. [_To_ GEORGE.] Kindly tell me, my man, is this the farm +they call Ox Lease? + +GEORGE. Ah, that’s right enough. + +LORD LOVEL. I’m sorry to break in upon a party like this, but I want to +see Miss Clara Spring if she is here. + +THOMAS. [_Standing up_.] You’ve come at the very moment, master. This +be a giving in marriage supper. And ’tis Miss Clara, what’s only sister +to me, as is to be wed. + +LORD LOVEL. Impossible, my good sir! + +THOMAS. Ah, that’s it. Miles Hooper, he’s the happy man. If you be +come by Painswick High Street you’ll have seen his name up over the shop +door. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara—Miles Hooper—No, I can’t believe it. + +THOMAS. [_Pointing towards_ JOAN _and_ MILES.] There they be—the both +of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. You’re right welcome, master, +to sit down along of we as one of the family on this occasion. + +LORD LOVEL. [_Looking at_ JOAN _who has suddenly dropped her fan and is +leaning back with a look of supplication towards_ CLARA.] I must have +come to the wrong place—that’s not the Miss Clara Spring I know. + +MILES. [_Bending over_ JOAN.] My sweet Missy has no acquaintance with +this gentleman, I am sure. + +[LORD LOVEL _suddenly turns round and perceives_ CLARA _seated by_ MAGGIE +_at the table_. _He quickly goes towards her_, _holding out his hand_. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. [_Looking at her cap +and apron_.] Why have you dressed yourself like this? + +THOMAS. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. The +young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the Spotted Cow +on his way up. + +JOAN. [_Very faintly_, _looking at_ CLARA.] O do you stand by me now. + +CLARA. [_Lays her hand on_ LORD LOVEL’S _arm_.] Come with me, my lord. +I think I can explain everything if you will only step outside with me. +Come—[_She leads him swiftly through the door which_ GEORGE _shuts behind +them_.] + +[JOAN _leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint_. + +THOMAS. Well, now—but that’s a smartish wench, getting him out so quiet, +like. George, you’d best step after them to see as the young man don’t +annoy her in any way. + +EMILY. That young person can take good care of herself. Sit you down, +Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you can. + +JESSIE. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother? + +EMILY. ’Cause he was in that state when a man don’t know his right leg +from his left arm. + +GEORGE. [_Who has remained standing_.] Look you here, Master Thomas—see +here mistress. ’Tis time as there was an end of this cursed play acting, +or whatever ’tis called. + +EMILY. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I’d like +for you to know. + +GEORGE. O yes there have been, mistress. And ’tis time it was finished. +[_Pointing to_ JOAN.] You just take and ask that young person what she +do mean by tricking herself out in Miss Clara’s gowns and what not, and +by having herself called by Miss Clara’s own name. + +MILES. [_Taking_ JOAN’S _hand in his_.] My sweet Miss must pay no +attention to the common fellow. I dare him to speak like that of my +little lady bride. + +GEORGE. A jay bird in peacock’s feathers, that’s what ’tis. And she’s +took you all in, the every one of you. + +JESSIE. O George, isn’t she really our aunt from London? + +GEORGE. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie. + +THOMAS. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore. + +EMILY. ’Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon. + +LUKE. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow in all +the years I’ve known of him. George baint made to that shape. + +ROBIN. Then who is Aunt Clara, George? + +GEORGE. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, and +none other. + +THOMAS. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish. + +GEORGE. I can’t help that, master. Foolish deeds do call for foolish +words, may be. + +MILES. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [_He pours out +water for_ JOAN _and bends affectionately over her_.] Put the drunken +fellow outside and let’s have an end of this. + +GEORGE. [_Advancing_.] Yes, us’ll have an end to it very shortly. But +I be going to put a straight question to the maid first, and ’tis a +straight answer as her’ll have to give me in reply. + +MILES. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude +manners. + +GEORGE. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, and +then I’ll go when you will. + +MILES. Well, my man, what’s that? + +GEORGE. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at baptism, +Mister Hooper. + +MILES. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such a +question. Thomas, you’ll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, or +something. + +GEORGE. [_Angrily_.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all night. + +[JOAN _suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands_, _her form +shaken by violent weeping_. _The door opens and_ CLARA _enters followed +by_ LORD LOVEL. _She has taken off her cap and apron_. + +JOAN. [_Raising her head and stretching out her hands to_ CLARA.] O +speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help. + +CLARA. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to forgive us +both for taking you in like this. + +THOMAS. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing. + +EMILY. I’m not going to believe a word the young person says. + +LORD LOVEL. She has told you but the truth, my good friends. + +EMILY. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I’d like to +know? + +CLARA. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his name. + +EMILY. If you think I’m going to be took in with such nonsense, the more +fool you, I says. + +LORD LOVEL. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis Spring. +She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their own, agreed to +change parts for a few days. + +THOMAS. [_Turning to_ JOAN.] Is this really so, my maid? + +[JOAN _bows her head_, _her handkerchief still covering her face_. + +THOMAS. [_To_ CLARA.] Who ever would have thought on such a thing? + +CLARA. ’Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up, +Joan, and do not cry so pitifully. + +JOAN. [_Looking up at_ MILES.] You’ll never go and change towards me +now that we’re most as good as wed, will you, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. [_Rising and speaking with cold deliberation_.] Ladies and +gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening. + +THOMAS. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, it seems. +But things’ll settle back to their right places if you gives them a +chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat. + +EMILY. Don’t be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what’s been stung by a +wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet’s nest. + +MILES. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place for me. I have +been sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest. + +JOAN. O Mister Hooper, ’twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for the +best, I did. + +MILES. [_Going to the door_.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time you +want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select your +partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a suitable one to toy +with, let me tell you. + +ROBIN. Aren’t you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. I am not, Master Robin. + +JESSIE. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but you +couldn’t very well, could he, Mother? + +[MILES, _covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the right +and left_, _goes out_. JOAN _leans back almost fainting in her chair_. + +LUKE. [_Taking her hand_.] This is the finest hearing in all the world +for me, Miss—Miss Joan. + +JOAN. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me. + +LUKE. And that I’d never do, though I’m blest if I know why you did it. + +CLARA. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were +things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by +changing places, one with the other. + +THOMAS. [_To_ CLARA.] Well, my maid, I’m blessed if I do know what you +was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving wench. + +CLARA. [_Turning a little towards_ GEORGE.] I thought to find something +which was mine when I was a little child, but which I lost. + +JESSIE. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. ’Twas he as +brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off. + +ROBIN. Yes. And ’twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt +Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield. + +JESSIE. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt all the +time. + +ROBIN. I believe it too. + +THOMAS. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like? + +GEORGE. ’Twas not one, but many things. And if you wants a clear proof +[_Turning to_ CLARA]—put back the laces of your sleeve, Miss Clara. + +CLARA. What for, George? + +GEORGE. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did pull +up your sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. Not that ’twas needed for +me, like. + +[CLARA _pushes up both her sleeves_, _and holds out her arms towards_ +GEORGE. + +GEORGE. [_Pointing to the scar_.] There ’tis—there’s where th’ old +gander have left his mark. + +THE CHILDREN. [_Getting up_.] Where, where! O do let us see! + +[_They run round to where_ CLARA _stands and look eagerly at the mark on +her arm which she shews to them_. + +THOMAS. George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can play fox. + +EMILY. Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a +more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when +’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him. + +THOMAS. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint th’ +only fox. How now, my lad? + +GEORGE. I don’t see what you be driving at, master. + +THOMAS. [_Slyly_.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George? + +CLARA. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me. + +GEORGE. [_Stepping forward till he is by_ CLARA’S _side_.] No, and that +I will not do. ’Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I’ll keep +it. + +CLARA. [_To_ GEORGE.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I +can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember the days when you used +to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting me over +the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by their thorns? + +GEORGE. Hark you here, Clara. This once I’ll speak. I never had but +one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through the +woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I learnt she the note +of every bird. And when th’ evening was come, us would watch together +till th’ old mother badger did get from out of her hole, and start +hunting in the long grasses. + +CLARA. [_Taking_ GEORGE’S _hand_.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for +the disguise that I put upon myself. + +GEORGE. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint no +cloud upon the sky, Clara? + +CLARA. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might raise +up between you and me. + +THOMAS. That’s all finished and done with now, my maid. If I’d a +hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should. + +EMILY. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough. + +LUKE. [_Who has been sitting with_ JOAN’S _hand in his_.] Hark you +here, mistress. There’s many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day. +Baint that a true saying, Joan? + +JOAN. [_Looking up radiantly_.] O that it is, dear Luke. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be said. + +EMILY. And that’s the most sensible thing as has been spoke this long +while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, grizzling sort +of a muddler. She might have took up with this young man, who has a very +respectable appearance. + +LORD LOVEL. [_Coming forward to_ GEORGE _and shaking his hand_.] I’m +proud to make your acquaintance, sir. + +EMILY. [_Rising angrily_.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us +might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of this here +table. ’Twill be midnight afore the things is cleared away and washed +up. + +THOMAS. What if it be, Emily. ’Tisn’t very often as I gets the chance +of minding how ’twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a young man in those +days, too, I was. + +EMILY. And ’tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, Thomas. + +JESSIE. [_Slipping her hand into_ THOMAS’S.] O do let us sit up till +midnight, Dad. + +ROBIN. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +MY MAN JOHN + + +CHARACTERS + + +MRS. GARDNER. + +WILLIAM, _her son_. + +JOHN, _his farm hand_. + +SUSAN, _their maid_. + +JULIA, _the owner of Luther’s Farm_. + +LAURA, CHRIS, NAT, TANSIE, _gipsies_. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + +_The garden of the Road Farm_. _To the right an arbour covered with +roses_. MRS. GARDNER _is seated in it_, _knitting_. WILLIAM _is tying +up flowers and watering them_. + +MRS. GARDNER. And you have come to a ripe age when ’tis the plain duty +of a man to turn himself towards matrimony, William. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis a bit of quiet that I’m after, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Quiet! ’tis a good shaking up as you want, William. Why, +you have got as set in your ways as last season’s jelly. + +WILLIAM. Then let me bide so. ’Tis all I ask. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I’m got to be an old woman now, and ’tis +time that I had someone at my side to help in the house-keeping and to +share the work. + +WILLIAM. What’s Susan for, if ’tisn’t to do that? + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan? As idle a piece of goods as ever was seen on a +summer’s day! No. ’Tisn’t a serving maid that I was thinking of, but +someone who should be of more account in the house. ’Tis a daughter that +I’m wanting, William, and I’ve picked out the one who is to my taste. + +WILLIAM. Then you’ve done more than I have, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis the young person whom Luther Smith has left his farm +and all his money to. I’ve got my eye on her for you, William. + +WILLIAM. Then you’ll please to put your eye somewhere else, Mother, for +I’ve seen them, and they don’t suit me. + +MRS. GARDNER. Come, this is news, William. Pray where did you meet? + +WILLIAM. ’Twas when I was in church last Sunday. In they came, the two +young maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie fowls, the way they +did step up over the stones and shake the plumes of them this way and +that. I don’t hold with fancy tricks. I never could abide them. No +foreign wenches for me. And that’s about all. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis true they are from town, but none the worse for that, +William. You have got sadly rude and cumbersome in your ways, or you +wouldn’t feel as you do towards a suitable young person. ’Tis from +getting about with John so much, I think. + +WILLIAM. Now look you here, Mother, I’ve got used to my own ways, and +when a man’s got set in his own ways, ’tis best to leave him there. I’m +past the age for marrying, and you ought to know this better than anyone. + +MRS. GARDNER. I know that ’tis a rare lot of foolishness that you do +talk, William, seeing as you’re not a year past thirty yet. But if you +can’t be got to wed for love of a maid, perhaps you’ll do so for love of +a purse, when ’tis fairly filled. + +WILLIAM. There’s always been enough for you and me so far, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Ah, but that won’t last for ever. I’m got an old woman, +and I can’t do with the dairy nor the poultry as I was used to do. And +things have not the same prices to them as ’twas a few years gone by. +And last year’s season was the worst that I remember. + +WILLIAM. So ’twas. But so long as there’s a roof over our heads and a +loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to work on, where’s the harm, +Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. O you put me out of all patience, William. Where’s the +rent to come from if we go on like this? And the clothing, and the food? +And John’s wages, and your flower seeds, if it comes to that, for you +have got terrible wasteful over the flowers. + +WILLIAM. I wish you’d take it quieter, Mother. Look at you bed of musk, +’tis a grand smell that comes up from it all around. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I’ve no eye for musk, nor nose to smell at +it either till you’ve spoken the word that I require. + +WILLIAM. Best let things bide as they are, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. I’ll leave you no rest till you do as I wish, William. +I’m got an old woman, and ’tis hard I should be denied in aught that I’ve +set my heart upon. + +WILLIAM. Please to set it upon something different, Mother, for I’m not +a marrying man, and John he’ll tell you the same thing. + +MRS. GARDNER. John! I’m sick of the very name of him. I can’t think +how ’tis that you can lower yourself by being so close with a common farm +hand, William. + +WILLIAM. Ah, ’twould be a rare hard matter to find the equal to John, +Mother. ’Tis of gold all through, and every bit of him, that he is made. +You don’t see many like John these days, that’s the truth. + +MRS. GARDNER. Well, then, John, won’t be here much longer, for we shan’t +have anything to give him if things go on like this. + +WILLIAM. I’d wed forty wives sooner than lose John—and that I would. + +MRS. GARDNER. I’m not asking you to wed forty. ’Tis only one. + +WILLIAM. And that one? + +MRS. GARDNER. The young person who’s got Luther’s farm. Her name is +Julia. + +WILLIAM. [_Leaving his flower border and walking up and down +thoughtfully_.] Would she be the one with the cherry colour ribbons to +her gown? + +MRS. GARDNER. I’m sure I don’t know. I was not at church last Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Or t’other one in green? + +MRS. GARDNER. You appear to have used your eyes pretty well, William. + +WILLIAM. O, I can see a smartish bit about me when I choose. + +MRS. GARDNER. T’other wench is but the housekeeper. + +WILLIAM. Where did you get that from? + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Twas Susan who told me. She got it off someone down in +the village. + +WILLIAM. Well, which of the maids would have had the cherry-coloured +ribbons to her, Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. I’m sure I don’t know, but if you go up there courting +this afternoon, may happen that you’ll find out. + +WILLIAM. This afternoon? O, that’s much too sudden like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Not a bit of it. Recollect, your fancy has been set on +her since Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Come, Mother, you can’t expect a man to jump into the river all +of a sudden like this. + +MRS. GARDNER. I expect you to go up there this very day and to commence +telling her of your feelings. + +WILLIAM. But I’ve got no feelings that I can tell her of, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to find some, William. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis a thing that in all my life I’ve never done as to go +visiting of a strange wench of an afternoon. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then ’tis time you did begin. + +WILLIAM. And what’s more, I’ll not do it, neither. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then I must tell John that we have no further need of his +services, for where the money to pay him is to come from, I don’t know. + +[_She rolls up her knitting and rises_. + +WILLIAM. Stop a moment, Mother—stop a moment. Maybe ’twon’t be so bad +when I’ve got more used to the idea. You’ve pitched it upon me so sudden +like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Rent day has pitched upon me more sudden, William. + +WILLIAM. Look you, Mother, I’ll get and turn it about in my mind a bit. +And, maybe, I’ll talk it over with John. I can’t do more, can I now? + +MRS. GARDNER. Talk it over with whom you please, William. But remember +’tis this very afternoon that you have to start courting. I’ve laid your +best clothes out all ready on your bed. + +WILLIAM. [_Sighing heavily_.] O then I count there’s no way out of it. +But how am I to bring it off? ’Tis that I’d like to know. + +MRS. GARDNER. Maybe your man will be able to give you some suitable +advice. Such things are beyond me, I’m afraid. + +[_She gathers up her work things_, _and with a contemptuous look at her +son_, _she goes slowly out of the garden_. + +[WILLIAM _remains on the path lost in perturbed thought_. _Suddenly he +goes to the gate and calls loudly_. + +WILLIAM. John, John! + +JOHN. [_From afar_.] Yes, master. + +WILLIAM. [_Calling_.] Come you here, John, as quick as you can run. + +JOHN. That I will, master. + +[JOHN _hurries into the garden_. + +WILLIAM. John, I’m powerful upset. + +JOHN. Mistress’s fowls bain’t got among the flowers again, be they, +Master William? + +WILLIAM. No, no, John. ’Tisn’t so bad as that. But I’m in a smartish +fix, I can tell you. + +JOHN. How’s that, master? + +WILLIAM. John, did you ever go a’courting? + +JOHN. Well, master, that’s a thing to ask a man! + +WILLIAM. ’Tis a terrible serious matter, John. Did you ever go? + +JOHN. Courting? + +WILLIAM. Yes. + +JOHN. Why, I count as I have went a score of times, master. + +WILLIAM. A score of times, John! But that was before you were got to +the age you are now? + +JOHN. Before that, and now, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John? + +JOHN. To be sure, master. + +WILLIAM. Then you know how ’tis done? + +JOHN. Ah, that I does, master. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, you’re the man for me. + +JOHN. Lord bless us, master, but what have you to do with courting? + +WILLIAM. You may well ask me, John. Why, look you here—until this very +morning, you would say I was a quiet and a peaceable man, with the right +place for everything and everything in its place. + +JOHN. Ah, and that you was, Master William. And a time for all things +too, and a decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served—that’s truth. + +WILLIAM. Ah, John—the mistress has set her will to change all this. + +JOHN. Now, you’d knock me down with a feather. + +WILLIAM. That she has, John. I’ve got to set out courting—a thing I’ve +never thought to do in all my living days. + +JOHN. That I’ll be bound you have not, Master William, though a finer +gentleman than yourself is not to be found in all the country side. + +WILLIAM. [_With shy eagerness_.] Is that how I appear to you, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that you does, master. And ’tis the wonder with all for +miles around as how you’ve been and kept yourself to yourself like this, +so many years. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, it appears that I’m to pass out of my own keeping. +My Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, Master William, and ’tis but Thursday too. + +WILLIAM. Isn’t that a proper day for this sort of business, John? + +JOHN. I’ve always been used to Saturday myself, but with a gentleman +’tis different like. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, there’s nothing in this day or that as far as I can +see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and the day of it does make +but very little difference. + +JOHN. You’re right there, master. But if I may be so bold, where is it +as you be going off courting this afternoon? + +WILLIAM. Ah—now you and me will have a straight talk one with +another—for ’tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of this fix +where the mistress has gone and put me. + +JOHN. And that I’ll do, master—with all the will in the world. + +WILLIAM. Well then, John, ’tis to be one of those maids from strange +parts who are come to live at old Luther’s, up yonder. + +JOHN. Ah, I seed the pair of them in church last Sunday. Fine maids, +the both of them, and properly suitable if you was to ask me. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis only the one I’ve got to court, John. + +JOHN. And I reckon that’s one too many, Master William. + +WILLIAM. You’re right there, John. ’Tis Mistress Julia I’ve to go at. + +JOHN. And which of the pair would that be, Master William? + +WILLIAM. That one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown, I believe. + +JOHN. Ah, t’other was plainer in her dressing, and did keep the head of +her bent smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn’t get a fair look +upon she. + +WILLIAM. That would be the housekeeper or summat. ’Tis Julia, who has +the old man’s money, I’m to court. + +JOHN. Well, master, I’ll come along with you a bit of the road, to keep +your heart up like. + +WILLIAM. You must do more than that for me, John. You’ve got to learn +me how the courting is done before I set off. + +JOHN. Why, master, courting baint a thing what wants much learning, +that’s the truth. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis all new to me, John. I’m blessed if I know how to +commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends me hot all over; and then +as cold again. + +JOHN. You start and get your clothes on, master. ’Tis half the +battle—clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his mouth of a Saturday +will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday with his best coat to his +back. + +WILLIAM. No, John. The clothes won’t help me in this fix. You must +tell me how to start once I get to the farm and am by the door. + +JOHN. You might take a nosegay with you, master. + +WILLIAM. I might. And yet, ’tis a pity to cut the blooms for naught. + +JOHN. I always takes a nosegay with me, of a Saturday night. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, who is it that you are courting then? + +JOHN. ’Tis that wench Susan, since you ask me, master. But not a word +of it to th’ old mistress. + +WILLIAM. I’ll not mention it, John. + +JOHN. Thank you kindly, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John, when the nosegay’s all gathered and the flowers +bunched, what else should I do? + +JOHN. Well, then you gives it her when you gets to the door. And very +like she’ll ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be a particular fine +looking gentleman. + +WILLIAM. I could not stand that, John. I’ve no tongue to me within a +strange house. + +JOHN. Well then, maybe as you and she will sit aside of one another in +an arbour in the garden, or sommat of the sort. + +WILLIAM. Yes, John. And what next? + +JOHN. I’m blessed if I do know, master. You go along and commence. + +WILLIAM. No, John, and that I won’t. Not till I know more about it +like. + +JOHN. Well, master, I’m fairly puzzled hard to tell you. + +WILLIAM. I have the very thought, John. Do you bring Susan out here. +I’ll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you get and court her as well +as you know how; and maybe that will learn me something. + +JOHN. Susan’s a terrible hard wench to court, Master William. + +WILLIAM. ’Twill make the better lesson, John. + +JOHN. ’Tis a stone in place of a heart what Susan’s got. + +WILLIAM. ’Twill very likely be the same with Julia. Go and bring her +quickly, John. + +[WILLIAM _places himself behind the arbour_. + +JOHN. As you will, master—but Susan have been wonderful nasty in her +ways with me of late. ’Tis my belief as she have took up with one of +they low gipsy lads what have been tenting up yonder, against the wood. + +WILLIAM. Well, ’twill be your business to win her back to you, John. +See—am I properly hid, behind the arbour? + +JOHN. Grandly hid, master—I’ll go and fetch the wench. [JOHN _leaves +the garden_. + +[WILLIAM _remains hidden behind the arbour_. _After a few minutes_ JOHN +_returns pulling_ SUSAN _by the hand_. + +SUSAN. And what are you about, bringing me into master’s flower garden +at this time of the morning? I should like for mistress to look out of +one of the windows—you’d get into fine trouble, and me too, John. + +JOHN. Susan, my dear, you be a passing fine wench to look upon, and +that’s the truth. + +SUSAN. And is it to tell me such foolishness that you’ve brought me all +the way out of the kitchen? + +JOHN. [_Stooping and picking a dandelion_.] And to give you this +flower, dear Susan. + +SUSAN. [_Throwing it down_.] A common thing like that! I’ll have none +of it. + +JOHN. ’Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan. The blue fire do +fairly leap from your eyes. + +SUSAN. O you’re enough to anger a saint, John. What have you brought me +here for? + +JOHN. I thought I’d like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, +Susan. And that I did never see a finer. + +SUSAN. You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what Master +William’s so powerful set on. + +JOHN. Ah—and ’tis true as you have sommat of the look of she when you +stands a pawing of the ground as you be now. + +SUSAN. Is it to insult me that you’ve got me away from the kitchen, +John? + +JOHN. Nay—’tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish wench—and I’ll go +along to the church with you any day as you will name, my dear. + +SUSAN. That you won’t, John. I don’t mind taking a nosegay of flowers +from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over the garden +gate of an evening, but I’m not a-going any further along the road with +you. That’s all. [_She moves towards the house_. + +JOHN. Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan—and let me say sommat of +all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in my +heart for you. + +SUSAN. They may stir within you like an old waspes’ nest for all I care, +John. + +JOHN. Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they. You can +speak honey sweet when it do please you to. + +SUSAN. ’Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, John. + +JOHN. I gets enough of that from mistress—I mean—well—I mean—[_in a +loud_, _clear voice_]—O mistress is a wonderful fine woman and no +mistake. + +SUSAN. You won’t say as much when she comes round the corner and catches +you a wasting of your time like this, John. + +JOHN. Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of the +finest rose what blooms, Susan? + +SUSAN. Is that me, John? + +JOHN. Who else should it be, Susan? + +SUSAN. Well, John—sometimes I think there’s not much amiss with you. + +JOHN. O Susan, them be grand words. + +SUSAN. But then again—I do think as you be getting too much like Master +William. + +JOHN. And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth. + +SUSAN. Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. And +you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John. + +JOHN. Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way. + +SUSAN. I’m not so sure as I do, John. + +JOHN. Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan. + +SUSAN. And that I’ll not. And what’s more, I’m not a-going to stop here +talking foolish with you any longer. I’ve work to do within. [SUSAN +_goes off_. + +[JOHN, _mopping his face and speaking regretfully as_ WILLIAM _steps from +behind the arbour_. + +JOHN. There, master. That’s courting for you. That’s the sort of +thing. And a caddling thing it is too. + +WILLIAM. But ’tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John. And +’tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this afternoon, +there—that’s what I’ve come to in my thoughts. + +JOHN. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now? + +WILLIAM. See here, John—we’ll cut a nosegay for you to carry—some of the +best blooms I’ll spare. And you, who know what courting is, and who have +such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once and do the business +for me. + +JOHN. Master, if ’twas an acre of stone as you’d asked me to plough, I’d +sooner do it nor a job like this. + +WILLIAM. John, you’ve been a good friend to me all the years that you +have lived on the farm, you’ll not go and fail me now. + +JOHN. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William? +’Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of she. + +WILLIAM. Your words are all right, John. ’Tisn’t as though sensible +speech was needed. You do know what’s wanted with the maids, whilst I +have never been used to them in any way whatever. So let’s say no more +about it, but commence gathering the flowers. + +JOHN. [_Heavily_, _but resigned_.] Since you say so, master. [_They +begin to gather flowers_. + +WILLIAM. What blooms do young maids like the best, John? + +JOHN. Put in a sprig of thyme, master. + +WILLIAM. Yes—I can well spare that. + +JOHN. And a rose that’s half opened, master. + +WILLIAM. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, +John. + +JOHN. ’Tain’t likely as you can get through courtship without parting +with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you’re called upon to +spill. + +WILLIAM. That’s true, John—I’ll gather the rose— + +JOHN. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave flowers, +the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they. + +WILLIAM. Put them into the nosegay, John—And now—no more—’Tis enough +waste for one day. + +JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I. + +WILLIAM. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John. + +JOHN. ’Tis to be hoped as ’twill be the same with the lady, master. + +WILLIAM. There, off you go, John. And mind, ’tis her with the cherry +ribbon to her gown and bonnet. + +JOHN. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her head +this day, being that ’tis Thursday? + +WILLIAM. An eye like—like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to the +face of her like yon rose. + +JOHN. That’s enough, Master William. I’ll not pitch upon the wrong +maid, never fear. And now I’ll clean myself up a bit at the pump, and +set off straight away. + +WILLIAM. [_Shaking_ JOHN’S _hand_.] Good luck to you, my man. And if +you can bring it off quiet and decent like without me coming in till at +the last, why, ’tis a five pound note that you shall have for your +trouble. + +JOHN. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no mistake +about that. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_A wood_. _To the right a fallen tree_ (_or a bench_). JOHN _comes from +the left_, _a large bunch of flowers in his hand_. + +JOHN. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? Well, bless my +soul, but ’tis a rare caddling business what master’s put upon I. ’Tis +worse nor any job he have set me to in all the years I’ve been along of +him, so ’tis. But I’m the one to bring it off slick and straight, and, +bless me, if I won’t take and hide myself by yon great bush till I see +the wenches a-coming up. That’ll give me time to have a quiet look at +the both and pick out she what master’s going a-courting of. + +[JOHN _puts himself behind some thick bushes as_ JULIA _and_ LAURA _come +forward_. JULIA _is very simply dressed_. _Her head is bare_, _and she +is carrying her white cotton sunbonnet_. LAURA _wears finer clothes and +her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry colour_. + +LAURA. [_Stopping by the bench_.] We’ll sit down—’Tis a warm day, and +I’ve had enough of walking. + +[_She sinks down on the seat_. + +JULIA. [_Looking all round her_.] ’Tis beautiful and quiet here. O +this is ever so much better than the farm. + +LAURA. The farm! What’s wrong with that, I should like to know? + +JULIA. Everything. ’Tis more like a prison than a home to me. Within +the house there’s always work crying out to be done—and outside I believe +’tis worse—work—nothing else speaking to me. + +LAURA. You’re a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there’s many would give their +eyes to change with you. + +JULIA. But out here ’tis all peace, and freedom. There’s naught calling +out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and the breezes move them +this way, and that. The ground is thick with leaves and blossoms and no +one has got to sweep it, and the hard things with great noises to them, +like pails and churns, are far away and clean forgot. + +LAURA. ’Tisn’t much use as you’ll be on the farm. + +JULIA. I wish I’d never come nigh to it. I was happier far before. + +LAURA. ’Tis a grand life. You’ll see it as I do one of these days. + +JULIA. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear the cattle +lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and ’tis a heart of +lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers in the fields +calls me, but ’tis to the dairy I must go, to work. And at noonday, when +the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for its coolness, ’tis the +kitchen I must be in—or picking green stuff for the market. And so on +till night, when the limbs of me can do no more and the spirit in me is +like a bird with the wing of it broken. + +LAURA. You’ll harden to it all by winter time right enough. + +JULIA. O I’ll never harden to it. ’Tis not that way I am made. Some +girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do their +task nor ask for anything beyond, but ’tis not so with me. + +LAURA. How is it then with you? + +JULIA. [_Pointing_.] There—see that blue thing yonder flying from one +blossom to another. That’s how ’tis with me. Shut me up close in one +place, I perish. Let me go free, and I can fly and live. + +LAURA. You do talk a powerful lot of foolishness that no one could +understand. + +JULIA. O, do not let us talk at all. Let us bide still, and get +ourselves refreshed by the sweetness and the wildness of the forest. + +JULIA _turns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood +around her_. + +LAURA _arranges her ribbons and smoothes out her gown_. _Neither of them +speak for a few minutes_. + +LAURA. [_Looking up and pointing_.] See those strange folk over there? +What are they? + +JULIA. [_Looking in the same direction_.] I know them. They are +gipsies from the hill near to us. + +LAURA. They should be driven away then. I don’t like such folk roosting +around. + +JULIA. But I do. They are friends to me. Many’s the time I have run +out at dusk to speak with them as they sit round their fire. + +LAURA. Then you didn’t ought to have done so. Let’s get off now, before +they come up. + +JULIA. No, no. Let us talk to them all. [_Calling_.] Tansie and +Chris, come you here and sit down alongside of us. [CHRIS, NAT, _and_ +TANSIE _come up_. + +CHRIS. Good morning to you, mistress. ’Tis a fine brave day, to-day. + +JULIA. That it is, Chris. There never was so fine a day. And we have +come to spend all of it in this forest. + +TANSIE. Ah, but ’tis warm upon the high road. + +NAT. We be come right away from the town, mistress. + +JULIA. Then sit down, all of you, and we will talk in the cool shade. + +LAURA. Not here, if you please. I am not used to such company. + +JULIA. Not here? Very well, my friends, let us go further into the wood +and you shall stretch yourselves under the green trees and we will all +rest there together. + +LAURA. Well, what next! You might stop to consider how ’twill look in +the parish. + +JULIA. How what will look? + +LAURA. How ’twill look for you to be seen going off in such company like +this. + +JULIA. The trees have not eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. +There’s no one to see me but you, and you can turn your head t’other way. +Come Tansie, come Chris. [_She turns towards the three gipsies_. + +TANSIE. Nat’s in a sorry way, this morning—baint you, Nat? + +NAT. Let I be. You do torment anyone till they scarce do know if they +has senses to them or no. + +TANSIE. You’re not one to miss what you never had, Nat. + +CHRIS. Let the lad bide in quiet, will you. ’Tis a powerful little +nagging wench as you be. + +JULIA. Why are you heavy and sad this fine day, Nat? + +TANSIE. ’Tis love what’s the matter with he, mistress. + +JULIA. Love? O, that’s not a thing that should bring heaviness or +gloom, but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips. + +TANSIE. Ah, but when there’s been no meeting in the dusk since Sunday, +and no message sent! + +CHRIS. Keep that tongue of your’n where it should be, and give over, +Tansie. Susan’s not one as would play tricks with her lad. + +JULIA. Now I have a thirst to hear all about this, Nat, so come off +further into the wood, all of you, where we can speak in quiet. + +[_She holds out her hand to_ NAT. + +LAURA. Upon my word, but something must be done to bring these goings on +to an end. + +JULIA. Come, Nat—you shall tell me all your trouble. I understand the +things of the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know how to give you +comfort in your distress—come! + +[JULIA _and_ NAT, _followed by_ CHRIS _and_ TANSIE, _move off out of +sight_. LAURA _is left sitting on the bench alone_. _Presently_ JOHN +_comes out carefully from behind the bushes_, _holding his bunch of +flowers_. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +LAURA. The same to you, master. + +JOHN. Folks do call me John. + +LAURA. Indeed? Good morning, John. + +JOHN. A fine brave sun to-day, mistress. + +LAURA. But pleasant enough here in the shade. + +JOHN. Now, begging your pardon, but what you wants over the head of you +baint one of these great trees full of flies and insects, but an arbour +trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at his place +yonder. + +LAURA. Indeed? And who may your master be, John? + +JOHN. ’Tis Master William Gardner, what’s the talk of the country for +miles around, mistress. And that he be. + +LAURA. Master William Gardner! What, he of Road Farm? + +JOHN. The very same, mistress. And as grand a gentleman as anyone might +wish for to see. + +LAURA. Yes—I seem to have heard something told about him, but I don’t +rightly remember what ’twas. + +JOHN. You may have heard tell as the finest field of beans this season, +that’s his. + +LAURA. I don’t think ’twas of beans that I did hear. + +JOHN. Or that ’twas his spotted hilt what fetched the highest price of +any in the market Saturday? + +LAURA. No, ’twasn’t that neither. + +JOHN. Or that folks do come as thick as flies on a summer’s day from all +parts of the country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. Ah, and +before ’tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for it, all of them, +like a pack of dogs with a bone. So ’tis. + +LAURA. ’Twasn’t that, I don’t think. + +JOHN. Or ’twas that th’ old missis—she as is mother to Master +William—her has a tongue what’s sharper nor longer than any vixen’s +going. But that’s between you and I, missis. + +LAURA. Ah—’Twas that I did hear tell of. Now I remember it. + +JOHN. But Master William—the tongue what he do keep be smooth as honey, +and a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the chance. + +LAURA. Indeed? He must be a pleasant sort of a gentleman. + +JOHN. For he could be led with kindness same as anything else. But try +for to drive him, as old Missis do—and very likely ’tis hoofed as you’ll +get for your pains. + +LAURA. I like a man with some spirit to him, myself. + +JOHN. Ah, Master William has a rare spirit to him, and that he has. You +should hear him when th’ old Missis’s fowls be got into his flower +garden. ’Tis sommat as is not likely to be forgot in a hurry. That +’tisn’t. + +LAURA. You carry a handsome nosegay of blossoms there, John. Are they +from your master’s garden? + +JOHN. Ah, there’re not amiss. I helped for to raise they too. + +LAURA. And to whom are you taking them now, John? + +JOHN. To the lady what my master’s a-courting of, mistress. + +LAURA. And whom may that be, John? + +JOHN. Why, ’tis yourself, mistress. + +LAURA. Me, John? Why, I’ve never clapped eyes on Master William Gardner +so far as I know of. + +JOHN. But he’ve clapped eyes on you, mistress—’twas at Church last +Sunday. And ’tis not a bit of food, nor a drop of drink, nor an hour of +sleep, as Master William have taken since. + +LAURA. O, you do surprise me, John? + +JOHN. That’s how ’tis with he, mistress. ’Tis many a year as I’ve +served Master William—but never have I seen him in the fix where he be in +to-day. + +LAURA. Why—how is it with him then? + +JOHN. As it might be with the cattle when the flies do buzz about they, +thick in the sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a-trampling and +a-tossing, and never a minute’s rest. + +LAURA. Well, now—to think of such a thing. Indeed! + +JOHN. I’ve seen a horse right up to the neck of him in that old quag +ahind of our place—a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth and +a-plunging so as ’twould terrify anyone to harken to it. And that’s how +’tis to-day with Master William up at home, so ’tis. + +LAURA. And only saw me once—at Church last Sunday, John? + +JOHN. Ah—and they old maid flies do sting but once, but ’tis a terrible +big bump as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that ’tis. + +LAURA. O John—’tis a fine thing to be loved like that. + +JOHN. So I should say—ah, ’tisn’t every day that a man like Master +William goes a-courting. + +LAURA. But he hasn’t set out yet, John. + +JOHN. You take and hold the nosegay, mistress, and I’ll go straight off +and fetch him, so being as you’re agreeable. + +LAURA. O yes, and that I am, John—You go and fetch him quick. I’ll bide +here gladly, waiting till he comes. + +JOHN. That’s it. I knowed you for a sensible lady the moment I pitched +my eyes on to you. And when master do come up, you take and talk to him +nicely and meek-like and lead him on from one thing to t’other: and +you’ll find as he’ll go quiet as a sheep after the first set off, spite +of the great spirit what’s at the heart of he. + +LAURA. John, I’ll do all as you say, and more than all. Only, you get +along and send him quickly to me. And—yes, you might give him a good +hint, John—I’m not averse to his attentions. + +JOHN. Ah, and I should think you wasn’t, for ’twould be a hard job to +find a nicer gentleman nor Master William. + +LAURA. That I know it would. Why, John, my heart’s commenced beating +ever so fast, it has. + +JOHN. Then you may reckon how ’tis with the poor master! Why, ’tis my +belief as ’twill be raving madness as’ll be the end of he if sommat don’t +come to put a finish to this unrest. + +LAURA. O John, ’twould never do for such a fine gentleman to go crazy. +Do you set off quick and send him along to me, and I’ll take and do my +very best for to quiet him, like. + +JOHN. [_Rising and about to set off_.] Ah, ’tis a powerful lot of +calming as Master William do require. But you be the one for to give it +him. You just bide where you do sit now whilst I goes and fetches him, +mistress. + +LAURA. O that I will, my good, dear John. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + + _The same wood_. + +WILLIAM _and_ JOHN _come up_. WILLIAM _carries a large market basket +containing vegetables_. + +JOHN. [_Looking round and seeing no one_.] Bless my soul, but ’twas on +the seat as I did leave she. + +WILLIAM. We have kept her waiting a bit too long whilst we were cutting +the green stuff. And now ’twill be best to let matters bide over till +to-morrow. + +JOHN. Why, master ’tis my belief as you be all of a-tremble like. + +WILLIAM. I wish we were well out of this business, John. ’Tis not to my +liking in any way. + +JOHN. ’Tis a fine looking lady, and that ’tis. You take and court her, +Master William. + +WILLIAM. How am I to court the wench when she’s not here? + +JOHN. [_Pointing_.] Look yonder, master, there she comes through them +dark trees. + +WILLIAM. You’ve got to bide somewhere nigh me, John. I could not be +left alone with a wench who’s a stranger to me. + +JOHN. Don’t you get flustered, Master William. See here, I’ll hide me +ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should want me, why, there I’m +close at hand. + +WILLIAM. I’d rather you did stand at my side, John. + +[JOHN _hides himself behind the bushes_. LAURA _comes slowly up_. +WILLIAM _stands awkwardly before her_, _saying nothing_. _Presently he +takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily and she bows to him_. _For +some moments they stand embarrassed_, _looking at one another_. + +WILLIAM. [_Suddenly bringing out a bunch of carrots from his basket and +holding them up_.] See these young carrots, mistress. + +LAURA. Indeed I do, master. + +WILLIAM. ’Tisn’t everywhere that you do see such fine grown ones for the +time of year. + +LAURA. You’re right there, master. We have none of them up at our +place. + +WILLIAM. [_Holding them towards her_.] Then be pleased to accept these, +mistress. + +LAURA. [_Taking the carrots_.] Thank you kindly, master. [_There is +another embarrassed silence_. WILLIAM _looks distractedly from_ LAURA +_to his basket_. _Then he takes out a bunch of turnips_. + +WILLIAM. You couldn’t beat these nowhere, not if you were to try. + +LAURA. I’m sure you could not, master. + +WILLIAM. They do call this sort the Early Snowball. ’Tis a foolish name +for a table root. + +LAURA. ’Tis a beautiful turnip. + +WILLIAM. [_Giving her the bunch_.] You may as well have them too. + +LAURA. O you’re very kind, master. + +[_There is another long silence_. WILLIAM _shuffles on his feet_—LAURA +_bends admiringly over her gifts_. + +WILLIAM. There’s young beans and peas and a spring cabbage too, within +the basket. I do grow a little of most everything. + +LAURA. O shall we sit down and look at the vegetables together? + +WILLIAM. [_Visibly relieved_.] We might do worse nor that. [_They sit +down side by side with the basket between them_. + +LAURA. [_Lifting the cabbage_.] O, this is quite a little picture! See +how the leaves do curl backwards—so fresh and green! + +WILLIAM. Ah, and that one has a rare white heart to it, it has. + +LAURA. I do love the taste of a spring cabbage, when it has a slice of +fat bacon along with it. + +WILLIAM. I might have brought a couple of pounds with me if I’d have +thought. Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging in the pantry. + +LAURA. [_Shyly_.] Next time, maybe. + +WILLIAM. [_Eagerly_.] ’Twouldn’t take ten minutes for me to run back. + +LAURA. Not now—O no master—not now. Do you bide a little longer here +and tell me about—about t’other things in the basket. + +WILLIAM. [_Mopping his face with a handkerchief_.] Well—there’s the +beans—I count that yours haven’t come up very smart this year. + +LAURA. That they’ve not. The whole place has been let to run dreadful +wild. + +WILLIAM. I’d—I’d like to show you how ’tis in my garden, one of these +days. + +LAURA. I’d be very pleased to walk along with you there. + +WILLIAM. [_Hurriedly_.] Ah—you should see it later on when the—the—the +parsnips are a bit forrarder. + +LAURA. I’d like to see the flower garden now, where this nosegay came +from. + +WILLIAM. [_Looking round uneasily_.] I don’t know what the folks would +say if they were to see you and me a-going on the road in broad day—I’m +sure I don’t. + +LAURA. Why, what should they say, Master Gardner? + +WILLIAM. They might get saying—they might say as—as I’d got a-courting, +or sommat foolish. + +LAURA. Well—and would that be untrue? + +WILLIAM. [_Looking at her very uncomfortably_.] I’m blessed if I do +know—I mean— + +LAURA. This nosegay—and look, those young carrots—and the turnips and +beans, why did you bring them for me, master, unless it was that you +intended something by it? + +WILLIAM. [_Very confused_.] That’s so. So ’tis. That’s true. I count +you have got hold of the sow by the ear right enough this time. And the +less said about it the better. [_A slight silence_. + +LAURA. [_Looking up shyly in_ WILLIAM’S face.] What was it drew you to +me first, master? + +WILLIAM. I believe ’twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced to take +notice of you, like. + +LAURA. Yes, but what was it about me that took your fancy in Church on +Sunday? + +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I know, unless ’twas those coloured ribbons that +you have got to your bonnet. + +LAURA. You are partial to the colour? + +WILLIAM. Ah, ’tis well enough. + +LAURA. See here. [_Taking a flower from her dress_.] This is of the +same colour. I will put it in your coat. + +[_She fastens it in his coat_. WILLIAM _looks very uncomfortable and +nervous_. + +WILLIAM. Well, bless my soul, but women folk have got some powerful +strange tricks to them. + +LAURA. [_Pinning the flower in its place_.] There—my gift to you, +master. + +WILLIAM. You may call me by my name, if you like, ’tis more suitable, +seeing that we might go along to Church together one of these days. + +LAURA. O William, you have made me very happy—I do feel all mazy like +with my gladness. + +WILLIAM. Well, Julia, we might do worse than to—to—name the day. + +LAURA. Why do you call me Julia? + +WILLIAM. Seeing that I’ve given you leave to call me William ’tis only +suitable that I should use your name as well. + +LAURA. But my name is not Julia. + +WILLIAM. What is it then, I should like to know? + +LAURA. ’Tis Laura, William. + +WILLIAM. Folks did tell me that you were named Julia. + +LAURA. No—Laura is my name; but I live with Mistress Julia up at +Luther’s Farm, and I help her with the work. House-keeping, dairy, +poultry, garden. O there’s nothing I can’t turn my hand to, Master +William. + +WILLIAM. [_Starts up from the seat in deepest consternation_.] John, +John—Come you here, I say! Come here. + +JOHN. [_Emerges from the bushes_.] My dearest master! + +WILLIAM. What’s this you’ve been and done, John? + +JOHN. Why, master—the one with the cherry ribbons, to her you did say. + +WILLIAM. [_Disgustedly_.] ’Tis the wrong one. + +LAURA. What are you two talking about? William, do you mean to say as +that man of yours was hid in the bushes all the while? + +WILLIAM. Now, John, you’ve got to get me out of the fix where I’m set. + +JOHN. O my dear master, don’t you take on so. ’Tis a little bit of +misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right very soon. + +WILLIAM. Then you get to work and set it right, John, for ’tis beyond +the power of me to do so. I’ll be blessed if I’ll ever get meddling with +this sort of job again. + +JOHN. Now don’t you get so heated, master, but leave it all to me. +[_Turning to_ LAURA.] My good wench, it seems that there has been a +little bit of misunderstanding between you and my gentleman here. + +LAURA. [_Angrily_.] So that’s what you call it—misunderstanding ’tis a +fine long word, but not much of meaning, to it, I’m thinking. + +JOHN. Then you do think wrong. Suppose you was to go to market for to +buy a nice spring chicken and when you was got half on the way to home +you was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl in place of it, +what would you do then? + +LAURA. I don’t see that chickens or fowls have anything to do with the +matter. + +JOHN. Then you’re not the smart maid I took you for. ’Tis not you as +would be suitable in my master’s home. And what’s more, ’tis not you as +my master’s come a-courting of. + +LAURA. If ’tis not me, who is it then? + +[WILLIAM _looks at her sheepishly and then turns away_. + +JOHN. ’Tis your mistress, since you wants to know. + +LAURA. [_Indignantly_.] O, I see it all now—How could I have been so +misled! + +JOHN. However could poor master have been so mistook, I say. + +LAURA. [_Turning away passionately_.] O, I’ve had enough of you and—and +your master. + +JOHN. Now that’s what I do like for to hear. Because me and master have +sommat else to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in this old wood the rest +of the day. Us have got a smartish lot of worry ahead of we, haven’t us, +master? + +WILLIAM. You never said a truer word, John. + +JOHN. Come along then Master William. You can leave the spring +vegetables to she. ’Tis more nor she deserves, seeing as her might have +known as ’twas her mistress the both of us was after, all the time. + +[LAURA _throws herself on the seat and begins to cry silently_, _but +passionately_. + +WILLIAM. O John, this courting, ’tis powerful heavy work. + +JOHN. [_Taking_ WILLIAM’S _arm_.] Come you along with me, master, and +I’ll give you a helping hand with it all. + +LAURA. [_Looking up and speaking violently_.] I warrant you will, you +clown. But let me advise you to look better afore you leap next time, or +very likely ’tis in sommat worse than a ditchful of nettles as you’ll +find yourself. + +JOHN. [_Looking back over his shoulders as he goes off with_ WILLIAM.] +I reckon as you’ve no call to trouble about we, mistress. Us is they +what can look after theirselves very well. Suppose you was to wash your +face and dry your eyes and set about the boiling of yon spring cabbage. +’Twould be sensibler like nor to bide grizzling after one as is beyond +you in his station, so ’twould. + +[JOHN _and_ WILLIAM _go out_, _leaving_ LAURA _weeping on the bench_, +_the basket of vegetables by her side_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 3. + + +JULIA _is sitting at the foot of a tree in the wood_. CHRIS, NAT _and_ +TANSIE _are seated near her on the ground_. + +JULIA. I wish this day might last for always. + +CHRIS. Why, when to-morrow’s come, ’twill be the same. + +JULIA. That it will not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow’s work. + +TANSIE. One day ’tis much the same as t’other with me. + +NAT. ’Tis what we gets to eat as do make the change. + +TANSIE. I should have thought as how a grand young mistress like +yourself might have had the days to your own liking. + +JULIA. Ah, and so I did once. But that was before Uncle died and left +me the farm. Now, ’tis all different with the days. + +CHRIS. How was it with you afore then, mistress? + +JULIA. Much the same as ’tis with that bird flying yonder. I did so as +I listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was up, then I did +sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when ’twas dark, why, then I did +roam. There was naught to hold me back from my fancy. + +TANSIE. And how is it _now_ with you, mistress? + +JULIA. ’Tis all said in one word. + +CHRIS. What’s that? + +JULIA. ’Tis “work.” + +NAT. Work? + +CHRIS. Work? + +TANSIE. Work! And yet ’tis a fine young lady as you do look in your +muslin gown with silky ribbons to it and all. + +JULIA. I’m a farmer, Tansie. And for a farmer ’tis work of one sort, or +t’other from when the sun is up till the candle has burned itself short. +If ’tisn’t working with my own hands, ’tis driving of the hands of +another. + +CHRIS. I’ve heard tell as a farmer do spin gold all the day same as one +of they great spiders as go putting out silk from their mouths. + +JULIA. And what is gold to me, Chris, who have no one but myself to +spend it on? + +CHRIS. Folks do say as the laying up of gold be one of the finest things +in the world. + +JULIA. It will never bring happiness to me, Chris. + +CHRIS. Come, mistress, ’tis a fine thing to have a great stone roof +above the head of you. + +JULIA. I’d sooner get my shelter from the green leaves. + +NAT. And a grand thing to have your victuals spread afore you each time +’stead of having to go lean very often. + +JULIA. O, a handful of berries and a drink of fresh water is enough for +me. + +TANSIE. And beautiful it must be to stretch the limbs of you upon +feathers when night do come down, with a fine white sheet drawn up over +your head. + +JULIA. O, I could rest more sweetly on the grass and moss yonder. + +NAT. I did never sleep within four walls but once, and then ’twas in +gaol. + +JULIA. O Nat, you were never in gaol, were you? + +NAT. ’Twas that they mistook I for another. And when the morning did +come, they did let I go again. + +CHRIS. I count ’twas a smartish long night, that! + +NAT. ’Twas enough for to shew me how it do feel when anyone has got to +bide sleeping with the walls all around of he. + +JULIA. And the ceiling above, Nat. And locked door. And other folk +lying breathing in the house, hard by. All dark and close. + +CHRIS. And where us may lie, the air do run swift over we. We has the +smell of the earth and the leaves on us as we do sleep. There baint no +darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through up yonder. + +TANSIE. And no sound of other folk breathing but the crying of th’ owls +and the foxes’ bark. + +JULIA. Ah, that must be a grand sound, the barking of a fox. I never +did hear one. Never. + +CHRIS. Ah, ’tis a powerful thin sound, that—but one to raise the hair on +a man’s head and to clam the flesh of he, at dead of night. + +NAT. You come and bide along of we one evening, and you shall hearken to +the fox, and badger too, if you’ve the mind. + +JULIA. O that would please me more than anything in the world. + +TANSIE. And when ’twas got a little lighter, so that the bushes could be +seen, and the fields, I’d shew you where the partridge has her nest +beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten them too. + +CHRIS. And I’ll take and lead you to a place what I do know of, where +the water flows clear as a diamond over the stones. And if you bides +there waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come along—and there’s +a dinner such as the Queen might not get every day of the week. + +JULIA. O Chris, who is there to say I must bide in one place when all in +me is thirsting to be in t’other! + +CHRIS. I’m sure I don’t know. + +NAT. I should move about where I did like, if ’twas me. + +TANSIE. A fine young lady like you can do as she pleases. + +JULIA. Well then, it pleases me to bide with you in the free air. + +CHRIS. Our life, ’tis a poor life, and wandering. ’Tis food one day, +and may be going without the next. ’Tis the sun upon the faces of us one +hour—and then the rain. But ’tis in freedom that us walks, and we be the +masters of our own limbs. + +JULIA. Will you be good to me if I journey with you? + +CHRIS. Ah, ’tis not likely as I’ll ever fail you, mistress. + +JULIA. Do not call me mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia. + +CHRIS. ’Tis a well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as clear water +upon the tongue. + +JULIA. Tansie, how will it be for me to go with you? + +TANSIE. ’Twill be well enough with the spirit of you I don’t doubt, but +how’ll it be with the fine clothes what you have on? + +NAT. [_Suddenly looking up_.] Why, there’s Susan coming. + +JULIA. [_Looking in the same direction_.] So that is Susan? + +TANSIE. I count as her has had a smartish job to get away from th’ old +missis so early in the day. + +CHRIS. ’Tis a rare old she cat, and handy with the claw’s of her, +Susan’s missis. + +[SUSAN _comes shyly forward_. + +NAT. Come you here, Susan, and sit along of we. + +JULIA. Yes, sit down with us in this cool shade, Susan. You look warm +from running. + +SUSAN. O, I didn’t know you was here, Mistress Julia. + +JULIA. Well, Susan, and so you live at Road Farm. Are you happy there? + +SUSAN. I should be if ’twern’t for mistress. + +JULIA. No mistress could speak harshly to you, Susan—you are so young +and pretty. + +SUSAN. Ah, but mistress takes no account of aught but the work you does, +and the tongue of her be wonderful lashing. + +JULIA. Then how comes it that you have got away to the forest so early +on a week day? + +SUSAN. ’Tis that mistress be powerful took up with sommat else this +afternoon, and so I was able to run out for a while and her didn’t notice +me. + +TANSIE. Why Su, what’s going on up at the farm so particular to-day? + +SUSAN. ’Tis courting. + +ALL. Courting? + +SUSAN. Yes. That ’tis. ’Tis our Master William what’s dressed up in +his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting with a basket of green stuff on +his arm big enough to fill the market, very nigh. + +CHRIS. Well, well, who’d have thought he had it in him? + +NAT. He’s a gentleman what’s not cut out for courting, to my mind. + +SUSAN. Indeed he isn’t, Nat. And however the mistress got him dressed +and set off on that business, I don’t know. + +JULIA. But you have not told us who the lady is, Susan. + +SUSAN. [_Suddenly very embarrassed_.] I—I—don’t think as I do rightly +know who ’tis, mistress. + +CHRIS. Why, look you, Susan, you’ll have to take and hide yourself if +you don’t want for them to know as you be got along of we. + +SUSAN. What’s that, Chris? + +CHRIS. [_Pointing_.] See there, that man of Master Gardner’s be +a-coming along towards us fast. Look yonder— + +SUSAN. O whatever shall I do? ’Tis John, and surely he will tell of me +when he gets back. + +NAT. Come you off with me afore he do perceive you, Susan. I’ll take +you where you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the world if you’ll +but come along of me. + +JULIA. That’s it. Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. And do you go +along too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in the stillness of +the wood for a while. + +[SUSAN, TANSIE _and_ NAT _go out_. + +CHRIS. Be I to leave you too, Julia? + +JULIA. [_Slowly_.] Only for a little moment, Chris; then you can come +for me again. I would like to stay with myself in quiet for a while. +New thoughts have come into my mind and I cannot rightly understand what +they do say to me, unless I hearken to them alone. + +CHRIS. Then I’ll leave you, Julia. For things be stirring powerful in +my mind too, and I’d give sommat for to come to an understanding with +they. Ah, that I would. + +[_They look at one another in silence for a moment_, _then_ CHRIS _slowly +follows the others_, _leaving_ JULIA _alone_. JULIA _sits alone in the +wood_. _Presently she begins to sing_. + +JULIA. [_Singing_.] + + I sowed the seeds of love, + It was all in the Spring; + In April, in May, and in June likewise + When small birds they do sing. + +[JOHN _with a large basket on his arm comes up to her_. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +JULIA. Good afternoon. + +JOHN. Now I count as you would like to know who ’tis that’s made so bold +in speaking to you, Mistress. + +JULIA. Why, you’re Master Gardner’s farm hand, if I’m not mistaken. + +JOHN. Ah, that’s right enough. And there be jobs as I wish Master +William would get and do for hisself instead of putting them on I. + +JULIA. Well, and how far may you be going this afternoon? + +JOHN. I baint going no further than where I be a-standing now, mistress. + +JULIA. It would appear that your business was with me, then? + +JOHN. Ah, you’ve hit the right nail, mistress. ’Tis with you. ’Tis a +straight offer as my master have sent me out for to make. + +JULIA. Now I wonder what sort of an offer that might be! + +JOHN. ’Tis master’s hand in marriage, and a couple of pigs jowls, +home-cured, within this here basket. + +JULIA. O my good man, you’re making game of me. + +JOHN. And that I baint, mistress. ’Twas in the church as Master William +seed you first. And ’tis very nigh sick unto death with love as he have +been since then. + +JULIA. Is he too sick to come and plead his cause himself, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that he be. Do go moulting about the place with his +victuals left upon the dish—a sighing and a grizzling so that any maid +what’s got a heart to th’ inside of she would be moved in pity, did she +catch ear of it, and would lift he out of the torment. + +JULIA. Well, John, I’ve not seen or heard any of this sad to-do, so I +can’t be moved in pity. + +JOHN. Ah, do you look within this basket at the jowls what Master +William have sent you. Maybe as they’ll go to your heart straighter nor +what any words might. + +[JOHN _sits down on the bench by_ JULIA _and opens the basket_. JULIA +_looks in_. + +JULIA. I have no liking for pigs’ meat myself. + +JOHN. Master’s pig meat be different to any in the county, mistress. +“Tell her,” says Master William, “’tis a rare fine bit of mellow jowl as +I be a sending she.” + +JULIA. O John, I’m a very poor judge of such things. + +JOHN. And look you here. I never seed a bit of Master William’s +home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this day. No, that +I have not, mistress. + +JULIA. [_Shutting the basket_.] Well—I have no use for such a gift, +John, so it may be returned again to the family. I am sorry you had the +trouble of bringing it so far. + +JOHN. You may not be partial to pig meat, mistress, but you’ll send back +the key of Master William’s heart same as you have done the jowls. + +JULIA. I have no use for the key of Master William’s heart either, John. +And you may tell him so, from me. + +JOHN. Why, mistress. You don’t know what you be a talking of. A man +like my master have never had to take a No in place of Yes in all the +born days of him. + +JULIA. [_Rising_.] Then he’ll have to take it now, John. And I’m +thinking ’tis time you set off home again with your load. + +JOHN. Well, mistress, I don’t particular care to go afore you have given +me a good word or sommat as’ll hearten up poor Master William in his love +sickness. + +JULIA. Truly, John, I don’t know what you would have me say. + +JOHN. I warrant there be no lack of words to the inside of you, if so be +as you’d open you mouth a bit wider. ’Tis not silence as a maid is +troubled with in general. + +JULIA. O, I have plenty of words ready, John, should you care to hear +them. + +JOHN. Then out with them, Mistress Julia, and tell the master as how +you’ll take the offer what he have made you. + +JULIA. I’ve never seen your master, John, but I know quite enough about +him to say I’ll never wed with him. Please to make that very clear when +you get back. + +JOHN. ’Tis plain as you doesn’t know what you be a talking of. And ’tis +a wonder as how such foolishness can came from the mouth of a sensible +looking maid like yourself. + +JULIA. I shall not marry Master William Gardner. + +JOHN. I reckon as you’ll be glad enough to eat up every one of them +words the day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more splendid +gentleman nor he never fetched his breath. + +JULIA. I’ll never wed a farmer, John. + +JOHN. And then, look at the gift what Master William’s been and sent +you. ’Tisn’t to everyone as master do part with his pig meat. That +’tisn’t. + +JULIA. [_Rising_.] Well, you can tell your master I’m not one that can +be courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. And that I’ll not wed until +I can give my heart along with my hand. + +JOHN. I’d like to know where you would find a better one nor master for +to give your heart to, mistress? + +JULIA. May be I have not far to search. + +JOHN. [_Taking up the basket_.] You’re a rare tricksy maid as ever I +did see. Tricksy and tossy too. + +JULIA. There—that’s enough, John. Suppose you set off home and tell +your master he can hang up his meat again in the larder, for all that it +concerns me. + +JOHN. I’ll be blowed if I do say anything of the sort, mistress. I +shall get and tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought to +the matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, ’tis very like as a +dish of trotters may prove acceptabler. + +JULIA. Say what you like, John. Only let me bide quiet in this good +forest now. I want to be with my thoughts. + +JOHN. [_Preparing to go and speaking aloud to himself_.] Her’s a +wonderful contrary bird to be sure. And bain’t a shy one neither, what +gets timid and flustered and is easily netted. My word, but me and +master has a job before us for to catch she. + +JULIA. I hear you, and ’tis very rudely that you talk. There’s an old +saying that I never could see the meaning of before, but now I think ’tis +clear, “Like master, like man,” they say. I’ll have none of Master +William, and you can tell him so. + +[JOHN _goes out angrily_. JULIA _sits down again on the bench and begins +to sing_. + +JULIA. [_Singing_.] + + My gardener stood by + And told me to take great care, + For in the middle of a red rose-bud + There grows a sharp thorn there. + +[LAURA _comes slowly forward_, _carrying the basket of vegetables on one +arm_. _She holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying_. + +JULIA. Why, Laura, what has made you cry so sadly? + +LAURA. O, Julia, ’twas a rare red rose as I held in my hand, and a rare +cruel thorn that came from it and did prick me. + +JULIA. And a rare basket of green stuff that you have been getting. + +LAURA. [_Sinking down on the seat_, _and weeping violently_.] His dear +gift to me! + +JULIA. [_Looking into the basket_.] O a wonderful fine gift, to be +sure. Young carrots and spring cabbage. I’ve had a gift offered too—but +mine was jowls. + +LAURA. Jowls. O, and did you not take them? + +JULIA. No, I sent them back to the giver, with the dry heart which was +along with them in the same basket. + +LAURA. O Julia, how could you be so hard and cruel? + +JULIA. Come, wouldn’t you have done the same? + +LAURA. [_Sobbing vehemently_.] That I should not, Julia. + +JULIA. Perhaps you’ve seen the gentleman then? + +LAURA. I have. And O, Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. I never saw +one that was his like. + +JULIA. The rare red rose with its thorn, Laura. + +LAURA. He did lay the heart of him before me—thinking my name was Julia. + +JULIA. And did he lay the vegetables too? + +LAURA. ’Twas all the doing of a great fool, that man of his. + +JULIA. And you—did you give him what he asked of you—before he knew that +your name was not Julia? + +LAURA. O, I did—that I did. [_A short silence_. + +JULIA. And could you forget the prick of the thorn, did you hold the +rose again, Laura? + +LAURA. O that I could. For me there’d be naught but the rose, were it +laid once more in my hand. But ’tis not likely to be put there, since +’tis you he favours. + +JULIA. But I don’t favour him. + +LAURA. You’ll favour him powerful well when you see him, Julia. + +JULIA. I’ve given my heart already, but ’tis not to him. + +LAURA. You’ve given your heart? + +JULIA. Yes, Chris has all of it, Laura. There is nothing left for +anyone else in the world. + +LAURA. O Julia, think of your position. + +JULIA. That I will not do. I am going to think of yours. + +LAURA. [_Beginning to cry_.] I’m no better in my station than a serving +maid, like Susan. + +JULIA. [_Pointing_.] There she comes [_calling_] Susan, Susan! + +[SUSAN _comes up_. _During the next sentences_ LAURA _takes one bunch of +vegetables after another from the basket_, _smoothing each in turn with a +fond caressing movement_. + +SUSAN. Did you call, mistress? + +JULIA. Yes, Susan. That I did. + +SUSAN. Can I help you in any way, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, and that you can. You have got to run quickly back to the +farm. + +SUSAN. Be it got terrible late, mistress? + +JULIA. ’Tis not only that. You have got to find your master and tell +him to expect a visit from me in less than an hour’s time from now. Do +you understand? + +SUSAN. O, yes, mistress, and that I do—to tell master as you be coming +along after he as fast as you can run. + +JULIA. Well—I should not have put it in that way, but ’tis near enough +may be. So off, and make haste, Susan. + +SUSAN. Please, mistress, I could make the words have a more loving sound +to them if you do wish it. + +JULIA. My goodness, Susan, what are you thinking of? Say naught, but +that I’m coming. Run away now, and run quickly. [SUSAN _goes off_. + +LAURA. [_Looking up_, _a bunch of carrots in her hands_.] What are you +going to do now, Julia? + +JULIA. You shall see, when you have done playing with those carrots. + +LAURA. He pulled them, every one, with his own hands, Julia. + +JULIA. My love has gathered something better for me than a carrot. See, +a spray of elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the wind. + +[_She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress_, _and shews it to_ +LAURA. + +LAURA. The roots that lie warm in the earth do seem more homely like to +me. + +JULIA. Well—each one has their own way in love—and mine lies through the +dark woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. And ’tis your road +that we will take this afternoon—so come along quickly with me, Laura, +for the sun has already begun to change its light. + +[LAURA _replaces the vegetables in her basket and rises from the seat as +the curtain falls_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + + _The Garden of Road Farm as in Act I_. + +MRS. GARDNER _is knitting in the Arbour_. WILLIAM _strolls about +gloomily_, _his hands in his pockets_. + +MRS. GARDNER. And serve you right, William, for sending the man when you +should have gone yourself. + +WILLIAM. John has a tongue that is better used to this sort of business +than mine. + +MRS. GARDNER. Nonsense, when was one of our family ever known to fail in +the tongue? + +WILLIAM. If she that was asked first had only been the right one, all +would have been over and done with now. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis John that you have got to thank for the blunder. + +WILLIAM. [_Sighing_.] That was a rare fine maid, and no mistake. + +MRS. GARDNER. And a rare brazen hussy, from all that has reached my +ears. + +WILLIAM. Well—I’ve done with courting—now and for all time, that I have. +And you may roast me alive if I’ll ever go nigh to a maid again. + +MRS. GARDNER. That you shall, William—and quickly too. There’s no time +like the present, and your Sunday clothes are upon you still. + +WILLIAM. I was just going up to change, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to remain as you are. You may take +what gift you like along with you this time, so long as it’s none of my +home-cured meat. + +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I do stir out again this day. Why, look at the +seedlings crying for water, and the nets to lay over the fruit and sommat +of everything wanting to be done all around of me. I’ll not stir. + +[JOHN _comes towards them_. + +MRS. GARDNER. Here’s John. Suppose he were to make himself useful in +the garden for once instead of meddling in things that are none of his +business. + +JOHN. I’ll be blowed if ’tis any more courting as I’ll do, neither for +Master William nor on my own account. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, ’twasn’t your fault that the lady wouldn’t take me, +you did your best with her, I know. + +JOHN. An that I did, Master William, but a more contrary coxsy sort of a +maid I never did see. “I baint one as fancies pig meat,” her did say. +And the nose of she did curl away up till it could go no higher. That’s +not the wench for me, I says to myself. + +MRS. GARDNER. Is the jowl hung up in its right place again, John? + +JOHN. That ’tis, mistress. I put it back myself, and a good job for +that ’taint went out of the family and off to the mouths of strangers, so +says I. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you tend to Master William’s garden John, instead of +talking. We’ve had enough of your tongue for one day. + +JOHN. Why, be Master William goin’ out for to court again, this +afternoon? + +WILLIAM. No, John—No, I’ve had enough of that for my life time. + +JOHN. So have I, master, and more nor enough. I don’t care particular +if I never set eyes on a maid again. + +WILLIAM. [_Pointing to a plot of ground_.] That’s where I pulled the +young carrots this morning. + +JOHN. Ah, and so you did, master. + +WILLIAM. And there’s from where I took the Early Snowballs. + +JOHN. And a great pity as you did. There be none too many of that sort +here. + +WILLIAM. She had a wonderful soft look in her eyes as she did handle +them and the spring cabbage, John. + +JOHN. Ah, and a wonderful hard tongue when her knowed ’twasn’t for she +as they was pulled. + +WILLIAM. Was t’other maid anything of the same pattern, John? + +JOHN. Upon my word, if t’other wasn’t the worst of the two, for she did +put a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she did give I, and the +words did fall from she like so many bricks on my head. + +WILLIAM. Pity the first was not the right maid. + +JOHN. Ah, a maid what can treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon did baint +the sort for to mistress it over we, I’m thinking. + +MRS. GARDNER. See here, John—suppose you were to let your tongue bide +still in its home awhile, and start doing something with your hands. + +JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. What’s wanted, Master William? + +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I can recollect, John. This courting business +lies heavy on me, and I don’t seem able to get above it, like. + +JOHN. I’d let it alone, master, if I was you. They be all alike, the +maids. And ’twouldn’t be amiss if we was to serve they as we serves the +snails when they gets to the young plants. + +[SUSAN _comes hurriedly into the garden_. + +SUSAN. Please master, please mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. What do you mean, Susan, by coming into the garden without +your cap? Go and put it on at once. + +SUSAN. The wind must have lifted it from me, mistress, for I was running +ever so fast. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you expect me to believe that, Susan—and not a breath +stirring the flowers or trees, or anything? + +SUSAN. ’Twas the lady I met as—as—as I was coming across the field from +feeding the fowls. + +MRS. GARDNER. What lady, Susan? + +SUSAN. Her from Luther’s, mistress. + +JOHN. And what of she; out with it, wench. + +SUSAN. She did tell I to say as she be coming along as fast as she may +after Master William. + +WILLIAM. [_As though to himself with an accent of despair_.] No. No. + +JOHN. There, master, didn’t I tell you so? + +WILLIAM. [_Very nervously_.] What did you tell me, John? + +JOHN. That, let her abide and her’d find the senses of she presently. + +WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know what to do. + +[JOHN _takes his master’s arm and draws him aside_. + +JOHN. You pluck up your heart, my dearest master, and court she hard. +And in less nor a six months ’tis along to church as you’ll be a-driving +she. + +WILLIAM. But John, ’tis t’other with the cherry ribbons that has taken +all my fancy. + +JOHN. No, no, Master William. You take and court the mistress. You +take and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from she. +T’other wench is but the serving maid. + +SUSAN. The lady’s coming along ever so quickly, master. + +[MRS. GARDNER, _rising and folding up her knitting_. + +MRS. GARDNER. You’ll please to come indoors with me, William, and I’ll +brush you down and make you look more presentable than you appear just +now. Susan, you’ll get a cap to you head at once, do you hear me! And +John, take and water master’s seedlings. Any one can stand with their +mouths open and their eyes as big as gooseberries if they’ve a mind. +’Tis not particular sharp to do so. Come, William. + +WILLIAM. I’d like a word or two with John first, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. You come along with me this moment, William. ’Tis a too +many words by far that you’ve had with John already, and much good +they’ve done to you. Come you in with me. + +WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know whether ’tis on my head or on my +feet that I’m standing. + +[WILLIAM _follows his mother slowly and gloomily into the house_. + +JOHN. Well—if ever there was a poor, tormented animal ’tis the master. + +SUSAN. Ah, mistress should have been born a drover by rights. ’Tis a +grand nagging one as her’d have made, and sommat what no beast would ever +have got the better of. + +JOHN. I wouldn’t stand in Master William’s shoes, not if you was to put +me knee deep in gold. + +SUSAN. Nor I. + +JOHN. Ah, this courting business, ’tis a rare caddling muddle when ’tis +all done and said. + +SUSAN. ’Tis according as some folks do find it, Master John. + +JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot as you’ll get of it come Sunday night, my +wench. You wait and see. + +SUSAN. That shews how little you do know. ’Twill be better nor ever +with me then. + +JOHN. ’Twill be alone by yourself as you’ll go walking, Su. + +SUSAN. We’ll see about that when the time comes, John. + +JOHN. All I says is that I baint a-going walking with you. + +SUSAN. I never walk with two, John. + +JOHN. You’ll have to learn to go in your own company. + +SUSAN. I shall go by the side of my husband by then, very likely. + +JOHN. Your husband? What tales be you a-giving out now? + +SUSAN. ’Tis to Nat as I’m to be wed come Saturday. + +JOHN. Get along with you, Susan, and put a cap to your head. Mistress +will be coming out presently, and then you know how ’twill be if her +catches you so. Get along in with you. + +SUSAN. Now you don’t believe what I’m telling you—but it’s true, O it’s +true. + +JOHN. Look here—There’s company at the gate, and you a-standing there +like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in and make yourself a +decenter appearance and then go and tell the mistress as they be comed. + +SUSAN. [_Preparing to go indoors and speaking over her shoulder_.] ’Tis +in the parson’s gown as you should be clothed, Master John. Ah, ’tis a +wonderful wordy preacher as you would make, to be sure. And ’tis a rare +crop as one might raise with the seed as do fall from your mouth. + +[_She goes indoors_. JULIA _comes leisurely into the garden_. + +JULIA. Well, John, and how are you feeling now? + +JOHN. Nicely, thank you, mistress. See yon arbour? + +JULIA. And that I do, John. + +JOHN. Well, you may go and sit within it till the master has leisure to +come and speak with you. + +JULIA. Thank you, John, but I would sooner stop and watch you tend the +flowers. + +JOHN. ’Tis all one to me whether you does or you does not. + +JULIA. Now, John, you are angry with me still. + +JOHN. I likes a wench as do know the mind of she, and not one as can +blow hot one moment and cold the next. + +JULIA. There was never a moment when I did not know my own mind, John. +And that’s the truth. + +JOHN. Well, us won’t say no more about that. ’Taint fit as there should +be ill feeling nor quarrelling ’twixt me and you. + +JULIA. You’re right, John. And there was something that I had it in my +mind to ask you. + +JOHN. You can say your fill. There baint no one but me in the garden. + +JULIA. John, you told me that since Sunday your master has been sick +with love. + +JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. I count as we shall bury he if +sommat don’t come to his relief. + +JULIA. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if ’tis for love +of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening. + +JOHN. You’d best go and ask it of his self, mistress. ’Tis a smartish +lot of work as I’ve got to attend to here. + +JULIA. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you. + +JOHN. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a-buzzin +round a man’s head. + +JULIA. Now, John—you must tell me which of the two it is. Is it Laura +whom your master loves, or Julia? + +JOHN. ’Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me. + +JULIA. No, John, you’re not looking straight at me. You are looking +down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine. + +JOHN. [_Looking up crossly_.] I’ve got my work to think of. I’m not +one to stand cackling with a maid. + +JULIA. Could you swear me it is Julia? + +JOHN. ’Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide over, so as I can +get the watering finished. + +JULIA. [_Seizes the watering can_.] Now, John, you have got to speak +the truth to me. + +JOHN. Give up yon can, I tell you. O you do act wonderful unseemly for +a young lady. + +JULIA. [_Withholding the can_.] Not till I have the truth from you. + +JOHN. [_Angrily_.] Well then, is it likely that my master would set his +fancy on such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, Master William do know better +nor to do such a thing, I can tell you. + +JULIA. Then ’tis for Laura that he is love-sick, John. + +JOHN. Give I the watering can. + +JULIA. [_Giving him the can_.] Here it is, dear John. O I had a fancy +all the time that ’twas to Laura your master had lost his heart. And now +I see I made no mistake. + +JOHN. I shouldn’t have spoke as I did if you hadn’t a buzzed around I +till I was drove very nigh crazy. Master William, he’ll never forgive me +this. + +JULIA. That he will, I’m sure, when he has listened to what I have got +to say to him. + +JOHN. You do set a powerful store on what your tongue might say, but I’d +take and bide quiet at home if I was you and not come hunting of a nice +reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very garden. + +JULIA. O John, you’re a sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge me very +unkindly. But I’ll not bear malice if you will just run in and tell your +master that I want a word with him. + +JOHN. A word? Why not say fifty? When was a maid ever satisfied with +one word I’d like to know? + +JULIA. Well—I shan’t say more than six, very likely, so fetch him to me +now, John, and I’ll wait here in the garden. [JOHN _looks at her with +exasperated contempt_. _Then he slowly walks away towards the house_. +JULIA _goes in the opposite direction to the garden gate_. + +JULIA. [_Calling_.] Chris! [CHRIS _comes in_. + +JULIA. [_Pointing_.] O Chris, look at this fine garden—and yon +arbour—see the fine house, with lace curtains to the windows of it. + +CHRIS. [_Sullenly_.] Ah—I sees it all very well. + +JULIA. And all this could be mine for the stretching out of a hand. + +CHRIS. Then stretch it. + +JULIA. ’Twould be like putting a wild bird into a gilded cage, to set me +here in this place. No, I must go free with you, Chris—and we will +wander where our spirits lead us—over all the world if we have a mind to +do so. + +CHRIS. Please God you’ll not grieve at your choice. + +JULIA. That I never shall. Now call to Laura. Is she in the lane +outside? + +CHRIS. There, she be come to the gate now. + +[LAURA _comes in_, _followed by_ NAT _and_ TANSIE. + +JULIA. [_Pointing to a place on the ground_.] Laura, see, here is the +place from which your young carrots were pulled. + +LAURA. O look at the flowers, Julia—Lillies, pinks and red roses. + +JULIA. ’Tis a fine red rose that shall be gathered for you presently, +Laura. [JOHN _comes up_. + +JOHN. The master’s very nigh ready now, mistress. + +[SUSAN _follows him_. + +SUSAN. The mistress says, please to be seated till she do come. + +JOHN. [_To_ CHRIS _and_ NAT.] Now, my men, we don’t want the likes of +you in here. You had best get off afore Master William catches sight of +you. + +JULIA. No, John. These are my friends, and I wish them to hear all that +I have to say to your master. + +JOHN. Ah, ’tis in the grave as poor Master William will be landed soon +if you don’t have a care. + +LAURA. [_Anxiously_.] O is he so delicate as that, John? + +JOHN. Ah—and that he be. And these here love matters and courtings and +foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don’t give him but a week +longer if things do go on as they be now. + +[WILLIAM _and_ MRS. GARDNER _come in_. WILLIAM _looks nervously round +him_. MRS. GARDNER _perceives the gipsies_, _and_ SUSAN _talking to_ +NAT. + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan, get you to your place in the kitchen, as quick as +you can. John, put yon roadsters through the gate, if you please. +[_Turning to_ JULIA.] Now young Miss? + +JULIA. A very good evening to you, mistress. And let me make Chris +known to you for he and I are to be wed to-morrow. + +[_She takes_ CHRIS _by the hand and leads him forward_. + +MRS. GARDNER. What’s this? William, do you understand what the young +person is telling us? + +JULIA. [_Taking_ LAURA _with her other hand_.] And here is Laura to +whom I have given all my land and all my money. She is the mistress of +Luther’s now. + +JOHN. [_Aside to_ WILLIAM.] Now master, hearken to that. Can’t you +lift your spirits a bit. + +JULIA. [_To_ MRS. GARDNER.] And I beg you to accept her as a daughter. +She will make a better farmer’s wife than ever I shall. + +JOHN. [_In a loud whisper_.] Start courting, master. + +WILLIAM. O I dare not quite so sudden, John. + +MRS. GARDNER. [_Sitting down_.] It will take a few moments for me to +understand this situation. + +JULIA. There is no need for any hurry. We have all the evening before +us. + +JOHN. [_Hastily gathers a rosebud and puts it into_ WILLIAM’S _hand_.] +Give her a blossom, master. ’Tis an easy start off. + +WILLIAM. [_Coming forward shyly with the flower_.] Would you fancy a +rosebud, mistress? + +LAURA. O that I would, master. + +WILLIAM. Should you care to see—to see where the young celery is planted +out? + +LAURA. O, I’d dearly love to see the spot. + +WILLIAM. I’ll take you along to it then. [_He gives her his arm_, _very +awkwardly_, _and they move away_. + +MRS. GARDNER. [_Sitting down_.] Well—things have changed since I was +young. + +JOHN. [_Looking viciously at_ NAT _and_ SUSAN.] Ah, I counts they have, +mistress, and ’tis all for the worse. + +SUSAN. [_Comes forward timidly_.] And me and Nat are to be married too, +mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. I should have given you notice anyhow to-night, Susan, so +perhaps it’s just as well you have made sure of some sort of a roof to +your head. + +NAT. ’Twill be but the roof of th’ old cart, mistress; but I warrant as +her’ll sleep bravely under it, won’t you, Su. + +SUSAN. That I shall, dear Nat. + +TANSIE. Well, Master John, have you a fancy to come tenting along of we. + +JOHN. Upon my word, but I don’t know how ’tis with the young people +nowadays, they be so bold. + +JULIA. [_Who has been standing apart_, _her hand in that of_ CHRIS.] +New days, new ways, John. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, but ’tis hard to keep up with all these goings on, +and no mistake. + +JULIA. No need for you to try, John. If you are too old to run with us +you must abide still and watch us as we go. + +CHRIS. But there, you needn’t look downhearted, master, for I knows +someone as’ll give you a rare warm welcome if so be as you should change +your mind and take your chance in the open, same as we. + +TANSIE. You shall pay for that, Chris. + +JOHN. [_Stiffly_.] I hope as I’ve a properer sense of my duty nor many +others what I could name. + +MRS. GARDNER. Those are the first suitable words that have been spoken +in my hearing this afternoon. + +[WILLIAM, _with_ LAURA _on his arm_, _returns_. LAURA _carries a small +cucumber very lovingly_. + +LAURA. Julia, look! The first one of the season! O, isn’t it a +picture! + +JULIA. O Laura, ’tis a fine wedding gift to be sure. + +WILLIAM. [_Stepping up to_ JOHN.] John, my man, here’s a five pound +note to your pocket. I’d never have won this lady here if it hadn’t been +for you. + +JOHN. [_Taking the note_.] Don’t name it, dear master. ’Tis a long +courtship what has no ending to it, so I always says. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis one upset after another, but suppose you were to make +yourself useful for once, Susan, and bring out the tray with the cake and +glasses on it. + +JOHN. Ah, that’s it, and I’ll go along of she and help draw the cider. +Courtship be powerful drying work. + +LAURA. [_Looking into_ WILLIAM’S _eyes_.] O William, ’twas those Early +Snowballs that did first stir up my heart. + +WILLIAM. ’Twas John who thought of them. Why, John has more sensible +thoughts to the mind of him than any other man in the world—and when the +cider is brought, ’tis to John’s health we will all drink. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +PRINCESS ROYAL + + +CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY + + +ROSE, MARION, _village girls_. + +LADY MILLICENT. + +ALICE, _her maid_. + +LEAH, _an old gipsy_. + +SUSAN, _otherwise Princess Royal_, _her grand-daughter_. + +JOCKIE, _a little swine herd_. + +LADY CULLEN. + +_Her ladies in waiting_ (_or one lady only_). + +LORD CULLEN, _her only son_. + + * * * * * + +_As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in this Play_. + +_The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by girls_. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + +_A village green_. _Some girls with market baskets come on to it_, _each +one carrying a leaflet which she is earnestly reading_. + +_Gradually all the girls approach from different sides reading leaflets_. + +_Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is sitting—she +lights a pipe and begins to smoke as_ ROSE, _her basket full of market +produce_, _comes slowly forward reading her sheet of paper_. _She is +followed by_ MARION—_also reading_. + +ROSE. Well, ’tis like to be a fine set out, this May Day. + +MARION. I can make naught of it myself. + +ROSE. Why, ’tis Lord Cullen putting it about as how he be back from the +war and thinking of getting himself wed, like. + +MARION. I understands that much, I do. + +ROSE. Only he can’t find the maid what he’s lost his heart to. + +MARION. [_Reading_.] The wench what his lordship did see a-dancing all +by herself in the forest when he was hid one day all among the brambles, +a-rabbiting or sommat. + +ROSE. And when my lord would have spoke with her, the maid did turn and +fled away quick as a weasel. + +MARION. And his lordship off to the fighting when ’twas next morn. + +ROSE. So now, each maid of us in the village and all around be to dance +upon the green come May Day so that my lord may see who ’twas that +pleased his fancy. + +[SUSAN _comes up and stands quietly listening_. _She is bare foot and +her skirt is ragged_, _she wears a shawl over her shoulders and her hair +is rough and untidy_. _On her arm she carries a basket containing a few +vegetables and other marketings_. + +MARION. And when he do pitch upon the one, ’tis her as he will wed. + +ROSE. ’Twill be a thing to sharpen the claws of th’ old countess worse +nor ever—that marriage. + +MARION. Ah, I reckon as her be mortal angered with all the giddle-gaddle +this business have set up among the folk. + +ROSE. [_Regretfully_.] I’ve never danced among the trees myself. + +MARION. [_Sadly_.] Nor I, neither, Rose. + +ROSE. I’d dearly like to be a countess, Marion. + +MARION. His lordship might think I was the maid. I’m spry upon my feet +you know. + +[SUSAN _comes still nearer_. + +MARION. [_Turning to her and speaking rudely_.] Well, Princess Rags, +’tisn’t likely as ’twas you a-dancing one of your Morris dances in the +wood that day! + +ROSE. [_Mockingly_.] ’Tisn’t likely as his lordship would set his +thoughts on a wench what could caper about like a Morris man upon the +high road. So there. + +SUSAN. [_Indifferently_.] I never danced upon the high road, I dances +only where ’tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon me. No mortal eyes. + +MARION. [_Impudently_.] Get along with you, Princess Royal. Go off to +th’ old gipsy Gran’ma yonder. We don’t want the likes of you along of +us. + +ROSE. Go off and dance to your own animals, Miss Goatherd. All of us be +a-going to practise our steps against May Day. Come along girls. + +[_She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange themselves +for a Country Dance_. SUSAN _goes slowly towards her_ GRANDMOTHER _and +sits on the ground by her side_, _looking sadly and wistfully at the +dancers_. _At the end of the dance_, _the girls pick up their baskets +and go off in different directions across the green_. SUSAN _and her_ +GRANDMOTHER _remain in their places_. _The gipsy continues to smoke and_ +SUSAN _absently turns over the things in her basket_. + +SUSAN. They mock me in the name they have fixed to me—Princess Royal. + +GRANDMOTHER. Let them mock. I’ll bring the words back to them like +scorpions upon their tongues. + +[_There is a little silence and then_ SUSAN _begins to sing as though to +herself_. + +SUSAN. [_Singing_.] + + “As I walked out one May morning, + So early in the Spring; + I placed my back against the old garden gate, + And I heard my true love sing.” {1} + +GRANDMOTHER. [_At the end of the singing_.] It might be the blackcap +a-warbling all among of the branches. So it might. + +SUSAN. Ah, ’twas I that was a-dancing in the shade of the woods that +day. + +GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never look on the likes of you—that’s sure enough, my +little wench. + +SUSAN. I wish he was a goat-herd like myself—O that I do. + +GRANDMOTHER. Then there wouldn’t be no use in your wedding yourself with +him as I can see. + +SUSAN. ’Tis himself, not his riches that I want. + +GRANDMOTHER. You be speaking foolishness. What do you know of him—what +do us blind worms know about the stars above we? + +SUSAN. I see’d him pass by upon his horse one day. All there was of him +did shine like the sun upon the water—I was very near dazed by the +brightness. So I was. + +[_The_ GRANDMOTHER _continues to smoke in silence_. + +SUSAN. [_Softly_.] And ’twas then I lost the heart within me to him. + +[JOCKIE _runs up beating his tabor_. + +SUSAN. [_Springing up_.] Come, Jockie, I have a mind to dance a step or +two. [_Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands_.] Tears be for them +as have idle times and not for poor wenches what mind cattle and goats. +Come, play me my own music, Jock. And play it as I do like it best. + +[JOCKIE _begins to play the tune of_ “_Princess Royal_” _and_ SUSAN +_dances_. _Whilst_ SUSAN _is dancing_ LADY MILLICENT _and her waiting +maid come slowly by and stand watching_. SUSAN _suddenly perceives them +and throws herself on the ground_. JOCKIE _stops playing_. + +LADY MILLICENT. [_Fanning herself_.] A wondrous bold dance, upon my +word—could it have been that which captivated my lord, Alice? + +ALICE. O no, mistress. His lordship has no fancy for boldness in a +maid. + +LADY MILLICENT. Immodest too. A Morris dance. The girl should hide her +face in shame. + +ALICE. And there she is, looking at your ladyship with her gipsy eyes, +bold as a brass farthing. + +SUSAN. [_Starting up and speaking passionately_.] I’ll not be taunted +for my dancing—I likes to dance wild, and leap with my body when my +spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies and move in the +air same as the birds do move when ’tis mating time. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, ’tis so with she. She baint no tame mouse what creeps +from its hole along of t’others and who do go shuffle shuffle, in and out +of the ring, mild as milk and naught in the innards of they but the +squeak. + +SUSAN. [_Defiantly_.] ’Twas my dance gained his lordship’s praise—so +there, fine madam. + +LADY MILLICENT. Your dance? Who are you then? + +ALICE. A gipsy wench, mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for one of +they great farms. + +GRANDMOTHER. Have a care for that tongue of yours, madam waiting maid. +For I know how to lay sommat upon it what you won’t fancy. + +LADY MILLICENT. [_Coming up to_ SUSAN _and laying her hand on her arm_.] +Now tell me your name, my girl. + +SUSAN. They call me Princess Royal. + +LADY MILLICENT. O that must be in jest. Why, you are clothed in rags, +poor thing. + +SUSAN. [_Shaking herself free_.] I’d sooner wear my own rags nor the +laces which you have got upon you. + +LADY MILLICENT. Now why do you say such a thing? + +SUSAN. ’Twas in these rags as I danced in the wood that day, and ’tis by +these rags as my lord will know me once more. + +LADY MILLICENT. Listen, I will cover you in silk and laces, Princess +Royal. + +ALICE. Susan is the maid’s name. + +SUSAN. I don’t want none of your laces or silks. + +LADY MILLICENT. And feed you with poultry and cream and sweetmeats. + +SUSAN. I want naught but my crust of bread. + +LADY MILLICENT. I’ll fill your hands with gold pieces. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Sue? + +SUSAN. [_Doggedly_.] I hear her well enough, Gran. + +LADY MILLICENT. If you’ll teach me your dance against May Day. Then, +I’ll clothe myself much after your fashion and dance upon the green with +the rest. + +SUSAN. I’ll not learn you my dance. Not for all the gold in the world. +You shan’t go and take the only thing I have away from me. + +LADY MILLICENT. [_Angrily_.] Neither shall a little gipsy wretch like +you take my love from me. We were as good as promised to each other at +our christening. + +ALICE. Don’t put yourself out for the baggage, madam. His lordship +would never look on her. + +GRANDMOTHER. Gold, did you say, mistress? + +LADY MILLICENT. Gold? O yes—an apron full of gold, and silver too. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Susan? + +SUSAN. [_Doggedly_.] I’ll not do it for a King’s ransom. + +GRANDMOTHER. You will. You’ll do it for the sake of poor old Gran, +what’s been father and mother to you—and what’s gone hungered and thirsty +so that you might have bread and drink. + +SUSAN. [_Distractedly_.] O I can never give him up. + +GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never be yourn to give—Dance till your legs is off +and he’ll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when ’tis all finished. + +ALICE. Whilst my lady belongs to his lordship’s own class, ’tis but +suitable as she should be the one to wed with him—knowing the foreign +tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. There’s a +lady anyone would be proud to take before the Court in London. + +[SUSAN _turns away with a movement of despair_. _The_ GRANDMOTHER +_begins to smoke again_. LADY MILLICENT _fans herself and_ ALICE +_arranges her own shawl_. + +GRANDMOTHER. I could do with a little pig up at our place if I’d the +silver to take into the market for to buy him with. [_A silence_. + +GRANDMOTHER. And I could do with a pair of good shoes to my poor old +feet come winter time when ’tis snowing. [_Another silence_. + +GRANDMOTHER. And ’twould be good not to go to bed with the pain of +hunger within my lean old body—so ’twould. [SUSAN _turns round +suddenly_. + +SUSAN. I’ll do it, Gran. I’ll do it for your sake. ’Tis very likely +true what you do say, all of you. I’d but dance my feet off for naught. +When he came to look into my gipsy eyes, ’twould all be over and done +with. + +LADY MILLICENT. Sensible girl. + +ALICE. ’Tis time she should see which way her bread was spread. + +SUSAN. Come, Jockie, come ladies—come Gran—we’ll be off to the quiet of +our own place where I can learn her ladyship the steps and capers. + +GRANDMOTHER. [_Rising and pointing to an advancing figure_.] You’d best +make haste. The mice be a-running from their holes once more—t’wouldn’t +do for they to know aught about this. + +SUSAN. Let us go quickly then. + +[_The_ GRANDMOTHER, SUSAN, LADY MILLICENT _with_ ALICE _and_ JOCKIE _go +out as a crowd of village girls come on to the green_, _and laughing and +talking together_, _arrange themselves to practise a Country Dance_. + + _End of Act I_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on the green_. _A +dais has been put up at one end of it_. + +MARION. How slow the time do pass, this May Day. + +ROSE. Let’s while it away with a song or two. + +[_They all join in singing_. _At the end of the song the gipsy comes +slowly and painfully across the green_, _casting black looks to right and +to left_. _She is followed by_ SUSAN, _who appears weighed down by +sadness_. + +ROSE. Good afternoon, Princess Royal Rags. Are we to see you cutting +capers before his lordship this afternoon? + +MARION. Get along and hide your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. I’d +be ashamed to go without shoes if ’twas me. + +SUSAN. O leave me alone—you be worse nor a nest of waspes—that you be. + +GRANDMOTHER. [_Turning fiercely round_.] Us’ll smoke them out of their +holes one day—see if us do not. + +[_They pass over to the tree where the_ GRANDMOTHER _sits down and_ SUSAN +_crouches by her side_. _Presently they are joined by_ JOCKIE. _The +girls sing a verse or two of another song_, _and during this_ LADY +MILLICENT, _enveloped in a big cloak_, _goes over to the tree_, _followed +by_ ALICE, _also wearing a long cloak and they sit down by the side of_ +SUSAN. + +MARION. [_Pointing_.] Who are those yonder, Rose? + +ROSE. I’m sure I don’t know, Marion—strangers, may be. + +MARION. O my heart goes wild this afternoon. + +ROSE. Mine too. Look, there they come. + +[_The Music begins to play and old_ LADY CULLEN, _followed by her lady +companions_, _comes slowly towards the dais_, _on which she seats +herself_. + +LADY CULLEN. Dear me, what a gathering to be sure. + +HER LADY. Indeed it is an unusual sight. + +LADY CULLEN. And O what a sad infatuation on the part of my poor boy. + +HER LADY. The war has been known to turn many a brain. + +LADY CULLEN. And yet my son holds his own with the brightest +intelligences of the day. + +HER LADY. Only one little spot of his lordship’s brain seems to be +affected. + +LADY CULLEN. Just so. But here he comes, poor misguided youth. + +[LORD CULLEN _comes slowly over the green_, _looking to right and to +left_. _He mounts the dais and sits down by his mother_, _and the music +plays for a country dance_. “_The Twenty Ninth of May_.” _The girls +arrange themselves_, _and during the dance_ LORD CULLEN _scans each face +very eagerly_. _The dance ends and the girls pass in single file before +the dais_. + +LORD CULLEN. No, no—that was not the music of it, that was not the +dance—not a face among them resembles the image I carry in my heart. + +LADY CULLEN. [_Aside_.] Thank goodness. May that face never be seen +again. + +[_A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and danced_. + +LORD CULLEN. [_At the end of it_.] Worse and worse. Could I have +dreamed both the music and the dance and the dancer? + +LADY CULLEN. [_Soothingly_.] I am sure this was the case, my dear son. + +LORD CULLEN. [_Rallying_.] I heard her voice singing in the forest +before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest voice and song I +ever heard. [_Looking around_.] Can any of these maid, sing to me, I +wonder? + +MARION. [_Steps forward_.] I only know one song, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN _signs to her to sing_, _and she stands before the dais and +sings a verse of_ “_Bedlam_.” + +LORD CULLEN. [_Impatiently_.] No, no—that is not in the least what I +remember. [_Turning to_ ROSE.] You try now. + +ROSE. I don’t sing, my lord—but—[_Indicating another girl in the group_] +she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful lot of songs. + +[_A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of_ “_The Lark in +the Morn_.” + +LORD CULLEN. Not that. Mine was a song to stir the depths of a man’s +heart and bring tears up from the fountains of it. + +[_He leans back in deep dejection—and at this moment_ LADY MILLICENT +_and_ ALICE _come forward_. + +LORD CULLEN. [_Eagerly_.] I seem to know that russet skirt—those bare, +small feet. [_Standing up quickly_.] Mother, look at that maid with the +red kerchief on her head. + +LADY CULLEN. Some sort of a gipsy dress, to all appearance. + +LORD CULLEN. [_Doubtfully_.] The skirt she wore was torn and +ragged—that day in the forest. She had no gold rings to her ears, nor +silken scarf upon her head—But this might be her dress for holidays. + +[JOCKIE _advances and begins to play the tune of_ “_Princess Royal_.” + +LORD CULLEN. [_Eagerly_.] That is the right music—O is it possible my +quest is ended! + +[LADY MILLICENT _and_ ALICE, _standing opposite one to another begin to +dance—slowly and clumsily_, _and in evident doubt as to their steps_. +LORD CULLEN _watches them for a moment and then claps his hands angrily +as a sign for the music to stop_. _The dancers pause_. + +LORD CULLEN. This is a sad mimicry of my beautiful love. But there lies +something behind the masquerade which I shall probe. + +[_He leaves the dais and goes straight towards_ LADY MILLICENT, _who +turns from him in confusion_. + +LORD CULLEN. From whom did you take the manner and the colour of your +garments, my maid? + +[LADY MILLICENT _remains obstinately silent_. + +LORD CULLEN. [_To_ ALICE.] Perhaps you have a tongue in your head. +From whom did you try to learn those steps? + +[ALICE _turns sulkily away_. JOCKIE _comes forward_. + +JOCKIE. I’ll tell your lordship all about it, and I’ll take your +lordship straight to the right wench, that I will, if so be as your +lordship will give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what goes empty +and hungered most of the year round. + +LORD CULLEN. A handful of gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly. + +[JOCKIE _leads the way to the tree where_ SUSAN _is sitting_. _She +stands up as_ LORD CULLEN _approaches_, _and for a moment they gaze at +one another in silence_. + +GRANDMOTHER. You might curtsey to the gentleman, Susan. + +LORD CULLEN. No—there’s no need of that, from her to me. [_Turning to_ +JOCKIE _and putting his hand in his pocket_.] Here, my boy, is a golden +pound for you—and more shall follow later. + +[_He then takes_ SUSAN’S _hand and leads her to the foot of the dais_. + +LORD CULLEN. Will you dance for me again, Susan? + +SEVERAL OF THE GIRLS. [_Mockingly_.] Princess Royal is her name. + +MARION. [_Rudely_.] Or Princess Rags. + +SUSAN. ’Tis all took out of my hands now, I can but do as your lordship +says. Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely too. + +[JOCKIE _places himself near her and begins to play_. SUSAN _dances by +herself_. _At the end of her dance_ LORD CULLEN _leads the applause_, +_and even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it_. _He then takes_ +SUSAN _by the hand and mounts the dais with her and presents her to his +mother_. + +LADY CULLEN. [_Aside_, _to her companion_.] I wonder if the young +person understands that my poor boy is a little touched in the brain? + +LORD CULLEN. Here is your daughter, mother. + +[LADY CULLEN _and_ SUSAN _look at one another in silence_. _After a +moment_ SUSAN _turns to_ LORD CULLEN. + +SUSAN. I’m a poor ragged thing to be daughter to the likes of she. But +the heart within of me is grander nor that of any queen, because of the +love that it holds for you, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN _takes her hand and leads her to the front of the dais_. + +LORD CULLEN. We will be married to-morrow, my princess. And all these +good people shall dance at our wedding. + +MARION. [_Springing up_.] And we’ll do a bit of dancing now as well. +Come, Jockie, give us the tune of “Haste to the Wedding.” + +ROSE. That’s it. Come girls— + +LADY MILLICENT. [_To_ ALICE.] I pray he won’t find out about me. + +[_The old_ GRANDMOTHER _has come slowly towards the middle of the green_. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, and my little wench will know how to pay back some of +the vipers tongues which slandered her, when she sits on her velvet chair +as a countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck and the rubies +a-crowning of her head. Her’ll not forget the snakes what did lie in the +grass. Her’ll have her heel upon they, so that their heads be put low +and there shan’t go no more venom from their great jaws to harm she, my +pretty lamb—my little turtle. + +[_The music begins to play and all those on the green form themselves for +the dance_. LORD CULLEN _and_ SUSAN _stand side by side in front of the +dais_, _and the_ GRANDMOTHER _lights a pipe and smokes it as she watches +the dance from below_. _At the end of the dance_ LORD CULLEN, _leading_ +SUSAN, _comes down from the dais and_, _followed by_ LADY CULLEN _and her +ladies_, _passes between two lines of girls and so off the stage_. _The +girls follow in procession_, _and lastly the_ GRANDMOTHER _preceded by_ +JOCKIE, _beating his drum_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +THE SEEDS OF LOVE + + +CHARACTERS + + +JOHN DANIEL, _aged_ 30, _a Miller_. + +ROSE-ANNA _his sister_. + +KITTY, _aged_ 16, _his sister_. + +ROBERT PEARCE, _aged_ 26. + +LIZ, JANE _elderly cousins of Robert_. + +JEREMY, _John’s servant—of middle age_. + +MARY MEADOWS, _aged_ 24, _a Herbalist_. + +LUBIN. + +ISABEL. + + _The time is Midsummer_. + + + +ACT I + + +_A woodland road outside_ MARY’S _cottage_. _There are rough seats in +the porch and in front of the window_. _Bunches of leaves and herbs hang +drying around door and window_. MARY _is heard singing within_. + +MARY. [_Singing_.] + + I sowed the seeds of Love, + And I sowed them in the Spring. + I gathered them up in the morning so soon. + While the sweet birds so sweetly sing, + While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {2} + +[MARY _comes out of the cottage_, _a bundle of enchanter’s nightshade in +her arms_. _She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes indoors_. + +MARY. [_Singing_.] + + The violet I did not like, + Because it bloomed so soon; + The lily and the pink I really over think, + So I vowed I would wait till June, + So I vowed I would wait till June. + +[_During the singing_ LUBIN _comes slowly and heavily along the road_. +_He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his +shoulder_. _In front of the cottage he pauses_, _looks round +doubtfully_, _and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath +the window_. + +MARY. [_Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing_.] + + “For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot, + Give it time, it will rise up again.” + +LUBIN. [_Looking up gloomily_.] And that it won’t, mistress. + +MARY. [_Suddenly perceiving him and coming out_.] O you are fair spent +from journeying. Can I do anything for you, master? + +LUBIN. [_Gazing at her fixedly_.] You speak kindly for a stranger, but +’tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me. + +MARY. [_Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the house_.] +See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There’s medicine for +every sort of sickness there, sir. + +LUBIN. There’s not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that +could cure the sickness I have within me. + +MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master. + +LUBIN. So ’tis. ’Tis love. + +MARY. Love? + +LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when +riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to another. + +[ISABEL _has been slowly approaching_, _she wears a cotton handkerchief +over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm_. +_Her movements are languid and sad_. + +MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love. + +ISABEL. [_Coming forward and speaking earnestly_.] O tell me of them +quickly, mistress. + +MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint? + +ISABEL. [_Sinking down on the grass at_ MARY’S _feet_.] So bruised and +wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well have +been a hundred miles or more. + +LUBIN. Framilode? ’Tis there you come from? + +ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. Do +you know the place, master? + +LUBIN. [_In deep gloom_.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too. + +MARY. [_Leaning forward and clasping her hands_.] Him as is there +to-day, or him who was? + +LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year +ago. + +[ISABEL _covers her face and is shaken by sobs_. LUBIN _leans his elbow +on his knee_, _shading his eyes with his hand_. + +MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be given +us for that. + +ISABEL. [_Looking up_.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. ’Tis +like when a quist do sing, as you speaks. + +MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. ’Twill be strange if I do +not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you. + +LUBIN. ’Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred. + +MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder? + +LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I—we courted and was like to +marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She would not take +a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what you do see me +now—just a day labourer. + +ISABEL. Mine, ’tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man and +me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a powerful +rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. ’Twas he that +’ticed my lover off to foreign parts. + +LUBIN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] These things are almost more than I can +bear. + +ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then ’twas seldom +like. Then ’twas never. And then there comed a day—[_She is interrupted +by her weeping_. + +MARY. Try to get out your story—you can let the tears run afterwards if +you have a mind. + +ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. He +brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff with +money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about to wed. + +LUBIN. Did he name the maid? + +ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel’s mill up yonder. + +LUBIN. Rose-Anna—She with whom I was to have gone to church. + +MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose. + +ISABEL. O ’twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the +riverside, him and me. + +LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday +afternoon. + +[_A pause during which_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _seem lost in their own sad +memories_. MARY _gets up softly and goes within the cottage_. + +ISABEL. And when I heared as ’twas to-morrow they were to wed, though +’twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me +upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day just for +one look upon his face again. + +LUBIN. ’Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt +myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so +cruel false into mine. + +ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him ’twould do no good—poor +wench of a serving maid like me. + +LUBIN. [_Looking down at himself_.] She’d spurn me from the door were I +to stand there knocking—in the coat I have upon me now. No—let her go +her way and wed her fancy man. + +[LUBIN _shades his eyes with one hand_. ISABEL _bows her head on her +knees weeping_. MARY _comes out of the house carrying two glass bowls of +water_. + +MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh +water from the spring will revive you from your travelling. + +LUBIN. [_Looking up_.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, +mistress. + +ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die. + +[MARY _giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink slowly_. + +MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by for another. A +man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but ’tis the scarlet rose +as takes his fancy come to-morrow. + +ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress? + +MARY. [_Slowly_.] After many years. + +LUBIN. And could you wed you to another? + +MARY. [_Still more slowly_.] Give the grass that has been trampled +underfoot a bit of time, ’twill rise again. There’s healing all around +of us for every ill, did we but know it. + +LUBIN. I’d give sommat to know where ’tis then. + +MARY. There isn’t a herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to them +that are in pain. + +ISABEL. Give me a bloom that’ll put me to sleep for always, mistress. + +MARY. There’s evil plants as well, but ’tisn’t a many. There’s hen bane +which do kill the fowls and fishes if they eat the seed of it. And +there’s water hemlock which lays dumbness upon man. + +LUBIN. I’ve heard them tell of that, I have. + +MARY. And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the +feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon the +door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house. + +LUBIN. And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon the +heart, mistress? + +ISABEL. [_Speaking in anguish_.] Aught that can turn our faithless +lovers back again to we? + +MARY. That I have. See these small packages—you that love Robert, take +you this—and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your hand. + +[_She puts a small paper packet into the hands of each_. + +LUBIN. [_Looking uncertainly at his packet_.] What’ll this do for me, +I’d like to know? + +MARY. ’Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, and +another seed as well. You put it in her glass of water—and the love +comes back to you afore next sun-rise. + +ISABEL. And will it be the same with I? + +MARY. You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. To-morrow +at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall do what +you will with it. + +ISABEL. O I can’t believe in this. ’Tis too good to be true, and that +it be—A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little wretch like me! + +LUBIN. [_Slowly_.] ’Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like +us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was when I +did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as one of +theirselves. But now! Why, they’d take and hound me away from the door. + +ISABEL. And me too. + +MARY. [_Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from the bunch +drying_.] That’ll bring luck, may be. + +[ISABEL _takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet in +her bundle_. LUBIN _puts his packet away also_. _Whilst they are doing +this_, MARY _strolls a little way on the road_. + +MARY. [_Returning_.] The man from Daniels be coming along. + +LUBIN. [_Hastily_.] What, old Andrews? + +MARY. No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have the +patience to keep in with him. + +LUBIN. How’s that? + +MARY. So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer at the +cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, and that’s +why master do put up with him. + +[JEREMY _comes heavily towards them_, _a straw in his mouth_. _His hat +is pushed to the back of his head_. _His expression is still and +impassive_. _He comes straight towards_ MARY, _then halts_. + +MARY. Come, Jeremy, I reckon ’tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram you be +come here this morning? + +JEREMY. [_Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and pointing +to them_.] Who be they? + +MARY. Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest. + +[JEREMY _continues to look them all over in silence_. + +MARY. How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Powerful bad. + +MARY. O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened? + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _lean forward_, _listening eagerly_. + +JEREMY. ’Tis a pretty caddle, that’s all. + +MARY. The mistress isn’t took ill? or Miss Kitty? + +JEREMY. I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn’t be none of this +here marrying to-morrow. + +MARY. What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry? + +JEREMY. One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on. + +MARY. ’Tis three you’ve got up there. + +JEREMY. There you’re mistook. Th’ idle wench and the lad be both +away—off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of they. I +be left with all upon me like, and ’tis too much. + +MARY. What shall you do, Jerry? + +JEREMY. I’ll be blowed if I’m agoin’ to do anything. There. + +MARY. But you’ll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set the +table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses and +all, Jerry—seeing as you’re the only one. + +JEREMY. I’ll not. I’m not one as steps beyond my own work, and master +do know it too. + +MARY. Then how are they going to manage? + +JEREMY. I’m out to find them as’ll manage for them. [_Turning sharply +to_ LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young man? + +LUBIN. I—I count as I’ve nothing particular in view. + +JEREMY. [_Turning to_ ISABEL.] And you, wench? + +ISABEL. [_Faintly_.] I’ve gone from the place where I was servant. + +JEREMY. Then you’ll come along of me—the both of you. + +ISABEL. [_Shrinking_.] O no—I couldn’t go among—among strangers. + +JEREMY. I never takes no count of a female’s vapours. You’ll come along +of me. You’ll curl the mistress’s hair and lace her gown and keep her +tongue quiet—and you [_turning to_ LUBIN] my man, will set the tables and +wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town this dinner-time. + +LUBIN. [_Angrily_.] I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and +I’ll not start now. + +JEREMY. You will. I’m not agoin’ a half mile further this warm morning. +Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you. + +MARY. [_Looking fixedly at_ ISABEL.] This is a chance for you, my dear. +You’ll not find a better. + +JEREMY. Better? I count as you’ll not better this’n. Good money for +your pains—victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can drink on +a summer’s day. I count you’ll not better that. + +LUBIN. [_As though to himself_.] I could not go. + +JEREMY. Some cattle want a lot of driving. + +ISABEL. [_Timidly to_ LUBIN.] If I go, could not you try and come along +with me, master? + +LUBIN. You’ll never have the heart to go through with it. + +JEREMY. ’Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. Don’t you go +and put fancies into the head of her. + +ISABEL. [_To_ LUBIN.] I’ll go if so be as you’ll come along of me too. + +[LUBIN _bends his head and remains thinking deeply_. + +JEREMY. ’Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches—I’ll get me a +drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you’ll be ready time I’ve +finished. + +MARY. I’ll see that you’re not kept waiting, Jeremy. + +JEREMY. [_Turning back after he has started_.] What be they called, +Mary? + +[MARY _looks doubtfully towards_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. + +ISABEL. My name—they calls me Isabel. + +JEREMY. [_Turning to_ LUBIN.] And yourn? + +LUBIN. [_In confusion_.] I don’t rightly recollect. + +JEREMY. [_Impassively_.] ’Tis of no account, us’ll call you William +like the last one. + +ISABEL. O, and couldn’t I be called like the last one too? + +JEREMY. Then us’ll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and +doubtless you’ll not prove much worser. + +[_He goes away_. + +MARY. This is your chance. A good chance too— + +LUBIN. They’ll know the both of us. Love isn’t never quite so dead but +what a sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring some +breath to it again. + +ISABEL. You’re right there, master—sommat’ll stir in the hearts of them +when they sees we—and ’tis from the door as us’ll be chased for masking +on them like this. + +MARY. But not before the seeds of love have done their work. Come, +Isabel; come, Lubin—I will so dress you that you shall not be recognised. + +[MARY _goes indoors_. ISABEL _slowly rises and takes up her bundle_. +LUBIN _remains seated_, _looking gloomily before him_. + +ISABEL. Come, think what ’twill feel to be along of our dear loves and +look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of their voices once +again. + +LUBIN. That’s what I am a-thinking of. ’Twill be hot iron drove right +into the heart all the while. Ah, that’s about it. + +ISABEL. I’ll gladly bear the pain. + +LUBIN. [_After a pause_.] Then so will I. We’ll go. + +[_He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows her +into the cottage_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_The living room at Daniel’s Mill_. _In the window_ ROSE-ANNA _is seated +awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown_. KITTY _is +moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in disorder +about the room and_ JOHN _stands with his back to the grate gravely +surveying them_. + +ROSE. [_Petulantly_.] Whatever shall we do, John! Me not dressed, +everything no how, and them expected in less nor a half hour’s time? + +KITTY. There! I’ve finished a-dusting the chairs. Now I’ll set them in +their places. + +ROSE. No one is thinking of me! Who’s going to help me on with my gown +and curl my hair like Robert was used to seeing me wear it at Aunt’s? + +KITTY. Did you have it different down at Bristol, Rose? + +ROSE. Of course I did. ’Twouldn’t do to be countrified in the town. + +JOHN. Your hair’s well enough like that. ’Tisn’t of hair as anyone’ll +be thinking when they comes in, but of victuals. And how we’re a-going +to get the table and all fixed up in so short a time do fairly puzzle me. + +KITTY. I’ll do the table. + +ROSE. No. You’ve got to help me with my gown. O that was a +good-for-nothing baggage, leaving us in the lurch! + +JOHN. Well, I’ve done my best to get us out of the fix. + +ROSE. And what would that be, pray? + +KITTY. Why John, you’ve done nothing but stand with your back to the +grate this last hour. + +JOHN. I’ve sent off Jerry. + +ROSE. [_Scornfully_.] Much good that’ll do. + +KITTY. We know just how far Jerry will have gone. + +JOHN. I told him not to shew hisself unless he could bring a couple of +servants back along with him. + +ROSE. [_Angrily_.] You’re more foolish than I took you to be, John. +Get you off at once and fetch Jerry from his cider at the Red Bull. He’s +not much of a hand about the house, but he’s better than no one. + +JOHN. [_Sighing heavily_.] Jeremy’s not the man to start his drinking +so early in the day. + +ROSE. I’ve caught him at the cask soon after dawn. + +KITTY. And so have I, John. How you put up with his independent ways I +don’t know. + +JOHN. Ah, ’tisn’t everyone as has such a powerful strong head as +Jerry’s. He’s one that can be trusted to take his fill, and none the +worse with him afterwards. + +[_A knock at the door_, _which is pushed open by_ JEREMY. + +JEREMY. [_From the doorway_.] Well, Master John—well, mistress? + +ROSE. [_Sharply_.] Master was just starting out for to fetch you home, +Jerry. + +JEREMY. [_Ignoring her_.] Well, master, I’ve brought a couple back +along of me. + +ROSE. Ducklings or chickens? + +JEREMY. I’ve gotten them too. + +KITTY. Do you mean that you’ve found some servants for us, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Two outside. Female and male. + +JOHN. Didn’t I tell you so! There’s naught that Jerry cannot do. +You’ll have a drink for this, my man + +ROSE. You may take my word he’s had that already, John. + +JEREMY. I have, mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the poultry in +my basket. Down at the Bull. + +ROSE. What sort of a maid is it? + +JEREMY. Ah, ’tis for you to tell me that, mistress, when you’ve had her +along of you a bit. + +ROSE. And the man? + +JEREMY. Much the same as any other male. + +ROSE. [_Impatiently_.] Do you step outside, John, and have a look at +them, and if they’re suitable bring them in and we’ll set them about +their work. + +[JOHN _goes out_. KITTY _peers through the window_. + +JEREMY. I reckon I can go off and feed the hilts now. ’Tis the time. + +ROSE. Feed the hilts! Indeed you can’t do no such thing. O I’m mad +with vexation that nothing is well ordered or suitably prepared for Mr. +Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol town. Whatever will they say to +such a house when they do see it? + +JEREMY. I’m sure I don’t know. + +KITTY. [_From the window_.] I see the new servants. John is bringing +them up the walk. The man’s face is hid by his broad hat, but the girl +looks neat enough in her cotton gown and sun-bonnet. + +[JOHN _comes into the room_, _followed by_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. LUBIN +_shuffles off his hat_, _but holds it between his face and the people in +the room_. + +JEREMY. [_Pointing to them and speaking to_ ROSE.] There you are, +mistress—man-servant and maid. + +ROSE. What do we know about them? Folk picked up by Jerry at the Red +Bull. + +JEREMY. No, from the roadside. + +ROSE. Worser far. + +JOHN. No, no, Rose. These young persons were spoken for by Mary +Meadows. And ’tis rare fortunate for we to obtain their services at +short notice like this. + +ROSE. [_To_ ISABEL.] What are you called, my girl? + +ISABEL. [_Faintly_.] Isabel is my name, but I’d sooner you called me +Lucy. + +ROSE. And that I will. My tongue is used to Lucy. The other is a +flighty, fanciful name for a servant. + +KITTY. And what is the man called, John? + +LUBIN. [_Harshly_.] I am called William. + +KITTY. William and Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this morning. + +ROSE. O do not let us waste any more time! Jerry, do you take the man +and shew him his work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come to me and help +me with my gown and my hair dressing. We have not a minute to lose. + +KITTY. They may be upon us any time now. I’ll go out and gather the +flowers for the parlour, since you don’t want me any more within, Rose. + +JOHN. And I’ll get and finish Jeremy’s work in the yard. ’Tis upside +down and round about and no how to-day. But we’ll come out of it some +time afore next year I reckon. + +JEREMY. Don’t you ever go for to get married, master. There could never +come a worser caddle into a man’s days nor matrimony, I count. + +[JOHN, _on his way to the door_, _pauses—as though momentarily lost in +thought_. + +JOHN. Was Mary Meadows asked to drop in at any time to-day, Rose? + +ROSE. [_Who is taking up her gown and ribbons to show to_ ISABEL, _and +speaking crossly_.] I’m sure I don’t know, nor care. I’ve enough to +think about as ’tis. + +KITTY. [_Taking_ JOHN’S _arm playfully_.] You’re terribly took up with +Mary Meadows, John. + +JOHN. There isn’t many like her, Kitty. She do rear herself above +t’others as—as a good wheat stalk from out the rubbish. + +[JOHN _and_ KITTY _go slowly out_. + +JEREMY. [_As though to himself_.] I sees as how I shall have to keep an +eye on master—[_turning to_ LUBIN _and signing to him_.] But come, my +man, us has no time for romance, ’tis dish washing as lies afore you now. + +[LUBIN _jerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture_. _Then +he seems to remember himself and follows_ JEREMY _humbly from the room_. +ROSE _takes up some ribbons and laces_. + +ROSE. [_To_ ISABEL, _who is standing near_.] Now, Lucy, we must look +sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from Bristol town will soon be here. +I have not met with the cousins yet, but I’ve been told as they’re very +fine ladies—They stood in place of parents to my Robert, you know. ’Tis +unfortunate we should be in such a sad muddle the day they come. + +ISABEL. When I have helped you into your gown, mistress, I shall soon +have the dinner spread and all in order. I be used to such work, and I’m +considered spry upon my feet. + +ROSE. ’Tis more serious that you should be able to curl my hair in the +way that Mr. Robert likes. + +ISABEL. [_Sadly_.] I don’t doubt but that I shall be able to do that +too, mistress. + +ROSE. Very well. Take the gown and come with me up to my room. + +[_They go out together_, ISABEL _carrying the gown_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + +_The same room_. _The table is laid for dinner and_ ISABEL _is putting +flowers upon it_. LUBIN _wearing his hat_, _enters with large jugs of +cider_, _which he sets upon a side table_. + +ISABEL. [_Looking up from her work_.] Shall us ever have the heart to +go on with it, Master Lubin? + +LUBIN. [_Bitterly_.] Do not you “Master” me, Isabel. I’m only a common +servant in the house where once I was lover and almost brother. + +ISABEL. [_Coming up to him_.] O do not take it so hard, Lubin—Us can do +naught at this pass but trust what the young woman did tell me. + +LUBIN. [_Gloomily_.] The sight of Rose has stirred up my love so +powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back from my eyes. + +ISABEL. [_Pressing her eyes with her apron_.] What’ll it be for me when +Robert comes in? + +LUBIN. We’ll have to help one another, Isabel, in the plight where we +stand. + +ISABEL. That’s it. And perchance as them seeds’ll do the rest. + +[_They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is heard outside_. + +KITTY. [_Runs in_.] They’ve come. All of them. And do you know that +Robert’s cousins are no fine ladies at all, as he said, but just two +common old women dressed grand-like. + +ISABEL. That will be a sad shock to poor mistress. + +KITTY. O, she is too much taken up with Mister Robert to notice yet. +But quick! They are all sharp set from the drive. Fetch in the dishes, +William and Lucy. + +ISABEL. All shall be ready in a moment, Miss Kitty. + +[_She goes hurriedly out followed by_ LUBIN. KITTY _glances round the +room and then stands at the side of the front door_. JOHN, _giving an +arm to each of_ ROBERT’S _cousins_, _enters_. _The cousins are dressed +in coloured flowered dresses_, _and wear bonnets that are heavy with +bright plumes_. _They look cumbered and ill at ease in their clothes_, +_and carry their sunshades and gloves awkwardly_. + +LIZ. [_Looking round her_.] Very comfortable, I’m sure. But I count as +that there old-fashioned grate do take a rare bit of elbow grease. + +JANE. Very pleasant indeed. But I didn’t reckon as the room would be +quite the shape as ’tis. + +LIZ. Come to that, I didn’t expect the house to look as it do. + +JANE. Very ancient in appearance, I’m sure. + +JOHN. Ah, the house has done well enough for me and my father and +grandfather afore me. + +[ROSE, _very grandly dressed_, _comes in hanging on_ ROBERT’S _arm_. +ROBERT _is clothed in the fashion of the town_. + +ROSE. Please to remove your bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please to remove yours, +Miss Jane. + +JOHN. [_Heartily_.] Ah, that’s so—’Twill be more homely like for +eating. + +ROSE. There’s a glass upon the wall. + +LIZ. I prefer to remain as I be. + +JANE. Sister and me have our caps packed up in the tin box. + +KITTY. [_Bringing the tin box from the doorway_.] Shall I take you +upstairs to change? Dinner’s not quite ready yet. + +LIZ. That will suit us best, I’m sure. Come, sister. + +[KITTY _leads the way out_, _followed by both sisters_. + +JOHN. I’ll just step outside and see that Jerry’s tending to the horse. + +[_He hurries out_, _and_ ROBERT _is left alone with_ ROSE. + +ROSE. [_Coming towards him and holding out her hands_.] O, Robert, is +it the same between us as it was last time? + +ROBERT. [_Looking at her critically_.] You’ve got your hair different +or something. + +ROSE. [_Putting her hand to her head_.] The new maid. A stupid country +wench. + +ROBERT. You’ve got my meaning wrong. ’Tis that I’ve never seen you look +so well before. + +ROSE. O dear Robert! + +ROBERT. You’ve got my fancy more than ever, Rose. + +ROSE. O, I’m so happy to be going off with you to-morrow, and I love it +down at Bristol. Robert, I’m tired and sick of country life. + +ROBERT. We’ll make a grand fine lady of you there, Rose. + +ROSE. [_A little sharply_.] Am I not one in looks already, Robert? + +ROBERT. You’re what I do dote upon. I can’t say no more. + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _enter carrying dishes_, _which they set upon the +table_. ROBERT _and_ ROSE _turn their backs to them and look out into +the garden_. _The staircase door is opened_, _and_ LIZ, JANE _and_ KITTY +_come into the room_. LIZ _and_ JANE _are wearing gaudy caps trimmed +with violet and green ribbons_. + +ROSE. We’ll sit down, now. John won’t be a moment before he’s here. + +[_She sits down at one end of the table and signs to_ ROBERT _to place +himself next to her_. _The sisters and_ KITTY _seat themselves_. JOHN +_comes hurriedly in_. + +JOHN. That’s right. Everyone in their places? But no cover laid for +Mary? + +ROSE. [_Carelessly_.] We can soon have one put, should she take it into +her head to drop in. + +JOHN. That’s it. Now ladies, now Robert—’tis thirsty work a-driving +upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We’ll lead off with a drink of +home-made cider. The eating’ll come sweeter afterwards. + +ROBERT. That’s it, Miller. + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _come forward and take the cider mugs from each place +to the side table_, _where_ LUBIN _fills them from a large jug_. _In the +mugs of_ ROSE-ANNA _and_ ROBERT, ISABEL _shakes the contents of the +little packets_. _Whilst they are doing this the following talk is +carried on at the table_. + +LIZ [_Taking up a spoon_.] Real plated, sister. + +JANE. Upon my word, so ’tis. + +ROSE. And not so bright as I should wish to see it neither. I’ve had a +sad trouble with my maids of late. + +LIZ. Sister and I don’t keep none of them, thank goodness. + +JANE. We does our work with our own hands. We’d be ashamed if ’twas +otherwise. + +ROBERT. [_Scowling at them_.] I’ve been and engaged a house-full of +servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what ’tis to live like a lady +once she enters our family. + +JOHN. Servants be like green fly on the bush. They do but spoil th’ +home and everything they do touch. All save one. + +KITTY. And that one’s Jerry, I suppose. + +JOHN. You’re right there, Kitty, that you are. A harder head was never +given to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders. + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _here put round the mugs of cider_, _and everyone +drinks thirstily_. ISABEL _stands behind the chairs of_ ROSE _and_ +ROBERT _and_ LUBIN _at_ JOHN’S _side_. + +ROBERT. [_Setting down his mug_.] There’s a drink what can’t be got in +foreign parts. + +ROSE. [_Looking fondly at him_.] Let the maid fill your mug again, my +dear one. + +ROBERT. [_Carelessly handing it to_ ISABEL.] I don’t mind if I do have +another swill. + +[ISABEL _fills the mug and puts it by his side_. + +LIZ. As good as any I ever tasted. + +JANE. Couldn’t better it at the King’s Head up our way. + +JOHN. Good drink—plenty of it. Now we’ll start upon the meat I reckon. + +[_He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve_, _and_ LUBIN _hands +round plates_. _During this_ ROBERT’S _gaze restlessly wanders about the +room_, _finally fixing itself on_ ISABEL, _who presently goes out to the +back kitchen with plates_. + +ROBERT. The new serving maid you’ve got there, Rose, should wear a cap +and not her bonnet. + +ROSE. How sharp you are to notice anything. + +ROBERT. A very pretty looking wench, from what I can see. + +ROSE. [_Speaking more to the cousins than to_ ROBERT.] O she’s but a +rough and untrained girl got in all of a hurry. Not at all the sort I’ve +been used to in this house, I can tell you. + +[ISABEL _comes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table_. + +LIZ. [_To_ JANE.] A mellower piece of pig meat I never did taste, +sister. + +JANE. I’m sorry I went and took the poultry. + +KITTY. John will carve you some ham if you’d like to try it, Miss Jane. + +JANE. I’m sure I’m much obliged. + +[JEREMY _comes in_.] + +JEREMY. [_Coming to the back of_ JANE’S _chair_.] Don’t you get mixing +of your meats is what I says. Commence with ham and finish with he. +That’s what do suit the inside of a delicate female. + +JANE. [_Looking up admiringly_.] Now that’s just what old Uncle he did +used to say. + +JEREMY. Old uncle did know what he was a-talking about then. + +LIZ. [_Warming and looking less awkward and ill at ease_.] ’Twas the +gout what kept Uncle so low in his eating, ’twas not th’ inclination of +him. + +JEREMY. Ah ’twouldn’t be the gout nor any other disease as would keep me +from a platter of good food. + +JOHN. Nor from your mug of drink neither, Jerry. + +[JEREMY _laughs and moves off to the side table_. + +LIZ. A very pleasant sort of man. + +JANE. I do like anyone what’s homely. + +JOHN. [_Calling out heartily_.] Do you listen to that, Jerry! The +ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I don’t know what else. + +JEREMY. The mugs want filling once more. + +[_He stolidly goes round the table refilling the mugs_. ROSE’S _gaze +wanders about her_. + +ROSE. [_To_ ROBERT.] That’s not a bad looking figure of a man— + +ROBERT. Who? + +ROSE. Well—the new farm hand. + +ROBERT. A sulky looking brute. I’d not let him wear his hat to table if +I was master here. + +ROSE. He puts me in mind of—well—there, I can’t recollect who ’tis. [_A +knock is heard at the door_. + +ROSE. [_Sharply to_ ISABEL.] Go and see who ’tis, Lucy. + +[ISABEL _opens the door_, _and_ MARY MEADOWS _stands on the threshold_, +_a large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers in her hand_. + +JOHN. [_Rising up in great pleasure_.] You’re late, Mary. But you’re +welcome as the—as the very sunshine. + +ROSE. Set another place, Lucy. + +MARY. Not for me, Rose. I did not come here to eat or drink, but to +bring you these few blossoms and my love. + +ROSE. [_Rises from the table and takes the nosegay_.] I’m sure you’re +very kind, Mary—Suppose we were all to move into the parlour now we have +finished dinner, and then we could enjoy a bit of conversation. + +LIZ. Very pleasant, I’m sure. + +JANE. I see no objection. + +KITTY. [_Running round to look at the flowers_.] And Mary shall tell us +how to make charms out of the flowers—and the meanings of the blossoms +and all the strange things she knows about them. + +JOHN. [_Taking a flower from the bunch and putting it into his coat_.] +Yes, and how to brew tea as’ll curl up anyone’s tongue within the mouth +for a year—and fancy drinks for sheep with foot rot, and powders against +the murrain and any other nonsense that you do please. + +MARY. Now, John, I’ll not have you damage my business like this. + +LIZ. Maybe as the young person’s got sommat what’ll be handy with your +complaint, sister. + +JANE. Or for when you be took with th’ air in your head so bad, Jane. + +ROSE. Yes, I reckon that Mary has a charm for every ill beneath the sun. +Let’s go off to the parlour along of her. You’re not coming with us, +John, are you? + +JOHN. I’d not miss the telling of these things for anything in the +world, foolishness though they be. + +ROSE. Come along then—all of you. + +[_They all go out_. JEREMY _holds the door open for them_. _As she +passes through it_ LIZ _says_, _looking at him_. + +LIZ. We shall hope for your company, too. + +JANE. To be sure, mister. + +JEREMY. [_Haughtily_.] I bain’t one for parlours, nor charms, ma’am. I +be here for another purpose. + +[_They leave the room_. + +JEREMY. [_Having watched the party out_, _moves towards the cider jug_.] +Now, my man, now, my wench—us’ll see what can be done with the victuals +and drink they’ve been and left. ’Tis a fair heavy feed and drink as I +do need. Sommat as’ll lift me up through all the trials of this here +foolish matrimony and stuff. + +[_He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain falls_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_The next morning_. ROBERT’S _cousins are standing by the fire-place of +the same room_. + +LIZ. ’Tis powerful unhomely here, Jane. + +JANE. And that ’tis. I wish as Robert had never brought us along of +him. + +LIZ. She’s a stuck-up jay of a thing what he’s about to wed if ever I +seed one. + +JANE. That her be. He’ll live to wish hisself dead and buried one day. + +LIZ. There bain’t but one sensible tongue in the whole place to my mind. + +JANE. Ah, he’s a man to anyone’s liking, sister. + +LIZ. ’Tis homelike as he do make I to feel among all these strangers. + +JANE. Here he comes. + +[JEREMY _with a yoke and two pails stands at the doorway_. + +LIZ. Now do you come in, mister, and have a bit of talk along of we. + +JANE. Set down them pails and do as sister says, Mister Jeremy. + +[JEREMY _looks them all over and then slowly and deliberately sets down +his pails_. + +LIZ. That’s right, sister and me was feeling terribly lonesome here this +morning. + +JANE. And we was wishing as we’d never left home to come among all these +stranger folk. + +LIZ. Not that we feels you to be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JANE. You be a plain homely man such as me and sister be accustomed to. + +JEREMY. Anything more? + +LIZ. I suppose you’ve put by a tidy bit—seeing as you be of a certain +age. + +JANE. Although your looks favour you well, don’t they, sister? + +LIZ. To be sure they do. + +JANE. And I reckon as you could set up a home of your own any day, +mister. + +JEREMY. [_Pointing through the window_.] See that there roof against +the mill? + +LIZ. Indeed I do. + +JEREMY. That’s where I do live. + +[_Both sisters move quickly to the window_. + +JANE. A very comfortable looking home indeed. + +LIZ. I likes the looks of it better nor this great old house. + +JANE. [_Archly_.] Now I daresay there’s but one thing wanted over +there, Mister Jeremy. + +JEREMY. What’s that? + +JANE. A good wife to do and manage for you. + +JEREMY. I never was done for nor managed by a female yet, and blowed if +I will be now. + +LIZ. [_Shaking her finger at him_.] Sister an’ me knows what comes of +such words, don’t us, sister? ’Tis an old saying in our family as one +wedding do make a many. + +JEREMY. Give me a woman’s tongue for foolishness. I’ve heared a saying +too in my family, which be—get a female on to your hearth and ’tis Bedlam +straight away. + +JANE. Now, sister, did you ever hear the like of that? + +LIZ. Us’ll have to change his mind for him, Jane. + +JEREMY. I reckon ’twould take a rare lot of doing to change that, +mistress. + +JANE. Bain’t you a-goin’ to get yourself ready for church soon? + +JEREMY. Dashed if I ever heard tell of such foolishness. Who’s to mind +the place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling out? + +LIZ. There’s the man William. + +JEREMY. I bain’t a-goin’ to leave the place to a stranger. + +JANE. Why, sister, us’ll feel lost and lonesome without mister, shan’t +us, Liz? + +LIZ. That us will. What if us stayed at home and helped to mind the +house along of he? + +JANE. [_Slowly_.] And did not put our new gowns upon the backs of we +after all the money spent? + +JEREMY. Ah, there you be. ’Tis the same with all females. Creatures of +vanity—even if they be got a bit long in the tooth. ’Tis all the same. + +[JANE _and_ LIZ _draw themselves up_, _bridling_, _but_ LIZ _relaxes_. + +LIZ. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know. + +[JOHN _enters_.] + +JOHN. Jerry, and I’ve been seeking you everywhere. Come you off to the +yard. ’Tis as much as we shall do to be ready afore church time. I +never knew you to idle in the house afore. + +JEREMY. [_Taking up his pails_, _sarcastically_.] ’Twas the females as +tempted I, master, but ’twon’t occur again, so there. [_He hurries off_, +_followed by_ JOHN. + +LIZ. [_With dignity_.] Us’ll go upstairs and dress, sister. + +JANE. ’Tis time we did so. All them new-fashioned things be awkward in +the fastenings. + +[_They go upstairs_. + +[ROBERT _and_ ROSE _come in from the garden_. ROBERT _carries a little +card-board box in his hand_, _which he places on the table_. ROSE _sits +down listlessly on a chair leaning her arms on the table_. + +ROBERT. [_Undoing the box_.] This is the bouquet what I promised to +bring from town. + +ROSE. [_Her gaze wandering outside_.] Well, we might as well look at it +afore I go to dress. + +[ROBERT _uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white flowers +surrounded by a lace frill_. + +ROSE. [_Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face_.] +Why, they are false ones. + +ROBERT. [_Contemptuously_.] My good girl, who ever went to church with +orange blossom that was real, I’d like to know? + +ROSE. [_Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table_.] I’m sure I don’t +care. I reckon that one thing’s about as good as another to be married +with. + +ROBERT. [_Going to the window and looking out_.] Ah—I daresay ’tis so. + +ROSE. I feel tired of my wedding day already—that I do. + +ROBERT. There’s a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what a +man’s hardly used to, so it seems to me. + +ROSE. [_Wildly_.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we +die. + +ROBERT. Now—if ’twas with the right— + +ROSE. Right what, Robert? + +ROBERT. [_Confused_.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, Rose. +Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to dress yourself. We +might as well get it all over and finished with. + +ROSE. [_Rising slowly_.] Perhaps ’twould be best. I’ll go to my room, +and you might call the girl Lucy and send her up to help me with my +things. + +ROBERT. Won’t you take the bouquet along of you? + +ROSE. No—let it bide there. I can have it later. + +[_She goes slowly from the room_. + +[_Left to himself_, ROBERT _strolls to the open door and looks gloomily +out on the garden_. _Suddenly his face brightens_. + +ROBERT. Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment. + +LUCY. [_From outside_.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths, +master. + +ROBERT. Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress wants +you, Lucy. + +LUCY. [_Coming to the door_.] Mistress wants me, did you say? + +ROBERT. Yes, you’ve got to go and dress her for the church. But you can +spare me a minute or two first. + +ISABEL. [_Going quickly across the room to the staircase door_.] +Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master. ’Tis late already. + +ROBERT. [_Catches her hand and pulls her back_.] I’ve never had a good +look at your face yet, my girl—you act uncommon coy, and that you do. + +ISABEL. [_Turning her head away and speaking angrily_.] Let go of my +hand, I tell you. I don’t want no nonsense of that sort. + +ROBERT. Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and +there’s sommat about the appearance of you— + +ISABEL. Let go of me, master. Suppose as anyone should look through the +window. + +ROBERT. Let them look. I’d give a good bit for all the world to see us +now. + +ISABEL. O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert? + +ROBERT. What I say. ’Tis with you as I’d be going along to church this +morning. Not her what’s above. + +ISABEL. But I wouldn’t go with you—No, not for all the gold in the +world. + +ROBERT. Ah, you’ve changed since yesterday. When I caught your eye at +dinner, ’twas gentle as a dove’s—and your hand, when it gave me my mug of +cider did seem—well did seem to put a caress upon me like. + +ISABEL. O there lies a world of time twixt yesterday and to-day, Master +Robert. + +ROBERT. So it do seem. For to-day ’tis all thorns and thistles with +you—But I’m a-goin’ to have my look at your pretty face and my kiss of it +too. + +ISABEL. I shall scream out loud if you touches me—that I shall. + +ROBERT. [_Pulling her to him_.] Us’ll see about that. + +[_He tries to get a sight of her face_, _but she twists and turns_. +_Finally he seizes both her hands and covers them with kisses as_ KITTY +_enters_. + +KITTY. O whatever’s going on! Rose, Rose, John—come you in here +quickly, do. [_To_ LUCY.] O you bad, wicked girl. I knew you couldn’t +be a very nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy. + +[ISABEL, _released by_ ROBERT, _goes over to the window arranging her +disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears_. ROBERT _watches her +sullenly_. + +KITTY. [_Goes to the staircase door and calls loudly_.] Rose, Rose—come +you down as quick as you can run. + +ROSE. [_Coming down_.] What’s all this, I’d like to know? + +KITTY. It’s Lucy, behaving dreadful—O you must send her straight away +from the house, Rose. + +ROSE. What has she done, then? + +KITTY. Going on with Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing. + +ISABEL. O no, mistress, twasn’t so, I do swear to you. + +ROBERT. [_Brutally_.] Yes ’twas. The maid so put me powerful in mind +of someone who—who— + +ROSE. [_Coldly_.] I understand you, Robert. Well, ’tis lucky that all +this didn’t come off an hour or so later. + +KITTY. [_Tearfully_.] O Rose, what do you mean? + +ROSE. I mean that what’s not broken don’t need no mending. Robert can +go to church with someone else to-day, he can. And no harm done. + +[_She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins pulling it to +pieces and throwing it all about the room_. + +KITTY. O Rose, Rose, don’t take it so hard. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault. +’Twas the girl off the road what led him on. I know it. Tell her to get +out of the house. I’ll dress you—I’ll do the work. Only be just and +sensible again; dear Rose. + +ROSE. Let the girl bide. It makes no difference to me. There’ll be no +marrying for me to-day. + +[JOHN _comes in at the door_. + +KITTY. [_Running to him_.] O John, John—do you quiet down Rose and tell +her to get upstairs and dress. She’s a-saying that she won’t marry +Robert because of his goings on with the new servant—But, O, you’ll talk +her into reason again, won’t you, dear John? + +JOHN. Come, come, what’s all this cackle about, Rose? + +ROSE. I’m breaking off with Robert, that’s all, John. + +JOHN. Robert, can’t you take and explain a bit what ’tis. + +ROBERT. [_Sullenly_.] A little bit of play ’twixt me and the wench +there, and that’s about all, I reckon. + +JOHN. Now that’s an unsensible sort of thing to get doing on your +marriage day, to my thinking. + +KITTY. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault, I know. ’Twas the maid off the road who +started it. + +[_Here_ ISABEL _sinks down on a chair by the window_, _leaning her arms +on the table and bowing her head_, _in tears_. + +JOHN. [_Going to the door_.] Jeremy—Jeremy—come you in here a minute. + +[_Instead of_ JEREMY, LUBIN _comes in_. + +JOHN. ’Twas Jeremy I did call—not you. + +LUBIN. He’s gone off the place for a few minutes. + +JOHN. [_Vexedly_.] Ah, ’tis early for the Red Bull. + +LUBIN. Can I—can I do anything for you, master? + +JOHN. Not unless you can account for the sort of serving wench off the +roadside what Jerry has put upon us. + +LUBIN. What is there to account for in her, master? + +ROSE. [_Passionately_.] O I don’t particular mind about what’s +happened. Let her kiss with Robert if she has the mind. ’Tis always the +man who commences. + +JOHN. ’Tis not. There are some wenches who don’t know how to leave +anyone alone. Worser than cattle flies, that sort. + +ISABEL. [_Going across the room to_ LUBIN’S _side_.] O you shame me by +them words, I bain’t that sort of maid—you’ll answer for me—William? + +[LUBIN _silently takes her hand_. + +ROSE. [_Her eyes fixed on_ LUBIN.] I’ll tell you what, John; I’ll tell +you, Kitty. I wish I’d held me to my first lover and I wish ’twas with +Lubin that I was a-going to the church to-day. + +ROBERT. [_Sullenly_.] Then I’ll say sommat, Rose. I wish ’twas with +Isabel that I was getting wed. + +JOHN. Now, now—’Tis like two children a quarrelling over their +playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed, +Rose-Anna—And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be at the door afore +you’re ready if you don’t quicken yourselves up a bit. Kitty, you go and +help your sister. + +ROSE. [_With a jealous glance at Isabel_.] No, I’ll have Lucy with me. + +JOHN. That’s it, you keep her out of mischief + +KITTY. I’ve got my own dress to put on. + +JOHN. And Robert, you and me will have a drink after all this caddle. +’Tis dry work getting ready for marriage so it appears. + +ROBERT. ’Tis fiery dry to my thinking. + +ROSE. [_Crossing the room and going up to_ LUBIN.] I have no flowers to +take to church with me, William; go you to the waterside, I have a mind +to carry some of the blue things what grow there. + +KITTY. Forget-me-nots, you mean! + +ROSE. Forget-me-nots, I mean. And none but you to gather them for me, +William. Because—because—well, you do put me in thoughts of someone that +I once held and now have lost. That’s all. + +[_Curtain_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 2. + + +_The same room half an hour later_. ISABEL _is picking up the scattered +orange blossom which she ties together and lays on the window sill_. +LUBIN _comes in with a large bunch of river forget-me-nots_. + +LUBIN. I didn’t think to find you here, Isabel. + +ISABEL. O but that is a beautiful blue flower. I will take the bunch +upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it. + +LUBIN. [_Putting it on the table_.] No—do you bide a moment here with +me. + +[ISABEL _looks helplessly at_ LUBIN _who takes her hands slowly in his_. + +LUBIN. What are we going to do? + +ISABEL. I wish as we had never touched the seeds. + +LUBIN. O cursed seeds of love—Far better to have left all as ’twas +yesterday in the morning. + +ISABEL. He has followed me like my shadow, courting and courting me hard +and all the time, Lubin. + +LUBIN. She sought me out in the yard at day-break, and what I’d have +given twenty years of life for yester eve I could have thrown into the +stream this morning. + +ISABEL [_Sadly_.] So ’tis with my feelings. + +LUBIN. She has altered powerful, to my fancy, in these years. + +ISABEL. And Robert be differenter too from what I do remember. [_A long +silence_. + +LUBIN. Have you thought as it might be in us two these changes have come +about, Isabel? + +ISABEL. I was just the maid as ever I was until— + +LUBIN. And so was I unchanged, until I started travelling up on the same +road as you, Isabel. + +[_For a few minutes they look gravely into one another’s eyes_. + +LUBIN. [_Taking_ ISABEL’S _hands_.] So that’s how ’tis with you and me. + +ISABEL. O Lubin—a poor serving maid like I am. + +LUBIN. I’ll have no one else in the whole world. + +ISABEL. What could I have seen in him, times gone by? + +LUBIN. And was it ever true that I did sit through a long Sunday her +hand in mine? [_Another silence_. + +ISABEL. But how’s us ever to get out of the caddle where we be? + +LUBIN. [_Gaily_.] We’ll just run away off to the Fair as t’other +servants did. + +ISABEL. And leave them in their hate for one another? No—’twould be too +cruel. Us’ll run to the young mistress what knows all about them herbs. +I count as there be seeds or sommat which could set the hearts of them +two back in the right places again. Come— + +LUBIN. Have it your own way then. But ’twill have to be done very +quickly if ’tis done at all. + +ISABEL. Us’ll fly over the ground like. + +[_She puts her hand impetuously in_ LUBIN’S _and they go out together_. +_As they do so_, ISABEL’S _bonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded +on the floor_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 3. + + +_A few minutes later_. LIZ _and_ JANE _wearing gay sprigged dresses and +feathered bonnets_, _come to the room_. _They carry fans and +handkerchiefs in their hands_. _It is seen that their gowns are not +fastened at the back_. + +LIZ. Such a house I never heard tell of. Ring, ring at the bell and no +one to come nigh. + +JANE. Being unused to bells, sister, maybe as us did pull them wrong or +sommat. + +LIZ. I wish we’d had the gowns made different. + +JANE. To do up in the front—sensible like. + +[_They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall_, _absorbed in +their dress_, _they do not notice that_ JEREMY _has come in and is +watching them sarcastically_. + +JEREMY. Being as grey as th’ old badger don’t keep a female back from +vanity. + +LIZ. O dear, Master Jeremy, what a turn you did give me, to be sure. + +JANE. We can’t find no one in this house to attend upon we. + +JEREMY. I count as you can not. Bain’t no one here. + +LIZ. We rang for the wench a many time. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you might ring. + +JANE. We want someone as’ll fasten them niggly hooks to our gowns. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you may want. + +LIZ. Our sight bain’t clear enough to do one for t’other, the eyelets be +made so small. + +JEREMY. Count as you’ll have to go unfastened then. + +JANE. O now you be a laughing at us. Call the wench down, or we shall +never be ready in time. + +JEREMY. Man and maid be both gone off. Same as t’others, us’ll have to +do without service. + +LIZ. Gone off! + +JANE. Runned clean away? + +JEREMY. That’s about it. + +JANE. Well now, sister, us’ll have to ask the little Miss to help we. + +JEREMY. I’ve harnessed the mare a many time. Don’t see why I shouldn’t +get the both of you fixed into the shafts like. + +LIZ and JANE. [_Fanning themselves coyly_.] O Master Jeremy— + +JEREMY. Come now. Let’s have a try. I count as no one have a steadier +hand nor me this side of the river, nor a finer eye for seeing as +everything be in its place. I’ll settle the both of you afore I gets out +the horse and trap. Turn round. + +[_The sisters turn awkwardly_, _and with very self-conscious airs begin +to flutter their fans_. JEREMY _quickly hooks each gown in succession_. +_As he finishes the fastening of_ JANE’S _dress_ ROSE, _followed by_ +KITTY, _comes into the room_. _She is wearing her bridal gown and veil_. + +ROSE. [_Pausing_.] What’s this, Jeremy? + +JEREMY. The servants be runned away same as t’others—that’s all, +mistress. + +ROSE. Run away? + +JEREMY. So I do reckon. Bain’t anywhere about the place. + +ROSE. [_Flinging herself down on a chair by the table_, _in front of the +bunch of forget-me-nots_.] Let them be found. Let them be brought back +at once. + +KITTY. For my part I’m glad they’ve gone off. The girl was a wild, bad +thing. I saw how she went on with Robert. + +ROSE. [_Brokenly to_ JEREMY.] You found them. Bring them back, Jerry. + +KITTY. No—wait till you and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. Then +’twon’t matter quite so much. + +ROSE. I’ll never wed me to Robert, I’ll only wed me to him who gathered +these blue flowers here. + +KITTY. Good heavens, Rose, ’twas the man William. + +[KITTY _looks in consternation from_ ROSE _to the cousins and then to_ +JEREMY, _who remains impassive and uninterested_, _sucking a straw_. +ROSE _clasps her hands round the forget-me-nots and sits gazing at them_, +_desolately unhappy_. ROBERT _enters_. _He is very grandly dressed for +the wedding_, _but as he comes into the room he sees_ ISABEL’S _cotton +bonnet on the floor_. _He stoops_, _picks it up and laying it reverently +on the table_, _sinks into a chair opposite_ ROSE _and raising one of its +ribbons_, _kisses this with passion_. + +ROBERT. There—I’d not change this for a thousand sacks of gold—I swear +I’d not. + +KITTY. Now Robert—get up, the two of you. Are you bewitched or sommat—O +Jerry, stir them, can’t you. + +LIZ. Robert, ’tisn’t hardly suitable—with the young miss so sweetly +pretty in her white gown. + +JANE. And wedding veil and all. And sister and me hooked up into our +new sprigs, ready for the ceremony. + +JEREMY. [_Looking at them with cold contempt_.] Let them bide. The +mush’ll swim out of they same as ’twill swim off the cider vat. Just let +the young fools bide. + +KITTY. O this’ll never do. Jerry forgetting of his manners and all. +[_Calling at the garden door_.] John, John, come you here quickly, +there’s shocking goings on. [JOHN, _in best clothes comes in_. + +JOHN. What’s the rattle now, Kitty? I declare I might be turning round +on top of my own mill wheel such times as these. + +KITTY. Rose says she won’t wed Robert, and Robert’s gone off his head +all along of that naughty servant maid. + +[JOHN _stands contemplating_ ROSE _and_ ROBERT. ROSE _seems lost to the +outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots_, _whilst_ +ROBERT, _in sullen gloom_, _keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet_. + +JOHN. Come, Rose, ’tis time you commenced to act a bit different. [ROSE +_does not answer_. + +JOHN. Come, Robert, if you play false to my sister at the last moment, +you know with whom you’ll have to reckon like. [ROBERT _pays no heed to +him_. + +JOHN. [_To_ JEREMY.] Can you do naught to work upon them a bit, Jerry? + +JEREMY. I’d have a jug of cider in, master. ’Twill settle them all. +Folks do get ’sterical and vapourish face to face with matrimony. Put +some drink afore of them, and see how ’twill act. + +LIZ. O what a wise thought, Master Jerry. + +JANE. Most suitable, I call it. + +[_Here_ MARY MEADOWS _comes in_, JOHN _turns eagerly to her_. + +JOHN. O Mary—have you come to help us in the fix where we are? [_He +signs to_ ROSE _and_ ROBERT. + +MARY. What has happened, John? + +JEREMY. I’ll tell you in a couple of words, mistress. + +LIZ. No—do you fetch the cider, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JOHN. ’Tis more than I can do with, Mary. Rose is set against Robert, +and Robert is set against Rose. Rose—well I’m fairly ashamed to mention +it—Rose has lost her senses and would wed the servant William—and Robert +is a-courting of the maid. + +JEREMY. Ah, let each fool follow their own liking, says I. + +LIZ. And sister and me all dressed in our new gowns for the church. + +JANE. And Jerry had to do the hooking for we, both of the servants +having runned away. + +MARY. Well, now I’m here I’ll lend a hand. I’ll help with the dinner +time you’re at church. You shall not need to trouble about anything, Mr. +John. + +JOHN. O once I do get them to the church and the ring fixed and all I +shan’t trouble about nothing, Mary. But ’tis how to move them from where +they be! That’s the puzzle. + +ROSE. I’ll never move till the hand that gathered these flowers be here +to raise me. + +ROBERT. I’ll sit here to the end of the world sooner nor go along to be +wed with Miss over there. + +MARY. ’Tis midsummer heat have turned their brains. But I know a +cooling draught that will heal them of their sickness. Jeremy, do you +step into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh violet leaves, one +blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary. + +JEREMY. [_Sighing_.] What next? + +JOHN. Get gone at once, Jerry. + +[JEREMY _goes to the door_—_as he does so_ LIZ _and_ JANE _start up and +follow him_. + +LIZ. Sister and me will come along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy. + +JANE. And that us will, if our new gowns bain’t hooked too tight for we +to bend. + +[_They follow_ JEREMY _to the garden_. KITTY _silently leaves the room +also_. ROSE _and_ ROBERT _remain lost in their sorrowful reflections_. +JOHN _and_ MARY _look at them for a moment and then turn to one another_. + +JOHN. Mary, I never thought to see such a thing as this. + +MARY. You take my word for it, John, the storm will soon be blown away. + +JOHN. I don’t know how I should stand up against the worry of it all, +wasn’t it for you, Mary. + +[_A short silence_. + +JOHN. [_Taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] ’Twill be a bit lonesome for me here, +when they’ve gone off, Mary. + +MARY. You’ll have Kitty to do for you then. + +JOHN. Kitty be going to live along of them at Bristol too, after a +while. + +MARY. [_Looking round the room_.] Then I count as it might feel a bit +desolate like in this great house alone. + +JOHN. [_Taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] I cannot face it, Mary. I’ve loved you +many years, you know. + +MARY. I know you have, dear John. + +JOHN. Can’t you forget he what was false to you, days gone by, and take +me as your husband now? + +MARY. [_Doubtfully_.] I don’t hardly know. + +JOHN. You used to sing sommat—the grass that was trampled under foot, +give it time, it will rise up again. + +MARY. [_Drying her eyes_.] Ah, it has risen, dear John—and I count it +have covered the wound of those past days—my heart do tell me so, this +minute. + +JOHN. [_Holding both her hands_.] Then ’tis one long midsummer afore +you and me, Mary. + +MARY. That’s how ’twill be, dear John. + +[JEREMY, _followed by the cousins_, _enters_. _He holds a bunch of +leaves towards_ MARY. + +JEREMY. There you be, mistress. Fools’ drink for fools. A mug of good +cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker. + +[MARY _takes the bunch_, _and still holding_ JOHN’S _hand_, _leads him to +the kitchen_. JEREMY _watches the pair sarcastically_. + +JEREMY. ’Tis all finished with the master, then. + +[_The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their faces with +handkerchiefs_. + +LIZ. Dear me, ’tis warm. + +JANE. I hope my face don’t show mottled, sister? + +JEREMY. I was saying as how ’twas all finished with the master. + +[MARY, _followed by_ JOHN, _comes forward carrying two glasses_. _She +gives one to_ ROSE _and the other to_ ROBERT. + +MARY. Now do you take a good draught of this, the both of you. With +violet leaves the fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease lightens +every trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to anyone with +its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest. + +[_She leaves the table and stands far back in the room by_ JOHN’S _side_. +ROSE _slowly lifts her glass and begins to drink_. ROBERT _does the +same_. _They are watched with anxiety by all in the room_. _When they +have emptied their glasses_ ROSE _dries her tears and pushes the flowers +a little way from her_. ROBERT _shakes himself and moves the cotton +bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor_. _Meanwhile_ KITTY _has +come quietly to the garden door and stands there watching the scene +intently_. + +LIZ. Bain’t we going to get a drink too? + +JANE. Seems as though master have been and forgot we. + +JEREMY. [_Starting up and going to the kitchen_.] If I’ve been and +forgot you two old women, I’ve remembered myself. Be blowed if I can get +through any more of this foolishness without a wet of my mouth. + +[_He goes out_. + +ROSE. [_Speaking faintly_.] Does it show upon my face, the crying, +Robert? + +ROBERT. [_Looking at her_.] No, no, Rose, your eyes be brighter nor +ever they were. + +ROSE. [_Pushing the forget-me-nots yet further away_.] Those flowers +are dying. My fancy ones were best. + +KITTY. [_Coming forward with the orange blossoms_.] Here they are, dear +Rose. + +ROSE. [_Taking them_.] O how beautiful they do look. I declare I can +smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert. + +ROBERT. All the orange blossom in the world bain’t so sweet as one kiss +from your lips, Rose. + +ROSE. Now is that truly so? + +ROBERT. Ah, ’tis heavy work a-waiting for the coach, Rose. + +JOHN. [_Coming forward and taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] And yours won’t be +the only marriage Rose-Anna. Did you never think that me and Mary might— + +KITTY. [_Running forward_.] But I did—O so many times, John. [JEREMY +_enters with_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. + +JEREMY. Servants be comed back. Man was to the Red Bull, I count. +Female a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn. + +ROSE. [_Coldly_.] I don’t care whether they be here or not. Set them +to work, Jerry, whilst we are to church. + +LIZ. That’s it, Master Jeremy. I was never so put out in my life, as +when sister did keep on ringing and the wench was not there to help us on +with our gowns. + +[ROSE _and_ ROBERT _get up and go towards the door_. _They pause before_ +LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. + +ROSE. The man puts me in mind of someone whom I knew before, called +Lubin. I thought I had a fancy for him once—but ’twasn’t really so. + +ROBERT. And the girl do favour a little servant wench from Framilode. + +ROSE. [_Jealously_.] You never went a-courting with a servant wench, +now did you, my heart’s dearest? + +ROBERT. Never in all my days, Rose. ’Twas but the fanciful thoughts of +a boy towards she, that I had. + +ROSE. [_Putting her arm in_ ROBERT’S.] Well, we have nothing to do with +anything more of it now, dear Robert. + +ROBERT. You’re about right, my true love, we’ll get us off to the +church. + +JEREMY. Ah, coach have been waiting a smartish while, I reckon. ’Tis on +master as expense’ll fall. + +[ROSE _and_ ROBERT _with cold glances at_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL, _pass out +of the door_. + +JOHN. [_Giving his arm to_ MARY.] Now, Mary—now, Kitty. [_They pass +out_. + +LIZ. Now, Jeremy, sister and me bain’t going off all alone. + +JEREMY. [_Offering an arm to each_.] No further than the church door, I +say. I’ve better things to do nor a-giving of my arm to females be they +never so full of wiles. And you two do beat many what bain’t near so +long in the tusk, ah, that you does. + +[JEREMY _goes out with the sisters_. + +LUBIN. [_To_ ISABEL.] And shall we go off into the meadows, Isabel, +seeing that we are quite forgot? + +ISABEL. No—’tis through these faithless ones as us have learnt to +understand the hearts within of we. Let’s bide and get the marriage +dinner ready for them first. + +[_She stretches both her hands towards_ LUBIN, _who takes them reverently +in his as the Curtain falls_. + + + + +THE NEW YEAR + + +CHARACTERS + + +STEVE BROWNING, _a Blacksmith_, _also Parish Clerk_. + +GEORGE DAVIS, _a Carpenter_. + +HARRY MOSS, _a young Tramp_. + +MAY BROWNING. + +JANE BROWNING. + +DORRY BROWNING, _aged twelve_. + +ANNIE SIMS. + +ROSE SIMS. + +VASHTI REED. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + +_A country roadside_. _It is late afternoon and already dusk_. MAY +BROWNING _with_ HARRY MOSS _come slowly forward_. _Close to a stile +which is a little off the road_, MAY _stops_. + +MAY. There, you don’t need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. You +get on quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and the snow, +too. + +HARRY. I don’t care much about leaving you like this on the roadside, +May. And that’s the truth, ’tis. + +MAY. Don’t you take no more thought for I, Harry. ’Tis a good boy as +you’ve been to I since the day when we fell in together. But now there +bain’t no more need for you to hold back your steps, going slow and heavy +when you might run spry and light. For ’tis home as I be comed to now, I +be. You go your way. + +HARRY. I see naught of any house afore us or behind. ’Tis very likely +dusk as is upon us, or may happen ’tis the fog getting up from the river. + +MAY. [_Coughing_.] Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a field +path, bain’t there? + +HARRY. [_Taking a few steps to the right and peering through the +gloom_.] Ah, and that there be. + +MAY. And at t’other end of it a house what’s got a garden fence all +round. + +HARRY. Ah—and ’tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light +shining from out the windows of it, too, though ’tis shining dim-like in +the mist. + +MAY. ’Tis that yonder’s my home, Harry. There’s the door where I must +stand and knock. + +[_For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with +weeping_. + +HARRY. I wouldn’t take on so, if ’twas me. + +MAY. And did you say as how there was a light in the window? ’Twill be +but fire light then, for th’ old woman she never would bring out the lamp +afore ’twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, what’d lick up a +drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it should go wasted. + +HARRY. There, ’tis shining better now—or maybe as the fog have shifted. + +MAY. ’Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry. + +HARRY. Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I’ll go +along of you a bit further. ’Twill not be much out of my way. Nothing +to take no count of. + +MAY. No, no, Harry. I bain’t going to cross that field, nor yet stand +at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is it like as +I’d let them see me coming over the meadow and going through the gate in +this? [_Holding up a ragged shawl_.] In these? [_Pointing to her +broken shoes_.] And—as I be to-day. + +[_Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of +anguished coughing_. + +HARRY. There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, like. +Don’t you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you’ll be wanting +all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn’t know that you +be coming back. + +MAY. [_Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough_.] Harry, +you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. ’Tis all +live coals within I here, so ’tis. + +HARRY. You get along home, and maybe as them’ll find summat better nor +water from the ditch to give you. + +MAY. No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall and cover +me, or I won’t never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. Give I to +drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in quiet till all of the +light be gone. + +HARRY. [_Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her_.] Where be I +to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground? + +MAY. [_Pointing_.] Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you +there, ’tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water +from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch. + +[HARRY _goes off with the can_. MAY _watches him_, _drawing her shawl +again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing_. + +[HARRY _returns and holds out the can_. + +MAY. ’Tis not very quick as you’ve been, Harry Moss. Here—give it to I +fast. Give! + +[HARRY _puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands_, _which +shake feverishly_, _and she drinks with sharp avidity_. + +MAY. ’Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and +have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. +Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it. +Drink of it, too, Harry. + +HARRY. ’Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat as’ll lie more warm +and comfortable to th’ inside like. I bain’t one for much water, and +that’s the truth, ’tis. [_He empties the water on the ground_. + +MAY. Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be +gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, +where the lamps do shine and ’tis bright and warm in the places where +they sells the drink. + +HARRY. Once I sets off running by myself, I’ll get there fast enough, +May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I don’t care +much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like. + +MAY. Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, +which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too. + +HARRY. [_Sitting down by her side_.] ’Tis a fine thing to have a home +what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the limbs +of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside. How was it as +you ever came away from it, like? + +MAY. Ah, and that’s what I be asking of myself most of the time, Harry! +For, ’tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut the door +behind me and went out. + +[_A slight pause_. + +MAY. Away from them all, upon the road—so ’twas. + +HARRY. And never see’d no more of them, nor sent to say how ’twas with +you, nor nothing? + +MAY. Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And +’twas finished. + +[_A long pause_, _during which the darkness has gathered_. + +HARRY. Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May? + +MAY. [_Bitterly_.] Ah now, whatever did! + +HARRY. ’Tweren’t as though you might have been a young wench, flighty +like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the streets of +it. For, look you here, ’tis an old woman as you be now, May, and has +been a twenty year or more, I don’t doubt. + +MAY. An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you ’tis so, I +count. But a twelve year gone by, O, ’twas a fine enough looking maid as +I was then—Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the free ways of +the road and the lights of the fair—And for the sun to rise in one place +where I was, and for I to be in t’other when her should set. + +HARRY. I’d keep my breath for when ’twas wanted, if ’twas me. + +MAY. Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as +they’ll be likely to know I again up at home? + +HARRY. How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that ’tis but a +ten days or less as I’ve been along of you on the road? And seeing that +when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you neither? + +MAY. Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I’ll tell +you how ’twas in the days gone by? + +HARRY. ’Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. The night be +coming upon we wonderful fast. + +MAY. The hair, ’twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, Harry. +’Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so ’twas. + +HARRY. Well, ’tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, that +it be. + +MAY. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. +’Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, +Harry. + +HARRY. ’Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May. + +MAY. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long while, +but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that +I can. Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of clothing to my bones, +with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I up. Why, there, Harry, +you won’t know as ’tis me when I’ve been to home a day or two—or may be +as ’twill take a week. + +HARRY. I count ’twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as +you once was, May. + +MAY. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by the +hair, which is different to what ’twas, or by the form of me, which be +got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don’t come never no change. +So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do appear to you. + +HARRY. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May. + +MAY. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they. + +HARRY. Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed +out from they. ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look into the +eyes what you’ve got. + +MAY. [_With despondence_.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as ’tis me, +Harry Moss. + +HARRY. I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth. + +MAY. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and the +breath of me so short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, afore they sees who +’tis. Though all be changed to th’ eye like, there’ll be summat in me +as’ll tell they. And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll +speak for I—But ’tis summat what do come straight out of the hearts of we +and do say better words for we nor what the looks nor tongues of us might +tell. You mind me, Harry, there’s that which will come out of me as’ll +bring they to know who ’tis. + +HARRY. Ah, I reckon as you’ll not let them bide till they does. + +MAY. And when they do know, and when they sees who ’tis, I count as +they’ll be good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as Steve, +he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s his mother, hard too—And that +it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I sees thing +different now. + +HARRY. Ah, ’tis one thing to see by candle and another by day. + +MAY. For ’twas wild as I was in the time gone by. Wild after pleasuring +and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at the countenance of I, and +a-turning back for to look again. But, hark you here, ’tis powerful +changed as I be now. + +HARRY. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman into an old +one. + +MAY. I’m finished with the road journeying and standing about in the +streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking places—Men +what don’t want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to follow +if ’twasn’t only a bit of eyelid as I’d lift on them, times that is gone. + +HARRY. Ah, ’twould take a lot of looking to see you as you was. + +MAY. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to bide +quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and the +door shut. + +HARRY. I reckon as you be. + +MAY. And I’m thinking as they’ll be rare pleased for to have I in the +house again. ’Twill be another pair of hands to the work like. And when +I was young, ’twas not on work as I was set much. + +HARRY. Ah, I did guess as much. + +MAY. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, ’tis a strong arm +as them’ll have working for they; Steve, th’ old woman what’s his mother, +and little Dorry, too. + +HARRY. Dorry? I han’t heard tell of she. + +MAY. That’s my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling on +the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. Bless +the innocent heart of her! + +HARRY. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can’t think! You must +have been drove to it like, wasn’t you? + +MAY. ’Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. ’Twas very likely the +blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was tied up to +Steve, ’twas as if they had got I shut in a box. ’Twas the bridle on my +head and the bit in the mouth of I; and to be held in where once I had +gone free. [_A short pause_. + +MAY. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to be calling I +from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries tossing in the +wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where they’d been stuck all +summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I powerful, so that one +morning when the sun was up and the breeze running, I comed out into the +air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. And ’twas done—so ’twas. + +HARRY. And didn’t they never try for to stop you, nor for to bring you +back, May? + +MAY. No, Harry, they did not. + +HARRY. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the +door shut ahind of you? + +MAY. Ah—where! To the east, to the south, every part. ’Twas morning +with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them as went along +of I on the road, did cast but one look into the countenance of I. Then +’twas the best as they could give as I might take; and ’twas for no +lodging as I did want when dark did come falling. + +HARRY. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, May. + +MAY. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of +the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a grand +flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, +maybe. So ’twas with I. + +[_She bows her head on her knees_, _and for a moment is shaken with +sudden grief_. + +HARRY. Don’t you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to the +end of your journeying this day, and that you be. + +MAY. [_Raising her head_.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so. And ’tis rare glad as +them’ll be to see I once again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good +one—And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman +what’s not me—and that he won’t—I never knowed him much as look on one, +times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. And little +Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, I warrant—so ’twill. + +[_A slight pause_. + +MAY. Th’ old woman—well—I shan’t take it amiss if her should be dead, +like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, and her +did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his station and that. +God rest the bones of she, for I count her’ll have been lying in the +churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, and +if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no +poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day—so ’tis. + +HARRY. Look you here—the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis night. Get up +and go in to them all yonder. ’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on +the road to see you as you do go. + +MAY. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be +powerful weak. + +HARRY. [_Lifting her up_.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, +May. + +MAY. [_Standing up_.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I +bide alone. + +HARRY. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to the +door. + +MAY. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide here a +while in the quiet of my thoughts. ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how +pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be thinking. But +you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home to go to, nor fireside, nor +victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you quick. + +HARRY. There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May. + +MAY. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when +the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you +up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to +keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis empty-handed as I be. + +HARRY. I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t. + +MAY. [_Fumbling in her shawl_.] There, Harry—’tis comed back to my mind +now. [_She takes out part of a loaf of bread_.] Take you this bread. +And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home +with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and +plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. There, Harry, take +and eat. + +[_She holds the bread to him._ + +HARRY. [_Taking the bread_.] I count ’twill all be well with you now, +May? + +MAY. I warrant as ’twill, for I be right to home. But go you towards +the town, Harry, for ’tis late. And God go with you, my dear, now and +all time. + +HARRY. I’ll set off running then. For the night, ’tis upon us, May, and +the snow, ’tis thick in the air. + +[MAY _turns to the stile and leans on it heavily_, _gazing across the +field_. HARRY _sets off quickly down the road_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_The living room in the Brownings’ cottage_. _The room is divided by a +curtain which screens the fireside end from the draught of the principal +door_. + +_To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs_. _Chairs are +grouped round the hearth_, _and there is a table at which_ JANE BROWNING +_is ironing a dress by the light of one candle_. DORRY _leans against +the table_, _watching her_. + +JANE. [_Putting aside the iron_.] There, you take and lay it on the bed +upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I’m not a-going to iron it +twice. + +[_She lays the dress carefully across_ DORRY’S _arms_. + +DORRY. Don’t the lace look nice, Gran’ma? + +JANE. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come straight +down again. + +DORRY. Couldn’t I put it on once, Gran’ma, just to see how it do look on +me? + +JANE. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! You go +and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear? + +DORRY. [_Leaving the room by the door to the right_.] I’d like to put +it on just once, I would. + +[JANE BROWNING _blows out the candle and puts away the iron and ironing +cloth_. _She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as_ DORRY _comes +back_. + +DORRY. Dad’s cleaning of himself ever so—I heard the water splashing +something dreadful as I went by his door. + +JANE. ’Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing as he be +about, I reckon. + +DORRY. [_Sitting down on a stool_.] I’d like to go along, too, and see +the dancing up at the schools to-night, I would. + +JANE. And what next, I should like to know! + +DORRY. And wear my new frock what’s ironed, and the beads what Miss Sims +gived me. + +JANE. [_Looking out at the window_.] I’m thinking as we shall get some +snow by and bye. ’Tis come over so dark all of a sudden. + +DORRY. Couldn’t I go along of they, Gran’ma, and wear my new frock, and +the beads, too? I never see’d them dance th’ old year out yet, I +haven’t. + +JANE. Get along with you, Dorry. ’Tis many a year afore you’ll be of an +age for such foolishness. And that’s what I calls it, this messing about +with dancing and music and I don’t know what. + +DORRY. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she’s let to go, she is. + +JANE. You bain’t Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what’s +to-morrow isn’t enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I don’t know what +is. + +DORRY. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran’ma, I do. Shall you put on +your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to church? + +JANE. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you knows +how. + +DORRY. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims to the +dance, I shall. Dad’s got that kind to me since last night—he gived me a +sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn’t asked. And won’t it be +nice when Miss Sims comes here to live, and when you has someone to help +you in the work, Gran’ma? + +JANE. Well—’tis to be hoped as ’twill be all right this time. + +DORRY. This time, Gran’ma! Why, wasn’t it all right when Dad was +married afore, then? + +JANE. [_Getting the lamp from a shelf_.] I don’t light up as a rule +till ’tis six o’clock, but I count it’s a bit of snow coming as have +darkened the air like. + +DORRY. Gran’ma, isn’t Miss Sims nice-looking, don’t you think? I’d like +to wear my hair like hers and have earrings a-hanging from me and +a-shaking when I moves my head, I would. + +JANE. [_Setting the lamp on the table_.] Here, fetch me the matches, +do. + +DORRY. [_Bringing the matches_.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss +Sims, Gran’ma? + +JANE. I’m one as goes by other things nor looks—For like as not ’tis +fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them—give me a plain +face and a heart what’s pure, I says, and ’tis not far out as you’ll be. + +DORRY. Was my mammy’s heart pure, Gran’ma? [_A moment’s silence_. JANE +_lights the lamp_. DORRY _leans at the table_, _watching her_. + +DORRY. Was my mammy’s—[_A loud knock on the outside door_. + +JANE. Who’s that come bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there’s a +good child. + +DORRY. It’ll be Gran’ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at the +door loud with her stick. + +[DORRY _runs to the window and looks out_. + +DORRY. ’Tis her, and the snow white all upon her. + +[DORRY _goes to the door to open it_. + +JANE. [_To herself_.] Of all the meddlesome old women—why can’t her +bide till her’s wanted. + +[DORRY _opens the door wide_, _and_ VASHTI _Comes slowly in to the room_, +_leaning on a big staff_. + +JANE. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the hill to-day? +’Twould have been better had you bid at home, with the dark coming on and +the snow. + +DORRY. [_Who has closed the door_.] Sit down, Granny—there, close +against the fire, do. + +[VASHTI _stands in the middle of the room_, _looking from one to +another_. + +DORRY. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do. + +VASHTI. ’Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. And down to the +pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where ’tis fog, And there +be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the wind. And no where may +the bones of me rest this day. + +JANE. If ’tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you’d best have +stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave sensible, and +maybe as I’ll get you summat warm to drink presently. + +DORRY. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we. + +[VASHTI _sits stiffly down by the hearth_, _leaning on her stick_. JANE +_resumes her place_, _and_ DORRY _puts her little stool between them_. + +VASHTI. And in the night when I was laid down, against the windowpane it +fled a three times. A three time it fled and did beat the pane as though +’twould get in. And I up and did open the window. And the air it ran +past I, and ’twas black, with naught upon it but the smell of a shroud. +So I knowed. + +DORRY. What did you know, Granny? + +VASHTI. [_Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire_, _speaking +as though to herself_.] Summat lost—summat lost, and what was trying to +get safe away. + +DORRY. Safe away? From what, Granny? + +VASHTI. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, what holds +in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I holds here, and +the knife to it be as long again by twice. + +DORRY. O, Granny, I’ll be a-feared to go across the garden after dark, I +shall. + +JANE. What do you want to go and put that there into the child’s head +for? I’d like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff. + +VASHTI. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand in the +mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And when the door +was closed, ’twas as if one did come running round the house and did beat +upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to open it, but the place +outside was full of emptiness, and ’twas they old carrion crows what did +talk to I out of the storm. + +JANE. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don’t you speak of summat +what’s got some sense to it? Come, don’t you know as Steve, his wedding +day, ’tis to-morrow as ever is. + +DORRY. ’Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad’s marriage. + +VASHTI. [_Suddenly_.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, then? + +DORRY. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don’t you see how ’tis cleaned and +the new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget ’gainst the +door where the old one always tripped me up? + +VASHTI. I see naught but what ’tis more like a burial here. So ’tis. +And ’tis a burial as I’ve carried in my heart as I comed down from the +hills. + +DORRY. [_Looking out of the window_.] Granny, you’ll be forced to bide +the night along of we, ’cause the snow be falling thick, and ’twill be +likely as not as you’ll lose your way if you start for to go home again +when ’tis snowing. + +JANE. Th’ old thing may as well bide the night now she be come. Hark +you, Vashti, ’twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if you +bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever wants. + +VASHTI. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane +Browning? + +DORRY. Why, Granny, ’tis Dad’s wedding day to-morrow, and ’tis a white +frock with lace to it as I’m going to wear, and beads what Miss Sims +gived me, and the shoes what was new except for being worn to church +three times. Shall I fetch them all and show to you, Granny? + +JANE. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely ’twill give her +thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in one of her +nasty moods to-day when you can’t get a word what isn’t foolishness out +of her. [DORRY _runs upstairs_. + +VASHTI. [_Leaning forward_.] Was her telling of a marriage? + +JANE. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, only you don’t +trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of yourself in the +night. ’Tis our Steve what’s going to marry Annie Sims to-morrow. + +VASHTI. Steve Browning? + +JANE. I haven’t patience with th’ old gipsy! Yes—Steve. And ’tis a +twelvemonth or more as you’d knowed of it. + +VASHTI. Our Steve, what’s husband to my May? + +JANE. ’Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that ’tis. May, +what went out trolloping along the roads ’stead of she biding at home to +mind the house and child! ’Tis how you did breed she up, Vashti Reed, +what led her to act as her did. And if you’d have bred her different, +’twould have been all the same; for what’s in the blood is bound to out +and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it in the room, ’tain’t no +flower as you must look for. + +VASHTI. ’Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. But in the +blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through the +door again. God bless the head an feet of she! + +JANE. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb like she, +was bound for to meet her doom. And ’twas in the river up London way +where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same petticoat to it +as I’ve seed on May a score of times. Don’t you recollect how ’twas +parson as brought the news to we? + +VASHTI. ’Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come from +the mouths of they, neither. + +JANE. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was gone out. +’Twas not much as he did say, being a man what hasn’t many words to his +tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat what do hang up +yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the sleeve of it. Leastways, +he didn’t speak the words, but I seed what he was after, and I took and +sewed a bit on, and he’s wore it ever since till yesterday—And that’s +eleven year ago it be—so there. + +VASHTI. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And I seems to feel +the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain’t shrouded, +nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of she—you take my +words—and there shall come a day when the latch shall rise and her be +standing among us and a-calling on her child and husband what’s forgotten +she. + +JANE. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such things +to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn’t wonder if he was to +put you out of the door and into the snow—and ’tis most unfitting for to +talk so afore the child. + +VASHTI. [_Calling out loudly_.] Come back to I, May—you come back to +I—there bain’t no one what thinks on the name of you, or what wants you +but your old mother. You come back to I! + +JANE. I’ll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! ’Tain’t +nothing to be proud on as you’ve got, and ’twould be better if you was to +be less free in your hollering. Look, here’s Dorry coming. + +[DORRY _comes into the kitchen_; _she is wearing her new white frock_. + +DORRY. See, Granny, I’ve been and put it on for to show you better. See +the lace? Isn’t it nice? And the beads, too. I didn’t stop for to put +on my shoes, nor my new stockings. Nor my hat, what’s got a great long +feather all round of it. + +JANE. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you’ll crease and tumble that frock +so as it’s not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go to put it +on for? + +DORRY. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as she should +come out of her trouble. Gran’s always got some trouble in her mind, +han’t you, Granny? + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by, my child. + +JANE. I’ll give it you if you starts off again. + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by— + +DORRY. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny? + +VASHTI. ’Tis more’n eleven years since her wented out of the door, my +child—your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the door! And likely as +not ’twill be feet first as her shall be brought in again. + +DORRY. Granny, was my poor mammy, what’s dead, nice looking like Miss +Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow? + +VASHTI. ’Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all the +green of it as was your mammy, my dear. + +DORRY. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, like +Miss Sims, Granny? + +JANE. ’Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and pleasuring what +was her undoing, as ’twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if you +don’t take care. ’Tis she as you favours, and none of your father’s +people, more’s the pity, and ’tis more thoughtful and serious as you’ll +have to grow if you don’t want to come to harm. You take and go right +up, and off with that frock, do you hear me? + +DORRY. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I’d got it on, I +did. + +JANE. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, ’tis all as you do +think on, and ’tis plain to see what’s got working in the inside of you, +Dorry. ’Tis the drop of bad blood as you has got from she what bore you. +But I might as well speak to that door for all you cares. Only, hark you +here, you’ll be sorry one of these days as you han’t minded me better. +And then ’twill be too late. + +[STEVE _comes down the stairs_, _pushes open the door and enters_. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, what’s up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, what +be you a-crying for? + +DORRY. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad—now that I’ve got my +frock on and all.—O, I wants to be let to go. + +STEVE. Well, Mother—what do you say? ’Twouldn’t hurt for she to look in +about half an hour, and Annie and me we could bring her back betimes. + +DORRY. O, Dad, I wants to go if ’twas only for a minute. + +STEVE. There, there—you shall go and we’ll say no more about it. + +JANE. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, +Steve. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, ’tain’t every day as a man’s married, that ’tain’t. + +VASHTI. And so you’re to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells me as +you’re to be wed. + +STEVE. That’s right enough, Gran. + +VASHTI. [_Rising_.] And there be no resting in me to-day, Steve. There +be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body and that will not let me +bide.—And ’tis steps as I hears on the roadside and in the fields—and +’tis a bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be moving, and peering +about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for to do away with the +thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of death—So ’tis. + +JANE. Now she’s off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and I’ll +give you summat as’ll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in your +chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water boiling. + +[_She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it_. + +DORRY. [_From the window_.] Here’s Miss Sims coming up the path, and +Rosie too. O, they’re wrapped up all over ’cause ’tis snowing. I’ll +open, I’ll open. + +[_She runs to the door and unlatches it_. ANNIE _and_ ROSE SIMS _come +in_, _shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their cloaks_, _which_ +STEVE _takes from them and hangs on the door_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + +ANNIE. [_As_ STEVE _takes off her cloak_.] ’Tis going to be a dreadful +night. The snow’s coming down something cruel. + +ROSE. There won’t be many to the dance if it keeps on like this, will +there? + +STEVE. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before we +sets out again. + +DORRY. Miss Sims, Miss Sims—Miss Rosie—I’m going along with you to the +dance, Dad says as I may. + +JANE. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, and he +so strict, I don’t know. + +ANNIE. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry—I shouldn’t hardly know +’twas you. [_Turning to_ VASHTI REED.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, my eyes +was very near blinded when I first got in out of the dark, and I didn’t +see as you was there. + +ROSE. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold weather? + +VASHTI. [_Peering into their faces as they stand near her_.] What be +you a-telling I of? + +ANNIE. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed? + +VASHTI. How be I? + +ROSE. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now ’tis come over such nasty +weather? + +VASHTI. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out in the +rain and all the wind, and driv’ there too by them as was laid like +snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she +when her should have gotten to a time of weakness. + +JANE. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down in the +warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the clothes which +you have upon you. [_Moving about and putting tea things on the table_.] +I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for th’ old woman, with a drop +of summat strong to it as will keep her from using of her tongue so free +till morning time. + +ANNIE. [_Sitting down_.] Poor old woman, ’tis a sad thing when folks do +come to such a pass as she. + +ROSE. And han’t got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But she’s +better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the hedge as +we was coming across the meadow. “Why,” I says to Annie, “it must be bad +to have no home to bide in such a night as this!” Isn’t that so, Mrs. +Browning? + +STEVE. Ah, you’re right there, you’re right. + +ROSE. I wouldn’t much care to be upon the road to-night, would you, +Steve? + +VASHTI. And at that hour when th’ old year be passing out, and dark on +all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead which be in +they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to each, as +the corpses do go by. There’s many a night as I have stood and have +looked into they when them did draw near to I, but never the face I did +seek. + +[_Here_ JANE, _who has been making a cup of tea_, _and who has poured +something in it from a bottle_, _advances to_ VASHTI. + +JANE. Here, Vashti Reed, here’s a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take and +drink it up and very likely ’twill warm th’ inside of you, for I’ll lay +as you haven’t seen a mouthful of naught this day. + +STEVE. Ah, that’s it, that’s it. When folks do go leer ’tis a powerful +lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads of they. + +[VASHTI _takes the cup and slowly drinks_. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran’ma, at what Miss Sims +have got on! + +VASHTI. [_Putting down her cup and leaning forward_.] Which of you be +clothed for marriage? + +JANE. Get along of you, Gran, ’tis for the dance up at the school as +they be come. + +VASHTI. Come you here—her what’s to wed our Steve. Come you here and +let I look at you. My eyes bain’t so quick as they was once. Many tears +have clouded they. But come you here. + +DORRY. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice +things. + +ANNIE. [_Steps in front of_ VASHTI.] Here I be, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Be you the one what’s going to wed our Steve come New Year. + +ANNIE. That’s it, Mrs. Reed, that’s it. + +VASHTI. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage or +for burial? + +STEVE. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don’t you take no +account of she. ’Tis worry and that as have caused the mind of she to +wander a bit, but she don’t mean nothing by it. + +ANNIE. All right, Steve. She don’t trouble me at all. [_To_ VASHTI.] +’Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? Han’t he got one +already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do Steve want +for with a new one then? + +STEVE. Come on, girls. I can’t stand no more of this. Let’s off, and +call in to George’s as we do go by. + +ROSE. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said as how +’twouldn’t be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve. + +STEVE. That’s right, then we’ll bide a bit longer till George do call +for we, only ’tis more nor I can stand when th’ old lady gets her tongue +moving. + +DORRY. Why, look, Gran’s fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that Gran’s +dropped off and can’t say none of her foolish things any more, do stand +so as Dad and Gran’ma can see the frock which you’ve got for the dance. + +ANNIE. O, Dorry, you’re a little torment, that’s the truth. + +[_She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she has +on_. + +ROSE. Well, Steve? + +STEVE. Well, Rosie. + +ROSE. Haven’t you got nothing as you can say, Steve? + +STEVE. What be I to say, Rose? + +ROSE. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course. + +STEVE. O, ’tis all right, I suppose. + +ROSE. All right! And is that about all as you’ve seen? Why, bless you, +Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to know! + +STEVE. Well, there bain’t nothing wrong, be there? + +ROSE. Of course there isn’t. But I never did see such a man as you, +Steve. Why, I don’t believe as you’d know whether Annie haves a pair of +eyes to her face or not, nor if they be the same colour one to t’other. + +STEVE. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I’ve picked +out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I is to be +made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me this night, I +reckon. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder what I +should feel if ’twas me that was going to be married! + +ROSE. You get and ask Annie how ’tis with her, Dorry. I could tell a +fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the +candles that’s burned right down to the very end of them, I could. + +ANNIE. Don’t you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. +She’s that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce do +know what she’s a-saying of. But suppose you was just to ask her what +she’s got wrapped so careful in that there paper in her hand. + +DORRY. O, Rosie, whatever is it? + +STEVE. What’s that you’ve got hold on now, Rosie? + +ANNIE. Come, show them all, Rose. + +[ROSE _slowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse carnation +and a fern_. + +ROSE. There ’tis, then. + +DORRY. O my, Rosie—isn’t it beautiful. Be you going to wear it to the +dance? + +ROSE. No, Dorry, ’tisn’t for me. + +ANNIE. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, who is it for, Rosie—who is it for? + +ROSE. No—I’m not a-going to tell none of you. + +[_She wraps it up carefully again_. + +ANNIE. I’ll tell then, for you. + +ROSE. No, you shan’t, Annie—that you shan’t! + +ANNIE. That I shall, then—come you here, Dorry—I’ll whisper it to your +ear. [_Whispers it to_ DORRY. + +DORRY. [_Excitedly_.] I know who ’tis—I know—’tis for Mr. Davis—for Mr. +Davis! Think of that, Dad—the flower ’tis for George Davis. + +ROSE. O, Annie, how you could! + +STEVE. George— + +VASHTI. [_Suddenly roused_.] Who named George? There was but one man +as was called by that name—and he courted my girl till her was faint and +weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day when he was come— + +DORRY. There’s Gran gone off on her tales again. + +[JANE _crosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head of_ VASHTI, _who +relapses again into sleep_. + +STEVE. [_Sitting down by_ ROSE.] What’s this, Rose? I han’t heard tell +of this afore. Be there aught a-going on with you and George, then? + +ROSE. No, Steve, there isn’t nothing in it much, except that George and +me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like—and a two or three time +before. + +STEVE. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give to +George, then? + +ROSE. Well—’tis for George as I’ve saved it out of some what the +gardener up at Squire’s gived me. + +STEVE. [_As though to himself_.] ’Tis a powerful many years since +George he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon a +maid, I didn’t since— + +ROSE. Well, Steve, I’m sure there’s no need for you to be upset over it. +’Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he doesn’t. + +STEVE. Who said as I was upset, Rose? + +ROSE. Look at the long face what you’ve pulled. Annie, if ’twas me, I +shouldn’t much care about marrying a man with such a look to him. + +ANNIE. What’s up, Steve? What’s come over you like, all of a minute? + +STEVE. ’Tis naught, Annie, naught. ’Twas summat of past times what +comed into the thoughts of me. But ’tis naught. And, Rose, if so be as +’twas you as George is after, I’d wish him to have luck, with all my +heart, I would, for George and me—well, we too has always stuck close one +to t’other, as you knows. + +JANE. Ah—that you has, George and you—you and George. + +ANNIE. Hark—there’s someone coming up now. + +DORRY. O, let me open the door—let me open it! + +[_She runs across the room and lifts the latch_. GEORGE _stands in the +doorway shaking the snow from him_. _Then he comes into the room_. + +DORRY. I’m going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven’t I got a nice +frock on? + +STEVE. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night? + +GEORGE. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss Sims, +good evening—Yes, Steve, I’ll off with my coat, for ’tis pretty well +sprinkled with snow, like. + +[STEVE _helps_ GEORGE _to take off his overcoat_. + +ROSE. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis. + +JANE. And that’s a thing which han’t no luck to it, if ’tis said afore +the proper time, Rosie. + +ROSE. Well, but ’tis New Year’s Eve, isn’t it? + +GEORGE. Ah, so ’tis—and a terrible nasty storm as ever I knowed! ’Twas +comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, as I was a-crossing of the +meadow. And there lay some poor thing sheltering below the hedge, with a +bit of sacking throwed over her. I count ’tis very near buried alive as +anyone would be as slept out in such a night. + +STEVE. I reckon ’twould be so—so ’twould. But come you in and give +yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of +cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing. + +JANE. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when ’tis free as +you’ll get them up at the school? + +STEVE. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I’ll fetch it right +away. + +JANE. No, you don’t. I’ll have no one meddling in the pantry save it’s +myself. Dorry, give me that there jug. + +DORRY. [_Taking a jug from the dresser_.] Here ’tis, Gran’ma, shall I +light the candle? + +JANE. So long as you’ll hold the matches careful. + +ANNIE. Well—’tis to be hoped as the weather’ll change afore morning. + +ROSE. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride. + +GEORGE. That us shall, but it don’t look much as though we should get +it. + +[JANE BROWNING _and_ DORRY _go out of the room_. + +STEVE. Sit you down, George, along of we. ’Tis right pleased as I be +for to see you here to-night. + +GEORGE. Well, Steve, I bain’t one for a lot of words but I be powerful +glad to see you look as you does, and ’tis all joy as I wishes you and +her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow. + +ANNIE. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, and a +girl can’t do no more, can she? + +ROSE. And so you’re going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. ’Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has +broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got +together and I among they. + +ROSE. O, come, Mr. Davis! + +GEORGE. ’Tis with me as though t’were all hoof and horn as I was made +of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality folks and +such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his self in parts +when the ground be thick on them. + +ANNIE. Very likely ’tis a-shewing of them into their places of a Sunday +and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along with the +service, like, as has made Steve so easy. + +ROSIE. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, +too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s +for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know what. + +GEORGE. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don’t much agree with I, Miss +Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the maids +do pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and do speak as though ’twere +church and parson at his sermon, I can’t think of naught but how ’twill +feel for to be out in the open again. Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch +my breath in one of they places from fear as there should be too much +sound to it, and the noise of my own hammer do very near scare I into +fits. + +ROSE. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it? + +[MRS. BROWNING _and_ DORRY _come back and the cider is put upon the +table_, DORRY _and_ ANNIE _getting glasses from the dresser_. + +GEORGE. [_Drinking_.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss Sims. +And many years of happiness to you both. + +STEVE. Thank you kindly, George. + +ANNIE. Thank you, Mr. Davis. + +DORRY. Hasn’t Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. +Davis? + +GEORGE. Well, I’m blessed if I’d taken no notice of it, Dorry. + +DORRY. Why, you’re worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look at +Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she’s got wrapped up in that +there paper in her hand. + +ROSE. O, Dorry, you little tease, you! + +DORRY. You just ask her, Mr. Davis. + +ROSE. [_Undoing the parcel_.] There, ’tis nothing to make such a +commotion of! Just a flower—see, Mr. Davis? I knowed as it was one what +you was partial to, and so I just brought it along with me. + +GEORGE. That there bain’t for I, be it? + +ROSE. Indeed ’tis—if so as you’ll accept of it. + +GEORGE. O, ’tis best saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be +most gone from it, if I was to wear it now. + +DORRY. No, no, Mr. Davis, ’tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put it +on him, Rosie, put it on him. + +ROSE. [_Tossing the flower across the table to_ GEORGE.] He can put it +on hisself well enough, Dorry. + +GEORGE. [_After a moment’s hesitation_.] I don’t know so well about +that. + +ANNIE. Go on, Rosie—pin it into his coat. Come, ’tis getting late. + +DORRY. O, pin it in quick, Rosie—come along—and then we can start to the +dancing. + +ROSE. Shall I, Mr. Davis? + +[GEORGE _gets up and crosses the room_; ROSE _takes the flower and_ DORRY +_hands her a pin_. _She slowly pins the flower in his coat_. + +STEVE. [_Stretching out his hand to_ ANNIE.] You be so quiet like +to-night, Annie. There isn’t nothing wrong, is there, my dear? + +ANNIE. ’Tis only I’m that full of gladness, Steve, as I don’t seem to +find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most days. + +STEVE. And that’s how ’tis with I, too, Annie. ’Tis as though I was out +in the meadows, like—And as though ’twere Sunday, and such a stillness +all around that I might think ’twas only me as was upon the earth. But +then summat stirs in me sudden and I knows that you be there, too, and +’tis my love for you what has put me right away from the rest of them. + +ANNIE. Steve, you’ve had a poor, rough time, I know, but I’ll do my best +for to smooth it like for you, I will. + +STEVE. See here, Annie—I be comed out of the rain and into the sun once +more. + +DORRY. [_Leading_ GEORGE _forward_.] See how fine Mr. Davis do +look—see, isn’t he grand? O, Miss Sims, see how nice the flower do look +what Rosie has pinned in his coat! See, Gran’ma. + +JANE. I’ve enough to do putting away all these glasses which have been +messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed this +night, seeing as ’tis late already and you none of you gone off yet. + +DORRY. O, let us be off, let us be off—and what am I to put over my +dress, Gran’ma, so as the snow shan’t get to it? + +JANE. If you go careful and don’t drop it in the snow may be as I’ll +wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what’s hanging behind the door. + +ROSE. Give me my cloak, Steve—O, how I do love a bit of dancing, don’t +you, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they great +drag horses, Miss Rose. + +ROSE. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don’t believe half what you do say, no +more does Annie. + +ANNIE. If Mr. Davis don’t know how to dance right, you’re the one to +learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and I’ll look +after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. Good-night, Mrs. Reed. + +DORRY. Why, Granny’s sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know. + +JANE. And about time, too. ’Tis to be hoped as we shan’t have no more +trouble with her till morning. + +DORRY. [_Her eyes raised to the door latch_.] Just look, why the latch +is up. + +ANNIE. Whoever’s that, I wonder? + +ROSE. ’Tis very likely someone with a horse what’s lost a shoe, Steve. + +JANE. I guess as ’tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis. + +STEVE. I bain’t a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, not if +’twas the King hisself what stood at the door. + +GEORGE. If ’tis a corpse, I guess her’ll have to wait till the dancing’s +finished, then. + +[VASHTI _groans in her sleep and turns over in the chair_, _her face to +the fire_. + +STEVE. [_Going to the door and speaking loudly_.] Who’s there? + +GEORGE. Us’ll soon see. + +[GEORGE _unbolts the door and opens it_, _first a little way_, _and then +wide_. MAY _is seen standing in the doorway_. _Her shawl is drawn over +head and the lower part of her face_. + +GEORGE. Here’s someone what’s missed their way, I count. + +ROSE. Why, ’tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do +believe. + +ANNIE Whatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night! + +JANE. [_Advancing firmly_.] ’Tis one of they dirty roadsters what +there’s too many of all about the country. Here, I’ll learn you to come +to folks’ houses this time of night, disturbing of a wedding party. You +take and get gone. We don’t want such as you in here, we don’t. + +[MAY _looks fixedly into_ JANE’S _face_. + +GEORGE. I count ’tis very nigh starved by the cold as she be. + +STEVE. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone. + +JANE. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that’ll learn the likes +of she to come round begging at folks’ houses what’s respectable. + +GEORGE. ’Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her this night. + +STEVE. And that ’tis, George, and what’s more, I bain’t a-going for to +do it. ’Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog was to come to +me for shelter I’d not be one to put him from the door. + +JANE. ’Tain’t to be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my +kitchen when ’tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve. + +STEVE. To-morrow, ’tis my day, Mother, and I’ll have the choosing of my +guests, like. [_Turning to_ MAY.] Come you in out of the cold. This +night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, may be, in years to come, +’twill please you to think back upon the eve afore my wedding. + +[STEVE _stands back_, _holding the door wide open_. MAY, _from the +threshold_, _has been looking first on one face and then on another_. +_Suddenly her eyes fall on_ ANNIE, _who has moved to_ STEVE’S _side_, +_laying her hand on his arm_, _and with a sudden defiance_, _she draws +herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 3. + + +_The same room_, _two hours later_. VASHTI REED _seems to be sleeping as +before by the fireside_. _On the settle_ MAY _is huddled_, _her head +bent_, _the shawl drawn over her face_. JANE BROWNING _moves about_, +_putting away work things_, _cups and plates_, _seeing that the window is +closed_, _winding the clock_, _etc._ _There is a tap at the outer door +and_ JANE _opens it_. STEVE, ANNIE _and_ DORRY _enter_. + +JANE. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to let +you all in and not able to get away to my bed? + +DORRY. O, Gran’ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, I +could. We comed away early ’cause Miss Sims, she said as the dancing +gived her the headache, but the New Year han’t been danced in yet, it +han’t. + +JANE. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that’s what you’ve got to +do—and quickly. + +DORRY. All right, Gran’ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, Dad. O, +why, there’s Granny! But her’s tight asleep so I shan’t say nothing to +her. O, I do wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and music playing +every night, I do! + +[DORRY _goes towards the staircase door_. + +JANE. [_Calling after her_.] I’m a-coming along directly. Be careful +with the candle, Dorry. + +[JANE _opens the door and_ DORRY _goes upstairs_. STEVE _and_ ANNIE +_come towards the fireplace_. + +STEVE. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing? + +JANE. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what’s been and +got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s the matter with she. +See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of her; and not +a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her the drop of tea a +while back. + +STEVE. Well, well—she won’t do us no harm where she do bide. Leave her +in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way. + +JANE. She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, I’m +thinking. + +STEVE. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, +Mother. + +JANE. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home? + +ANNIE. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back—’tis but a step—and +I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again. + +STEVE. I’m coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. I’ll be +back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes. + +JANE. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t +left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the +kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like. + +[JANE _lights a candle and goes upstairs_. STEVE _takes_ ANNIE’S _hand +and they go together towards the outer door_. _As they pass to the other +side of the curtain which is drawn across the room_, MAY _suddenly rears +herself up on the settle_, _throwing back her shawl_, _and she leans +forward_, _listening intently_. + +STEVE. To-morrow night, Annie! + +ANNIE. There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve. + +STEVE. You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can +rightly think on, that ’tis. + +ANNIE. Steve! + +STEVE. Well, Annie. + +ANNIE. There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit this night. You +didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas so. + +STEVE. Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was +different from ordinary. + +ANNIE. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the +looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. Steve, I +couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on and +all. So I told you as I’d the headache. + +STEVE. O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t +seem to get them pushed aside, like. + +ANNIE. How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve. + +STEVE. I don’t much care for to, Annie. But ’twas thoughts what comed +out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard with—with her +as was Dorry’s mother. + +ANNIE. O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, +Steve. + +STEVE. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might go +the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being so +much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t bear for it to +happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of me always +stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I could not stand +it if ’twas as I should lose you. + +ANNIE. There’s nothing in the world as could make you lose me, Steve. +For, look you here, I don’t think as there’s a woman on the earth what’s +got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of quiet, Steve, and of +gladness, because that you and me is to be wed and to live aside of one +another till death do part us. + +STEVE. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake. + +ANNIE. And what you feels about the days gone by don’t count, Steve, +’cause they bain’t true of you. You was always a kind husband, and from +what I’ve hear-ed folks say, she was one as wasn’t never suited to +neither you nor yours. + +STEVE. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks one way or +t’other can’t do she no good. Only ’tis upon me as I could take you +to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had been kinder to she, +the time her was here. + +ANNIE. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you’re regular done up, and that’s +what ’tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this afore. + +STEVE. All right, my dear, don’t you mind what I’ve been saying. Very +like ’tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But ’tis a good thought, +bain’t it, Annie, that come to-morrow at this time, there won’t be no +more need for us to part? + +ANNIE. [_As he opens the door_.] O, ’tis dark outside! + +[_They both leave the cottage_. MAY _throws back her shawl as though +stifled_. _She gets up and first stands bending over_ VASHTI. _Seeing +that she is still sleeping heavily_, _she goes to the door_, _opens it +gently and looks out_. _After a moment she closes it and walks about the +kitchen_, _examining everything with a fierce curiosity_. _She takes up +the shawl_ DORRY _has been wearing_, _looks at it hesitatingly_, _and +then clasps it passionately to her face_. _Hearing steps outside she +flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle_, _where she +sits huddled in the corner_, _having wrapped herself again in her shawl_, +_only her eyes looking out unquietly from it_. STEVE _re-enters_. _He +bolts the door_, _then goes up to the table in front of the fire to put +out the lamp_. + +STEVE. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you up a bit +this cold night? + +[MAY _looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head_. + +STEVE. All right. You can just bide where you be on the settle. ’Tis +warmer within nor upon the road to-night, and I’ll come and let you out +when ’tis morning. + +[MAY _raises both her hands in an attitude of supplication_. + +STEVE. [_Pausing_, _with his hand on the burner of the lamp_.] Be there +summat as you wants what I can give to you? + +[MAY _looks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper_. + +MAY. Let I bide quiet in the dark, ’tis all I wants now. [STEVE _puts +out the lamp_. + +STEVE. [_As though to himself_, _as he goes towards the door upstairs_.] +Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams. + +[_Curtain_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 4. + + +_The fire is almost out_. _A square of moonlight falls on the floor from +the window_. VASHTI _still sleeps in the chimney corner_. MAY _is +rocking herself to and fro on the settle_. + +MAY. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams—your +dreams—Ah, where is it as they have gone, I’d like for to know. The +dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath the hedge. Dreams! + +[_She gets up_, _feels down the wall in a familiar way for the +bellows—blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently_. _Then she +draws forward a chair and sits down before it_. + +MAY. [_Muttering to herself_.] ’Tis my own hearth when ’tis all said +and done. + +[_She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself_, _looking +sharply at_ VASHTI REED _now and then_. + +[_Presently_ VASHTI’S _eyes open_, _resting_, _at first unseeingly_, _and +then with recognition_, _on_ MAY’S _face_. + +VASHTI. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as you would. + +MAY. How did you know ’twas me, then? + +VASHTI. ’Cause I knowed. There ’tis. + +MAY. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming of +myself by this here fire. + +VASHTI. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don’t see nothing of it, +then. + +MAY. Ah, I be got into an ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve—Steve, +he looked in the face of I and didn’t so much as think who ’twas. “Get +off to the drunken sleep of you and to your dreams.” ’Twas that what he +did say to I. + +VASHTI. Your old mother do know better nor Steve. Ah, ’tweren’t in no +shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face of you, but +stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the water what layed +on the roads, and on the dry where there be high places, and in the grass +of the meadows. That’s how ’twas as I did see you, May. + +MAY. And I would like to know how ’twas as Steve saw I. + +VASHTI. Ah, and there was they as did buzz around as thick as waspes in +summer time and as said, “She be under ground and rotting now—that her +be.” And they seed in I but a poor old woman what was sleeping in the +chimney corner, with no hearing to I. “Rotting yourself,” I says, and I +rears up sudden, “She be there as a great tree and all the leaves of it +full out—and you—snakes in the grass, snakes in the grass, all of you!” +There ’tis. + +MAY. [_Mockingly_.] “It’s a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, that +to-morrow this time there won’t be no need for us to part?” And in the +days when I was a young woman and all the bloom of I upon me, ’twouldn’t +have been once as he’d have looked on such as her. + +VASHTI. And ’tis full of bloom and rare fine and handsome as you appear +now, May, leastways to my old eyes. And when you goes up to Steve and +shows yourself, I take it the door’ll be shut in the face of the mealy +one what they’ve all been so took up with this long while. I count that +’twill and no mistake. So ’tis. + +MAY. [_Fiercely_.] Hark you here, Mother, and ’tis to be wed to-morrow +as they be! Wed—the both of them, the both of them! And me in my flesh, +and wife to Steve! “Can I cover you up with a bit of old sack or +summat?” Old sack! When there be a coverlet with feathers to it +stretched over where he do lie upstairs. “I’ll let you out when ’tis +morning.” Ah, you will, will you, Steve Browning? Us’ll see how ’twill +be when ’tis morning—Us’ll see, just won’t us then! + +VASHTI. Ah, ’tis in her place as th’ old woman will be set come +morning—And that her’ll be—I count as ’tis long enough as her have +mistressed it over the house. [_Shaking her fist towards the ceiling_.] +You old she fox, you may gather the pads of you in under of you now, and +crouch you down t’other side of the fire like any other old woman of your +years—for my May’s comed back, and her’ll show you your place what you’ve +not known where ’twas in all the days of your old wicked life. So ’tis. + +MAY. Her han’t changed a hair of her, th’ old stoat! Soon as I heard +the note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though ’twas chattering in the +cold as I had been but a moment afore. “One of they dirty roadsters—I’ll +learn you to come disturbing of a wedding party, I will.” [_Shaking her +fist towards the ceiling_.] No, you bain’t changed, you hardened old +sinner—but the words out of the cruel old mouth of you don’t hurt I any +more—not they. I be passed out of the power of such as you. I knowed +I’d have to face you when I comed back, but I knowed, too, as I should +brush you out of the way of me, like I would brush one of they old maid +flies. + +VASHTI. Ah, and so I telled she many a time. “You bide till my May be +comed home,” I says. “She be already put safe to bed and ’tis in the +churchyard where her do take her rest,” says she. Ah, what a great liar +that is, th’ old woman what’s Steve’s mother! And the lies they do grow +right out of she tall as rushes, and the wind do blow they to the left +and to the right. So ’tis. + +MAY. Ah, she han’t any more power for to hurt I in the ugly old body of +her. I be got beyond she. There be but one or two things as can touch I +now—But one or two. And I be struck to the heart, I be, struck to the +heart. + +[_She bends forwards_, _rocking herself to and fro and weeping_. + +MAY. [_As though speaking to herself_.] Back and fro, back and fro—On +the dark of the earth and where ’twas light. When ’twas cold and no +sound but the steps of I on the road, and the fox’s bark; when ’twas hot +and the white dust smouldered in the mouth of I, and things flying did +plague I with the wings of they—But ’twas always the same thought as I +had—“Some day I shall come back to Steve,” I did tell me. And then +again—“Some day I shall get and hold Dorry in my arms.” And now I be +comed. And Steve—and Steve—Ah, I be struck deep to the heart, ’tis so. +Struck deep! + +VASHTI. You get upstairs to Steve, May. Get you up there and take the +place what’s yours. + +MAY. My place, my place! Where’s that I want to know! ’Tis another +what’s got into the nest now, to lie snug and warm within. And ’tis for +I to spread the wings of me and to go out into the storm again. So ’tis. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve, May, and let him but look on the form of you +and on the bloom, and us’ll see what he will do with t’other hussy then. +Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got fattened up and licked +over by th’ old woman till ’tis queens as they fancies theirselves, you +shall tell they summat about what they be, come morning. And your poor +old mother, her’ll speak, too, what hasn’t been let sound her tongue +these years gone by. Ah, hern shall know what us do think of they, hern +shall squat upon the floor and hear the truth. + +MAY. He thought as I was sleeping; but I looked out on her and seed the +way his eyes was cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had cast your eyes on +me like that but once, in days gone by—maybe, maybe I’d not have gone out +and shut the door behind I. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve and let him see you with the candle lit. Her +bain’t no match for he, the young weasel! ’Tis you as has the blood of +me and my people what was grand folk in times gone by, ’tis you, May, as +is the mate for he, above all them white-jowled things what has honey at +the mouth of they, but the heart running over with poison—Ah, and what +throws you the bone and keeps the meat for their own bellies. What sets +the skin afore you and laps the cream theirselves. Vipers, all of them, +and she-cats. There ’tis. + +MAY. Sit you down, Mother, and keep the tongue of you quiet. We don’t +want for to waken they. + +VASHTI. [_Sitting down heavily_.] But we’ve got to waken Steve for he +to know as how you be comed home again. + +MAY. And where’s the good of that, when there bain’t so much as a board +nor a rag, but what’s been stole from I? + +VASHTI. You go and say to him as ’tis his wife what have come back to +her place. And put th’ old woman against the chimney there, and let her +see you a-cutting of the bread and of the meat, and a-setting out of the +food so as that they who be at the table can loose the garments of them +when the eating ’tis finished, if they has a mind to, ’stead of drawing +they together so not to feel ’tis leer. Ah, ’tis time you be comed, May, +’tis time. + +MAY. [_Bitterly_.] I’m thinking ’tis time! + +VASHTI. ’Tis the lies of they be growed big as wheat stalks and the +hardness of their hearts be worse nor death. But ’tis to judgment as +they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the hand of God shall +catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the earth. “Ah, and do +you mind how ’twas you served old Vashti, what never did harm to no one +all the life of her,” I shall call out to th’ old woman in that hour when +her shall be burning in the lake. And her shall beg for a drop of water +to lay upon the withered tongue of she, and it shall be denied, for other +hands nor ours be at work, and ’tis the wicked as shall perish—yes, so +’tis. + +MAY. [_Who has been bending forward_, _looking steadily into the fire_.] +Stop that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going to set on I, too, May, now that you be comed +home. ’Tis poor work for an old woman like I. + +MAY. [_As though to herself_.] And as I was laid beneath the +hedge—“’Tis cold as my limbs is, now,” I says, “but I shall be warm this +night.” And the pangs what was in the body of me did fairly quail +I—“’Tis my fill of victuals as I shall soon put within,” thinks I. And +they was laid a bit. The bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but “I +shan’t feel lonesome no longer than this hour,” I telled me. For to my +thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till I should be comed back. +And Dorry, too. There ’tis. [_A long silence_. + +MAY. I’d have been content to bide with the door shut—so long as it was +shut with they two and me inside the room—th’ old woman—well, I count I +shouldn’t have took many thought for she—she could have bided in her +place if she’d had a mind—I’d have set me down, when once my clothes was +decent and clean, and put my hands to the work and made a tidy wife for +Steve, as good nor better than that there dressed-up thing out yonder—And +bred Dorry up the right way, too, I would. But ’tis done with now, so +’tis. + +VASHTI. [_As though to herself_.] And when ’tis morning and she gets +her down—“There, ’tis my girl as is mistress here, I’ll say to her—and +’tis my girl as shall sit cup end of the table—and you get you to the +fire corner and bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, spite that +you do slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you.” + +MAY. And I could set she back in her place, too, that tricked-up, flashy +thing over the way. I’ve but to climb the stairs and clap my hand on +Steve—“Get you from your dreams,” I have got but to say, “the woman +what’s yourn be comed home. Her have tasted the cup of death, very near, +and her have been a-thirst and an hungered. But her has carried summat +for you in her heart all the way what you wouldn’t find in the heart of +t’other, no, not if you was to cut it open and search it through.” And +the right belongs to I to shut the door on t’other hussey, holding Steve +to I till death divides we. + +VASHTI. Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as I did pass +by. “And may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon you,” I says +to them, “for ’tis a poor old woman as I be what has lost her child; and +what’s that to you if so be as the shoes on her feet be broken or no? +’Tis naked as the toes of you shall go, that hour when the days of this +world shall be rolled by. Ah, ’tis naked and set on the lake of burning +fire as the hoofs of you shall run!” + +MAY. I could up and screech so that the house should ring with the sound +of me, “I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these many years. What’s +this that you’ve got doing with another?” I could take hold on him and +make him look into the eyes of I, yes, and th’ old woman, too. “See +here, your ‘dirty roadster,’ look well on to her.” “Why, ’tis May.” But +the eyes of him would then be cast so that I should see no more than a +house what has dead within, and the blind pulled down. And I, what was +thinking as there might be a light in the window! + +VASHTI. “And you may holler,” I says to them, “you may holler till you +be heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won’t take no account +of you.” And the lies of them which have turned into ropes of hempen +shall come up and strangle they. But me and my child shall pass by all +fatted up and clothed, and with the last flick, afore the eyelids of they +drop, they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the teeth of them shall +they repent them of their sins. Too late, too late! There ’tis. + +MAY. Too late! There ’tis, I be comed home too late. + +[_She rises and takes up her shawl_, _wrapping it about her shoulders_, +_and muttering_. + +MAY. But I know a dark place full of water—’Tis Simon’s pool they calls +it—And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and be in quiet. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going up to Steve now? + +MAY. No, I bain’t. ’Tis out from here that I be going. And back on to +the road. + +VASHTI. May, my pretty May, you’re never going for to leave I, what’s +such a poor old woman and wronged cruel. You step aloft and rouse up +Steve. He’ll never have you go upon the roads again once he do know as +you’ve comed back. + +MAY. Steve! What’s it to Steve whether the like of I do go or bide? +What be there in I for to quell the love of she which Steve’s got in him? +Dead leaves for new. Ditch water for the clear spring. + +VASHTI. Give him to drink of it, May. + +MAY. [_Looking upwards to the ceiling_.] No, Steve. Hark you here. I +bain’t a-going to do it. I bain’t going to knock over the spoonful of +sweet what you be carrying to your mouth. You take and eat of it in +quiet and get you filled with the honey. ’Tain’t my way to snatch from +no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed. There, ’tis +finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done. And, don’t you fear, +Steve, as ever I’ll trouble you no more. + +VASHTI. [_Rising_.] I be a-going to fetch him down, and that’s what I’m +a-going for to do. + +MAY. [_Pushing her back into her chair_.] Harken you, Steve, he’s never +got to know as I’ve been here. + +VASHTI. I tell you, May, I’ll screech till he do come! + +MAY. [_Sitting down by_ VASHTI _and laying her hand on her_.] I’ll put +summat in your mouth as’ll stop you if you start screeching, mother. +Why, hark you here. ’Tis enough of this old place as I’ve had this +night, and ’tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th’ old woman—there’s +naught much changed in she—And Steve—well, Steve be wonderful hard in the +soul of him. “Can I get you an old sack,” says he—and never so much as +seed ’twas I—Ah—’tis more than enough to turn the stomach in anyone—that +it is. [_A slight pause_. + +MAY. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside for long. The +four walls of this here room have very near done for me now, so they +have. And ’tis the air blowing free upon the road as I craves—Ah, and +the wind which hollers, so that the cries of we be less nor they of lambs +new born. + +VASHTI. God bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door ’tis the +mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed. + +MAY. So ’tis. And if I stopped ’twould be the same, her’d be between us +always, the pretty cage bird—For look you here on I, Mother, and +here—[_pointing to her feet_]—and here—and here—See what’s been done to I +what’s knocked about in the world along the roads, and then think if I be +such a one as might hold the love of Steve. + +VASHTI. [_Beginning to whine desolately_.] O, do not you go for to +leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead all +the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around of I as +might be the venomous beasts in the grass. Stop with I, my pretty +child—Stop along of your old mother, for the days of I be few and +numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land. + +MAY. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another time. +I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th’ old woman won’t never know +as I’ve been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth shut, maybe I’ll drop in +at our own place on the hill one of these days and bide comfortable along +of you, only now—I’m off, do you hear? + +VASHTI. I can’t abide for you to go. ’Tis more nor I can stand. Why, +if you goes, May, ’tis t’other wench and th’ old woman what’ll get +mistressing it here again in your place. [_Rising up_.] No—you shan’t +go. I’ll holler till I’ve waked them every one—you shan’t! My only +child, my pretty May! Ah, ’tis not likely as you shall slip off again. +’Tis not. + +MAY. Look you here, Mother—bide still, I say. [_Looking round the room +distractedly_.] See here—’tis rare dry as I be. You bide quiet and +us’ll have a drink together, that us will. Look, th’ old woman’s forgot +to put away the bottle, us’ll wet our mouths nice and quiet, mother—she +won’t hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See! + +[MAY _gets up and crosses the room_; _she takes the bottle off the shelf +where she has just perceived it_, _and also two glasses_; _she fills one +and hands it to her mother_. + +VASHTI. [_Stretching out her hand_.] ’Tis rare dry and parched as I be, +now I comes to think on it, May. + +MAY. That’s right—drink your fill, Mother. + +VASHTI. ’Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again, May. + +MAY. Ah, ’tis my own drink and all, come to that. + +VASHTI. So ’tis. And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water. I +seed her spoon it in the pot, and ’twas not above a half spoon as her did +put in for I, th’ old badger. My eye was on she, though, and her’ll have +it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the trumpet sound and +all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking on at her as is brought +to judgment. How will it be then, you old sinner, says I. + +MAY. [_Re-filling the glass_.] Take and drink this little drop more, +mother. + +[VASHTI _drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half closed +eyes_. + +MAY. [_Putting away the bottle and glasses_.] Her’ll sleep very like, +now. And when her wakes, I take it ’twill appear as though she’d been +and dreamt summat. + +VASHTI. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. I would +not have you be on the roads. + +MAY. [_Sitting down beside her_.] O, the roads be fine on nights when +the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the mouth of +you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes quick on +through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and ’tis a large +town and there be folk moving this way and that and the music playing, +and great fowls and horses what’s got clocks to the inside of they, +a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a-riding on them—And the +booths with red sugar and white, all lit and animals that’s wild +a-roaring and a-biting in the tents—And girls what’s dancing, standing +there in satin gowns all over gold and silver—And you walks to and fro in +it all and ’tis good to be there and free—And ’tis better to be in such +places and to come and to go where you have a mind than to be cooped in +here, with th’ old woman and all—’Tis a fine life as you lives on the +roads—and ’tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother. + +VASHTI. [_Who has gradually been falling into sleep_.] I count ’tis so. +’Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count I’ll go along of you, +come morning. + +MAY. That’s it, Mother, that’s it. Us’ll take a bit of sleep afore we +sets off, won’t us? And when morning comes, us’ll open the door and go +out. + +VASHTI. That’s it, when ’tis day. + +[_Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep_. + +[MAY _watches her for some moments_. _Then she gets up softly and wraps +her shawl round her_. _The window shews signs of a gray light outside_, +MAY _goes quietly towards the outer door_. _As she reaches it_, DORRY +_comes into the room from the staircase_. + +DORRY. [_Going up to_ VASHTI.] Granny, ’tis the New Year! I’m come +down to see to the fire and to get breakfast for Dad and Gran’ma. Why, +Granny, you’re sleeping still. And where’s that poor tramp gone off to? +[_She looks round the room and then sees_ MAY _by the door_. + +DORRY. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road afore ’tis got +light? + +MAY. [_In a hoarse whisper_.] And that I be. ’Tis very nigh to +daybreak, so ’tis. + +DORRY. Stop a moment. [_Calling up the stairs_.] Daddy, the tramp +woman, she’s moving off already. + +STEVE. [_From upstairs_.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along of +she. I don’t care that anyone should go an-hungered this day. + +DORRY. [_Turning to_ MAY.] There—you bide a minute whilst I cuts the +loaf. My Dad’s going to get married this day, and he don’t care that +anyone should go hungry. + +[MAY _comes slowly back into the room and stands watching_ DORRY, _who +fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table_. _Then she +pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in_. + +DORRY. The snow’s very nigh gone, and ’tis like as not as the sun may +come out presently. Here’s a piece of bread to take along of you. +There, it’s a good big piece, take and eat it. + +[MAY _hesitates an instant_, _then she stretches out her hand and takes +the bread and puts it beneath her shawl_. + +MAY. And so there’s going to be a wedding here to-day? + +DORRY. ’Tis my Dad as is to be married. + +MAY. ’Tis poor work, is twice marrying. + +DORRY. My Dad’s ever so pleased, I han’t seen him so pleased as I can +remember. I han’t. + +MAY. Then maybe the second choosing be the best. + +DORRY. Yes, ’tis—Gran’ma says as ’tis—and Dad, he be ever so fond of +Miss Sims—and I be, too. + +MAY. Then you’ve no call to wish as her who’s gone should come back to +you, like? + +DORRY. What’s that you’re saying? + +MAY. You don’t never want as your mammy what you’ve lost should be +amongst you as afore? + +DORRY. I never knowed my mammy. Gran’ma says she had got summat bad in +her blood. And Granny’s got the same. But Miss Sims, she’s ever so nice +to Dad and me, and I’m real pleased as she’s coming to stop along of us +always after that they’re married, like. + +MAY. And th’ old woman what’s your gran’ma, Dorry? + +DORRY. However did you know as I was called “Dorry”? + +MAY. I heard them call you so last night. + +DORRY. And whatever do you want to know about Gran’ma? + +MAY. What have her got to say ’bout the—the—wench what’s going to marry +your dad? + +DORRY. O, Gran’ma, she thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, and she says +as how poor Dad, what’s been served so bad, will find out soon what ’tis +to have a real decent wife, what’ll help with the work and all, and what +won’t lower him by her ways, nor nothing. + +MAY. Look you here—’tis growing day. I must be getting off and on to +the road. + +DORRY. [_Moving to the door_.] I’ll unbolt the door, then. O, ’tis +fine and daylight now. + +MAY. [_Turning back at the doorway and looking at the room_.] I suppose +you wouldn’t like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry? + +DORRY. No, I shouldn’t. Gran’ma, she don’t let me go nigh road people +as a rule. She’s a-feared as I should take summat from them, I suppose. + +MAY. [_Hoarsely_, _her hand on the door_.] Then just say as you wishes +me well, Dorry. + +DORRY. I’ll wish you a good New Year, then, and Gran’ma said as I was to +watch as you cleared off the place. [MAY _goes out softly and quickly_. +DORRY _watches her until she is out of sight_, _and then she shuts the +door_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_The same room_. _It is nearly mid-day_, _and the room is full of +sunshine_. JANE BROWNING, _in her best dress_, _is fastening_ DORRY’S +_frock_, _close to the window_. + +DORRY. Dad’s been a rare long time a-cleaning of his self up, Gran. + +JANE. Will you bide still! However’s this frock to get fastened and you +moving this way and that like some live eel—and just see what a mark +you’ve made on the elbow last night, putting your arm down somewhere +where you didn’t ought to—I might just as well have never washed the +thing. + +DORRY. Granny’s sound asleep still—she’ll have to be waked time we goes +along to the church. + +JANE. That her shan’t be. Her shall just bide and sleep the drink out +of her, her shall. Do you think as I didn’t find out who ’twas what had +got at the bottle as Dad left on the dresser last night. + +DORRY. Poor Gran, she do take a drop now and then. + +JANE. Shame on th’ old gipsy. Her shall be left to bide till she have +slept off some of the nonsense which is in her. + +DORRY. Granny do say a lot of funny things sometimes, don’t she, now? + +JANE. You get and put on your hat and button your gloves, and let the +old gipsy be. We can send her off home when ’tis afternoon, and us back +from church. Now, where did I lay that bonnet? Here ’tis. + +[_She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall_. +STEVE _comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves_, _carrying his coat_. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat. + +STEVE. And when’s a man to look pleased if ’tis not on his wedding morn, +Dorry? + +DORRY. The tramp what was here did say as how ’twas poor work twice +marrying, but you don’t find it be so, Dad, do you now? + +STEVE. And that I don’t, my little wench. ’Tis as nigh heaven as I be +like to touch—and that’s how ’tis with me. + +JANE. [_Taking_ STEVE’S _coat from him_.] Ah, ’tis a different set out +altogether this time. That ’tis. ’Tis a-marrying into your own rank, +like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies. + +DORRY. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran? + +JANE. [_Beginning to brush_ STEVE’S _coat_.] Ah, much in the same +pattern as th’ old woman what’s drunk asleep against the fireside. Here, +button up them gloves, ’tis time we was off. + +DORRY. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I +grows up I’d like to look as she do, so I would. + +STEVE. [_To_ JANE.] There, Mother, that’ll do. I’d best put him on +now. + +JANE. [_Holding out the coat for him_.] Well, and you be got yourself +up rare smart, Steve. + +STEVE. ’Tis rare smart as I be feeling, Mother. I’m all a kind of a +dazzle within of me, same as ’tis with the sun upon the snow out yonder. + +JANE. Why, look you, there’s George a-coming up the path already. + +DORRY. He’s wearing of the flower what Rosie gived him last night. + +STEVE. [_Opening the door_.] Good morning, George. A first class New +Year to you. You’re welcome, if ever a man was. + +JANE. You bide where you do stand, George, till your feet is dry. My +floor was fresh wiped over this morning. + +GEORGE. [_Standing on the door mat_.] All right, Mrs. Browning. Don’t +you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. How be you to-day, Steve? + +JANE. Dorry, come you upstairs along with me and get your coat put on, +so as your frock bain’t crushed. + +DORRY. O, I wish I could go so that my nice frock was seen and no coat. + +[_They go upstairs_. GEORGE _rubs his feet on the mat and comes into the +room_, _walking up and down once or twice restlessly and in evident +distress of mind_. + +STEVE. [_Who has lit a pipe and is smoking_.] Why, George, be you out +of sorts this morning? You don’t look up to much, and that’s the truth. + +GEORGE. [_Stopping before_ STEVE.] Hark you, Steve. ’Tis on my mind to +ask summat of you. Did you have much speech with the poor thing what you +took in from the snow last night? + +STEVE. No, George, and that I didn’t. Her was mostly in a kind of +drunken sleep all the time, and naught to be got out from she. Mother, +her tried. But ’twas like trying to get water from the pump yonder, when +’tis froze. + +GEORGE. Your mother’s a poor one at melting ice, Steve, and ’tis what we +all knows. + +STEVE. Ah, ’twasn’t much as we could do for the likes of she—what was a +regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of them. And if it hadn’t been so as +’twas my wedding eve, this one shouldn’t have set foot inside of the +house. But ’tis a season when a man’s took a bit soft and foolish, like, +the night afore his marriage. Bain’t that so, George? + +GEORGE. And when was it, Steve, as she went off from here? + +STEVE. That I couldn’t rightly say, George, but I counts ’twas just upon +daybreak. And ’twas Dorry what seed her off the place and gived her a +piece of bread to take along of her. + +GEORGE. And do you think as she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve? + +STEVE. I’m blest if I do know, George. I never gived another thought to +she. What’s up? + +GEORGE. They was getting the body of her from out of Simon’s Pool as I +did come by. That’s all. + +STEVE. From Simon’s Pool, George? + +GEORGE. I count her must have went across the plank afore ’twas fairly +daylight. And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and her—her—as you +did say. + +STEVE. In liquor. + +GEORGE. I reckon as her missed her footing, like. + +STEVE. Well, upon my word, George, who’d have thought on such a thing! + +GEORGE. I count as her had been in the water and below the ice a +smartish while afore they catched sight of she. + +STEVE. Well, ’tis a cold finish to a hot life. + +GEORGE. They took and laid her on the grass, Steve, as I comed by. + +STEVE. If it had been me, I’d have turned the head of me t’other side. + +GEORGE. There was summat in the fashion her was laid, Steve, as drawed I +near for to get a sight of the face of she. + +STEVE. Well, I shouldn’t have much cared for that, George. + +GEORGE. Steve—did you get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing last +night? + +STEVE. No, nor wanted for to, neither. + +GEORGE. There was naught to make you think of— + +STEVE. Of what, George? + +GEORGE. There—Steve, I can’t get it out, I can’t. + +STEVE. Then let it bide in. + +GEORGE. ’Twas the way her was laid, and the long arms of she, and the +hands which was clapped one on t’other, as it might be in church. + +STEVE. [_Looking through the window_.] You shut up, George. Here’s +Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. Don’t you get saying another +word about yon poor wretch nor the end of her. I wouldn’t have my Annie +upset for all the world to-day. ’Tis a thing as must not be spoke of +afore they, nor Dorry neither, do you hear? + +[_He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the latch_. + +GEORGE. Hold back, Steve, a minute. There’s summat more as I’ve got to +say. + +STEVE. You take and shut your mouth up, old George, afore I opens the +door to the girls. + +GEORGE. ’Tis bound for to come from me afore you goes along to church, +Steve. + +STEVE. I warrant ’twill keep till us do come home again, George. + +[_He throws the door wide open with a joyous movement_. ANNIE _and_ ROSE +_in white dresses stand outside_. + +STEVE. Well, Annie, this is a rare surprise, and that’s the truth. +[ANNIE _and_ ROSE _come into the room_. + +ROSE. Father, he’s outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, and all the +rest. We said as ’twould be pleasanter if we was all to go up together +along to the church. + +STEVE. So ’twould be—so ’twould be—’Twas a grand thought of yourn, +Rosie. + +ANNIE. Steve— + +STEVE. [_Taking her hand_.] Annie, I’m fair beside myself this day. + +ANNIE. O, Steve, there was never a day in my life like this one. [DORRY +_and_ JANE _come down_. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice! Gran’ma, don’t Miss Sims look +nice? And Rosie, too. O, they have nice gowns and hats on, haven’t +they, Dad? + +STEVE. I don’t see no gowns nor hats, and that’s the truth. But I sees +summat what’s like—what’s like a meadow of grass in springtime afore the +sun’s got on to it. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, ’tis white, not green, as Miss Sims is wearing. + +STEVE. ’Tis in the eyes of her as I finds my meadow. + +DORRY. O, let me see, Dad, let me look, too! + +ROSE. [_Going up to_ GEORGE, _who has been standing aloof and moody in +the background_.] Come, Mr. Davis, we must have a look, too. + +JANE. ’Get along, get along. We han’t time for such foolishness. It be +close on twelve already. + +ANNIE. O, let me be, all of you! I declare, I don’t know which way to +look, I don’t. + +STEVE. I’ll show you, Annie, then. + +ROSE. [_To_ GEORGE.] Well, Mr. Davis, you don’t seem over bright this +morning. + +STEVE. ’Tis with the nerves as he be took! + +DORRY. Look at what he’s wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie. + +ROSE. ’Tis kept beautiful and fresh. + +STEVE. Come on, come on, all of you. ’Tis time we was at the church. + +ROSE. Hark to him! He’s in a rare hurry for to get out of the house +to-day. + +GEORGE. Bain’t the old lady a-coming? + +JANE. That she bain’t, the old drinking gipsy—’tis at the spirits as her +got in the night—and put away very near the best part of a bottle. Now +she’s best left to sleep it off, she be. + +STEVE. Come on, George. Come, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, isn’t it a pity as Granny will get at the drink, Mr. Davis? +And isn’t Miss Sims nice in her white dress? And don’t Dad look smiling +and pleased? I never did know Dad smile like this afore. + +GEORGE. [_Heavily_.] Come on, Dorry—you take hold of me. You and me, +we’ll keep nigh one to t’other this day, won’t us? + +ROSE. [_Calling from outside_.] Come on, Mr. Davis. + +[_They all go out_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 2. + + +_Nearly an hour later_. _The cottage room is full of sunlight_. + +VASHTI REED _is awake and gazing vacantly about her from the same chair +by the fire_. _Someone knocks repeatedly at the door from outside_. + +VASHTI. And ’tis no bit of rest as I gets for my bones, but they must +come and hustle I and call I from the dreams which was soft. [_The +knocking is heard again_. + +VASHTI. And I up and says to they, “Ah, and you would hustle a poor old +woman what’s never harmed so much as a hair out of the ugly heads of you. +You would hunt and drive of her till she be very nigh done to death. But +there shall come a day when you shall be laid down and a-taking of your +bit of rest, and the thing what you knows of shall get up upon you and +smite you till you do go screeching from the house, and fleeing to the +uttermost part of the land—whilst me and mine—” + +[_The door opens and_ HARRY MOSS _enters_. + +HARRY. Beg pardon, old Missis, but I couldn’t make no one hear me. + +VASHTI. Seeing as them be sick of the abomination which was inside of +they. [_Perceiving_ HARRY.] Well, and what be you as is comed into this +room? + +HARRY. ’Tis Moss as I be called, old Missis. And as I was a-going by +this place, I thought as I’d look in a moment, just for to ask how ’twas +with May. + +VASHTI. They be all gone out from the house. All of them. They be in +clothes what do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps of white among +they. Them be set out in the best as they has, and in grand things of +many colours. There ’tis. + +HARRY. And be you th’ old lady what’s Steve’s mother? + +VASHTI. I be not, sir. ’Tis mother to May as I be. May, what’s comed +back, and what’ll set t’other old vixen in her place soon as they get +home. + +HARRY. Then May, she be gone out, too, have her? + +VASHTI. [_Looking round vaguely_.] Ah, I counts as her be gone to +church along of t’other. + +HARRY. To church, Missis? + +VASHTI. There’s marrying being done down here to-day. + +HARRY. Marrying, be there? Well, but I was ’most feared as how it might +have been t’other thing. + +VASHTI. Ah, that there be—marrying. But there bain’t no more victuals +got into the house as I knows of. Th’ old woman’s seen to that. + +HARRY. And be May gone out, too, along of them to see the marrying? + +VASHTI. Ah, I counts as her be. But her’s a-coming back in a little +while, and you may sit down and bide till she does. + +HARRY. I’d sooner be about and on my way, Missis, if ’tis all the same +to you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get and tell May when she do +come home, that ’tis particular glad I be for to know as her bain’t took +worse, nor nothing. And should I happen in these parts again, ’tis very +likely as I’ll take a look in on she some day. + +VASHTI. Ah, her’ll have got t’other old baggage set in the right place +by then. + +HARRY. [_Looking round him_.] Well, I be rare pleased to think of May +so comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible low. + +VASHTI. T’other’ll be broughted lower. + +HARRY. Look you here, old Missis, ’tis a stomach full of naught as I +carries. If so be as you has a crust to spare— + +VASHTI. [_Pointing to a door_.] There be a plate of meat inside of that +cupboard. You take and fill your belly with it. + +HARRY. Thank you kindly, Missis, but I counts I han’t the time for heavy +feeding this morning. + +VASHTI. ’Twould serve she right, th’ old sinner, for the place to be +licked up clean, against the time when her was come’d back, so ’twould. + +HARRY. Well, Missis, you can tell May ’tis a brave New Year as I do wish +she. + +VASHTI. [_Listening to bells which are heard suddenly ringing_.] There, +there they be! Harken to them! ’Tis with bells as they be coming out. +Bells what’s ringing. I count ’tis fine as May do look now in her +marriage gown. Harken, ’tis the bells a-shaking of the window pane. I +be an old woman, but the hearing of me bain’t spoiled. + +HARRY. I warrant it bain’t, Missis. Why, they’re ringing wonderful +smart. ’Tis enough, upon my word, for to fetch down every stone of the +old place. + +VASHTI. Get you out upon the garden path and tell I if you sees them +a-coming. + +HARRY. That’s it, old Missis, and so I will. + +[_He goes outside the house_. + +VASHTI. [_Sitting upright and looking with fixed vacancy before her_.] +And when they was all laid low and the heads of them bowed. “You would, +would you,” I says, for they was lifting the ends of their ugly mouths at +I. And I passed among they and them did quail and crouch, being with +fear. And me and mine did reach the place what was on the top. “See now +yourselves,” I says, “if so be that you do not go in blindness and in +dark.” ’Twas May what stood there aside of I. And “Look you,” I says, +“over the bended necks of you my child shall pass. For you be done to +death by the lies which growed within you and waxed till the bodies of +you was fed with them and the poison did gush out from your lips.” But +my little child stood in the light, and the hands of her was about the +stars. + +HARRY. [_Coming in_.] Look, they be all a-coming over the meadow, old +Missis. But May han’t comed with they—May han’t come too. + + [_The wedding party enters the room as the curtain falls_.] + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{1} “_As I walked Out_.” _From Folk Songs from Essex collected by R. +Vaughan Williams_. _The whole_, _or two verses can be sung_. + +{2} “The Seeds of Love,” “Folk Songs from Somerset,” edited by Cecil J. +Sharp and Charles L. Marsden. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX PLAYS*** + + +******* This file should be named 5618-0.txt or 5618-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/6/1/5618 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Six Plays + + +Author: Florence Henrietta Darwin + +Editor: Cecil Sharp + +Release Date: December 18, 2014 [eBook #5618] +[This file was first posted on July 23, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX PLAYS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1921 W. Heffer & Sons edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Florence Henrietta Darwin" +title= +"Florence Henrietta Darwin" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>SIX PLAYS<br /> +By <span class="smcap">Florence Henrietta Darwin</span><br /> +and an Introduction by <span class="smcap">Cecil +Sharp</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center">Memoir and Portrait of the +Author</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>W. HEFFER & SONS LTD.,<br /> +CAMBRIDGE, 1921.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><b>SIX PLAYS</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">The Plays may be had in paper +covers at<br /> +<b>1s.</b> <b>6d</b>. net as under</p> +<p>1. LOVERS’ TASKS</p> +<p>2. BUSHES & BRIARS</p> +<p>3. MY MAN JOHN</p> +<p>4. PRINCESS ROYAL }</p> +<p>5. THE SEEDS OF LOVE } In one volume</p> +<p>6. THE NEW YEAR</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">W. HEFFER & SONS LTD.<br /> +CAMBRIDGE</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> been asked to write a few +lines of introduction to these volumes of Country Plays, and I do +so, not because I can claim any right to speak with authority on +the subject of drama, but in order that I may associate myself +and express my sympathy with the endeavour which the author has +made to restore to his rightful estate the English peasant with +whom my work for twenty years or more has brought me into close +relations.</p> +<p>There have been few serious attempts to depict English country +life on the stage. Nor, for that matter, can it be said +that the English peasant has fared over well in our +literature. Nevertheless, the English countryman has +qualities all his own, no less distinctive nor less engaging than +those of his Irish, Scottish, Russian, or Continental neighbours, +even though his especial characteristics have hitherto been for +the most part either ignored or grossly travestied by the +playwright. Now in these plays, as it seems to me, he has +at last come into his own kingdom and is painted, perhaps for the +first time on the stage, in his true colours, neither caricatured +on the one hand, nor, on the other, sentimentalised, but +faithfully portrayed by a peculiarly sympathetic and skilful +hand.</p> +<p>It is well, too, that an authentic record should be preserved +of the life that has been lived in our country villages year in +year out for centuries before its last vestiges—and they +are all that now remain—have been completely submerged in +the oncoming tide of modern civilisation and progress. +Moreover, the songs and dances of the English peasantry that have +become widely known in the last few years have awakened a <a +name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span>general +interest and curiosity in all that concerns the lives and habits +of country people and there are many who will be glad to know +what manner of men and women were they who created things of so +rare and delicate a beauty.</p> +<p>These plays are very simple plays. With one exception, +“The New Year,” they rest for their effects upon +dialogue rather than upon dramatic action or plot. There is +nothing harrowing, problematical, or pathological about any of +them. The stories are as simple, obvious and naïve, +and have the same happy endings as those which the folk delight +to sing about in their own songs, and from which, indeed, judging +by the titles she has given to her plays, the author drew her +inspiration.</p> +<p>It will be noticed that Lady Darwin has eliminated dialect +from the speech which she has put into the mouths of her +characters. This is not because the English villager has no +vernacular of his own—there are as many dialects in England +as there are counties—but because dialect, as no doubt Lady +Darwin knew full well, is not of the essence of speech. It +is the way in which language is used for the purpose of +expression, the order in which words are strung together, the +subtle, elusive turns of speech, the character of its figures and +metaphors, rather than local peculiarities of intonation and +pronunciation, which betray and illumine character. And it +is upon these, the essential characteristics of speech, that the +author of these plays has wisely and, for the most part, wholly, +relied to give life and character to the actors of her +dramas. The results she has achieved by these means is +nothing less than amazing. So accurately has she caught the +peculiar inflections, the inversions, the curious meanderings and +involutions of peasant speech, so penetrating—uncanny at +times—is her insight into the structure and working of the +peasant mind, that, did one not know that this was scarcely the +fact, one would have been tempted to suspect that the author had +herself been born and bred <a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>in a country village and lived all +her days amongst those whose characters and habits of mind she +has described with such fidelity.</p> +<p>Take, for instance, the lesson on courtship which My Man John +gives to his master—is not the actual phrasing almost +photographic in its accuracy? Note, too, the frequent use +of homely metaphor:—</p> +<blockquote><p>’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the +fowls when they be come out from moult. They be bound to +pick about this way and that in their new feathers.</p> +<p>I warrant she be gone shy as a May bettel when ’tis +daylight.</p> +<p>Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ +old mare when her first comes up from grass.</p> +<p>I likes doing things my own way, mother. Womenfolk, they +be so buzzing. ’Tis like a lot of insects around of +any one on a summer’s day. A-saying this way and +that—whilst a man do go at everything quiet and +calm-like.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and the following typical sentences:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Well, mother, I count I’m back a smartish +bit sooner nor what you did expect.</p> +<p>There was a cow—well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows +as I’ve seen in my time, but this one, why, the king +haven’t got the match to she in all his great palace, and +that’s the truth, so ’tis.</p> +<p>I bain’t one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that +I be got a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was +young and did carry a heart what could beat with love, be ahind +of I, and the feel of them clean forgot.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The task of selection has not been an easy one. +“The New Year” is the only Country play on large and +ambitious lines which Lady Darwin left behind her, and it is on +this account, as well as for its own merits, which I venture to +think are very considerable, that it has been included. +“Princess Royal” was <a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>written for a special occasion, and +is frankly more conventional and artificial than the others, but +it will nevertheless appeal to folk-dancers, and for that reason, +rather than perhaps for its intrinsic value, room has been found +for it. The remaining four are, in their several ways, +typical of the author’s work, and I for one have little +doubt but that they will make a wide appeal, more especially +perhaps to those simple-minded people (of whom I am persuaded +there are many, even in these latter-days) who are able to +appreciate the unpretentious beauty of an art that is well-nigh +artless in its simplicity. Some of them may be too slight +in design, too delicate in texture, their beauty too elusive, to +succeed on the professional stage; I do not know. But there +is a large demand for plays of a non-professional character; and +that Lady Darwin’s will be acted with pleasure and listened +to with delight in hut or hall or country-house of a +winter’s evening, I cannot doubt.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">CECIL SHARP.</p> +<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span>FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Florence Henrietta Fisher</span> was born +at 3, Onslow Square, London, in the year 1864; but to those of a +younger generation it seemed that nearly the whole of her youth +had been spent in the New Forest, so largely did it figure in her +stories of the past. It was at Whitley Ridge, Brockenhurst, +that her earliest plays were written, and many marvellous +characters created; their names still live. It was there +that she became a very good violin player, as well as a musician +in a wider sense. It was in Brockenhurst Church that, in +1886, she married Frederic William Maitland, later Downing +professor of the laws of England.</p> +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Maitland lived in Cambridge; for the first two +years at Brookside, and afterwards in the West Lodge of Downing +College.</p> +<p>Along with her love of music there had begun, and there +continued a love of animals, and, from Moses, a dog of +Brockenhurst days, there stretched down a long procession of +dogs, cats, monkeys, foxes, moles, merecats, mongeese, bush cats +and marmosets, accompanied by a variety of birds. If such a +thing as a dumb animal has ever existed it certainly was not one +of hers, for, besides what they were able to say for themselves, +they spoke much through her. Not only were they able to +recount all that had happened to them in past home or jungle, +they were perfectly able to give advice in every situation and to +join in every discussion. Neither were their pens less +ready than their tongues, and many were the letters of flamboyant +script and misspelt word that came forth from cage or basket.</p> +<p>Frederic William Maitland possessed a small property at +Brookthorpe, Gloucestershire; and near this property, in a house +in the village of Edge and at the top of the Horsepools hill, he +and his wife and their two children <a name="pagex"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. x</span>spent most of their holidays. +They were happy days. Animals increased in number and +rejoiced in freedom, fairs were attended, dancing bears and bird +carts came at intervals to the door, gipsies were delighted in +and protected, and it was there that many friendships with +country people were made. Several days a week would find +Mrs. Maitland driving down to Brookthorpe in donkey or pony cart +to see tenants, to enquire for or feed the sick, to visit the +school, to advise and be advised in the many difficulties of +human life. With a wonderful memory and power of +reproducing that which she had heard, she brought back rare +harvest from these expeditions. All through her days she +was told more in a week than many people hear in a life-time.</p> +<p>After much illness, Professor Maitland was told that he must +leave England, and in 1898 the Maitlands set sail to the island +of Grand Canary; and it was there that they spent each winter, +with the exception of one in Madeira, until Professor +Maitland’s death in 1906. The beauty and warmth of +the island were a joy to Mrs. Maitland, washing out all the +difficulties of housekeeping and the labour of cooking. The +day of hardest work still left her time to set forth, accompanied +by a faithful one-legged hen, to seek the shade of chestnut or +loquat tree, and there to write. The song of frogs rising +from watery palm grove, the hot dusty scent of pepper tree, the +cool scent of orange, the mountains sharp and black against the +evening sky, the brightly coloured houses crowded to the brink of +still brighter sea, were all things she loved, and their images +remained with her always. She became an expert talker of +what she called kitchen Spanish, and her store of country history +increased greatly, for, from Candelaria, the washer-woman to Don +Luis the grocer, she met no one who was not ready to tell her all +the marvels that ever they knew.</p> +<p>In 1906 Frederic William Maitland landed on the island too ill +to reach the house that Mrs. Maitland had gone out earlier to +prepare for him. He was taken to an <a +name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xi</span>hotel in the +city of Las Palmas, and there, on December the 19th, he died.</p> +<p>In the spring of 1907 Mrs. Maitland returned to England.</p> +<p>In 1909 she added on to a small farm house at Brookthorpe, and +there she went to live. She was thus able to renew many +friendships, and in some slight degree take up the life that had +been so dear to her. It was during these last eleven years +at Brookthorpe that she wrote all her plays dealing with country +people; the first for a class of village children to whom she +taught singing, the later ones in response to a growing demand +not only from other Gloucestershire villages, but from village +clubs and institutes scattered over a large part of +England. She saw several of her plays acted by the Oakridge +and the Sapperton players, and these performances and letters +from other performers gave her great pleasure.</p> +<p>In 1913 she married Sir Francis Darwin. Their life at +Brookthorpe was varied by months spent at his house in +Cambridge. It was there that she died on March 5th, +1920.</p> +<p>During her last years she had much illness to contend +with. Unable to play her violin, she turned to the +spinet. She practised for hours, wrote plays, and attended +to her house when many would have lain in their beds.</p> +<p>Her religion became of increasingly great comfort and interest +to her, and it was in that light that she came, more and more, to +look at all things.</p> +<p>In the minds of many who knew her in those years rose up the +words: I have fought a good fight.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E. M.</p> +<h2>THE LOVERS’ TASKS</h2> +<h3>CHARACTERS</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Farmer Daniel</span>,</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>, <i>his wife</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>, <i>her daughter</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>, <i>his niece</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>, <i>Annet’s sister</i>, +<i>aged ten</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>, <i>their brother</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>, <i>a rich young +farmer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John,</span> <i>servants to Giles</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">An Old Man</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The parlour at Camel +Farm</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Time</i>: <i>An afternoon in +May</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span> <i>is sewing by the table +with</i> <span class="smcap">Annet</span>. <i>At the open +doorway</i> <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>is polishing a +bright mug</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. [<i>Looking +up</i>.] There’s Uncle, back from the Fair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Looking out of the +door</i>.] O Uncle’s got some rare big packets in his +arms, he has.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Put down that mug +afore you damage it, May; and, Annet, do you go and help your +uncle in.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Setting down the +mug</i>.] O let me go along of her too—[<span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>rises and goes to the door followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">May</span>, <i>who has dropped her +polishing leather upon the ground</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. [<i>Picking it up +and speaking to herself in exasperation</i>.] If ever there +was a careless little wench, ’tis she. I never did +hold with the bringing up of other folks children and if +I’d had my way, ’tis to the poor-house they’d +have went, instead of coming here where I’ve enough to do +with my own.</p> +<p>[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Farmer</span> <i>comes in +followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>carrying large parcels</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well Mother, I count +I’m back a smartish bit sooner nor what you did expect.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I’m not one +that can be taken by surprise, Dan. May, lay that parcel on +the table at once, and put away your uncle’s hat and +overcoat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dan</span>. Nay, the +overcoat’s too heavy for the little maid—I’ll +hang it up myself.</p> +<p>[<i>He takes off his coat and goes out into the passage to +hang it up</i>. <i>May runs after him with his hat</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. I do want to know +what’s in all those great packets, Aunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I daresay +you’ll be told all in good season. Here, take up and +get on with that sewing, I dislike to see young people idling +away their time.</p> +<p>[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Farmer</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>come back</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And now, untie the +packets quickly, uncle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. [<i>Sinking into a +big chair</i>.] Not so fast, my little maid, not so +fast—’tis a powerful long distance as I have +journeyed this day, and ’tis wonderful warm for the time of +year.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I don’t hold +with drinking nor with taking bites atween meals, but as your +uncle has come a good distance, and the day is warm, you make +take the key of the pantry, Annet, and draw a glass of cider for +him.</p> +<p>[<i>She takes the key from her pocket and hands it to</i> +<span class="smcap">Annet</span>, <i>who goes out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. That’s it, +Mother—that’s it. And when I’ve wetted my +mouth a bit I’ll be able the better to tell you all about +how ’twas over there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O I’d dearly like +to go to a Fair, I would. You always said that you’d +take me the next time you went, Uncle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah and so I did, but +when I comed to think it over, Fairs baint the place for little +maids, I says to mother here—and no, that they baint, she +answers back. But we’ll see how ’tis when you +be growed a bit older, like. Us’ll see how +’twill be then, won’t us Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I wouldn’t +encourage the child in her nonsense, if I was you, Dan. +She’s old enough to know better than to ask to be taken to +such places. Why in all my days I never set my foot within +a fair, pleasure or business, nor wanted to, either.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And never rode on the +pretty wood horses, Aunt, all spotted and with scarlet bridles to +them?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Certainly +not. I wonder at your asking such a question, May. +But you do say some very unsuitable things for a little child of +your age.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And did you get astride +of the pretty horses at the Fair, Uncle?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Nay, nay,—they +horses be set in the pleasure part of the Fair, and where I goes +’tis all for doing business like.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>comes back with the glass +of cider</i>. <span class="smcap">Daniel</span> <i>takes it +from her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. +[<i>Drinking</i>.] You might as well have brought the jug, +my girl.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. No, Father, +’twill spoil your next meal as it is.</p> +<p>[<i>The girls sit down at the table</i>, <i>taking up their +work</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. [<i>Putting down his +glass</i>.] But, bless my soul, yon was a Fair in a +hundred. That her was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Both Girls</span>. O do tell us of +all that you did see there, Uncle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. There was a +cow—well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows as I’ve +seen in my time, but this one, why, the King haven’t got +the match to she in all his great palace, and that’s the +truth, so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O don ’t tell us +about the cows, Uncle, we want to know about all the other +things.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. The shows of acting +folk, and the wild animals, and the nice sweets.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. They don’t +want to hear about anything sensible, Dan. They’re +like all the maids now, with their thoughts set on pleasuring and +foolishness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, the maids was +different in our day, wasn’t they Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And that they +were. Why, when I was your age, Annet, I should have been +ashamed if I couldn’t have held my own in any proper or +suitable conversation.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, you was a rare +sensible maid in your day, Mother. Do you mind when you +comed along of me to Kingham sale? “You’re +never going to buy an animal with all that white to it,” +Dan, you says to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Ah—I +recollect.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. “’Tis +true her has a whitish leg,” I says, “but so have I, +and so have you, Mother—and who’s to think the worse +on we for that?” Ah, I could always bring you round +to look at things quiet and reasonable in those days—that I +could.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And a good thing +if there were others of the same pattern now, I’m +thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. So ’twould +be—so ’twould be. But times do bring changes in +the forms of the cattle and I count ’tis the same with the +womenfolk. ’Tis one thing this year and ’tis +t’other in the next.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Do tell us more of what +you did see at the Fair, Uncle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. There was a +ram. My word! but the four feet of he did cover a good two +yards of ground; just as it might be, standing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Come, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. And the horns upon +the head of he did reach out very nigh as far as might do the +sails of one of they old wind-mills.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O Uncle, and how was it +with the wool of him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. The wool, my wench, +did stand a good three foot from all around of the animal. +You might have set a hen with her eggs on top of it—and +that you might. And now I comes to recollect how +’twas, you could have set a hen one side of the wool and a +turkey t’other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O Uncle, that must have +been a beautiful animal! And what was the tail of it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. The tail, my little +maid? Why ’twas longer nor my arm and as thick +again—’twould have served as a bell rope to the great +bell yonder in Gloucester church—and so +’twould. Ah, ’twas sommat like a tail, I +reckon, yon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Come, Father, such +talk is hardly suited to little girls, who should know better +than to ask so many teasing questions.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. ’Tisn’t +only May, Aunt, I do love to hear what uncle tells, when he has +been out for a day or two.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And did you have +company on the way home, Father?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. That I did. +’Twas along of young Andrew as I did come back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Along of +Andrew? Girls, you may now go outside into the garden for a +while. Yes, put aside your work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Can’t we stop till +the packets are opened?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. You heard what I +said? Go off into the garden, and stop there till I send +for you. And take uncle’s glass and wash it at the +spout as you go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Taking the +glass</i>.] I’ll wash it, Aunt. Come May, you +see aunt doesn’t want us any longer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Now they’re going +to talk secrets together. O I should dearly love to hear +the secrets of grown-up people. [<span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>go out together</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Annet be got a fine +big wench, upon my word. Now haven’t her, Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. She’s got +old enough to be put to service, and if I’d have had my +way, ’tis to service she’d have gone this long time +since, and that it is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. ’Twould be poor +work putting one of dead sister’s wenches out to service, +so long as us have a roof over the heads of we and plenty to eat +on the table.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Well, you must +please yourself about it Father, as you do most times. But +’tis uncertain work taking up with other folks children as +I told you from the first. See what a lot of trouble you +and me have had along of Giles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Giles be safe enough +in them foreign parts where I did send him. You’ve no +need to trouble your head about he, Mother—unless +’tis a letter as he may have got sending to Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. No, Father, Giles +has never sent a letter since the day he left home. But +very often there is no need for letters to keep remembrance +green. ’Tis a plant what thrives best on a soil that +is bare.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, Mother, and +what be you a-driving at? I warrant as Mill have got over +them notions as she did have once. And, look you here, +’twas with young Andrew as I did journey back from the +Fair. And he be a-coming up presently for to get his +answer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. All I say is that +I hope he may get it then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, I reckon as +’tis rare put about as he have been all this long while, +and never a downright “yes” to what he do ask.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>comes softly in and hides +behind the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Well, that’s +not my fault, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. But her’ll have +to change her note this day, that her’ll have. For +I’ve spoke for she, and ’tis for next month as +I’ve pitched the wedding day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And you may pitch, +Father. You may lead the mare down to the pond, but +she’ll not drink if she hasn’t the mind to. You +know what Millie is. ’Tisn’t from my side that +she gets it either.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. And +’tain’t from me. I be all for easy going and +each one to his self like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Yes, there you +are, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. But I reckon as the +little maid will hearken to what I says. Her was always a +wonderful good little maid to her dad. And her did always +know, that when her dad did set his foot down, well, there +’twas. ’Twas down.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Well, if you think +you can shew her that, Father, ’tis a fortunate job on all +sides.</p> +<p>[<i>They suddenly see</i> <span class="smcap">May</span> +<i>who has been quiet behind the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. May, what are you +a-doing here I should like to know? Didn’t I send you +out into the garden along of your sister?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Yes, Auntie, but +I’ve comed back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Then you can be +off again, and shut the door this time, do your hear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. That’s it, my +little maid. Run along—and look you, May, just you +tell Cousin Millie as we wants her in here straight away. +And who knows bye and bye whether there won’t be sommat in +yon great parcel for a good little wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O Uncle—I’d +like to see it now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Nay, nay—this +is not a suitable time—Aunt and me has business +what’s got to be settled like. Nay—’tis +later on as the packets is to be opened.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Get along off, you +tiresome child.—One word might do for some, but it takes +twenty to get you to move.—Run along now, do you hear +me?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>goes</i>.</p> +<p>Well, Father, I’ve done my share with Millie and she +don’t take a bit of notice of what I say. So now +it’s your turn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, I count +’tis more man’s work, this here, so ’tis. +There be things which belongs to females and there be others +which do not. You get and leave it all to me. +I’ll bring it off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. All right, Father, +just you try your way—I’ll have nothing more to do +with it. [<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>comes +in</i>.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Why, Father, +you’re back early from the Fair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. That’s so, my +wench. See that package over yonder?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O, that I do, +Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Yon great one’s +for you, Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O Father, +what’s inside it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. ’Tis a new, +smart bonnet, my wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. For me, Father?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah—who else +should it be for, Mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O Father, you are +good to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. And a silk cloak as +well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. A silken cloak, and a +bonnet—O Father, ’tis too much for you to give me all +at once, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Young Andrew did help +me with the choice, and ’tis all to be worn on this day +month, my girl.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Why, Father, +what’s to happen then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. ’Tis for you to +go along to church in, Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. To church, +Father?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, that +’tis—you in the cloak and bonnet, and upon the arm of +young Andrew, my wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O no, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. But ’tis +“yes” as you have got to learn, my wench. And +quickly too. For ’tis this very evening as Andrew be +coming for his answer. And ’tis to be +“yes” this time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O no, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. You’ve an hour +before you, my wench, in which to get another word to your +tongue.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I can’t learn +any word that isn’t “no,” Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Look at me, my +wench. My foot be down. I means what I +says—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And I mean what I +say, too, Father. And I say, No!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Millie, I’ve +set down my foot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And so have I, +Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. And ’tis +“yes” as you must say to young Andrew when he do come +a-courting of you this night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. That I’ll never +say, Father. I don’t want cloaks nor bonnets, nor my +heart moved by gifts, or tears brought to my eyes by fair +words. I’ll not wed unless I can give my love along +with my hand. And ’tis not to Andrew I can give that, +as you know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. And to whom should a +maid give her heart if ’twasn’t to Andrew? A +finer lad never trod in a pair of shoes. I’ll be +blest if I do know what the wenches be a-coming to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. There, Father, I +told you what to expect.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. But ’tis master +as I’ll be, hark you, Mother, hark you, Mill. And +’tis “Yes” as you have got to fit your tongue +out with my girl, afore ’tis dark. +[<i>Rising</i>.] I be a’going off to the yard, but, +Mother, her’ll know what to say to you, her will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Dad, do you stop and +shew me the inside of my packet. Let us put Andrew aside +and be happy—do!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, I’ve got +other things as is waiting to be done nor breaking in a tricksome +filly to run atween the shafts. ’Tis fitter work for +females, and so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And so I told you, +Father, from the start.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And ’tis +“No” that I shall say.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>It is dusk on the same +evening</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>is standing by the table +folding up the silken cloak</i>. <span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>sits watching her</i>, <i>on her +knees lies a open parcel disclosing a woollen shawl</i>. +<i>In a far corner of the room</i> <span class="smcap">May</span> +<i>is seated on a stool making a daisy chain</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. ’Twas very good +of Uncle to bring me this nice shawl, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. You should have had a +cloak like mine, Annet, by rights.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. I’m not going to +get married, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>Sitting down with +a sudden movement of despondence and stretching her arms across +the table</i>.] O don’t you speak to me of that, +Annet. ’Tis more than I can bear to-night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. But, Millie, +he’s coming for your answer now. You musn’t let +him find you looking so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. My face shall look as +my heart feels. And that is all sorrow, Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Can’t you bring +yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. No, that I cannot, +Annet, I’ve tried a score of times, I have—but there +it is—I cannot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Is it that +you’ve not forgotten Giles, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I never shall forget +him, Annet. Why, ’tis a five year this day since +father sent him off to foreign parts, and never a moment of all +that time has my heart not remembered him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. I feared ’twas +so with you, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O I’ve laid +awake of nights and my tears have wetted the pillow all over so +that I’ve had to turn it t’other side up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. And Giles has never +written to you, nor sent a sign nor nothing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Your brother Giles +was never very grand with the pen, Annet. But, O, +he’s none the worse for that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Millie, I never cared +for to question you, but how was it when you and he did part, one +with t’other?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I did give him my +ring, Annet—secret like—when we were walking in the +wood.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. What, the one with the +white stones to it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Yes, +grandmother’s ring, that she left me. And I did say +to him—if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed +another, Giles—look you at these white stones.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Seven of them, there +were, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And the day that I am +like to wed another, Giles, I said to him, the stones shall +darken. But you’ll never see that day. [<i>She +begins to cry</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Don’t you give +way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis very likely that Giles has +forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,—well, +Andrew he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And +’tis Andrew you have got to wed, you know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Andrew, +Andrew—I’m sick at the very name of him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. See the fine house +you’ll live in. Think on the grand parlour that +you’ll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you and +naught but Sunday clothes on your back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I’d sooner go +in rags with Giles at the side of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Come, you must hearten +up. Andrew will soon be here. And Uncle says that you +have got to give him his answer to-night for good and all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O I cannot see +him—I’m wearied to death of Andrew, and that’s +the very truth it is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O Millie—I +wonder how ’twould feel to be you for half-an-hour and to +have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to say +Yes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O I wish ’twas +you and not me that he was after, Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. ’Tisn’t +likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever come courting +a poor girl like me, Millie. But I’d dearly love to +know how ’twould feel.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>raises her head and +looks at her cousin for a few minutes in silence</i>, <i>then her +face brightens</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Then you shall, +Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Shall what, Mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Know how it +feels. Look here—’Tis sick to death I am with +courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and if +I’m to wed Andrew come next month, I’ll not be +tormented with him before that time,—so ’tis you that +shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll +slip out to the woods and gather flowers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. How wild and unlikely +you do talk, Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. In the dusk +he’ll never know that ’tisn’t me. Being +cousins, we speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us +there’s not much that’s amiss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. But in the clothing of +us, Mill—why, ’tis a grand young lady that you +look—whilst I—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>Taking up the +silken cloak</i>.] Here—put this over your gown, +Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Standing +up</i>.] I don’t mind just trying it on, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>Fastening +it</i>.] There—and now the bonnet, with the veil +pulled over the face.</p> +<p>[<i>She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on</i> <span +class="smcap">Annet</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>Standing back and +surveying her cousin</i>.] There, Annet, there May, who is +to tell which of us ’tis?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Coming +forward</i>.] O I should never know that +’twasn’t you, Cousin Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And I could well +mistake her for myself too, so listen, Annet. ’Tis +you that shall talk with Master Andrew when he comes +to-night. And ’tis you that shall give him my +answer. I’ll not burn my lips by speaking the word he +asks of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O Mill—I +cannot—no I cannot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Don’t let him +have it very easily, Annet. Set him a ditch or two to jump +before he gets there. And let the thorns prick him a bit +before he gathers the flower. You know my way with him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And I know it too, +Millie—Why, your tongue, ’tis very near as sharp as +when Aunt do speak.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O Millie, take off +these things—I cannot do it, that’s the truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Looking out through +the door</i>.] There’s Andrew a-coming over the mill +yard.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Here, sit down, +Annet, with the back of you to the light.</p> +<p>[<i>She pushes</i> <span class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>into a +chair beneath the window</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Can I get into the +cupboard and listen to it, Cousin Mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. If you promise to +bide quiet and to say naught of it afterwards.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O I promise, I +promise—I’ll just leave a crack of the door open for +to hear well.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>gets into the +cupboard</i>. <span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>takes +up</i> <span class="smcap">Annet’s</span> <i>new shawl and +puts it all over her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. No one will think +that ’tisn’t you, in the dusk.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O Millie, what is it +that you’ve got me to do?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Never you mind, +Annet—you shall see what ’tis to have a grand suitor +and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, where I can +think on Giles.</p> +<p>[<i>She runs out of the door just as</i> <span +class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>comes up</i>. <span +class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>knocks and then enters the open +door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Where’s Annet +off to in such a hurry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Very +faintly</i>.] I’m sure I don’t know. +[<span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>lays aside his hat and +comes up to the window</i>. <i>He stands before</i> <span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>looking down on her</i>. +<i>She becomes restless under his gaze</i>, <i>and at last signs +to him to sit down</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. [<i>Sitting down on a +chair a little way from her</i>.] The Master said that I +might come along to-night, Millie—Otherwise—[<span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>is still silent</i>.</p> +<p>Otherwise I shouldn’t have dared do so.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>sits nervously twisting +the ribbons of her cloak</i>.</p> +<p>The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, +might be changed like. [<span class="smcap">Annet</span> +<i>is still silent</i>.</p> +<p>And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely +’twould be something different as you might say.</p> +<p>[<i>A long silence</i>.</p> +<p>Was I wrong in coming, Millie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. +[<i>Faintly</i>.] ’Twould have been better had you +stayed away like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Then there +isn’t any change in your feelings towards me, Millie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O, there’s a +sort of a change, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. +[<i>Slowly</i>.] O Mill, that’s good hearing. +What sort of a change is it then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. ’Tis very hard +to say, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Look you, Mill, +’tis more than a five year that I’ve been a-courting +of you faithful.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. +[<i>Sighing</i>.] Indeed it is, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. And I’ve never +got naught but blows for my pains.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Beginning to speak +in a gentle voice and ending sharply</i>.] O I’m so +sorry—No—I mean—’Tis your own fault, +Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. But I would sooner +take blows from you than sweet words from another, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. I could never find it +in my heart to—I mean, ’tis as well that you should +get used to blows, seeing we’re to be wed, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Then ’tis to +be! O Millie, this is brave news—Why, I do scarcely +know whether I be awake or dreaming.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Very +sadly</i>.] Very likely you’ll be glad enough to be +dreaming a month from now, poor Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. [<i>Drawing +nearer</i>.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to me +so kind and gentle, and I’ll ask you to name the day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Shrinking +back</i>.] O ’twill be a very long distance from now, +Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie, it seems to +be your pleasure to take up my heart and play with it same as a +cat does with the mouse.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Becoming gay and +hard in her manner</i>.] Your heart, Andrew? +’Twill go all the better afterwards if ’tis tossed +about a bit first.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Put an end to this +foolishness, Mill, and say when you’ll wed me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Warding him off +with her hand</i>.] You shall have my answer in a new song +Andrew, which I have been learning.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>sits down despondently +and prepares to listen</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Now hark you to this, +Andrew, and turn it well over in your mind. [<i>She begins +to sing</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry">Say can you plough me an acre of land<br /> +Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme.<br /> +Between the sea and the salt sea strand<br /> +And you shall be a true lover of mine?</p> +<p>[<i>A slight pause</i>. <span class="smcap">Annet</span> +<i>looks questioningly at</i> <span class="smcap">Andrew</span>, +<i>who turns away with a heavy sigh</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, if you plough it with one ram’s +horn<br /> +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme<br /> +And sow it all over with one peppercorn<br /> +And you shall be a true lover of mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. ’Tis all +foolishness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Say can you reap with a sickle of leather<br /> +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme<br /> +And tie it all up with a Tom-tit’s feather<br /> +And you shall be a true lover of mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. [<i>Rises up +impatiently</i>.] I can stand no more. You’ve +danced upon my heart till ’tis fairly brittle, and ready to +be broke by a feather.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Very +gently</i>.] O Andrew, I’ll mend your heart one +day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie, the sound of +those words has mended it already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>In a harder +voice</i>.] But very likely there’ll be a crack left +to it always.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Farmer Daniel</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Elizabeth</span> <i>come into the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well my boy, well +Millie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. +[<i>Boldly</i>.] ’Tis for a month from now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Bless my soul. +Hear that, Mother? Hear that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I’m not +deaf, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. [<i>Shaking</i> <span +class="smcap">Andrew’s</span> <i>hand</i>.] Ah my +boy, I knowed as you’d bring the little maid to the senses +of she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Millie has not +shown any backwardness in clothing herself as though for +church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. ’Tis with the +maids as ’tis with the fowls when they be come out from +moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in +their new feathers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Well, ’tis +to be hoped the young people have fixed it up for good and all +this time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come Mill, my wench, +you be wonderful quiet. Where’s your tongue?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I think +we’ve all had quite enough of Millie’s tongue, +Father. Let her give it a rest if she’ve a mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. I warrant she be gone +as shy as a May bettel when ’tis daylight. But +us’ll take it as she have fixed it up in her own mind +like. Come, Mother, such a time as this, you won’t +take no objection to the drawing of a jug of cider.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And supper just +about to be served? I’m surprised at you, +Father. No, I can’t hear of cider being drawn so +needless like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, +well,—have it your own way—but I always says, and my +father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine +drink, and that’s how ’twas in my time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Millie, do you +call your cousins in to supper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, and where be the +maids gone off to this time of night, Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Annet did pass me as +I came through the yard, Master</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span>, <i>quietly opens the cupboard +door and comes out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. So that’s +where you’ve been, you deceitful little wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Well, to think of +that, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And how long may +you have bid there, I should like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come, come, my little +maid, ’tis early days for you to be getting a lesson in +courtship.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O there wasn’t any +courtship, Uncle, and I didn’t hear nothing at all to speak +of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. There, run along +quick and find your sister. Supper’s late already, +and that it is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. I’ll go with +her.</p> +<p>[<i>She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the +door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Stop a moment, +Millie. What are you thinking of to go trailing out in the +dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. Take and lay them +in the box at once, do you hear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. That’s it, +Mill. ’Twouldn’t do for to mess them up afore +the day. ’Twas a fair price as I gived for they, and +that I can tell you, my girl.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>stops +irresolutely</i>. <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>seizes +her hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Come off, come off, +“Cousin Millie”; ’tis not damp outside, and O +I’m afeared to cross the rickyard by myself.</p> +<p>[<i>She pulls</i> <span class="smcap">Annet</span> +<i>violently by the hand and draws her out of the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Off with the cloak +this minute, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Calling +back</i>.] She’s a-taking of it off, Aunt, she +is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I don’t know +what’s come to the maid. She don’t act like +herself to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, that be asking +too much of a maid, to act like herself, and the wedding day +close ahead of she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I’d be +content with a suitable behaviour, Father. I’m not +hard to please.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, you take and let +her go quiet, same as I lets th’ old mare when her first +comes up from grass.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. ’Tis all +very well for you to talk, Father but ’tis I who have got +to do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come Mother, come +Andrew, I be sharp set. And ’tis the feel of victuals +and no words as I wants in my mouth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Well, Father, +I’m not detaining you. There’s the door, and +the food has been cooling on the table this great while.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come you, Andrew, +come you, Mother. Us’ll make a bit of a marriage +feast this night.</p> +<p>[<i>He leads the way and the others follow him out</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>A woodland path</i>. <span class="smcap">Giles</span> +<i>comes forward with his two servants</i>, <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span>, <i>who are carrying heavy +packets</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. ’Tis powerful +warm to-day. We will take a bit of rest before we go +further.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Setting down his +packet</i>.] That’s it, master. ’Tis a +rare weight as I’ve been carrying across my back since +dawn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Also setting down +his burden</i>.] Ah, I be pleased for to lay aside +yon. ’Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying to +and fro with gold and silver.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Our travelling is very +nigh finished. There lies the road which goes to Camel +Farm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Oh, I count as that +must be a rare sort of a place, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Seeing as us +haven’t stopped scarce an hour since us landed off the +sea.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. But have come running +all the while same as the fox may run in th’ early morning +towards the poultry yard.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Nor broke bread, nor +scarce got a drop of drink to wet th’ insides of we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. ’Tis very little +further that you have got to journey, my good lads. We are +nigh to the end of our wayfaring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. And what sort of a +place be we a-coming to, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. ’Tis the place +out of all the world to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I count ’tis +sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we be come from +brave foreign parts, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. ’Tis rarer, and +finer than all the foreign lands that lie beneath the sun, my +lads.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That’s good +hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be as fine as +the place?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. O, you’ll fare +well enough yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I was never one for +foreign victuals, nor for the drink that was over there +neither.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Well, the both of you +shall rest this night beneath the grandest roof that ever +sheltered a man’s head. And you shall sit at a table +spread as you’ve not seen this many a year.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That’ll be +sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our legs again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I be thinking of it +ahead as I lies here, and that’s the truth.</p> +<p>[<i>The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath +the trees</i>. <span class="smcap"><i>Giles</i></span><i> +walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at +any delay</i>. <i>From time to time he glances at a ring +which he wears</i>, <i>sighing heavily as he does so</i>.</p> +<p>[<i>An old man comes up</i>, <i>leaning on his staff</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Good-morning to you, +my fine gentlemen.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Good-morning, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. ’Tis a +wonderful warm sun to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. You’re right +there, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. I warrant as you be +journeying towards the same place where I be going, my lord.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. And where is that, old +master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Towards Camel +Farm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. You’re +right. ’Tis there and nowhere else that we are +going.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Ah, us’ll have +to go smartish if us is to be there in time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. In time for what, my +good man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. In time for to see +the marrying, my lord.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. The marrying? +What’s that you’re telling me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. ’Tis at noon +this day that she’s to be wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Who are you speaking +of, old man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. And where is your +lordship journeying this day if ’tis not to the +marrying?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Who’s getting +wed up yonder, tell me quickly?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. ’Tis th’ +old farmer’s daughter what’s to wed come +noon-tide.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. +[<i>Starting</i>.] Millie! O that is heavy +news. [<i>Looking at his hand</i>.] Then ’tis +as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the brightness has all +gone from out of the seven stones. That’s how +’twould be, she told me once.</p> +<p>[<i>He turns away from the others in deep distress of +mind</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Us’ll see no +Camel Farm this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And th’ inside of +I be crying out for victuals.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Then you be not of +these parts, masters?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No, us be comed from +right over the seas, along of master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, ’tis a fine +gentleman, master. But powerful misfortunate in things of +the heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, he’d best +have stopped where he was. Camel Farm baint no place for +the like of he to go courting at.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, master be used to +them great palaces, all over gold and marble with windows as you +might drive a waggon through, and that you might.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. All painted +glass. And each chair with golden legs to him, and a sight +of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of after a +night’s drinking, old man. [<span +class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>comes slowly towards them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. And who is she to wed, +old man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Be you a-speaking of +the young mistress up at Camel Farm, my lord?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Yes. With whom +does she go to church to-day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. ’Tis along of +Master Andrew that her do go. What lives up Cranham +way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Ah, th’ old +farmer was always wonderful set on him. [<i>A +pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. I be a poor old +wretch what journeys upon the roads, master, and maybe I picks a +crust here and gets a drink of water there, and the shelter of +the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me at night time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. What matters it if you +be old and poor, master, so that the heart of you be whole and +unbroken?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Us poor old wretches +don’t carry no hearts to th’ insides of we. The +pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and from the +winter’s cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind +do moan over the fields, and when the fox do bark.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. What is the pang of +hunger and the cold bite of winter set against the cruel torment +of a disappointed love?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. I baint one as can +judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got a poor old badger of +a man, and the days when I was young and did carry a heart what +could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of them clean +forgot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Then what do you up +yonder at the marrying this morning?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Oh, I do take me to +those places where there be burying or marriage, for the hearts +of folk at these seasons be warmed and kinder, like. And +’tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food be thrown +out to the poor old dog what waits patient at the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. [<i>Looks intently at +him for a moment</i>.] See here, old master. I would +fain strike a bargain with you. And ’tis with a +handful of golden pieces that I will pay your service.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Anything to oblige +you, my young lord.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.] Take out a handful from the +bag of gold. And you, John, give him some of the +silver.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>untie their bags and take out gold +and silver</i>. <i>They twist it up in a handkerchief which +they give to the old man</i>.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. May all the +blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, for ’tis plain to +see that you be one of the greatest and finest gentlemen ever +born to the land.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. My good friend, +you’re wrong there, I was a poor country lad, but I had the +greatest treasure that a man could hold on this earth. +’Twas the love of my cousin Millie. And being poor, I +was put from out the home, and sent to seek my fortune in parts +beyond the sea.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Now, who’d +have thought ’twas so, for the looks of you be gentle born +all over.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. “Come back with +a bushel of gold in one hand and one of silver in +t’other” the old farmer said to me, “and then +maybe I’ll let you wed my daughter.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. And here you be +comed back, and there lie the gold and the silver bags.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. And yonder is Millie +given in marriage to another.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Taint done +yet, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tisn’t too +late, by a long way, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Old Man</span>.] And so I would crave +something of you, old friend. Lend me your smock, and your +big hat and your staff. In that disguise I will go to the +farm and look upon my poor false love once more. If I find +that her heart is already given to another, I shall not make +myself known to her. But if she still holds to her love for +me, then—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Go in the fine +clothes what you have upon you, master. And even should the +maid’s heart, be given to another, the sight of so grand a +cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, that’s so, it +is. You go as you be clothed now, master. I know what +maids be, and ’tis finery and good coats which do work more +on the hearts of they nor anything else in the wide world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. No, no, my lads. +I will return as I did go from yonder. Poor, and in mean +clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth speak one word +for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite of +everything, my sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from +her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. [<i>Taking off his +hat</i>.] Here you are master.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>hands his own hat to</i> +<span class="smcap">George</span>. <i>He then takes off his +coat and gives it to</i> <span class="smcap">John</span>. +<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Old Man</span> <i>takes off his +smock</i>, <span class="smcap"><i>Giles</i></span><i> puts it +on</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Pull the hat well +down about the face of you, master, so as the smooth skin of you +be hid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. [<i>Turning round in +his disguise</i>.] How’s that, my friends?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. You be a sight too +straight in the back, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. +[<i>Stooping</i>.] I’ll soon better that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Be you a-going in them +fine buckled shoes, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. I had forgot the +shoes. When I get near to the house ’tis barefoot +that I will go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Then let us be off, +master, for the’ time be running short.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, that +’tis. I count it be close on noon-day now by the look +of the sun.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. And heaven be with +you, my young gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. My good friends, you +shall go with me a little further. And when we have come +close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter of a wood that +I know of and await the signal I shall give you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. And what’ll +that be, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. I shall blow three +times, and loudly from my whistle, here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And be we to come up to +the farm when we hears you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. As quickly as you can +run. ’Twill be the sign that I need all of you with +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span>. That’s it, master. +Us do understand what ’tis as we have got to do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Mar</span>. Ah, ’tis best +to be finished with hearts that beat to the tune of a +maid’s tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads with +naught but them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th’ +inside. So ’tis.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The parlour at Camel Farm</i>. <span +class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>, <i>in her best dress</i>, <i>is +moving about the room putting chairs in their places and +arranging ornaments on the dresser</i>, <i>etc.</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>stands at the door with a large bunch +of flowers in her hands</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And what do you +want to run about in the garden for when I’ve just smoothed +your hair and got you all ready to go to church?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I’ve only been +helping Annet gather some flowers to put upon the table.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. You should know +better then. Didn’t I tell you to sit still in that +chair with your hands folded nicely till we were ready to +start.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Why, I couldn’t be +sitting there all the while, now could I, Aunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. This’ll be +the last time as I tie your ribbon, mind.</p> +<p>[<i>She smoothes</i> <span class="smcap">May’s</span> +<i>hair and ties it up for her</i>. <span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>comes into the room with more +flowers</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. What’s your +cousin doing now, Annet?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. The door of her room +is still locked, Aunt. And what she says is that she do +want to bide alone there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. In all my days I +never did hear tell of such a thing, I don’t know +what’s coming to the world, I don’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I count that Millie do +like to be all to herself whilst she is a-dressing up grand in +her white gown, and the silken cloak and bonnet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Millie’s not +a-dressing of herself up. I heard her crying pitiful as I +was gathering flowers in the garden.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Crying? +She’ll have something to cry about if she doesn’t +look out, when her father comes in, and hears how she’s +a-going on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I wonder why Cousin +Millie’s taking on like this. I shouldn’t, if +’twas me getting married.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Look you, May, you +get and run up, and knock at the door and tell her that +’twill soon be time for us to set off to church and that +she have got to make haste in her dressing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I’ll run, Aunt, +only ’tis very likely as she’ll not listen to +anything that I say. [<span class="smcap">May</span> +<i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Now Annet, no +idling here, if you please. Set the nosegay in water, and +when you’ve given a look round to see that everything is in +its place, upstairs with you, and on with your bonnet, do you +hear? Uncle won’t wish to be kept waiting for you, +remember.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. I’m all ready +dressed, except for my bonnet, Aunt. ’Tis Millie +that’s like to keep Uncle waiting this morning. +[<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Daniel</span> <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, +Mother—well, girls—but, bless my soul, where’s +Millie got to?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Millie has not +seen fit to shew herself this morning, Father. She’s +biding up in her room with the door locked, and nothing that +I’ve been able to say has been attended to, so perhaps +you’ll kindly have your try.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Bless my +soul—where’s May? Where’s Annet? +Send one of the little maids up to her, and tell her ’tis +very nigh time for us to be off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I’m fairly +tired of sending up to her, Father. You’d best go +yourself.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>comes into the +room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Please Aunt, the door, +’tis still locked, and Millie is crying ever so sadly +within, and she won’t open to me, nor speak, nor +nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. There, +Father,—perhaps you’ll believe what I tell you +another time. Millie has got that hardened and wayward, +there’s no managing of her, there’s not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, +’twon’t be very long as us’ll have the managing +of she. ’Twill be young Andrew as’ll take she +in hand after this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. ’Tis all +very well to talk of young Andrew, but who’s a-going to get +her to church with him I’d like to know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Why, ’tis me +as’ll do it, to be sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Very well, Father, +and we shall all be much obliged to you.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Daniel</span> <i>goes to the door and +shouts up the stairs</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, Millie, my +wench. Come you down here. ’Tis time we did set +out. Do you hear me, Mill. ’Tis time we was +off.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span> <i>waits +listening</i>. <i>No answer comes</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Don’t you hear +what I be saying, Mill? Come you down at once. +[<i>There is no answer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Millie, there be +Andrew a-waiting for to take you to church. Come you down +this minute.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. You’d best +take sommat and go and break open the door, Father. +’Tis the sensiblest thing as you can do, only you’d +never think of anything like that by yourself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. I likes doing things +my own way, Mother. Women-folk, they be so buzzing. +’Tis like a lot of insects around of anyone on a +summer’s day. A-saying this way and that—whilst +a man do go at anything quiet and calm-like. [<span +class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. Please, Uncle, Millie +says that she isn’t coming down for no one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. [<i>Roaring in +fury</i>.] What! What’s that, my +wench—isn’t a-coming down for no one? Hear +that, Mother, hear that? I’ll have sommat to say to +that, I will. [<i>Going to the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. [<i>Roaring up the +stairs</i>.] Hark you, Mill, down you comes this moment +else I’ll smash the door right in, and that I will.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Daniel</span> <i>comes back into the +room</i>, <i>storming violently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, ’tis a +badly bred up wench is Millie, and her’d have growed up +very different if I’d a-had the bringing up of she. +But spoiled she is and spoiled her’ve always been, and what +could anyone look for from a filly what’s been broke in by +women folk!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. There, there, +Father—there’s no need to bluster in this +fashion. Take up the poker and go and break into the door +quiet and decent, like anyone else would do. And +girls—off for your bonnets this moment I tell you.</p> +<p>[<i>She takes up a poker and hands it to</i> <span +class="smcap">Daniel</span>, <i>who mops his face and goes slowly +out and upstairs</i>. <span class="smcap">Annet</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>leave the +room</i>. <i>The farmer is heard banging at the door of +Millie’s bedroom</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span> <i>moves about the room +setting it in order</i>. <span class="smcap">Andrew</span> +<i>comes in at the door</i>. <i>He carries a bunch of +flowers</i>, <i>which he lays on the table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Good-morning to you, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Good-morning, +Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. What’s going on +upstairs?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. ’Tis Father +at a little bit of carpentering.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I’m come too +soon, I reckon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. We know what young +men be upon their wedding morn! I warrant as the clock +can’t run too fast for them at such a time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. You’re right +there, mistress. But the clock have moved powerful slow all +these last few weeks—for look you here, ’tis a month +this day since I last set eyes on Mill or had a word from her +lips—so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. You’ll have +enough words presently. Hark, she’s coming down with +Father now.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>turns eagerly towards +the door</i>. <i>The farmer enters with</i> <span +class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>clinging to his arm</i>, <i>she +wears her ordinary dress</i>. <i>Her hair is ruffled and in +disorder</i>, <i>and she has been crying</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Andrew, my lad, good +morning to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Good morning, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. You mustn’t +mind a bit of an April shower, my boy. ’Tis the way +with all maids on their wedding morn. Isn’t that so, +Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I wouldn’t +make such a show of myself if I was you, Mill. Go upstairs +this minute and wash your face and smooth your hair and put +yourself ready for church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Nay, she be but just +come from upstairs, Mother. Let her bide quiet a while with +young Andrew here; whilst do you come along with me and get me +out my Sunday coat. ’Tis time I was dressed for +church too, I’m thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I don’t know +what’s come to the house this morning, and that’s the +truth. Andrew, I’ll not have you keep Millie beyond a +five minutes. ’Tis enough of one another as +you’ll get later on, like. Father, go you off +upstairs for your coat. ’Tis hard work for me, +getting you all to act respectable, that ’tis.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Daniel</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Elizabeth</span> <i>leave the room</i>. <span +class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>moves near</i> <span +class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>and holds out both his +hands</i>. <i>She draws herself haughtily away</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. +Millie—’tis our wedding day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And what if it is, +Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie, it cuts me to +the heart to see your face all wet with tears.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Did you think to see +it otherwise, Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. No smile upon your +lips, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Have I anything to +smile about, Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. No love coming from +your eyes, Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. That you have never +seen, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. And all changed in +the voice of you too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. What do you mean by +that, Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Listen, +Millie—’tis a month since I last spoke with +you. Do you recollect? ’Twas the evening of the +great Fair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span> And what if it was?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie, you were +kinder to me that night than ever you had been before. I +seemed to see such a gentle look in your eyes then. And +when you spoke, ’twas as though—as +though—well—’twas one of they quists a-cooing +up in the trees as I was put in mind of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Well, there’s +nothing more to be said about that now, Andrew. That +night’s over and done with.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I’ve carried +the thought of it in my heart all this time, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I never asked you to, +Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I’ve brought +you a nosegay of flowers, Mill. They be rare blossoms with +grand names what I can’t recollect to all of them.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>takes the nosegay</i>, +<i>looks at it for an instant</i>, <i>and then lets it +fall</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I have no liking for +flowers this day, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. O Millie, and is it +so as you and me are going to our marriage?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Yes, Andrew. +’Tis so. I never said it could be different. I +have no heart to give you. My love was given long ago to +another. And that other has forgotten me by now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. O Millie, you shall +forget him too when once you are wed to me, I promise you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. ’Tis beyond the +power of you or any man to make me do that, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie, what’s +the good of we two going on to church one with t’other?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. There’s no good +at all, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie, I could have +sworn that you had begun to care sommat more than ordinary for me +that last time we were together.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Then you could have +sworn wrong. I care nothing for you, Andrew, no, +nothing. But I gave my word I’d go to church with you +and be wed. And—I’ll not break my word, +I’ll not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. And is this all that +you can say to me to-day, Mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Yes, Andrew, +’tis all. And now, ’tis very late, and I have +got to dress myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. [<i>Calling loudly +from above</i>.] Millie, what are you stopping for? +Come you up here and get your gown on, do.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>looks haughtily at</i> +<span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>as she passes him</i>. +<i>She goes slowly out of the room</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>picks up the flowers and +stands holding them</i>, <i>looking disconsolately down upon +them</i>. <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>comes in</i>, +<i>furtively</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. All alone, Andrew? +Has Millie gone to put her fine gown on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Yes, Millie’s +gone to dress herself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O that’s a +beautiful nosegay, Andrew. Was it brought for Mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Yes, May, but she +won’t have it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Millie don’t like +you very much, Andrew, do she?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Millie’s got +quite changed towards me since last time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And when was that, +Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Why, last time was +the evening of the Fair, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. When I was hid in the +cupboard yonder, Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. So you were, +May. Well, can’t you recollect how ’twas that +she spoke to me then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O yes, Andrew, and that +I can. ’Twas a quist a-cooing in the tree one +time—and then—she did recollect herself and did +sharpen up her tongue and ’twas another sort of bird what +could drive its beak into the flesh of anyone—so +’twas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. O May—you say +she did recollect herself—what do you mean by those +words?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. You see, she did give +her word that she would speak sharp and rough to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. What are you talking +about, May? Do you mean that the tongue of her was not +speaking as the heart of her did feel?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I guess ’twas +sommat like that, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. O May, you have +gladdened me powerful by these words.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. But, O you must not tell +of me, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I will never do so, +May—only I shall know better how to be patient, and to keep +the spirit of me up next time that she do strike out against +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I’m not a-talking +of Mill, Andrew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Who are you talking +of then, I’d like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Twas Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. What was?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Annet who was dressed up +in the cloak and bonnet of Millie that night and who did speak +with you so gentle and nice.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Annet!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. [<i>Is heard +calling</i>.] There, father, come along down and give your +face a wash at the pump.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Let’s go quick +together into the garden, Andrew, and I’ll tell you all +about it and how ’twas that Annet acted so.</p> +<p>[<i>She seizes</i> <span class="smcap">Andrew’s</span> +<i>hand and pulls him out of the room with her</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><i>A few minutes later</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span> <i>stands tying her +bonnet strings before a small mirror on the wall</i>. <span +class="smcap">Daniel</span> <i>is mopping his face with a +big</i>, <i>bright handkerchief</i>. <span +class="smcap">Annet</span>, <i>dressed for church</i>, <i>is by +the table</i>. <i>She sadly takes up the nosegay of flowers +which</i> <span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>brought for</i> +<span class="smcap">Millie</span>, <i>and moves her hand +caressingly over it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. If you think that +your neckerchief is put on right ’tis time you should know +different, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. What’s wrong +with it then, I’d like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. ’Tis +altogether wrong. ’Tis like the two ears of a heifer +sticking out more than anything else that I can think on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Have it your own way, +Mother—and fix it as you like.</p> +<p>[<i>He stands before her and she rearranges it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. These flowers were +lying on the ground.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Thrown there in a +fine fit of temper, I warrant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Her was as quiet as a +new born lamb once the door was broke open and she did see as my +word, well, ’twas my word.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. We all hear a +great deal about your word, Father, but ’twould be better +for there to be more do and less say about you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. [<i>Going over to +Annet and looking at her intently</i>.] Why, my +wench—what be you a-dropping tears for this day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Drying her +eyes</i>.] ’Twas—’twas the scent out of +one of the flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, that’s a +likely tale it is. Hear that, Mother? ’Tis with +her eyes that this little wench do snuff at a flower. +That’s good, bain’t it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I haven’t +patience with the wenches now-a-days. Lay down that nosegay +at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her room. I +warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, I warrant as +her’ll need a smartish bit of time for to take the creases +out of the face of she.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Andrew</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>come in</i>.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, Andrew, my lad, +’tis about time as we was on the way to church I +reckon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I count as ’tis +full early yet, master.</p> +<p>[<i>He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the +room to the window where</i> <span class="smcap">Annet</span> +<i>is standing</i>, <i>and trying to control her tears</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Annet, Millie will +have none of my blossoms. I should like it well if you +would carry them in your hand to church this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. [<i>Looking +wonderingly at him</i>.] Me, Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Yes, you, +Annet. For, look you, they become you well. They have +sommat of the sweetness of you in them. And the touch of +them is soft and gentle. And—I would like you to keep +them in your hands this day, Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O Andrew, I never was +given anything like this before.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. +[<i>Slowly</i>.] I should like to give you a great deal +more, Annet—only I cannot. And ’tis got too +late.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Too late—I +should think it was. What’s come to the maid! +In my time girls didn’t use to spend a quarter of the while +afore the glass as they do now. Suppose you was to holler +for her again, Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Anything to please +you, Mother—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I hear her coming, +Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>comes slowly into the +room in her wedding clothes</i>. <i>She holds herself very +upright and looks from one to another quietly and coldly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Andrew’s gived +your nosegay to Annet, Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. ’Twould have +been a pity to have wasted the fresh blossoms.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. But they were gathered +for you, Mill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Annet seems to like +them better than I did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, my +wench—you be tricked out as though you was off to the horse +show. Mother, there bain’t no one as can beat our +wench in looks anywhere this side of the country.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. She’s right +enough in the clothing of her, but ’twould be better if her +looks did match the garments more. Come, Millie, +can’t you appear pleasanter like on your wedding day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I’m very +thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink of water before we +set out?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And what next, I +should like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. ’Tis only a +drink of water that I’m asking for.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, that’s +reasonable, Mother, bain’t it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Run along and get +some for your cousin, May. [<span class="smcap">May</span> +<i>runs out of the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come you here, +Andrew, did you ever see a wench to beat ourn in looks, I +say?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. [<i>Who has remained +near</i> <span class="smcap">Annet</span> <i>without +moving</i>.] ’Tis very fine that Millie’s +looking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Fine, I should think +’twas. You was a fine looking wench, Mother, the day +I took you to church, but ’tis my belief that Millie have +beat you in the appearance of her same as the roan heifer did +beat th’ old cow when the both was took along to +market. Ah, and did fetch very near the double of what I +gived for the dam.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>returns carrying a glass +bowl full of water</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Here’s a drink of +cold water, Millie. I took it from the spring.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>takes the +bowl</i>. <i>At the same moment a loud knocking is heard at +the outside door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Who’s that, +I should like to know?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>sets down the bowl on +the table</i>. <i>She listens with a sudden intent</i>, +<i>anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. I’ll learn +anyone to come meddling with me on a day when ’tis marrying +going on.</p> +<p>[<i>The knocking is again heard</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span>, <i>who would have opened the +door</i>.] No, no. ’Tis I who will open the +door.</p> +<p>[<i>She raises the latch and flings the door wide +open</i>. <span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>disguised as +a poor and bent old man</i>, <i>comes painfully into the +room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. We don’t +want no beggars nor roadsters here to-day, if you please.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, and that us +don’t. Us be a wedding party here, and ’tis for +you to get moving on, old man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. He is poor and +old. And he has wandered far, in the heat of the +morning. Look at his sad clothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Annet</span>.] I never heard her put so much +gentleness to her words afore.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And ’tis my +wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted from here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I never knowed you +so careful of a poor wretch afore, Millie. ’Tis quite +a new set out, this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I am in mind of +another, who may be wandering, and hungered, and in poor clothing +this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Give him something +quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that we can start for the +wedding.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>Coming close +to</i> <span class="smcap">Giles</span>.] What is it I can +do for you, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. ’Tis only a +drink of water that I ask, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. [<i>Taking up the +glass bowl</i>.] Only a drink of water, master? Then +take, and be comforted.</p> +<p>[<i>She holds the bowl before him for him to drink</i>. +<i>As he takes it</i>, <i>he drops a ring into the +water</i>. <i>He then drinks and hands the bowl back to</i> +<span class="smcap">Millie</span>. <i>For a moment she +gazes speechless at the bottom of the bowl</i>. <i>Then she +lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but for</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span>, <i>who takes it from her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Master, from whom did +you get this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Look well at the +stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded and dim.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. And not more clouded +than the heart which is in me, master. O do you bring me +news?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Is it not all too late +for news, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Not if it be the news +for which my heart craves, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. And what would that +be, mistress?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Millie</span> <i>goes to</i> <span +class="smcap">Giles</span>, <i>and with both hands slowly pushes +back his big hat and gazes at him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O Giles, my true +love. You are come just in time. Another hour and I +should have been wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. And so you knew me, +Mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O Giles, no change of +any sort could hide you from the eyes of my love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Your love, +Millie. And is that still mine?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. It always has been +yours, Giles. O I will go with you so gladly in poor +clothing and in hunger all over the face of the earth.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes to him and clasps his arm</i>; <i>and</i>, +<i>standing by his side</i>, <i>faces all those in the +room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. +[<i>Angrily</i>.] Please to come to your right senses, +Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come, Andrew, set +your foot down as I’ve set mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Nay, master. +There’s naught left for me to say. The heart does +shew us better nor all words which way we have to travel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And are you going to +marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, who looks so brave and fine +in his wedding clothes, Millie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I am going to marry +him I have always loved, May—and—O Andrew, I never +bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard words to you +sometimes.—But you’ll not remember me +always—you will find gladness too, some day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I count as I shall, +Millie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come, come, +I’ll have none of this—my daughter wed to a beggar +off the highway! Mother, ’tis time you had a word +here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. No, Father, +I’ll leave you to manage this affair. ’Tis you +who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and unruly, +and ’tis to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant +position.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Dear +Millie—don’t wed my brother Giles. Why, look at +his ragged smock and his bare feet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. I shall be proud to +go bare too, so long as I am by his side, May.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>goes to the door and +blows his whistle three times and loudly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. What’s that for, +Giles?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. You shall soon see, +little May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. I’ll be hanged +if I’ll stand any more of this caddling nonsense. +Here, Mill—the trap’s come to the door. Into it +with you, I say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. I beg you to wait a +moment, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. +Wait!—’Tis a sight too long as we have waited this +day. If all had been as I’d planned, we should have +been to church by now. But womenfolk, there be no depending +on they. No, and that there bain’t.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span>, <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>and the</i> <span class="smcap">Old +Man</span> <i>come up</i>. <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>carry their packets and the</i> +<span class="smcap">Old Man</span> <i>has</i> <span +class="smcap">Giles</span>’ <i>coat and hat over his +arm</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And who are these +persons, Giles?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>set down their burdens on the floor +and begin to mop their faces</i>. <i>The</i> <span +class="smcap">Old Man</span> <i>stretches out his fine coat and +hat and buckled shoes to</i> <span +class="smcap">Giles</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Here they be, my +lord, and I warrant as you’ll feel more homely like in +they, nor what you’ve got upon you now. [<span +class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>takes the things from him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Thank you, old +master. [<i>He turns to</i> <span +class="smcap">Millie</span>.] Let me go into the other +room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a few +moments.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.] And who may you be, I should +like to know? You appear to be making very free with my +parlour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. We be the servants +what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Old Missis, +indeed. Father, you shall speak to these persons.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Well, my men. I +scarce do know whether I be a-standing on my head or upon my +heels, and that’s the truth ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, and that I can +well understand, master, for I’m a married man myself, and +my woman has a tongue to her head very similar to that of +th’ old missis yonder—so I know what ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Put them both out +of the door, Father, do you hear me? ’Tis to the +cider as they’ve been getting. That’s +clear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. My good friends, what +is it that you carry in those bundles there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis gold in +mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And silver here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Depend upon it +’tis two wicked thieves we have got among us, flying from +justice.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. No, no—did not +you hear them say, their master is Giles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. And a better master +never trod the earth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And a finer or a richer +gentleman I never want to see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. Do you hear that, +Father? O you shocking liars—’tis stolen goods +that you’ve been and brought to our innocent house this +day. But, Father, do you up and fetch in the constable, do +you hear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O I’ll run. +I shall love to see them going off to gaol.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Be quiet, May. +Can’t you all see how ’tis. Giles has done the +cruel hard task set him by Father—and is back again with +the bushel of silver and that of gold to claim my hand. +[<span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>enters</i>.] But +Giles—I’d have given it to you had you come to me +poor and forlorn and ragged, for my love has never wandered from +you in all this long time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. No, Giles—and +that it has not. Millie has never given me one kind word +nor one gentle look all the years that I’ve been courting +of her, and that’s the truth. And you can call +witness to it if you care.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Giles</span>. Uncle, Aunt, +I’ve done the task you set me years ago—and now I +claim my reward. I went from this house a poor wretch, with +nothing but the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain +me. I have returned with all that the world can give me of +riches and prosperity. Will you now let me be the husband +of your daughter?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. O say ye, Uncle, for +look how fine and grand he is in his coat—and the bags are +stuffed full to the brim and ’tis with gold and silver.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. +Well—’tis a respectabler end than I thought as +you’d come to, Giles. And different nor what you +deserved.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come, come, +Mother.—The fewer words to this, the better. Giles, +my boy—get you into the trap and take her along to the +church and drive smart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Annet—will you +come there with me too?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. O Andrew—what +are you saying?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Come, come. +Where’s the wind blowing from now? Here, Mother, do +you listen to this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I shall be deaf +before I’ve done, but it appears to me that Annet’s +not lost any time in making the most of her chances.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, and she be none +the worse for that. ’Tis what we all likes to +do. Where’d I be in the market if I did let my +chances blow by me? Hear that, Andrew?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. I’m a rare +lucky man this day, farmer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. Ah, and ’tis a +rare good little wench, Annet—though she bain’t so +showy as our’n. A rare good little maid. And +now ’tis time we was all off to church, seeing as this is +to be a case of double harness like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. O Annet, you can’t +be wed in that plain gown.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annet</span>. May, I’m so +happy that I feel as though I were clothed all over with +jewels.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew</span>. Give me your hand, +Annet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. +[<i>Mockingly</i>.] Millie—don’t you want to +give a drink of water to yon poor old man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. That I will, +May? Here—fetch me something that’s better than +water for him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. I’ll have no +cider drinking out of meal times here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Millie</span>. Then ’twill I +have to be when we come back from church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. Bless you, my pretty +lady, but I be used to waiting. I’ll just sit me down +outside in the sun till you be man and wife.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>. And that’ll +not be till this day next year if this sort of thing goes on any +longer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Daniel</span>. That’s right, +Mother. You take and lead the way. ’Tis the +womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. But I knows +how to settle with they—[<i>roaring</i>]—come Mill, +come Giles, Andrew, Annet, May. Come Mother, out of +th’ house with all of you and to church, I say.</p> +<p>[<i>He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out +of the room</i>. <i>When they have gone</i>, <i>the</i> +<span class="smcap">Old Man</span> <i>sinks on a bench in the +door-way</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Man</span>. I’m done with +all the foolishness of life and I can sit me down and sleep till +it be time to eat.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h2>BUSHES AND BRIARS</h2> +<h3>CHARACTERS</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas Spring</span>, <i>a farmer</i>, +<i>aged</i> 35.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>, <i>his wife</i>, <i>the same +age</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>his sister</i>, +<i>aged</i> 21.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie and Robin</span>, <i>the children +of Thomas and Emily</i>, <i>aged</i> 10 <i>and</i> 8.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>maid to Clara</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles Hooper</span>, <i>a rich +draper</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke Jenner</span>, <i>a farmer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>, <i>aged</i> 28.</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>A wood</i>. <i>It is a +morning in June</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>, <i>carrying an empty +basket</i>, <i>comes slowly through the wood</i>. <i>On +reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it</i>, <i>placing his +basket on the ground</i>. <i>With his stick he absently +moves the grass and leaves that lie before him</i>, <i>and is so +deeply lost in his own thoughts that he does not hear the +approach of</i> <span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>until they are by his side</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Here’s the very +man to tell us all we want to know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Why, if +’tisn’t George from Ox Lease.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>half rises</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. No, sit you down +again, my lad, and we’ll rest awhile by the side of +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. That’s it, +Miles. Nothing couldn’t have fallen out better for +us, I’m thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. You’re about +right, Luke. Now, George, my man, we should very much +appreciate a few words with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Taking up his +basket</i>.] Morning baint the time for words, +masters. I count as words will keep till the set of +sun. ’Tis otherwise with work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Work, why, George, +’tis clear you are come out but to gather flowers this +morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. ’Tis the very +first time as ever I caught George an idling away of his time +like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis over to +Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch back a couple of young +chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets what do +lay.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I never heard tell of +young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease afore July was in.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Nor me neither, +master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. But +mistress, her says, you can’t sit a maid from town at table +unless there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in +their feeding, maids from town, so mistress do say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. That just brings us to +our little matter, George. When is it that you expect the +young lady?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. The boxes of they be +stacked mountains high in the bedroom since yesterday. And +I count as the maids will presently come on their own feet from +where the morning coach do set them down.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Nay, but there’s +only one maid what’s expected.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Miss Clara, +what’s master’s sister; and the serving wench of +she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Well, George, +’twas a great day for your master when old Madam Lovel took +little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the quality.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. A water plant do grow +best by the stream, and a blossom, from the meadows, midst the +grass. Let each sort bide in the place where ’twas +seeded.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. No, no, George, you +don’t know what you’re talking about. A little +country wench may bloom into something very modish and elegant, +once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of velvet +and curtains of satin. You’ll see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Twould be a +poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by curtains, nor yet +carpets, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Take my word for it, +George, Ox Lease will have to smarten up a bit for this young +lady. I know the circles she has been moving in, and +’tis to the best of everything that she has been used.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Rising</i>.] That’s what mistress do say. +And that’s why I be sent along down to Brook with haymaking +going on and all. Spring chicken with sparrow grass be the +right feeding for such as they. So mistress do count.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Stop a moment, +George. You have perhaps heard the letters from Miss Clara +discussed in the family from time to time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Miss Clara did never +send but two letters home in all the while she was gone. +The first of them did tell as how th’ old lady was dead and +had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. And the second +was to say as how her was coming back to the farm this +morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. And hark you here, +George, was naught mentioned about Miss Clara’s fine +suitors in neither of them letters?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That I cannot say, +Master Jenner.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Nothing of their +swarming thick around her up in London, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. They may be swarming +by the thousand for aught as I do know. They smells gold as +honey bees do smell the blossom. Us’ll have a good +few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we’re many hours +older, so I counts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Well, George, +that’ll liven up the place a bit, I don’t doubt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. ’Tis a bit of +quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do want. Isn’t that +so, George, my lad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Preparing to set +off</i>.] I’ll say good morning to you, +masters. I count I’ve been and wasted a smartish time +already on the road. We be a bit hard pressed up at the +farm this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. But George, my man, we +have a good many questions to ask of you before you set off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Them questions will +have to bide till another time, I reckon. I’m got +late already, master.</p> +<p>[<i>He hurries off</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Arriving by the +morning coach! I shall certainly make my call to the farm +before sunset. What do you say, Jenner?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. You’re a rich +man, Miles, and I am poor. But we have always been +friends.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. And our fathers before +us, Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. And the courting of the +same maid shall not come between us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Slowly</i>.] +That’ll be all right, Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. What I do say is, +let’s start fair. Neck to neck, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. As you please, my good +Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Then, do you tell me +honest, shall I do in the clothes I’m a-wearing of now, +Miles?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Regarding him +critically</i>.] That neckerchief is not quite the thing, +Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. ’Tis my Sunday +best.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Step over to the High +Street with me, my lad. I’ve got something in the +shop that will be the very thing. You shall have it half +price for ’tis only a bit damaged in one of the +corners.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I’m sure +I’m very much obliged to you, Miles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. That’s all +right, Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. George would look +better to my thinking if there was a new coat to the back of +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Ah, poor beggar, he +would, and no mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I warrant as Emily do +keep it afore him as how he was took in from off the road by +th’ old farmer in his day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. I flatter myself that +I have a certain way with the ladies. They come to me +confidential like and I tell them what’s what, and how +that, this or t’other is worn about town. But with +Missis Spring ’tis different. That’s a woman I +could never get the right side of no how.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Ah, poor Thomas! +There’s a man who goes down trod and hen scratched if you +like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. ’Tis altogether +a very poor place up at Ox Lease, for young Miss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Pulling out his +watch</i>.] Time’s slipping on. What if we were +to stroll on to the shop and see about my neckerchief, Miles?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. I’m sure +I’m quite agreeable, Luke. ’Twill help to pass +away the morning.</p> +<p>[<i>He puts his arm in</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke’s</span> <i>and they go briskly off in +the direction of the village</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>comes through the wood</i>. +<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>is dressed in a long</i>, +<i>rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with +feathers and ribbons</i>. <span class="smcap">Joan</span> +<i>wears a cotton bonnet and small shawl</i>. <i>She +carries her mistress’s silken bag over her arm</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Pointing to the +fallen tree</i>.] There is the very resting place for +us. We will sit down under the trees for a while. +[<i>She seats herself</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Dusting the tree +with her handkerchief before she sits on it</i>.] Have we +much further to go, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Only a mile or two, so +far as I can remember.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis rough work +for the feet, down in these parts, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. If London roads were +paved with diamonds I’d sooner have my feet treading this +rugged way that leads to home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What sort of a place +shall we find it when we gets there, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I was but seven when I +left them all, Joan. And that is fourteen years ago +to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. So many years may bring +about some powerful big changes, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. But I dream that I +shall find all just as it was when I went away. Only that +Gran’ma won’t be there.</p> +<p>[<i>There is a short silence during which</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>seems lost in thought</i>. +<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>flicks the dust off her shoes +with a branch of leaves</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis the coaches +I do miss down in these parts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I would not have +driven one step of the way this morning, Joan. In my fancy +I have been walking up from the village and through the wood and +over the meadows since many a day. I have not forgotten one +turn of the path.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. The road has not +changed then, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. No. But it does +not seem quite so broad or so fine as I remembered it to +be. That is all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. And very likely the +house won’t seem so fine neither, mistress, after the grand +rooms which you have been used to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What company shall we +see there, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Well, there’s +Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily his wife. Then the two +children.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>After a short +silence</i>, <i>and as though to herself</i>.] And there +was George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Yes, mistress</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Georgie seemed so big +and tall to me in those days. I wonder how old he really +was, when I was seven.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Would that be a younger +brother of yours, like, mistress</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. No, George minded the +horses and looked after the cows and poultry. Sometimes he +would drive me into market with him on a Saturday. And in +the evenings I would follow him down to the pool to see the +cattle watered.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’m mortal +afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the sight +nor the sound of those animals.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You’ll soon get +over that, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. And I don’t care +for poultry neither, very much. I goes full of fear when I +hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Pulling up the +sleeve of her left arm</i>.] There, do you see this little +scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese when +the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a +piece right out of my arm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking intently on +the scar</i>.] I have often seen that there mark, +mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be +living along of the poultry still?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I wish he might be, +Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What with the cows and +the horses and the ganders, we shall go with our lives in our +hands, as you might say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>As though to +herself</i>.] When the days got colder, we would sit under +the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to +me. Some of his songs, I could say off by heart this +day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking nervously +upward</i>.] O do look at that nasty little thing dropping +down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever put such +a thing up in the tree I’d like to know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Brushing it gently +aside</i>.] That won’t hurt you—a tiny +caterpillar.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>After a +moment</i>.] What more could the farm hand do, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. He would clasp on his +bells and dance in the Morris on certain days, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis to be hoped +as there’ll be some dancing or something to liven us all up +a bit down here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Why, Joan, I believe +you’re tired already of the country.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis so powerful +quiet and heavy like, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. ’Tis full of +sounds. Listen to the doves in the trees and the lambs +calling from the meadow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’d sooner have +the wheels of the coaches and the cries upon the street, and the +door bell a ringing every moment and fine gentlemen and ladies +being shewn up into the parlour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Stretching out her +arms</i>.] O how glad I am to be free of all that. +And most of all, how glad to be ridded of one person.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. His lordship will +perhaps follow us down here, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. No, I have forbidden +it. I must have a month of quiet, and he is to wait that +time for his answer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, +you’ll never disappoint so fine a gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You forget that Lord +Lovel and I have played together as children. It is as a +brother that I look upon him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. His lordship +don’t look upon you as a sister, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Rising</i>.] +That is a pity, Joan. But see, it is getting late and we +must be moving onwards.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>rises and smoothes and +shakes out her skirt</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Here, loosen my cloak, +Joan, and untie the ribbons of my bonnet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, keep the +pretty clothes upon you till you have got to the house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. No, no—such town +garments are not suited to the woods and meadows. I want to +feel the country breeze upon my head, and my limbs must be free +from the weight of the cloak. I had these things upon me +during the coach journey. They are filled with road dust +and I dislike them now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Unfastening the +cloak and untying the bonnet</i>.] They are fresh and +bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Retying a blue +ribbon which she wears in her hair</i>.] I have taken a +dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire them, +they shall be yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Mine? The French +bonnet and the satin cloak?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. To comfort you for the +pains of the country, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, let us stop +a moment longer in this quiet place so that I may slip them on +and see how they become me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. As you will. +Listen, that is the cuckoo singing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Throwing off her +cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing herself hastily in the +bonnet and cloak</i>.] O what must it feel like to be a +grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I am very glad to be +without them for a while. How good the air feels on my +head.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. There, mistress, how do +I look?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Very nicely, +Joan. So nicely that if you like, you may keep them upon +you for the remainder of the way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, may I +really do so?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Yes. And Joan, +do you go onwards to the farm by the quickest path which is +through this wood and across the high road. Anyone will +shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander about +in some of the meadows which I remember. But I will join +you all in good time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Very well, +mistress. If I set off in a few moments it will do, I +suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself as I +am now, in the little glass which you carry in your silk bag.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Going +off</i>.] Don’t spend too much time looking at what +will be shewn you, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Never fear, +mistress. I’ll be there afore you, if I have to run +all the way. [<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>wanders +off</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>sits down again on the +trunk of the fallen tree</i>. <i>She opens the silken +bag</i>, <i>draws out a small hand glass and looks long and +steadily at her own reflection</i>. <i>Then she glances +furtively around and</i>, <i>seeing that she is quite alone</i>, +<i>she takes a small powder box from the bag and hastily opening +it</i>, <i>she gives her face several hurried touches with the +powder puff</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Surveying the +effect in the glass</i>.] Just to take off the brown of my +freckles. Now if any one was to come upon me sitting here +they wouldn’t know as I was other than a real, high +lady. All covered with this nice cloak as I be, the French +bonnet on my head, and powder to my face, who’s to tell the +difference? But O—these must be hid first.</p> +<p>[<i>She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the +ground</i>. <i>She hastily rolls them up in a small bundle +and stuffs them into the silken bag</i>. <i>Then she takes +up the glass and surveys herself again</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. How should I act now if +some grand gentleman was to come up and commence talking to +me? Perhaps he might even take me for a lady of title in +these fine clothes, and ’twould be a pity to have to +undeceive him.</p> +<p>[<i>She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then +lowers the lace veil over her face</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>come slowly up behind her</i>. +<span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>nudges</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>with his elbow</i>, <i>signing to +him to remain where he is whilst he steps forward in front of</i> +<span class="smcap">Joan</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Pardon me, madam, but +you appear to have mistook the way. Allow me to set you on +the right path for Ox Lease.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Letting the mirror +fall on her lap and speaking very low</i>.] How do you know +I am going to Ox Lease, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. You see, madam, I +happen to know that a stylish young miss from town is expected +there to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Coming forward and +speaking in a loud whisper</i>.] Now Miles. I count +as you made one of the biggest blunders of the time. Our +young lady be journeying along of her servant wench. This +one baint she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. If we have made a +small error, madam, allow me to beg your pardon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Don’t mention it, +sir. Everyone is mistaken sometimes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Well, I’m +powerful sorry if we have given any offence, mam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking up at</i> +<span class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>with sudden boldness and +speaking in a slow</i>, <i>affected voice</i>.] +There’s nothing to make so much trouble about, sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Can we be of any +assistance to you, madam? The wood may appear rather dense +at this point.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. That it does. +Dense and dark—and the pathway! My goodness, but my +feet have never travelled over such rough ground before.</p> +<p>Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt +that the delicate texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by +our stones and ruts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Insensibly pulling +her skirts over her thick walking shoes</i>.] Well, +it’s vastly different to London streets, where I generally +take exercise—at least when I’m not a-riding in the +coach.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. The country is but a +sad place at the best, Miss Clara Spring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking round +furtively and speaking in a whisper</i>.] O, how did you +guess my—my name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Come, +’twasn’t a hard matter, that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Missey can command my +services.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Rallying</i>, +<i>and standing up</i>.] Then gentlemen, do you walk a bit +of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation as we go +along.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Offering his +arm</i>.] You take my arm, Miss Clara—do—.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Also offering his +arm</i>.] I shall also give myself the pleasure of +supporting Miss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Taking an arm of +each</i>.] O thank you, kindly gentlemen. Now we +shall journey very comfortably, I am sure.</p> +<p>[<i>They all set out walking in the direction of the +farm</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm</i>. <i>There are three +doors</i>. <i>One opens to the staircase</i>, <i>one to the +garden and a third into the back kitchen</i>. <i>At a table +in the middle of the room</i> <span class="smcap">Emily</span> +<i>stands ironing some net window curtains</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robin</span> <i>lean against the table watching +her</i>. <i>By the open doorway</i>, <i>looking out on the +garden</i>, <i>stands</i> <span class="smcap">Thomas</span>, <i>a +mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread in the +other</i>. <i>As he talks</i>, <i>he takes alternate drinks +and bites</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Speaking in a +shrill</i>, <i>angry voice</i>.] Now Thomas, suppose you +was to take that there bread a step further away and eat it in +the garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling it all over +my clean floor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Don’t you be so +testy, Emily. The dogs’ll lick the crumbs up as clean +as you like presently.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Dogs? I’d +like to see the dog as’ll shew its nose in here to-day when +I’ve got it all cleaned up against the coming of fine young +madam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Finishing his +bread and looking wistfully at his empty hand</i>.] The +little maid’ll take a brush and sweep up her daddy’s +crumbs, now, won’t her?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’ll give it to +any one who goes meddling in my brush cupboard now that +I’ve just put all in order against the prying and nozzling +of the good-for-nothing baggage what’s coming along with +your sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. What’s baggage, +Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Sharply</i>.] Never you mind. Get and take your +elbow off my ironing sheet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Looking at her +father</i>.] I count as you’d like a piece more +bread, Dad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Well, I don’t +say but ’twouldn’t come amiss. ’Tis +hungry work in th’ hayfield. And us be to go without +our dinners this day, isn’t that so, Emily?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Slamming down her +iron on the stand</i>.] If I’ve told you once, +I’ve told you twenty times, ’twas but the one pair of +hands as I was gived at birth. Now, what have you got to +say against that, Thomas?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. +[<i>Sheepishly</i>.] I’m sure I don’t know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And if so be as +I’m to clean and wash and cook, and run, and wait, and +scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other folk must go +without hot cooking at mid-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. +[<i>Faintly</i>.] ’Twasn’t nothing cooked, +like. ’Twas a bit of bread as I did ask for.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Getting +up</i>.] I’ll get it for you, Dad. I know where +the loaf bides and the knife too. I’ll cut you, O +such a large piece.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Seizing her +roughly by the hand</i>.] You’ll do nothing of the +sort. You’ll take this here cold iron into Maggie and +you’ll bring back one that is hot. How am I to get +these curtains finished and hung and all, by the time the dressed +up parrots come sailing in, I’d like to know.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>runs away with the +iron</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Setting down his +mug and coming to the table</i>.] I’d leave the +windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form +the suitablest shade for they, to my thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. That shews how much +you know about it, Thomas. No, take your hands from off my +table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs shewing all +over the clean net what I’ve washed and dried and ironed, +and been a-messing about with since ’twas light?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Now that’s what +I be trying for to say. There’s no need for you to go +and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of little +Clara coming back. Home’s home. And +’twon’t be neither the curtains nor the hot dinner as +Clara will be thinking of when her steps into th’ old place +once more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Running back with +the hot iron which she sets down on the table</i>.] What +will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Shy and abashed +under a withering glance from</i> <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>who has taken up the iron and is +slamming it down on the net</i>.] Her’ll remember, +very like, how ’twas when her left—some fourteen year +ago. And her’ll have her eyes on +Gran’ma’s chair, what’s empty.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I should be thinking +of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what’s for dinner.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. And her’ll look +up to th’ old clock, and different things what’s +still in their places. The grand parts where she have been +bred up will be forgot. ’Twill be only home as +her’ll think on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I haven’t +patience to listen to such stuff.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>After a +pause</i>.] I count that ’tisn’t likely as a +young woman what’s been left riches as Clara have, would +choose to make her home along of such as we for always, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. We have perches and +plenty of them for barn door poultry, but when it comes to +roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank you, Thomas, +I’m not going to do it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Do let us get and +roost some fancy fowls, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. What are spangled +plumes, Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Viciously</i>.] You’ll see plenty of them +presently.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Will Aunt Clara bring +the fowls along of she?</p> +<p>[<i>A slight pause during which</i> <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>irons vigorously</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>As she +irons</i>.] Some folk have all the honey. It do +trickle from the mouths of them and down to the ground.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Has Aunt Clara got her +mouth very sticky, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And there be others +what are born to naught but crusts and the vinegar.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Like you, +Mother—Least, that’s what Maggie said this +morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. What’s that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. That ’twas in +the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’ll learn that +wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she can’t fetch +them out respectful like. [<i>Shouting</i>.] Mag, +come you here this minute—what are you after now, I’d +like to know, you ugly, idle piece of mischief?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Maggie</span>, <i>wiping a plate comes +from the back kitchen</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. Was you calling, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. What’s this +you’ve got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like to +know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Running to</i> +<span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>and laying her hand on her +arm</i>.] Dear Maggie, ’tis only what you did tell +about poor mother’s tongue being in the vinegar jar.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. O Miss Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Hark you here, my +girl—if ’twasn’t hay time you should bundle up +your rags and off with you this minute. But as ’tis +awkward being short of a pair of hands just now, you’ll +bide a week or two and then you’ll get outside of my door +with no more character to you nor what I took you with.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, come +Emily. The girl’s a good one for to work, and that +she is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Be quiet, +Thomas. This is my business, and you’ll please to +keep your words till they’re wanted.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. O mistress, I +didn’t mean no harm, I didn’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I don’t want no +words nor no tears neither.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>Beginning to cry +loudly</i>.] I be the only girl as have stopped with you +more nor a month, I be. T’others wouldn’t bide +a day, some of them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Be quiet. Back +to your work with you. And when the hay is all carried, off +with you, ungrateful minx, to where you came from.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. O let us keep her +always, Mother, she’s kind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Don’t you cry, +Mag. I’ll marry you when I’m a big man like +Daddy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Harken to them, +Emily! She’s been a good maid to the children. +I’d not part with any one so hasty, if ’twas me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Very +angrily</i>.] When I want your opinion, Thomas, I’ll +ask for it. Suppose you was to go out and see after +something which you do understand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. O I’ll go down +to the field fast enough, I can tell you. ’Twas only +being hungered as drove me into the hornets’ nest, as you +might say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Ironing +fiercely</i>.] What’s that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Nothing. I did +only say as I was a-going back to the field when George do come +home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. There again. Did +you ever know the man to be so slow before. I warrant as he +have gone drinking or mischiefing down at the Spotted Cow instead +of coming straight home with they chicken.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Nay, nay. +George is not the lad to do a thing like that. A quieter +more well bred up lad nor George never trod in shoes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span> [<i>Glancing at</i> <span +class="smcap">Maggie</span>.] What are you tossing your +head like that for, Maggie? Please to recollect as +you’re a lazy, good-for-nothing little slut of a maid +servant, and not a circus pony all decked out for the show.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Maggie’s fond +of Georgie. And Georgie’s kind to Mag.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. +[<i>Fearfully</i>.] O don’t, Miss Jessie, for +goodness sake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Viciously</i>.] I’ll soon put an end to anything +in that quarter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Now, Emily—take +it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara upon us before us knows +where we are.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Folding the +curtains</i>.] I’ll settle her too, if she comes +before I’m ready for her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Pointing through +the open</i>.] There’s George, coming with the +basket.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>comes into the +room</i>. <i>He carefully rubs his feet on the mat as he +enters</i>. <i>Then he advances to the table</i>. +<span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>dries her eyes with the back +of her hand</i>. <span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>is +standing with her arm in</i> <span +class="smcap">Maggie’s</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Well, and where have +you been all this while, I’d like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. To Brook Farm, mam, +and home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. You’ve been up +to some mischief on the way, I warrant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, Emily.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>looks calmly into</i> +<span class="smcap">Emily’s</span> <i>face</i>. +<i>Then his gaze travels leisurely round the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I was kept waiting +while they did pluck and dress the chicken.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Lifting the cloth +covering the basket</i>, <i>and looking within it</i>.] +I’d best have gone myself. Of all the thick-headed +men I ever did see, you’re the thickest. Upon my word +you are.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. What’s wrong +now, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. ’Taint chicken +at all what you’ve been and fetched me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I’ll be blowed +if I do know what ’tis then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. If I’d been +given a four arms and legs at birth same as th’ horses, +I’d have left a pair of them at home and gone and done the +job myself, I would. And then you should see what I’d +have brought back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. You can’t +better what I’ve got here. From the weight it might +be two fat capons. So it might.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Seizing the basket +roughly</i>.] Here, Mag, off into the pantry with +them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the road ditch +would have done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with these +clean curtains and lay them careful on the bed. I’ll +put them to the windows later.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. George, my boy, did +you meet with any one on the way, like?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. You’d best ask +no questions if you don’t want to be served with lies, +Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Throwing a glance +of disdain at</i> <span class="smcap">Emily</span>.] Miles +Hooper and Farmer Jenner was taking the air ’long of one +another in the wood, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Miles Hooper and Luke +a-taking of the air, and of a weekday morning!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That they was, +master. And they did stop I—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Ah, now you’ve +got it, Thomas. Now we shall know why George was upon the +road the best part of the day and me kept waiting for the +chicken.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Steadily</i>.] Sunday clothes to the back of both of +them. And, when was Miss Clara expected up at home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Ah, ’tis a fair +commotion all over these parts already, I warrant. There +wasn’t nothing else spoke of in market last time, but how +as sister Clara with all her money was to come home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Coming +back</i>.] I’ve laid the curtains on the bed, shall I +gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’d like to see +you! Flowers in the bedroom? I never heard tell of +such senseless goings on. What next, I’d like to +know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Miss Clara always did +fill a mug of clover blooms and set it aside of her bed when her +was a little thing—so high.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Do you remember our +fine aunt, then, Georgie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I remembers Miss +Clara right enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Don’t you +flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy piece of town goods +will trouble herself to remember you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. The little maid had a +good enough heart to her afore she was took away from us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Do you think our aunt +Clara has growed into a coxsy town lady, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No, I do not, Miss +Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Beginning to stir +about noisily as she sets the kitchen in order</i>.] Get +off with you to the field, Thomas, can’t you. +I’ve had enough to do as ’tis without a great hulking +man standing about and taking up all the room.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, George, +us’ll clear out down to th’ hay field, and snatch a +bite as we do go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That’s it, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Calling angrily +after them</i>.] There’s no dinner for no one to-day, +I tell you.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Thomas</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>go out of the back kitchen +door</i>. <span class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>begins +putting the irons away</i>, <i>folding up the ironing sheet and +setting the chairs back against the wall</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robin</span>, <i>from their places at the +table</i>, <i>watch her intently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>As she moves +about</i>.] ’Twouldn’t be half the upset if the +wench was coming by herself, but to have a hussy of a serving +maid sticking about in the rooms along of us, is more nor I can +stand.</p> +<p>[<i>She begins violently to sweep up the hearth</i>.</p> +<p>[<i>Steps are heard outside</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Hark, what’s +that, mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’ll give it to +any one who wants to come in here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Running to the +open door</i>.] They’re coming up the path. +’Tis our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen either side of +she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Running also to +the door</i>.] O I want to look on her too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Putting the broom +in a corner</i>.] ’Tis no end to the vexation. +But she’ll have to wait on herself. I’ve no +time to play the dancing bear. And that I’ve not.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>between</i> <span +class="smcap">Miles Hooper</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke Jenner</span>, <i>comes up to the open +door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>To +Jessie</i>.] See here, my little maid, what’ll you +give Mister Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe up to the +farm?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I know who ’tis +you’ve brought. ’Tis my Aunt Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. You’re a smart +little wench, if ever there was one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I know who ’tis, +too, ’cause of the spangled plumes in the bonnet of +she. Mother said as there’d be some.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Coming +forward</i>.] Well, Clara, if ’twas by the morning +coach as you did come, you’re late. If ’twas by +th’ evening one, you’re too soon by a good few +hours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Having come by the +morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant fancy to stroll here +through the woodlands, Missis Spring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Ah, and ’twas +lost on the way as we did find her, like a strayed sheep.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. And ours has been the +privilege to bring the fair wanderer safely home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Scornfully +looking</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>over from head to +foot</i>.] Where’s that serving wench of yours got +to, Clara?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Our young missy had a +wish for solitude. She sent her maid on by another +road.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. The good-for-nothing +hussy. I warrant as she have found something of mischief +for her idle hands to do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. If I may venture to +say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat fatigued by her long +stroll. London young ladies are very delicately framed, +Missis Spring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Pointing +ungraciously</i>.] There’s chairs right in front of +you.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>lead</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>forward</i>, <i>placing her in an +armchair with every attention</i>. <span +class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>sinks into it</i>, <i>and</i>, +<i>taking a little fan from the silken bag on her arm</i>, +<i>begins to fan herself violently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Watching her with +fierce contempt</i>.] Maybe as you’d like my kitchen +wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine +maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it +concerns her to attend to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Faintly</i>.] +O no, thank you. The day is rather warm—that’s +all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Warm, I should think +it was warm in under of that great white curtain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Aunt Clara, I’m +Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Are you, my dear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. And I’m +Robin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Now, I wager, if you +are both good little children, this pretty lady will give you +each a kiss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Faintly</i>.] +To be sure I will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Then you’ll +have to take off that white thing from your face. +’Tis like what mother do spread over the currant bushes to +keep the birds from the fruit.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>slowly raises her +veil</i>, <i>showing her face</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Shall I give you a +kiss, Aunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’d be careful +if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies be brittle as fine +china.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. O I’ll kiss her +very lightly, Mother.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes up to</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>and +kisses her</i>. <span class="smcap">Robin</span> <i>then +reaches up his face and</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> +<i>kisses him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Rubbing his +mouth</i>.] The flour do come from Aunt same as it does +from a new loaf.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>.] You must pardon these ignorant +little country brats, Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O there’s nothing +amiss, thank you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Amiss, who said as +there was? When folks what can afford to lodge at the inn +do come down and fasten theirselves on the top of poor people, +they must take things as they do find them and not start +grumbling at the first set off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. There, there, Missis +Spring. There wasn’t naught said about +grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long +distance, and it behoves us all as she should find summat of a +welcome at the end of her journey, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>.] How strange this country tongue +must fall on your ears, Miss Clara!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I don’t +understand about half of what they say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Overhearing +her</i>.] O, you don’t, don’t you. Well, +Clara, I was always one for plain words, and I say ’tis a +pity when folks do get above the position to which they was bred, +and for all the fine satins and plumes upon you, the body +what’s covered by them belongs to Clara Spring, +what’s sister to Thomas. And all the world knows what +Thomas is—A poor, mean spirited, humble born man with but +two coats to the back of him, and with not a thought to the mind +of him which is not foolishness. And I judge from by what +they be in birth, and not by the bags of gold what have been left +them by any old madams in their dotage. So now you see how +I takes it all and you and me can start fair, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke</span>.] O Mister—Mister Jenner, I +feel so faint.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Taking her +fan</i>.] Allow me. [<i>He begins to fan +her</i>.] I assure you she means nothing by it. +It’s her way. You see, she knows no better.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I’d fetch out +summat for her to eat if I was you, missis. ’Tis +famished as the poor young maid must be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. She should have come +when ’twas meal time then. I don’t hold with +bites nor drinks in between whiles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O I’m dying for a +glass of milk—or water would do as well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. My dear young +lady—anything to oblige. [<i>Turning to +Jessie</i>.] Come, my little maid, see if you can’t +make yourself useful in bringing a tray of refreshment for your +auntie. And you [<i>turning to Robin</i>] trot off and help +sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Not if I know +it. Stop where you are, Jess. Robin, you dare to +move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I’m afeared she +must wait till supper time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. There be chicken and +sparrow grass for supper, Aunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. And a great pie of +gooseberries.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Faintly</i>.] +O I couldn’t touch a mouthful of food, don’t speak to +me about it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I likes talking of +dinner. After I’ve done eating of it, I likes next +best to talk about it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. See here, missis. +Let’s have a glass of summat cool for Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Calling +angrily</i>.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great +lazy-boned donkey?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>Comes in from the +back kitchen</i>, <i>her apron held to her eyes</i>.] Did +you call me, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Get up a bucket of +water from the well. Master’s sister wants a +drink.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>Between +sobs</i>.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would the +young lady like it in a jug?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>With +exasperation</i>.] There’s no end to the worriting +that other folks do make.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Let me go and help +poor Maggie, mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>.] Do you know what Maggie’s +crying for, Aunt Clara?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’m sure I +don’t, little boy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. ’Tis because +she’s got to go. Mother’s sent her off. +’Twas what she said of mother’s tongue.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Roughly taking +hold of</i> <span class="smcap">Robin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jessie</span>.] Come you along with me, you +ill-behaved little varmints. ’Tis the back kitchen +and the serving maid as is the properest place for such as +you. I’ll not have you bide ’mongst the company +no longer. [<i>She goes out with the children and followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">Maggie</span>.]</p> +<p>[<i>Directly they have left the room</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>whose manner has been nervously +shrinking</i>, <i>seems to recover herself and she assumes a +languid</i>, <i>artificial air</i>, <i>badly imitating the ways +of a lady of fashion</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Fanning herself +with her handkerchief and her fan</i>.] Well, I never did +meet with such goings on before.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. You and I know how +people conduct themselves in London, Miss Clara. We must +not expect to find the same polite ways down here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Come now, +’tisn’t so bad as all that with we. There baint +many what has the tongue of mistress yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’m quite unused +to such people.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. And yet, Miss Clara, +’tisn’t as though they were exactly strangers to you +like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. They feel as good as +strangers to me, any way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Ah, how well I +understand that, Miss. ’Tisn’t very often as we +lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at +my counters.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I could go through with +it better perhaps, if I didn’t feel so terrible faint and +sinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Going to the back +kitchen door</i>.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself up a +bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Runs in with a +tray on which is a jug of water and a glass</i>.] I’m +bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. Maggie’s +crying ever so badly, and Mother’s sent her upstairs to +wash her face and put her hair tidy.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>puts the tray on the +table near to where</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>is +sitting</i>. <span class="smcap">Miles Hoofer</span> +<i>busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in handing +it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Drinking</i>.] Such a coarse glass!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Ah, you must let me +send you up one from my place during your stay here. Who +could expect a lady to drink from such a thing as that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Laying aside the +glass</i>.] There’s a taste of mould in the water +too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. It’s +fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, she did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking +disdainfully round on the room</i>.] Such a strange +room. So very common.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Nay, you mustn’t +judge of the house by this. Don’t you recollect the +parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds and the chiney +cupboard?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking round +again</i>.] Such an old-fashioned place as this I never did +see. ’Tis a low sort of room too, no carpet on the +boards nor cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Ah, we find the +mansions in town very different to a country farm house, +don’t we Miss?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I should think we did, +Mister Hooper. Why, look at that great old wooden chair by +the hearth? Don’t it look un-stylish, upon my word, +with no cushions to it nor nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Coming quite +close to</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>and looking +straight into her face</i>.] That’s great +gran’ma’s chair, what Dad said you’d be best +pleased for to see.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>looks very confused and +begins to fan herself hastily</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. And th’ old +clock’s another thing what Dad did say as you’d look +upon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O the old clock’s +well enough, to be sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I did want to gather +a nosegay of flowers to set in your bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, +she said, no.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Languidly</i>.] I must say I don’t see any +flowers blooming here that I should particular care about having +in my apartment.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. And Father said as +how you’d like to smell the blossoms in the garden. +And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the clover blooms +when you was a little girl and set them by you where you did +sleep.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Crossly</i>.] +O run away, child, I’m tired to death with all this +chatter. How would you like to be so pestered after such a +travel over the rough country roads as I have had?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Now, my little maid, +off you go. Take back the tray to Mother, and be careful as +you don’t break the glasses on it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Taking up the +tray</i>.] I’m off to play in the hayfield along of +Robin, then.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>opens the back kitchen +door for her and she goes out</i>. <i>Meanwhile</i> <span +class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>has taken up the fan and is +fanning</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>who leans back in +her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Coming to her side +and sitting down</i>.] ’Twill seem more homelike when +Thomas do come up from the field.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Raising herself and +looking at him</i>.] You mustn’t trouble about me, +Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable presently.</p> +<p>[<i>The back door opens and</i> <span +class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>comes hurriedly in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. Please, mistress, +there be a young person a-coming through the rick yard.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Nervously</i>.] A young person?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. Mistress be at the +gooseberries a-gathering of them, and the children be gone off to +th’ hay field.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. ’Tis very likely +your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch the young woman +in to you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. My maid, did you +say? My maid?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Ah, depend on it, +’tis she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. The young person do +have all the looks of a serving wench, mistress. She be +tramping over the yard with naught but a white handkerchief over +the head of she and a poking into most of the styes and a-calling +of the geese and poultry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. That’s her, right +enough. Bring her in, Mag.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Agitatedly</i>.] No, no—I mean—I want to +see her particular—and alone. I’ll go to meet +her. You—gentlemen—[<span +class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>goes slowly into the back +kitchen</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Placing a chair +for</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] Delicate ladies +should not venture out into the heat at this time of day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>With sudden +resolution ignoring the chair and going to the window</i>.] +Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the +garden. I have need of the services of my—my young +woman. But when she has put me in order after the dusty +journey, I shall ask you to be good enough to come back and while +away an hour for me in this sad place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. +[<i>Fervently</i>.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. That’s +right. Us’ll wait while you do lay aside your +bonnet.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>go out through the garden +door</i>. <span class="smcap">Miles</span>, <i>turning to +bow low before he disappears</i>. <span +class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>stands as though distraught in the +middle of the room</i>. <i>Through the open door of the +back kitchen the voices of</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>are distinctly +heard</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Is no one at home +then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. Ah, go you straight +on into the kitchen, you’ll find whom you be searching for +in there. I’d take and shew you in myself only +I’m wanted down to th’ hayfield now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Don’t put +yourself to any trouble about me. I know my way.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>comes into the +kitchen</i>. <i>She has tied a white handkerchief over her +head</i>, <i>and carries a bunch of wildflowers in her +hands</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Still in your cloak +and bonnet! Why, I thought by now you would have unpacked +our things and made yourself at home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Joining her hands +supplicatingly and coming towards</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>speaking almost in a +whisper</i>.] O mistress, you’ll never guess what +I’ve been and done. But ’twasn’t all my +fault at the commencement.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Looking her over +searchingly</i>.] You do look very disturbed, Joan, what +has happened?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Twas the fine +bonnet and cloak, mam. ’Twas they as did it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Did what?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Put the thought into my +head, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What thought?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. As how ’twould +feel to be a real grand lady, like you, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What then, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. So I began to pretend +all to myself as how that I was one, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Come, tell me all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. And whilst I was sat +down upon that fallen tree, and sort of pretending to myself, the +two gentlemen came along.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What gentlemen?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Gentlemen as was after +courting you, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Courting me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Yes, and they commenced +speaking so nice and respectful like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Go on, Joan, +don’t be afraid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. It did seem to fall in +with the game I was a-playing with myself. And then, before +I did know how, ’twas they was both of them a-taking me for +you, mam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. And did you not +un-deceive them, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Very +ashamedly</i>.] No, mam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You should have told +them the truth about yourself at once.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O I know I should have, +mistress. But there was something as held me back when I +would have spoke the words.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I wonder what that +could have been?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Twas them being +such very nice and kind gentlemen. And, O mistress, +you’ll not understand it, because you’ve told me many +times as the heart within you have never been touched by +love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Suddenly sitting +down</i>.] And has yours been touched to-day, Joan, by +love?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. That it have, +mistress. Love have struck at it heavily.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Through which of the +gentlemen did it strike, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Through both. +Leastways, ’tis Mister Jenner that my feelings do go out +most quickly to, mistress. But ’tis Mister Hooper who +do court the hardest and who has the greatest riches like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Well, and what do you +want me to do or to say now, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. See here, mistress, I +want you to give me a chance. They’ll never stoop to +wed me if they knows as I’m but a poor serving maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Your dressing up as a +fine lady won’t make you other than what you are, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Once let me get the +fish in my net, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Are you proposing to +catch the two, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I shall take the one as +do offer first, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. That’ll be +Mister Hooper, I should think.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I should go riding in +my own chaise, mistress, if ’twas him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. But, Joan, either of +these men would have to know the truth before there could be any +marriage.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I knows that full well, +mistress. But let one of them just offer hisself. By +that time my heart and his would be so closely twined together +like, ’twould take more nor such a little thing as my +station being low to part us.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>sits very still for a few +moments</i>, <i>looking straight before her</i>, <i>lost in +thought</i>. <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>sinks on to +a chair by the table as though suddenly tired out</i>, <i>and she +begins to cry gently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Listen, Joan. +I’m one for the straight paths. I like to walk in +open fields and over the bare heath. Only times come when +one is driven to take to the ways which are set with bushes and +with briars.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Lifting her head +and drying her eyes</i>.] O mistress, I feel to be asking +summat as is too heavy for you to give.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. But for a certain +thing, I could never have lent myself to this acting game of +yours, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. No, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Only that, to-day, my +heart too has gone from my own keeping.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, you +don’t mean to say as his lordship have followed us down +already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. +[<i>Scornfully</i>.] His lordship! As if I should be +stirred by him!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Humbly</i>.] +Who might it be, mistress, if I may ask?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. ’Tis one who +would never look upon me with thoughts of love if I went to him +as I am now, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I can’t rightly +understand you, mam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. My case is just the +same as yours, Joan. You say that your fine gentlemen would +not look upon a serving maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’m certain of +it, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. And the man I—I +love will never let his heart go out to mine with the heaviness +of all these riches lying between us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I count that gold do +pave the way for most of us, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. So for this once, I +will leave the clear high road, Joan. And you and I will +take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God they do not +wound us past healing at the end of our travel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, +’twill be a lightsome journey for me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. But the moment that +you reach happiness, Joan, remember to confess.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. There won’t be +nothing to fear then, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Make him love you for +yourself, Joan. O we must each tie the heart of our true +love so tightly to our own that naught shall ever be able to cut +the bonds.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Yes, mistress, and +I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Ah, I am lending +myself to all this, because I, too, have something to win or +lose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Where did you meet him, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I did not meet +him. I stood on the high ground, and he passed below. +His face was raised to the light, and I saw its look. I +think my love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, +Joan. But when he passed beneath me in the meadow, it +awoke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O mistress, what sort +of an appearance has the gentleman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I don’t know how +to answer you, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I count as it would +take a rare, grand looking man for to put his lordship into the +shadow, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You are right there, +Joan. But now we must talk of your affairs. Your fine +courtiers will be coming in presently and you must know how to +receive them in a good way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. That’s what do +hamper me dreadful, my speech and other things. How would +it be if you was to help me a little bit, like?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. With all my heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. How should I act so not +to be found out, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You must speak little, +and low. Do not show haste in your goings and +comings. Put great care into your way of eating and +drinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O that will be a +fearsome hard task. What else?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You must be sisterly +with Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’d clean forgot +him. I don’t doubt but what he’ll ferret out +the truth in no time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I don’t think +so. I was but a little child when I left him. He will +not remember how I looked. And our colouring is alike, +Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis the eating +and drinking as do play most heavily upon my mind, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Then think of these +words as you sit at table. Eat as though you were not +hungry and drink as though there were no such thing as +thirst. Let your hands move about your plate as if they +were too tired to lift the knife and fork.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>darts to the +dresser</i>—<i>seizes up a plate with a knife and fork</i>, +<i>places them on the table and sits down before them</i>, +<i>pretending to cut up meat</i>. <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>watches her smilingly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Absently</i>, +<i>raising the knife to her mouth</i>.] How’s that, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Not so, not so, +Joan. That might betray you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. ’Tis the fork +which journeys to the mouth, and the knife stops at home on the +plate.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Dispiritedly</i>.] ’Tis almost more than I did +reckon for when I started.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Well, we mustn’t +think of that now. We must hold up our spirits, you and +I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Getting up and +putting away the crockery</i>.] I’d best take off the +bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn’t I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Yes, that you +had. We will go upstairs together and I will help you +change into another gown. Come quickly so that we may have +plenty of time.</p> +<p>[<i>They go towards the staircase door</i>, <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>leading the way</i>. <i>With +her hand on the latch of the door she gives one look round the +kitchen</i>. <i>Then with a sudden movement she goes up to +the wooden armchair at the hearth and bends her head till her +lips touch it</i>, <i>she then runs upstairs</i>, <i>followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><i>After a few moments</i> <span class="smcap">Miles +Hooper</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Luke Jenner</span> +<i>come into the kitchen</i>. <i>They both look round the +room enquiringly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Ah, she be still up +above with that there serving wench what’s come.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. My good man, you +didn’t expect our fair miss to have finished her toilet +under an hour, did you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I don’t see what +there was to begin on myself, let alone finish.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. ’Tis clear you +know little of the ways of our town beauties, Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Still, I mean to have +my try with her, Miles Hooper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. +[<i>Sarcastically</i>.] I’m quite agreeable, Mister +Jenner.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Thomas</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>come in</i>. <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>carries a bucket of water</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Where’s the +little maid got to? George and me be come up from the field +on purpose for to bid her welcome home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Miss is still at her +toilet, farmer.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>in a flowered silk +gown</i>, <i>comes slowly and carefully into the room</i>, +<i>followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>who +carries a lace shawl over one arm</i>. <i>She has put on a +large white apron</i>, <i>but wears nothing on her head but the +narrow blue ribbon</i>. <i>During the following scene she +stands quietly</i>, <i>half hidden by the door</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>looks nervously round the +room</i>, <i>then she draws herself up very haughtily</i>. +<span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>comes forward and bows +low</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Looking</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>up and down</i>.] Well, bless +my soul, who’d have guessed at the change it do make in a +wench?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Holding out her +hand</i>, <i>very coldly</i>.] A good afternoon to you, +sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Taking her hand +slowly</i>.] Upon my word, but you might knock me over.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Miss has grown into a +very superb young lady, Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Still looking at +her</i>.] That may be so, yet ’twasn’t as such +I had figured she in the eye of my mind, like. [<i>There is +a moment’s silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. George, my boy, you +and sister Clara used to be up to rare games one with +t’other once on a time. [<i>Turning to</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>.] There, my wench, I count +you’ve not forgotten Georgie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’m afeared +I’ve not much of a memory.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Shake hands, my maid, +and very like as the memory will come back to roost same as the +fowls do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Bowing +coldly</i>.] Good afternoon, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Aside to +Luke</i>.] Now that’s what I call a bit of stylish +breeding.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>has made no answer +to</i> <span class="smcap">Joan’s</span> <i>bow</i>. +<i>He quietly ignores it</i>, <i>and takes up his pail of +water</i>. <i>As he does so he catches sight of</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>who has been watching the whole +scene from the corner where she is partly concealed</i>. +<i>He looks at her for one moment</i>, <i>and then sets the +bucket down again</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Why, George—I +guess as it’s took you as it took me, us didn’t think +how ’twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Quietly</i>.] No, us did not, master.</p> +<p>[<i>He carries his pail into the back kitchen as</i> <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>and the children come in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. What’s all this +to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Us did but come up +for to—to give a handshake to sister Clara, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Well, now you can go +off back to work again. And you—[<i>turning to</i> +<span class="smcap">Joan</span>]—now that you’ve +finished curling of your hair and dressing of yourself up, you +can go and sit down in the best parlour along with your fancy +gentlemen.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Offering his arm +to</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] It will be my +sweet pleasure to conduct Missy to the parlour.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>offers his arm on the +other side</i>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> +<i>moves off with both the young men</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>As she +goes</i>.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a comfortable +couch. I’m dead tired of the country air already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Calling after +her</i>.] You’ll not go off to sleep afore the +chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Miles</span>, <span +class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>having gone out</i>, <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>begins to bang the chairs back in +their places and to arrange the room</i>, <i>watched by the two +children</i>. <span class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>who has +remained half hidden by the door</i>, <i>now goes quietly +upstairs</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Calling</i>.] Here, George, Mag.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Well, George, +’tisn’t much worse nor I expected.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I don’t like +Aunt Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I hates her very +much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Slowly</i>.] And I don’t seem to fancy her +neither.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>Two days have passed by</i>.</p> +<p><i>It is morning</i>. <span class="smcap">Clara</span>, +<i>wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head</i>, <i>sits by +the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief</i>. <span +class="smcap">Maggie</span>, <i>who is dusting the plates on the +dressers</i>, <i>pauses to watch her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I’d sooner +sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor have to set at such +a niggly piece of sewing work as you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I cannot do it +quickly, it is so fine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I count ’tis +very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a young miss such as +yourn be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What makes you say +that, Maggie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. Missis be very high +in her ways and powerful sharp in the tongue, but I declare as +your young lady will be worser nor missis when she do come to +that age.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Why do you think this, +Mag?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. O she do look at any +one as though they was lower nor the very worms in the +ground. And her speaks as though each word did cost she +more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how +destructive she be with her fine clothing. A laced +petticoat tore to ribbons last night, and to-day yon +handkerchief.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. These things are soon +mended.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>continues to dust for a +few moments</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. The day you comed +here, ’twas a bit of ribbon as you did have around of your +hair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>After a +moment’s hesitation</i>.] I put it on to keep my hair +neat on the journeying.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>Coming +nearer</i>.] I count as you’ve not missed it, have +you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Indeed I have, and I +think I must have lost it in the hayfield.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. ’Tain’t +lost.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Where is it then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. Look here, I could +tell you, but I shan’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. If you have found it, +Maggie, you may keep it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. ’Twould be a +fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you be, and to give away +ribbons, so ’twould.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>takes no notice of her +and goes on sewing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>More +insistently</i>.] ’Twasn’t me as found the +ribbon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Who was it then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I daresay you’d +like for to know, but I’m not going to say nothing more +about it.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>leans against the table +watching</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>as she +sews</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>with both the children +now come in</i>. <span class="smcap">Emily</span> +<i>carries a basket of potatoes</i>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>a large bowl</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Setting down the +basket</i>.] Maggie, you idle, bad girl, whatever are you +doing here when master expects you down in the meadow to help +with the raking?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I be just a-going off +yonder, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’d thank other +folk not to bring dressed up fine young serving minxes down +here—you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but you’ll be +a hundred times worser now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I’ll be off and +help master. I’ve been and put the meat on to boil as +you said, missis.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>goes off</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>continues to sew</i>, +<i>quietly</i>. <span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>has +put her bowl down on the table</i>, <i>and now comes to her +side</i>. <span class="smcap">Robin</span> <i>also comes +close to her</i>. <span class="smcap">Emily</span> +<i>flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously +watches them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. We don’t care +much about our new aunt, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Dad said as how Aunt +would be sure to bring us sommat good from London town in them +great boxes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. And Aunt has been +here two days and more, and she hasn’t brought us +nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Your fine aunt have +been too much took up with her fancy gentlemen to think of what +would be suitable behaviour towards you children.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Will Aunt Clara get +married soon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. ’Tis to be hoped +as she will be. Such a set out in the house I have never +seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and +hearty having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying +in bed till ’tis noon or later.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. ’Tis only one +of them as lies in bed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>.] Do you think Aunt has got +sommat for us upstairs, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Rising and putting +down her work</i>.] I know she has, Robin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Don’t let me +catch you speaking to Master Spring as though you and he was of +the same station, young person.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Master Robin, and Miss +Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch the gifts that your aunt has +brought for you.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes leisurely towards the staircase door</i>, +<i>smiling at the children</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Ah, and you may tell +your young madam that ’tis high time as she was out of bed +and abroad. Hear that? [<span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I like her. She +speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. She’s a stuck up +sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the hands of her, +’tis not a day’s hard work as they have done in her +life, I’ll warrant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. What will she bring us +from out of the great boxes, do you think?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Sommat what you +don’t need, I warrant. ’Tis always so. +When folks take it into their heads to give you aught, ’tis +very nigh always sommat which you could do better without.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>gets up and begins +settling the pots on the fire</i>, <i>and fetching a jug of cold +water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays on the +table</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>enters carrying some +parcels</i>. <i>She brings them to the table</i>. +<i>Both the children run to her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Holding out a long +parcel to</i> <span class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>and speaking to +the children</i>.] The first is for your mother, +children.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>With an angry +exclamation</i>.] Now, you mark my words, ’twill be +sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use +’twill be.</p> +<p>[<i>She comes near</i>, <i>opens the parcel and perceives it +to be a length of rich black silk</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. My mistress thought it +might be suitable.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Suitable? +I’ll suitable her. When shall my two hands find time +to sew me a gown out of it, I’d like to know? And if +’twas sewn, when would my limbs find time to sit down +within of it? [<i>Flinging it down on the table</i>.] +Suitable? You can tell your mistress from me as she can +keep her gifts to herself if she can’t do better nor +this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Stroking the +silk</i>.] O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor a +dove’s feather.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Feeling it +too</i>.] ’Tis better nor the new kittens’ +fur.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Let us see if your +aunt have done more handsomely towards you children.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I am afraid not. +These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with her aunt’s dear +love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Seizing the beads +with delight</i>.] I love a string of beads. +[<i>Putting them on</i>.] How do they look on me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Off with them this +moment. I’ll learn her to give strings of rubbish to +my child.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Beginning to +cry</i>.] O do let me wear it just a little while, just +till dinner, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Have done with that +noise. Off with it at once, do you hear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Taking the +necklace off</i>.] I love the feel of it—might I keep +it in my hand then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Seizing +it</i>.] ’Twill be put by with the silk dress. +So there. ’Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl +like you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Looking up from +the pages of his book</i>.] No one shan’t take my +book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep +and cows in it—and no one shan’t hide it from me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Putting the silk +dress and necklace on another table</i>.] Next time your +aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as +she’ll ask me to come and see her a-doing of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Coming up to</i> +<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>very tearfully</i>.] +And was there naught for Dad in the great box?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Perhaps there may +be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. And did Aunt Clara +bring naught for Georgie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I don’t +know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Poor Georgie. +He never has nothing gived him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. And Mother puts the +worst of the bits on his plate at dinner.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Sharply</i>.] Look you here, young woman. Suppose +you was to take and do something useful with that idle pair of +hands as you’ve got.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Yes, mistress, I +should like to help you in something.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Us knows what fine +promises lead to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. But I mean it. +Do let me help a little.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. See them taters?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Yes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Take and peel and wash +them and get them ready against when I wants to cook them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>A little +doubtfully</i>.] Yes—I’ll—I’ll +try—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Ah, ’tis just as +I thought. You’re one of them who would stir the fire +with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with the +poker.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. +[<i>Eagerly</i>.] No, no—it isn’t that. +I’ll gladly do them. Come, Miss Jessie, you will shew +me if I do them wrongly, won’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. O yes, I’ll +help you because I like you, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I’ll help too, +when I have finished looking at my book.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>goes out</i>. <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>sits down by the table and takes up +a potato and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to +work</i>. <span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>stands by +her watching</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. You mustn’t +take no account of Mother when she speaks so sharp. +’Tis only her way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Could you come and be +our serving maid when Maggie’s sent off?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. O I should be too slow +and awkward at the work, I think.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Yes, you don’t +do them taters very nice.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. That don’t +matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine things about other +parts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Georgie can tell of +fine things too. See, there he comes with the vegetables +from the garden.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>comes in with a large +basket of vegetables</i>, <i>which he sets down in the back +kitchen</i>. <i>Then he stands at the door</i>, <i>silently +watching the group near the table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Come here, Georgie, +and let Joan hear some of the tales out of what you do sing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. What would mistress +say if she was to catch me at my songs this time of day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Mother’s gone +upstairs, she won’t know nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Come you here, George, +and look at my fine book what Aunt have brought me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Slowly +approaching the table</i>.] That be a brave, fine book of +pictures, Master Robin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Holding up the +open book</i>.] I don’t fancy Aunt Clara much, but I +likes her better nor I did because of this book.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George’s</span> <i>eyes wander from +the book to</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>as she bends +over her work</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Joan doesn’t +know how to do them very nicely, does she George!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis the first +time you’ve been set down to such work, may be, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. You mustn’t say +“mistress” to Joan, you know. Why, Mother would +be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan’s only +a servant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Looking +up</i>.] Like you, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Steadily</i>.] What I was saying is—’Tis +the first time as you have been set afore a bowl of taters like +this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You are right, +George. It is the first time since—since I was quite +a little child. And I think I’m very clumsy at my +work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No one could work +with them laces a-falling down all over their fingers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. You should turn back +your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, same as Maggie does.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Yes, you should turn +back your sleeves, Miss Joan.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>puts aside the knife and +basket</i>, <i>turns back her sleeves</i>, <i>and then resumes +her work</i>. <span class="smcap">George’s</span> +<i>eyes are rivetted on her hands and arms for a +moment</i>. <i>Then he turns as though to go away</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Don’t go away, +Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt Clara now that +she’s growed into such a grand lady.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Coming back to +the table</i>.] I don’t like nothing about her, Miss +Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Is Aunt very much +changed from when she did use to ride the big horses to the +trough, Georgie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. And from the time when +th’ old gander did take a big piece right out of her arm, +Georgie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>His eyes on</i> +<span class="smcap">Clara’s</span> <i>bent head</i>.] +I count her be wonderful changed, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. So that you would +scarce know her?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. So that I should +scarce know she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. She have brought +Mother a silken gown and me a string of coral beads. But +naught for you, Georgie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I reckon as Miss +Clara have not kept me in her remembrance like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>With sudden +earnestness</i>.] O that she has, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. She didn’t seem +to know him by her looks.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Looks often speak but +poorly for the heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Who has been +watching</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>.] See there, +Joan. You’ve been and cut that big tater right in +half. Mother will be cross.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. O dear, I am +thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the same time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Taking basket and +knife from her and seating himself on the edge of the +table</i>.] Here,—give them all to me. I +understand such work, and ’tis clear that you do not. +I’ll finish them off in a few minutes, and mistress will +never be the wiser.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. O thank you, George, +but am I to go idle?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. You can take up with +that there white sewing if you have a mind. ’Tis more +suited to your hands nor this rough job.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>puts down her sleeves and +takes up her needlework</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Sing us a song, +George, whilst you do the taters.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No, Miss +Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. You ask him, +Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Will not you sing one +little verse, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Nay—strangers +from London town would have no liking for the songs we sing down +here among the fields.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. There was a song I +once heard in the country that pleased me very well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. What was it +called?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I cannot remember the +name—but there was something of bushes and of briars in +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I know which that +is. ’Tis a pretty song. Sing it, Georgie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Nay—sing it +yourself, Miss Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. ’Tis like this +at the beginning.—[<i>she sings or repeats</i>]—</p> +<p class="poetry">“Through bushes and through briars<br /> +I lately took my way,<br /> +All for to hear the small birds sing<br /> +And the lambs to skip and play.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. That is the song I was +thinking of, Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Can you go on with +it, Miss Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I can’t say any +more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Gently singing or +speaking</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">I overheard my own true love,<br /> +Her voice it was so clear.<br /> +“Long time I have been waiting for<br /> +The coming of my dear.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Heaving a +sigh</i>.] That’s it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Go on, Joan, I do +like the sound of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Shall I go on with the +song, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. As you please.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Sometimes I am uneasy<br /> +And troubled in my mind,<br /> +Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love<br /> +And tell to him my mind.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And if I would go to my love<br /> +My love he will say nay<br /> +If I show to him my boldness<br /> +He’ll ne’er love me again.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. When her love was hid +a-hind of the bushes and did hear her a-singing so pitiful, what +did he do then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I don’t know, +Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I reckon as he did +come out to show her as he knowed all what she did keep in her +mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Very likely the briars +were so thick between them, Jess, that he never got to the other +side for her to tell him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Yes, that’s how +’twas, I count.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Running up to</i> +<span class="smcap">Robin</span>.] I’m going to look +at your book along of you, Robin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. But I’m the one +to turn the leaves, remember. [<i>The children sit side by +side looking at the picture book</i>. <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>sews</i>. <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>goes on with the +potatoes</i>. <i>As the last one is finished and tossed +into the water</i>, <i>he looks at</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>for the first time</i>. <i>A +long silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Miss Clara and me was +good friends once on a time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Tell me how it was +then, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I did used to put her +on the horse’s back, and we would go down to the water +trough in the evening time and—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What else did you and +Miss Clara do together, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Us would walk in the +woods aside of one another—And I would lift she to a high +branch in a tree—and pretend for to leave her there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. And then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Her would call upon +me pitiful—and I would come back from where I was hid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. And did her crying +cease?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. She would take and +spring as though her was one of they little wild squirrels as do +dance about in the trees.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Where would she spring +to, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I would hold out my +two arms wide to her, and catch she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. And did she never +fall, whilst springing from the tree, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I never let she fall, +nor get hurted by naught so long as her was in the care of +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Slowly</i>, +<i>after a short pause</i>.] I do not think she can have +forgotten those days, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Getting up and +speaking harshly</i>.] They’re best forgot. Put +them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and +sommat of all which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and +this’n.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>turns her head away and +furtively presses her handkerchief to her eyes</i>. <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>looks gloomily on the +floor</i>. <span class="smcap">Emily</span> +<i>enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. George, what are you +at sitting at the kitchen table I’d like to know?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>gets hastily +off</i>. <i>Both children look up from their book</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Looking freezingly +at</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>.] ’Tis plain +as a turnpike what you’ve been after, young person. +If you was my serving wench, ’tis neck and crop as you +should be thrown from the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What for, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. What for? You +have the impudence to ask what for? I’ll soon tell +you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at +him and scandalising of my innocent children in their own +kitchen.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. This be going a bit +too far, missis. I’ll not have things said like +that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Then you may turn out +on to the roads where you were took from—a grizzling little +roadsters varmint. You do cost more’n what you eats +nor what we get of work from out of your body, you great +hulk.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Springing up +angrily</i>.] O I’ll not hear such things said. +I’ll not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Who asked you to +speak? Get you upstairs and pull your mistress out of +bed—and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the flour on +to her face. ’Tis about all you be fit for.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Angrily going to +the stair door</i>.] Very well. ’Tis best that +I should go. I might say something you would not like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Advancing +towards</i> <span class="smcap">Emily</span>.] Look you +here, mistress. I’ve put up with it going on for +fifteen years. But sometimes ’tis almost more nor I +can bear. If ’twasn’t for Master Thomas +I’d have cleared out this long time ago.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Don’t flatter +yourself as Thomas needs you, my man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. We has always been +good friends, farmer and me. ’Tis not for what I gets +from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold +together. But ’tis this—as he and I do +understand one another.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. We’ll see what +master has to say when I tell him how you was found sitting on +the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy piece of London +trash.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I’m off. +I’ve no patience to listen any longer. You called me +roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I +was born and on the road I was picked from my dead mother’s +side, and I count as ’tis on the road as I shall breathe my +last. But for all that, I’ll not have road dirt flung +on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint though I be, there +be things which I do hold brighter nor silver and cleaner nor new +opened leaves, and I’ll not have defilement throwed upon +them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Seizing the arms +of</i> <span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robin</span>.] The lad’s raving. +’Tis plain as he’s been getting at the cider. +Come you off with me to the haymaking, Robin and Jess.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. May I take my book +along of me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Flinging the book +down violently</i>.] I’ll book you! What +next?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Poor Georgie. +He was not courting Joan, mother. He was only doing the +taters for her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>As they go +out</i>.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I’ll +get her packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I +don’t.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>is left alone in the +kitchen</i>. <i>When all sounds of</i> <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>and the children have died +away</i>, <i>he sighs</i>. <i>Then</i>, <i>looking +furtively round the room</i>, <i>he draws a blue ribbon slowly +from his pocket</i>. <i>He spreads it out on one hand and +stands looking down on it</i>, <i>sadly and longingly</i>. +<i>Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it</i>. +<i>Just as he is doing this</i> <span class="smcap">Thomas</span> +<i>comes into the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Why, George, my +lad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Confusedly +putting the ribbon back into his pocket</i>.] Yes, Master +Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Looking meaningly +at</i> <span class="smcap">George</span>.] ’Tis a +pretty enough young maid, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. What did you say, +Master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. That one with the bit +of blue round the head of her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Blue?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Ah, George. I +was a young man myself once on a time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Yes, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. ’Twasn’t +a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but ’twas a +blossom dropped from her gown.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Whose gown, +master? I’ll warrant ’twasn’t +missus’s.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Bless my soul, +no. No, no, George. ’Twasn’t the mistress +then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, I count as it +could not have been she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. First love, +’tis best, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, upon my word, +that ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. But my maid went and +got her married to another.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. More’s the +pity, Master Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. +[<i>Sighing</i>.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have +been—with her and me, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Had that one a soft +tongue to her mouth, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Soft and sweet as the +field lark, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Then that had been +the one for you to have wed, Master Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Ah, George, +don’t you never run into the trap, no matter whether +’tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream +on. Once in, never out. There ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No one would trouble +to set a snare for me, master. I baint worth trapping.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. You be a brave, fine +country lad, George, what a pretty baggage from London town might +give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had the +fortune.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No, no, Master +Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. There be a piece of +blue ribbon, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. They be coming down +and into the room now, master. [<i>Steps are heard in the +staircase</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. We’ll off to +the meadow then, George.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Thomas</span> <i>go out</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>dressed as a lady of +fashion</i>, <i>and followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>comes into the kitchen</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Now, Joan, if I were +you, I should go out into the garden, and let the gentlemen find +you in the arbour. Your ways are more easy and natural when +you are in the air.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O I’m very nigh +dead with fright when I’m within doors. ’Tis so +hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. +But at table ’tis worst of all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. You’ve stopped +up in your room two breakfasts with the headache, and yesterday +we took our dinner to the wood.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. But to-night +’twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have asked +them both to supper again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Luke Jenner and the +other man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I beg you to practise +me in my ways, a little, afore the time, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. That I will. We +will find out what is to be upon the table, and then I will shew +you how it is to be eaten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. And other things as +well as eating. When I be sitting in the parlour, Miss +Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, what have I +got to say to him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. O, I shouldn’t +trouble about that. I’d open my fan and take no +notice if I were you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I do feel so awkward +like in speech with Farmer Thomas, mistress. And with the +children, too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Come, you must take +heart and throw yourself into the acting. Try to be as a +sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your way +with the children.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I tries to be like old +Madam Lovel was, when I talks with them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. That cross, rough mode +of hers sits badly on any one young, Joan. Be more of +yourself, but make little changes in your manner here and +there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>With a heavy +sigh</i>.] ’Tis the here and the there as I finds it +so hard to manage.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Running in +breathlessly</i>.] A letter, a letter for Aunt Clara. +[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>involuntarily puts out her +hand</i>.] No, Joan. I was to give it to Aunt Clara +herself. I’ve run all the way.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>slowly takes the +letter</i>, <i>looking confused</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Will you read it now, +Aunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Run away, little girl, +I don’t want no children worriting round me now. +[<i>Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to speak +brightly</i>.] I mean—no, my dear little girl, +I’d rather wait to read it till I’m by myself; but +thank you very kindly all the same, my pet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. O, but I should like +to hear the letter read, so much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Never mind. Run +along back to mother, there’s a sweet little maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I’d sooner stop +with you now, you look so much kinder, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Jessie’s</span> <i>hand and leading her to +the door</i>.] Now, Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her +letter in quiet, but if you will come back presently I will have +a game with you outside.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>As she runs +off</i>.] Mother won’t let me talk with you any more, +alone. She says as you’ve made a fool of Georgie and +you’ll do the same by us all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>When</i> <span +class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>has run off</i>.] There now, +how did I do that, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Better, much +better.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis the feeling +of one thing and the speaking of another, with you ladies and +gentlemen. So it appears to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>After a +moment’s thought</i>.] No. It is not quite like +that. But ’tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly +feeling in better garments.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Handing the letter +to</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>.] There, mistress, +’tis yours, not mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Glancing at +it</i>.] Lord Lovel’s writing. [<span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>opens the letter and reads it +through</i>.] He will not wait longer for my answer. +And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O, mistress, whatever +shall we do?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. We had better own to +everything at once. It will save trouble in the end.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Own to everything now, +and lose all just as my hand was closing upon it, like!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Poor Joan, it will not +make any difference in the end, if the man loves you truly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Be kind and patient +just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is coming up to see +me now. I’d bring him to offer his self, if I was but +left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. And then, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. And then, when was all +fixed up comfortable between us, mistress, maybe as you could +break it gently to him so as he wouldn’t think no worse of +me.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>gets up and goes to the +window</i>, <i>where she looks out for a few minutes in +silence</i>. <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>cries +softly meanwhile</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Turning +towards</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] As you will, +Joan. Very likely ’twill be to-morrow morning before +my lord reaches this place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O bless you for your +goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all may go as well +with you as ’tis with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Sadly</i>.] +That is not likely, Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What is it stands in +the way, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Briars, Joan. +Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and hurting thing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Then take you my +counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when he do offer +next.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I’ll think of +what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when the heart is +tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into shelter. +[<i>A slight pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking through the +window</i>.] Look up quickly, mistress. There’s +Hooper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Getting +up</i>.] Then I’ll run away. May all be well +with you, dear Joan. [<span class="smcap">Clara</span> +<i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>seats herself in a +high-backed chair and opens her fan</i>. <span +class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>enters</i>, <i>carrying a small +box</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Already astir, Miss +Clara. ’Tis early hours to be sure for one of our +London beauties.</p> +<p>[<i>He advances towards her</i>, <i>and she stretches out her +hand without rising</i>. <i>He takes it +ceremoniously</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. You may sit down, if +you like, Mister Hooper.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>places a chair in front +of</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>and sits down on +it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Untying the +parcel</i>.] I’ve been so bold as to bring you a +little keepsake from my place in town, Missy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. How kind you are, +Mister Miles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. You’ll be able +to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see it, Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Now, you do excite me, +Mister Hooper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Opening the box +and taking out a handsome spray of bright artificial +flowers</i>.] There, what do you say to that, Miss? +And we can do you the same in all the leading tints.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O, ’tis wonderful +modish. I declare I never did see anything to beat it up in +town.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Now I thought as +much. I flatter myself that we can hold our own with the +best of them in Painswick High Street.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I seem to smell the +very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper.</p> +<p>[<i>She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from</i> +<span class="smcap">Miles</span>, <i>pretending to smell +it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Well—and +what’s the next pleasure, Madam?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>drops the spray and begins +to fan herself violently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Very +gently</i>.] What’s Missy’s next pleasure?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. I’m sure I +don’t know, Mr. Miles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Miles Hooper would +like Missy to ask for all that is his.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O, Mister Hooper, how +kind you are.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Ladies never like the +sound of business, so we’ll set that aside for a moment and +discuss the music of the heart in place of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Ah, that’s a +thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. I loved you from the +first, Miss. There’s the true, high born lady for +you, says I to myself. There’s beauty and style, +elegance and refinement.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Now, did you really +think all that, Mister Hooper?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Do not keep me in +suspense, Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What about, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. The answer to my +question, Missy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. And what was that, I +wonder?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. I want my pretty Miss +to take the name of Hooper. Will she oblige her Miles?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O that I will. +With all my heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Standing +up</i>.] I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye my +sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and +such trifles.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Agitatedly</i>.] O let us not destroy to-day by +thoughts of anything but our dear affection one for +t’other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Why, my pretty town +Miss is already becoming countrified in her speech.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. ’Tis from hearing +all the family. But, dear Miles, promise there shan’t +be nothing but—but love talk between you and me this +day. I could not bear it if we was to speak of, of other +things, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Getting up and +walking about the room</i>.] As you will—as you +will. Anything to oblige a lady.</p> +<p>[<i>He stops before the table</i>, <i>on which is laid</i> +<span class="smcap">Emily’s</span> <i>silk dress</i>, +<i>and begins to finger it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. What’s that +you’re looking at?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Ten or fifteen +shillings the yard, and not a penny under, I’ll be +bound.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O do come and talk to +me again and leave off messing with the old silk.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. No, no, Missy, +I’m a man of business habits, and ’tis my duty to go +straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He +and I have got to talk things over a bit, you know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Off so soon! O +you have saddened me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Nay, what is it to +lose a few minutes of sweet company, when life is in front of us, +Miss Clara?</p> +<p>[<i>He raises her hand</i>, <i>kisses it</i>, <i>and leaves +her</i>. <i>As he goes out by the door</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O, Mistress—stop +him going down to Farmer Thomas at the meadow!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Why, Joan, what has +happened?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. All has happened. +But stop him going to the farmer to talk about the—the +wedding and the money.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. The money?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. The income which he +thinks I have.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I’ll run, but +all this time I’ve been keeping Master Luke Jenner quiet in +the parlour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O what does he want +now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Much the same as the +other one wanted.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Must I see him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Yes, indeed he will +wait no longer for his answer. He’s at boiling point +already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Then send him in. +But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and keep Miles Hooper from +the farmer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I’ll run my +best, never fear. [<i>She goes out</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Luke Jenner</span> <i>comes in</i>, <i>a +bunch of homely flowers in his hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Seating +herself</i>.] You are early this morning, Mister +Jenner.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Sitting opposite to +her</i>.] I have that to say which would not bide till +sunset, Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Indeed, Mister +Jenner. I wonder what that can be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. ’Tis just like +this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you was coming +down here—“I could do with a rich wife if so be as I +could win her,” I did tell myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O, Mister Jenner, now +did you really?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. But when I met you in +the wood—saw you sitting there, so still and yet so bright, +so fine and yet so homely. “That’s the maid for +me,” I says to myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +[<i>Tearfully</i>.] O, Mister Jenner!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. And if it had been +beggar’s rags upon her in the place of satin, I’d +have said the same.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Very much +stirred</i>.] O, Mister Jenner, and did you really think +like that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. If all the gold that do +lie atween me and you was sunk in the deep ocean, ’twould +be the best as could happen. There!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Faintly</i>.] +O, Mister Jenner, why?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Because, very like +’twould shew to you as ’tis yourself I’m after +and not the fortune what you’ve got.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. Mister Jenner, +I’m mighty sorry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Don’t say +I’m come too late, Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. You are. Mister +Hooper was before you. And now, ’tis he and I who are +like to be wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I might have known I +had no chance.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Rising and trying +to hide her emotion</i>.] I wouldn’t have had it +happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Laying his bunch of +flowers on the table</i>, <i>his head bent</i>, <i>and his eyes +on the ground</i>.] ’Twas none of your doing, Miss +Clara. You’ve naught to blame yourself for. +’Tis not your fault as you’re made so—so +beautiful, and yet so homely.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>looks at him irresolutely +for a moment and then precipitately leaves the room</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Luke</span> <i>folds his arms on the +table and rests his head on them in an attitude of deepest +despondency</i>. <i>After a few moments</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. O, Mister Jenner, what +has happened to you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Raising his head +and pointing to the window</i>.] There she goes, through +the garden with her lover.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I wish that you were +in his place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. +[<i>Bitterly</i>.] I’ve no house with golden rails to +offer her. Nor any horse and chaise.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. But you carry a heart +within you that is full of true love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. What use is the love +which be fastened up in a man’s heart and can spend itself +on naught, I’d like to know. [<i>He rises as though +to go and take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on +the table</i>. <i>Brokenly</i>.] I brought them for +her. But I count as he’ll have given her something +better nor these.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>takes the flowers gently +from his hand</i>, <i>and as she does so</i>, <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. What now if you +please! First with George and then with Luke. +’Twould be Thomas next if he wasn’t an old sheep of a +man as wouldn’t know if an eye was cast on him or no. +But I’ll soon put a stop to all this. Shame on you, +Luke Jenner. And you, you fine piece of London vanity, I +wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so off with you +upstairs.</p> +<p>[<i>She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the +curtain falls</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT IV.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers</i>. +<i>A long table is spread with silver</i>, <i>china and +food</i>. <span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>is setting +mugs to each place</i>. <span class="smcap">Maggie</span> +<i>comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of +salad</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. When folks do come +down to the countryside they likes to enjoy themselves among the +vegetables.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Placing the last +mug</i>.] There—Now all is ready for them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>Bending over a +place at the end of the table</i>.] Come you and look at +this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in through the +window.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Goes to</i> <span +class="smcap">Maggie’s</span> <i>side and bends down over +the table</i>.] O what a beautiful thing. Look at the +gold on him, and his legs are like feathers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. [<i>Taking the bee +carefully up in a duster and letting it fly through the +window</i>.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. A stranger, +Maggie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. You mind my words, +’tis a stranger as’ll sit where yon was stuck, afore +the eating be finished.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I don’t believe +in such signs, myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I never knowed it not +come true.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Thomas</span> <i>comes in</i>. +<i>He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased</i>, <i>yet +nervous</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Well, maids. +Upon my word ’tis a spread. Never saw so many +different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this +house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. ’Tis in honour +of Miss Clara’s going to be married like, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. So ’tis, so +’tis. Well—A single rose upon the bush. +Bound to be plucked, you know. Couldn’t be left to +fade in the sun, eh, girls?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Where shall Maggie and +me stop whilst the supper is going on, master? Mistress has +not told us yet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. +[<i>Nervously</i>.] Mistress haven’t told +you—haven’t she? Well—well—at such +a time we must all—all rejoice one with t’other, +like. No difference made t’wixt master and man. +Nor t’wixt maid and missus. Down at the far end of +the table you can sit yourselves, my wenches. Up against +George—How’s that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. That will do very well +for us, Master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I don’t expect +as missus will let we bide there long.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Look here, my wench, +I be master in my own house, and at the asking in marriage of my +only sister like, ’tis me as shall say what shall sit down +with who. And there’s an end of it. +That’s all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maggie</span>. I hear them a coming +in, master.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Emily</span>, <i>holding the hands of</i> +<span class="smcap">Jessie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robin</span>, <i>comes into the room</i>. +<i>Her eyes fall on</i> <span class="smcap">Thomas</span> <i>who +is standing between</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Maggie</span>, <i>looking suddenly +sheepish and nervous</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>In a voice of +suppressed anger</i>.] Thomas! O, if I catch any more of +these goings on in my kitchen.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>very elegantly dressed +and hanging on the arm of</i> <span class="smcap">Miles +Hooper</span>, <i>follows</i> <span class="smcap">Emily</span> +<i>into the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’ll not have +the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. If folk +can’t come to the time when they’re asked, they baint +worth waiting for, so sit you down, all of you.</p> +<p>[<i>She sits down at the head of the table</i>, <i>a child on +either side of her</i>. <span class="smcap">Joan</span> +<i>languidly sinks into a chair and</i> <span +class="smcap">Miles</span> <i>puts himself at her +right</i>. <i>A place at her left remains empty</i>. +<span class="smcap">Thomas</span> <i>sits opposite</i>. +<i>Three places at the end of the table are left +vacant</i>. <i>As they sit down</i>, <span +class="smcap">George</span>, <i>wearing a new smock and neck +handkerchief</i>, <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Beginning to help +a dish</i>.] You need not think you’re to be helped +first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, +like. The poor little children have been kept waiting a sad +time for their supper, first because you was such a while a +having your head curled and puffed out, and then ’twas Luke +Jenner as didn’t come.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>sits down at a place at +the end of the table</i>. <span class="smcap">George</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>still remain +standing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Perceiving</i> +<span class="smcap">Clara’s</span> <i>movement</i>.] +Well, I never did see anything so forward. Who told you to +sit yourself down along of your betters, if you please, madam +serving maid?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>comes involuntarily +forward and stands behind</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara’s</span> <i>chair</i>. <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>does not move</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Get you out of that +there place this instant, do you hear? [<i>Turning to</i> <span +class="smcap">Miles</span>.] To see the way the young +person acts one might think as she fancied herself as something +uncommon rare and high. But you’ll not take any fool +in, not you, for all that you like to play the fine lady. +Us can see through your game very clear, can’t us, Mr. +Hooper?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. O certainly, to be +sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the privilege of being +acquainted with a real lady of quality could be mistook by any of +the games played by this young person.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>looks him gravely in the +face without moving</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Get up, do you hear, +and help Maggie pass the dishes!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. +[<i>Nervously</i>.] Nay, nay, ’twas my doing, +Emily. I did tell the wenches as they might sit +their-selves along of we, just for th’ occasion like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And who are you, if +you please, giving orders and muddling about like a lord in my +kitchen?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. +[<i>Faintly</i>.] Come, Emily, I’m the master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And I, the +mistress. Hear that, you piece of London impudence?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Comes +forward</i>.] Master Luke be coming up the garden, +mistress.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Luke Jenner</span> <i>enters</i>. +<i>He goes straight up to</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> +<i>and holds out his hand to her</i>, <i>and then to</i> <span +class="smcap">Miles</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. I do wish you happiness +with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, my lad, ’tis +rare—rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Come, come, Luke +Jenner, you’ve been and kept us waiting more nor half an +hour. Can’t you sit yourself down and give other folk +a chance of eating their victuals quiet? There’s +naught to make all this giddle-gaddle about as I can see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Sitting down in the +empty place by</i> <span class="smcap">Joan’s</span> +<i>side</i>.] Beg pardon, mistress, I know I’m a bit +late. But the victuals as are waited for do have a better +flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from the pot +like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. That’s true +’tis. And ’tis hunger as do make the best +sauce.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>quietly seat themselves on either +side of</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>. <span +class="smcap">Emily</span> <i>is too busy dispensing the food to +take any notice</i>. <span class="smcap">George</span> +<i>hands plates and dishes to</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>, <i>and silently cares for her comfort +throughout the meal</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Well, Emily; well, +Luke. I didn’t think to lose my little sister afore +she’d stopped a three days in the place. That I did +not. But I don’t grudge her to a fine prospering +young man like friend Hooper, no, I don’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. No one called upon you +for a speech, Thomas. See if you can’t make yourself +of some use in passing the green stuff. [<i>Turning to</i> +<span class="smcap">Luke</span>.] We have two serving maids +and a man, Mister Jenner, but they’re to be allowed to act +the quality to-day, so we’ve got to wait upon +ourselves.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. A man is never so well +served as by his own two hands, mistress. That’s my +saying at home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. And a good one too, +Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me ’tis +otherwise. I’ve got another pair of hands in the +place as do for me as well, nor better than my own.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Yes, Thomas, I often +wonders where you’d be without mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. I wasn’t +thinking of yourn, Emily. ’Tis George’s hands +as I was speaking of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Contemptuously</i>.] George! You’ll all +find out your mistake one day, Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan</span>, <i>who has been nervously handling her +knife and fork and watching</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara’s</span> <i>movements +furtively</i>.] My sweet Miss is not shewing any +appetite.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. +I’m—I’m not used to country fare.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. O, I hear you, +Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara can’t +feed ’cause she’s not used to country fare! +What next, I’d like to know!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. [<i>Who has been +watching</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] Why does +Aunt sometimes put her knife in her mouth, Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. My good boy, +’tis plain you’ve never mixed among the quality or +you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of +acting. This summer ’tis the stylish thing to put on +a countryfied mode at table.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Joan don’t eat +like that, Mister Hooper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Joan’s only a +maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to distinguish +between such people and fine ladles like your aunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Forcing herself to +be more animated</i>.] Give me some fruit, Miles—I +have no appetite to-day for heavy food. ’Tis far too +warm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. As for me, the only +food I require is the sweet honey of my Missy’s voice.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Ah, ’tis a +grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. There was a +day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. +[<i>Sharply</i>.] I don’t seem to remember that day, +Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Sheepishly</i>, +<i>his look falling</i>.] Ah—’twas +afore—afore our courting time, Emily.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. +[<i>Energetically</i>.] Prime weather for the hay, +farmer. I count as this dry will last until the whole of it +be carried. [<i>A knock is heard at the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Now who’ll that +be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the path, Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Do you expect me to be +carving of the fowls and a-looking out of the window the same +time, Thomas?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. George, my lad, do +you open the door and see who ’tis.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>looks anxiously across the +table at</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>. <i>Then she +drops her spoon and fork and takes up her fan</i>, <i>using it +violently whilst</i> <span class="smcap">George</span> <i>slowly +gets up and opens the door</i>. <span class="smcap">Lord +Lovel</span> <i>is seen standing on the threshold</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.] Kindly tell me, my man, is +this the farm they call Ox Lease?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, that’s +right enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. I’m sorry +to break in upon a party like this, but I want to see Miss Clara +Spring if she is here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Standing +up</i>.] You’ve come at the very moment, +master. This be a giving in marriage supper. And +’tis Miss Clara, what’s only sister to me, as is to +be wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. Impossible, my +good sir!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Ah, that’s +it. Miles Hooper, he’s the happy man. If you be +come by Painswick High Street you’ll have seen his name up +over the shop door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. Miss +Clara—Miles Hooper—No, I can’t believe it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Pointing +towards</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Miles</span>.] There they be—the both +of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. +You’re right welcome, master, to sit down along of we as +one of the family on this occasion.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. [<i>Looking +at</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>who has suddenly +dropped her fan and is leaning back with a look of supplication +towards</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>.] I must have +come to the wrong place—that’s not the Miss Clara +Spring I know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Bending over</i> +<span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] My sweet Missy has no +acquaintance with this gentleman, I am sure.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span> <i>suddenly turns round +and perceives</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>seated +by</i> <span class="smcap">Maggie</span> <i>at the +table</i>. <i>He quickly goes towards her</i>, <i>holding +out his hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. Miss Clara. +Tell me what is going on. [<i>Looking at her cap and +apron</i>.] Why have you dressed yourself like this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, come. +There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. The young +gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the Spotted +Cow on his way up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Very faintly</i>, +<i>looking at</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>.] O do +you stand by me now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Lays her hand +on</i> <span class="smcap">Lord Lovel’s</span> +<i>arm</i>.] Come with me, my lord. I think I can +explain everything if you will only step outside with me. +Come—[<i>She leads him swiftly through the door which</i> +<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>shuts behind them</i>.]</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>leans back in her chair as +though she were going to faint</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Well, now—but +that’s a smartish wench, getting him out so quiet, +like. George, you’d best step after them to see as +the young man don’t annoy her in any way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. That young person can +take good care of herself. Sit you down, Thomas and George, +and get on with your eating, if you can.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. Why did he think Joan +was our aunt, mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. ’Cause he was in +that state when a man don’t know his right leg from his +left arm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Who has remained +standing</i>.] Look you here, Master Thomas—see here +mistress. ’Tis time as there was an end of this +cursed play acting, or whatever ’tis called.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Play acting there +never has been in my house, George, I’d like for you to +know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. O yes there have +been, mistress. And ’tis time it was finished. +[<i>Pointing to</i> <span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] You +just take and ask that young person what she do mean by tricking +herself out in Miss Clara’s gowns and what not, and by +having herself called by Miss Clara’s own name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Joan’s</span> <i>hand in his</i>.] My +sweet Miss must pay no attention to the common fellow. I +dare him to speak like that of my little lady bride.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. A jay bird in +peacock’s feathers, that’s what ’tis. And +she’s took you all in, the every one of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. O George, isn’t +she really our aunt from London?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. No, that she baint, +Miss Jessie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, come, my +lad. I never knew you act so afore.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. ’Tis clear where +he have spent his time this afternoon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. Nay, nay, I never did +see George inside of the Spotted Cow in all the years I’ve +known of him. George baint made to that shape.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Then who is Aunt +Clara, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. She who be just gone +from out of the room, Master Robin, and none other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, George, this +talk do sound so foolish.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I can’t help +that, master. Foolish deeds do call for foolish words, may +be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. My pretty Miss is +almost fainting, I declare. [<i>He pours out water for</i> +<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>and bends affectionately over +her</i>.] Put the drunken fellow outside and let’s +have an end of this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Advancing</i>.] Yes, us’ll have an end to it very +shortly. But I be going to put a straight question to the +maid first, and ’tis a straight answer as her’ll have +to give me in reply.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Not a word, not a +word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude manners.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Do you ask of the +young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, and then I’ll go +when you will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. Well, my man, +what’s that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Do you get her to +speak the name as was given she at baptism, Mister Hooper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. This is madness. +My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such a question. +Thomas, you’ll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, or +something.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Angrily</i>.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all +night.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>suddenly bends forward and +hides her face in her hands</i>, <i>her form shaken by violent +weeping</i>. <i>The door opens and</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>enters followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. <i>She has taken off her +cap and apron</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Raising her head +and stretching out her hands to</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>.] O speak for me, +mistress. Speak for me and help.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. I am Clara, she is +Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to forgive us both for +taking you in like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Well, I never did +hear tell of such a thing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. I’m not going to +believe a word the young person says.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. She has told you +but the truth, my good friends.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And who are you, to +put your tongue into the basin, I’d like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. This is the nephew of +my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. If you think I’m +going to be took in with such nonsense, the more fool you, I +says.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. But all that Miss +Clara tells you is true, Missis Spring. She and her serving +maid, for certain reasons of their own, agreed to change parts +for a few days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Turning to</i> +<span class="smcap">Joan</span>.] Is this really so, my +maid?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>bows her head</i>, <i>her +handkerchief still covering her face</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>.] Who ever would have thought on +such a thing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. ’Twas a foolish +enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up, Joan, and do +not cry so pitifully.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking up at</i> +<span class="smcap">Miles</span>.] You’ll never go +and change towards me now that we’re most as good as wed, +will you, Mister Hooper?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Rising and +speaking with cold deliberation</i>.] Ladies and gentlemen, +I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Come, come Miles, we +be all a bit turned in the head, it seems. But +things’ll settle back to their right places if you gives +them a chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Don’t be so +foolish, Thomas. As if a man what’s been stung by a +wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet’s nest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. You are perfectly +right, madam. This is no place for me. I have been +sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O Mister Hooper, +’twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for the best, I +did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. [<i>Going to the +door</i>.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time you +want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select +your partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a +suitable one to toy with, let me tell you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Aren’t you going +to marry her then, Mister Hooper?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miles</span>. I am not, Master +Robin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. You said as you could +tell a real lady by her ways, but you couldn’t very well, +could he, Mother?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Miles</span>, <i>covering his +mortification with sarcastic bows made to the right and left</i>, +<i>goes out</i>. <span class="smcap">Joan</span> <i>leans +back almost fainting in her chair</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Taking her +hand</i>.] This is the finest hearing in all the world for +me, Miss—Miss Joan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. O Mr. Jenner, how deep +you must despise me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. And that I’d +never do, though I’m blest if I know why you did it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. It was as much my +fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were things that each +of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by changing +places, one with the other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span>.] Well, my maid, I’m +blessed if I do know what you was a hunting about for, dressed up +as a serving wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Turning a little +towards</i> <span class="smcap">George</span>.] I thought +to find something which was mine when I was a little child, but +which I lost.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. O Georgie do know how +to find things which is lost. ’Twas he as brought +back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. Yes. And +’twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt Clara, +when it was dropped in the hayfield.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. I believe as Georgie +knowed which of them was our aunt all the time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I believe it too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Why, George, you sly +dog, what put you on the scent, like?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Twas not one, +but many things. And if you wants a clear proof [<i>Turning +to</i> <span class="smcap">Clara</span>]—put back the laces +of your sleeve, Miss Clara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. What for, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Whilst you was +a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did pull up your +sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. Not that +’twas needed for me, like.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>pushes up both her +sleeves</i>, <i>and holds out her arms towards</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Pointing to the +scar</i>.] There ’tis—there’s where +th’ old gander have left his mark.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Children</span>. [<i>Getting +up</i>.] Where, where! O do let us see!</p> +<p>[<i>They run round to where</i> <span +class="smcap">Clara</span> <i>stands and look eagerly at the mark +on her arm which she shews to them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. George, my lad, you +baint th’ only one as can play fox.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Don’t you be so +set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a more foolish +figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when +’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses +upon him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. Never you mind, +Emily. What I says to George is, he baint th’ only +fox. How now, my lad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I don’t see +what you be driving at, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. [<i>Slyly</i>.] +What about that bit of blue ribbon, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Yes, Thomas. Ask +Georgie if he will give it back to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Stepping forward +till he is by</i> <span class="smcap">Clara’s</span> +<i>side</i>.] No, and that I will not do. ’Tis +little enough as I holds, but what little, I’ll keep +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.] Those words are like a frail +bridge on which I can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you +remember the days when you used to lead me by the hand into the +deep parts of the wood, lifting me over the briars and the +brambles so that I should not be hurt by their thorns?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Hark you here, +Clara. This once I’ll speak. I never had but +one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through +the woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I +learnt she the note of every bird. And when th’ +evening was come, us would watch together till th’ old +mother badger did get from out of her hole, and start hunting in +the long grasses.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">George’s</span> <i>hand</i>.] Then, +Georgie, there was no need for the disguise that I put upon +myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Do you think as the +moon can hide her light when there baint no cloud upon the sky, +Clara?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span>. Georgie, I went in +fear of what this gold and silver might raise up between you and +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. That’s all +finished and done with now, my maid. If I’d a hundred +sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. Thank you. +Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke</span>. [<i>Who has been +sitting with</i> <span class="smcap">Joan’s</span> <i>hand +in his</i>.] Hark you here, mistress. There’s +many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day. Baint that +a true saying, Joan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joan</span>. [<i>Looking up +radiantly</i>.] O that it is, dear Luke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. Miss Clara, it +seems that there is nothing more to be said.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And that’s the +most sensible thing as has been spoke this long while. +Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, grizzling sort +of a muddler. She might have took up with this young man, +who has a very respectable appearance.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Lovel</span>. [<i>Coming +forward to</i> <span class="smcap">George</span> <i>and shaking +his hand</i>.] I’m proud to make your acquaintance, +sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. [<i>Rising +angrily</i>.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us +might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of +this here table. ’Twill be midnight afore the things +is cleared away and washed up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas</span>. What if it be, +Emily. ’Tisn’t very often as I gets the chance +of minding how ’twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a +young man in those days, too, I was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Emily</span>. And ’tis a rare +old addle head as you be got now, Thomas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jessie</span>. [<i>Slipping her hand +into</i> <span class="smcap">Thomas’s</span>.] O do +let us sit up till midnight, Dad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robin</span>. I shall eat a smartish +lot more if we does.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h2>MY MAN JOHN</h2> +<h3>CHARACTERS</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>, <i>her son</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>, <i>his farm hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>, <i>their maid</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>, <i>the owner of +Luther’s Farm</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>, <span +class="smcap">Chris</span>, <span class="smcap">Nat</span>, <span +class="smcap">Tansie</span>, <i>gipsies</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The garden of the Road Farm</i>. <i>To the right an +arbour covered with roses</i>. <span class="smcap">Mrs. +Gardner</span> <i>is seated in it</i>, <i>knitting</i>. +<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>is tying up flowers and +watering them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. And you have +come to a ripe age when ’tis the plain duty of a man to +turn himself towards matrimony, William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Tis a bit of +quiet that I’m after, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Quiet! +’tis a good shaking up as you want, William. Why, you +have got as set in your ways as last season’s jelly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Then let me bide +so. ’Tis all I ask.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. No, +William. I’m got to be an old woman now, and +’tis time that I had someone at my side to help in the +house-keeping and to share the work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. What’s Susan +for, if ’tisn’t to do that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Susan? As +idle a piece of goods as ever was seen on a summer’s +day! No. ’Tisn’t a serving maid that I +was thinking of, but someone who should be of more account in the +house. ’Tis a daughter that I’m wanting, +William, and I’ve picked out the one who is to my +taste.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Then you’ve +done more than I have, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. ’Tis the +young person whom Luther Smith has left his farm and all his +money to. I’ve got my eye on her for you, +William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Then you’ll +please to put your eye somewhere else, Mother, for I’ve +seen them, and they don’t suit me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Come, this is +news, William. Pray where did you meet?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Twas when I +was in church last Sunday. In they came, the two young +maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie fowls, the way they +did step up over the stones and shake the plumes of them this way +and that. I don’t hold with fancy tricks. I +never could abide them. No foreign wenches for me. +And that’s about all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. ’Tis true +they are from town, but none the worse for that, William. +You have got sadly rude and cumbersome in your ways, or you +wouldn’t feel as you do towards a suitable young +person. ’Tis from getting about with John so much, I +think.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Now look you here, +Mother, I’ve got used to my own ways, and when a +man’s got set in his own ways, ’tis best to leave him +there. I’m past the age for marrying, and you ought +to know this better than anyone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I know that +’tis a rare lot of foolishness that you do talk, William, +seeing as you’re not a year past thirty yet. But if +you can’t be got to wed for love of a maid, perhaps +you’ll do so for love of a purse, when ’tis fairly +filled.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. There’s always +been enough for you and me so far, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Ah, but that +won’t last for ever. I’m got an old woman, and +I can’t do with the dairy nor the poultry as I was used to +do. And things have not the same prices to them as +’twas a few years gone by. And last year’s +season was the worst that I remember.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. So +’twas. But so long as there’s a roof over our +heads and a loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to work on, +where’s the harm, Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. O you put me +out of all patience, William. Where’s the rent to +come from if we go on like this? And the clothing, and the +food? And John’s wages, and your flower seeds, if it +comes to that, for you have got terrible wasteful over the +flowers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I wish you’d +take it quieter, Mother. Look at you bed of musk, +’tis a grand smell that comes up from it all around.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. No, +William. I’ve no eye for musk, nor nose to smell at +it either till you’ve spoken the word that I require.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Best let things bide +as they are, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I’ll +leave you no rest till you do as I wish, William. I’m +got an old woman, and ’tis hard I should be denied in aught +that I’ve set my heart upon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Please to set it +upon something different, Mother, for I’m not a marrying +man, and John he’ll tell you the same thing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. John! +I’m sick of the very name of him. I can’t think +how ’tis that you can lower yourself by being so close with +a common farm hand, William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Ah, ’twould be +a rare hard matter to find the equal to John, Mother. +’Tis of gold all through, and every bit of him, that he is +made. You don’t see many like John these days, +that’s the truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Well, then, +John, won’t be here much longer, for we shan’t have +anything to give him if things go on like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’d wed forty +wives sooner than lose John—and that I would.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I’m not +asking you to wed forty. ’Tis only one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. And that one?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. The young +person who’s got Luther’s farm. Her name is +Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Leaving his +flower border and walking up and down thoughtfully</i>.] +Would she be the one with the cherry colour ribbons to her +gown?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I’m sure +I don’t know. I was not at church last Sunday.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Or t’other one +in green?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. You appear to +have used your eyes pretty well, William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. O, I can see a +smartish bit about me when I choose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. T’other +wench is but the housekeeper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Where did you get +that from?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. ’Twas +Susan who told me. She got it off someone down in the +village.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, which of the +maids would have had the cherry-coloured ribbons to her, +Mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I’m sure +I don’t know, but if you go up there courting this +afternoon, may happen that you’ll find out.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. This +afternoon? O, that’s much too sudden like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Not a bit of +it. Recollect, your fancy has been set on her since +Sunday.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Come, Mother, you +can’t expect a man to jump into the river all of a sudden +like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I expect you to +go up there this very day and to commence telling her of your +feelings.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. But I’ve got +no feelings that I can tell her of, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Then +you’ll please to find some, William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Tis a thing +that in all my life I’ve never done as to go visiting of a +strange wench of an afternoon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Then ’tis +time you did begin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. And what’s +more, I’ll not do it, neither.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Then I must +tell John that we have no further need of his services, for where +the money to pay him is to come from, I don’t know.</p> +<p>[<i>She rolls up her knitting and rises</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Stop a moment, +Mother—stop a moment. Maybe ’twon’t be so +bad when I’ve got more used to the idea. You’ve +pitched it upon me so sudden like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Rent day has +pitched upon me more sudden, William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Look you, Mother, +I’ll get and turn it about in my mind a bit. And, +maybe, I’ll talk it over with John. I can’t do +more, can I now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Talk it over +with whom you please, William. But remember ’tis this +very afternoon that you have to start courting. I’ve +laid your best clothes out all ready on your bed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Sighing +heavily</i>.] O then I count there’s no way out of +it. But how am I to bring it off? ’Tis that +I’d like to know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Maybe your man +will be able to give you some suitable advice. Such things +are beyond me, I’m afraid.</p> +<p>[<i>She gathers up her work things</i>, <i>and with a +contemptuous look at her son</i>, <i>she goes slowly out of the +garden</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>remains on the path +lost in perturbed thought</i>. <i>Suddenly he goes to the +gate and calls loudly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. John, John!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>From +afar</i>.] Yes, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +[<i>Calling</i>.] Come you here, John, as quick as you can +run.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That I will, +master.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>hurries into the +garden</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. John, I’m +powerful upset.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Mistress’s fowls +bain’t got among the flowers again, be they, Master +William?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. No, no, John. +’Tisn’t so bad as that. But I’m in a +smartish fix, I can tell you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. How’s that, +master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. John, did you ever +go a’courting?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, master, +that’s a thing to ask a man!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Tis a +terrible serious matter, John. Did you ever go?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Courting?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Yes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, I count as I have +went a score of times, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. A score of times, +John! But that was before you were got to the age you are +now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Before that, and now, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. And now, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. To be sure, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Then you know how +’tis done?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, that I does, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, John, +you’re the man for me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Lord bless us, master, +but what have you to do with courting?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You may well ask me, +John. Why, look you here—until this very morning, you +would say I was a quiet and a peaceable man, with the right place +for everything and everything in its place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, and that you was, +Master William. And a time for all things too, and a +decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served—that’s +truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Ah, John—the +mistress has set her will to change all this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now, you’d knock +me down with a feather.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. That she has, +John. I’ve got to set out courting—a thing +I’ve never thought to do in all my living days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That I’ll be +bound you have not, Master William, though a finer gentleman than +yourself is not to be found in all the country side.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>With shy +eagerness</i>.] Is that how I appear to you, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, and that you does, +master. And ’tis the wonder with all for miles around +as how you’ve been and kept yourself to yourself like this, +so many years.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, John, it +appears that I’m to pass out of my own keeping. My +Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Bless my soul, Master +William, and ’tis but Thursday too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Isn’t that a +proper day for this sort of business, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’ve always been +used to Saturday myself, but with a gentleman ’tis +different like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, John, +there’s nothing in this day or that as far as I can +see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and the day of +it does make but very little difference.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You’re right +there, master. But if I may be so bold, where is it as you +be going off courting this afternoon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Ah—now you and +me will have a straight talk one with another—for +’tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of this fix +where the mistress has gone and put me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And that I’ll do, +master—with all the will in the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well then, John, +’tis to be one of those maids from strange parts who are +come to live at old Luther’s, up yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, I seed the pair of +them in church last Sunday. Fine maids, the both of them, +and properly suitable if you was to ask me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Tis only the +one I’ve got to court, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And I reckon +that’s one too many, Master William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You’re right +there, John. ’Tis Mistress Julia I’ve to go +at.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And which of the pair +would that be, Master William?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. That one with the +cherry colour ribbons to her gown, I believe.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, t’other was +plainer in her dressing, and did keep the head of her bent +smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn’t get a fair +look upon she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. That would be the +housekeeper or summat. ’Tis Julia, who has the old +man’s money, I’m to court.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, master, +I’ll come along with you a bit of the road, to keep your +heart up like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You must do more +than that for me, John. You’ve got to learn me how +the courting is done before I set off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, master, courting +baint a thing what wants much learning, that’s the +truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Tis all new +to me, John. I’m blessed if I know how to +commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends me hot all +over; and then as cold again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You start and get your +clothes on, master. ’Tis half the +battle—clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his +mouth of a Saturday will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday +with his best coat to his back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. No, John. The +clothes won’t help me in this fix. You must tell me +how to start once I get to the farm and am by the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You might take a +nosegay with you, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I might. And +yet, ’tis a pity to cut the blooms for naught.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I always takes a +nosegay with me, of a Saturday night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Why, John, who is it +that you are courting then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis that wench +Susan, since you ask me, master. But not a word of it to +th’ old mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’ll not +mention it, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Thank you kindly, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. And now, John, when +the nosegay’s all gathered and the flowers bunched, what +else should I do?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, then you gives it +her when you gets to the door. And very like she’ll +ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be a particular fine +looking gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I could not stand +that, John. I’ve no tongue to me within a strange +house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well then, maybe as you +and she will sit aside of one another in an arbour in the garden, +or sommat of the sort.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Yes, John. And +what next?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’m blessed if I +do know, master. You go along and commence.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. No, John, and that I +won’t. Not till I know more about it like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, master, I’m +fairly puzzled hard to tell you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I have the very +thought, John. Do you bring Susan out here. +I’ll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you get and +court her as well as you know how; and maybe that will learn me +something.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Susan’s a +terrible hard wench to court, Master William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Twill make +the better lesson, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis a stone in +place of a heart what Susan’s got.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Twill very +likely be the same with Julia. Go and bring her quickly, +John.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>places himself behind +the arbour</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. As you will, +master—but Susan have been wonderful nasty in her ways with +me of late. ’Tis my belief as she have took up with +one of they low gipsy lads what have been tenting up yonder, +against the wood.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, ’twill +be your business to win her back to you, John. See—am +I properly hid, behind the arbour?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Grandly hid, +master—I’ll go and fetch the wench. [<span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>leaves the garden</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>remains hidden behind +the arbour</i>. <i>After a few minutes</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>returns pulling</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>by the hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. And what are you +about, bringing me into master’s flower garden at this time +of the morning? I should like for mistress to look out of +one of the windows—you’d get into fine trouble, and +me too, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Susan, my dear, you be +a passing fine wench to look upon, and that’s the +truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. And is it to tell me +such foolishness that you’ve brought me all the way out of +the kitchen?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Stooping and +picking a dandelion</i>.] And to give you this flower, dear +Susan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Throwing it +down</i>.] A common thing like that! I’ll have +none of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis prime you +looks when you be angered, Susan. The blue fire do fairly +leap from your eyes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. O you’re enough +to anger a saint, John. What have you brought me here +for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I thought I’d +like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, Susan. And +that I did never see a finer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. You do look at me as +though I was yonder prize heifer what Master William’s so +powerful set on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah—and ’tis +true as you have sommat of the look of she when you stands a +pawing of the ground as you be now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Is it to insult me +that you’ve got me away from the kitchen, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Nay—’tis to +tell you that you be a rare smartish wench—and I’ll +go along to the church with you any day as you will name, my +dear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. That you won’t, +John. I don’t mind taking a nosegay of flowers from +you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over the +garden gate of an evening, but I’m not a-going any further +along the road with you. That’s all. [<i>She +moves towards the house</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now, do you bide a +moment longer, Susan—and let me say sommat of all they +feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in my heart +for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. They may stir within +you like an old waspes’ nest for all I care, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Come, Susan, put better +words to your tongue nor they. You can speak honey sweet +when it do please you to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis mustard as +is the right food for you this morning, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I gets enough of that +from mistress—I mean—well—I mean—[<i>in a +loud</i>, <i>clear voice</i>]—O mistress is a wonderful +fine woman and no mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. You won’t say as +much when she comes round the corner and catches you a wasting of +your time like this, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Is it a waste of time +to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of the finest rose what +blooms, Susan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Is that me, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Who else should it be, +Susan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Well, +John—sometimes I think there’s not much amiss with +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. O Susan, them be grand +words.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. But then again—I +do think as you be getting too much like Master William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And a grander gentleman +than he never went upon the earth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Cut and clipped and +trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. And you be getting +sommat of the same fashion about you, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Then make me +differenter, Susan, you know the way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I’m not so sure +as I do, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Wed me come Michaelmas, +Susan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. And that I’ll +not. And what’s more, I’m not a-going to stop +here talking foolish with you any longer. I’ve work +to do within. [<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>goes +off</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span>, <i>mopping his face and +speaking regretfully as</i> <span class="smcap">William</span> +<i>steps from behind the arbour</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. There, master. +That’s courting for you. That’s the sort of +thing. And a caddling thing it is too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. But ’tis a +thing that you do rare finely and well, John. And +’tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this +afternoon, there—that’s what I’ve come to in my +thoughts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Master, master, +whatever have you got in your head now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. See here, +John—we’ll cut a nosegay for you to carry—some +of the best blooms I’ll spare. And you, who know what +courting is, and who have such fine words to your tongue, shall +step up at once and do the business for me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Master, if ’twas +an acre of stone as you’d asked me to plough, I’d +sooner do it nor a job like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. John, you’ve +been a good friend to me all the years that you have lived on the +farm, you’ll not go and fail me now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why not court the lady +with your own tongue, Master William? ’Twould have +better language to it nor what I can give the likes of she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Your words are all +right, John. ’Tisn’t as though sensible speech +was needed. You do know what’s wanted with the maids, +whilst I have never been used to them in any way whatever. +So let’s say no more about it, but commence gathering the +flowers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Heavily</i>, <i>but +resigned</i>.] Since you say so, master. [<i>They +begin to gather flowers</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. What blooms do young +maids like the best, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Put in a sprig of +thyme, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Yes—I can well +spare that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And a rose that’s +half opened, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. It goes to my heart +to have a rose wasted on this business, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tain’t +likely as you can get through courtship without parting with +sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you’re +called upon to spill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. That’s true, +John—I’ll gather the rose—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. See here, master, the +lily and the pink. Them be brave flowers, the both of them, +and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Put them into the +nosegay, John—And now—no more—’Tis enough +waste for one day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis a smartish +lot of blooms as good as done for, says I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. A slow sowing and a +quick reaping, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis to be hoped +as ’twill be the same with the lady, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. There, off you go, +John. And mind, ’tis her with the cherry ribbon to +her gown and bonnet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, master, and her +might have a different ribbon to her head this day, being that +’tis Thursday?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. An eye +like—like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to the +face of her like yon rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s enough, +Master William. I’ll not pitch upon the wrong maid, +never fear. And now I’ll clean myself up a bit at the +pump, and set off straight away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Shaking</i> +<span class="smcap">John’s</span> <i>hand</i>.] Good +luck to you, my man. And if you can bring it off quiet and +decent like without me coming in till at the last, why, +’tis a five pound note that you shall have for your +trouble.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You be a grand +gentleman to serve, Master William, and no mistake about +that.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>A wood</i>. <i>To the right a fallen tree</i> (<i>or +a bench</i>). <span class="smcap">John</span> <i>comes from +the left</i>, <i>a large bunch of flowers in his hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Out, and a taking of +the air in the wood, be they? Well, bless my soul, but +’tis a rare caddling business what master’s put upon +I. ’Tis worse nor any job he have set me to in all +the years I’ve been along of him, so ’tis. But +I’m the one to bring it off slick and straight, and, bless +me, if I won’t take and hide myself by yon great bush till +I see the wenches a-coming up. That’ll give me time +to have a quiet look at the both and pick out she what +master’s going a-courting of.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>puts himself behind some +thick bushes as</i> <span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>come forward</i>. <span +class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>is very simply dressed</i>. +<i>Her head is bare</i>, <i>and she is carrying her white cotton +sunbonnet</i>. <span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>wears +finer clothes and her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry +colour</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Stopping by the +bench</i>.] We’ll sit down—’Tis a warm +day, and I’ve had enough of walking.</p> +<p>[<i>She sinks down on the seat</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Looking all round +her</i>.] ’Tis beautiful and quiet here. O this +is ever so much better than the farm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. The farm! +What’s wrong with that, I should like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Everything. +’Tis more like a prison than a home to me. Within the +house there’s always work crying out to be done—and +outside I believe ’tis worse—work—nothing else +speaking to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You’re a sad +ungrateful girl. Why, there’s many would give their +eyes to change with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. But out here +’tis all peace, and freedom. There’s naught +calling out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and +the breezes move them this way, and that. The ground is +thick with leaves and blossoms and no one has got to sweep it, +and the hard things with great noises to them, like pails and +churns, are far away and clean forgot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. ’Tisn’t +much use as you’ll be on the farm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I wish I’d never +come nigh to it. I was happier far before.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. ’Tis a grand +life. You’ll see it as I do one of these days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No, that I shall +not. Every day that I wake and hear the cattle lowing +beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and ’tis a +heart of lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild +flowers in the fields calls me, but ’tis to the dairy I +must go, to work. And at noonday, when the shade of the +woodland makes me thirsty for its coolness, ’tis the +kitchen I must be in—or picking green stuff for the +market. And so on till night, when the limbs of me can do +no more and the spirit in me is like a bird with the wing of it +broken.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You’ll harden to +it all by winter time right enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O I’ll never +harden to it. ’Tis not that way I am made. Some +girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do +their task nor ask for anything beyond, but ’tis not so +with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. How is it then with +you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. +[<i>Pointing</i>.] There—see that blue thing yonder +flying from one blossom to another. That’s how +’tis with me. Shut me up close in one place, I +perish. Let me go free, and I can fly and live.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You do talk a powerful +lot of foolishness that no one could understand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O, do not let us talk +at all. Let us bide still, and get ourselves refreshed by +the sweetness and the wildness of the forest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>turns away and gives +herself up to the enjoyment of the wood around her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>arranges her ribbons and +smoothes out her gown</i>. <i>Neither of them speak for a +few minutes</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Looking up and +pointing</i>.] See those strange folk over there? +What are they?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Looking in the +same direction</i>.] I know them. They are gipsies +from the hill near to us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. They should be driven +away then. I don’t like such folk roosting +around.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. But I do. They +are friends to me. Many’s the time I have run out at +dusk to speak with them as they sit round their fire.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Then you didn’t +ought to have done so. Let’s get off now, before they +come up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No, no. Let us +talk to them all. [<i>Calling</i>.] Tansie and Chris, +come you here and sit down alongside of us. [<span +class="smcap">Chris</span>, <span class="smcap">Nat</span>, +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Tansie</span> <i>come up</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Good morning to you, +mistress. ’Tis a fine brave day, to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. That it is, +Chris. There never was so fine a day. And we have +come to spend all of it in this forest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. Ah, but ’tis +warm upon the high road.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. We be come right away +from the town, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Then sit down, all of +you, and we will talk in the cool shade.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Not here, if you +please. I am not used to such company.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Not here? Very +well, my friends, let us go further into the wood and you shall +stretch yourselves under the green trees and we will all rest +there together.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Well, what next! +You might stop to consider how ’twill look in the +parish.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. How what will +look?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. How ’twill look +for you to be seen going off in such company like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. The trees have not +eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. There’s no one +to see me but you, and you can turn your head t’other +way. Come Tansie, come Chris. [<i>She turns towards +the three gipsies</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. Nat’s in a +sorry way, this morning—baint you, Nat?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. Let I be. You do +torment anyone till they scarce do know if they has senses to +them or no.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. You’re not one +to miss what you never had, Nat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Let the lad bide in +quiet, will you. ’Tis a powerful little nagging wench +as you be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Why are you heavy and +sad this fine day, Nat?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. ’Tis love +what’s the matter with he, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Love? O, +that’s not a thing that should bring heaviness or gloom, +but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. Ah, but when +there’s been no meeting in the dusk since Sunday, and no +message sent!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Keep that tongue of +your’n where it should be, and give over, Tansie. +Susan’s not one as would play tricks with her lad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Now I have a thirst to +hear all about this, Nat, so come off further into the wood, all +of you, where we can speak in quiet.</p> +<p>[<i>She holds out her hand to</i> <span +class="smcap">Nat</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Upon my word, but +something must be done to bring these goings on to an end.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Come, Nat—you +shall tell me all your trouble. I understand the things of +the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know how to give you +comfort in your distress—come!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Nat</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Chris</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Tansie</span>, <i>move off out of sight</i>. +<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>is left sitting on the bench +alone</i>. <i>Presently</i> <span class="smcap">John</span> +<i>comes out carefully from behind the bushes</i>, <i>holding his +bunch of flowers</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. A good day to you, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. The same to you, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Folks do call me +John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Indeed? Good +morning, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. A fine brave sun +to-day, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. But pleasant enough +here in the shade.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now, begging your +pardon, but what you wants over the head of you baint one of +these great trees full of flies and insects, but an arbour +trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at his +place yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Indeed? And who +may your master be, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis Master +William Gardner, what’s the talk of the country for miles +around, mistress. And that he be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Master William +Gardner! What, he of Road Farm?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. The very same, +mistress. And as grand a gentleman as anyone might wish for +to see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Yes—I seem to +have heard something told about him, but I don’t rightly +remember what ’twas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You may have heard tell +as the finest field of beans this season, that’s his.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I don’t think +’twas of beans that I did hear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Or that ’twas his +spotted hilt what fetched the highest price of any in the market +Saturday?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. No, +’twasn’t that neither.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Or that folks do come +as thick as flies on a summer’s day from all parts of the +country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. Ah, and +before ’tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for it, +all of them, like a pack of dogs with a bone. So +’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. ’Twasn’t +that, I don’t think.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Or ’twas that +th’ old missis—she as is mother to Master +William—her has a tongue what’s sharper nor longer +than any vixen’s going. But that’s between you +and I, missis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Ah—’Twas +that I did hear tell of. Now I remember it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. But Master +William—the tongue what he do keep be smooth as honey, and +a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the chance.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Indeed? He must +be a pleasant sort of a gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. For he could be led +with kindness same as anything else. But try for to drive +him, as old Missis do—and very likely ’tis hoofed as +you’ll get for your pains.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I like a man with some +spirit to him, myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, Master William has +a rare spirit to him, and that he has. You should hear him +when th’ old Missis’s fowls be got into his flower +garden. ’Tis sommat as is not likely to be forgot in +a hurry. That ’tisn’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You carry a handsome +nosegay of blossoms there, John. Are they from your +master’s garden?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, there’re not +amiss. I helped for to raise they too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. And to whom are you +taking them now, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. To the lady what my +master’s a-courting of, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. And whom may that be, +John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, ’tis +yourself, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Me, John? Why, +I’ve never clapped eyes on Master William Gardner so far as +I know of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. But he’ve clapped +eyes on you, mistress—’twas at Church last +Sunday. And ’tis not a bit of food, nor a drop of +drink, nor an hour of sleep, as Master William have taken +since.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O, you do surprise me, +John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s how +’tis with he, mistress. ’Tis many a year as +I’ve served Master William—but never have I seen him +in the fix where he be in to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Why—how is it +with him then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. As it might be with the +cattle when the flies do buzz about they, thick in the +sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a-trampling and +a-tossing, and never a minute’s rest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Well, now—to +think of such a thing. Indeed!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’ve seen a horse +right up to the neck of him in that old quag ahind of our +place—a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth and +a-plunging so as ’twould terrify anyone to harken to +it. And that’s how ’tis to-day with Master +William up at home, so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. And only saw me +once—at Church last Sunday, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah—and they old +maid flies do sting but once, but ’tis a terrible big bump +as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O +John—’tis a fine thing to be loved like that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. So I should +say—ah, ’tisn’t every day that a man like +Master William goes a-courting.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. But he hasn’t +set out yet, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You take and hold the +nosegay, mistress, and I’ll go straight off and fetch him, +so being as you’re agreeable.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O yes, and that I am, +John—You go and fetch him quick. I’ll bide here +gladly, waiting till he comes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s it. +I knowed you for a sensible lady the moment I pitched my eyes on +to you. And when master do come up, you take and talk to +him nicely and meek-like and lead him on from one thing to +t’other: and you’ll find as he’ll go quiet as a +sheep after the first set off, spite of the great spirit +what’s at the heart of he.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. John, I’ll do +all as you say, and more than all. Only, you get along and +send him quickly to me. And—yes, you might give him a +good hint, John—I’m not averse to his attentions.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, and I should think +you wasn’t, for ’twould be a hard job to find a nicer +gentleman nor Master William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. That I know it +would. Why, John, my heart’s commenced beating ever +so fast, it has.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Then you may reckon how +’tis with the poor master! Why, ’tis my belief +as ’twill be raving madness as’ll be the end of he if +sommat don’t come to put a finish to this unrest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O John, ’twould +never do for such a fine gentleman to go crazy. Do you set +off quick and send him along to me, and I’ll take and do my +very best for to quiet him, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Rising and about to +set off</i>.] Ah, ’tis a powerful lot of calming as +Master William do require. But you be the one for to give +it him. You just bide where you do sit now whilst I goes +and fetches him, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O that I will, my +good, dear John.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The same wood</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>come up</i>. <span +class="smcap">William</span> <i>carries a large market basket +containing vegetables</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Looking round and +seeing no one</i>.] Bless my soul, but ’twas on the +seat as I did leave she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. We have kept her +waiting a bit too long whilst we were cutting the green +stuff. And now ’twill be best to let matters bide +over till to-morrow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, master ’tis +my belief as you be all of a-tremble like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I wish we were well +out of this business, John. ’Tis not to my liking in +any way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis a fine +looking lady, and that ’tis. You take and court her, +Master William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. How am I to court +the wench when she’s not here?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. +[<i>Pointing</i>.] Look yonder, master, there she comes +through them dark trees.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You’ve got to +bide somewhere nigh me, John. I could not be left alone +with a wench who’s a stranger to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Don’t you get +flustered, Master William. See here, I’ll hide me +ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should want me, why, +there I’m close at hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’d rather you +did stand at my side, John.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>hides himself behind the +bushes</i>. <span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>comes +slowly up</i>. <span class="smcap">William</span> <i>stands +awkwardly before her</i>, <i>saying nothing</i>. +<i>Presently he takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily and +she bows to him</i>. <i>For some moments they stand +embarrassed</i>, <i>looking at one another</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Suddenly +bringing out a bunch of carrots from his basket and holding them +up</i>.] See these young carrots, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Indeed I do, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Tisn’t +everywhere that you do see such fine grown ones for the time of +year.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You’re right +there, master. We have none of them up at our place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Holding them +towards her</i>.] Then be pleased to accept these, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Taking the +carrots</i>.] Thank you kindly, master. [<i>There is +another embarrassed silence</i>. <span +class="smcap">William</span> <i>looks distractedly from</i> <span +class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>to his basket</i>. <i>Then he +takes out a bunch of turnips</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You couldn’t +beat these nowhere, not if you were to try.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I’m sure you +could not, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. They do call this +sort the Early Snowball. ’Tis a foolish name for a +table root.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. ’Tis a beautiful +turnip.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Giving her the +bunch</i>.] You may as well have them too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O you’re very +kind, master.</p> +<p>[<i>There is another long silence</i>. <span +class="smcap">William</span> <i>shuffles on his +feet</i>—<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>bends +admiringly over her gifts</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. There’s young +beans and peas and a spring cabbage too, within the basket. +I do grow a little of most everything.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O shall we sit down +and look at the vegetables together?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Visibly +relieved</i>.] We might do worse nor that. [<i>They +sit down side by side with the basket between them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Lifting the +cabbage</i>.] O, this is quite a little picture! See +how the leaves do curl backwards—so fresh and green!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Ah, and that one has +a rare white heart to it, it has.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I do love the taste of +a spring cabbage, when it has a slice of fat bacon along with +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I might have brought +a couple of pounds with me if I’d have thought. +Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging in the +pantry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Shyly</i>.] +Next time, maybe.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +[<i>Eagerly</i>.] ’Twouldn’t take ten minutes +for me to run back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Not now—O no +master—not now. Do you bide a little longer here and +tell me about—about t’other things in the basket.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Mopping his face +with a handkerchief</i>.] Well—there’s the +beans—I count that yours haven’t come up very smart +this year.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. That they’ve +not. The whole place has been let to run dreadful wild.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +I’d—I’d like to show you how ’tis in my +garden, one of these days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I’d be very +pleased to walk along with you there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +[<i>Hurriedly</i>.] Ah—you should see it later on +when the—the—the parsnips are a bit forrarder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I’d like to see +the flower garden now, where this nosegay came from.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Looking round +uneasily</i>.] I don’t know what the folks would say +if they were to see you and me a-going on the road in broad +day—I’m sure I don’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Why, what should they +say, Master Gardner?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. They might get +saying—they might say as—as I’d got a-courting, +or sommat foolish.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Well—and would +that be untrue?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Looking at her +very uncomfortably</i>.] I’m blessed if I do +know—I mean—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. This nosegay—and +look, those young carrots—and the turnips and beans, why +did you bring them for me, master, unless it was that you +intended something by it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Very +confused</i>.] That’s so. So ’tis. +That’s true. I count you have got hold of the sow by +the ear right enough this time. And the less said about it +the better. [<i>A slight silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Looking up shyly +in</i> <span class="smcap">William’s</span> face.] +What was it drew you to me first, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I believe +’twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced to take notice of +you, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Yes, but what was it +about me that took your fancy in Church on Sunday?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’m blessed if +I know, unless ’twas those coloured ribbons that you have +got to your bonnet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You are partial to the +colour?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Ah, ’tis well +enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. See here. +[<i>Taking a flower from her dress</i>.] This is of the +same colour. I will put it in your coat.</p> +<p>[<i>She fastens it in his coat</i>. <span +class="smcap">William</span> <i>looks very uncomfortable and +nervous</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, bless my soul, +but women folk have got some powerful strange tricks to them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Pinning the flower +in its place</i>.] There—my gift to you, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You may call me by +my name, if you like, ’tis more suitable, seeing that we +might go along to Church together one of these days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O William, you have +made me very happy—I do feel all mazy like with my +gladness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Well, Julia, we +might do worse than to—to—name the day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Why do you call me +Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Seeing that +I’ve given you leave to call me William ’tis only +suitable that I should use your name as well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. But my name is not +Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. What is it then, I +should like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. ’Tis Laura, +William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Folks did tell me +that you were named Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. No—Laura is my +name; but I live with Mistress Julia up at Luther’s Farm, +and I help her with the work. House-keeping, dairy, +poultry, garden. O there’s nothing I can’t turn +my hand to, Master William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Starts up from +the seat in deepest consternation</i>.] John, +John—Come you here, I say! Come here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Emerges from the +bushes</i>.] My dearest master!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. What’s this +you’ve been and done, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, master—the +one with the cherry ribbons, to her you did say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +[<i>Disgustedly</i>.] ’Tis the wrong one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. What are you two +talking about? William, do you mean to say as that man of +yours was hid in the bushes all the while?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Now, John, +you’ve got to get me out of the fix where I’m +set.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. O my dear master, +don’t you take on so. ’Tis a little bit of +misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right very +soon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Then you get to work +and set it right, John, for ’tis beyond the power of me to +do so. I’ll be blessed if I’ll ever get +meddling with this sort of job again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now don’t you get +so heated, master, but leave it all to me. [<i>Turning +to</i> <span class="smcap">Laura</span>.] My good wench, it +seems that there has been a little bit of misunderstanding +between you and my gentleman here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. +[<i>Angrily</i>.] So that’s what you call +it—misunderstanding ’tis a fine long word, but not +much of meaning, to it, I’m thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Then you do think +wrong. Suppose you was to go to market for to buy a nice +spring chicken and when you was got half on the way to home you +was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl in place of it, +what would you do then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I don’t see that +chickens or fowls have anything to do with the matter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Then you’re not +the smart maid I took you for. ’Tis not you as would +be suitable in my master’s home. And what’s +more, ’tis not you as my master’s come a-courting +of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. If ’tis not me, +who is it then?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>looks at her sheepishly +and then turns away</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis your +mistress, since you wants to know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. +[<i>Indignantly</i>.] O, I see it all now—How could I +have been so misled!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. However could poor +master have been so mistook, I say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Turning away +passionately</i>.] O, I’ve had enough of you +and—and your master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now that’s what I +do like for to hear. Because me and master have sommat else +to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in this old wood the rest of +the day. Us have got a smartish lot of worry ahead of we, +haven’t us, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. You never said a +truer word, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Come along then Master +William. You can leave the spring vegetables to she. +’Tis more nor she deserves, seeing as her might have known +as ’twas her mistress the both of us was after, all the +time.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>throws herself on the +seat and begins to cry silently</i>, <i>but passionately</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. O John, this +courting, ’tis powerful heavy work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">William’s</span> <i>arm</i>.] Come you +along with me, master, and I’ll give you a helping hand +with it all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Looking up and +speaking violently</i>.] I warrant you will, you +clown. But let me advise you to look better afore you leap +next time, or very likely ’tis in sommat worse than a +ditchful of nettles as you’ll find yourself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Looking back over +his shoulders as he goes off with</i> <span +class="smcap">William</span>.] I reckon as you’ve no +call to trouble about we, mistress. Us is they what can +look after theirselves very well. Suppose you was to wash +your face and dry your eyes and set about the boiling of yon +spring cabbage. ’Twould be sensibler like nor to bide +grizzling after one as is beyond you in his station, so +’twould.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">William</span> <i>go out</i>, <i>leaving</i> <span +class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>weeping on the bench</i>, <i>the +basket of vegetables by her side</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 3.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>is sitting at the foot of +a tree in the wood</i>. <span class="smcap">Chris</span>, +<span class="smcap">Nat</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Tansie</span> <i>are seated near her on the +ground</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I wish this day might +last for always.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Why, when +to-morrow’s come, ’twill be the same.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. That it will +not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow’s work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. One day ’tis +much the same as t’other with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. ’Tis what we gets +to eat as do make the change.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. I should have thought +as how a grand young mistress like yourself might have had the +days to your own liking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Ah, and so I did +once. But that was before Uncle died and left me the +farm. Now, ’tis all different with the days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. How was it with you +afore then, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Much the same as +’tis with that bird flying yonder. I did so as I +listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was up, then +I did sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when +’twas dark, why, then I did roam. There was naught to +hold me back from my fancy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. And how is it +<i>now</i> with you, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. ’Tis all said in +one word.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. What’s that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. ’Tis +“work.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. Work?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Work?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. Work! And yet +’tis a fine young lady as you do look in your muslin gown +with silky ribbons to it and all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I’m a farmer, +Tansie. And for a farmer ’tis work of one sort, or +t’other from when the sun is up till the candle has burned +itself short. If ’tisn’t working with my own +hands, ’tis driving of the hands of another.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. I’ve heard tell +as a farmer do spin gold all the day same as one of they great +spiders as go putting out silk from their mouths.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And what is gold to +me, Chris, who have no one but myself to spend it on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Folks do say as the +laying up of gold be one of the finest things in the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. It will never bring +happiness to me, Chris.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Come, mistress, +’tis a fine thing to have a great stone roof above the head +of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I’d sooner get +my shelter from the green leaves.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. And a grand thing to +have your victuals spread afore you each time ’stead of +having to go lean very often.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O, a handful of +berries and a drink of fresh water is enough for me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. And beautiful it must +be to stretch the limbs of you upon feathers when night do come +down, with a fine white sheet drawn up over your head.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O, I could rest more +sweetly on the grass and moss yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. I did never sleep within +four walls but once, and then ’twas in gaol.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O Nat, you were never +in gaol, were you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. ’Twas that they +mistook I for another. And when the morning did come, they +did let I go again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. I count ’twas a +smartish long night, that!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. ’Twas enough for +to shew me how it do feel when anyone has got to bide sleeping +with the walls all around of he.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And the ceiling above, +Nat. And locked door. And other folk lying breathing +in the house, hard by. All dark and close.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. And where us may lie, +the air do run swift over we. We has the smell of the earth +and the leaves on us as we do sleep. There baint no +darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through up +yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. And no sound of other +folk breathing but the crying of th’ owls and the +foxes’ bark.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Ah, that must be a +grand sound, the barking of a fox. I never did hear +one. Never.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Ah, ’tis a +powerful thin sound, that—but one to raise the hair on a +man’s head and to clam the flesh of he, at dead of +night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. You come and bide along +of we one evening, and you shall hearken to the fox, and badger +too, if you’ve the mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O that would please me +more than anything in the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. And when ’twas +got a little lighter, so that the bushes could be seen, and the +fields, I’d shew you where the partridge has her nest +beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten them +too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. And I’ll take +and lead you to a place what I do know of, where the water flows +clear as a diamond over the stones. And if you bides there +waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come along—and +there’s a dinner such as the Queen might not get every day +of the week.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O Chris, who is there +to say I must bide in one place when all in me is thirsting to be +in t’other!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. I’m sure I +don’t know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. I should move about +where I did like, if ’twas me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. A fine young lady +like you can do as she pleases.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well then, it pleases +me to bide with you in the free air.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Our life, ’tis a +poor life, and wandering. ’Tis food one day, and may +be going without the next. ’Tis the sun upon the +faces of us one hour—and then the rain. But +’tis in freedom that us walks, and we be the masters of our +own limbs.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Will you be good to me +if I journey with you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Ah, ’tis not +likely as I’ll ever fail you, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Do not call me +mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. ’Tis a +well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as clear water upon the +tongue.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Tansie, how will it be +for me to go with you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. ’Twill be well +enough with the spirit of you I don’t doubt, but +how’ll it be with the fine clothes what you have on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. [<i>Suddenly looking +up</i>.] Why, there’s Susan coming.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Looking in the +same direction</i>.] So that is Susan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. I count as her has +had a smartish job to get away from th’ old missis so early +in the day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. ’Tis a rare old +she cat, and handy with the claw’s of her, Susan’s +missis.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>comes shyly +forward</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. Come you here, Susan, +and sit along of we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Yes, sit down with us +in this cool shade, Susan. You look warm from running.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. O, I didn’t know +you was here, Mistress Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well, Susan, and so +you live at Road Farm. Are you happy there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I should be if +’twern’t for mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No mistress could +speak harshly to you, Susan—you are so young and +pretty.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Ah, but mistress takes +no account of aught but the work you does, and the tongue of her +be wonderful lashing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Then how comes it that +you have got away to the forest so early on a week day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis that +mistress be powerful took up with sommat else this afternoon, and +so I was able to run out for a while and her didn’t notice +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. Why Su, what’s +going on up at the farm so particular to-day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis +courting.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span>. Courting?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Yes. That +’tis. ’Tis our Master William what’s +dressed up in his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting with a +basket of green stuff on his arm big enough to fill the market, +very nigh.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Well, well, +who’d have thought he had it in him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. He’s a gentleman +what’s not cut out for courting, to my mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Indeed he isn’t, +Nat. And however the mistress got him dressed and set off +on that business, I don’t know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. But you have not told +us who the lady is, Susan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Suddenly very +embarrassed</i>.] I—I—don’t think as I do +rightly know who ’tis, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Why, look you, Susan, +you’ll have to take and hide yourself if you don’t +want for them to know as you be got along of we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. What’s that, +Chris?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. +[<i>Pointing</i>.] See there, that man of Master +Gardner’s be a-coming along towards us fast. Look +yonder—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. O whatever shall I +do? ’Tis John, and surely he will tell of me when he +gets back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. Come you off with me +afore he do perceive you, Susan. I’ll take you where +you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the world if +you’ll but come along of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. That’s it. +Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. And do you go along +too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in the stillness of +the wood for a while.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span>, <span +class="smcap">Tansie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Nat</span> <i>go out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Be I to leave you too, +Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Slowly</i>.] +Only for a little moment, Chris; then you can come for me +again. I would like to stay with myself in quiet for a +while. New thoughts have come into my mind and I cannot +rightly understand what they do say to me, unless I hearken to +them alone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Then I’ll leave +you, Julia. For things be stirring powerful in my mind too, +and I’d give sommat for to come to an understanding with +they. Ah, that I would.</p> +<p>[<i>They look at one another in silence for a moment</i>, +<i>then</i> <span class="smcap">Chris</span> <i>slowly follows +the others</i>, <i>leaving</i> <span class="smcap">Julia</span> +<i>alone</i>. <span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>sits +alone in the wood</i>. <i>Presently she begins to +sing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">I sowed the seeds of love,<br /> +It was all in the Spring;<br /> +In April, in May, and in June likewise<br /> +When small birds they do sing.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>with a large basket on his +arm comes up to her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. A good day to you, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Good afternoon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now I count as you +would like to know who ’tis that’s made so bold in +speaking to you, Mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Why, you’re +Master Gardner’s farm hand, if I’m not mistaken.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, that’s right +enough. And there be jobs as I wish Master William would +get and do for hisself instead of putting them on I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well, and how far may +you be going this afternoon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I baint going no +further than where I be a-standing now, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. It would appear that +your business was with me, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, you’ve hit +the right nail, mistress. ’Tis with you. +’Tis a straight offer as my master have sent me out for to +make.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Now I wonder what sort +of an offer that might be!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis +master’s hand in marriage, and a couple of pigs jowls, +home-cured, within this here basket.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O my good man, +you’re making game of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And that I baint, +mistress. ’Twas in the church as Master William seed +you first. And ’tis very nigh sick unto death with +love as he have been since then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Is he too sick to come +and plead his cause himself, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, and that he +be. Do go moulting about the place with his victuals left +upon the dish—a sighing and a grizzling so that any maid +what’s got a heart to th’ inside of she would be +moved in pity, did she catch ear of it, and would lift he out of +the torment.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well, John, I’ve +not seen or heard any of this sad to-do, so I can’t be +moved in pity.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, do you look within +this basket at the jowls what Master William have sent you. +Maybe as they’ll go to your heart straighter nor what any +words might.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>sits down on the bench +by</i> <span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>and opens the +basket</i>. <span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>looks +in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I have no liking for +pigs’ meat myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Master’s pig meat +be different to any in the county, mistress. “Tell +her,” says Master William, “’tis a rare fine +bit of mellow jowl as I be a sending she.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O John, I’m a +very poor judge of such things.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And look you +here. I never seed a bit of Master William’s +home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this +day. No, that I have not, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Shutting the +basket</i>.] Well—I have no use for such a gift, +John, so it may be returned again to the family. I am sorry +you had the trouble of bringing it so far.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You may not be partial +to pig meat, mistress, but you’ll send back the key of +Master William’s heart same as you have done the jowls.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I have no use for the +key of Master William’s heart either, John. And you +may tell him so, from me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, mistress. +You don’t know what you be a talking of. A man like +my master have never had to take a No in place of Yes in all the +born days of him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Rising</i>.] +Then he’ll have to take it now, John. And I’m +thinking ’tis time you set off home again with your +load.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, mistress, I +don’t particular care to go afore you have given me a good +word or sommat as’ll hearten up poor Master William in his +love sickness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Truly, John, I +don’t know what you would have me say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I warrant there be no +lack of words to the inside of you, if so be as you’d open +you mouth a bit wider. ’Tis not silence as a maid is +troubled with in general.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O, I have plenty of +words ready, John, should you care to hear them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Then out with them, +Mistress Julia, and tell the master as how you’ll take the +offer what he have made you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I’ve never seen +your master, John, but I know quite enough about him to say +I’ll never wed with him. Please to make that very +clear when you get back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis plain as you +doesn’t know what you be a talking of. And ’tis +a wonder as how such foolishness can came from the mouth of a +sensible looking maid like yourself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I shall not marry +Master William Gardner.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I reckon as +you’ll be glad enough to eat up every one of them words the +day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more splendid +gentleman nor he never fetched his breath.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I’ll never wed a +farmer, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And then, look at the +gift what Master William’s been and sent you. +’Tisn’t to everyone as master do part with his pig +meat. That ’tisn’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Rising</i>.] +Well, you can tell your master I’m not one that can be +courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. And that +I’ll not wed until I can give my heart along with my +hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’d like to know +where you would find a better one nor master for to give your +heart to, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. May be I have not far +to search.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Taking up the +basket</i>.] You’re a rare tricksy maid as ever I did +see. Tricksy and tossy too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. +There—that’s enough, John. Suppose you set off +home and tell your master he can hang up his meat again in the +larder, for all that it concerns me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’ll be blowed if +I do say anything of the sort, mistress. I shall get and +tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought to the +matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, ’tis very +like as a dish of trotters may prove acceptabler.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Say what you like, +John. Only let me bide quiet in this good forest now. +I want to be with my thoughts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Preparing to go and +speaking aloud to himself</i>.] Her’s a wonderful +contrary bird to be sure. And bain’t a shy one +neither, what gets timid and flustered and is easily +netted. My word, but me and master has a job before us for +to catch she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I hear you, and +’tis very rudely that you talk. There’s an old +saying that I never could see the meaning of before, but now I +think ’tis clear, “Like master, like man,” they +say. I’ll have none of Master William, and you can +tell him so.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>goes out +angrily</i>. <span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>sits down +again on the bench and begins to sing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">My gardener stood by<br /> +And told me to take great care,<br /> +For in the middle of a red rose-bud<br /> +There grows a sharp thorn there.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>comes slowly forward</i>, +<i>carrying the basket of vegetables on one arm</i>. <i>She +holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Why, Laura, what has +made you cry so sadly?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O, Julia, ’twas +a rare red rose as I held in my hand, and a rare cruel thorn that +came from it and did prick me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And a rare basket of +green stuff that you have been getting.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Sinking down on +the seat</i>, <i>and weeping violently</i>.] His dear gift +to me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Looking into the +basket</i>.] O a wonderful fine gift, to be sure. +Young carrots and spring cabbage. I’ve had a gift +offered too—but mine was jowls.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Jowls. O, and +did you not take them?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No, I sent them back +to the giver, with the dry heart which was along with them in the +same basket.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O Julia, how could you +be so hard and cruel?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Come, wouldn’t +you have done the same?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Sobbing +vehemently</i>.] That I should not, Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Perhaps you’ve +seen the gentleman then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. I have. And O, +Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. I never saw one that +was his like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. The rare red rose with +its thorn, Laura.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. He did lay the heart +of him before me—thinking my name was Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And did he lay the +vegetables too?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. ’Twas all the +doing of a great fool, that man of his.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And you—did you +give him what he asked of you—before he knew that your name +was not Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O, I did—that I +did. [<i>A short silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And could you forget +the prick of the thorn, did you hold the rose again, Laura?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O that I could. +For me there’d be naught but the rose, were it laid once +more in my hand. But ’tis not likely to be put there, +since ’tis you he favours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. But I don’t +favour him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You’ll favour +him powerful well when you see him, Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. I’ve given my +heart already, but ’tis not to him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. You’ve given +your heart?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Yes, Chris has all of +it, Laura. There is nothing left for anyone else in the +world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O Julia, think of your +position.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. That I will not +do. I am going to think of yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Beginning to +cry</i>.] I’m no better in my station than a serving +maid, like Susan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. +[<i>Pointing</i>.] There she comes [<i>calling</i>] Susan, +Susan!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>comes up</i>. +<i>During the next sentences</i> <span class="smcap">Laura</span> +<i>takes one bunch of vegetables after another from the +basket</i>, <i>smoothing each in turn with a fond caressing +movement</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Did you call, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Yes, Susan. That +I did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Can I help you in any +way, Miss Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Yes, and that you +can. You have got to run quickly back to the farm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Be it got terrible +late, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. ’Tis not only +that. You have got to find your master and tell him to +expect a visit from me in less than an hour’s time from +now. Do you understand?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. O, yes, mistress, and +that I do—to tell master as you be coming along after he as +fast as you can run.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well—I should +not have put it in that way, but ’tis near enough may +be. So off, and make haste, Susan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Please, mistress, I +could make the words have a more loving sound to them if you do +wish it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. My goodness, Susan, +what are you thinking of? Say naught, but that I’m +coming. Run away now, and run quickly. [<span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>goes off</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Looking up</i>, +<i>a bunch of carrots in her hands</i>.] What are you going +to do now, Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. You shall see, when +you have done playing with those carrots.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. He pulled them, every +one, with his own hands, Julia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. My love has gathered +something better for me than a carrot. See, a spray of +elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the wind.</p> +<p>[<i>She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress</i>, +<i>and shews it to</i> <span class="smcap">Laura</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. The roots that lie +warm in the earth do seem more homely like to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well—each one +has their own way in love—and mine lies through the dark +woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. And ’tis +your road that we will take this afternoon—so come along +quickly with me, Laura, for the sun has already begun to change +its light.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>replaces the vegetables +in her basket and rises from the seat as the curtain +falls</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Garden of Road Farm as in +Act I</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span> <i>is knitting in the +Arbour</i>. <span class="smcap">William</span> <i>strolls +about gloomily</i>, <i>his hands in his pockets</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. And serve you +right, William, for sending the man when you should have gone +yourself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. John has a tongue +that is better used to this sort of business than mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Nonsense, when +was one of our family ever known to fail in the tongue?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. If she that was +asked first had only been the right one, all would have been over +and done with now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. ’Tis John +that you have got to thank for the blunder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +[<i>Sighing</i>.] That was a rare fine maid, and no +mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. And a rare +brazen hussy, from all that has reached my ears.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. +Well—I’ve done with courting—now and for all +time, that I have. And you may roast me alive if I’ll +ever go nigh to a maid again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. That you shall, +William—and quickly too. There’s no time like +the present, and your Sunday clothes are upon you still.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I was just going up +to change, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Then +you’ll please to remain as you are. You may take what +gift you like along with you this time, so long as it’s +none of my home-cured meat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’m blessed if +I do stir out again this day. Why, look at the seedlings +crying for water, and the nets to lay over the fruit and sommat +of everything wanting to be done all around of me. +I’ll not stir.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>comes towards +them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Here’s +John. Suppose he were to make himself useful in the garden +for once instead of meddling in things that are none of his +business.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’ll be blowed if +’tis any more courting as I’ll do, neither for Master +William nor on my own account.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Why, John, +’twasn’t your fault that the lady wouldn’t take +me, you did your best with her, I know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. An that I did, Master +William, but a more contrary coxsy sort of a maid I never did +see. “I baint one as fancies pig meat,” her did +say. And the nose of she did curl away up till it could go +no higher. That’s not the wench for me, I says to +myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Is the jowl +hung up in its right place again, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That ’tis, +mistress. I put it back myself, and a good job for that +’taint went out of the family and off to the mouths of +strangers, so says I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Do you tend to +Master William’s garden John, instead of talking. +We’ve had enough of your tongue for one day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Why, be Master William +goin’ out for to court again, this afternoon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. No, John—No, +I’ve had enough of that for my life time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. So have I, master, and +more nor enough. I don’t care particular if I never +set eyes on a maid again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Pointing to a +plot of ground</i>.] That’s where I pulled the young +carrots this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, and so you did, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. And there’s +from where I took the Early Snowballs.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And a great pity as you +did. There be none too many of that sort here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. She had a wonderful +soft look in her eyes as she did handle them and the spring +cabbage, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, and a wonderful +hard tongue when her knowed ’twasn’t for she as they +was pulled.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Was t’other +maid anything of the same pattern, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Upon my word, if +t’other wasn’t the worst of the two, for she did put +a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she did give I, and the +words did fall from she like so many bricks on my head.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Pity the first was +not the right maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, a maid what can +treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon did baint the sort for to +mistress it over we, I’m thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. See here, +John—suppose you were to let your tongue bide still in its +home awhile, and start doing something with your hands.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s right +enough, mistress. What’s wanted, Master William?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’m blessed if +I can recollect, John. This courting business lies heavy on +me, and I don’t seem able to get above it, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’d let it alone, +master, if I was you. They be all alike, the maids. +And ’twouldn’t be amiss if we was to serve they as we +serves the snails when they gets to the young plants.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>comes hurriedly into the +garden</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Please master, please +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. What do you +mean, Susan, by coming into the garden without your cap? Go +and put it on at once.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. The wind must have +lifted it from me, mistress, for I was running ever so fast.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Do you expect +me to believe that, Susan—and not a breath stirring the +flowers or trees, or anything?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Twas the lady I +met as—as—as I was coming across the field from +feeding the fowls.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. What lady, +Susan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Her from +Luther’s, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And what of she; out +with it, wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. She did tell I to say +as she be coming along as fast as she may after Master +William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>As though to +himself with an accent of despair</i>.] No. No.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. There, master, +didn’t I tell you so?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Very +nervously</i>.] What did you tell me, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That, let her abide and +her’d find the senses of she presently.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. O I’m blessed +if I do know what to do.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>takes his master’s +arm and draws him aside</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You pluck up your +heart, my dearest master, and court she hard. And in less +nor a six months ’tis along to church as you’ll be +a-driving she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. But John, ’tis +t’other with the cherry ribbons that has taken all my +fancy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. No, no, Master +William. You take and court the mistress. You take +and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from +she. T’other wench is but the serving maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. The lady’s +coming along ever so quickly, master.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>, <i>rising and +folding up her knitting</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. You’ll +please to come indoors with me, William, and I’ll brush you +down and make you look more presentable than you appear just +now. Susan, you’ll get a cap to you head at once, do +you hear me! And John, take and water master’s +seedlings. Any one can stand with their mouths open and +their eyes as big as gooseberries if they’ve a mind. +’Tis not particular sharp to do so. Come, +William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’d like a +word or two with John first, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. You come along +with me this moment, William. ’Tis a too many words +by far that you’ve had with John already, and much good +they’ve done to you. Come you in with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. O I’m blessed +if I do know whether ’tis on my head or on my feet that +I’m standing.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>follows his mother +slowly and gloomily into the house</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well—if ever +there was a poor, tormented animal ’tis the master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Ah, mistress should +have been born a drover by rights. ’Tis a grand +nagging one as her’d have made, and sommat what no beast +would ever have got the better of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I wouldn’t stand +in Master William’s shoes, not if you was to put me knee +deep in gold.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Nor I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, this courting +business, ’tis a rare caddling muddle when ’tis all +done and said.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis according +as some folks do find it, Master John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis a smartish +lot as you’ll get of it come Sunday night, my wench. +You wait and see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. That shews how little +you do know. ’Twill be better nor ever with me +then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Twill be alone +by yourself as you’ll go walking, Su.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. We’ll see about +that when the time comes, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. All I says is that I +baint a-going walking with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I never walk with two, +John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You’ll have to +learn to go in your own company.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I shall go by the side +of my husband by then, very likely.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Your husband? +What tales be you a-giving out now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis to Nat as +I’m to be wed come Saturday.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Get along with you, +Susan, and put a cap to your head. Mistress will be coming +out presently, and then you know how ’twill be if her +catches you so. Get along in with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Now you don’t +believe what I’m telling you—but it’s true, O +it’s true.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Look +here—There’s company at the gate, and you a-standing +there like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in +and make yourself a decenter appearance and then go and tell the +mistress as they be comed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Preparing to go +indoors and speaking over her shoulder</i>.] ’Tis in +the parson’s gown as you should be clothed, Master +John. Ah, ’tis a wonderful wordy preacher as you +would make, to be sure. And ’tis a rare crop as one +might raise with the seed as do fall from your mouth.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes indoors</i>. <span +class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>comes leisurely into the +garden</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well, John, and how +are you feeling now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Nicely, thank you, +mistress. See yon arbour?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And that I do, +John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, you may go and +sit within it till the master has leisure to come and speak with +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Thank you, John, but I +would sooner stop and watch you tend the flowers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis all one to +me whether you does or you does not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Now, John, you are +angry with me still.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I likes a wench as do +know the mind of she, and not one as can blow hot one moment and +cold the next.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. There was never a +moment when I did not know my own mind, John. And +that’s the truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, us won’t +say no more about that. ’Taint fit as there should be +ill feeling nor quarrelling ’twixt me and you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. You’re right, +John. And there was something that I had it in my mind to +ask you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You can say your +fill. There baint no one but me in the garden.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. John, you told me that +since Sunday your master has been sick with love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s right +enough, mistress. I count as we shall bury he if sommat +don’t come to his relief.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Now, John, do you look +into my eyes and tell me if ’tis for love of Julia or of +Laura that your master lies sickening.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You’d best go and +ask it of his self, mistress. ’Tis a smartish lot of +work as I’ve got to attend to here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. You can go on working, +John. I am not hindering you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. No more than one of +they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a-buzzin round a man’s +head.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Now, John—you +must tell me which of the two it is. Is it Laura whom your +master loves, or Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis Julia, then, +since you will have it out of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No, John, you’re +not looking straight at me. You are looking down at the +flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Looking up +crossly</i>.] I’ve got my work to think of. +I’m not one to stand cackling with a maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Could you swear me it +is Julia?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis naught to I +which of you it be. There bide over, so as I can get the +watering finished.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Seizes the +watering can</i>.] Now, John, you have got to speak the +truth to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Give up yon can, I tell +you. O you do act wonderful unseemly for a young lady.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Withholding the +can</i>.] Not till I have the truth from you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Angrily</i>.] +Well then, is it likely that my master would set his fancy on +such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, Master William do know +better nor to do such a thing, I can tell you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Then ’tis for +Laura that he is love-sick, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Give I the watering +can.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Giving him the +can</i>.] Here it is, dear John. O I had a fancy all +the time that ’twas to Laura your master had lost his +heart. And now I see I made no mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I shouldn’t have +spoke as I did if you hadn’t a buzzed around I till I was +drove very nigh crazy. Master William, he’ll never +forgive me this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. That he will, +I’m sure, when he has listened to what I have got to say to +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You do set a powerful +store on what your tongue might say, but I’d take and bide +quiet at home if I was you and not come hunting of a nice +reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very garden.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O John, you’re a +sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge me very unkindly. +But I’ll not bear malice if you will just run in and tell +your master that I want a word with him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. A word? Why not +say fifty? When was a maid ever satisfied with one word +I’d like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. Well—I +shan’t say more than six, very likely, so fetch him to me +now, John, and I’ll wait here in the garden. [<span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>looks at her with exasperated +contempt</i>. <i>Then he slowly walks away towards the +house</i>. <span class="smcap">Julia</span> <i>goes in the +opposite direction to the garden gate</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. +[<i>Calling</i>.] Chris! [<span +class="smcap">Chris</span> <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. +[<i>Pointing</i>.] O Chris, look at this fine +garden—and yon arbour—see the fine house, with lace +curtains to the windows of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. +[<i>Sullenly</i>.] Ah—I sees it all very well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. And all this could be +mine for the stretching out of a hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Then stretch it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. ’Twould be like +putting a wild bird into a gilded cage, to set me here in this +place. No, I must go free with you, Chris—and we will +wander where our spirits lead us—over all the world if we +have a mind to do so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. Please God +you’ll not grieve at your choice.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. That I never +shall. Now call to Laura. Is she in the lane +outside?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. There, she be come to +the gate now.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>comes in</i>, <i>followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">Nat</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Tansie</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Pointing to a +place on the ground</i>.] Laura, see, here is the place +from which your young carrots were pulled.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O look at the flowers, +Julia—Lillies, pinks and red roses.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. ’Tis a fine red +rose that shall be gathered for you presently, Laura. +[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>comes up</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. The master’s very +nigh ready now, mistress.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>follows him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. The mistress says, +please to be seated till she do come.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Chris</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Nat</span>.] Now, my men, we don’t want +the likes of you in here. You had best get off afore Master +William catches sight of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No, John. These +are my friends, and I wish them to hear all that I have to say to +your master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, ’tis in the +grave as poor Master William will be landed soon if you +don’t have a care.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. +[<i>Anxiously</i>.] O is he so delicate as that, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah—and that he +be. And these here love matters and courtings and +foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don’t give +him but a week longer if things do go on as they be now.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span> <i>come in</i>. <span +class="smcap">William</span> <i>looks nervously round +him</i>. <span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span> +<i>perceives the gipsies</i>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>talking to</i> <span +class="smcap">Nat</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Susan, get you +to your place in the kitchen, as quick as you can. John, +put yon roadsters through the gate, if you please. +[<i>Turning to</i> <span class="smcap">Julia</span>.] Now +young Miss?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. A very good evening to +you, mistress. And let me make Chris known to you for he +and I are to be wed to-morrow.</p> +<p>[<i>She takes</i> <span class="smcap">Chris</span> <i>by the +hand and leads him forward</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. What’s +this? William, do you understand what the young person is +telling us?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>with her other hand</i>.] And +here is Laura to whom I have given all my land and all my +money. She is the mistress of Luther’s now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">William</span>.] Now master, hearken to +that. Can’t you lift your spirits a bit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>.] And I beg you to accept +her as a daughter. She will make a better farmer’s +wife than ever I shall.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>In a loud +whisper</i>.] Start courting, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. O I dare not quite +so sudden, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. [<i>Sitting +down</i>.] It will take a few moments for me to understand +this situation.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. There is no need for +any hurry. We have all the evening before us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Hastily gathers a +rosebud and puts it into</i> <span +class="smcap">William’s</span> <i>hand</i>.] Give her +a blossom, master. ’Tis an easy start off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Coming forward +shyly with the flower</i>.] Would you fancy a rosebud, +mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O that I would, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. Should you care to +see—to see where the young celery is planted out?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. O, I’d dearly +love to see the spot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. I’ll take you +along to it then. [<i>He gives her his arm</i>, <i>very +awkwardly</i>, <i>and they move away</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. [<i>Sitting +down</i>.] Well—things have changed since I was +young.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Looking viciously +at</i> <span class="smcap">Nat</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span>.] Ah, I counts they have, +mistress, and ’tis all for the worse.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Comes forward +timidly</i>.] And me and Nat are to be married too, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. I should have +given you notice anyhow to-night, Susan, so perhaps it’s +just as well you have made sure of some sort of a roof to your +head.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Nat</span>. ’Twill be but the +roof of th’ old cart, mistress; but I warrant as +her’ll sleep bravely under it, won’t you, Su.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. That I shall, dear +Nat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. Well, Master John, +have you a fancy to come tenting along of we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Upon my word, but I +don’t know how ’tis with the young people nowadays, +they be so bold.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. [<i>Who has been +standing apart</i>, <i>her hand in that of</i> <span +class="smcap">Chris</span>.] New days, new ways, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Bless my soul, but +’tis hard to keep up with all these goings on, and no +mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. No need for you to +try, John. If you are too old to run with us you must abide +still and watch us as we go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chris</span>. But there, you +needn’t look downhearted, master, for I knows someone +as’ll give you a rare warm welcome if so be as you should +change your mind and take your chance in the open, same as +we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tansie</span>. You shall pay for +that, Chris.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Stiffly</i>.] +I hope as I’ve a properer sense of my duty nor many others +what I could name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. Those are the +first suitable words that have been spoken in my hearing this +afternoon.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">William</span>, <i>with</i> <span +class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>on his arm</i>, +<i>returns</i>. <span class="smcap">Laura</span> <i>carries +a small cucumber very lovingly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. Julia, look! The +first one of the season! O, isn’t it a picture!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Julia</span>. O Laura, ’tis a +fine wedding gift to be sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. [<i>Stepping up +to</i> <span class="smcap">John</span>.] John, my man, +here’s a five pound note to your pocket. I’d +never have won this lady here if it hadn’t been for +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Taking the +note</i>.] Don’t name it, dear master. +’Tis a long courtship what has no ending to it, so I always +says.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Gardner</span>. ’Tis one +upset after another, but suppose you were to make yourself useful +for once, Susan, and bring out the tray with the cake and glasses +on it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, that’s it, +and I’ll go along of she and help draw the cider. +Courtship be powerful drying work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laura</span>. [<i>Looking into</i> +<span class="smcap">William’s</span> <i>eyes</i>.] O +William, ’twas those Early Snowballs that did first stir up +my heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William</span>. ’Twas John who +thought of them. Why, John has more sensible thoughts to +the mind of him than any other man in the world—and when +the cider is brought, ’tis to John’s health we will +all drink.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h2>PRINCESS ROYAL</h2> +<h3>CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>, <span +class="smcap">Marion</span>, <i>village girls</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>, <i>her maid</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leah</span>, <i>an old gipsy</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>, <i>otherwise Princess +Royal</i>, <i>her grand-daughter</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jockie</span>, <i>a little swine +herd</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>.</p> +<p><i>Her ladies in waiting</i> (<i>or one lady only</i>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>, <i>her only +son</i>.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in +this Play</i>.</p> +<p><i>The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by +girls</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>A village green</i>. <i>Some girls with market +baskets come on to it</i>, <i>each one carrying a leaflet which +she is earnestly reading</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gradually all the girls approach from different sides +reading leaflets</i>.</p> +<p><i>Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is +sitting—she lights a pipe and begins to smoke as</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span>, <i>her basket full of market +produce</i>, <i>comes slowly forward reading her sheet of +paper</i>. <i>She is followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Marion</span>—<i>also reading</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well, ’tis like +to be a fine set out, this May Day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. I can make naught of +it myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Why, ’tis Lord +Cullen putting it about as how he be back from the war and +thinking of getting himself wed, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. I understands that +much, I do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Only he can’t +find the maid what he’s lost his heart to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. +[<i>Reading</i>.] The wench what his lordship did see +a-dancing all by herself in the forest when he was hid one day +all among the brambles, a-rabbiting or sommat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And when my lord would +have spoke with her, the maid did turn and fled away quick as a +weasel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. And his lordship off +to the fighting when ’twas next morn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. So now, each maid of us +in the village and all around be to dance upon the green come May +Day so that my lord may see who ’twas that pleased his +fancy.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>comes up and stands +quietly listening</i>. <i>She is bare foot and her skirt is +ragged</i>, <i>she wears a shawl over her shoulders and her hair +is rough and untidy</i>. <i>On her arm she carries a basket +containing a few vegetables and other marketings</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. And when he do pitch +upon the one, ’tis her as he will wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. ’Twill be a thing +to sharpen the claws of th’ old countess worse nor +ever—that marriage.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. Ah, I reckon as her +be mortal angered with all the giddle-gaddle this business have +set up among the folk.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Regretfully</i>.] I’ve never danced among the +trees myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. [<i>Sadly</i>.] +Nor I, neither, Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I’d dearly like +to be a countess, Marion.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. His lordship might +think I was the maid. I’m spry upon my feet you +know.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>comes still +nearer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. [<i>Turning to her +and speaking rudely</i>.] Well, Princess Rags, +’tisn’t likely as ’twas you a-dancing one of +your Morris dances in the wood that day!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Mockingly</i>.] ’Tisn’t likely as his +lordship would set his thoughts on a wench what could caper about +like a Morris man upon the high road. So there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. +[<i>Indifferently</i>.] I never danced upon the high road, +I dances only where ’tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon +me. No mortal eyes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. +[<i>Impudently</i>.] Get along with you, Princess +Royal. Go off to th’ old gipsy Gran’ma +yonder. We don’t want the likes of you along of +us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Go off and dance to +your own animals, Miss Goatherd. All of us be a-going to +practise our steps against May Day. Come along girls.</p> +<p>[<i>She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange +themselves for a Country Dance</i>. <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>goes slowly towards her</i> <span +class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>and sits on the ground by her +side</i>, <i>looking sadly and wistfully at the +dancers</i>. <i>At the end of the dance</i>, <i>the girls +pick up their baskets and go off in different directions across +the green</i>. <span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>and +her</i> <span class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>remain in their +places</i>. <i>The gipsy continues to smoke and</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>absently turns over the things in +her basket</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. They mock me in the +name they have fixed to me—Princess Royal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Let them +mock. I’ll bring the words back to them like +scorpions upon their tongues.</p> +<p>[<i>There is a little silence and then</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>begins to sing as though to +herself</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">“As I walked out one May morning,<br /> +So early in the Spring;<br /> +I placed my back against the old garden gate,<br /> +And I heard my true love sing.” <a name="citation1"></a><a +href="#footnote1" class="citation">[1]</a></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. [<i>At the end +of the singing</i>.] It might be the blackcap a-warbling +all among of the branches. So it might.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Ah, ’twas I that +was a-dancing in the shade of the woods that day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. He’ll +never look on the likes of you—that’s sure enough, my +little wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I wish he was a +goat-herd like myself—O that I do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Then there +wouldn’t be no use in your wedding yourself with him as I +can see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis himself, +not his riches that I want.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. You be speaking +foolishness. What do you know of him—what do us blind +worms know about the stars above we?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I see’d him pass +by upon his horse one day. All there was of him did shine +like the sun upon the water—I was very near dazed by the +brightness. So I was.</p> +<p>[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Grandmother</span> +<i>continues to smoke in silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Softly</i>.] +And ’twas then I lost the heart within me to him.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>runs up beating his +tabor</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Springing +up</i>.] Come, Jockie, I have a mind to dance a step or +two. [<i>Rubbing her eyes with the back of her +hands</i>.] Tears be for them as have idle times and not +for poor wenches what mind cattle and goats. Come, play me +my own music, Jock. And play it as I do like it best.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>begins to play the tune +of</i> “<i>Princess Royal</i>” <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>dances</i>. <i>Whilst</i> +<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>is dancing</i> <span +class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span> <i>and her waiting maid come +slowly by and stand watching</i>. <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>suddenly perceives them and throws +herself on the ground</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>stops playing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. [<i>Fanning +herself</i>.] A wondrous bold dance, upon my +word—could it have been that which captivated my lord, +Alice?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. O no, mistress. +His lordship has no fancy for boldness in a maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. Immodest +too. A Morris dance. The girl should hide her face in +shame.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. And there she is, +looking at your ladyship with her gipsy eyes, bold as a brass +farthing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Starting up and +speaking passionately</i>.] I’ll not be taunted for +my dancing—I likes to dance wild, and leap with my body +when my spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies +and move in the air same as the birds do move when ’tis +mating time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Ah, ’tis +so with she. She baint no tame mouse what creeps from its +hole along of t’others and who do go shuffle shuffle, in +and out of the ring, mild as milk and naught in the innards of +they but the squeak.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. +[<i>Defiantly</i>.] ’Twas my dance gained his +lordship’s praise—so there, fine madam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. Your +dance? Who are you then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. A gipsy wench, +mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for one of they great +farms.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Have a care for +that tongue of yours, madam waiting maid. For I know how to +lay sommat upon it what you won’t fancy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. [<i>Coming up +to</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>and laying her hand on +her arm</i>.] Now tell me your name, my girl.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. They call me Princess +Royal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. O that must +be in jest. Why, you are clothed in rags, poor thing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. [<i>Shaking herself +free</i>.] I’d sooner wear my own rags nor the laces +which you have got upon you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. Now why do +you say such a thing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Twas in these +rags as I danced in the wood that day, and ’tis by these +rags as my lord will know me once more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. Listen, I +will cover you in silk and laces, Princess Royal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. Susan is the +maid’s name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I don’t want +none of your laces or silks.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. And feed you +with poultry and cream and sweetmeats.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I want naught but my +crust of bread.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. I’ll +fill your hands with gold pieces.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Do you hear +that, Sue?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. +[<i>Doggedly</i>.] I hear her well enough, Gran.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. If +you’ll teach me your dance against May Day. Then, +I’ll clothe myself much after your fashion and dance upon +the green with the rest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I’ll not learn +you my dance. Not for all the gold in the world. You +shan’t go and take the only thing I have away from me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. +[<i>Angrily</i>.] Neither shall a little gipsy wretch like +you take my love from me. We were as good as promised to +each other at our christening.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. Don’t put +yourself out for the baggage, madam. His lordship would +never look on her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Gold, did you +say, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. Gold? O +yes—an apron full of gold, and silver too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Do you hear +that, Susan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. +[<i>Doggedly</i>.] I’ll not do it for a King’s +ransom.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. You will. +You’ll do it for the sake of poor old Gran, what’s +been father and mother to you—and what’s gone +hungered and thirsty so that you might have bread and drink.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. +[<i>Distractedly</i>.] O I can never give him up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. He’ll +never be yourn to give—Dance till your legs is off and +he’ll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when ’tis +all finished.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. Whilst my lady belongs +to his lordship’s own class, ’tis but suitable as she +should be the one to wed with him—knowing the foreign +tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. +There’s a lady anyone would be proud to take before the +Court in London.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>turns away with a +movement of despair</i>. <i>The</i> <span +class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>begins to smoke +again</i>. <span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span> +<i>fans herself and</i> <span class="smcap">Alice</span> +<i>arranges her own shawl</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. I could do with +a little pig up at our place if I’d the silver to take into +the market for to buy him with. [<i>A silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. And I could do +with a pair of good shoes to my poor old feet come winter time +when ’tis snowing. [<i>Another silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. And +’twould be good not to go to bed with the pain of hunger +within my lean old body—so ’twould. [<span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>turns round suddenly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I’ll do it, +Gran. I’ll do it for your sake. ’Tis very +likely true what you do say, all of you. I’d but +dance my feet off for naught. When he came to look into my +gipsy eyes, ’twould all be over and done with.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. Sensible +girl.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>. ’Tis time she +should see which way her bread was spread.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Come, Jockie, come +ladies—come Gran—we’ll be off to the quiet of +our own place where I can learn her ladyship the steps and +capers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. [<i>Rising and +pointing to an advancing figure</i>.] You’d best make +haste. The mice be a-running from their holes once +more—t’wouldn’t do for they to know aught about +this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. Let us go quickly +then.</p> +<p>[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>, <span +class="smcap">Susan</span>, <span class="smcap">Lady +Millicent</span> <i>with</i> <span class="smcap">Alice</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>go out as a crowd +of village girls come on to the green</i>, <i>and laughing and +talking together</i>, <i>arrange themselves to practise a Country +Dance</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>End of Act I</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on +the green</i>. <i>A dais has been put up at one end of +it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. How slow the time do +pass, this May Day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Let’s while it +away with a song or two.</p> +<p>[<i>They all join in singing</i>. <i>At the end of the +song the gipsy comes slowly and painfully across the green</i>, +<i>casting black looks to right and to left</i>. <i>She is +followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span>, <i>who appears +weighed down by sadness</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Good afternoon, +Princess Royal Rags. Are we to see you cutting capers +before his lordship this afternoon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. Get along and hide +your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. I’d be ashamed +to go without shoes if ’twas me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. O leave me +alone—you be worse nor a nest of waspes—that you +be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. [<i>Turning +fiercely round</i>.] Us’ll smoke them out of their +holes one day—see if us do not.</p> +<p>[<i>They pass over to the tree where the</i> <span +class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>sits down and</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>crouches by her side</i>. +<i>Presently they are joined by</i> <span +class="smcap">Jockie</span>. <i>The girls sing a verse or +two of another song</i>, <i>and during this</i> <span +class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>, <i>enveloped in a big +cloak</i>, <i>goes over to the tree</i>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Alice</span>, <i>also wearing a long cloak and they +sit down by the side of</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. +[<i>Pointing</i>.] Who are those yonder, Rose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I’m sure I +don’t know, Marion—strangers, may be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. O my heart goes wild +this afternoon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Mine too. Look, +there they come.</p> +<p>[<i>The Music begins to play and old</i> <span +class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>, <i>followed by her lady +companions</i>, <i>comes slowly towards the dais</i>, <i>on which +she seats herself</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. Dear me, what a +gathering to be sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Her Lady</span>. Indeed it is an +unusual sight.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. And O what a sad +infatuation on the part of my poor boy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Her Lady</span>. The war has been +known to turn many a brain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. And yet my son +holds his own with the brightest intelligences of the day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Her Lady</span>. Only one little +spot of his lordship’s brain seems to be affected.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. Just so. +But here he comes, poor misguided youth.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span> <i>comes slowly over +the green</i>, <i>looking to right and to left</i>. <i>He +mounts the dais and sits down by his mother</i>, <i>and the music +plays for a country dance</i>. “<i>The Twenty Ninth +of May</i>.” <i>The girls arrange themselves</i>, +<i>and during the dance</i> <span class="smcap">Lord +Cullen</span> <i>scans each face very eagerly</i>. <i>The +dance ends and the girls pass in single file before the +dais</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. No, +no—that was not the music of it, that was not the +dance—not a face among them resembles the image I carry in +my heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. +[<i>Aside</i>.] Thank goodness. May that face never +be seen again.</p> +<p>[<i>A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and +danced</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. [<i>At the end +of it</i>.] Worse and worse. Could I have dreamed +both the music and the dance and the dancer?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. +[<i>Soothingly</i>.] I am sure this was the case, my dear +son.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. +[<i>Rallying</i>.] I heard her voice singing in the forest +before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest voice +and song I ever heard. [<i>Looking around</i>.] Can +any of these maid, sing to me, I wonder?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. [<i>Steps +forward</i>.] I only know one song, my lord.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span> <i>signs to her to +sing</i>, <i>and she stands before the dais and sings a verse +of</i> “<i>Bedlam</i>.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. +[<i>Impatiently</i>.] No, no—that is not in the least +what I remember. [<i>Turning to</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span>.] You try now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I don’t sing, my +lord—but—[<i>Indicating another girl in the +group</i>] she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful lot of +songs.</p> +<p>[<i>A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of</i> +“<i>The Lark in the Morn</i>.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. Not that. +Mine was a song to stir the depths of a man’s heart and +bring tears up from the fountains of it.</p> +<p>[<i>He leans back in deep dejection—and at this +moment</i> <span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Alice</span> <i>come forward</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. +[<i>Eagerly</i>.] I seem to know that russet +skirt—those bare, small feet. [<i>Standing up +quickly</i>.] Mother, look at that maid with the red +kerchief on her head.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. Some sort of a +gipsy dress, to all appearance.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. +[<i>Doubtfully</i>.] The skirt she wore was torn and +ragged—that day in the forest. She had no gold rings +to her ears, nor silken scarf upon her head—But this might +be her dress for holidays.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>advances and begins to +play the tune of</i> “<i>Princess Royal</i>.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. +[<i>Eagerly</i>.] That is the right music—O is it +possible my quest is ended!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Alice</span>, <i>standing opposite one to another +begin to dance—slowly and clumsily</i>, <i>and in evident +doubt as to their steps</i>. <span class="smcap">Lord +Cullen</span> <i>watches them for a moment and then claps his +hands angrily as a sign for the music to stop</i>. <i>The +dancers pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. This is a sad +mimicry of my beautiful love. But there lies something +behind the masquerade which I shall probe.</p> +<p>[<i>He leaves the dais and goes straight towards</i> <span +class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>, <i>who turns from him in +confusion</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. From whom did +you take the manner and the colour of your garments, my maid?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span> <i>remains +obstinately silent</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Alice</span>.] Perhaps you have a tongue in +your head. From whom did you try to learn those steps?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Alice</span> <i>turns sulkily +away</i>. <span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>comes +forward</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jockie</span>. I’ll tell your +lordship all about it, and I’ll take your lordship straight +to the right wench, that I will, if so be as your lordship will +give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what goes empty and +hungered most of the year round.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. A handful of +gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>leads the way to the +tree where</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>is +sitting</i>. <i>She stands up as</i> <span +class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span> <i>approaches</i>, <i>and for a +moment they gaze at one another in silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. You might +curtsey to the gentleman, Susan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. +No—there’s no need of that, from her to me. +[<i>Turning to</i> <span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>and +putting his hand in his pocket</i>.] Here, my boy, is a +golden pound for you—and more shall follow later.</p> +<p>[<i>He then takes</i> <span class="smcap">Susan’s</span> +<i>hand and leads her to the foot of the dais</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. Will you dance +for me again, Susan?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Several of the Girls</span>. +[<i>Mockingly</i>.] Princess Royal is her name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. +[<i>Rudely</i>.] Or Princess Rags.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. ’Tis all took +out of my hands now, I can but do as your lordship says. +Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely too.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jockie</span> <i>places himself near her +and begins to play</i>. <span class="smcap">Susan</span> +<i>dances by herself</i>. <i>At the end of her dance</i> +<span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span> <i>leads the applause</i>, +<i>and even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it</i>. +<i>He then takes</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>by the +hand and mounts the dais with her and presents her to his +mother</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span>. [<i>Aside</i>, +<i>to her companion</i>.] I wonder if the young person +understands that my poor boy is a little touched in the +brain?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. Here is your +daughter, mother.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>look at one another in +silence</i>. <i>After a moment</i> <span +class="smcap">Susan</span> <i>turns to</i> <span +class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Susan</span>. I’m a poor +ragged thing to be daughter to the likes of she. But the +heart within of me is grander nor that of any queen, because of +the love that it holds for you, my lord.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span> <i>takes her hand and +leads her to the front of the dais</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>. We will be +married to-morrow, my princess. And all these good people +shall dance at our wedding.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marion</span>. [<i>Springing +up</i>.] And we’ll do a bit of dancing now as +well. Come, Jockie, give us the tune of “Haste to the +Wedding.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. That’s it. +Come girls—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Millicent</span>. [<i>To</i> +<span class="smcap">Alice</span>.] I pray he won’t +find out about me.</p> +<p>[<i>The old</i> <span class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>has +come slowly towards the middle of the green</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grandmother</span>. Ah, and my +little wench will know how to pay back some of the vipers tongues +which slandered her, when she sits on her velvet chair as a +countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck and the rubies +a-crowning of her head. Her’ll not forget the snakes +what did lie in the grass. Her’ll have her heel upon +they, so that their heads be put low and there shan’t go no +more venom from their great jaws to harm she, my pretty +lamb—my little turtle.</p> +<p>[<i>The music begins to play and all those on the green form +themselves for the dance</i>. <span class="smcap">Lord +Cullen</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span> +<i>stand side by side in front of the dais</i>, <i>and the</i> +<span class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>lights a pipe and +smokes it as she watches the dance from below</i>. <i>At +the end of the dance</i> <span class="smcap">Lord Cullen</span>, +<i>leading</i> <span class="smcap">Susan</span>, <i>comes down +from the dais and</i>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Lady Cullen</span> <i>and her ladies</i>, <i>passes +between two lines of girls and so off the stage</i>. <i>The +girls follow in procession</i>, <i>and lastly the</i> <span +class="smcap">Grandmother</span> <i>preceded by</i> <span +class="smcap">Jockie</span>, <i>beating his drum</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Curtain</i>.]</p> +<h2>THE SEEDS OF LOVE</h2> +<h3>CHARACTERS</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">John Daniel</span>, <i>aged</i> 30, <i>a +Miller</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose-Anna</span> <i>his sister</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>, <i>aged</i> 16, <i>his +sister</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert Pearce</span>, <i>aged</i> 26.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>, <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>elderly cousins of Robert</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>, <i>John’s +servant—of middle age</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary Meadows</span>, <i>aged</i> 24, <i>a +Herbalist</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The time is Midsummer</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT I</h3> +<p><i>A woodland road outside</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary’s</span> <i>cottage</i>. <i>There +are rough seats in the porch and in front of the +window</i>. <i>Bunches of leaves and herbs hang drying +around door and window</i>. <span class="smcap">Mary</span> +<i>is heard singing within</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">I sowed the seeds of Love,<br /> +And I sowed them in the Spring.<br /> +I gathered them up in the morning so soon.<br /> +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing,<br /> +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. <a name="citation2"></a><a +href="#footnote2" class="citation">[2]</a></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>comes out of the +cottage</i>, <i>a bundle of enchanter’s nightshade in her +arms</i>. <i>She hangs it by a string to the wall and then +goes indoors</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">The violet I did not like,<br /> +Because it bloomed so soon;<br /> +The lily and the pink I really over think,<br /> +So I vowed I would wait till June,<br /> +So I vowed I would wait till June.</p> +<p>[<i>During the singing</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> +<i>comes slowly and heavily along the road</i>. <i>He wears +the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his +shoulder</i>. <i>In front of the cottage he pauses</i>, +<i>looks round doubtfully</i>, <i>and then sits stiffly and +wearily down on the bench beneath the window</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Coming to the +doorway with more plants and singing</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">“For the grass that has oftentimes been +trampled underfoot,<br /> +Give it time, it will rise up again.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Looking up +gloomily</i>.] And that it won’t, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Suddenly perceiving +him and coming out</i>.] O you are fair spent from +journeying. Can I do anything for you, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Gazing at her +fixedly</i>.] You speak kindly for a stranger, but +’tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Sitting down beside +him and pointing to the wall of the house</i>.] See those +leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There’s +medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. There’s not a +root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that could cure the +sickness I have within me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. That must be a terrible +sort of a sickness, master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. So ’tis. +’Tis love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Love?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Yes, love; wicked, +unhappy love. Love what played false when riches +fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to +another.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>has been slowly +approaching</i>, <i>she wears a cotton handkerchief over her head +and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her +arm</i>. <i>Her movements are languid and sad</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I know of flowers that +can heal even the pains of love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Coming forward +and speaking earnestly</i>.] O tell me of them quickly, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Why, are you sick of +the same complaint?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Sinking down on +the grass at</i> <span class="smcap">Mary’s</span> +<i>feet</i>.] So bruised and wounded in the heart that the +road from Framilode up here might well have been a hundred miles +or more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Framilode? +’Tis there you come from?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. I was servant at the +inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. Do you know +the place, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>In deep +gloom</i>.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Leaning forward and +clasping her hands</i>.] Him as is there to-day, or him who +was?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. He who was there and +left for foreign parts a good three year ago.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>covers her face and is +shaken by sobs</i>. <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> +<i>leans his elbow on his knee</i>, <i>shading his eyes with his +hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I have help for all +torments in my flowers. Such things be given us for +that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Looking +up</i>.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. +’Tis like when a quist do sing, as you speaks.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Then do both of you +tell your sorrow. ’Twill be strange if I do not find +sommat that will lighten your burdens for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. ’Twas at Moat +Farm I was born and bred.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Close up to Daniels +yonder?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. The same. +Rose-Anna of the Mill and I—we courted and was like to +marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. +She would not take a poor man, so I left these parts and got to +be what you do see me now—just a day labourer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. Mine, ’tis the +same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man and me, we loved +and was to have got us wedded, only there came a powerful rich +gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. +’Twas he that ’ticed my lover off to foreign +parts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>With a heavy +sigh</i>.] These things are almost more than I can +bear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. At first he wrote his +letters very often. Then ’twas seldom like. +Then ’twas never. And then there comed a +day—[<i>She is interrupted by her weeping</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Try to get out your +story—you can let the tears run afterwards if you have a +mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. There comed a day +when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. He brought me +news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff with +money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about +to wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Did he name the +maid?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. Rose-Anna she was +called, of Daniel’s mill up yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Rose-Anna—She +with whom I was to have gone to church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Here is a tangle worse +nor any briar rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O ’twas such +beautiful times as we did have down by the riverside, him and +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. She would sit, her +hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday afternoon.</p> +<p>[<i>A pause during which</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>seem lost in +their own sad memories</i>. <span class="smcap">Mary</span> +<i>gets up softly and goes within the cottage</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. And when I heared as +’twas to-morrow they were to wed, though ’twas like +driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me +upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day +just for one look upon his face again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. ’Twas so with +me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt myself worse +than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so cruel +false into mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. If I was to plead +upon my knees to him ’twould do no good—poor wench of +a serving maid like me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Looking down at +himself</i>.] She’d spurn me from the door were I to +stand there knocking—in the coat I have upon me now. +No—let her go her way and wed her fancy man.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>shades his eyes with one +hand</i>. <span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>bows her +head on her knees weeping</i>. <span +class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>comes out of the house carrying two +glass bowls of water</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Leave your sorrowful +tears till later, my friends. This fresh water from the +spring will revive you from your travelling.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Looking +up</i>.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. I could well lie me +down and die.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>giving to each one a bowl +from which they begin to drink slowly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I spoke as you do, +once. My lover passed me by for another. A man may +give all his love to the gilly flower, but ’tis the scarlet +rose as takes his fancy come to-morrow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. And has your heart +recovered from its sickness, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Slowly</i>.] +After many years.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. And could you wed you +to another?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Still more +slowly</i>.] Give the grass that has been trampled +underfoot a bit of time, ’twill rise again. +There’s healing all around of us for every ill, did we but +know it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. I’d give sommat +to know where ’tis then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. There isn’t a +herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to them that are in +pain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. Give me a bloom +that’ll put me to sleep for always, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. There’s evil +plants as well, but ’tisn’t a many. +There’s hen bane which do kill the fowls and fishes if they +eat the seed of it. And there’s water hemlock which +lays dumbness upon man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. I’ve heard them +tell of that, I have.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. And of the good leaves +there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the feet of you against +dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon the +door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. And have you naught +that can deaden the stab of love upon the heart, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Speaking in +anguish</i>.] Aught that can turn our faithless lovers back +again to we?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. That I have. See +these small packages—you that love Robert, take you +this—and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your +hand.</p> +<p>[<i>She puts a small paper packet into the hands of +each</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Looking +uncertainly at his packet</i>.] What’ll this do for +me, I’d like to know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. ’Tis an unfailing +charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, and another seed +as well. You put it in her glass of water—and the +love comes back to you afore next sun-rise.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. And will it be the +same with I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You have the Herb of +Robert there. Be careful of it. To-morrow at this +hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall do what +you will with it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O I can’t +believe in this. ’Tis too good to be true, and that +it be—A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little +wretch like me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Slowly</i>.] +’Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like us +to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was +when I did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as +one of theirselves. But now! Why, they’d take +and hound me away from the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. And me too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Breaking off a +spray of the enchanters nightshade from the bunch +drying</i>.] That’ll bring luck, may be.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>takes it and puts it in +her dress and then wraps the packet in her bundle</i>. +<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>puts his packet away +also</i>. <i>Whilst they are doing this</i>, <span +class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>strolls a little way on the +road</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. +[<i>Returning</i>.] The man from Daniels be coming +along.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. +[<i>Hastily</i>.] What, old Andrews?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. No. This is +another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have the +patience to keep in with him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. How’s that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. So slow and heavy in +his ways. But he can drink longer at the cider than any man +in the county afore it do fly to his head, and that’s why +master do put up with him.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>comes heavily towards +them</i>, <i>a straw in his mouth</i>. <i>His hat is pushed +to the back of his head</i>. <i>His expression is still and +impassive</i>. <i>He comes straight towards</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary</span>, <i>then halts</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Come, Jeremy, I reckon +’tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram you be come here this +morning?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Looking coldly +and critically at the travellers and pointing to them</i>.] +Who be they?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Travellers on the road, +seeking a bit of rest.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>continues to look them +all over in silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. How be things going at +the Mill to-day, Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Powerful bad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O I am grieved to hear +of it. What has happened?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>lean forward</i>, <i>listening +eagerly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. ’Tis a pretty +caddle, that’s all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. The mistress +isn’t took ill? or Miss Kitty?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I almost wish they +was, for then there wouldn’t be none of this here marrying +to-morrow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. What has upset you +against the wedding, Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. One pair of hands +baint enough for such goings on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. ’Tis three +you’ve got up there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. There you’re +mistook. Th’ idle wench and the lad be both +away—off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes +along of they. I be left with all upon me like, and +’tis too much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. What shall you do, +Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’ll be blowed +if I’m agoin’ to do anything. There.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. But you’ll have +to stir yourself up and deck the house and set the table and wait +upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses and all, +Jerry—seeing as you’re the only one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’ll not. +I’m not one as steps beyond my own work, and master do know +it too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Then how are they going +to manage?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’m out to find +them as’ll manage for them. [<i>Turning sharply +to</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span>.] Be you in search +of work, young man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. I—I count as +I’ve nothing particular in view.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Turning to</i> +<span class="smcap">Isabel</span>.] And you, wench?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. +[<i>Faintly</i>.] I’ve gone from the place where I +was servant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Then you’ll +come along of me—the both of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. +[<i>Shrinking</i>.] O no—I couldn’t go +among—among strangers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I never takes no +count of a female’s vapours. You’ll come along +of me. You’ll curl the mistress’s hair and lace +her gown and keep her tongue quiet—and you [<i>turning +to</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span>] my man, will set the +tables and wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town +this dinner-time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. +[<i>Angrily</i>.] I never waited on man nor woman in my +life, and I’ll not start now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. You will. +I’m not agoin’ a half mile further this warm +morning. Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Looking fixedly +at</i> <span class="smcap">Isabel</span>.] This is a chance +for you, my dear. You’ll not find a better.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Better? I count +as you’ll not better this’n. Good money for +your pains—victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you +can drink on a summer’s day. I count you’ll not +better that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>As though to +himself</i>.] I could not go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Some cattle want a +lot of driving.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Timidly to</i> +<span class="smcap">Lubin</span>.] If I go, could not you +try and come along with me, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. You’ll never +have the heart to go through with it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. ’Tis a fine fat +heart as her has within of she. Don’t you go and put +fancies into the head of her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span>.] I’ll go if so be as +you’ll come along of me too.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>bends his head and +remains thinking deeply</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. ’Tis thirsty +work this hiring of men and wenches—I’ll get me a +drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you’ll be +ready time I’ve finished.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I’ll see that +you’re not kept waiting, Jeremy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Turning back +after he has started</i>.] What be they called, Mary?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>looks doubtfully +towards</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. My name—they +calls me Isabel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Turning to</i> +<span class="smcap">Lubin</span>.] And yourn?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>In +confusion</i>.] I don’t rightly recollect.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. +[<i>Impassively</i>.] ’Tis of no account, us’ll +call you William like the last one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O, and couldn’t +I be called like the last one too?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Then us’ll call +you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and doubtless +you’ll not prove much worser.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes away</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. This is your +chance. A good chance too—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. They’ll know the +both of us. Love isn’t never quite so dead but what a +sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring some +breath to it again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. You’re right +there, master—sommat’ll stir in the hearts of them +when they sees we—and ’tis from the door as +us’ll be chased for masking on them like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. But not before the +seeds of love have done their work. Come, Isabel; come, +Lubin—I will so dress you that you shall not be +recognised.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>goes indoors</i>. +<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>slowly rises and takes up +her bundle</i>. <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>remains +seated</i>, <i>looking gloomily before him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. Come, think what +’twill feel to be along of our dear loves and look upon the +forms of them and hear the notes of their voices once again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. That’s what I am +a-thinking of. ’Twill be hot iron drove right into +the heart all the while. Ah, that’s about it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. I’ll gladly +bear the pain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>After a +pause</i>.] Then so will I. We’ll go.</p> +<p>[<i>He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up +and follows her into the cottage</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The living room at Daniel’s Mill</i>. <i>In the +window</i> <span class="smcap">Rose-Anna</span> <i>is seated +awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin +gown</i>. <span class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>is moving +about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in disorder +about the room and</i> <span class="smcap">John</span> <i>stands +with his back to the grate gravely surveying them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Petulantly</i>.] Whatever shall we do, John! Me +not dressed, everything no how, and them expected in less nor a +half hour’s time?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. There! +I’ve finished a-dusting the chairs. Now I’ll +set them in their places.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No one is thinking of +me! Who’s going to help me on with my gown and curl +my hair like Robert was used to seeing me wear it at +Aunt’s?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Did you have it +different down at Bristol, Rose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Of course I did. +’Twouldn’t do to be countrified in the town.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Your hair’s well +enough like that. ’Tisn’t of hair as +anyone’ll be thinking when they comes in, but of +victuals. And how we’re a-going to get the table and +all fixed up in so short a time do fairly puzzle me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. I’ll do the +table.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No. You’ve +got to help me with my gown. O that was a good-for-nothing +baggage, leaving us in the lurch!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Well, I’ve done +my best to get us out of the fix.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And what would that be, +pray?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Why John, you’ve +done nothing but stand with your back to the grate this last +hour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’ve sent off +Jerry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Scornfully</i>.] Much good that’ll do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. We know just how far +Jerry will have gone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I told him not to shew +hisself unless he could bring a couple of servants back along +with him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Angrily</i>.] +You’re more foolish than I took you to be, John. Get +you off at once and fetch Jerry from his cider at the Red +Bull. He’s not much of a hand about the house, but +he’s better than no one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Sighing +heavily</i>.] Jeremy’s not the man to start his +drinking so early in the day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I’ve caught him +at the cask soon after dawn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. And so have I, +John. How you put up with his independent ways I +don’t know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, ’tisn’t +everyone as has such a powerful strong head as +Jerry’s. He’s one that can be trusted to take +his fill, and none the worse with him afterwards.</p> +<p>[<i>A knock at the door</i>, <i>which is pushed open by</i> +<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>From the +doorway</i>.] Well, Master John—well, mistress?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Sharply</i>.] +Master was just starting out for to fetch you home, Jerry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Ignoring +her</i>.] Well, master, I’ve brought a couple back +along of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Ducklings or +chickens?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’ve gotten +them too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Do you mean that +you’ve found some servants for us, Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Two outside. +Female and male.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Didn’t I tell you +so! There’s naught that Jerry cannot do. +You’ll have a drink for this, my man</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. You may take my word +he’s had that already, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I have, +mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the poultry in my +basket. Down at the Bull.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. What sort of a maid is +it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah, ’tis for +you to tell me that, mistress, when you’ve had her along of +you a bit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And the man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Much the same as any +other male.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Impatiently</i>.] Do you step outside, John, and have a +look at them, and if they’re suitable bring them in and +we’ll set them about their work.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>goes out</i>. <span +class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>peers through the window</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I reckon I can go off +and feed the hilts now. ’Tis the time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Feed the hilts! +Indeed you can’t do no such thing. O I’m mad +with vexation that nothing is well ordered or suitably prepared +for Mr. Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol town. +Whatever will they say to such a house when they do see it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’m sure I +don’t know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>From the +window</i>.] I see the new servants. John is bringing +them up the walk. The man’s face is hid by his broad +hat, but the girl looks neat enough in her cotton gown and +sun-bonnet.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>comes into the room</i>, +<i>followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>shuffles off his hat</i>, <i>but +holds it between his face and the people in the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Pointing to them +and speaking to</i> <span class="smcap">Rose</span>.] There +you are, mistress—man-servant and maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. What do we know about +them? Folk picked up by Jerry at the Red Bull.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. No, from the +roadside.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Worser far.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. No, no, Rose. +These young persons were spoken for by Mary Meadows. And +’tis rare fortunate for we to obtain their services at +short notice like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>.] What are you called, my +girl?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. +[<i>Faintly</i>.] Isabel is my name, but I’d sooner +you called me Lucy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And that I will. +My tongue is used to Lucy. The other is a flighty, fanciful +name for a servant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. And what is the man +called, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. +[<i>Harshly</i>.] I am called William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. William and +Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O do not let us waste +any more time! Jerry, do you take the man and shew him his +work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come to me and help me with +my gown and my hair dressing. We have not a minute to +lose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. They may be upon us +any time now. I’ll go out and gather the flowers for +the parlour, since you don’t want me any more within, +Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And I’ll get and +finish Jeremy’s work in the yard. ’Tis upside +down and round about and no how to-day. But we’ll +come out of it some time afore next year I reckon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Don’t you ever +go for to get married, master. There could never come a +worser caddle into a man’s days nor matrimony, I count.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span>, <i>on his way to the +door</i>, <i>pauses—as though momentarily lost in +thought</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Was Mary Meadows asked +to drop in at any time to-day, Rose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Who is taking up +her gown and ribbons to show to</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>, <i>and speaking crossly</i>.] +I’m sure I don’t know, nor care. I’ve +enough to think about as ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">John’s</span> <i>arm playfully</i>.] +You’re terribly took up with Mary Meadows, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. There isn’t many +like her, Kitty. She do rear herself above t’others +as—as a good wheat stalk from out the rubbish.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>go slowly out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>As though to +himself</i>.] I sees as how I shall have to keep an eye on +master—[<i>turning to</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> +<i>and signing to him</i>.] But come, my man, us has no +time for romance, ’tis dish washing as lies afore you +now.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>jerks his head haughtily +and makes a protesting gesture</i>. <i>Then he seems to +remember himself and follows</i> <span +class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>humbly from the room</i>. +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>takes up some ribbons and +laces</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>, <i>who is standing near</i>.] +Now, Lucy, we must look sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from +Bristol town will soon be here. I have not met with the +cousins yet, but I’ve been told as they’re very fine +ladies—They stood in place of parents to my Robert, you +know. ’Tis unfortunate we should be in such a sad +muddle the day they come.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. When I have helped +you into your gown, mistress, I shall soon have the dinner spread +and all in order. I be used to such work, and I’m +considered spry upon my feet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. ’Tis more serious +that you should be able to curl my hair in the way that Mr. +Robert likes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Sadly</i>.] +I don’t doubt but that I shall be able to do that too, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Very well. Take +the gown and come with me up to my room.</p> +<p>[<i>They go out together</i>, <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>carrying the gown</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><i>The same room</i>. <i>The table is laid for dinner +and</i> <span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>is putting flowers +upon it</i>. <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>wearing +his hat</i>, <i>enters with large jugs of cider</i>, <i>which he +sets upon a side table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Looking up from +her work</i>.] Shall us ever have the heart to go on with +it, Master Lubin?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. +[<i>Bitterly</i>.] Do not you “Master” me, +Isabel. I’m only a common servant in the house where +once I was lover and almost brother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Coming up to +him</i>.] O do not take it so hard, Lubin—Us can do +naught at this pass but trust what the young woman did tell +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. +[<i>Gloomily</i>.] The sight of Rose has stirred up my love +so powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back from +my eyes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Pressing her eyes +with her apron</i>.] What’ll it be for me when Robert +comes in?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. We’ll have to +help one another, Isabel, in the plight where we stand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. That’s +it. And perchance as them seeds’ll do the rest.</p> +<p>[<i>They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is +heard outside</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Runs +in</i>.] They’ve come. All of them. And +do you know that Robert’s cousins are no fine ladies at +all, as he said, but just two common old women dressed +grand-like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. That will be a sad +shock to poor mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. O, she is too much +taken up with Mister Robert to notice yet. But quick! +They are all sharp set from the drive. Fetch in the dishes, +William and Lucy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. All shall be ready in +a moment, Miss Kitty.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes hurriedly out followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span>. <span +class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>glances round the room and then +stands at the side of the front door</i>. <span +class="smcap">John</span>, <i>giving an arm to each of</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert’s</span> <i>cousins</i>, +<i>enters</i>. <i>The cousins are dressed in coloured +flowered dresses</i>, <i>and wear bonnets that are heavy with +bright plumes</i>. <i>They look cumbered and ill at ease in +their clothes</i>, <i>and carry their sunshades and gloves +awkwardly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. [<i>Looking round +her</i>.] Very comfortable, I’m sure. But I +count as that there old-fashioned grate do take a rare bit of +elbow grease.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Very pleasant +indeed. But I didn’t reckon as the room would be +quite the shape as ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Come to that, I +didn’t expect the house to look as it do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Very ancient in +appearance, I’m sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Ah, the house has done +well enough for me and my father and grandfather afore me.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Rose</span>, <i>very grandly dressed</i>, +<i>comes in hanging on</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert’s</span> <i>arm</i>. <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>is clothed in the fashion of the +town</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Please to remove your +bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please to remove yours, Miss Jane.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. +[<i>Heartily</i>.] Ah, that’s so—’Twill +be more homely like for eating.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. There’s a glass +upon the wall.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. I prefer to remain as I +be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Sister and me have our +caps packed up in the tin box.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Bringing the tin +box from the doorway</i>.] Shall I take you upstairs to +change? Dinner’s not quite ready yet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. That will suit us best, +I’m sure. Come, sister.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>leads the way out</i>, +<i>followed by both sisters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’ll just step +outside and see that Jerry’s tending to the horse.</p> +<p>[<i>He hurries out</i>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>is left alone with</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Coming towards him +and holding out her hands</i>.] O, Robert, is it the same +between us as it was last time?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Looking at her +critically</i>.] You’ve got your hair different or +something.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Putting her hand to +her head</i>.] The new maid. A stupid country +wench.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. You’ve got my +meaning wrong. ’Tis that I’ve never seen you +look so well before.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O dear Robert!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. You’ve got my +fancy more than ever, Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O, I’m so happy +to be going off with you to-morrow, and I love it down at +Bristol. Robert, I’m tired and sick of country +life.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. We’ll make a +grand fine lady of you there, Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>A little +sharply</i>.] Am I not one in looks already, Robert?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. You’re what I +do dote upon. I can’t say no more.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>enter carrying dishes</i>, +<i>which they set upon the table</i>. <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>turn their backs to them and look +out into the garden</i>. <i>The staircase door is +opened</i>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Liz</span>, <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>come into the room</i>. <span +class="smcap">Liz</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>are wearing gaudy caps trimmed with +violet and green ribbons</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. We’ll sit down, +now. John won’t be a moment before he’s +here.</p> +<p>[<i>She sits down at one end of the table and signs to</i> +<span class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>to place himself next to +her</i>. <i>The sisters and</i> <span +class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>seat themselves</i>. <span +class="smcap">John</span> <i>comes hurriedly in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s +right. Everyone in their places? But no cover laid +for Mary?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Carelessly</i>.] We can soon have one put, should she +take it into her head to drop in.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s it. +Now ladies, now Robert—’tis thirsty work a-driving +upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We’ll lead off +with a drink of home-made cider. The eating’ll come +sweeter afterwards.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. That’s it, +Miller.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>come forward and take the cider +mugs from each place to the side table</i>, <i>where</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>fills them from a large +jug</i>. <i>In the mugs of</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose-Anna</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>, <span class="smcap">Isabel</span> +<i>shakes the contents of the little packets</i>. <i>Whilst +they are doing this the following talk is carried on at the +table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span> [<i>Taking up a +spoon</i>.] Real plated, sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Upon my word, so +’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And not so bright as I +should wish to see it neither. I’ve had a sad trouble +with my maids of late.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Sister and I don’t +keep none of them, thank goodness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. We does our work with +our own hands. We’d be ashamed if ’twas +otherwise.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Scowling at +them</i>.] I’ve been and engaged a house-full of +servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what ’tis to +live like a lady once she enters our family.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Servants be like green +fly on the bush. They do but spoil th’ home and +everything they do touch. All save one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. And that one’s +Jerry, I suppose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You’re right +there, Kitty, that you are. A harder head was never given +to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>here put round the mugs of +cider</i>, <i>and everyone drinks thirstily</i>. <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>stands behind the chairs of</i> +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>at</i> <span +class="smcap">John’s</span> <i>side</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Setting down his +mug</i>.] There’s a drink what can’t be got in +foreign parts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Looking fondly at +him</i>.] Let the maid fill your mug again, my dear +one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Carelessly +handing it to</i> <span class="smcap">Isabel</span>.] I +don’t mind if I do have another swill.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>fills the mug and puts +it by his side</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. As good as any I ever +tasted.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Couldn’t better +it at the King’s Head up our way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Good drink—plenty +of it. Now we’ll start upon the meat I reckon.</p> +<p>[<i>He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve</i>, +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>hands round +plates</i>. <i>During this</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert’s</span> <i>gaze restlessly wanders +about the room</i>, <i>finally fixing itself on</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>, <i>who presently goes out to the +back kitchen with plates</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. The new serving maid +you’ve got there, Rose, should wear a cap and not her +bonnet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. How sharp you are to +notice anything.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. A very pretty looking +wench, from what I can see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Speaking more to +the cousins than to</i> <span class="smcap">Robert</span>.] +O she’s but a rough and untrained girl got in all of a +hurry. Not at all the sort I’ve been used to in this +house, I can tell you.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>comes back with fresh +plates and stands at the side table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span>.] A mellower piece of pig meat I +never did taste, sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I’m sorry I went +and took the poultry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. John will carve you +some ham if you’d like to try it, Miss Jane.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I’m sure +I’m much obliged.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>comes in</i>.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Coming to the +back of</i> <span class="smcap">Jane’s</span> +<i>chair</i>.] Don’t you get mixing of your meats is +what I says. Commence with ham and finish with he. +That’s what do suit the inside of a delicate female.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Looking up +admiringly</i>.] Now that’s just what old Uncle he +did used to say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Old uncle did know +what he was a-talking about then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. [<i>Warming and looking +less awkward and ill at ease</i>.] ’Twas the gout +what kept Uncle so low in his eating, ’twas not th’ +inclination of him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah +’twouldn’t be the gout nor any other disease as would +keep me from a platter of good food.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Nor from your mug of +drink neither, Jerry.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>laughs and moves off to +the side table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. A very pleasant sort of +man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I do like anyone +what’s homely.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Calling out +heartily</i>.] Do you listen to that, Jerry! The +ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I don’t +know what else.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. The mugs want filling +once more.</p> +<p>[<i>He stolidly goes round the table refilling the +mugs</i>. <span class="smcap">Rose’s</span> <i>gaze +wanders about her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>.] That’s not a bad +looking figure of a man—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Who?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well—the new farm +hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. A sulky looking +brute. I’d not let him wear his hat to table if I was +master here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. He puts me in mind +of—well—there, I can’t recollect who +’tis. [<i>A knock is heard at the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Sharply to</i> +<span class="smcap">Isabel</span>.] Go and see who +’tis, Lucy.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>opens the door</i>, +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Mary Meadows</span> <i>stands on +the threshold</i>, <i>a large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers +in her hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Rising up in great +pleasure</i>.] You’re late, Mary. But +you’re welcome as the—as the very sunshine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Set another place, +Lucy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Not for me, Rose. +I did not come here to eat or drink, but to bring you these few +blossoms and my love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Rises from the +table and takes the nosegay</i>.] I’m sure +you’re very kind, Mary—Suppose we were all to move +into the parlour now we have finished dinner, and then we could +enjoy a bit of conversation.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Very pleasant, I’m +sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I see no objection.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Running round to +look at the flowers</i>.] And Mary shall tell us how to +make charms out of the flowers—and the meanings of the +blossoms and all the strange things she knows about them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Taking a flower +from the bunch and putting it into his coat</i>.] Yes, and +how to brew tea as’ll curl up anyone’s tongue within +the mouth for a year—and fancy drinks for sheep with foot +rot, and powders against the murrain and any other nonsense that +you do please.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Now, John, I’ll +not have you damage my business like this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Maybe as the young +person’s got sommat what’ll be handy with your +complaint, sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Or for when you be took +with th’ air in your head so bad, Jane.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Yes, I reckon that Mary +has a charm for every ill beneath the sun. Let’s go +off to the parlour along of her. You’re not coming +with us, John, are you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I’d not miss the +telling of these things for anything in the world, foolishness +though they be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Come along +then—all of you.</p> +<p>[<i>They all go out</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>holds the door open for +them</i>. <i>As she passes through it</i> <span +class="smcap">Liz</span> <i>says</i>, <i>looking at him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. We shall hope for your +company, too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. To be sure, mister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. +[<i>Haughtily</i>.] I bain’t one for parlours, nor +charms, ma’am. I be here for another purpose.</p> +<p>[<i>They leave the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Having watched +the party out</i>, <i>moves towards the cider jug</i>.] +Now, my man, now, my wench—us’ll see what can be done +with the victuals and drink they’ve been and left. +’Tis a fair heavy feed and drink as I do need. Sommat +as’ll lift me up through all the trials of this here +foolish matrimony and stuff.</p> +<p>[<i>He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain +falls</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The next morning</i>. <span +class="smcap">Robert’s</span> <i>cousins are standing by +the fire-place of the same room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. ’Tis powerful +unhomely here, Jane.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And that +’tis. I wish as Robert had never brought us along of +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. She’s a stuck-up +jay of a thing what he’s about to wed if ever I seed +one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. That her be. +He’ll live to wish hisself dead and buried one day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. There bain’t but +one sensible tongue in the whole place to my mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Ah, he’s a man to +anyone’s liking, sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. ’Tis homelike as +he do make I to feel among all these strangers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Here he comes.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>with a yoke and two +pails stands at the doorway</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Now do you come in, +mister, and have a bit of talk along of we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Set down them pails and +do as sister says, Mister Jeremy.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>looks them all over and +then slowly and deliberately sets down his pails</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. That’s right, +sister and me was feeling terribly lonesome here this +morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And we was wishing as +we’d never left home to come among all these stranger +folk.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Not that we feels you to +be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You be a plain homely +man such as me and sister be accustomed to.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Anything more?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. I suppose you’ve +put by a tidy bit—seeing as you be of a certain age.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Although your looks +favour you well, don’t they, sister?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. To be sure they do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And I reckon as you +could set up a home of your own any day, mister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Pointing through +the window</i>.] See that there roof against the mill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Indeed I do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. That’s where I +do live.</p> +<p>[<i>Both sisters move quickly to the window</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. A very comfortable +looking home indeed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. I likes the looks of it +better nor this great old house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Archly</i>.] +Now I daresay there’s but one thing wanted over there, +Mister Jeremy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. What’s +that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. A good wife to do and +manage for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I never was done for +nor managed by a female yet, and blowed if I will be now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. [<i>Shaking her finger +at him</i>.] Sister an’ me knows what comes of such +words, don’t us, sister? ’Tis an old saying in +our family as one wedding do make a many.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Give me a +woman’s tongue for foolishness. I’ve heared a +saying too in my family, which be—get a female on to your +hearth and ’tis Bedlam straight away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Now, sister, did you +ever hear the like of that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Us’ll have to +change his mind for him, Jane.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I reckon +’twould take a rare lot of doing to change that, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Bain’t you +a-goin’ to get yourself ready for church soon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Dashed if I ever +heard tell of such foolishness. Who’s to mind the +place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling out?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. There’s the man +William.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I bain’t +a-goin’ to leave the place to a stranger.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Why, sister, +us’ll feel lost and lonesome without mister, shan’t +us, Liz?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. That us will. What +if us stayed at home and helped to mind the house along of +he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Slowly</i>.] +And did not put our new gowns upon the backs of we after all the +money spent?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah, there you +be. ’Tis the same with all females. Creatures +of vanity—even if they be got a bit long in the +tooth. ’Tis all the same.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Liz</span> <i>draw themselves up</i>, +<i>bridling</i>, <i>but</i> <span class="smcap">Liz</span> +<i>relaxes</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. He must have his little +joke, sister, man-like, you know.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>enters</i>.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Jerry, and I’ve +been seeking you everywhere. Come you off to the +yard. ’Tis as much as we shall do to be ready afore +church time. I never knew you to idle in the house +afore.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Taking up his +pails</i>, <i>sarcastically</i>.] ’Twas the females +as tempted I, master, but ’twon’t occur again, so +there. [<i>He hurries off</i>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. [<i>With +dignity</i>.] Us’ll go upstairs and dress, +sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. ’Tis time we did +so. All them new-fashioned things be awkward in the +fastenings.</p> +<p>[<i>They go upstairs</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>come in from the garden</i>. +<span class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>carries a little card-board +box in his hand</i>, <i>which he places on the table</i>. +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>sits down listlessly on a +chair leaning her arms on the table</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Undoing the +box</i>.] This is the bouquet what I promised to bring from +town.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Her gaze wandering +outside</i>.] Well, we might as well look at it afore I go +to dress.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>uncovers the box and +takes out a small bouquet of white flowers surrounded by a lace +frill</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Taking it from him +carelessly and raising it to her face</i>.] Why, they are +false ones.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. +[<i>Contemptuously</i>.] My good girl, who ever went to +church with orange blossom that was real, I’d like to +know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Languidly dropping +the bouquet on the table</i>.] I’m sure I don’t +care. I reckon that one thing’s about as good as +another to be married with.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Going to the +window and looking out</i>.] Ah—I daresay ’tis +so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I feel tired of my +wedding day already—that I do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. There’s a +plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what a man’s +hardly used to, so it seems to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Wildly</i>.] +O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we die.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Now—if +’twas with the right—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Right what, Robert?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. +[<i>Confused</i>.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, +Rose. Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to +dress yourself. We might as well get it all over and +finished with.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Rising +slowly</i>.] Perhaps ’twould be best. +I’ll go to my room, and you might call the girl Lucy and +send her up to help me with my things.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Won’t you take +the bouquet along of you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No—let it bide +there. I can have it later.</p> +<p>[<i>She goes slowly from the room</i>.</p> +<p>[<i>Left to himself</i>, <span class="smcap">Robert</span> +<i>strolls to the open door and looks gloomily out on the +garden</i>. <i>Suddenly his face brightens</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Lucy, Lucy, come you +in here a moment.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lucy</span>. [<i>From +outside</i>.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths, +master.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Leave your dish +cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress wants you, +Lucy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lucy</span>. [<i>Coming to the +door</i>.] Mistress wants me, did you say?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Yes, you’ve got +to go and dress her for the church. But you can spare me a +minute or two first.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Going quickly +across the room to the staircase door</i>.] Indeed, that is +what I cannot do, master. ’Tis late already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Catches her hand +and pulls her back</i>.] I’ve never had a good look +at your face yet, my girl—you act uncommon coy, and that +you do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Turning her head +away and speaking angrily</i>.] Let go of my hand, I tell +you. I don’t want no nonsense of that sort.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Lucy, your voice do +stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and there’s sommat +about the appearance of you—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. Let go of me, +master. Suppose as anyone should look through the +window.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Let them look. +I’d give a good bit for all the world to see us now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O, whatever do you +mean by that, Mister Robert?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. What I say. +’Tis with you as I’d be going along to church this +morning. Not her what’s above.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. But I wouldn’t +go with you—No, not for all the gold in the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Ah, you’ve +changed since yesterday. When I caught your eye at dinner, +’twas gentle as a dove’s—and your hand, when it +gave me my mug of cider did seem—well did seem to put a +caress upon me like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O there lies a world +of time twixt yesterday and to-day, Master Robert.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. So it do seem. +For to-day ’tis all thorns and thistles with you—But +I’m a-goin’ to have my look at your pretty face and +my kiss of it too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. I shall scream out +loud if you touches me—that I shall.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Pulling her to +him</i>.] Us’ll see about that.</p> +<p>[<i>He tries to get a sight of her face</i>, <i>but she twists +and turns</i>. <i>Finally he seizes both her hands and +covers them with kisses as</i> <span class="smcap">Kitty</span> +<i>enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. O whatever’s +going on! Rose, Rose, John—come you in here quickly, +do. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Lucy</span>.] O +you bad, wicked girl. I knew you couldn’t be a very +nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span>, <i>released by</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>, <i>goes over to the window arranging +her disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears</i>. +<span class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>watches her +sullenly</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Goes to the +staircase door and calls loudly</i>.] Rose, Rose—come +you down as quick as you can run.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Coming +down</i>.] What’s all this, I’d like to +know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. It’s Lucy, +behaving dreadful—O you must send her straight away from +the house, Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. What has she done, +then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Going on with +Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O no, mistress, +twasn’t so, I do swear to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. +[<i>Brutally</i>.] Yes ’twas. The maid so put +me powerful in mind of someone who—who—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Coldly</i>.] +I understand you, Robert. Well, ’tis lucky that all +this didn’t come off an hour or so later.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. +[<i>Tearfully</i>.] O Rose, what do you mean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I mean that +what’s not broken don’t need no mending. Robert +can go to church with someone else to-day, he can. And no +harm done.</p> +<p>[<i>She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins +pulling it to pieces and throwing it all about the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. O Rose, Rose, +don’t take it so hard. ’Twasn’t +Robert’s fault. ’Twas the girl off the road +what led him on. I know it. Tell her to get out of +the house. I’ll dress you—I’ll do the +work. Only be just and sensible again; dear Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Let the girl +bide. It makes no difference to me. There’ll be +no marrying for me to-day.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>comes in at the +door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Running to +him</i>.] O John, John—do you quiet down Rose and +tell her to get upstairs and dress. She’s a-saying +that she won’t marry Robert because of his goings on with +the new servant—But, O, you’ll talk her into reason +again, won’t you, dear John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Come, come, +what’s all this cackle about, Rose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I’m breaking off +with Robert, that’s all, John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Robert, can’t you +take and explain a bit what ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. +[<i>Sullenly</i>.] A little bit of play ’twixt me and +the wench there, and that’s about all, I reckon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now that’s an +unsensible sort of thing to get doing on your marriage day, to my +thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. ’Twasn’t +Robert’s fault, I know. ’Twas the maid off the +road who started it.</p> +<p>[<i>Here</i> <span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>sinks down +on a chair by the window</i>, <i>leaning her arms on the table +and bowing her head</i>, <i>in tears</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Going to the +door</i>.] Jeremy—Jeremy—come you in here a +minute.</p> +<p>[<i>Instead of</i> <span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>, <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Twas Jeremy I +did call—not you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. He’s gone off +the place for a few minutes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Vexedly</i>.] +Ah, ’tis early for the Red Bull.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Can I—can I do +anything for you, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Not unless you can +account for the sort of serving wench off the roadside what Jerry +has put upon us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. What is there to +account for in her, master?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Passionately</i>.] O I don’t particular mind +about what’s happened. Let her kiss with Robert if +she has the mind. ’Tis always the man who +commences.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis not. +There are some wenches who don’t know how to leave anyone +alone. Worser than cattle flies, that sort.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. [<i>Going across the +room to</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin’s</span> +<i>side</i>.] O you shame me by them words, I bain’t +that sort of maid—you’ll answer for +me—William?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>silently takes her +hand</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Her eyes fixed +on</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span>.] I’ll tell +you what, John; I’ll tell you, Kitty. I wish +I’d held me to my first lover and I wish ’twas with +Lubin that I was a-going to the church to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. +[<i>Sullenly</i>.] Then I’ll say sommat, Rose. +I wish ’twas with Isabel that I was getting wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Now, +now—’Tis like two children a quarrelling over their +playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed, +Rose-Anna—And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be +at the door afore you’re ready if you don’t quicken +yourselves up a bit. Kitty, you go and help your +sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>With a jealous +glance at Isabel</i>.] No, I’ll have Lucy with +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. That’s it, you +keep her out of mischief</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. I’ve got my own +dress to put on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. And Robert, you and me +will have a drink after all this caddle. ’Tis dry +work getting ready for marriage so it appears.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. ’Tis fiery dry +to my thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Crossing the room +and going up to</i> <span class="smcap">Lubin</span>.] I +have no flowers to take to church with me, William; go you to the +waterside, I have a mind to carry some of the blue things what +grow there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Forget-me-nots, you +mean!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Forget-me-nots, I +mean. And none but you to gather them for me, +William. Because—because—well, you do put me in +thoughts of someone that I once held and now have lost. +That’s all.</p> +<p>[<i>Curtain</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><i>The same room half an hour later</i>. <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>is picking up the scattered orange +blossom which she ties together and lays on the window +sill</i>. <span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>comes in with +a large bunch of river forget-me-nots</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. I didn’t think +to find you here, Isabel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O but that is a +beautiful blue flower. I will take the bunch +upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Putting it on the +table</i>.] No—do you bide a moment here with me.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Isabel</span> <i>looks helplessly at</i> +<span class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>who takes her hands slowly in +his</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. What are we going to +do?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. I wish as we had +never touched the seeds.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. O cursed seeds of +love—Far better to have left all as ’twas yesterday +in the morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. He has followed me +like my shadow, courting and courting me hard and all the time, +Lubin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. She sought me out in +the yard at day-break, and what I’d have given twenty years +of life for yester eve I could have thrown into the stream this +morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span> [<i>Sadly</i>.] So +’tis with my feelings.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. She has altered +powerful, to my fancy, in these years.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. And Robert be +differenter too from what I do remember. [<i>A long +silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Have you thought as it +might be in us two these changes have come about, Isabel?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. I was just the maid +as ever I was until—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. And so was I +unchanged, until I started travelling up on the same road as you, +Isabel.</p> +<p>[<i>For a few minutes they look gravely into one +another’s eyes</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel’s</span> <i>hands</i>.] So +that’s how ’tis with you and me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. O Lubin—a poor +serving maid like I am.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. I’ll have no one +else in the whole world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. What could I have +seen in him, times gone by?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. And was it ever true +that I did sit through a long Sunday her hand in mine? +[<i>Another silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. But how’s us +ever to get out of the caddle where we be?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>Gaily</i>.] +We’ll just run away off to the Fair as t’other +servants did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. And leave them in +their hate for one another? No—’twould be too +cruel. Us’ll run to the young mistress what knows all +about them herbs. I count as there be seeds or sommat which +could set the hearts of them two back in the right places +again. Come—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. Have it your own way +then. But ’twill have to be done very quickly if +’tis done at all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. Us’ll fly over +the ground like.</p> +<p>[<i>She puts her hand impetuously in</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin’s</span> <i>and they go out +together</i>. <i>As they do so</i>, <span +class="smcap">Isabel’s</span> <i>bonnet falls from her head +and lies unheeded on the floor</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 3.</h3> +<p><i>A few minutes later</i>. <span +class="smcap">Liz</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>wearing gay sprigged dresses and +feathered bonnets</i>, <i>come to the room</i>. <i>They +carry fans and handkerchiefs in their hands</i>. <i>It is +seen that their gowns are not fastened at the back</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Such a house I never +heard tell of. Ring, ring at the bell and no one to come +nigh.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Being unused to bells, +sister, maybe as us did pull them wrong or sommat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. I wish we’d had +the gowns made different.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. To do up in the +front—sensible like.</p> +<p>[<i>They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall</i>, +<i>absorbed in their dress</i>, <i>they do not notice that</i> +<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>has come in and is watching +them sarcastically</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Being as grey as +th’ old badger don’t keep a female back from +vanity.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. O dear, Master Jeremy, +what a turn you did give me, to be sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. We can’t find no +one in this house to attend upon we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I count as you can +not. Bain’t no one here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. We rang for the wench a +many time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah, and you might +ring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. We want someone +as’ll fasten them niggly hooks to our gowns.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah, and you may +want.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Our sight bain’t +clear enough to do one for t’other, the eyelets be made so +small.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Count as you’ll +have to go unfastened then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. O now you be a laughing +at us. Call the wench down, or we shall never be ready in +time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Man and maid be both +gone off. Same as t’others, us’ll have to do +without service.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Gone off!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Runned clean away?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. That’s about +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Well now, sister, +us’ll have to ask the little Miss to help we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’ve harnessed +the mare a many time. Don’t see why I shouldn’t +get the both of you fixed into the shafts like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span> and <span +class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Fanning themselves +coyly</i>.] O Master Jeremy—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Come now. +Let’s have a try. I count as no one have a steadier +hand nor me this side of the river, nor a finer eye for seeing as +everything be in its place. I’ll settle the both of +you afore I gets out the horse and trap. Turn round.</p> +<p>[<i>The sisters turn awkwardly</i>, <i>and with very +self-conscious airs begin to flutter their fans</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>quickly hooks each gown in +succession</i>. <i>As he finishes the fastening of</i> +<span class="smcap">Jane’s</span> <i>dress</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Kitty</span>, <i>comes into the room</i>. +<i>She is wearing her bridal gown and veil</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Pausing</i>.] +What’s this, Jeremy?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. The servants be +runned away same as t’others—that’s all, +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Run away?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. So I do reckon. +Bain’t anywhere about the place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Flinging herself +down on a chair by the table</i>, <i>in front of the bunch of +forget-me-nots</i>.] Let them be found. Let them be +brought back at once.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. For my part I’m +glad they’ve gone off. The girl was a wild, bad +thing. I saw how she went on with Robert.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Brokenly to</i> +<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>.] You found them. +Bring them back, Jerry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. No—wait till you +and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. Then +’twon’t matter quite so much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I’ll never wed me +to Robert, I’ll only wed me to him who gathered these blue +flowers here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Good heavens, Rose, +’twas the man William.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>looks in consternation +from</i> <span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>to the cousins and +then to</i> <span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>, <i>who remains +impassive and uninterested</i>, <i>sucking a straw</i>. +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>clasps her hands round the +forget-me-nots and sits gazing at them</i>, <i>desolately +unhappy</i>. <span class="smcap">Robert</span> +<i>enters</i>. <i>He is very grandly dressed for the +wedding</i>, <i>but as he comes into the room he sees</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel’s</span> <i>cotton bonnet on the +floor</i>. <i>He stoops</i>, <i>picks it up and laying it +reverently on the table</i>, <i>sinks into a chair opposite</i> +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and raising one of its +ribbons</i>, <i>kisses this with passion</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. There—I’d +not change this for a thousand sacks of gold—I swear +I’d not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Now Robert—get +up, the two of you. Are you bewitched or sommat—O +Jerry, stir them, can’t you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Robert, +’tisn’t hardly suitable—with the young miss so +sweetly pretty in her white gown.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And wedding veil and +all. And sister and me hooked up into our new sprigs, ready +for the ceremony.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Looking at them +with cold contempt</i>.] Let them bide. The +mush’ll swim out of they same as ’twill swim off the +cider vat. Just let the young fools bide.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. O this’ll never +do. Jerry forgetting of his manners and all. +[<i>Calling at the garden door</i>.] John, John, come you +here quickly, there’s shocking goings on. [<span +class="smcap">John</span>, <i>in best clothes comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. What’s the rattle +now, Kitty? I declare I might be turning round on top of my +own mill wheel such times as these.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. Rose says she +won’t wed Robert, and Robert’s gone off his head all +along of that naughty servant maid.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">John</span> <i>stands contemplating</i> +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>. <span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>seems lost to the outside world and +is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots</i>, <i>whilst</i> +<span class="smcap">Robert</span>, <i>in sullen gloom</i>, +<i>keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Come, Rose, ’tis +time you commenced to act a bit different. [<span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>does not answer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Come, Robert, if you +play false to my sister at the last moment, you know with whom +you’ll have to reckon like. [<span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>pays no heed to him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jeremy</span>.] Can you do naught to work +upon them a bit, Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’d have a jug +of cider in, master. ’Twill settle them all. +Folks do get ’sterical and vapourish face to face with +matrimony. Put some drink afore of them, and see how +’twill act.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. O what a wise thought, +Master Jerry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Most suitable, I call +it.</p> +<p>[<i>Here</i> <span class="smcap">Mary Meadows</span> <i>comes +in</i>, <span class="smcap">John</span> <i>turns eagerly to +her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. O Mary—have you +come to help us in the fix where we are? [<i>He signs +to</i> <span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. What has happened, +John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I’ll tell you +in a couple of words, mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. No—do you fetch +the cider, dear Mister Jeremy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. ’Tis more than I +can do with, Mary. Rose is set against Robert, and Robert +is set against Rose. Rose—well I’m fairly +ashamed to mention it—Rose has lost her senses and would +wed the servant William—and Robert is a-courting of the +maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah, let each fool +follow their own liking, says I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. And sister and me all +dressed in our new gowns for the church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And Jerry had to do the +hooking for we, both of the servants having runned away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Well, now I’m +here I’ll lend a hand. I’ll help with the +dinner time you’re at church. You shall not need to +trouble about anything, Mr. John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. O once I do get them to +the church and the ring fixed and all I shan’t trouble +about nothing, Mary. But ’tis how to move them from +where they be! That’s the puzzle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I’ll never move +till the hand that gathered these flowers be here to raise +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. I’ll sit here +to the end of the world sooner nor go along to be wed with Miss +over there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. ’Tis midsummer +heat have turned their brains. But I know a cooling draught +that will heal them of their sickness. Jeremy, do you step +into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh violet leaves, +one blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. +[<i>Sighing</i>.] What next?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Get gone at once, +Jerry.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>goes to the +door</i>—<i>as he does so</i> <span +class="smcap">Liz</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>start up and follow him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Sister and me will come +along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And that us will, if +our new gowns bain’t hooked too tight for we to bend.</p> +<p>[<i>They follow</i> <span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>to +the garden</i>. <span class="smcap">Kitty</span> +<i>silently leaves the room also</i>. <span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>remain lost in their sorrowful +reflections</i>. <span class="smcap">John</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>look at them for a moment and +then turn to one another</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Mary, I never thought +to see such a thing as this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You take my word for +it, John, the storm will soon be blown away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. I don’t know how +I should stand up against the worry of it all, wasn’t it +for you, Mary.</p> +<p>[<i>A short silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary’s</span> <i>hand</i>.] +’Twill be a bit lonesome for me here, when they’ve +gone off, Mary.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You’ll have Kitty +to do for you then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Kitty be going to live +along of them at Bristol too, after a while.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Looking round the +room</i>.] Then I count as it might feel a bit desolate +like in this great house alone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary’s</span> <i>hand</i>.] I cannot +face it, Mary. I’ve loved you many years, you +know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I know you have, dear +John.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. Can’t you forget +he what was false to you, days gone by, and take me as your +husband now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. +[<i>Doubtfully</i>.] I don’t hardly know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. You used to sing +sommat—the grass that was trampled under foot, give it +time, it will rise up again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. [<i>Drying her +eyes</i>.] Ah, it has risen, dear John—and I count it +have covered the wound of those past days—my heart do tell +me so, this minute.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Holding both her +hands</i>.] Then ’tis one long midsummer afore you +and me, Mary.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. That’s how +’twill be, dear John.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>, <i>followed by the +cousins</i>, <i>enters</i>. <i>He holds a bunch of leaves +towards</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. There you be, +mistress. Fools’ drink for fools. A mug of good +cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>takes the bunch</i>, +<i>and still holding</i> <span class="smcap">John’s</span> +<i>hand</i>, <i>leads him to the kitchen</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>watches the pair +sarcastically</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. ’Tis all +finished with the master, then.</p> +<p>[<i>The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their +faces with handkerchiefs</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Dear me, ’tis +warm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I hope my face +don’t show mottled, sister?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. I was saying as how +’twas all finished with the master.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mary</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">John</span>, <i>comes forward carrying two +glasses</i>. <i>She gives one to</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and the other to</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Now do you take a good +draught of this, the both of you. With violet leaves the +fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease lightens every +trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to anyone +with its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest.</p> +<p>[<i>She leaves the table and stands far back in the room +by</i> <span class="smcap">John’s</span> <i>side</i>. +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>slowly lifts her glass and +begins to drink</i>. <span class="smcap">Robert</span> +<i>does the same</i>. <i>They are watched with anxiety by +all in the room</i>. <i>When they have emptied their +glasses</i> <span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>dries her tears +and pushes the flowers a little way from her</i>. <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>shakes himself and moves the +cotton bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor</i>. +<i>Meanwhile</i> <span class="smcap">Kitty</span> <i>has come +quietly to the garden door and stands there watching the scene +intently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Bain’t we going to +get a drink too?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Seems as though master +have been and forgot we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Starting up and +going to the kitchen</i>.] If I’ve been and forgot +you two old women, I’ve remembered myself. Be blowed +if I can get through any more of this foolishness without a wet +of my mouth.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Speaking +faintly</i>.] Does it show upon my face, the crying, +Robert?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. [<i>Looking at +her</i>.] No, no, Rose, your eyes be brighter nor ever they +were.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Pushing the +forget-me-nots yet further away</i>.] Those flowers are +dying. My fancy ones were best.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Coming forward +with the orange blossoms</i>.] Here they are, dear +Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Taking +them</i>.] O how beautiful they do look. I declare I +can smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. All the orange +blossom in the world bain’t so sweet as one kiss from your +lips, Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Now is that truly +so?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Ah, ’tis heavy +work a-waiting for the coach, Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Coming forward and +taking</i> <span class="smcap">Mary’s</span> +<i>hand</i>.] And yours won’t be the only marriage +Rose-Anna. Did you never think that me and Mary +might—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>. [<i>Running +forward</i>.] But I did—O so many times, John. +[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>enters with</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Servants be comed +back. Man was to the Red Bull, I count. Female +a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Coldly</i>.] +I don’t care whether they be here or not. Set them to +work, Jerry, whilst we are to church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. That’s it, Master +Jeremy. I was never so put out in my life, as when sister +did keep on ringing and the wench was not there to help us on +with our gowns.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>get up and go towards the +door</i>. <i>They pause before</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. The man puts me in mind +of someone whom I knew before, called Lubin. I thought I +had a fancy for him once—but ’twasn’t really +so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. And the girl do +favour a little servant wench from Framilode.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. +[<i>Jealously</i>.] You never went a-courting with a +servant wench, now did you, my heart’s dearest?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. Never in all my days, +Rose. ’Twas but the fanciful thoughts of a boy +towards she, that I had.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Putting her arm +in</i> <span class="smcap">Robert’s</span>.] Well, we +have nothing to do with anything more of it now, dear Robert.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert</span>. You’re about +right, my true love, we’ll get us off to the church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. Ah, coach have been +waiting a smartish while, I reckon. ’Tis on master as +expense’ll fall.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Robert</span> <i>with cold glances at</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>, <i>pass out of the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">John</span>. [<i>Giving his arm +to</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span>.] Now, +Mary—now, Kitty. [<i>They pass out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Liz</span>. Now, Jeremy, sister and +me bain’t going off all alone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jeremy</span>. [<i>Offering an arm +to each</i>.] No further than the church door, I say. +I’ve better things to do nor a-giving of my arm to females +be they never so full of wiles. And you two do beat many +what bain’t near so long in the tusk, ah, that you +does.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jeremy</span> <i>goes out with the +sisters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lubin</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Isabel</span>.] And shall we go off into the +meadows, Isabel, seeing that we are quite forgot?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span>. No—’tis +through these faithless ones as us have learnt to understand the +hearts within of we. Let’s bide and get the marriage +dinner ready for them first.</p> +<p>[<i>She stretches both her hands towards</i> <span +class="smcap">Lubin</span>, <i>who takes them reverently in his +as the Curtain falls</i>.</p> +<h2>THE NEW YEAR</h2> +<h3>CHARACTERS</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve Browning</span>, <i>a +Blacksmith</i>, <i>also Parish Clerk</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George Davis</span>, <i>a +Carpenter</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry Moss</span>, <i>a young +Tramp</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May Browning</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane Browning</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry Browning</span>, <i>aged +twelve</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie Sims</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose Sims</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti Reed</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT I.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>A country roadside</i>. <i>It is late afternoon and +already dusk</i>. <span class="smcap">May Browning</span> +<i>with</i> <span class="smcap">Harry Moss</span> <i>come slowly +forward</i>. <i>Close to a stile which is a little off the +road</i>, <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>stops</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. There, you don’t +need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. You get on +quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and the snow, +too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I don’t care +much about leaving you like this on the roadside, May. And +that’s the truth, ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Don’t you take no +more thought for I, Harry. ’Tis a good boy as +you’ve been to I since the day when we fell in +together. But now there bain’t no more need for you +to hold back your steps, going slow and heavy when you might run +spry and light. For ’tis home as I be comed to now, I +be. You go your way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I see naught of any +house afore us or behind. ’Tis very likely dusk as is +upon us, or may happen ’tis the fog getting up from the +river.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Coughing</i>.] +Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a field path, +bain’t there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Taking a few steps +to the right and peering through the gloom</i>.] Ah, and +that there be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And at t’other end +of it a house what’s got a garden fence all round.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Ah—and +’tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light +shining from out the windows of it, too, though ’tis +shining dim-like in the mist.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Tis that +yonder’s my home, Harry. There’s the door where +I must stand and knock.</p> +<p>[<i>For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is +shaken with weeping</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I wouldn’t take +on so, if ’twas me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And did you say as how +there was a light in the window? ’Twill be but fire +light then, for th’ old woman she never would bring out the +lamp afore ’twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her +was, what’d lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her +sooner nor it should go wasted.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. There, ’tis +shining better now—or maybe as the fog have shifted.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Tis nigh to home +as I be, Harry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Then get and stand up +out of the wet grass there, and I’ll go along of you a bit +further. ’Twill not be much out of my way. +Nothing to take no count of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. No, no, Harry. I +bain’t going to cross that field, nor yet stand at the door +knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is it like as +I’d let them see me coming over the meadow and going +through the gate in this? [<i>Holding up a ragged +shawl</i>.] In these? [<i>Pointing to her broken +shoes</i>.] And—as I be to-day.</p> +<p>[<i>Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward +in a fit of anguished coughing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. There, there, you be +one as is too handy with the tongue, like. Don’t you +go for to waste the breath inside of you when you’ll be +wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder and as +doesn’t know that you be coming back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Throwing apart her +shawl and struggling with her cough</i>.] Harry, you take +the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. +’Tis all live coals within I here, so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. You get along home, +and maybe as them’ll find summat better nor water from the +ditch to give you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. No, no, what was I +a-saying to you? The dark must fall and cover me, or I +won’t never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. +Give I to drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in +quiet till all of the light be gone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Taking out a tin +mug from the bundle beside her</i>.] Where be I to find +drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Pointing</i>.] +Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you there, +’tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and +water from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Harry</span> <i>goes off with the +can</i>. <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>watches him</i>, +<i>drawing her shawl again about her and striving to suppress a +fit of coughing</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Harry</span> <i>returns and holds out the +can</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Tis not very +quick as you’ve been, Harry Moss. Here—give it +to I fast. Give!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Harry</span> <i>puts the can towards her +and she takes it in her hands</i>, <i>which shake feverishly</i>, +<i>and she drinks with sharp avidity</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Tis the taste as +I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and have gotten +into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. +Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in +it. Drink of it, too, Harry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. ’Tis no water as +I wants, May. Give I summat as’ll lie more warm and +comfortable to th’ inside like. I bain’t one +for much water, and that’s the truth, ’tis. +[<i>He empties the water on the ground</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Then go you out upon +your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be gathering on us fast, and +there be many a mile afore you to the town, where the lamps do +shine and ’tis bright and warm in the places where they +sells the drink.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Once I sets off +running by myself, I’ll get there fast enough, May. +But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I don’t +care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Then sit you down aside +of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, which is like flames, +shall maybe warm yourn, too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Sitting down by +her side</i>.] ’Tis a fine thing to have a home what +you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the +limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put +inside. How was it as you ever came away from it, like?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Ah, and that’s +what I be asking of myself most of the time, Harry! For, +’tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut the +door behind me and went out.</p> +<p>[<i>A slight pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Away from them all, upon +the road—so ’twas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. And never see’d +no more of them, nor sent to say how ’twas with you, nor +nothing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Nor nothing, +Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And +’twas finished.</p> +<p>[<i>A long pause</i>, <i>during which the darkness has +gathered</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Whatever worked on you +for to do such a thing, May?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Bitterly</i>.] +Ah now, whatever did!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. ’Tweren’t +as though you might have been a young wench, flighty like, all +for the town and for they as goes up and about the streets of +it. For, look you here, ’tis an old woman as you be +now, May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don’t +doubt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. An old woman be I, +Harry? Well, to the likes of you ’tis so, I +count. But a twelve year gone by, O, ’twas a fine +enough looking maid as I was then—Only a wild one, Harry, a +wild one, all for the free ways of the road and the lights of the +fair—And for the sun to rise in one place where I was, and +for I to be in t’other when her should set.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I’d keep my +breath for when ’twas wanted, if ’twas me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Come, look I in the +face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as they’ll be likely +to know I again up at home?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. How be I to tell you +such a thing, May, seeing that ’tis but a ten days or less +as I’ve been along of you on the road? And seeing +that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you +neither?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Say how the face of I do +seem to you now, Harry, and then I’ll tell you how +’twas in the days gone by?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. ’Tis all too +dark like for to see clear, May. The night be coming upon +we wonderful fast.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. The hair, ’twas +bright upon my head eleven years gone by, Harry. +’Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so +’twas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Well, ’tis as +the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, that it be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And the colour on me was +as a rose, and my limbs was straight. ’Twas fleet +like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, +Harry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. ’Tis a poor old +bent woman as you be now, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Ah, Death have been +tapping on the door of my body this long while, but, please God, +I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that I +can. Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of +clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles +of I up. Why, there, Harry, you won’t know as +’tis me when I’ve been to home a day or two—or +may be as ’twill take a week.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I count ’twill +take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as you once was, +May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Look you in my eyes, +Harry. They may not know me up at home by the hair, which +is different to what ’twas, or by the form of me, which be +got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don’t +come never no change. So look you at they, Harry, and tell +I how it do appear to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. There be darkness +lying atween you and me, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Then come you close to +I, Harry, and look well into they.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Them be set open +wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed out from +they. ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look +into the eyes what you’ve got.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>With +despondence</i>.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as +’tis me, Harry Moss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I count as +they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. The note of me be +changed, too, with this cold what I have, and the breath of me so +short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, afore they sees +who ’tis. Though all be changed to th’ eye +like, there’ll be summat in me as’ll tell they. +And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll +speak for I—But ’tis summat what do come straight out +of the hearts of we and do say better words for we nor what the +looks nor tongues of us might tell. You mind me, Harry, +there’s that which will come out of me as’ll bring +they to know who ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Ah, I reckon as +you’ll not let them bide till they does.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And when they do know, +and when they sees who ’tis, I count as they’ll be +good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as +Steve, he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s +his mother, hard too—And that it did please him for to keep +a rein on me like, but I sees thing different now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Ah, ’tis one +thing to see by candle and another by day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. For ’twas wild as +I was in the time gone by. Wild after pleasuring and the +noise in the town, and men a-looking at the countenance of I, and +a-turning back for to look again. But, hark you here, +’tis powerful changed as I be now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Ah, I count as you +be. Be changed from a young woman into an old one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I’m finished with +the road journeying and standing about in the streets on market +days and the talk with men in the drinking places—Men what +don’t want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to +follow if ’twasn’t only a bit of eyelid as I’d +lift on them, times that is gone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Ah, ’twould take +a lot of looking to see you as you was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Yes, I be finished with +all of it now, and willing for to bide quiet at the fireside and +to stay with the four walls round I and the door shut.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I reckon as you +be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And I’m thinking +as they’ll be rare pleased for to have I in the house +again. ’Twill be another pair of hands to the work +like. And when I was young, ’twas not on work as I +was set much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Ah, I did guess as +much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. But when I gets a bit +over this here nasty cough, ’tis a strong arm as +them’ll have working for they; Steve, th’ old woman +what’s his mother, and little Dorry, too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Dorry? I +han’t heard tell of she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. That’s my little +baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling on the floor, +and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. +Bless the innocent heart of her!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Whatever led you to do +such a thing, I can’t think! You must have been drove +to it like, wasn’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Twas summat +inside of me as drove I, then. ’Twas very likely the +blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was +tied up to Steve, ’twas as if they had got I shut in a +box. ’Twas the bridle on my head and the bit in the +mouth of I; and to be held in where once I had gone free. +[<i>A short pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And I turned wild, +Harry, for the very birds seemed to be calling I from the hedges +to come out along of they, and the berries tossing in the wind, +and the leaves blowing away quick from where they’d been +stuck all summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I +powerful, so that one morning when the sun was up and the breeze +running, I comed out into the air, Harry, and shut the door +behind I. And ’twas done—so ’twas.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. And didn’t they +never try for to stop you, nor for to bring you back, May?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. No, Harry, they did +not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. And where was it you +did go to, May, once you was out and the door shut ahind of +you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Ah—where! To +the east, to the south, every part. ’Twas morning +with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them +as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into the +countenance of I. Then ’twas the best as they could +give as I might take; and ’twas for no lodging as I did +want when dark did come falling.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. And yet, look you +here, you be brought down terrible low, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. The fine looks of a +woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of the day they do +wither and die. And that what has once been a grand flower +in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, +maybe. So ’twas with I.</p> +<p>[<i>She bows her head on her knees</i>, <i>and for a moment is +shaken with sudden grief</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Don’t you take +on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to the end of your +journeying this day, and that you be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Raising her +head</i>.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so. And +’tis rare glad as them’ll be to see I once +again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good +one—And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll +never take up with no woman what’s not me—and that he +won’t—I never knowed him much as look on one, times +past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. +And little Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy +back, I warrant—so ’twill.</p> +<p>[<i>A slight pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Th’ old +woman—well—I shan’t take it amiss if her should +be dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, +that her was, and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was +above I in his station and that. God rest the bones of she, +for I count her’ll have been lying in the churchyard a good +few years by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, +and if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor +old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll +be this day—so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Look you +here—the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis +night. Get up and go in to them all yonder. +’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on the road to see +you as you do go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Help I to get off the +ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be powerful weak.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Lifting her +up</i>.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Standing +up</i>.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I +bide alone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Do you let me go over +the field along of you, May, just to the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. No, no, Harry, get you +off to the town and leave me to bide here a while in the quiet of +my thoughts. ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how pleased +her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be +thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home +to go to, nor fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the +town. And go you quick.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. There’s summat +in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And if ever you should +pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when the bloom is white on +the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you up to the house +yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to +keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis +empty-handed as I be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I don’t want +nothing from you, May, I don’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Fumbling in her +shawl</i>.] There, Harry—’tis comed back to my +mind now. [<i>She takes out part of a loaf of +bread</i>.] Take you this bread. And to-night, when +you eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home with Steve +a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and +plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. +There, Harry, take and eat.</p> +<p>[<i>She holds the bread to him.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Taking the +bread</i>.] I count ’twill all be well with you now, +May?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I warrant as +’twill, for I be right to home. But go you towards +the town, Harry, for ’tis late. And God go with you, +my dear, now and all time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I’ll set off +running then. For the night, ’tis upon us, May, and +the snow, ’tis thick in the air.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>turns to the stile and +leans on it heavily</i>, <i>gazing across the field</i>. +<span class="smcap">Harry</span> <i>sets off quickly down the +road</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The living room in the Brownings’ cottage</i>. +<i>The room is divided by a curtain which screens the fireside +end from the draught of the principal door</i>.</p> +<p><i>To the right of the fireplace is a door leading +upstairs</i>. <i>Chairs are grouped round the hearth</i>, +<i>and there is a table at which</i> <span class="smcap">Jane +Browning</span> <i>is ironing a dress by the light of one +candle</i>. <span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>leans +against the table</i>, <i>watching her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Putting aside the +iron</i>.] There, you take and lay it on the bed upstairs, +and mind you does it careful, for I’m not a-going to iron +it twice.</p> +<p>[<i>She lays the dress carefully across</i> <span +class="smcap">Dorry’s</span> <i>arms</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Don’t the lace +look nice, Gran’ma?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You get along upstairs +and do as I says, and then come straight down again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Couldn’t I put +it on once, Gran’ma, just to see how it do look on me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And get it all creased +up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! You go and lay it +on the bed this minute, do you hear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Leaving the room +by the door to the right</i>.] I’d like to put it on +just once, I would.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jane Browning</span> <i>blows out the +candle and puts away the iron and ironing cloth</i>. <i>She +stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as</i> <span +class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>comes back</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Dad’s cleaning +of himself ever so—I heard the water splashing something +dreadful as I went by his door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. ’Tis a-smartening +of hisself up for this here dancing as he be about, I reckon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Sitting down on a +stool</i>.] I’d like to go along, too, and see the +dancing up at the schools to-night, I would.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And what next, I should +like to know!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. And wear my new frock +what’s ironed, and the beads what Miss Sims gived me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Looking out at the +window</i>.] I’m thinking as we shall get some snow +by and bye. ’Tis come over so dark all of a +sudden.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Couldn’t I go +along of they, Gran’ma, and wear my new frock, and the +beads, too? I never see’d them dance th’ old +year out yet, I haven’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Get along with you, +Dorry. ’Tis many a year afore you’ll be of an +age for such foolishness. And that’s what I calls it, +this messing about with dancing and music and I don’t know +what.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Katie Sims be younger +nor me and she’s let to go, she is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You bain’t Katie +Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what’s +to-morrow isn’t enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I +don’t know what is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I wish it was +to-morrow now, Gran’ma, I do. Shall you put on your +Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to +church?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. How your tongue do +go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you knows how.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I shall ask Dad if I +may go along of him and Miss Sims to the dance, I shall. +Dad’s got that kind to me since last night—he gived +me a sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn’t +asked. And won’t it be nice when Miss Sims comes here +to live, and when you has someone to help you in the work, +Gran’ma?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Well—’tis +to be hoped as ’twill be all right this time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. This time, +Gran’ma! Why, wasn’t it all right when Dad was +married afore, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Getting the lamp +from a shelf</i>.] I don’t light up as a rule till +’tis six o’clock, but I count it’s a bit of +snow coming as have darkened the air like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Gran’ma, +isn’t Miss Sims nice-looking, don’t you think? +I’d like to wear my hair like hers and have earrings +a-hanging from me and a-shaking when I moves my head, I +would.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Setting the lamp on +the table</i>.] Here, fetch me the matches, do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Bringing the +matches</i>.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss Sims, +Gran’ma?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I’m one as goes +by other things nor looks—For like as not ’tis fine +looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them—give me a +plain face and a heart what’s pure, I says, and ’tis +not far out as you’ll be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Was my mammy’s +heart pure, Gran’ma? [<i>A moment’s +silence</i>. <span class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>lights the +lamp</i>. <span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>leans at the +table</i>, <i>watching her</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Was my +mammy’s—[<i>A loud knock on the outside door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Who’s that come +bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there’s a good +child.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. It’ll be +Gran’ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at the +door loud with her stick.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>runs to the window and +looks out</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. ’Tis her, and +the snow white all upon her.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>goes to the door to open +it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>To +herself</i>.] Of all the meddlesome old women—why +can’t her bide till her’s wanted.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>opens the door wide</i>, +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>Comes slowly in +to the room</i>, <i>leaning on a big staff</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Well, Vashti Reed, and +what brings you down from the hill to-day? ’Twould +have been better had you bid at home, with the dark coming on and +the snow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Who has closed the +door</i>.] Sit down, Granny—there, close against the +fire, do.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>stands in the middle of +the room</i>, <i>looking from one to another</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Sit down, Granny, by +the fire, do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Tis in the +house and out of it as I have went. And down to the pool +where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where ’tis fog, +And there be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the +wind. And no where may the bones of me rest this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. If ’tis to talk +your foolishness as you be come, you’d best have stopped +away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave sensible, +and maybe as I’ll get you summat warm to drink +presently.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Yes, Grannie, sit you +down along of we.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>sits stiffly down by the +hearth</i>, <i>leaning on her stick</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>resumes her place</i>, <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>puts her little stool between +them</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And in the night when +I was laid down, against the windowpane it fled a three +times. A three time it fled and did beat the pane as though +’twould get in. And I up and did open the +window. And the air it ran past I, and ’twas black, +with naught upon it but the smell of a shroud. So I +knowed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. What did you know, +Granny?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Leaning forward +and warming her hands at the fire</i>, <i>speaking as though to +herself</i>.] Summat lost—summat lost, and what was +trying to get safe away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Safe away? From +what, Granny?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And there be one what +walks abroad in the night time, what holds in the hand of him a +stick, greater nor this staff what I holds here, and the knife to +it be as long again by twice.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Granny, I’ll +be a-feared to go across the garden after dark, I shall.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. What do you want to go +and put that there into the child’s head for? +I’d like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. I sat me down at the +table, but the victuals was as sand in the mouth, and the drink +did put but coldness within I. And when the door was +closed, ’twas as if one did come running round the house +and did beat upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to +open it, but the place outside was full of emptiness, and +’twas they old carrion crows what did talk to I out of the +storm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. How you do go on, to be +sure! Why don’t you speak of summat what’s got +some sense to it? Come, don’t you know as Steve, his +wedding day, ’tis to-morrow as ever is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. ’Tis the New +Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad’s marriage.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. +[<i>Suddenly</i>.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, +then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, of course it be, +Granny. Don’t you see how ’tis cleaned and the +new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget +’gainst the door where the old one always tripped me +up?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. I see naught but what +’tis more like a burial here. So ’tis. +And ’tis a burial as I’ve carried in my heart as I +comed down from the hills.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Looking out of the +window</i>.] Granny, you’ll be forced to bide the +night along of we, ’cause the snow be falling thick, and +’twill be likely as not as you’ll lose your way if +you start for to go home again when ’tis snowing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Th’ old thing may +as well bide the night now she be come. Hark you, Vashti, +’twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if you +bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever +wants.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And what should I be +journeying down to-morrow for, Jane Browning?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, Granny, +’tis Dad’s wedding day to-morrow, and ’tis a +white frock with lace to it as I’m going to wear, and beads +what Miss Sims gived me, and the shoes what was new except for +being worn to church three times. Shall I fetch them all +and show to you, Granny?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Yes, run along and get +them, Dorry; very likely ’twill give her thoughts a turn, +looking at the things, seeing as she be in one of her nasty moods +to-day when you can’t get a word what isn’t +foolishness out of her. [<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> +<i>runs upstairs</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Leaning +forward</i>.] Was her telling of a marriage?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Why, yes, Vashti +Reed. And you know all about it, only you don’t +trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of yourself +in the night. ’Tis our Steve what’s going to +marry Annie Sims to-morrow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Steve Browning?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I haven’t +patience with th’ old gipsy! Yes—Steve. +And ’tis a twelvemonth or more as you’d knowed of +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Our Steve, +what’s husband to my May?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. ’Tis a fine thing +to fetch up May this evening, that ’tis. May, what +went out trolloping along the roads ’stead of she biding at +home to mind the house and child! ’Tis how you did +breed she up, Vashti Reed, what led her to act as her did. +And if you’d have bred her different, ’twould have +been all the same; for what’s in the blood is bound to out +and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it in the room, +’tain’t no flower as you must look for.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Tis summat +like a twelve year since her went. But in the blinking of +an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through the door +again. God bless the head an feet of she!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. There you are, Vashti, +talking so foolish. A bad herb like she, was bound for to +meet her doom. And ’twas in the river up London way +where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same +petticoat to it as I’ve seed on May a score of times. +Don’t you recollect how ’twas parson as brought the +news to we?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Taint with no +parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come from the mouths of +they, neither.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And Steve, I knowed +what was in his mind when parson was gone out. ’Twas +not much as he did say, being a man what hasn’t many words +to his tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat +what do hang up yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the +sleeve of it. Leastways, he didn’t speak the words, +but I seed what he was after, and I took and sewed a bit on, and +he’s wore it ever since till yesterday—And +that’s eleven year ago it be—so there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Her be moving about +upon the earth, her be. And I seems to feel the tread of +she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain’t +shrouded, nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of +she—you take my words—and there shall come a day when +the latch shall rise and her be standing among us and a-calling +on her child and husband what’s forgotten she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. For goodness sake, +Vashti, have done speaking about such things to-night. If +Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn’t wonder if he was to +put you out of the door and into the snow—and ’tis +most unfitting for to talk so afore the child.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Calling out +loudly</i>.] Come back to I, May—you come back to +I—there bain’t no one what thinks on the name of you, +or what wants you but your old mother. You come back to +I!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I’ll thank you +for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! ’Tain’t +nothing to be proud on as you’ve got, and ’twould be +better if you was to be less free in your hollering. Look, +here’s Dorry coming.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>comes into the +kitchen</i>; <i>she is wearing her new white frock</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. See, Granny, +I’ve been and put it on for to show you better. See +the lace? Isn’t it nice? And the beads, +too. I didn’t stop for to put on my shoes, nor my new +stockings. Nor my hat, what’s got a great long +feather all round of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You bad, naughty girl, +Dorry, you’ll crease and tumble that frock so as it’s +not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go to put it +on for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. So as that Gran should +see something pretty, and so as she should come out of her +trouble. Gran’s always got some trouble in her mind, +han’t you, Granny?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. A twelve year gone +by, my child.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I’ll give it you +if you starts off again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. A twelve year gone +by—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. A twelve year gone by, +what then, Granny?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Tis +more’n eleven years since her wented out of the door, my +child—your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the +door! And likely as not ’twill be feet first as her +shall be brought in again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Granny, was my poor +mammy, what’s dead, nice looking like Miss Sims as is going +for to marry Dad, to-morrow?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Twas grand as +a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all the green of it as +was your mammy, my dear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. And did she have fine +things to her, nice gowns and things, like Miss Sims, Granny?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. ’Twas the looks +of her and the love of finery and pleasuring what was her +undoing, as ’twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if +you don’t take care. ’Tis she as you favours, +and none of your father’s people, more’s the pity, +and ’tis more thoughtful and serious as you’ll have +to grow if you don’t want to come to harm. You take +and go right up, and off with that frock, do you hear me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, I wanted to be let +to go to the dancing now I’d got it on, I did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Dancing, there you +are! Dancing and finery, ’tis all as you do think on, +and ’tis plain to see what’s got working in the +inside of you, Dorry. ’Tis the drop of bad blood as +you has got from she what bore you. But I might as well +speak to that door for all you cares. Only, hark you here, +you’ll be sorry one of these days as you han’t minded +me better. And then ’twill be too late.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>comes down the +stairs</i>, <i>pushes open the door and enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, Mother, +what’s up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, what +be you a-crying for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I wants to be let to +go to the dancing, Dad—now that I’ve got my frock on +and all.—O, I wants to be let to go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, +Mother—what do you say? ’Twouldn’t hurt +for she to look in about half an hour, and Annie and me we could +bring her back betimes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Dad, I wants to go +if ’twas only for a minute.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. There, there—you +shall go and we’ll say no more about it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I never knowed you give +in to her so foolish like this afore, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, Mother, +’tain’t every day as a man’s married, that +’tain’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And so you’re +to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells me as +you’re to be wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. That’s right +enough, Gran.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. +[<i>Rising</i>.] And there be no resting in me to-day, +Steve. There be summat as burns quick in the bones of my +body and that will not let me bide.—And ’tis steps as +I hears on the roadside and in the fields—and ’tis a +bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be moving, and peering +about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for to do away with +the thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of death—So +’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Now she’s off +again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and I’ll give +you summat as’ll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in +your chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water +boiling.</p> +<p>[<i>She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on +it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>From the +window</i>.] Here’s Miss Sims coming up the path, and +Rosie too. O, they’re wrapped up all over +’cause ’tis snowing. I’ll open, +I’ll open.</p> +<p>[<i>She runs to the door and unlatches it</i>. <span +class="smcap">Annie</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Rose +Sims</span> <i>come in</i>, <i>shaking the snow from them and +unbuttoning their cloaks</i>, <i>which</i> <span +class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>takes from them and hangs on the +door</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. [<i>As</i> <span +class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>takes off her cloak</i>.] +’Tis going to be a dreadful night. The snow’s +coming down something cruel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. There won’t be +many to the dance if it keeps on like this, will there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Get you to the fire, +both of you, and warm yourselves before we sets out again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Miss Sims, Miss +Sims—Miss Rosie—I’m going along with you to the +dance, Dad says as I may.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Bless the child! +However her has worked upon her father, and he so strict, I +don’t know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Well, you be got up +fine and grand, Dorry—I shouldn’t hardly know +’twas you. [<i>Turning to</i> <span +class="smcap">Vashti Reed</span>.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, +my eyes was very near blinded when I first got in out of the +dark, and I didn’t see as you was there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Good evening, Mrs. +Reed, and how be you keeping this cold weather?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Peering into +their faces as they stand near her</i>.] What be you +a-telling I of?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. We was saying, how be +you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. How be I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be +you a-keeping now ’tis come over such nasty weather?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And how should an old +woman be, and her one child out in the rain and all the wind, and +driv’ there too by them as was laid like snakes in the +grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she when her +should have gotten to a time of weakness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Take no account of what +she do say, girls, but sit you down in the warm and bide till I +gets the time to take and look on the clothes which you have upon +you. [<i>Moving about and putting tea things on the +table</i>.] I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for +th’ old woman, with a drop of summat strong to it as will +keep her from using of her tongue so free till morning time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. [<i>Sitting +down</i>.] Poor old woman, ’tis a sad thing when +folks do come to such a pass as she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And han’t got +their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But she’s +better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the +hedge as we was coming across the meadow. +“Why,” I says to Annie, “it must be bad to have +no home to bide in such a night as this!” Isn’t +that so, Mrs. Browning?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Ah, you’re right +there, you’re right.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. I wouldn’t much +care to be upon the road to-night, would you, Steve?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And at that hour when +th’ old year be passing out, and dark on all the land, the +graves shall open and give up the dead which be in they. +And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to each, as +the corpses do go by. There’s many a night as I have +stood and have looked into they when them did draw near to I, but +never the face I did seek.</p> +<p>[<i>Here</i> <span class="smcap">Jane</span>, <i>who has been +making a cup of tea</i>, <i>and who has poured something in it +from a bottle</i>, <i>advances to</i> <span +class="smcap">Vashti</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Here, Vashti Reed, +here’s a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take and drink +it up and very likely ’twill warm th’ inside of you, +for I’ll lay as you haven’t seen a mouthful of naught +this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Ah, that’s it, +that’s it. When folks do go leer ’tis a +powerful lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads +of they.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>takes the cup and slowly +drinks</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Miss Sims, you do +look nice. Look, Gran’ma, at what Miss Sims have got +on!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Putting down her +cup and leaning forward</i>.] Which of you be clothed for +marriage?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Get along of you, Gran, +’tis for the dance up at the school as they be come.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Come you +here—her what’s to wed our Steve. Come you here +and let I look at you. My eyes bain’t so quick as +they was once. Many tears have clouded they. But come +you here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Go along to her, Miss +Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice things.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. [<i>Steps in front +of</i> <span class="smcap">Vashti</span>.] Here I be, Mrs. +Reed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Be you the one +what’s going to wed our Steve come New Year.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. That’s it, Mrs. +Reed, that’s it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And be these garments +which you be clothed in for marriage or for burial?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Come, Granny, have +another cup of tea. Annie, don’t you take no account +of she. ’Tis worry and that as have caused the mind +of she to wander a bit, but she don’t mean nothing by +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. All right, +Steve. She don’t trouble me at all. [<i>To</i> +<span class="smcap">Vashti</span>.] ’Tis to be hoped +as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Steve! What do +Steve want with another wife? Han’t he got one +already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do +Steve want for with a new one then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Come on, girls. +I can’t stand no more of this. Let’s off, and +call in to George’s as we do go by.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. We did meet Mr. Davis +as we was coming along and he said as how ’twouldn’t +be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. That’s right, +then we’ll bide a bit longer till George do call for we, +only ’tis more nor I can stand when th’ old lady gets +her tongue moving.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, look, +Gran’s fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that +Gran’s dropped off and can’t say none of her foolish +things any more, do stand so as Dad and Gran’ma can see the +frock which you’ve got for the dance.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. O, Dorry, you’re +a little torment, that’s the truth.</p> +<p>[<i>She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see +what she has on</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well, Steve?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, Rosie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Haven’t you got +nothing as you can say, Steve?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. What be I to say, +Rose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well, something of how +you thinks she looks, of course.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. O, ’tis all +right, I suppose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. All right! And is +that about all as you’ve seen? Why, bless you, Steve, +where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to +know!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, there +bain’t nothing wrong, be there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Of course there +isn’t. But I never did see such a man as you, +Steve. Why, I don’t believe as you’d know +whether Annie haves a pair of eyes to her face or not, nor if +they be the same colour one to t’other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I sees enough for +me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I’ve picked out of +the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I is to +be made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me +this night, I reckon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Miss Sims, do you +hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder what I should feel if +’twas me that was going to be married!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. You get and ask Annie +how ’tis with her, Dorry. I could tell a fine tale of +how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the candles +that’s burned right down to the very end of them, I +could.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Don’t you go for +to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. She’s +that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce +do know what she’s a-saying of. But suppose you was +just to ask her what she’s got wrapped so careful in that +there paper in her hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Rosie, whatever is +it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. What’s that +you’ve got hold on now, Rosie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Come, show them all, +Rose.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>slowly unfolds the paper +and shows them all a hothouse carnation and a fern</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. There ’tis, +then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O my, +Rosie—isn’t it beautiful. Be you going to wear +it to the dance?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No, Dorry, +’tisn’t for me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. You just ask her for +whom it is, then, Dorry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, who is it for, +Rosie—who is it for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No—I’m not +a-going to tell none of you.</p> +<p>[<i>She wraps it up carefully again</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. I’ll tell then, +for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No, you shan’t, +Annie—that you shan’t!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. That I shall, +then—come you here, Dorry—I’ll whisper it to +your ear. [<i>Whispers it to</i> <span +class="smcap">Dorry</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. +[<i>Excitedly</i>.] I know who ’tis—I +know—’tis for Mr. Davis—for Mr. Davis! +Think of that, Dad—the flower ’tis for George +Davis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O, Annie, how you +could!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. George—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Suddenly +roused</i>.] Who named George? There was but one man +as was called by that name—and he courted my girl till her +was faint and weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day +when he was come—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. There’s Gran +gone off on her tales again.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>crosses the hearth and +puts a shawl over the head of</i> <span +class="smcap">Vashti</span>, <i>who relapses again into +sleep</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Sitting down +by</i> <span class="smcap">Rose</span>.] What’s this, +Rose? I han’t heard tell of this afore. Be +there aught a-going on with you and George, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. No, Steve, there +isn’t nothing in it much, except that George and me we +walked out last Sunday in the evening like—and a two or +three time before.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. And is it that you be +a-keeping of that flower for to give to George, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well—’tis +for George as I’ve saved it out of some what the gardener +up at Squire’s gived me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>As though to +himself</i>.] ’Tis a powerful many years since George +he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon +a maid, I didn’t since—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well, Steve, I’m +sure there’s no need for you to be upset over it. +’Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he +doesn’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Who said as I was +upset, Rose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Look at the long face +what you’ve pulled. Annie, if ’twas me, I +shouldn’t much care about marrying a man with such a look +to him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. What’s up, +Steve? What’s come over you like, all of a +minute?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. ’Tis naught, +Annie, naught. ’Twas summat of past times what comed +into the thoughts of me. But ’tis naught. And, +Rose, if so be as ’twas you as George is after, I’d +wish him to have luck, with all my heart, I would, for George and +me—well, we too has always stuck close one to +t’other, as you knows.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Ah—that you has, +George and you—you and George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. +Hark—there’s someone coming up now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, let me open the +door—let me open it!</p> +<p>[<i>She runs across the room and lifts the latch</i>. +<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>stands in the doorway +shaking the snow from him</i>. <i>Then he comes into the +room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I’m going to the +dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven’t I got a nice frock +on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Good evening, George, +and how be you to-night?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Nicely, Steve, +nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss Sims, good +evening—Yes, Steve, I’ll off with my coat, for +’tis pretty well sprinkled with snow, like.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>helps</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>to take off his overcoat</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. A happy New Year to +you, Mr. Davis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And that’s a +thing which han’t no luck to it, if ’tis said afore +the proper time, Rosie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well, but ’tis +New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, so +’tis—and a terrible nasty storm as ever I +knowed! ’Twas comed up very nigh to my knees, the +snow, as I was a-crossing of the meadow. And there lay some +poor thing sheltering below the hedge, with a bit of sacking +throwed over her. I count ’tis very near buried alive +as anyone would be as slept out in such a night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I reckon ’twould +be so—so ’twould. But come you in and give +yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a +glass of cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. What do you want to be +taking drinks here for, when ’tis free as you’ll get +them up at the school?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Just a drop for to +warm we through. Here, I’ll fetch it right away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. No, you +don’t. I’ll have no one meddling in the pantry +save it’s myself. Dorry, give me that there jug.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Taking a jug from +the dresser</i>.] Here ’tis, Gran’ma, shall I +light the candle?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. So long as you’ll +hold the matches careful.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Well—’tis +to be hoped as the weather’ll change afore morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. We shall want a bit of +sunshine for the bride.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That us shall, but it +don’t look much as though we should get it.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jane Browning</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>go out of the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Sit you down, George, +along of we. ’Tis right pleased as I be for to see +you here to-night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Well, Steve, I +bain’t one for a lot of words but I be powerful glad to see +you look as you does, and ’tis all joy as I wishes you and +her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Thank you kindly, Mr. +Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, and a girl can’t +do no more, can she?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. And so you’re +going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis as Steve +do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has broke into the +flower gardens, places where there be many folk got together and +I among they.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O, come, Mr. Davis!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis with me as +though t’were all hoof and horn as I was made of. But +Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality folks and +such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his self in +parts when the ground be thick on them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Very likely ’tis +a-shewing of them into their places of a Sunday and a-ringing of +the bell and a-helping of the vicar along with the service, like, +as has made Steve so easy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rosie</span>. But, bless you, Mr. +Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, too, in your way, when +you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s for to +put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know +what.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Ah, them caddling +sort of jobs don’t much agree with I, Miss Rose. And +when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the maids do +pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and do speak as +though ’twere church and parson at his sermon, I +can’t think of naught but how ’twill feel for to be +out in the open again. Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch my +breath in one of they places from fear as there should be too +much sound to it, and the noise of my own hammer do very near +scare I into fits.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Well, Mr. Davis, who +would ever have thought it?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mrs. Browning</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>come back and the cider is put upon +the table</i>, <span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Annie</span> <i>getting glasses from the +dresser</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Drinking</i>.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss +Sims. And many years of happiness to you both.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Thank you kindly, +George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Thank you, Mr. +Davis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Hasn’t Miss Sims +got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. Davis?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Well, I’m +blessed if I’d taken no notice of it, Dorry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, you’re +worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look at Rosie, +now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she’s got wrapped up in +that there paper in her hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O, Dorry, you little +tease, you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. You just ask her, Mr. +Davis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Undoing the +parcel</i>.] There, ’tis nothing to make such a +commotion of! Just a flower—see, Mr. Davis? I +knowed as it was one what you was partial to, and so I just +brought it along with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. That there +bain’t for I, be it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Indeed +’tis—if so as you’ll accept of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. O, ’tis best +saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be most gone +from it, if I was to wear it now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. No, no, Mr. Davis, +’tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put it on +him, Rosie, put it on him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Tossing the flower +across the table to</i> <span class="smcap">George</span>.] +He can put it on hisself well enough, Dorry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>After a +moment’s hesitation</i>.] I don’t know so well +about that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Go on, Rosie—pin +it into his coat. Come, ’tis getting late.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, pin it in quick, +Rosie—come along—and then we can start to the +dancing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Shall I, Mr. Davis?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>gets up and crosses the +room</i>; <span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>takes the flower +and</i> <span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>hands her a +pin</i>. <i>She slowly pins the flower in his coat</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Stretching out his +hand to</i> <span class="smcap">Annie</span>.] You be so +quiet like to-night, Annie. There isn’t nothing +wrong, is there, my dear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. ’Tis only +I’m that full of gladness, Steve, as I don’t seem to +find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most +days.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. And that’s how +’tis with I, too, Annie. ’Tis as though I was +out in the meadows, like—And as though ’twere Sunday, +and such a stillness all around that I might think ’twas +only me as was upon the earth. But then summat stirs in me +sudden and I knows that you be there, too, and ’tis my love +for you what has put me right away from the rest of them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Steve, you’ve +had a poor, rough time, I know, but I’ll do my best for to +smooth it like for you, I will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. See here, +Annie—I be comed out of the rain and into the sun once +more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Leading</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>forward</i>.] See how fine +Mr. Davis do look—see, isn’t he grand? O, Miss +Sims, see how nice the flower do look what Rosie has pinned in +his coat! See, Gran’ma.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I’ve enough to do +putting away all these glasses which have been messed up. +What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed this night, +seeing as ’tis late already and you none of you gone off +yet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, let us be off, let +us be off—and what am I to put over my dress, +Gran’ma, so as the snow shan’t get to it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. If you go careful and +don’t drop it in the snow may be as I’ll wrap my big +shawl around of you, Dorry, what’s hanging behind the +door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Give me my cloak, +Steve—O, how I do love a bit of dancing, don’t you, +Mr. Davis?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I be about as much +use in the ball room as one of they great drag horses, Miss +Rose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. O, get on, Mr. +Davis! I don’t believe half what you do say, no more +does Annie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. If Mr. Davis +don’t know how to dance right, you’re the one to +learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and +I’ll look after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. +Browning. Good-night, Mrs. Reed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, Granny’s +sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. And about time, +too. ’Tis to be hoped as we shan’t have no more +trouble with her till morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Her eyes raised to +the door latch</i>.] Just look, why the latch is up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Whoever’s that, +I wonder?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. ’Tis very likely +someone with a horse what’s lost a shoe, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. I guess as ’tis a +coffin wanted sudden, George Davis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I bain’t a-going +to shoe no horses this time of night, not if ’twas the King +hisself what stood at the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. If ’tis a +corpse, I guess her’ll have to wait till the +dancing’s finished, then.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>groans in her sleep and +turns over in the chair</i>, <i>her face to the fire</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Going to the door +and speaking loudly</i>.] Who’s there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Us’ll soon +see.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">George</span> <i>unbolts the door and +opens it</i>, <i>first a little way</i>, <i>and then +wide</i>. <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>is seen +standing in the doorway</i>. <i>Her shawl is drawn over +head and the lower part of her face</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Here’s someone +what’s missed their way, I count.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Why, ’tis like +the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do believe.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span> Whatever can she want +a-coming-in here at this time of night!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Advancing +firmly</i>.] ’Tis one of they dirty roadsters what +there’s too many of all about the country. Here, +I’ll learn you to come to folks’ houses this time of +night, disturbing of a wedding party. You take and get +gone. We don’t want such as you in here, we +don’t.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>looks fixedly into</i> +<span class="smcap">Jane’s</span> <i>face</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I count ’tis +very nigh starved by the cold as she be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Looks like it, and +wetted through to the bone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Put her out and shut +the door, George, and that’ll learn the likes of she to +come round begging at folks’ houses what’s +respectable.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis poor work +shutting the door on such as her this night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. And that ’tis, +George, and what’s more, I bain’t a-going for to do +it. ’Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog +was to come to me for shelter I’d not be one to put him +from the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. ’Tain’t to +be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my kitchen when +’tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. To-morrow, ’tis +my day, Mother, and I’ll have the choosing of my guests, +like. [<i>Turning to</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span>.] Come you in out of the +cold. This night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, +may be, in years to come, ’twill please you to think back +upon the eve afore my wedding.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>stands back</i>, +<i>holding the door wide open</i>. <span +class="smcap">May</span>, <i>from the threshold</i>, <i>has been +looking first on one face and then on another</i>. +<i>Suddenly her eyes fall on</i> <span +class="smcap">Annie</span>, <i>who has moved to</i> <span +class="smcap">Steve’s</span> <i>side</i>, <i>laying her +hand on his arm</i>, <i>and with a sudden defiance</i>, <i>she +draws herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain +falls</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 3.</h3> +<p><i>The same room</i>, <i>two hours later</i>. <span +class="smcap">Vashti Reed</span> <i>seems to be sleeping as +before by the fireside</i>. <i>On the settle</i> <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>is huddled</i>, <i>her head bent</i>, +<i>the shawl drawn over her face</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jane Browning</span> <i>moves about</i>, <i>putting +away work things</i>, <i>cups and plates</i>, <i>seeing that the +window is closed</i>, <i>winding the clock</i>, <i>etc.</i> +<i>There is a tap at the outer door and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>opens it</i>. <span +class="smcap">Steve</span>, <span class="smcap">Annie</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>enter</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Whatever kept you so +late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to let you all in and not +able to get away to my bed?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Gran’ma, it +was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, I could. We +comed away early ’cause Miss Sims, she said as the dancing +gived her the headache, but the New Year han’t been danced +in yet, it han’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You get and dance off +to bed, Dorry, that’s what you’ve got to do—and +quickly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. All right, +Gran’ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, +Dad. O, why, there’s Granny! But her’s +tight asleep so I shan’t say nothing to her. O, I do +wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and music playing every +night, I do!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>goes towards the +staircase door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Calling after +her</i>.] I’m a-coming along directly. Be +careful with the candle, Dorry.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>opens the door and</i> +<span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>goes upstairs</i>. +<span class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Annie</span> <i>come towards the fireplace</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Was there aught as you +could do for yonder poor thing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Poor thing, +indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what’s been and +got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s the +matter with she. See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep +under the shawl of her; and not a word nor sound have I got out +of she since giving her the drop of tea a while back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, well—she +won’t do us no harm where she do bide. Leave her in +the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. She and Gran’ be +about right company one for t’other, I’m +thinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Ah, that they +be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, +Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. That I will, +Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Do you bide here, +Steve, and let me run back—’tis but a step—and +I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I’m coming along +of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. I’ll be +back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. All right, Steve, and +do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t left nothing +out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the +kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>lights a candle and goes +upstairs</i>. <span class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>takes</i> +<span class="smcap">Annie’s</span> <i>hand and they go +together towards the outer door</i>. <i>As they pass to the +other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room</i>, +<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>suddenly rears herself up on +the settle</i>, <i>throwing back her shawl</i>, <i>and she leans +forward</i>, <i>listening intently</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. To-morrow night, +Annie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. There’ll be no +turning out into the snow for us both, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. You’ll bide +here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can rightly +think on, that ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Steve!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, Annie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. There’s summat +what’s been clouding you a bit this night. You +didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas +so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Why, Annie, I +didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was +different from ordinary.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. But I did, +Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the looks of +you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. +Steve, I couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with +the music going on and all. So I told you as I’d the +headache.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. O Annie, ’twas +thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t seem to +get them pushed aside, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. How’d it be if +you was to tell me, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I don’t much +care for to, Annie. But ’twas thoughts what comed out +of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard +with—with her as was Dorry’s mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. O, I’m sure, +from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. And there came a +fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might go the same way +through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being so much +older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t bear +for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you +aside of me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the +world, and I could not stand it if ’twas as I should lose +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. There’s nothing +in the world as could make you lose me, Steve. For, look +you here, I don’t think as there’s a woman on the +earth what’s got such a feeling as is in my heart this +night, of quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me +is to be wed and to live aside of one another till death do part +us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Them be good words, +Annie, and no mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. And what you feels +about the days gone by don’t count, Steve, ’cause +they bain’t true of you. You was always a kind +husband, and from what I’ve hear-ed folks say, she was one +as wasn’t never suited to neither you nor yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Poor soul, she be dead +and gone now, and what I thinks one way or t’other +can’t do she no good. Only ’tis upon me as I +could take you to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had +been kinder to she, the time her was here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Do you go off to bed, +Steve, you’re regular done up, and that’s what +’tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this +afore.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. All right, my dear, +don’t you mind what I’ve been saying. Very like +’tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But +’tis a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, that come +to-morrow at this time, there won’t be no more need for us +to part?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. [<i>As he opens the +door</i>.] O, ’tis dark outside!</p> +<p>[<i>They both leave the cottage</i>. <span +class="smcap">May</span> <i>throws back her shawl as though +stifled</i>. <i>She gets up and first stands bending +over</i> <span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. <i>Seeing that +she is still sleeping heavily</i>, <i>she goes to the door</i>, +<i>opens it gently and looks out</i>. <i>After a moment she +closes it and walks about the kitchen</i>, <i>examining +everything with a fierce curiosity</i>. <i>She takes up the +shawl</i> <span class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>has been +wearing</i>, <i>looks at it hesitatingly</i>, <i>and then clasps +it passionately to her face</i>. <i>Hearing steps outside +she flings it down again on the chair and returns to the +settle</i>, <i>where she sits huddled in the corner</i>, +<i>having wrapped herself again in her shawl</i>, <i>only her +eyes looking out unquietly from it</i>. <span +class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>re-enters</i>. <i>He bolts +the door</i>, <i>then goes up to the table in front of the fire +to put out the lamp</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Can I get you an old +sack or summat for to cover you up a bit this cold night?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>looks at him for a moment +and then shakes her head</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. All right. You +can just bide where you be on the settle. ’Tis warmer +within nor upon the road to-night, and I’ll come and let +you out when ’tis morning.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>raises both her hands in an +attitude of supplication</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Pausing</i>, +<i>with his hand on the burner of the lamp</i>.] Be there +summat as you wants what I can give to you?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>looks at him for a moment +and then speaks in a harsh whisper</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Let I bide quiet in the +dark, ’tis all I wants now. [<span +class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>puts out the lamp</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>As though to +himself</i>, <i>as he goes towards the door upstairs</i>.] +Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams.</p> +<p>[<i>Curtain</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.—Scene 4.</h3> +<p><i>The fire is almost out</i>. <i>A square of moonlight +falls on the floor from the window</i>. <span +class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>still sleeps in the chimney +corner</i>. <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>is rocking +herself to and fro on the settle</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Get off to your drunken +sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams—your +dreams—Ah, where is it as they have gone, I’d like +for to know. The dreams as comed to I when I was laid +beneath the hedge. Dreams!</p> +<p>[<i>She gets up</i>, <i>feels down the wall in a familiar way +for the bellows—blows up the fire and puts some coal on it +gently</i>. <i>Then she draws forward a chair and sits down +before it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Muttering to +herself</i>.] ’Tis my own hearth when ’tis all +said and done.</p> +<p>[<i>She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself</i>, +<i>looking sharply at</i> <span class="smcap">Vashti Reed</span> +<i>now and then</i>.</p> +<p>[<i>Presently</i> <span class="smcap">Vashti’s</span> +<i>eyes open</i>, <i>resting</i>, <i>at first unseeingly</i>, +<i>and then with recognition</i>, <i>on</i> <span +class="smcap">May’s</span> <i>face</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. So you be comed back, +May. I always knowed as you would.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. How did you know +’twas me, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Cause I +knowed. There ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I be that changed from +the times when I would sit a-warming of myself by this here +fire.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, and be you +changed, May? My eyes don’t see nothing of it, +then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Ah, I be got into an +ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve—Steve, he looked in +the face of I and didn’t so much as think who +’twas. “Get off to the drunken sleep of you and +to your dreams.” ’Twas that what he did say to +I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Your old mother do +know better nor Steve. Ah, ’tweren’t in no +shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face of +you, but stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the +water what layed on the roads, and on the dry where there be high +places, and in the grass of the meadows. That’s how +’twas as I did see you, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And I would like to know +how ’twas as Steve saw I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, and there was +they as did buzz around as thick as waspes in summer time and as +said, “She be under ground and rotting now—that her +be.” And they seed in I but a poor old woman what was +sleeping in the chimney corner, with no hearing to I. +“Rotting yourself,” I says, and I rears up sudden, +“She be there as a great tree and all the leaves of it full +out—and you—snakes in the grass, snakes in the grass, +all of you!” There ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. +[<i>Mockingly</i>.] “It’s a good thought, +bain’t it, Annie, that to-morrow this time there +won’t be no need for us to part?” And in the +days when I was a young woman and all the bloom of I upon me, +’twouldn’t have been once as he’d have looked +on such as her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And ’tis full +of bloom and rare fine and handsome as you appear now, May, +leastways to my old eyes. And when you goes up to Steve and +shows yourself, I take it the door’ll be shut in the face +of the mealy one what they’ve all been so took up with this +long while. I count that ’twill and no mistake. +So ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Fiercely</i>.] +Hark you here, Mother, and ’tis to be wed to-morrow as they +be! Wed—the both of them, the both of them! And +me in my flesh, and wife to Steve! “Can I cover you +up with a bit of old sack or summat?” Old sack! +When there be a coverlet with feathers to it stretched over where +he do lie upstairs. “I’ll let you out when +’tis morning.” Ah, you will, will you, Steve +Browning? Us’ll see how ’twill be when +’tis morning—Us’ll see, just won’t us +then!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, ’tis in her +place as th’ old woman will be set come morning—And +that her’ll be—I count as ’tis long enough as +her have mistressed it over the house. [<i>Shaking her fist +towards the ceiling</i>.] You old she fox, you may gather +the pads of you in under of you now, and crouch you down +t’other side of the fire like any other old woman of your +years—for my May’s comed back, and her’ll show +you your place what you’ve not known where ’twas in +all the days of your old wicked life. So ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Her han’t changed +a hair of her, th’ old stoat! Soon as I heard the +note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though ’twas +chattering in the cold as I had been but a moment afore. +“One of they dirty roadsters—I’ll learn you to +come disturbing of a wedding party, I will.” +[<i>Shaking her fist towards the ceiling</i>.] No, you +bain’t changed, you hardened old sinner—but the words +out of the cruel old mouth of you don’t hurt I any +more—not they. I be passed out of the power of such +as you. I knowed I’d have to face you when I comed +back, but I knowed, too, as I should brush you out of the way of +me, like I would brush one of they old maid flies.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, and so I telled +she many a time. “You bide till my May be comed +home,” I says. “She be already put safe to bed +and ’tis in the churchyard where her do take her +rest,” says she. Ah, what a great liar that is, +th’ old woman what’s Steve’s mother! And +the lies they do grow right out of she tall as rushes, and the +wind do blow they to the left and to the right. So +’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Ah, she han’t any +more power for to hurt I in the ugly old body of her. I be +got beyond she. There be but one or two things as can touch +I now—But one or two. And I be struck to the heart, I +be, struck to the heart.</p> +<p>[<i>She bends forwards</i>, <i>rocking herself to and fro and +weeping</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>As though speaking +to herself</i>.] Back and fro, back and fro—On the +dark of the earth and where ’twas light. When +’twas cold and no sound but the steps of I on the road, and +the fox’s bark; when ’twas hot and the white dust +smouldered in the mouth of I, and things flying did plague I with +the wings of they—But ’twas always the same thought +as I had—“Some day I shall come back to Steve,” +I did tell me. And then again—“Some day I shall +get and hold Dorry in my arms.” And now I be +comed. And Steve—and Steve—Ah, I be struck deep +to the heart, ’tis so. Struck deep!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. You get upstairs to +Steve, May. Get you up there and take the place +what’s yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. My place, my +place! Where’s that I want to know! ’Tis +another what’s got into the nest now, to lie snug and warm +within. And ’tis for I to spread the wings of me and +to go out into the storm again. So ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Get you to Steve, +May, and let him but look on the form of you and on the bloom, +and us’ll see what he will do with t’other hussy +then. Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got +fattened up and licked over by th’ old woman till +’tis queens as they fancies theirselves, you shall tell +they summat about what they be, come morning. And your poor +old mother, her’ll speak, too, what hasn’t been let +sound her tongue these years gone by. Ah, hern shall know +what us do think of they, hern shall squat upon the floor and +hear the truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. He thought as I was +sleeping; but I looked out on her and seed the way his eyes was +cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had cast your eyes on me +like that but once, in days gone by—maybe, maybe I’d +not have gone out and shut the door behind I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Get you to Steve and +let him see you with the candle lit. Her bain’t no +match for he, the young weasel! ’Tis you as has the +blood of me and my people what was grand folk in times gone by, +’tis you, May, as is the mate for he, above all them +white-jowled things what has honey at the mouth of they, but the +heart running over with poison—Ah, and what throws you the +bone and keeps the meat for their own bellies. What sets +the skin afore you and laps the cream theirselves. Vipers, +all of them, and she-cats. There ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Sit you down, Mother, +and keep the tongue of you quiet. We don’t want for +to waken they.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Sitting down +heavily</i>.] But we’ve got to waken Steve for he to +know as how you be comed home again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And where’s the +good of that, when there bain’t so much as a board nor a +rag, but what’s been stole from I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. You go and say to him +as ’tis his wife what have come back to her place. +And put th’ old woman against the chimney there, and let +her see you a-cutting of the bread and of the meat, and a-setting +out of the food so as that they who be at the table can loose the +garments of them when the eating ’tis finished, if they has +a mind to, ’stead of drawing they together so not to feel +’tis leer. Ah, ’tis time you be comed, May, +’tis time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Bitterly</i>.] +I’m thinking ’tis time!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Tis the lies +of they be growed big as wheat stalks and the hardness of their +hearts be worse nor death. But ’tis to judgment as +they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the hand of +God shall catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the +earth. “Ah, and do you mind how ’twas you +served old Vashti, what never did harm to no one all the life of +her,” I shall call out to th’ old woman in that hour +when her shall be burning in the lake. And her shall beg +for a drop of water to lay upon the withered tongue of she, and +it shall be denied, for other hands nor ours be at work, and +’tis the wicked as shall perish—yes, so +’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Who has been bending +forward</i>, <i>looking steadily into the fire</i>.] Stop +that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Be you a-going to set +on I, too, May, now that you be comed home. ’Tis poor +work for an old woman like I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>As though to +herself</i>.] And as I was laid beneath the +hedge—“’Tis cold as my limbs is, now,” I +says, “but I shall be warm this night.” And the +pangs what was in the body of me did fairly quail +I—“’Tis my fill of victuals as I shall soon put +within,” thinks I. And they was laid a bit. The +bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but “I shan’t +feel lonesome no longer than this hour,” I telled me. +For to my thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till I +should be comed back. And Dorry, too. There +’tis. [<i>A long silence</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I’d have been +content to bide with the door shut—so long as it was shut +with they two and me inside the room—th’ old +woman—well, I count I shouldn’t have took many +thought for she—she could have bided in her place if +she’d had a mind—I’d have set me down, when +once my clothes was decent and clean, and put my hands to the +work and made a tidy wife for Steve, as good nor better than that +there dressed-up thing out yonder—And bred Dorry up the +right way, too, I would. But ’tis done with now, so +’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>As though to +herself</i>.] And when ’tis morning and she gets her +down—“There, ’tis my girl as is mistress here, +I’ll say to her—and ’tis my girl as shall sit +cup end of the table—and you get you to the fire corner and +bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, spite that you do +slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And I could set she back +in her place, too, that tricked-up, flashy thing over the +way. I’ve but to climb the stairs and clap my hand on +Steve—“Get you from your dreams,” I have got +but to say, “the woman what’s yourn be comed +home. Her have tasted the cup of death, very near, and her +have been a-thirst and an hungered. But her has carried +summat for you in her heart all the way what you wouldn’t +find in the heart of t’other, no, not if you was to cut it +open and search it through.” And the right belongs to +I to shut the door on t’other hussey, holding Steve to I +till death divides we.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Going on the road I +seed the eyes of they blinking as I did pass by. “And +may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon you,” I +says to them, “for ’tis a poor old woman as I be what +has lost her child; and what’s that to you if so be as the +shoes on her feet be broken or no? ’Tis naked as the +toes of you shall go, that hour when the days of this world shall +be rolled by. Ah, ’tis naked and set on the lake of +burning fire as the hoofs of you shall run!”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I could up and screech +so that the house should ring with the sound of me, “I be +your wife, Steve, comed back after these many years. +What’s this that you’ve got doing with +another?” I could take hold on him and make him look +into the eyes of I, yes, and th’ old woman, too. +“See here, your ‘dirty roadster,’ look well on +to her.” “Why, ’tis May.” But +the eyes of him would then be cast so that I should see no more +than a house what has dead within, and the blind pulled +down. And I, what was thinking as there might be a light in +the window!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. “And you may +holler,” I says to them, “you may holler till you be +heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won’t take +no account of you.” And the lies of them which have +turned into ropes of hempen shall come up and strangle +they. But me and my child shall pass by all fatted up and +clothed, and with the last flick, afore the eyelids of they drop, +they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the teeth of them shall +they repent them of their sins. Too late, too late! +There ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Too late! There +’tis, I be comed home too late.</p> +<p>[<i>She rises and takes up her shawl</i>, <i>wrapping it about +her shoulders</i>, <i>and muttering</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. But I know a dark place +full of water—’Tis Simon’s pool they calls +it—And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and +be in quiet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Be you a-going up to +Steve now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. No, I +bain’t. ’Tis out from here that I be +going. And back on to the road.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. May, my pretty May, +you’re never going for to leave I, what’s such a poor +old woman and wronged cruel. You step aloft and rouse up +Steve. He’ll never have you go upon the roads again +once he do know as you’ve comed back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Steve! +What’s it to Steve whether the like of I do go or +bide? What be there in I for to quell the love of she which +Steve’s got in him? Dead leaves for new. Ditch +water for the clear spring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Give him to drink of +it, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Looking upwards to +the ceiling</i>.] No, Steve. Hark you here. I +bain’t a-going to do it. I bain’t going to +knock over the spoonful of sweet what you be carrying to your +mouth. You take and eat of it in quiet and get you filled +with the honey. ’Tain’t my way to snatch from +no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be +fed. There, ’tis finished now, very nigh, and the +sharpness done. And, don’t you fear, Steve, as ever +I’ll trouble you no more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. +[<i>Rising</i>.] I be a-going to fetch him down, and +that’s what I’m a-going for to do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Pushing her back +into her chair</i>.] Harken you, Steve, he’s never +got to know as I’ve been here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. I tell you, May, +I’ll screech till he do come!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Sitting down by</i> +<span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>and laying her hand on +her</i>.] I’ll put summat in your mouth as’ll +stop you if you start screeching, mother. Why, hark you +here. ’Tis enough of this old place as I’ve had +this night, and ’tis out upon the roads as I be +going. Th’ old woman—there’s naught much +changed in she—And Steve—well, Steve be wonderful +hard in the soul of him. “Can I get you an old +sack,” says he—and never so much as seed ’twas +I—Ah—’tis more than enough to turn the stomach +in anyone—that it is. [<i>A slight pause</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I was never a meek one +as could bide at the fireside for long. The four walls of +this here room have very near done for me now, so they +have. And ’tis the air blowing free upon the road as +I craves—Ah, and the wind which hollers, so that the cries +of we be less nor they of lambs new born.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. God bless you, May, +and if you goes beyond the door ’tis the mealy-faced jade +will get in come morning, for Steve to wed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. So ’tis. And +if I stopped ’twould be the same, her’d be between us +always, the pretty cage bird—For look you here on I, +Mother, and here—[<i>pointing to her feet</i>]—and +here—and here—See what’s been done to I +what’s knocked about in the world along the roads, and then +think if I be such a one as might hold the love of Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Beginning to +whine desolately</i>.] O, do not you go for to leave your +old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead all the +years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around +of I as might be the venomous beasts in the grass. Stop +with I, my pretty child—Stop along of your old mother, for +the days of I be few and numbered, and the enemies be thick upon +the land.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Hark you here, Mother, +and keep your screeching till another time. I wants to slip +out quiet so as Steve and th’ old woman won’t never +know as I’ve been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth +shut, maybe I’ll drop in at our own place on the hill one +of these days and bide comfortable along of you, only +now—I’m off, do you hear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. I can’t abide +for you to go. ’Tis more nor I can stand. Why, +if you goes, May, ’tis t’other wench and th’ +old woman what’ll get mistressing it here again in your +place. [<i>Rising up</i>.] No—you shan’t +go. I’ll holler till I’ve waked them every +one—you shan’t! My only child, my pretty +May! Ah, ’tis not likely as you shall slip off +again. ’Tis not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Look you here, +Mother—bide still, I say. [<i>Looking round the room +distractedly</i>.] See here—’tis rare dry as I +be. You bide quiet and us’ll have a drink together, +that us will. Look, th’ old woman’s forgot to +put away the bottle, us’ll wet our mouths nice and quiet, +mother—she won’t hear I taking out the cork, nor +nothing. See!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>gets up and crosses the +room</i>; <i>she takes the bottle off the shelf where she has +just perceived it</i>, <i>and also two glasses</i>; <i>she fills +one and hands it to her mother</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Stretching out +her hand</i>.] ’Tis rare dry and parched as I be, now +I comes to think on it, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. That’s +right—drink your fill, Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Tis pleasant +for I to see you mistressing it here again, May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Ah, ’tis my own +drink and all, come to that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. So ’tis. +And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water. I seed +her spoon it in the pot, and ’twas not above a half spoon +as her did put in for I, th’ old badger. My eye was +on she, though, and her’ll have it cast up at she when the +last day shall come and the trumpet sound and all flesh stand +quailing, and me and mine looking on at her as is brought to +judgment. How will it be then, you old sinner, says I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Re-filling the +glass</i>.] Take and drink this little drop more, +mother.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Vashti</span> <i>drinks and then leans +back in her chair again with half closed eyes</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Putting away the +bottle and glasses</i>.] Her’ll sleep very like, +now. And when her wakes, I take it ’twill appear as +though she’d been and dreamt summat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Do you sit a-nigh me, +May. The night be a wild one. I would not have you be +on the roads.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Sitting down beside +her</i>.] O, the roads be fine on nights when the tempest +moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the mouth of you +and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes +quick on through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, +and ’tis a large town and there be folk moving this way and +that and the music playing, and great fowls and horses +what’s got clocks to the inside of they, a-stirring them up +for to run, and girls and men a-riding on them—And the +booths with red sugar and white, all lit and animals that’s +wild a-roaring and a-biting in the tents—And girls +what’s dancing, standing there in satin gowns all over gold +and silver—And you walks to and fro in it all and +’tis good to be there and free—And ’tis better +to be in such places and to come and to go where you have a mind +than to be cooped in here, with th’ old woman and +all—’Tis a fine life as you lives on the +roads—and ’tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, +Mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Who has gradually +been falling into sleep</i>.] I count ’tis so. +’Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count +I’ll go along of you, come morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. That’s it, Mother, +that’s it. Us’ll take a bit of sleep afore we +sets off, won’t us? And when morning comes, +us’ll open the door and go out.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. That’s it, when +’tis day.</p> +<p>[<i>Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is +presently asleep</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>watches her for some +moments</i>. <i>Then she gets up softly and wraps her shawl +round her</i>. <i>The window shews signs of a gray light +outside</i>, <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>goes quietly +towards the outer door</i>. <i>As she reaches it</i>, <span +class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>comes into the room from the +staircase</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Going up to</i> +<span class="smcap">Vashti</span>.] Granny, ’tis the +New Year! I’m come down to see to the fire and to get +breakfast for Dad and Gran’ma. Why, Granny, +you’re sleeping still. And where’s that poor +tramp gone off to? [<i>She looks round the room and then +sees</i> <span class="smcap">May</span> <i>by the door</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, there you +are. Are you going out on the road afore ’tis got +light?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>In a hoarse +whisper</i>.] And that I be. ’Tis very nigh to +daybreak, so ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Stop a moment. +[<i>Calling up the stairs</i>.] Daddy, the tramp woman, +she’s moving off already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>From +upstairs</i>.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along +of she. I don’t care that anyone should go +an-hungered this day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Turning to</i> +<span class="smcap">May</span>.] There—you bide a +minute whilst I cuts the loaf. My Dad’s going to get +married this day, and he don’t care that anyone should go +hungry.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>comes slowly back into the +room and stands watching</i> <span class="smcap">Dorry</span>, +<i>who fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the +table</i>. <i>Then she pulls aside the curtain and a dim +light comes in</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. The snow’s very +nigh gone, and ’tis like as not as the sun may come out +presently. Here’s a piece of bread to take along of +you. There, it’s a good big piece, take and eat +it.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">May</span> <i>hesitates an instant</i>, +<i>then she stretches out her hand and takes the bread and puts +it beneath her shawl</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And so there’s +going to be a wedding here to-day?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. ’Tis my Dad as +is to be married.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. ’Tis poor work, is +twice marrying.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. My Dad’s ever so +pleased, I han’t seen him so pleased as I can +remember. I han’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Then maybe the second +choosing be the best.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Yes, +’tis—Gran’ma says as ’tis—and Dad, +he be ever so fond of Miss Sims—and I be, too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Then you’ve no +call to wish as her who’s gone should come back to you, +like?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. What’s that +you’re saying?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. You don’t never +want as your mammy what you’ve lost should be amongst you +as afore?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I never knowed my +mammy. Gran’ma says she had got summat bad in her +blood. And Granny’s got the same. But Miss +Sims, she’s ever so nice to Dad and me, and I’m real +pleased as she’s coming to stop along of us always after +that they’re married, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. And th’ old woman +what’s your gran’ma, Dorry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. However did you know +as I was called “Dorry”?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. I heard them call you so +last night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. And whatever do you +want to know about Gran’ma?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. What have her got to say +’bout the—the—wench what’s going to marry +your dad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Gran’ma, she +thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, and she says as how poor +Dad, what’s been served so bad, will find out soon what +’tis to have a real decent wife, what’ll help with +the work and all, and what won’t lower him by her ways, nor +nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. Look you +here—’tis growing day. I must be getting off +and on to the road.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. [<i>Moving to the +door</i>.] I’ll unbolt the door, then. O, +’tis fine and daylight now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Turning back at the +doorway and looking at the room</i>.] I suppose you +wouldn’t like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. No, I +shouldn’t. Gran’ma, she don’t let me go +nigh road people as a rule. She’s a-feared as I +should take summat from them, I suppose.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">May</span>. [<i>Hoarsely</i>, <i>her +hand on the door</i>.] Then just say as you wishes me well, +Dorry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I’ll wish you a +good New Year, then, and Gran’ma said as I was to watch as +you cleared off the place. [<span class="smcap">May</span> +<i>goes out softly and quickly</i>. <span +class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>watches her until she is out of +sight</i>, <i>and then she shuts the door</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 1.</h3> +<p><i>The same room</i>. <i>It is nearly mid-day</i>, +<i>and the room is full of sunshine</i>. <span +class="smcap">Jane Browning</span>, <i>in her best dress</i>, +<i>is fastening</i> <span class="smcap">Dorry’s</span> +<i>frock</i>, <i>close to the window</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Dad’s been a +rare long time a-cleaning of his self up, Gran.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Will you bide +still! However’s this frock to get fastened and you +moving this way and that like some live eel—and just see +what a mark you’ve made on the elbow last night, putting +your arm down somewhere where you didn’t ought to—I +might just as well have never washed the thing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Granny’s sound +asleep still—she’ll have to be waked time we goes +along to the church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. That her shan’t +be. Her shall just bide and sleep the drink out of her, her +shall. Do you think as I didn’t find out who +’twas what had got at the bottle as Dad left on the dresser +last night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Poor Gran, she do take +a drop now and then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Shame on th’ old +gipsy. Her shall be left to bide till she have slept off +some of the nonsense which is in her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Granny do say a lot of +funny things sometimes, don’t she, now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You get and put on your +hat and button your gloves, and let the old gipsy be. We +can send her off home when ’tis afternoon, and us back from +church. Now, where did I lay that bonnet? Here +’tis.</p> +<p>[<i>She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the +wall</i>. <span class="smcap">Steve</span> <i>comes +downstairs in his shirt sleeves</i>, <i>carrying his +coat</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, Dad, you do look +rare pleased at summat.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. And when’s a man +to look pleased if ’tis not on his wedding morn, Dorry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. The tramp what was +here did say as how ’twas poor work twice marrying, but you +don’t find it be so, Dad, do you now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. And that I +don’t, my little wench. ’Tis as nigh heaven as +I be like to touch—and that’s how ’tis with +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Taking</i> <span +class="smcap">Steve’s</span> <i>coat from him</i>.] +Ah, ’tis a different set out altogether this time. +That ’tis. ’Tis a-marrying into your own rank, +like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Was my own mammy a +trolloping gipsy, Gran?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Beginning to +brush</i> <span class="smcap">Steve’s</span> +<i>coat</i>.] Ah, much in the same pattern as th’ old +woman what’s drunk asleep against the fireside. Here, +button up them gloves, ’tis time we was off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. I do like Miss +Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I grows up +I’d like to look as she do, so I would.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span>.] There, Mother, that’ll +do. I’d best put him on now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. [<i>Holding out the +coat for him</i>.] Well, and you be got yourself up rare +smart, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. ’Tis rare smart +as I be feeling, Mother. I’m all a kind of a dazzle +within of me, same as ’tis with the sun upon the snow out +yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Why, look you, +there’s George a-coming up the path already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. He’s wearing of +the flower what Rosie gived him last night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Opening the +door</i>.] Good morning, George. A first class New +Year to you. You’re welcome, if ever a man was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. You bide where you do +stand, George, till your feet is dry. My floor was fresh +wiped over this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Standing on the +door mat</i>.] All right, Mrs. Browning. Don’t +you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. How be you to-day, +Steve?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. Dorry, come you +upstairs along with me and get your coat put on, so as your frock +bain’t crushed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, I wish I could go +so that my nice frock was seen and no coat.</p> +<p>[<i>They go upstairs</i>. <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>rubs his feet on the mat and comes +into the room</i>, <i>walking up and down once or twice +restlessly and in evident distress of mind</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Who has lit a pipe +and is smoking</i>.] Why, George, be you out of sorts this +morning? You don’t look up to much, and that’s +the truth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. [<i>Stopping +before</i> <span class="smcap">Steve</span>.] Hark you, +Steve. ’Tis on my mind to ask summat of you. +Did you have much speech with the poor thing what you took in +from the snow last night?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. No, George, and that I +didn’t. Her was mostly in a kind of drunken sleep all +the time, and naught to be got out from she. Mother, her +tried. But ’twas like trying to get water from the +pump yonder, when ’tis froze.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Your mother’s a +poor one at melting ice, Steve, and ’tis what we all +knows.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Ah, +’twasn’t much as we could do for the likes of +she—what was a regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of +them. And if it hadn’t been so as ’twas my +wedding eve, this one shouldn’t have set foot inside of the +house. But ’tis a season when a man’s took a +bit soft and foolish, like, the night afore his marriage. +Bain’t that so, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. And when was it, +Steve, as she went off from here?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. That I couldn’t +rightly say, George, but I counts ’twas just upon +daybreak. And ’twas Dorry what seed her off the place +and gived her a piece of bread to take along of her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. And do you think as +she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I’m blest if I +do know, George. I never gived another thought to +she. What’s up?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. They was getting the +body of her from out of Simon’s Pool as I did come +by. That’s all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. From Simon’s +Pool, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I count her must have +went across the plank afore ’twas fairly daylight. +And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and +her—her—as you did say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. In liquor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I reckon as her +missed her footing, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, upon my word, +George, who’d have thought on such a thing!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. I count as her had +been in the water and below the ice a smartish while afore they +catched sight of she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, ’tis a +cold finish to a hot life.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. They took and laid +her on the grass, Steve, as I comed by.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. If it had been me, +I’d have turned the head of me t’other side.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. There was summat in +the fashion her was laid, Steve, as drawed I near for to get a +sight of the face of she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, I +shouldn’t have much cared for that, George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Steve—did you +get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing last night?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. No, nor wanted for to, +neither.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. There was naught to +make you think of—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Of what, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. There—Steve, I +can’t get it out, I can’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Then let it bide +in.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Twas the way +her was laid, and the long arms of she, and the hands which was +clapped one on t’other, as it might be in church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Looking through +the window</i>.] You shut up, George. Here’s +Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. Don’t you +get saying another word about yon poor wretch nor the end of +her. I wouldn’t have my Annie upset for all the world +to-day. ’Tis a thing as must not be spoke of afore +they, nor Dorry neither, do you hear?</p> +<p>[<i>He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the +latch</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Hold back, Steve, a +minute. There’s summat more as I’ve got to +say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. You take and shut your +mouth up, old George, afore I opens the door to the girls.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. ’Tis bound for +to come from me afore you goes along to church, Steve.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I warrant ’twill +keep till us do come home again, George.</p> +<p>[<i>He throws the door wide open with a joyous +movement</i>. <span class="smcap">Annie</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>in white dresses stand +outside</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Well, Annie, this is a +rare surprise, and that’s the truth. [<span +class="smcap">Annie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Rose</span> <i>come into the room</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Father, he’s +outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, and all the rest. We +said as ’twould be pleasanter if we was all to go up +together along to the church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. So ’twould +be—so ’twould be—’Twas a grand thought of +yourn, Rosie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. Steve—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. [<i>Taking her +hand</i>.] Annie, I’m fair beside myself this +day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. O, Steve, there was +never a day in my life like this one. [<span +class="smcap">Dorry</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jane</span> <i>come down</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, Miss Sims, you do +look nice! Gran’ma, don’t Miss Sims look +nice? And Rosie, too. O, they have nice gowns and +hats on, haven’t they, Dad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I don’t see no +gowns nor hats, and that’s the truth. But I sees +summat what’s like—what’s like a meadow of +grass in springtime afore the sun’s got on to it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Why, Dad, ’tis +white, not green, as Miss Sims is wearing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. ’Tis in the eyes +of her as I finds my meadow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, let me see, Dad, +let me look, too!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Going up to</i> +<span class="smcap">George</span>, <i>who has been standing aloof +and moody in the background</i>.] Come, Mr. Davis, we must +have a look, too.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. ’Get along, get +along. We han’t time for such foolishness. It +be close on twelve already.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Annie</span>. O, let me be, all of +you! I declare, I don’t know which way to look, I +don’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. I’ll show you, +Annie, then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.] Well, Mr. Davis, you +don’t seem over bright this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. ’Tis with the +nerves as he be took!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. Look at what +he’s wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. ’Tis kept +beautiful and fresh.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Come on, come on, all +of you. ’Tis time we was at the church.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. Hark to him! +He’s in a rare hurry for to get out of the house +to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Bain’t the old +lady a-coming?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jane</span>. That she bain’t, +the old drinking gipsy—’tis at the spirits as her got +in the night—and put away very near the best part of a +bottle. Now she’s best left to sleep it off, she +be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Steve</span>. Come on, George. +Come, Dorry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorry</span>. O, isn’t it a +pity as Granny will get at the drink, Mr. Davis? And +isn’t Miss Sims nice in her white dress? And +don’t Dad look smiling and pleased? I never did know +Dad smile like this afore.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. +[<i>Heavily</i>.] Come on, Dorry—you take hold of +me. You and me, we’ll keep nigh one to t’other +this day, won’t us?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rose</span>. [<i>Calling from +outside</i>.] Come on, Mr. Davis.</p> +<p>[<i>They all go out</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT III.—Scene 2.</h3> +<p><i>Nearly an hour later</i>. <i>The cottage room is full +of sunlight</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti Reed</span> <i>is awake and gazing +vacantly about her from the same chair by the fire</i>. +<i>Someone knocks repeatedly at the door from outside</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And ’tis no bit +of rest as I gets for my bones, but they must come and hustle I +and call I from the dreams which was soft. [<i>The knocking +is heard again</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. And I up and says to +they, “Ah, and you would hustle a poor old woman +what’s never harmed so much as a hair out of the ugly heads +of you. You would hunt and drive of her till she be very +nigh done to death. But there shall come a day when you +shall be laid down and a-taking of your bit of rest, and the +thing what you knows of shall get up upon you and smite you till +you do go screeching from the house, and fleeing to the uttermost +part of the land—whilst me and mine—”</p> +<p>[<i>The door opens and</i> <span class="smcap">Harry +Moss</span> <i>enters</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Beg pardon, old +Missis, but I couldn’t make no one hear me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Seeing as them be +sick of the abomination which was inside of they. +[<i>Perceiving</i> <span class="smcap">Harry</span>.] Well, +and what be you as is comed into this room?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. ’Tis Moss as I +be called, old Missis. And as I was a-going by this place, +I thought as I’d look in a moment, just for to ask how +’twas with May.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. They be all gone out +from the house. All of them. They be in clothes what +do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps of white among +they. Them be set out in the best as they has, and in grand +things of many colours. There ’tis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. And be you th’ +old lady what’s Steve’s mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. I be not, sir. +’Tis mother to May as I be. May, what’s comed +back, and what’ll set t’other old vixen in her place +soon as they get home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Then May, she be gone +out, too, have her?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Looking round +vaguely</i>.] Ah, I counts as her be gone to church along +of t’other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. To church, Missis?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. There’s +marrying being done down here to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Marrying, be +there? Well, but I was ’most feared as how it might +have been t’other thing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, that there +be—marrying. But there bain’t no more victuals +got into the house as I knows of. Th’ old +woman’s seen to that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. And be May gone out, +too, along of them to see the marrying?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, I counts as her +be. But her’s a-coming back in a little while, and +you may sit down and bide till she does.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I’d sooner be +about and on my way, Missis, if ’tis all the same to +you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get and tell +May when she do come home, that ’tis particular glad I be +for to know as her bain’t took worse, nor nothing. +And should I happen in these parts again, ’tis very likely +as I’ll take a look in on she some day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Ah, her’ll have +got t’other old baggage set in the right place by then.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Looking round +him</i>.] Well, I be rare pleased to think of May so +comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible low.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. +T’other’ll be broughted lower.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Look you here, old +Missis, ’tis a stomach full of naught as I carries. +If so be as you has a crust to spare—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Pointing to a +door</i>.] There be a plate of meat inside of that +cupboard. You take and fill your belly with it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Thank you kindly, +Missis, but I counts I han’t the time for heavy feeding +this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. ’Twould serve +she right, th’ old sinner, for the place to be licked up +clean, against the time when her was come’d back, so +’twould.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. Well, Missis, you can +tell May ’tis a brave New Year as I do wish she.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Listening to +bells which are heard suddenly ringing</i>.] There, there +they be! Harken to them! ’Tis with bells as +they be coming out. Bells what’s ringing. I +count ’tis fine as May do look now in her marriage +gown. Harken, ’tis the bells a-shaking of the window +pane. I be an old woman, but the hearing of me bain’t +spoiled.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. I warrant it +bain’t, Missis. Why, they’re ringing wonderful +smart. ’Tis enough, upon my word, for to fetch down +every stone of the old place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. Get you out upon the +garden path and tell I if you sees them a-coming.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. That’s it, old +Missis, and so I will.</p> +<p>[<i>He goes outside the house</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vashti</span>. [<i>Sitting upright +and looking with fixed vacancy before her</i>.] And when +they was all laid low and the heads of them bowed. +“You would, would you,” I says, for they was lifting +the ends of their ugly mouths at I. And I passed among they +and them did quail and crouch, being with fear. And me and +mine did reach the place what was on the top. “See +now yourselves,” I says, “if so be that you do not go +in blindness and in dark.” ’Twas May what stood +there aside of I. And “Look you,” I says, +“over the bended necks of you my child shall pass. +For you be done to death by the lies which growed within you and +waxed till the bodies of you was fed with them and the poison did +gush out from your lips.” But my little child stood +in the light, and the hands of her was about the stars.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Harry</span>. [<i>Coming +in</i>.] Look, they be all a-coming over the meadow, old +Missis. But May han’t comed with they—May +han’t come too.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>The wedding party enters the +room as the curtain falls</i>.]</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1" +class="footnote">[1]</a> “<i>As I walked +Out</i>.” <i>From Folk Songs from Essex collected by +R. Vaughan Williams</i>. <i>The whole</i>, <i>or two verses +can be sung</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2" +class="footnote">[2]</a> “The Seeds of Love,” +“Folk Songs from Somerset,” edited by Cecil J. Sharp +and Charles L. Marsden.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX PLAYS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 5618-h.htm or 5618-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/6/1/5618 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive +specific permission. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Six Plays + +Author: Florence Henrietta Darwin + +Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5618] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 23, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, SIX PLAYS *** + + + + +Transcribed from the 1921 W. Heffer & Sons edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +SIX PLAYS BY FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + + + + +Contents: + The Lovers' Tasks + Bushes and Briars + My man John + Princess Royal + The Seeds of Love + The New Year + + + + +THE LOVERS' TASKS + + + + +CHARACTERS + +FARMER DANIEL, +ELIZABETH, his wife. +MILLIE, her daughter. +ANNET, his niece. +MAY, Annet's sister, aged ten. +GILES, their brother. +ANDREW, a rich young farmer. +GEORGE, JOHN servants to Giles. + +AN OLD MAN. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +The parlour at Camel Farm. + +Time: An afternoon in May. + +ELIZABETH is sewing by the table with ANNET. At the open doorway MAY +is polishing a bright mug. + +ELIZABETH. [Looking up.] There's Uncle, back from the Fair. + +MAY. [Looking out of the door.] O Uncle's got some rare big packets +in his arms, he has. + +ELIZABETH. Put down that mug afore you damage it, May; and, Annet, +do you go and help your uncle in. + +MAY. [Setting down the mug.] O let me go along of her too--[ANNET +rises and goes to the door followed by MAY, who has dropped her +polishing leather upon the ground. + +ELIZABETH. [Picking it up and speaking to herself in exasperation.] +If ever there was a careless little wench, 'tis she. I never did +hold with the bringing up of other folks children and if I'd had my +way, 'tis to the poor-house they'd have went, instead of coming here +where I've enough to do with my own. + +[The FARMER comes in followed by ANNET and MAY carrying large +parcels. + +DANIEL. Well Mother, I count I'm back a smartish bit sooner nor what +you did expect. + +ELIZABETH. I'm not one that can be taken by surprise, Dan. May, lay +that parcel on the table at once, and put away your uncle's hat and +overcoat. + +DAN. Nay, the overcoat's too heavy for the little maid--I'll hang it +up myself. + +[He takes off his coat and goes out into the passage to hang it up. +May runs after him with his hat. + +ANNET. I do want to know what's in all those great packets, Aunt. + +ELIZABETH. I daresay you'll be told all in good season. Here, take +up and get on with that sewing, I dislike to see young people idling +away their time. + +[The FARMER and MAY come back. + +MAY. And now, untie the packets quickly, uncle. + +DANIEL. [Sinking into a big chair.] Not so fast, my little maid, +not so fast--'tis a powerful long distance as I have journeyed this +day, and 'tis wonderful warm for the time of year. + +ELIZABETH. I don't hold with drinking nor with taking bites atween +meals, but as your uncle has come a good distance, and the day is +warm, you make take the key of the pantry, Annet, and draw a glass of +cider for him. + +[She takes the key from her pocket and hands it to ANNET, who goes +out. + +DANIEL. That's it, Mother--that's it. And when I've wetted my mouth +a bit I'll be able the better to tell you all about how 'twas over +there. + +MAY. O I'd dearly like to go to a Fair, I would. You always said +that you'd take me the next time you went, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Ah and so I did, but when I comed to think it over, Fairs +baint the place for little maids, I says to mother here--and no, that +they baint, she answers back. But we'll see how 'tis when you be +growed a bit older, like. Us'll see how 'twill be then, won't us +Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn't encourage the child in her nonsense, if I was +you, Dan. She's old enough to know better than to ask to be taken to +such places. Why in all my days I never set my foot within a fair, +pleasure or business, nor wanted to, either. + +MAY. And never rode on the pretty wood horses, Aunt, all spotted and +with scarlet bridles to them? + +ELIZABETH. Certainly not. I wonder at your asking such a question, +May. But you do say some very unsuitable things for a little child +of your age. + +MAY. And did you get astride of the pretty horses at the Fair, +Uncle? + +DANIEL. Nay, nay,--they horses be set in the pleasure part of the +Fair, and where I goes 'tis all for doing business like. + +[ANNET comes back with the glass of cider. DANIEL takes it from her. + +DANIEL. [Drinking.] You might as well have brought the jug, my +girl. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, 'twill spoil your next meal as it is. + +[The girls sit down at the table, taking up their work. + +DANIEL. [Putting down his glass.] But, bless my soul, yon was a +Fair in a hundred. That her was. + +BOTH GIRLS. O do tell us of all that you did see there, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a cow--well, 'tis a smartish lot of cows as I've +seen in my time, but this one, why, the King haven't got the match to +she in all his great palace, and that's the truth, so 'tis. + +ANNET. O don 't tell us about the cows, Uncle, we want to know about +all the other things. + +MAY. The shows of acting folk, and the wild animals, and the nice +sweets. + +ELIZABETH. They don't want to hear about anything sensible, Dan. +They're like all the maids now, with their thoughts set on pleasuring +and foolishness. + +DANIEL. Ah, the maids was different in our day, wasn't they Mother? + +ELIZABETH. And that they were. Why, when I was your age, Annet, I +should have been ashamed if I couldn't have held my own in any proper +or suitable conversation. + +DANIEL. Ah, you was a rare sensible maid in your day, Mother. Do +you mind when you comed along of me to Kingham sale? "You're never +going to buy an animal with all that white to it, Dan, you says to +me. + +ELIZABETH. Ah--I recollect. + +DANIEL. "'Tis true her has a whitish leg," I says, "but so have I, +and so have you, Mother--and who's to think the worse on we for +that?" Ah, I could always bring you round to look at things quiet +and reasonable in those days--that I could. + +ELIZABETH. And a good thing if there were others of the same pattern +now, I'm thinking. + +DANIEL. So 'twould be--so 'twould be. But times do bring changes in +the forms of the cattle and I count 'tis the same with the womenfolk. +'Tis one thing this year and 'tis t'other in the next. + +MAY. Do tell us more of what you did see at the Fair, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a ram. My word! but the four feet of he did cover +a good two yards of ground; just as it might be, standing. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father. + +DANIEL. And the horns upon the head of he did reach out very nigh as +far as might do the sails of one of they old wind-mills. + +MAY. O Uncle, and how was it with the wool of him? + +DANIEL. The wool, my wench, did stand a good three foot from all +around of the animal. You might have set a hen with her eggs on top +of it--and that you might. And now I comes to recollect how 'twas, +you could have set a hen one side of the wool and a turkey t'other. + +MAY. O Uncle, that must have been a beautiful animal! And what was +the tail of it? + +DANIEL. The tail, my little maid? Why 'twas longer nor my arm and +as thick again--'twould have served as a bell rope to the great bell +yonder in Gloucester church--and so 'twould. Ah, 'twas sommat like a +tail, I reckon, yon. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father, such talk is hardly suited to little girls, +who should know better than to ask so many teasing questions. + +ANNET. 'Tisn't only May, Aunt, I do love to hear what uncle tells, +when he has been out for a day or two. + +ELIZABETH. And did you have company on the way home, Father? + +DANIEL. That I did. 'Twas along of young Andrew as I did come back. + +ELIZABETH. Along of Andrew? Girls, you may now go outside into the +garden for a while. Yes, put aside your work. + +MAY. Can't we stop till the packets are opened? + +ELIZABETH. You heard what I said? Go off into the garden, and stop +there till I send for you. And take uncle's glass and wash it at the +spout as you go. + +ANNET. [Taking the glass.] I'll wash it, Aunt. Come May, you see +aunt doesn't want us any longer. + +MAY. Now they're going to talk secrets together. O I should dearly +love to hear the secrets of grown-up people. [ANNET and MAY go out +together. + +DANIEL. Annet be got a fine big wench, upon my word. Now haven't +her, Mother? + +ELIZABETH. She's got old enough to be put to service, and if I'd +have had my way, 'tis to service she'd have gone this long time +since, and that it is. + +DANIEL. 'Twould be poor work putting one of dead sister's wenches +out to service, so long as us have a roof over the heads of we and +plenty to eat on the table. + +ELIZABETH. Well, you must please yourself about it Father, as you do +most times. But 'tis uncertain work taking up with other folks +children as I told you from the first. See what a lot of trouble you +and me have had along of Giles. + +DANIEL. Giles be safe enough in them foreign parts where I did send +him. You've no need to trouble your head about he, Mother--unless +'tis a letter as he may have got sending to Mill. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, Giles has never sent a letter since the day +he left home. But very often there is no need for letters to keep +remembrance green. 'Tis a plant what thrives best on a soil that is +bare. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother, and what be you a-driving at? I warrant as +Mill have got over them notions as she did have once. And, look you +here, 'twas with young Andrew as I did journey back from the Fair. +And he be a-coming up presently for to get his answer. + +ELIZABETH. All I say is that I hope he may get it then. + +DANIEL. Ah, I reckon as 'tis rare put about as he have been all this +long while, and never a downright "yes" to what he do ask. + +[MAY comes softly in and hides behind the door. + +ELIZABETH. Well, that's not my fault, Father. + +DANIEL. But her'll have to change her note this day, that her'll +have. For I've spoke for she, and 'tis for next month as I've +pitched the wedding day. + +ELIZABETH. And you may pitch, Father. You may lead the mare down to +the pond, but she'll not drink if she hasn't the mind to. You know +what Millie is. 'Tisn't from my side that she gets it either. + +DANIEL. And 'tain't from me. I be all for easy going and each one +to his self like. + +ELIZABETH. Yes, there you are, Father. + +DANIEL. But I reckon as the little maid will hearken to what I says. +Her was always a wonderful good little maid to her dad. And her did +always know, that when her dad did set his foot down, well, there +'twas. 'Twas down. + +ELIZABETH. Well, if you think you can shew her that, Father, 'tis a +fortunate job on all sides. + +[They suddenly see MAY who has been quiet behind the door. + +ELIZABETH. May, what are you a-doing here I should like to know? +Didn't I send you out into the garden along of your sister? + +MAY. Yes, Auntie, but I've comed back. + +ELIZABETH. Then you can be off again, and shut the door this time, +do your hear? + +DANIEL. That's it, my little maid. Run along--and look you, May, +just you tell Cousin Millie as we wants her in here straight away. +And who knows bye and bye whether there won't be sommat in yon great +parcel for a good little wench. + +MAY. O Uncle--I'd like to see it now. + +DANIEL. Nay, nay--this is not a suitable time--Aunt and me has +business what's got to be settled like. Nay--'tis later on as the +packets is to be opened. + +ELIZABETH. Get along off, you tiresome child.--One word might do for +some, but it takes twenty to get you to move.--Run along now, do you +hear me? + +[MAY goes. + +Well, Father, I've done my share with Millie and she don't take a bit +of notice of what I say. So now it's your turn. + +DANIEL. Ah, I count 'tis more man's work, this here, so 'tis. There +be things which belongs to females and there be others which do not. +You get and leave it all to me. I'll bring it off. + +ELIZABETH. All right, Father, just you try your way--I'll have +nothing more to do with it. [MILLIE comes in.] + +MILLIE. Why, Father, you're back early from the Fair. + +DANIEL. That's so, my wench. See that package over yonder? + +MILLIE. O, that I do, Father. + +DANIEL. Yon great one's for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. O Father, what's inside it? + +DANIEL. 'Tis a new, smart bonnet, my wench. + +MILLIE. For me, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah--who else should it be for, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Father, you are good to me. + +DANIEL. And a silk cloak as well. + +MILLIE. A silken cloak, and a bonnet--O Father, 'tis too much for +you to give me all at once, like. + +DANIEL. Young Andrew did help me with the choice, and 'tis all to be +worn on this day month, my girl. + +MILLIE. Why, Father, what's to happen then? + +DANIEL. 'Tis for you to go along to church in, Mill. + +MILLIE. To church, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah, that 'tis--you in the cloak and bonnet, and upon the arm +of young Andrew, my wench. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. But 'tis "yes" as you have got to learn, my wench. And +quickly too. For 'tis this very evening as Andrew be coming for his +answer. And 'tis to be "yes" this time. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. You've an hour before you, my wench, in which to get another +word to your tongue. + +MILLIE. I can't learn any word that isn't "no," Father. + +DANIEL. Look at me, my wench. My foot be down. I means what I +says-- + +MILLIE. And I mean what I say, too, Father. And I say, No! + +DANIEL. Millie, I've set down my foot. + +MILLIE. And so have I, Father. + +DANIEL. And 'tis "yes" as you must say to young Andrew when he do +come a-courting of you this night. + +MILLIE. That I'll never say, Father. I don't want cloaks nor +bonnets, nor my heart moved by gifts, or tears brought to my eyes by +fair words. I'll not wed unless I can give my love along with my +hand. And 'tis not to Andrew I can give that, as you know. + +DANIEL. And to whom should a maid give her heart if 'twasn't to +Andrew? A finer lad never trod in a pair of shoes. I'll be blest if +I do know what the wenches be a-coming to. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father, I told you what to expect. + +DANIEL. But 'tis master as I'll be, hark you, Mother, hark you, +Mill. And 'tis "Yes" as you have got to fit your tongue out with my +girl, afore 'tis dark. [Rising.] I be a'going off to the yard, but, +Mother, her'll know what to say to you, her will. + +MILLIE. Dad, do you stop and shew me the inside of my packet. Let +us put Andrew aside and be happy--do! + +DANIEL. Ah, I've got other things as is waiting to be done nor +breaking in a tricksome filly to run atween the shafts. 'Tis fitter +work for females, and so 'tis. + +ELIZABETH. And so I told you, Father, from the start. + +MILLIE. And 'tis "No" that I shall say. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT I.--Scene 2. + + + +It is dusk on the same evening. + +MILLIE is standing by the table folding up the silken cloak. ANNET +sits watching her, on her knees lies a open parcel disclosing a +woollen shawl. In a far corner of the room MAY is seated on a stool +making a daisy chain. + +ANNET. 'Twas very good of Uncle to bring me this nice shawl, Millie. + +MILLIE. You should have had a cloak like mine, Annet, by rights. + +ANNET. I'm not going to get married, Millie. + +MILLIE. [Sitting down with a sudden movement of despondence and +stretching her arms across the table.] O don't you speak to me of +that, Annet. 'Tis more than I can bear to-night. + +ANNET. But, Millie, he's coming for your answer now. You musn't let +him find you looking so. + +MILLIE. My face shall look as my heart feels. And that is all +sorrow, Annet. + +ANNET. Can't you bring yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie? + +MILLIE. No, that I cannot, Annet, I've tried a score of times, I +have--but there it is--I cannot. + +ANNET. Is it that you've not forgotten Giles, then? + +MILLIE. I never shall forget him, Annet. Why, 'tis a five year this +day since father sent him off to foreign parts, and never a moment of +all that time has my heart not remembered him. + +ANNET. I feared 'twas so with you, Millie. + +MILLIE. O I've laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted the +pillow all over so that I've had to turn it t'other side up. + +ANNET. And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor +nothing? + +MILLIE. Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, Annet. +But, O, he's none the worse for that. + +ANNET. Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was it +when you and he did part, one with t'other? + +MILLIE. I did give him my ring, Annet--secret like--when we were +walking in the wood. + +ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it? + +MILLIE. Yes, grandmother's ring, that she left me. And I did say to +him--if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, +Giles--look you at these white stones. + +ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie. + +MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to +him, the stones shall darken. But you'll never see that day. [She +begins to cry. + +ANNET. Don't you give way, Millie, for, look you, 'tis very likely +that Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,-- +well, Andrew he's as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And 'tis +Andrew you have got to wed, you know. + +MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew--I'm sick at the very name of him. + +ANNET. See the fine house you'll live in. Think on the grand +parlour that you'll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you +and naught but Sunday clothes on your back. + +MILLIE. I'd sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me. + +ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. And +Uncle says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good +and all. + +MILLIE. O I cannot see him--I'm wearied to death of Andrew, and +that's the very truth it is. + +ANNET. O Millie--I wonder how 'twould feel to be you for half-an- +hour and to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to +say Yes. + +MILLIE. O I wish 'twas you and not me that he was after, Annet. + +ANNET. 'Tisn't likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever +come courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I'd dearly love to +know how 'twould feel. + +[MILLIE raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in +silence, then her face brightens. + +MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet. + +ANNET. Shall what, Mill? + +MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here--'Tis sick to death I am with +courting, when 'tis from the wrong quarter, and if I'm to wed Andrew +come next month, I'll not be tormented with him before that time,--so +'tis you that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and +I'll slip out to the woods and gather flowers. + +ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill. + +MILLIE. In the dusk he'll never know that 'tisn't me. Being +cousins, we speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us +there's not much that's amiss. + +ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill--why, 'tis a grand young lady +that you look--whilst I - + +MILLIE. [Taking up the silken cloak.] Here--put this over your +gown, Annet. + +ANNET. [Standing up.] I don't mind just trying it on, like. + +MILLIE. [Fastening it.] There--and now the bonnet, with the veil +pulled over the face. + +[She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on ANNET. + +MILLIE. [Standing back and surveying her cousin.] There, Annet, +there May, who is to tell which of us 'tis? + +MAY. [Coming forward.] O I should never know that 'twasn't you, +Cousin Mill. + +MILLIE. And I could well mistake her for myself too, so listen, +Annet. 'Tis you that shall talk with Master Andrew when he comes to- +night. And 'tis you that shall give him my answer. I'll not burn my +lips by speaking the word he asks of me. + +ANNET. O Mill--I cannot--no I cannot. + +MILLIE. Don't let him have it very easily, Annet. Set him a ditch +or two to jump before he gets there. And let the thorns prick him a +bit before he gathers the flower. You know my way with him. + +MAY. And I know it too, Millie--Why, your tongue, 'tis very near as +sharp as when Aunt do speak. + +ANNET. O Millie, take off these things--I cannot do it, that's the +truth. + +MAY. [Looking out through the door.] There's Andrew a-coming over +the mill yard. + +MILLIE. Here, sit down, Annet, with the back of you to the light. + +[She pushes ANNET into a chair beneath the window. + +MAY. Can I get into the cupboard and listen to it, Cousin Mill? + +MILLIE. If you promise to bide quiet and to say naught of it +afterwards. + +MAY. O I promise, I promise--I'll just leave a crack of the door +open for to hear well. + +[MAY gets into the cupboard. MILLIE takes up ANNET'S new shawl and +puts it all over her. + +MILLIE. No one will think that 'tisn't you, in the dusk. + +ANNET. O Millie, what is it that you've got me to do? + +MILLIE. Never you mind, Annet--you shall see what 'tis to have a +grand suitor and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, +where I can think on Giles. + +[She runs out of the door just as ANDREW comes up. ANDREW knocks and +then enters the open door. + +ANDREW. Where's Annet off to in such a hurry? + +ANNET. [Very faintly.] I'm sure I don't know. [ANDREW lays aside +his hat and comes up to the window. He stands before ANNET looking +down on her. She becomes restless under his gaze, and at last signs +to him to sit down. + +ANDREW. [Sitting down on a chair a little way from her.] The Master +said that I might come along to-night, Millie--Otherwise--[ANNET is +still silent. + +Otherwise I shouldn't have dared do so. + +[ANNET sits nervously twisting the ribbons of her cloak. + +The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, might be +changed like. [ANNET is still silent. + +And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely 'twould be +something different as you might say. + +[A long silence. + +Was I wrong in coming, Millie? + +ANNET. [Faintly.] 'Twould have been better had you stayed away +like. + +ANDREW. Then there isn't any change in your feelings towards me, +Millie? + +ANNET. O, there's a sort of a change, Andrew. + +ANDREW. [Slowly.] O Mill, that's good hearing. What sort of a +change is it then? + +ANNET. 'Tis very hard to say, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Look you, Mill, 'tis more than a five year that I've been a- +courting of you faithful. + +ANNET. [Sighing.] Indeed it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And I've never got naught but blows for my pains. + +ANNET. [Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply.] O +I'm so sorry--No--I mean--'Tis your own fault, Andrew. + +ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words from +another, Millie. + +ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to--I mean, 'tis as well +that you should get used to blows, seeing we're to be wed, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Then 'tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news--Why, I do +scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming. + +ANNET. [Very sadly.] Very likely you'll be glad enough to be +dreaming a month from now, poor Andrew. + +ANDREW. [Drawing nearer.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to +me so kind and gentle, and I'll ask you to name the day. + +ANNET. [Shrinking back.] O 'twill be a very long distance from now, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart and +play with it same as a cat does with the mouse. + +ANNET. [Becoming gay and hard in her manner.] Your heart, Andrew? +'Twill go all the better afterwards if 'tis tossed about a bit first. + +ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you'll +wed me. + +ANNET. [Warding him off with her hand.] You shall have my answer in +a new song Andrew, which I have been learning. + +[ANDREW sits down despondently and prepares to listen. + +ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over in your +mind. [She begins to sing: + +Say can you plough me an acre of land +Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme. +Between the sea and the salt sea strand +And you shall be a true lover of mine? + +[A slight pause. ANNET looks questioningly at ANDREW, who turns away +with a heavy sigh. + +ANNET. [Singing.] + +Yes, if you plough it with one ram's horn +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme +And sow it all over with one peppercorn +And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. 'Tis all foolishness. + +ANNET. [Singing.] + +Say can you reap with a sickle of leather +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme +And tie it all up with a Tom-tit's feather +And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. [Rises up impatiently.] I can stand no more. You've danced +upon my heart till 'tis fairly brittle, and ready to be broke by a +feather. + +ANNET. [Very gently.] O Andrew, I'll mend your heart one day. + +ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already. + +ANNET. [In a harder voice.] But very likely there'll be a crack +left to it always. + +[FARMER DANIEL and ELIZABETH come into the room. + +DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie? + +ANDREW. [Boldly.] 'Tis for a month from now. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that? + +ELIZABETH. I'm not deaf, Father. + +DANIEL. [Shaking ANDREW'S hand.] Ah my boy, I knowed as you'd bring +the little maid to the senses of she. + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself +as though for church. + +DANIEL. 'Tis with the maids as 'tis with the fowls when they be come +out from moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in +their new feathers. + +ELIZABETH. Well, 'tis to be hoped the young people have fixed it up +for good and all this time. + +DANIEL. Come Mill, my wench, you be wonderful quiet. Where's your +tongue? + +ELIZABETH. I think we've all had quite enough of Millie's tongue, +Father. Let her give it a rest if she've a mind. + +DANIEL. I warrant she be gone as shy as a May bettel when 'tis +daylight. But us'll take it as she have fixed it up in her own mind +like. Come, Mother, such a time as this, you won't take no objection +to the drawing of a jug of cider. + +ELIZABETH. And supper just about to be served? I'm surprised at +you, Father. No, I can't hear of cider being drawn so needless like. + +DANIEL. Well, well,--have it your own way--but I always says, and my +father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine drink, +and that's how 'twas in my time. + +ELIZABETH. Millie, do you call your cousins in to supper. + +DANIEL. Ah, and where be the maids gone off to this time of night, +Mother? + +ANDREW. Annet did pass me as I came through the yard, Master + +[MAY, quietly opens the cupboard door and comes out. + +ELIZABETH. So that's where you've been, you deceitful little wench. + +ANDREW. Well, to think of that, Millie. + +ELIZABETH. And how long may you have bid there, I should like to +know? + +DANIEL. Come, come, my little maid, 'tis early days for you to be +getting a lesson in courtship. + +MAY. O there wasn't any courtship, Uncle, and I didn't hear nothing +at all to speak of. + +ELIZABETH. There, run along quick and find your sister. Supper's +late already, and that it is. + +ANNET. I'll go with her. + +[She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the door. + +ELIZABETH. Stop a moment, Millie. What are you thinking of to go +trailing out in the dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. Take +and lay them in the box at once, do you hear? + +DANIEL. That's it, Mill. 'Twouldn't do for to mess them up afore +the day. 'Twas a fair price as I gived for they, and that I can tell +you, my girl. + +[ANNET stops irresolutely. MAY seizes her hand. + +MAY. Come off, come off, "Cousin Millie"; 'tis not damp outside, and +O I'm afeared to cross the rickyard by myself. + +[She pulls ANNET violently by the hand and draws her out of the door. + +ELIZABETH. Off with the cloak this minute, Millie. + +MAY. [Calling back.] She's a-taking of it off, Aunt, she is. + +ELIZABETH. I don't know what's come to the maid. She don't act like +herself to-day. + +DANIEL. Ah, that be asking too much of a maid, to act like herself, +and the wedding day close ahead of she. + +ELIZABETH. I'd be content with a suitable behaviour, Father. I'm +not hard to please. + +DANIEL. Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th' old +mare when her first comes up from grass. + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis all very well for you to talk, Father but 'tis I who +have got to do. + +DANIEL. Come Mother, come Andrew, I be sharp set. And 'tis the feel +of victuals and no words as I wants in my mouth. + +ELIZABETH. Well, Father, I'm not detaining you. There's the door, +and the food has been cooling on the table this great while. + +DANIEL. Come you, Andrew, come you, Mother. Us'll make a bit of a +marriage feast this night. + +[He leads the way and the others follow him out. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +A woodland path. GILES comes forward with his two servants, GEORGE +and JOHN, who are carrying heavy packets. + +GILES. 'Tis powerful warm to-day. We will take a bit of rest before +we go further. + +GEORGE. [Setting down his packet.] That's it, master. 'Tis a rare +weight as I've been carrying across my back since dawn. + +JOHN. [Also setting down his burden.] Ah, I be pleased for to lay +aside yon. 'Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying to and fro +with gold and silver. + +GILES. Our travelling is very nigh finished. There lies the road +which goes to Camel Farm. + +GEORGE. Oh, I count as that must be a rare sort of a place, master. + +JOHN. Seeing as us haven't stopped scarce an hour since us landed +off the sea. + +GEORGE. But have come running all the while same as the fox may run +in th' early morning towards the poultry yard. + +JOHN. Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th' +insides of we. + +GILES. 'Tis very little further that you have got to journey, my +good lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring. + +GEORGE. And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master? + +GILES. 'Tis the place out of all the world to me. + +JOHN. I count 'tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we +be come from brave foreign parts, master. + +GILES. 'Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie +beneath the sun, my lads. + +GEORGE. That's good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be +as fine as the place? + +GILES. O, you'll fare well enough yonder. + +JOHN. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that +was over there neither. + +GILES. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the +grandest roof that ever sheltered a man's head. And you shall sit at +a table spread as you've not seen this many a year. + +GEORGE. That'll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our +legs again. + +JOHN. I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that's the +truth. + +[The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees. +GILES walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at +any delay. From time to time he glances at a ring which he wears, +sighing heavily as he does so. + +[An old man comes up, leaning on his staff. + +OLD MAN. Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen. + +GILES. Good-morning, master. + +OLD MAN. 'Tis a wonderful warm sun to-day. + +GILES. You're right there, master. + +OLD MAN. I warrant as you be journeying towards the same place where +I be going, my lord. + +GILES. And where is that, old master? + +OLD MAN. Towards Camel Farm. + +GILES. You're right. 'Tis there and nowhere else that we are going. + +OLD MAN. Ah, us'll have to go smartish if us is to be there in time. + +GILES. In time for what, my good man? + +OLD MAN. In time for to see the marrying, my lord. + +GILES. The marrying? What's that you're telling me? + +OLD MAN. 'Tis at noon this day that she's to be wed. + +GILES. Who are you speaking of, old man? + +OLD MAN. And where is your lordship journeying this day if 'tis not +to the marrying? + +GILES. Who's getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly? + +OLD MAN. 'Tis th' old farmer's daughter what's to wed come noon- +tide. + +GILES. [Starting.] Millie! O that is heavy news. [Looking at his +hand.] Then 'tis as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the +brightness has all gone from out of the seven stones. That's how +'twould be, she told me once. + +[He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind. + +GEORGE. Us'll see no Camel Farm this day. + +JOHN. And th' inside of I be crying out for victuals. + +OLD MAN. Then you be not of these parts, masters? + +GEORGE. No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master. + +JOHN. Ah, 'tis a fine gentleman, master. But powerful misfortunate +in things of the heart. + +GEORGE. Ah, he'd best have stopped where he was. Camel Farm baint +no place for the like of he to go courting at. + +JOHN. Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold and +marble with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that you +might. + +GEORGE. All painted glass. And each chair with golden legs to him, +and a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of +after a night's drinking, old man. [GILES comes slowly towards them. + +GILES. And who is she to wed, old man? + +OLD MAN. Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, +my lord? + +GILES. Yes. With whom does she go to church to-day? + +OLD MAN. 'Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go. What lives up +Cranham way. + +GILES. Ah, th' old farmer was always wonderful set on him. [A +pause. + +OLD MAN. I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, +master, and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water +there, and the shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me +at night time. + +GILES. What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that the +heart of you be whole and unbroken? + +OLD MAN. Us poor old wretches don't carry no hearts to th' insides +of we. The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and +from the winter's cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind do +moan over the fields, and when the fox do bark. + +GILES. What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter set +against the cruel torment of a disappointed love? + +OLD MAN. I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be +got a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did +carry a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel +of them clean forgot. + +GILES. Then what do you up yonder at the marrying this morning? + +OLD MAN. Oh, I do take me to those places where there be burying or +marriage, for the hearts of folk at these seasons be warmed and +kinder, like. And 'tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food be +thrown out to the poor old dog what waits patient at the door. + +GILES. [Looks intently at him for a moment.] See here, old master. +I would fain strike a bargain with you. And 'tis with a handful of +golden pieces that I will pay your service. + +OLD MAN. Anything to oblige you, my young lord. + +GILES. [To GEORGE.] Take out a handful from the bag of gold. And +you, John, give him some of the silver. + +[GEORGE and JOHN untie their bags and take out gold and silver. They +twist it up in a handkerchief which they give to the old man.] + +OLD MAN. May all the blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, for +'tis plain to see that you be one of the greatest and finest +gentlemen ever born to the land. + +GILES. My good friend, you're wrong there, I was a poor country lad, +but I had the greatest treasure that a man could hold on this earth. +'Twas the love of my cousin Millie. And being poor, I was put from +out the home, and sent to seek my fortune in parts beyond the sea. + +OLD MAN. Now, who'd have thought 'twas so, for the looks of you be +gentle born all over. + +GILES. "Come back with a bushel of gold in one hand and one of +silver in t'other" the old farmer said to me, "and then maybe I'll +let you wed my daughter." + +OLD MAN. And here you be comed back, and there lie the gold and the +silver bags. + +GILES. And yonder is Millie given in marriage to another. + +GEORGE. 'Taint done yet, master. + +JOHN. 'Tisn't too late, by a long way, master. + +GILES. [To OLD MAN.] And so I would crave something of you, old +friend. Lend me your smock, and your big hat and your staff. In +that disguise I will go to the farm and look upon my poor false love +once more. If I find that her heart is already given to another, I +shall not make myself known to her. But if she still holds to her +love for me, then - + +GEORGE. Go in the fine clothes what you have upon you, master. And +even should the maid's heart, be given to another, the sight of so +grand a cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again. + +JOHN. Ah, that's so, it is. You go as you be clothed now, master. +I know what maids be, and 'tis finery and good coats which do work +more on the hearts of they nor anything else in the wide world. + +GILES. No, no, my lads. I will return as I did go from yonder. +Poor, and in mean clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth speak +one word for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite of +everything, my sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from +her. + +OLD MAN. [Taking off his hat.] Here you are master. + +[GILES hands his own hat to GEORGE. He then takes off his coat and +gives it to JOHN. The OLD MAN takes off his smock, GILES puts it on. + +OLD MAN. Pull the hat well down about the face of you, master, so as +the smooth skin of you be hid. + +GILES. [Turning round in his disguise.] How's that, my friends? + +GEORGE. You be a sight too straight in the back, master. + +GILES. [Stooping.] I'll soon better that. + +JOHN. Be you a-going in them fine buckled shoes, master? + +GILES. I had forgot the shoes. When I get near to the house 'tis +barefoot that I will go. + +GEORGE. Then let us be off, master, for the' time be running short. + +JOHN. Ah, that 'tis. I count it be close on noon-day now by the +look of the sun. + +OLD MAN. And heaven be with you, my young gentleman. + +GILES. My good friends, you shall go with me a little further. And +when we have come close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter +of a wood that I know of and await the signal I shall give you. + +GEORGE. And what'll that be, master? + +GILES. I shall blow three times, and loudly from my whistle, here. + +JOHN. And be we to come up to the farm when we hears you? + +GILES. As quickly as you can run. 'Twill be the sign that I need +all of you with me. + +GEORGE and JOHN. That's it, master. Us do understand what 'tis as +we have got to do. + +OLD MAR. Ah, 'tis best to be finished with hearts that beat to the +tune of a maid's tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads with +naught but them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th' inside. +So 'tis. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The parlour at Camel Farm. ELIZABETH, in her best dress, is moving +about the room putting chairs in their places and arranging ornaments +on the dresser, etc. MAY stands at the door with a large bunch of +flowers in her hands. + +ELIZABETH. And what do you want to run about in the garden for when +I've just smoothed your hair and got you all ready to go to church? + +MAY. I've only been helping Annet gather some flowers to put upon +the table. + +ELIZABETH. You should know better then. Didn't I tell you to sit +still in that chair with your hands folded nicely till we were ready +to start. + +MAY. Why, I couldn't be sitting there all the while, now could I, +Aunt? + +ELIZABETH. This'll be the last time as I tie your ribbon, mind. + +[She smoothes MAY's hair and ties it up for her. ANNET comes into +the room with more flowers. + +ELIZABETH. What's your cousin doing now, Annet? + +ANNET. The door of her room is still locked, Aunt. And what she +says is that she do want to bide alone there + +ELIZABETH. In all my days I never did hear tell of such a thing, I +don't know what's coming to the world, I don't. + +MAY. I count that Millie do like to be all to herself whilst she is +a-dressing up grand in her white gown, and the silken cloak and +bonnet. + +ANNET. Millie's not a-dressing of herself up. I heard her crying +pitiful as I was gathering flowers in the garden. + +ELIZABETH. Crying? She'll have something to cry about if she +doesn't look out, when her father comes in, and hears how she's a- +going on. + +MAY. I wonder why Cousin Millie's taking on like this. I shouldn't, +if 'twas me getting married. + +ELIZABETH. Look you, May, you get and run up, and knock at the door +and tell her that 'twill soon be time for us to set off to church and +that she have got to make haste in her dressing. + +MAY. I'll run, Aunt, only 'tis very likely as she'll not listen to +anything that I say. [MAY goes out. + +ELIZABETH. Now Annet, no idling here, if you please. Set the +nosegay in water, and when you've given a look round to see that +everything is in its place, upstairs with you, and on with your +bonnet, do you hear? Uncle won't wish to be kept waiting for you, +remember. + +ANNET. I'm all ready dressed, except for my bonnet, Aunt. 'Tis +Millie that's like to keep Uncle waiting this morning. [She goes +out. + +[DANIEL comes in. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother--well, girls--but, bless my soul, where's +Millie got to? + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not seen fit to shew herself this morning, +Father. She's biding up in her room with the door locked, and +nothing that I've been able to say has been attended to, so perhaps +you'll kindly have your try. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul--where's May? Where's Annet? Send one of the +little maids up to her, and tell her 'tis very nigh time for us to be +off. + +ELIZABETH. I'm fairly tired of sending up to her, Father. You'd +best go yourself. + +[MAY comes into the room. + +MAY. Please Aunt, the door, 'tis still locked, and Millie is crying +ever so sadly within, and she won't open to me, nor speak, nor +nothing. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father,--perhaps you'll believe what I tell you +another time. Millie has got that hardened and wayward, there's no +managing of her, there's not. + +DANIEL. Ah, 'twon't be very long as us'll have the managing of she. +'Twill be young Andrew as'll take she in hand after this day. + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis all very well to talk of young Andrew, but who's a- +going to get her to church with him I'd like to know. + +DANIEL. Why, 'tis me as'll do it, to be sure. + +ELIZABETH. Very well, Father, and we shall all be much obliged to +you. + +[DANIEL goes to the door and shouts up the stairs. + +DANIEL. Well, Millie, my wench. Come you down here. 'Tis time we +did set out. Do you hear me, Mill. 'Tis time we was off. + +[ELIZABETH waits listening. No answer comes. + +DANIEL. Don't you hear what I be saying, Mill? Come you down at +once. [There is no answer. + +DANIEL. Millie, there be Andrew a-waiting for to take you to church. +Come you down this minute. + +ELIZABETH. You'd best take sommat and go and break open the door, +Father. 'Tis the sensiblest thing as you can do, only you'd never +think of anything like that by yourself. + +DANIEL. I likes doing things my own way, Mother. Women-folk, they +be so buzzing. 'Tis like a lot of insects around of anyone on a +summer's day. A-saying this way and that--whilst a man do go at +anything quiet and calm-like. [ANNET comes in. + +ANNET. Please, Uncle, Millie says that she isn't coming down for no +one. + +DANIEL. [Roaring in fury.] What! What's that, my wench--isn't a- +coming down for no one? Hear that, Mother, hear that? I'll have +sommat to say to that, I will. [Going to the door. + +DANIEL. [Roaring up the stairs.] Hark you, Mill, down you comes +this moment else I'll smash the door right in, and that I will. + +[DANIEL comes back into the room, storming violently. + +DANIEL. Ah, 'tis a badly bred up wench is Millie, and her'd have +growed up very different if I'd a-had the bringing up of she. But +spoiled she is and spoiled her've always been, and what could anyone +look for from a filly what's been broke in by women folk! + +ELIZABETH. There, there, Father--there's no need to bluster in this +fashion. Take up the poker and go and break into the door quiet and +decent, like anyone else would do. And girls--off for your bonnets +this moment I tell you. + +[She takes up a poker and hands it to DANIEL, who mops his face and +goes slowly out and upstairs. ANNET and MAY leave the room. The +farmer is heard banging at the door of Millie's bedroom. + +[ELIZABETH moves about the room setting it in order. ANDREW comes in +at the door. He carries a bunch of flowers, which he lays on the +table. + +ANDREW. Good-morning to you, mistress. + +ELIZABETH. Good-morning, Andrew. + +ANDREW. What's going on upstairs? + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis Father at a little bit of carpentering. + +ANDREW. I'm come too soon, I reckon. + +ELIZABETH. We know what young men be upon their wedding morn! I +warrant as the clock can't run too fast for them at such a time. + +ANDREW. You're right there, mistress. But the clock have moved +powerful slow all these last few weeks--for look you here, 'tis a +month this day since I last set eyes on Mill or had a word from her +lips--so 'tis. + +ELIZABETH. You'll have enough words presently. Hark, she's coming +down with Father now. + +[ANDREW turns eagerly towards the door. The farmer enters with +MILLIE clinging to his arm, she wears her ordinary dress. Her hair +is ruffled and in disorder, and she has been crying. + +DANIEL. Andrew, my lad, good morning to you. + +ANDREW. Good morning, master. + +DANIEL. You mustn't mind a bit of an April shower, my boy. 'Tis the +way with all maids on their wedding morn. Isn't that so, Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn't make such a show of myself if I was you, Mill. +Go upstairs this minute and wash your face and smooth your hair and +put yourself ready for church. + +DANIEL. Nay, she be but just come from upstairs, Mother. Let her +bide quiet a while with young Andrew here; whilst do you come along +with me and get me out my Sunday coat. 'Tis time I was dressed for +church too, I'm thinking. + +ELIZABETH. I don't know what's come to the house this morning, and +that's the truth. Andrew, I'll not have you keep Millie beyond a +five minutes. 'Tis enough of one another as you'll get later on, +like. Father, go you off upstairs for your coat. 'Tis hard work for +me, getting you all to act respectable, that 'tis. + +[DANIEL and ELIZABETH leave the room. ANDREW moves near MILLIE and +holds out both his hands. She draws herself haughtily away. + +ANDREW. Millie--'tis our wedding day. + +MILLIE. And what if it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it cuts me to the heart to see your face all wet +with tears. + +MILLIE. Did you think to see it otherwise, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No smile upon your lips, Millie. + +MILLIE. Have I anything to smile about, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No love coming from your eyes, Mill. + +MILLIE. That you have never seen, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And all changed in the voice of you too. + +MILLIE. What do you mean by that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Listen, Millie--'tis a month since I last spoke with you. +Do you recollect? 'Twas the evening of the great Fair. + +MILLIE And what if it was? + +ANDREW. Millie, you were kinder to me that night than ever you had +been before. I seemed to see such a gentle look in your eyes then. +And when you spoke, 'twas as though--as though--well--'twas one of +they quists a-cooing up in the trees as I was put in mind of. + +MILLIE. Well, there's nothing more to be said about that now, +Andrew. That night's over and done with. + +ANDREW. I've carried the thought of it in my heart all this time, +Millie. + +MILLIE. I never asked you to, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I've brought you a nosegay of flowers, Mill. They be rare +blossoms with grand names what I can't recollect to all of them. + +[MILLIE takes the nosegay, looks at it for an instant, and then lets +it fall. + +MILLIE. I have no liking for flowers this day, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O Millie, and is it so as you and me are going to our +marriage? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew. 'Tis so. I never said it could be different. +I have no heart to give you. My love was given long ago to another. +And that other has forgotten me by now. + +ANDREW. O Millie, you shall forget him too when once you are wed to +me, I promise you. + +MILLIE. 'Tis beyond the power of you or any man to make me do that, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, what's the good of we two going on to church one +with t'other? + +MILLIE. There's no good at all, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, I could have sworn that you had begun to care sommat +more than ordinary for me that last time we were together. + +MILLIE. Then you could have sworn wrong. I care nothing for you, +Andrew, no, nothing. But I gave my word I'd go to church with you +and be wed. And--I'll not break my word, I'll not. + +ANDREW. And is this all that you can say to me to-day, Mill? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew, 'tis all. And now, 'tis very late, and I have +got to dress myself. + +ELIZABETH. [Calling loudly from above.] Millie, what are you +stopping for? Come you up here and get your gown on, do. + +[MILLIE looks haughtily at ANDREW as she passes him. She goes slowly +out of the room. + +[ANDREW picks up the flowers and stands holding them, looking +disconsolately down upon them. MAY comes in, furtively. + +MAY. All alone, Andrew? Has Millie gone to put her fine gown on? + +ANDREW. Yes, Millie's gone to dress herself. + +MAY. O that's a beautiful nosegay, Andrew. Was it brought for Mill? + +ANDREW. Yes, May, but she won't have it. + +MAY. Millie don't like you very much, Andrew, do she? + +ANDREW. Millie's got quite changed towards me since last time. + +MAY. And when was that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Why, last time was the evening of the Fair, May. + +MAY. When I was hid in the cupboard yonder, Andrew? + +ANDREW. So you were, May. Well, can't you recollect how 'twas that +she spoke to me then? + +MAY. O yes, Andrew, and that I can. 'Twas a quist a-cooing in the +tree one time--and then--she did recollect herself and did sharpen up +her tongue and 'twas another sort of bird what could drive its beak +into the flesh of anyone--so 'twas. + +ANDREW. O May--you say she did recollect herself--what do you mean +by those words? + +MAY. You see, she did give her word that she would speak sharp and +rough to you. + +ANDREW. What are you talking about, May? Do you mean that the +tongue of her was not speaking as the heart of her did feel? + +MAY. I guess 'twas sommat like that, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O May, you have gladdened me powerful by these words. + +MAY. But, O you must not tell of me, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I will never do so, May--only I shall know better how to be +patient, and to keep the spirit of me up next time that she do strike +out against me. + +MAY. I'm not a-talking of Mill, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Who are you talking of then, I'd like to know? + +MAY. 'Twas Annet. + +ANDREW. What was? + +MAY. Annet who was dressed up in the cloak and bonnet of Millie that +night and who did speak with you so gentle and nice. + +ANDREW. Annet! + +ELIZABETH. [Is heard calling.] There, father, come along down and +give your face a wash at the pump. + +MAY. Let's go quick together into the garden, Andrew, and I'll tell +you all about it and how 'twas that Annet acted so. + +[She seizes ANDREW'S hand and pulls him out of the room with her. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT III.--Scene 2. + + + +A few minutes later. + +ELIZABETH stands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror on +the wall. DANIEL is mopping his face with a big, bright +handkerchief. ANNET, dressed for church, is by the table. She sadly +takes up the nosegay of flowers which ANDREW brought for MILLIE, and +moves her hand caressingly over it. + +ELIZABETH. If you think that your neckerchief is put on right 'tis +time you should know different, Father. + +DANIEL. What's wrong with it then, I'd like to know? + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis altogether wrong. 'Tis like the two ears of a +heifer sticking out more than anything else that I can think on. + +DANIEL. Have it your own way, Mother--and fix it as you like. + +[He stands before her and she rearranges it. + +ANNET. These flowers were lying on the ground. + +ELIZABETH. Thrown there in a fine fit of temper, I warrant. + +DANIEL. Her was as quiet as a new born lamb once the door was broke +open and she did see as my word, well, 'twas my word. + +ELIZABETH. We all hear a great deal about your word, Father, but +'twould be better for there to be more do and less say about you. + +DANIEL. [Going over to Annet and looking at her intently.] Why, my +wench--what be you a-dropping tears for this day? + +ANNET. [Drying her eyes.] 'Twas--'twas the scent out of one of the +flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Well, that's a likely tale it is. Hear that, Mother? 'Tis +with her eyes that this little wench do snuff at a flower. That's +good, bain't it? + +ELIZABETH. I haven't patience with the wenches now-a-days. Lay down +that nosegay at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her room. I +warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now. + +DANIEL. Ah, I warrant as her'll need a smartish bit of time for to +take the creases out of the face of she. + +[ANDREW and MAY come in.] + +DANIEL. Well, Andrew, my lad, 'tis about time as we was on the way +to church I reckon. + +ANDREW. I count as 'tis full early yet, master. + +[He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the room to the +window where ANNET is standing, and trying to control her tears. + +ANDREW. Annet, Millie will have none of my blossoms. I should like +it well if you would carry them in your hand to church this day. + +ANNET. [Looking wonderingly at him.] Me, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Yes, you, Annet. For, look you, they become you well. They +have sommat of the sweetness of you in them. And the touch of them +is soft and gentle. And--I would like you to keep them in your hands +this day, Annet. + +ANNET. O Andrew, I never was given anything like this before. + +ANDREW. [Slowly.] I should like to give you a great deal more, +Annet--only I cannot. And 'tis got too late. + +ELIZABETH. Too late--I should think it was. What's come to the +maid! In my time girls didn't use to spend a quarter of the while +afore the glass as they do now. Suppose you was to holler for her +again, Father. + +DANIEL. Anything to please you, Mother - + +MAY. I hear her coming, Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk. + +[MILLIE comes slowly into the room in her wedding clothes. She holds +herself very upright and looks from one to another quietly and +coldly. + +MAY. Andrew's gived your nosegay to Annet, Millie. + +MILLIE. 'Twould have been a pity to have wasted the fresh blossoms. + +MAY. But they were gathered for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. Annet seems to like them better than I did. + +DANIEL. Well, my wench--you be tricked out as though you was off to +the horse show. Mother, there bain't no one as can beat our wench in +looks anywhere this side of the country. + +ELIZABETH. She's right enough in the clothing of her, but 'twould be +better if her looks did match the garments more. Come, Millie, can't +you appear pleasanter like on your wedding day? + +MILLIE. I'm very thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink of water +before we set out? + +ELIZABETH. And what next, I should like to know? + +MILLIE. 'Tis only a drink of water that I'm asking for. + +DANIEL. Well, that's reasonable, Mother, bain't it? + +ELIZABETH. Run along and get some for your cousin, May. [MAY runs +out of the room. + +DANIEL. Come you here, Andrew, did you ever see a wench to beat ourn +in looks, I say? + +ANDREW. [Who has remained near ANNET without moving.] 'Tis very +fine that Millie's looking. + +DANIEL. Fine, I should think 'twas. You was a fine looking wench, +Mother, the day I took you to church, but 'tis my belief that Millie +have beat you in the appearance of her same as the roan heifer did +beat th' old cow when the both was took along to market. Ah, and did +fetch very near the double of what I gived for the dam. + +[MAY returns carrying a glass bowl full of water. + +MAY. Here's a drink of cold water, Millie. I took it from the +spring. + +[MILLIE takes the bowl. At the same moment a loud knocking is heard +at the outside door. + +ELIZABETH. Who's that, I should like to know? + +[MILLIE sets down the bowl on the table. She listens with a sudden +intent, anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated. + +DANIEL. I'll learn anyone to come meddling with me on a day when +'tis marrying going on. + +[The knocking is again heard. + +MILLIE. [To MAY, who would have opened the door.] No, no. 'Tis I +who will open the door. + +[She raises the latch and flings the door wide open. GILES disguised +as a poor and bent old man, comes painfully into the room. + +ELIZABETH. We don't want no beggars nor roadsters here to-day, if +you please. + +DANIEL. Ah, and that us don't. Us be a wedding party here, and 'tis +for you to get moving on, old man. + +MILLIE. He is poor and old. And he has wandered far, in the heat of +the morning. Look at his sad clothing. + +ANDREW. [To ANNET.] I never heard her put so much gentleness to her +words afore. + +MILLIE. And 'tis my wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted from +here. + +ELIZABETH. I never knowed you so careful of a poor wretch afore, +Millie. 'Tis quite a new set out, this. + +MILLIE. I am in mind of another, who may be wandering, and hungered, +and in poor clothing this day. + +MAY. Give him something quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that we +can start for the wedding. + +MILLIE. [Coming close to GILES.] What is it I can do for you, +master? + +GILES. 'Tis only a drink of water that I ask, mistress. + +MILLIE. [Taking up the glass bowl.] Only a drink of water, master? +Then take, and be comforted. + +[She holds the bowl before him for him to drink. As he takes it, he +drops a ring into the water. He then drinks and hands the bowl back +to MILLIE. For a moment she gazes speechless at the bottom of the +bowl. Then she lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but +for MAY, who takes it from her. + +MILLIE. Master, from whom did you get this? + +GILES. Look well at the stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded +and dim. + +MILLIE. And not more clouded than the heart which is in me, master. +O do you bring me news? + +GILES. Is it not all too late for news, mistress? + +MILLIE. Not if it be the news for which my heart craves, master. + +GILES. And what would that be, mistress? + +[MILLIE goes to GILES, and with both hands slowly pushes back his big +hat and gazes at him. + +MILLIE. O Giles, my true love. You are come just in time. Another +hour and I should have been wed. + +GILES. And so you knew me, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Giles, no change of any sort could hide you from the eyes +of my love. + +GILES. Your love, Millie. And is that still mine? + +MILLIE. It always has been yours, Giles. O I will go with you so +gladly in poor clothing and in hunger all over the face of the earth. + +[She goes to him and clasps his arm; and, standing by his side, faces +all those in the room. + +ELIZABETH. [Angrily.] Please to come to your right senses, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, Andrew, set your foot down as I've set mine. + +ANDREW. Nay, master. There's naught left for me to say. The heart +does shew us better nor all words which way we have to travel. + +MAY. And are you going to marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, who +looks so brave and fine in his wedding clothes, Millie? + +MILLIE. I am going to marry him I have always loved, May--and--O +Andrew, I never bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard +words to you sometimes.--But you'll not remember me always--you will +find gladness too, some day. + +ANDREW. I count as I shall, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, come, I'll have none of this--my daughter wed to a +beggar off the highway! Mother, 'tis time you had a word here. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, I'll leave you to manage this affair. 'Tis +you who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and unruly, +and 'tis to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant position. + +MAY. Dear Millie--don't wed my brother Giles. Why, look at his +ragged smock and his bare feet. + +MILLIE. I shall be proud to go bare too, so long as I am by his +side, May. + +[GILES goes to the door and blows his whistle three times and loudly. + +MAY. What's that for, Giles? + +GILES. You shall soon see, little May. + +DANIEL. I'll be hanged if I'll stand any more of this caddling +nonsense. Here, Mill--the trap's come to the door. Into it with +you, I say. + +GILES. I beg you to wait a moment, master. + +DANIEL. Wait!--'Tis a sight too long as we have waited this day. If +all had been as I'd planned, we should have been to church by now. +But womenfolk, there be no depending on they. No, and that there +bain't. + +[GEORGE, JOHN and the OLD MAN come up. GEORGE and JOHN carry their +packets and the OLD MAN has GILES' coat and hat over his arm. + +ELIZABETH. And who are these persons, Giles? + +[GEORGE and JOHN set down their burdens on the floor and begin to mop +their faces. The OLD MAN stretches out his fine coat and hat and +buckled shoes to GILES. + +OLD MAN. Here they be, my lord, and I warrant as you'll feel more +homely like in they, nor what you've got upon you now. [GILES takes +the things from him. + +GILES. Thank you, old master. [He turns to MILLIE.] Let me go into +the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a +few moments. + +[He goes out. + +ELIZABETH. [To GEORGE.] And who may you be, I should like to know? +You appear to be making very free with my parlour. + +GEORGE. We be the servants what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis. + +ELIZABETH. Old Missis, indeed. Father, you shall speak to these +persons. + +DANIEL. Well, my men. I scarce do know whether I be a-standing on +my head or upon my heels, and that's the truth 'tis. + +GEORGE. Ah, and that I can well understand, master, for I'm a +married man myself, and my woman has a tongue to her head very +similar to that of th' old missis yonder--so I know what 'tis. + +ELIZABETH. Put them both out of the door, Father, do you hear me? +'Tis to the cider as they've been getting. That's clear. + +MILLIE. My good friends, what is it that you carry in those bundles +there? + +GEORGE. 'Tis gold in mine. + +JOHN. And silver here. + +ELIZABETH. Depend upon it 'tis two wicked thieves we have got among +us, flying from justice. + +MILLIE. No, no--did not you hear them say, their master is Giles. + +GEORGE. And a better master never trod the earth. + +JOHN. And a finer or a richer gentleman I never want to see. + +ELIZABETH. Do you hear that, Father? O you shocking liars--'tis +stolen goods that you've been and brought to our innocent house this +day. But, Father, do you up and fetch in the constable, do you hear? + +MAY. O I'll run. I shall love to see them going off to gaol. + +MILLIE. Be quiet, May. Can't you all see how 'tis. Giles has done +the cruel hard task set him by Father--and is back again with the +bushel of silver and that of gold to claim my hand. [GILES enters.] +But Giles--I'd have given it to you had you come to me poor and +forlorn and ragged, for my love has never wandered from you in all +this long time. + +ANDREW. No, Giles--and that it has not. Millie has never given me +one kind word nor one gentle look all the years that I've been +courting of her, and that's the truth. And you can call witness to +it if you care. + +GILES. Uncle, Aunt, I've done the task you set me years ago--and now +I claim my reward. I went from this house a poor wretch, with +nothing but the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain me. I +have returned with all that the world can give me of riches and +prosperity. Will you now let me be the husband of your daughter? + +MILLIE. O say ye, Uncle, for look how fine and grand he is in his +coat--and the bags are stuffed full to the brim and 'tis with gold +and silver. + +ELIZABETH. Well--'tis a respectabler end than I thought as you'd +come to, Giles. And different nor what you deserved. + +DANIEL. Come, come, Mother.--The fewer words to this, the better. +Giles, my boy--get you into the trap and take her along to the church +and drive smart. + +ANDREW. Annet--will you come there with me too? + +ANNET. O Andrew--what are you saying? + +DANIEL. Come, come. Where's the wind blowing from now? Here, +Mother, do you listen to this. + +ELIZABETH. I shall be deaf before I've done, but it appears to me +that Annet's not lost any time in making the most of her chances. + +DANIEL. Ah, and she be none the worse for that. 'Tis what we all +likes to do. Where'd I be in the market if I did let my chances blow +by me? Hear that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. I'm a rare lucky man this day, farmer. + +DANIEL. Ah, and 'tis a rare good little wench, Annet--though she +bain't so showy as our'n. A rare good little maid. And now 'tis +time we was all off to church, seeing as this is to be a case of +double harness like. + +MAY. O Annet, you can't be wed in that plain gown. + +ANNET. May, I'm so happy that I feel as though I were clothed all +over with jewels. + +ANDREW. Give me your hand, Annet. + +MAY. [Mockingly.] Millie--don't you want to give a drink of water +to yon poor old man? + +MILLIE. That I will, May? Here--fetch me something that's better +than water for him. + +ELIZABETH. I'll have no cider drinking out of meal times here. + +MILLIE. Then 'twill I have to be when we come back from church. + +OLD MAN. Bless you, my pretty lady, but I be used to waiting. I'll +just sit me down outside in the sun till you be man and wife. + +ELIZABETH. And that'll not be till this day next year if this sort +of thing goes on any longer. + +DANIEL. That's right, Mother. You take and lead the way. 'Tis the +womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. But I knows how to +settle with they--[roaring]--come Mill, come Giles, Andrew, Annet, +May. Come Mother, out of th' house with all of you and to church, I +say. + +[He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out of the +room. When they have gone, the OLD MAN sinks on a bench in the door- +way. + +OLD MAN. I'm done with all the foolishness of life and I can sit me +down and sleep till it be time to eat. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +BUSHES AND BRIARS + + + + +CHARACTERS + +THOMAS SPRING, a farmer, aged 35. +EMILY, his wife, the same age. +CLARA, his sister, aged 21. +JESSIE AND ROBIN, the children of Thomas and Emily, aged 10 and 8. +JOAN, maid to Clara. +MILES HOOPER, a rich draper. +LUKE JENNER, a farmer. +LORD LOVEL. +GEORGE, aged 28. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +A wood. It is a morning in June. + +GEORGE, carrying an empty basket, comes slowly through the wood. On +reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it, placing his basket on the +ground. With his stick he absently moves the grass and leaves that +lie before him, and is so deeply lost in his own thoughts that he +does not hear the approach of MILES and LUKE until they are by his +side. + +MILES. Here's the very man to tell us all we want to know. + +LUKE. Why, if 'tisn't George from Ox Lease. + +[GEORGE half rises. + +MILES. No, sit you down again, my lad, and we'll rest awhile by the +side of you. + +LUKE. That's it, Miles. Nothing couldn't have fallen out better for +us, I'm thinking. + +MILES. You're about right, Luke. Now, George, my man, we should +very much appreciate a few words with you. + +GEORGE. [Taking up his basket.] Morning baint the time for words, +masters. I count as words will keep till the set of sun. 'Tis +otherwise with work. + +MILES. Work, why, George, 'tis clear you are come out but to gather +flowers this morning. + +LUKE. 'Tis the very first time as ever I caught George an idling +away of his time like this. + +GEORGE. 'Tis over to Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch back a +couple of young chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets what +do lay. + +LUKE. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease +afore July was in. + +GEORGE. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. +But mistress, her says, you can't sit a maid from town at table +unless there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in their +feeding, maids from town, so mistress do say. + +MILES. That just brings us to our little matter, George. When is it +that you expect the young lady? + +GEORGE. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom +since yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come on +their own feet from where the morning coach do set them down. + +LUKE. Nay, but there's only one maid what's expected. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara, what's master's sister; and the serving wench of +she. + +MILES. Well, George, 'twas a great day for your master when old +Madam Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the +quality. + +GEORGE. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, +from the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place +where 'twas seeded. + +MILES. No, no, George, you don't know what you're talking about. A +little country wench may bloom into something very modish and +elegant, once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of +velvet and curtains of satin. You'll see. + +GEORGE. 'Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by +curtains, nor yet carpets, master. + +MILES. Take my word for it, George, Ox Lease will have to smarten up +a bit for this young lady. I know the circles she has been moving +in, and 'tis to the best of everything that she has been used. + +GEORGE. [Rising.] That's what mistress do say. And that's why I be +sent along down to Brook with haymaking going on and all. Spring +chicken with sparrow grass be the right feeding for such as they. So +mistress do count. + +MILES. Stop a moment, George. You have perhaps heard the letters +from Miss Clara discussed in the family from time to time. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara did never send but two letters home in all the +while she was gone. The first of them did tell as how th' old lady +was dead and had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. And the +second was to say as how her was coming back to the farm this +morning. + +LUKE. And hark you here, George, was naught mentioned about Miss +Clara's fine suitors in neither of them letters? + +GEORGE. That I cannot say, Master Jenner. + +MILES. Nothing of their swarming thick around her up in London, +George? + +GEORGE. They may be swarming by the thousand for aught as I do know. +They smells gold as honey bees do smell the blossom. Us'll have a +good few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we're many hours +older, so I counts. + +MILES. Well, George, that'll liven up the place a bit, I don't +doubt. + +LUKE. 'Tis a bit of quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do want. +Isn't that so, George, my lad? + +GEORGE. [Preparing to set off.] I'll say good morning to you, +masters. I count I've been and wasted a smartish time already on the +road. We be a bit hard pressed up at the farm this day. + +MILES. But George, my man, we have a good many questions to ask of +you before you set off. + +GEORGE. Them questions will have to bide till another time, I +reckon. I'm got late already, master. + +[He hurries off. + +MILES. Arriving by the morning coach! I shall certainly make my +call to the farm before sunset. What do you say, Jenner? + +LUKE. You're a rich man, Miles, and I am poor. But we have always +been friends. + +MILES. And our fathers before us, Luke. + +LUKE. And the courting of the same maid shall not come between us. + +MILES. [Slowly.] That'll be all right, Luke. + +LUKE. What I do say is, let's start fair. Neck to neck, like. + +MILES. As you please, my good Luke. + +LUKE. Then, do you tell me honest, shall I do in the clothes I'm a- +wearing of now, Miles? + +MILES. [Regarding him critically.] That neckerchief is not quite +the thing, Luke. + +LUKE. 'Tis my Sunday best. + +MILES. Step over to the High Street with me, my lad. I've got +something in the shop that will be the very thing. You shall have it +half price for 'tis only a bit damaged in one of the corners. + +LUKE. I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Miles. + +MILES. That's all right, Luke. + +LUKE. George would look better to my thinking if there was a new +coat to the back of him. + +MILES. Ah, poor beggar, he would, and no mistake. + +LUKE. I warrant as Emily do keep it afore him as how he was took in +from off the road by th' old farmer in his day. + +MILES. I flatter myself that I have a certain way with the ladies. +They come to me confidential like and I tell them what's what, and +how that, this or t'other is worn about town. But with Missis Spring +'tis different. That's a woman I could never get the right side of +no how. + +LUKE. Ah, poor Thomas! There's a man who goes down trod and hen +scratched if you like. + +MILES. 'Tis altogether a very poor place up at Ox Lease, for young +Miss. + +LUKE. [Pulling out his watch.] Time's slipping on. What if we were +to stroll on to the shop and see about my neckerchief, Miles? + +MILES. I'm sure I'm quite agreeable, Luke. 'Twill help to pass away +the morning. + +[He puts his arm in LUKE'S and they go briskly off in the direction +of the village. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 2. + + + +CLARA, followed by JOAN, comes through the wood. CLARA is dressed in +a long, rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with +feathers and ribbons. JOAN wears a cotton bonnet and small shawl. +She carries her mistress's silken bag over her arm. + +CLARA. [Pointing to the fallen tree.] There is the very resting +place for us. We will sit down under the trees for a while. [She +seats herself. + +JOAN. [Dusting the tree with her handkerchief before she sits on +it.] Have we much further to go, mistress? + +CLARA. Only a mile or two, so far as I can remember. + +JOAN. 'Tis rough work for the feet, down in these parts, mistress. + +CLARA. If London roads were paved with diamonds I'd sooner have my +feet treading this rugged way that leads to home. + +JOAN. What sort of a place shall we find it when we gets there, +mistress. + +CLARA. I was but seven when I left them all, Joan. And that is +fourteen years ago to-day. + +JOAN. So many years may bring about some powerful big changes, +mistress. + +CLARA. But I dream that I shall find all just as it was when I went +away. Only that Gran'ma won't be there. + +[There is a short silence during which CLARA seems lost in thought. +JOAN flicks the dust off her shoes with a branch of leaves. + +JOAN. 'Tis the coaches I do miss down in these parts. + +CLARA. I would not have driven one step of the way this morning, +Joan. In my fancy I have been walking up from the village and +through the wood and over the meadows since many a day. I have not +forgotten one turn of the path. + +JOAN. The road has not changed then, mistress? + +CLARA. No. But it does not seem quite so broad or so fine as I +remembered it to be. That is all. + +JOAN. And very likely the house won't seem so fine neither, +mistress, after the grand rooms which you have been used to. + +JOAN. What company shall we see there, mistress? + +CLARA. Well, there's Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily his wife. +Then the two children. + +CLARA. [After a short silence, and as though to herself.] And there +was George. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress + +CLARA. Georgie seemed so big and tall to me in those days. I wonder +how old he really was, when I was seven. + +JOAN. Would that be a younger brother of yours, like, mistress + +CLARA. No, George minded the horses and looked after the cows and +poultry. Sometimes he would drive me into market with him on a +Saturday. And in the evenings I would follow him down to the pool to +see the cattle watered. + +JOAN. I'm mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the +sight nor the sound of those animals. + +CLARA. You'll soon get over that, Joan. + +JOAN. And I don't care for poultry neither, very much. I goes full +of fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about. + +CLARA. [Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm.] There, do you see +this little scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese +when the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a +piece right out of my arm. + +JOAN. [Looking intently on the scar.] I have often seen that there +mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be living +along of the poultry still? + +CLARA. I wish he might be, Joan. + +JOAN. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall go +with our lives in our hands, as you might say. + +CLARA. [As though to herself.] When the days got colder, we would +sit under the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to me. +Some of his songs, I could say off by heart this day. + +JOAN. [Looking nervously upward.] O do look at that nasty little +thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever +put such a thing up in the tree I'd like to know. + +CLARA. [Brushing it gently aside.] That won't hurt you--a tiny +caterpillar. + +JOAN. [After a moment.] What more could the farm hand do, mistress? + +CLARA. He would clasp on his bells and dance in the Morris on +certain days, Joan. + +JOAN. 'Tis to be hoped as there'll be some dancing or something to +liven us all up a bit down here. + +CLARA. Why, Joan, I believe you're tired already of the country. + +JOAN. 'Tis so powerful quiet and heavy like, mistress. + +CLARA. 'Tis full of sounds. Listen to the doves in the trees and +the lambs calling from the meadow. + +JOAN. I'd sooner have the wheels of the coaches and the cries upon +the street, and the door bell a ringing every moment and fine +gentlemen and ladies being shewn up into the parlour. + +CLARA. [Stretching out her arms.] O how glad I am to be free of all +that. And most of all, how glad to be ridded of one person. + +JOAN. His lordship will perhaps follow us down here, mistress. + +CLARA. No, I have forbidden it. I must have a month of quiet, and +he is to wait that time for his answer. + +JOAN. O mistress, you'll never disappoint so fine a gentleman. + +CLARA. You forget that Lord Lovel and I have played together as +children. It is as a brother that I look upon him. + +JOAN. His lordship don't look upon you as a sister, mistress. + +CLARA. [Rising.] That is a pity, Joan. But see, it is getting late +and we must be moving onwards. + +[JOAN rises and smoothes and shakes out her skirt. + +CLARA. Here, loosen my cloak, Joan, and untie the ribbons of my +bonnet. + +JOAN. O mistress, keep the pretty clothes upon you till you have got +to the house. + +CLARA. No, no--such town garments are not suited to the woods and +meadows. I want to feel the country breeze upon my head, and my +limbs must be free from the weight of the cloak. I had these things +upon me during the coach journey. They are filled with road dust and +I dislike them now. + +JOAN. [Unfastening the cloak and untying the bonnet.] They are +fresh and bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning. + +CLARA. [Retying a blue ribbon which she wears in her hair.] I have +taken a dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire them, they +shall be yours. + +JOAN. Mine? The French bonnet and the satin cloak? + +CLARA. To comfort you for the pains of the country, Joan. + +JOAN. O mistress, let us stop a moment longer in this quiet place so +that I may slip them on and see how they become me. + +CLARA. As you will. Listen, that is the cuckoo singing. + +JOAN. [Throwing off her cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing herself +hastily in the bonnet and cloak.] O what must it feel like to be a +grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time. + +CLARA. I am very glad to be without them for a while. How good the +air feels on my head. + +JOAN. There, mistress, how do I look? + +CLARA. Very nicely, Joan. So nicely that if you like, you may keep +them upon you for the remainder of the way. + +JOAN. O mistress, may I really do so? + +CLARA. Yes. And Joan, do you go onwards to the farm by the quickest +path which is through this wood and across the high road. Anyone +will shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander about in +some of the meadows which I remember. But I will join you all in +good time. + +JOAN. Very well, mistress. If I set off in a few moments it will +do, I suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself as I am +now, in the little glass which you carry in your silk bag. + +CLARA. [Going off.] Don't spend too much time looking at what will +be shewn you, Joan. + +JOAN. Never fear, mistress. I'll be there afore you, if I have to +run all the way. [CLARA wanders off. + +[JOAN sits down again on the trunk of the fallen tree. She opens the +silken bag, draws out a small hand glass and looks long and steadily +at her own reflection. Then she glances furtively around and, seeing +that she is quite alone, she takes a small powder box from the bag +and hastily opening it, she gives her face several hurried touches +with the powder puff. + +JOAN. [Surveying the effect in the glass.] Just to take off the +brown of my freckles. Now if any one was to come upon me sitting +here they wouldn't know as I was other than a real, high lady. All +covered with this nice cloak as I be, the French bonnet on my head, +and powder to my face, who's to tell the difference? But O--these +must be hid first. + +[She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the ground. She +hastily rolls them up in a small bundle and stuffs them into the +silken bag. Then she takes up the glass and surveys herself again. + +JOAN. How should I act now if some grand gentleman was to come up +and commence talking to me? Perhaps he might even take me for a lady +of title in these fine clothes, and 'twould be a pity to have to +undeceive him. + +[She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then lowers the +lace veil over her face. + +[MILES and LUKE come slowly up behind her. MILES nudges LUKE with +his elbow, signing to him to remain where he is whilst he steps +forward in front of JOAN. + +MILES. Pardon me, madam, but you appear to have mistook the way. +Allow me to set you on the right path for Ox Lease. + +JOAN. [Letting the mirror fall on her lap and speaking very low.] +How do you know I am going to Ox Lease, sir? + +MILES. You see, madam, I happen to know that a stylish young miss +from town is expected there to-day. + +LUKE. [Coming forward and speaking in a loud whisper.] Now Miles. +I count as you made one of the biggest blunders of the time. Our +young lady be journeying along of her servant wench. This one baint +she. + +MILES. If we have made a small error, madam, allow me to beg your +pardon. + +JOAN. Don't mention it, sir. Everyone is mistaken sometimes. + +LUKE. Well, I'm powerful sorry if we have given any offence, mam. + +JOAN. [Looking up at LUKE with sudden boldness and speaking in a +slow, affected voice.] There's nothing to make so much trouble +about, sir. + +MILES. Can we be of any assistance to you, madam? The wood may +appear rather dense at this point. + +JOAN. That it does. Dense and dark--and the pathway! My goodness, +but my feet have never travelled over such rough ground before. + +Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt that the delicate +texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by our stones and ruts. + +JOAN. [Insensibly pulling her skirts over her thick walking shoes.] +Well, it's vastly different to London streets, where I generally take +exercise--at least when I'm not a-riding in the coach. + +MILES. The country is but a sad place at the best, Miss Clara +Spring. + +JOAN. [Looking round furtively and speaking in a whisper.] O, how +did you guess my--my name? + +LUKE. Come, 'twasn't a hard matter, that. + +MILES. Missey can command my services. + +JOAN. [Rallying, and standing up.] Then gentlemen, do you walk a +bit of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation as we go +along. + +LUKE. [Offering his arm.] You take my arm, Miss Clara--do--. + +MILES. [Also offering his arm.] I shall also give myself the +pleasure of supporting Miss. + +JOAN. [Taking an arm of each.] O thank you, kindly gentlemen. Now +we shall journey very comfortably, I am sure. + +[They all set out walking in the direction of the farm. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm. There are three doors. One opens to +the staircase, one to the garden and a third into the back kitchen. +At a table in the middle of the room EMILY stands ironing some net +window curtains. JESSIE and ROBIN lean against the table watching +her. By the open doorway, looking out on the garden, stands THOMAS, +a mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread in the other. +As he talks, he takes alternate drinks and bites. + +EMILY. [Speaking in a shrill, angry voice.] Now Thomas, suppose you +was to take that there bread a step further away and eat it in the +garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling it all over my clean +floor. + +THOMAS. Don't you be so testy, Emily. The dogs'll lick the crumbs +up as clean as you like presently. + +EMILY. Dogs? I'd like to see the dog as'll shew its nose in here +to-day when I've got it all cleaned up against the coming of fine +young madam. + +THOMAS. [Finishing his bread and looking wistfully at his empty +hand.] The little maid'll take a brush and sweep up her daddy's +crumbs, now, won't her? + +EMILY. I'll give it to any one who goes meddling in my brush +cupboard now that I've just put all in order against the prying and +nozzling of the good-for-nothing baggage what's coming along with +your sister. + +ROBIN. What's baggage, Mother? + +EMILY. [Sharply.] Never you mind. Get and take your elbow off my +ironing sheet. + +JESSIE. [Looking at her father.] I count as you'd like a piece more +bread, Dad? + +THOMAS. Well, I don't say but 'twouldn't come amiss. 'Tis hungry +work in th' hayfield. And us be to go without our dinners this day, +isn't that so, Emily? + +EMILY. [Slamming down her iron on the stand.] If I've told you +once, I've told you twenty times, 'twas but the one pair of hands as +I was gived at birth. Now, what have you got to say against that, +Thomas? + +THOMAS. [Sheepishly.] I'm sure I don't know. + +EMILY. And if so be as I'm to clean and wash and cook, and run, and +wait, and scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other folk +must go without hot cooking at mid-day. + +THOMAS. [Faintly.] 'Twasn't nothing cooked, like. 'Twas a bit of +bread as I did ask for. + +JESSIE. [Getting up.] I'll get it for you, Dad. I know where the +loaf bides and the knife too. I'll cut you, O such a large piece. + +EMILY. [Seizing her roughly by the hand.] You'll do nothing of the +sort. You'll take this here cold iron into Maggie and you'll bring +back one that is hot. How am I to get these curtains finished and +hung and all, by the time the dressed up parrots come sailing in, I'd +like to know. + +[JESSIE runs away with the iron. + +THOMAS. [Setting down his mug and coming to the table.] I'd leave +the windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form the +suitablest shade for they, to my thinking. + +EMILY. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, take your +hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs +shewing all over the clean net what I've washed and dried and ironed, +and been a-messing about with since 'twas light? + +THOMAS. Now that's what I be trying for to say. There's no need for +you to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of +little Clara coming back. Home's home. And 'twon't be neither the +curtains nor the hot dinner as Clara will be thinking of when her +steps into th' old place once more. + +JESSIE. [Running back with the hot iron which she sets down on the +table.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad? + +THOMAS. [Shy and abashed under a withering glance from EMILY who has +taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net.] Her'll +remember, very like, how 'twas when her left--some fourteen year ago. +And her'll have her eyes on Gran'ma's chair, what's empty. + +ROBIN. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what's +for dinner. + +THOMAS. And her'll look up to th' old clock, and different things +what's still in their places. The grand parts where she have been +bred up will be forgot. 'Twill be only home as her'll think on. + +EMILY. I haven't patience to listen to such stuff. + +THOMAS. [After a pause.] I count that 'tisn't likely as a young +woman what's been left riches as Clara have, would choose to make her +home along of such as we for always, like. + +EMILY. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, but +when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank +you, Thomas, I'm not going to do it. + +ROBIN. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother. + +JESSIE. What are spangled plumes, Mother? + +EMILY. [Viciously.] You'll see plenty of them presently. + +ROBIN. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she? + +[A slight pause during which EMILY irons vigorously. + +EMILY. [As she irons.] Some folk have all the honey. It do trickle +from the mouths of them and down to the ground. + +ROBIN. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then? + +EMILY. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts and +the vinegar. + +JESSIE. Like you, Mother--Least, that's what Maggie said this +morning. + +EMILY. What's that? + +JESSIE. That 'twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, +Mother. + +EMILY. I'll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she +can't fetch them out respectful like. [Shouting.] Mag, come you +here this minute--what are you after now, I'd like to know, you ugly, +idle piece of mischief? + +[MAGGIE, wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen. + +MAGGIE. Was you calling, mistress? + +EMILY. What's this you've got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like +to know. + +JESSIE. [Running to MAGGIE and laying her hand on her arm.] Dear +Maggie, 'tis only what you did tell about poor mother's tongue being +in the vinegar jar. + +MAGGIE. O Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. Hark you here, my girl--if 'twasn't hay time you should +bundle up your rags and off with you this minute. But as 'tis +awkward being short of a pair of hands just now, you'll bide a week +or two and then you'll get outside of my door with no more character +to you nor what I took you with. + +THOMAS. Come, come Emily. The girl's a good one for to work, and +that she is. + +EMILY. Be quiet, Thomas. This is my business, and you'll please to +keep your words till they're wanted. + +MAGGIE. O mistress, I didn't mean no harm, I didn't. + +EMILY. I don't want no words nor no tears neither. + +MAGGIE. [Beginning to cry loudly.] I be the only girl as have +stopped with you more nor a month, I be. T'others wouldn't bide a +day, some of them. + +EMILY. Be quiet. Back to your work with you. And when the hay is +all carried, off with you, ungrateful minx, to where you came from. + +JESSIE. O let us keep her always, Mother, she's kind. + +ROBIN. Don't you cry, Mag. I'll marry you when I'm a big man like +Daddy. + +THOMAS. Harken to them, Emily! She's been a good maid to the +children. I'd not part with any one so hasty, if 'twas me. + +EMILY. [Very angrily.] When I want your opinion, Thomas, I'll ask +for it. Suppose you was to go out and see after something which you +do understand. + +THOMAS. O I'll go down to the field fast enough, I can tell you. +'Twas only being hungered as drove me into the hornets' nest, as you +might say. + +EMILY. [Ironing fiercely.] What's that? + +THOMAS. Nothing. I did only say as I was a-going back to the field +when George do come home. + +EMILY. There again. Did you ever know the man to be so slow before. +I warrant as he have gone drinking or mischiefing down at the Spotted +Cow instead of coming straight home with they chicken. + +THOMAS. Nay, nay. George is not the lad to do a thing like that. A +quieter more well bred up lad nor George never trod in shoes. + +EMILY [Glancing at MAGGIE.] What are you tossing your head like that +for, Maggie? Please to recollect as you're a lazy, good-for-nothing +little slut of a maid servant, and not a circus pony all decked out +for the show. + +JESSIE. Maggie's fond of Georgie. And Georgie's kind to Mag. + +MAGGIE. [Fearfully.] O don't, Miss Jessie, for goodness sake. + +EMILY. [Viciously.] I'll soon put an end to anything in that +quarter. + +THOMAS. Now, Emily--take it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara upon us +before us knows where we are. + +EMILY. [Folding the curtains.] I'll settle her too, if she comes +before I'm ready for her. + +ROBIN. [Pointing through the open.] There's George, coming with the +basket. + +[GEORGE comes into the room. He carefully rubs his feet on the mat +as he enters. Then he advances to the table. MAGGIE dries her eyes +with the back of her hand. JESSIE is standing with her arm in +MAGGIE'S. + +EMILY. Well, and where have you been all this while, I'd like to +know? + +GEORGE. To Brook Farm, mam, and home. + +EMILY. You've been up to some mischief on the way, I warrant. + +THOMAS. Come, Emily. + +[GEORGE looks calmly into EMILY'S face. Then his gaze travels +leisurely round the room. + +GEORGE. I was kept waiting while they did pluck and dress the +chicken. + +EMILY. [Lifting the cloth covering the basket, and looking within +it.] I'd best have gone myself. Of all the thick-headed men I ever +did see, you're the thickest. Upon my word you are. + +GEORGE. What's wrong now, mistress? + +EMILY. 'Taint chicken at all what you've been and fetched me. + +GEORGE. I'll be blowed if I do know what 'tis then. + +EMILY. If I'd been given a four arms and legs at birth same as th' +horses, I'd have left a pair of them at home and gone and done the +job myself, I would. And then you should see what I'd have brought +back. + +GEORGE. You can't better what I've got here. From the weight it +might be two fat capons. So it might. + +EMILY. [Seizing the basket roughly.] Here, Mag, off into the pantry +with them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the road ditch would +have done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with these clean curtains +and lay them careful on the bed. I'll put them to the windows later. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, did you meet with any one on the way, like? + +EMILY. You'd best ask no questions if you don't want to be served +with lies, Thomas. + +GEORGE. [Throwing a glance of disdain at EMILY.] Miles Hooper and +Farmer Jenner was taking the air 'long of one another in the wood, +master. + +THOMAS. Miles Hooper and Luke a-taking of the air, and of a weekday +morning! + +GEORGE. That they was, master. And they did stop I - + +EMILY. Ah, now you've got it, Thomas. Now we shall know why George +was upon the road the best part of the day and me kept waiting for +the chicken. + +GEORGE. [Steadily.] Sunday clothes to the back of both of them. +And, when was Miss Clara expected up at home. + +THOMAS. Ah, 'tis a fair commotion all over these parts already, I +warrant. There wasn't nothing else spoke of in market last time, but +how as sister Clara with all her money was to come home. + +JESSIE. [Coming back.] I've laid the curtains on the bed, shall I +gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother? + +EMILY. I'd like to see you! Flowers in the bedroom? I never heard +tell of such senseless goings on. What next, I'd like to know? + +GEORGE. Miss Clara always did fill a mug of clover blooms and set it +aside of her bed when her was a little thing--so high. + +JESSIE. Do you remember our fine aunt, then, Georgie? + +GEORGE. I remembers Miss Clara right enough. + +EMILY. Don't you flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy piece of +town goods will trouble herself to remember you. + +THOMAS. The little maid had a good enough heart to her afore she was +took away from us. + +JESSIE. Do you think our aunt Clara has growed into a coxsy town +lady, George? + +GEORGE. No, I do not, Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. [Beginning to stir about noisily as she sets the kitchen in +order.] Get off with you to the field, Thomas, can't you. I've had +enough to do as 'tis without a great hulking man standing about and +taking up all the room. + +THOMAS. Come, George, us'll clear out down to th' hay field, and +snatch a bite as we do go. + +GEORGE. That's it, master. + +EMILY. [Calling angrily after them.] There's no dinner for no one +to-day, I tell you. + +[THOMAS and GEORGE go out of the back kitchen door. EMILY begins +putting the irons away, folding up the ironing sheet and setting the +chairs back against the wall. + +[JESSIE and ROBIN, from their places at the table, watch her +intently. + +EMILY. [As she moves about.] 'Twouldn't be half the upset if the +wench was coming by herself, but to have a hussy of a serving maid +sticking about in the rooms along of us, is more nor I can stand. + +[She begins violently to sweep up the hearth. + +[Steps are heard outside. + +JESSIE. Hark, what's that, mother? + +EMILY. I'll give it to any one who wants to come in here. + +JESSIE. [Running to the open door.] They're coming up the path. +'Tis our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen either side of she. + +ROBIN. [Running also to the door.] O I want to look on her too. + +EMILY. [Putting the broom in a corner.] 'Tis no end to the +vexation. But she'll have to wait on herself. I've no time to play +the dancing bear. And that I've not. + +[JOAN, between MILES HOOPER and LUKE JENNER, comes up to the open +door. + +MILES. [To Jessie.] See here, my little maid, what'll you give +Mister Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe up to the farm? + +JESSIE. I know who 'tis you've brought. 'Tis my Aunt Clara. + +LUKE. You're a smart little wench, if ever there was one. + +ROBIN. I know who 'tis, too, 'cause of the spangled plumes in the +bonnet of she. Mother said as there'd be some. + +EMILY. [Coming forward.] Well, Clara, if 'twas by the morning coach +as you did come, you're late. If 'twas by th' evening one, you're +too soon by a good few hours. + +MILES. Having come by the morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant +fancy to stroll here through the woodlands, Missis Spring. + +LUKE. Ah, and 'twas lost on the way as we did find her, like a +strayed sheep. + +MILES. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer +safely home. + +EMILY. [Scornfully looking JOAN over from head to foot.] Where's +that serving wench of yours got to, Clara? + +MILES. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent her maid +on by another road. + +EMILY. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have found +something of mischief for her idle hands to do. + +MILES. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat +fatigued by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately +framed, Missis Spring. + +EMILY. [Pointing ungraciously.] There's chairs right in front of +you. + +[MILES and LUKE lead JOAN forward, placing her in an armchair with +every attention. JOAN sinks into it, and, taking a little fan from +the silken bag on her arm, begins to fan herself violently. + +EMILY. [Watching her with fierce contempt.] Maybe as you'd like my +kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine +maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it +concerns her to attend to. + +JOAN. [Faintly.] O no, thank you. The day is rather warm--that's +all. + +EMILY. Warm, I should think it was warm in under of that great white +curtain. + +JESSIE. Aunt Clara, I'm Jessie. + +JOAN. Are you, my dear? + +ROBIN. And I'm Robin. + +MILES. Now, I wager, if you are both good little children, this +pretty lady will give you each a kiss. + +JOAN. [Faintly.] To be sure I will. + +JESSIE. Then you'll have to take off that white thing from your +face. 'Tis like what mother do spread over the currant bushes to +keep the birds from the fruit. + +[JOAN slowly raises her veil, showing her face. + +JESSIE. Shall I give you a kiss, Aunt? + +EMILY. I'd be careful if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies be brittle as +fine china. + +JESSIE. O I'll kiss her very lightly, Mother. + +[She goes up to JOAN and kisses her. ROBIN then reaches up his face +and JOAN kisses him. + +ROBIN. [Rubbing his mouth.] The flour do come from Aunt same as it +does from a new loaf. + +MILES. [To JOAN.] You must pardon these ignorant little country +brats, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. O there's nothing amiss, thank you. + +EMILY. Amiss, who said as there was? When folks what can afford to +lodge at the inn do come down and fasten theirselves on the top of +poor people, they must take things as they do find them and not start +grumbling at the first set off. + +LUKE. There, there, Missis Spring. There wasn't naught said about +grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long distance, and it +behoves us all as she should find summat of a welcome at the end of +her journey, like. + +MILES. [Aside to JOAN.] How strange this country tongue must fall +on your ears, Miss Clara! + +JOAN. I don't understand about half of what they say. + +EMILY. [Overhearing her.] O, you don't, don't you. Well, Clara, I +was always one for plain words, and I say 'tis a pity when folks do +get above the position to which they was bred, and for all the fine +satins and plumes upon you, the body what's covered by them belongs +to Clara Spring, what's sister to Thomas. And all the world knows +what Thomas is--A poor, mean spirited, humble born man with but two +coats to the back of him, and with not a thought to the mind of him +which is not foolishness. And I judge from by what they be in birth, +and not by the bags of gold what have been left them by any old +madams in their dotage. So now you see how I takes it all and you +and me can start fair, like. + +JOAN. [To LUKE.] O Mister--Mister Jenner, I feel so faint. + +MILES. [Taking her fan.] Allow me. [He begins to fan her.] I +assure you she means nothing by it. It's her way. You see, she +knows no better. + +LUKE. I'd fetch out summat for her to eat if I was you, missis. +'Tis famished as the poor young maid must be. + +EMILY. She should have come when 'twas meal time then. I don't hold +with bites nor drinks in between whiles. + +JOAN. O I'm dying for a glass of milk--or water would do as well. + +MILES. My dear young lady--anything to oblige. [Turning to Jessie.] +Come, my little maid, see if you can't make yourself useful in +bringing a tray of refreshment for your auntie. And you [turning to +Robin] trot off and help sister. + +EMILY. Not if I know it. Stop where you are, Jess. Robin, you dare +to move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I'm afeared she must wait +till supper time. + +ROBIN. There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt. + +JESSIE. And a great pie of gooseberries. + +JOAN. [Faintly.] O I couldn't touch a mouthful of food, don't speak +to me about it. + +ROBIN. I likes talking of dinner. After I've done eating of it, I +likes next best to talk about it. + +LUKE. See here, missis. Let's have a glass of summat cool for Miss +Clara. + +EMILY. [Calling angrily.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great +lazy-boned donkey? + +MAGGIE. [Comes in from the back kitchen, her apron held to her +eyes.] Did you call me, mistress? + +EMILY. Get up a bucket of water from the well. Master's sister +wants a drink. + +MAGGIE. [Between sobs.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would +the young lady like it in a jug? + +EMILY. [With exasperation.] There's no end to the worriting that +other folks do make. + +JESSIE. Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother. + +ROBIN. [To JOAN.] Do you know what Maggie's crying for, Aunt Clara? + +JOAN. I'm sure I don't, little boy. + +ROBIN. 'Tis because she's got to go. Mother's sent her off. 'Twas +what she said of mother's tongue. + +EMILY. [Roughly taking hold of ROBIN and JESSIE.] Come you along +with me, you ill-behaved little varmints. 'Tis the back kitchen and +the serving maid as is the properest place for such as you. I'll not +have you bide 'mongst the company no longer. [She goes out with the +children and followed by MAGGIE.] + +[Directly they have left the room JOAN, whose manner has been +nervously shrinking, seems to recover herself and she assumes a +languid, artificial air, badly imitating the ways of a lady of +fashion. + +JOAN. [Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan.] Well, I +never did meet with such goings on before. + +MILES. You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, Miss +Clara. We must not expect to find the same polite ways down here. + +LUKE. Come now, 'tisn't so bad as all that with we. There baint +many what has the tongue of mistress yonder. + +JOAN. I'm quite unused to such people. + +LUKE. And yet, Miss Clara, 'tisn't as though they were exactly +strangers to you like. + +JOAN. They feel as good as strangers to me, any way. + +MILES. Ah, how well I understand that, Miss. 'Tisn't very often as +we lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at +my counters. + +JOAN. I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn't feel so +terrible faint and sinking. + +LUKE. [Going to the back kitchen door.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself +up a bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count. + +JESSIE. [Runs in with a tray on which is a jug of water and a +glass.] I'm bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. Maggie's +crying ever so badly, and Mother's sent her upstairs to wash her face +and put her hair tidy. + +[JESSIE puts the tray on the table near to where JOAN is sitting. +MILES HOOFER busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in +handing it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to JOAN. + +JOAN. [Drinking.] Such a coarse glass! + +MILES. Ah, you must let me send you up one from my place during your +stay here. Who could expect a lady to drink from such a thing as +that? + +JOAN. [Laying aside the glass.] There's a taste of mould in the +water too. + +JESSIE. It's fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, she did. + +JOAN. [Looking disdainfully round on the room.] Such a strange +room. So very common. + +LUKE. Nay, you mustn't judge of the house by this. Don't you +recollect the parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds and the chiney +cupboard? + +JOAN. [Looking round again.] Such an old-fashioned place as this I +never did see. 'Tis a low sort of room too, no carpet on the boards +nor cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant. + +MILES. Ah, we find the mansions in town very different to a country +farm house, don't we Miss? + +JOAN. I should think we did, Mister Hooper. Why, look at that great +old wooden chair by the hearth? Don't it look un-stylish, upon my +word, with no cushions to it nor nothing. + +JESSIE. [Coming quite close to JOAN and looking straight into her +face.] That's great gran'ma's chair, what Dad said you'd be best +pleased for to see. + +[JOAN looks very confused and begins to fan herself hastily. + +JESSIE. And th' old clock's another thing what Dad did say as you'd +look upon. + +JOAN. O the old clock's well enough, to be sure. + +JESSIE. I did want to gather a nosegay of flowers to set in your +bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, she said, no. + +JOAN. [Languidly.] I must say I don't see any flowers blooming here +that I should particular care about having in my apartment. + +JESSIE. And Father said as how you'd like to smell the blossoms in +the garden. And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the clover +blooms when you was a little girl and set them by you where you did +sleep. + +JOAN. [Crossly.] O run away, child, I'm tired to death with all +this chatter. How would you like to be so pestered after such a +travel over the rough country roads as I have had? + +LUKE. Now, my little maid, off you go. Take back the tray to +Mother, and be careful as you don't break the glasses on it. + +JESSIE. [Taking up the tray.] I'm off to play in the hayfield along +of Robin, then. + +[LUKE opens the back kitchen door for her and she goes out. +Meanwhile MILES has taken up the fan and is fanning JOAN, who leans +back in her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look. + +LUKE. [Coming to her side and sitting down.] 'Twill seem more +homelike when Thomas do come up from the field. + +JOAN. [Raising herself and looking at him.] You mustn't trouble +about me, Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable presently. + +[The back door opens and MAGGIE comes hurriedly in. + +MAGGIE. Please, mistress, there be a young person a-coming through +the rick yard. + +JOAN. [Nervously.] A young person? + +MAGGIE. Mistress be at the gooseberries a-gathering of them, and the +children be gone off to th' hay field. + +MILES. 'Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch +the young woman in to you? + +JOAN. My maid, did you say? My maid? + +LUKE. Ah, depend on it, 'tis she. + +MAGGIE. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, +mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white +handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes +and a-calling of the geese and poultry. + +LUKE. That's her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag. + +JOAN. [Agitatedly.] No, no--I mean--I want to see her particular-- +and alone. I'll go to meet her. You--gentlemen--[MAGGIE goes slowly +into the back kitchen. + +MILES. [Placing a chair for JOAN.] Delicate ladies should not +venture out into the heat at this time of day. + +JOAN. [With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going to the +window.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the +garden. I have need of the services of my--my young woman. But when +she has put me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask you to +be good enough to come back and while away an hour for me in this sad +place. + +MILES. [Fervently.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss. + +LUKE. That's right. Us'll wait while you do lay aside your bonnet. + +[MILES and LUKE go out through the garden door. MILES, turning to +bow low before he disappears. JOAN stands as though distraught in +the middle of the room. Through the open door of the back kitchen +the voices of CLARA and MAGGIE are distinctly heard. + +CLARA. Is no one at home then? + +MAGGIE. Ah, go you straight on into the kitchen, you'll find whom +you be searching for in there. I'd take and shew you in myself only +I'm wanted down to th' hayfield now. + +CLARA. Don't put yourself to any trouble about me. I know my way. + +[CLARA comes into the kitchen. She has tied a white handkerchief +over her head, and carries a bunch of wildflowers in her hands. + +CLARA. Still in your cloak and bonnet! Why, I thought by now you +would have unpacked our things and made yourself at home. + +JOAN. [Joining her hands supplicatingly and coming towards CLARA, +speaking almost in a whisper.] O mistress, you'll never guess what +I've been and done. But 'twasn't all my fault at the commencement. + +CLARA. [Looking her over searchingly.] You do look very disturbed, +Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. 'Twas the fine bonnet and cloak, mam. 'Twas they as did it. + +CLARA. Did what? + +JOAN. Put the thought into my head, like. + +CLARA. What thought? + +JOAN. As how 'twould feel to be a real grand lady, like you, +mistress. + +CLARA. What then, Joan? + +JOAN. So I began to pretend all to myself as how that I was one, +mistress. + +CLARA. Come, tell me all. + +JOAN. And whilst I was sat down upon that fallen tree, and sort of +pretending to myself, the two gentlemen came along. + +CLARA. What gentlemen? + +JOAN. Gentlemen as was after courting you, mistress. + +CLARA. Courting me? + +JOAN. Yes, and they commenced speaking so nice and respectful like. + +CLARA. Go on, Joan, don't be afraid. + +JOAN. It did seem to fall in with the game I was a-playing with +myself. And then, before I did know how, 'twas they was both of them +a-taking me for you, mam. + +CLARA. And did you not un-deceive them, Joan? + +JOAN. [Very ashamedly.] No, mam. + +CLARA. You should have told them the truth about yourself at once. + +JOAN. O I know I should have, mistress. But there was something as +held me back when I would have spoke the words. + +CLARA. I wonder what that could have been? + +JOAN. 'Twas them being such very nice and kind gentlemen. And, O +mistress, you'll not understand it, because you've told me many times +as the heart within you have never been touched by love. + +CLARA. [Suddenly sitting down.] And has yours been touched to-day, +Joan, by love? + +JOAN. That it have, mistress. Love have struck at it heavily. + +CLARA. Through which of the gentlemen did it strike, Joan? + +JOAN. Through both. Leastways, 'tis Mister Jenner that my feelings +do go out most quickly to, mistress. But 'tis Mister Hooper who do +court the hardest and who has the greatest riches like. + +CLARA. Well, and what do you want me to do or to say now, Joan? + +JOAN. See here, mistress, I want you to give me a chance. They'll +never stoop to wed me if they knows as I'm but a poor serving maid. + +CLARA. Your dressing up as a fine lady won't make you other than +what you are, Joan. + +JOAN. Once let me get the fish in my net, mistress. + +CLARA. Are you proposing to catch the two, Joan? + +JOAN. I shall take the one as do offer first, mistress. + +CLARA. That'll be Mister Hooper, I should think. + +JOAN. I should go riding in my own chaise, mistress, if 'twas him. + +CLARA. But, Joan, either of these men would have to know the truth +before there could be any marriage. + +JOAN. I knows that full well, mistress. But let one of them just +offer hisself. By that time my heart and his would be so closely +twined together like, 'twould take more nor such a little thing as my +station being low to part us. + +[CLARA sits very still for a few moments, looking straight before +her, lost in thought. JOAN sinks on to a chair by the table as +though suddenly tired out, and she begins to cry gently. + +CLARA. Listen, Joan. I'm one for the straight paths. I like to +walk in open fields and over the bare heath. Only times come when +one is driven to take to the ways which are set with bushes and with +briars. + +JOAN. [Lifting her head and drying her eyes.] O mistress, I feel to +be asking summat as is too heavy for you to give. + +CLARA. But for a certain thing, I could never have lent myself to +this acting game of yours, Joan. + +JOAN. No, mistress? + +CLARA. Only that, to-day, my heart too has gone from my own keeping. + +JOAN. O mistress, you don't mean to say as his lordship have +followed us down already. + +CLARA. [Scornfully.] His lordship! As if I should be stirred by +him! + +JOAN. [Humbly.] Who might it be, mistress, if I may ask? + +CLARA. 'Tis one who would never look upon me with thoughts of love +if I went to him as I am now, Joan. + +JOAN. I can't rightly understand you, mam. + +CLARA. My case is just the same as yours, Joan. You say that your +fine gentlemen would not look upon a serving maid. + +JOAN. I'm certain of it, mistress. + +CLARA. And the man I--I love will never let his heart go out to mine +with the heaviness of all these riches lying between us. + +JOAN. I count that gold do pave the way for most of us, mistress. + +CLARA. So for this once, I will leave the clear high road, Joan. +And you and I will take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God +they do not wound us past healing at the end of our travel. + +JOAN. O mistress, 'twill be a lightsome journey for me. + +CLARA. But the moment that you reach happiness, Joan, remember to +confess. + +JOAN. There won't be nothing to fear then, mistress. + +CLARA. Make him love you for yourself, Joan. O we must each tie the +heart of our true love so tightly to our own that naught shall ever +be able to cut the bonds. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you. + +CLARA. Ah, I am lending myself to all this, because I, too, have +something to win or lose. + +JOAN. Where did you meet him, mistress? + +CLARA. I did not meet him. I stood on the high ground, and he +passed below. His face was raised to the light, and I saw its look. +I think my love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, Joan. +But when he passed beneath me in the meadow, it awoke. + +JOAN. O mistress, what sort of an appearance has the gentleman? + +CLARA. I don't know how to answer you, Joan. + +JOAN. I count as it would take a rare, grand looking man for to put +his lordship into the shadow, like. + +CLARA. You are right there, Joan. But now we must talk of your +affairs. Your fine courtiers will be coming in presently and you +must know how to receive them in a good way. + +JOAN. That's what do hamper me dreadful, my speech and other things. +How would it be if you was to help me a little bit, like? + +CLARA. With all my heart. + +JOAN. How should I act so not to be found out, mistress? + +CLARA. You must speak little, and low. Do not show haste in your +goings and comings. Put great care into your way of eating and +drinking. + +JOAN. O that will be a fearsome hard task. What else? + +CLARA. You must be sisterly with Thomas. + +JOAN. I'd clean forgot him. I don't doubt but what he'll ferret out +the truth in no time. + +CLARA. I don't think so. I was but a little child when I left him. +He will not remember how I looked. And our colouring is alike, Joan. + +JOAN. 'Tis the eating and drinking as do play most heavily upon my +mind, mistress. + +CLARA. Then think of these words as you sit at table. Eat as though +you were not hungry and drink as though there were no such thing as +thirst. Let your hands move about your plate as if they were too +tired to lift the knife and fork. + +[JOAN, darts to the dresser--seizes up a plate with a knife and fork, +places them on the table and sits down before them, pretending to cut +up meat. CLARA watches her smilingly. + +JOAN. [Absently, raising the knife to her mouth.] How's that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Not so, not so, Joan. That might betray you. + +JOAN. What, mistress? + +CLARA. 'Tis the fork which journeys to the mouth, and the knife +stops at home on the plate. + +JOAN. [Dispiritedly.] 'Tis almost more than I did reckon for when I +started. + +CLARA. Well, we mustn't think of that now. We must hold up our +spirits, you and I. + +JOAN. [Getting up and putting away the crockery.] I'd best take off +the bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn't I? + +CLARA. Yes, that you had. We will go upstairs together and I will +help you change into another gown. Come quickly so that we may have +plenty of time. + +[They go towards the staircase door, CLARA leading the way. With her +hand on the latch of the door she gives one look round the kitchen. +Then with a sudden movement she goes up to the wooden armchair at the +hearth and bends her head till her lips touch it, she then runs +upstairs, followed by JOAN. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +After a few moments MILES HOOPER and LUKE JENNER come into the +kitchen. They both look round the room enquiringly. + +LUKE. Ah, she be still up above with that there serving wench what's +come. + +MILES. My good man, you didn't expect our fair miss to have finished +her toilet under an hour, did you? + +LUKE. I don't see what there was to begin on myself, let alone +finish. + +MILES. 'Tis clear you know little of the ways of our town beauties, +Luke. + +LUKE. Still, I mean to have my try with her, Miles Hooper. + +MILES. [Sarcastically.] I'm quite agreeable, Mister Jenner. + +[THOMAS and GEORGE come in. GEORGE carries a bucket of water. + +THOMAS. Where's the little maid got to? George and me be come up +from the field on purpose for to bid her welcome home. + +MILES. Miss is still at her toilet, farmer. + +[JOAN, in a flowered silk gown, comes slowly and carefully into the +room, followed by CLARA, who carries a lace shawl over one arm. She +has put on a large white apron, but wears nothing on her head but the +narrow blue ribbon. During the following scene she stands quietly, +half hidden by the door. + +[JOAN looks nervously round the room, then she draws herself up very +haughtily. MILES comes forward and bows low. + +THOMAS. [Looking JOAN up and down.] Well, bless my soul, who'd have +guessed at the change it do make in a wench? + +JOAN. [Holding out her hand, very coldly.] A good afternoon to you, +sir. + +THOMAS. [Taking her hand slowly.] Upon my word, but you might knock +me over. + +MILES. Miss has grown into a very superb young lady, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Still looking at her.] That may be so, yet 'twasn't as +such I had figured she in the eye of my mind, like. [There is a +moment's silence. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, you and sister Clara used to be up to rare +games one with t'other once on a time. [Turning to JOAN.] There, my +wench, I count you've not forgotten Georgie? + +JOAN. I'm afeared I've not much of a memory. + +THOMAS. Shake hands, my maid, and very like as the memory will come +back to roost same as the fowls do. + +JOAN. [Bowing coldly.] Good afternoon, George. + +MILES. [Aside to Luke.] Now that's what I call a bit of stylish +breeding. + +[GEORGE has made no answer to JOAN's bow. He quietly ignores it, and +takes up his pail of water. As he does so he catches sight of CLARA, +who has been watching the whole scene from the corner where she is +partly concealed. He looks at her for one moment, and then sets the +bucket down again. + +THOMAS. Why, George--I guess as it's took you as it took me, us +didn't think how 'twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up. + +GEORGE. [Quietly.] No, us did not, master. + +[He carries his pail into the back kitchen as EMILY and the children +come in. + +EMILY. What's all this to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know? + +THOMAS. Us did but come up for to--to give a handshake to sister +Clara, like. + +EMILY. Well, now you can go off back to work again. And you-- +[turning to JOAN]--now that you've finished curling of your hair and +dressing of yourself up, you can go and sit down in the best parlour +along with your fancy gentlemen. + +MILES. [Offering his arm to JOAN.] It will be my sweet pleasure to +conduct Missy to the parlour. + +[LUKE offers his arm on the other side, and JOAN moves off with both +the young men. + +JOAN. [As she goes.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a +comfortable couch. I'm dead tired of the country air already. + +ROBIN. [Calling after her.] You'll not go off to sleep afore the +chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt? + +[MILES, LUKE and JOAN having gone out, EMILY begins to bang the +chairs back in their places and to arrange the room, watched by the +two children. CLARA, who has remained half hidden by the door, now +goes quietly upstairs. + +EMILY. [Calling.] Here, George, Mag. + +[GEORGE comes in. + +EMILY. Well, George, 'tisn't much worse nor I expected. + +JESSIE. I don't like Aunt Clara. + +ROBIN. I hates her very much. + +GEORGE. [Slowly.] And I don't seem to fancy her neither. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +Two days have passed by. + +It is morning. CLARA, wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head, +sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief. MAGGIE, who +is dusting the plates on the dressers, pauses to watch her. + +MAGGIE. I'd sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor +have to set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you. + +CLARA. I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine. + +MAGGIE. I count 'tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a +young miss such as yourn be. + +CLARA. What makes you say that, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in the +tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis +when she do come to that age. + +CLARA. Why do you think this, Mag? + +MAGGIE. O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor the +very worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word did +cost she more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how +destructive she be with her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore to +ribbons last night, and to-day yon handkerchief. + +CLARA. These things are soon mended. + +[MAGGIE continues to dust for a few moments. + +MAGGIE. The day you comed here, 'twas a bit of ribbon as you did +have around of your hair. + +CLARA. [After a moment's hesitation.] I put it on to keep my hair +neat on the journeying. + +MAGGIE. [Coming nearer.] I count as you've not missed it, have you? + +CLARA. Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the +hayfield. + +MAGGIE. 'Tain't lost. + +CLARA. Where is it then? + +MAGGIE. Look here, I could tell you, but I shan't. + +CLARA. If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it. + +MAGGIE. 'Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you +be, and to give away ribbons, so 'twould. + +[CLARA takes no notice of her and goes on sewing. + +MAGGIE. [More insistently.] 'Twasn't me as found the ribbon. + +CLARA. Who was it then? + +MAGGIE. I daresay you'd like for to know, but I'm not going to say +nothing more about it. + +[MAGGIE leans against the table watching CLARA as she sews. + +[EMILY with both the children now come in. EMILY carries a basket of +potatoes, and JESSIE a large bowl. + +EMILY. [Setting down the basket.] Maggie, you idle, bad girl, +whatever are you doing here when master expects you down in the +meadow to help with the raking? + +MAGGIE. I be just a-going off yonder, mistress. + +EMILY. I'd thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine young +serving minxes down here--you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but +you'll be a hundred times worser now. + +MAGGIE. I'll be off and help master. I've been and put the meat on +to boil as you said, missis. + +[MAGGIE goes off. + +[CLARA continues to sew, quietly. JESSIE has put her bowl down on +the table, and now comes to her side. ROBIN also comes close to her. +EMILY flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously +watches them. + +JESSIE. We don't care much about our new aunt, Joan. + +ROBIN. Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good +from London town in them great boxes. + +JESSIE. And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn't +brought us nothing. + +EMILY. Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy +gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you +children. + +JESSIE. Will Aunt Clara get married soon? + +EMILY. 'Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set out in the house +I have never seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and +hearty having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying in +bed till 'tis noon or later. + +JESSIE. 'Tis only one of them as lies in bed. + +ROBIN. [To CLARA.] Do you think Aunt has got sommat for us +upstairs, Joan? + +CLARA. [Rising and putting down her work.] I know she has, Robin. + +EMILY. Don't let me catch you speaking to Master Spring as though +you and he was of the same station, young person. + +CLARA. Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch +the gifts that your aunt has brought for you. + +[She goes leisurely towards the staircase door, smiling at the +children. + +EMILY. Ah, and you may tell your young madam that 'tis high time as +she was out of bed and abroad. Hear that? [CLARA goes out. + +JESSIE. I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt. + +EMILY. She's a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the +hands of her, 'tis not a day's hard work as they have done in her +life, I'll warrant. + +ROBIN. What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do you +think? + +EMILY. Sommat what you don't need, I warrant. 'Tis always so. When +folks take it into their heads to give you aught, 'tis very nigh +always sommat which you could do better without. + +[EMILY gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire, and fetching +a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays +on the table. + +[CLARA enters carrying some parcels. She brings them to the table. +Both the children run to her. + +CLARA. [Holding out a long parcel to EMILY and speaking to the +children.] The first is for your mother, children. + +EMILY. [With an angry exclamation.] Now, you mark my words, 'twill +be sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use +'twill be. + +[She comes near, opens the parcel and perceives it to be a length of +rich black silk. + +CLARA. My mistress thought it might be suitable. + +EMILY. Suitable? I'll suitable her. When shall my two hands find +time to sew me a gown out of it, I'd like to know? And if 'twas +sewn, when would my limbs find time to sit down within of it? +[Flinging it down on the table.] Suitable? You can tell your +mistress from me as she can keep her gifts to herself if she can't do +better nor this. + +JESSIE. [Stroking the silk.] O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor +a dove's feather. + +ROBIN. [Feeling it too.] 'Tis better nor the new kittens' fur. + +EMILY. Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards you +children. + +CLARA. I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with +her aunt's dear love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin. + +JESSIE. [Seizing the beads with delight.] I love a string of beads. +[Putting them on.] How do they look on me? + +EMILY. Off with them this moment. I'll learn her to give strings of +rubbish to my child. + +JESSIE. [Beginning to cry.] O do let me wear it just a little +while, just till dinner, Mother. + +EMILY. Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do you hear. + +JESSIE. [Taking the necklace off.] I love the feel of it--might I +keep it in my hand then? + +EMILY. [Seizing it.] 'Twill be put by with the silk dress. So +there. 'Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl like you. + +ROBIN. [Looking up from the pages of his book.] No one shan't take +my book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep and +cows in it--and no one shan't hide it from me. + +EMILY. [Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table.] Next +time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as +she'll ask me to come and see her a-doing of it. + +JESSIE. [Coming up to CLARA very tearfully.] And was there naught +for Dad in the great box? + +CLARA. Perhaps there may be. + +ROBIN. And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie? + +CLARA. I don't know. + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him. + +ROBIN. And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner. + +EMILY. [Sharply.] Look you here, young woman. Suppose you was to +take and do something useful with that idle pair of hands as you've +got. + +CLARA. Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something. + +EMILY. Us knows what fine promises lead to. + +CLARA. But I mean it. Do let me help a little. + +EMILY. See them taters? + +CLARA. Yes. + +EMILY. Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against when I +wants to cook them. + +CLARA. [A little doubtfully.] Yes--I'll--I'll try - + +EMILY. Ah, 'tis just as I thought. You're one of them who would +stir the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with +the poker. + +CLARA. [Eagerly.] No, no--it isn't that. I'll gladly do them. +Come, Miss Jessie, you will shew me if I do them wrongly, won't you? + +JESSIE. O yes, I'll help you because I like you, Joan. + +ROBIN. I'll help too, when I have finished looking at my book. + +[EMILY goes out. CLARA sits down by the table and takes up a potato +and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work. JESSIE stands +by her watching. + +JESSIE. You mustn't take no account of Mother when she speaks so +sharp. 'Tis only her way. + +ROBIN. Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie's sent +off? + +CLARA. O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think. + +JESSIE. Yes, you don't do them taters very nice. + +ROBIN. That don't matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine +things about other parts. + +JESSIE. Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there he comes +with the vegetables from the garden. + +[GEORGE comes in with a large basket of vegetables, which he sets +down in the back kitchen. Then he stands at the door, silently +watching the group near the table. + +JESSIE. Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the tales out +of what you do sing. + +GEORGE. What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs +this time of day? + +JESSIE. Mother's gone upstairs, she won't know nothing. + +ROBIN. Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt +have brought me. + +GEORGE. [Slowly approaching the table.] That be a brave, fine book +of pictures, Master Robin. + +ROBIN. [Holding up the open book.] I don't fancy Aunt Clara much, +but I likes her better nor I did because of this book. + +[GEORGE'S eyes wander from the book to CLARA as she bends over her +work. + +JESSIE. Joan doesn't know how to do them very nicely, does she +George! + +GEORGE. 'Tis the first time you've been set down to such work, may +be, mistress. + +JESSIE. You mustn't say "mistress" to Joan, you know. Why, Mother +would be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan's only a +servant. + +CLARA. [Looking up.] Like you, George. + +GEORGE. [Steadily.] What I was saying is--'Tis the first time as +you have been set afore a bowl of taters like this. + +CLARA. You are right, George. It is the first time since--since I +was quite a little child. And I think I'm very clumsy at my work. + +GEORGE. No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over +their fingers. + +JESSIE. You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, +same as Maggie does. + +GEORGE. Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan. + +[JOAN puts aside the knife and basket, turns back her sleeves, and +then resumes her work. GEORGE'S eyes are rivetted on her hands and +arms for a moment. Then he turns as though to go away. + +JESSIE. Don't go away, Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt +Clara now that she's growed into such a grand lady. + +GEORGE. [Coming back to the table.] I don't like nothing about her, +Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride the +big horses to the trough, Georgie? + +ROBIN. And from the time when th' old gander did take a big piece +right out of her arm, Georgie? + +GEORGE. [His eyes on CLARA'S bent head.] I count her be wonderful +changed, like. + +JESSIE. So that you would scarce know her? + +GEORGE. So that I should scarce know she. + +JESSIE. She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string of +coral beads. But naught for you, Georgie. + +GEORGE. I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance +like. + +CLARA. [With sudden earnestness.] O that she has, George. + +JESSIE. She didn't seem to know him by her looks. + +CLARA. Looks often speak but poorly for the heart. + +ROBIN. [Who has been watching CLARA.] See there, Joan. You've been +and cut that big tater right in half. Mother will be cross. + +CLARA. O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the +same time. + +GEORGE. [Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself on the +edge of the table.] Here,--give them all to me. I understand such +work, and 'tis clear that you do not. I'll finish them off in a few +minutes, and mistress will never be the wiser. + +CLARA. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle? + +GEORGE. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a +mind. 'Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job. + +[CLARA puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework. + +JESSIE. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters. + +GEORGE. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day. + +JESSIE. You ask him, Joan. + +CLARA. Will not you sing one little verse, George? + +GEORGE. Nay--strangers from London town would have no liking for the +songs we sing down here among the fields. + +CLARA. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me +very well. + +JESSIE. What was it called? + +CLARA. I cannot remember the name--but there was something of bushes +and of briars in it. + +JESSIE. I know which that is. 'Tis a pretty song. Sing it, +Georgie. + +GEORGE. Nay--sing it yourself, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. 'Tis like this at the beginning.--[she sings or repeats] - + +"Through bushes and through briars +I lately took my way, +All for to hear the small birds sing +And the lambs to skip and play." + +CLARA. That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie. + +GEORGE. Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. I can't say any more. + +CLARA. [Gently singing or speaking.] + +I overheard my own true love, +Her voice it was so clear. +"Long time I have been waiting for +The coming of my dear." + +GEORGE. [Heaving a sigh.] That's it. + +JESSIE. Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it. + +CLARA. Shall I go on with the song, George? + +GEORGE. As you please. + +CLARA. + +"Sometimes I am uneasy +And troubled in my mind, +Sometimes I think I'll go to my love +And tell to him my mind." + +"And if I would go to my love +My love he will say nay +If I show to him my boldness +He'll ne'er love me again." + +JESSIE. When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear her +a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then? + +CLARA. I don't know, Jessie. + +JESSIE. I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all +what she did keep in her mind. + +CLARA. Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, that +he never got to the other side for her to tell him. + +GEORGE. Yes, that's how 'twas, I count. + +JESSIE. [Running up to ROBIN.] I'm going to look at your book along +of you, Robin. + +ROBIN. But I'm the one to turn the leaves, remember. [The children +sit side by side looking at the picture book. CLARA sews. GEORGE +goes on with the potatoes. As the last one is finished and tossed +into the water, he looks at CLARA for the first time. A long +silence. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time. + +CLARA. Tell me how it was then, George. + +GEORGE. I did used to put her on the horse's back, and we would go +down to the water trough in the evening time and - + +CLARA. What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George? + +GEORGE. Us would walk in the woods aside of one another--And I would +lift she to a high branch in a tree--and pretend for to leave her +there. + +CLARA. And then? + +GEORGE. Her would call upon me pitiful--and I would come back from +where I was hid. + +CLARA. And did her crying cease? + +GEORGE. She would take and spring as though her was one of they +little wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees. + +CLARA. Where would she spring to, George? + +GEORGE. I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she. + +CLARA. And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, +George? + +GEORGE. I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long as +her was in the care of me. + +CLARA. [Slowly, after a short pause.] I do not think she can have +forgotten those days, George. + +GEORGE. [Getting up and speaking harshly.] They're best forgot. +Put them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and sommat of +all which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and this'n. + +[CLARA turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief to +her eyes. GEORGE looks gloomily on the floor. EMILY enters. + +EMILY. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I'd like +to know? + +[GEORGE gets hastily off. Both children look up from their book. + +EMILY. [Looking freezingly at CLARA.] 'Tis plain as a turnpike what +you've been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, 'tis +neck and crop as you should be thrown from the door. + +CLARA. What for, mistress? + +EMILY. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I'll soon +tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him +and scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen. + +GEORGE. This be going a bit too far, missis. I'll not have things +said like that. + +EMILY. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took +from--a grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more'n what +you eats nor what we get of work from out of your body, you great +hulk. + +CLARA. [Springing up angrily.] O I'll not hear such things said. +I'll not. + +EMILY. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your +mistress out of bed--and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the +flour on to her face. 'Tis about all you be fit for. + +CLARA. [Angrily going to the stair door.] Very well. 'Tis best +that I should go. I might say something you would not like. + +GEORGE. [Advancing towards EMILY.] Look you here, mistress. I've +put up with it going on for fifteen years. But sometimes 'tis almost +more nor I can bear. If 'twasn't for Master Thomas I'd have cleared +out this long time ago. + +EMILY. Don't flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man. + +GEORGE. We has always been good friends, farmer and me. 'Tis not +for what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold +together. But 'tis this--as he and I do understand one another. + +EMILY. We'll see what master has to say when I tell him how you was +found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy +piece of London trash. + +GEORGE. I'm off. I've no patience to listen any longer. You called +me roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I was born and +on the road I was picked from my dead mother's side, and I count as +'tis on the road as I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I'll +not have road dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint +though I be, there be things which I do hold brighter nor silver and +cleaner nor new opened leaves, and I'll not have defilement throwed +upon them. + +EMILY. [Seizing the arms of JESSIE and ROBIN.] The lad's raving. +'Tis plain as he's been getting at the cider. Come you off with me +to the haymaking, Robin and Jess. + +ROBIN. May I take my book along of me? + +EMILY. [Flinging the book down violently.] I'll book you! What +next? + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. He was +only doing the taters for her. + +EMILY. [As they go out.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I'll get +her packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don't. + +[GEORGE is left alone in the kitchen. When all sounds of EMILY and +the children have died away, he sighs. Then, looking furtively round +the room, he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket. He spreads +it out on one hand and stands looking down on it, sadly and +longingly. Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it. Just +as he is doing this THOMAS comes into the room. + +THOMAS. Why, George, my lad. + +GEORGE. [Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket.] Yes, +Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Looking meaningly at GEORGE.] 'Tis a pretty enough young +maid, George. + +GEORGE. What did you say, Master? + +THOMAS. That one with the bit of blue round the head of her. + +GEORGE. Blue? + +THOMAS. Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time. + +GEORGE. Yes, master. + +THOMAS. 'Twasn't a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but +'twas a blossom dropped from her gown. + +GEORGE. Whose gown, master? I'll warrant 'twasn't missus's. + +THOMAS. Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. 'Twasn't the mistress +then. + +GEORGE. Ah, I count as it could not have been she. + +THOMAS. First love, 'tis best, George. + +GEORGE. Ah, upon my word, that 'tis. + +THOMAS. But my maid went and got her married to another. + +GEORGE. More's the pity, Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Sighing.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been-- +with her and me, like. + +GEORGE. Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master? + +THOMAS. Soft and sweet as the field lark, George. + +GEORGE. Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master +Thomas. + +THOMAS. Ah, George, don't you never run into the trap, no matter +whether 'tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on. +Once in, never out. There 'tis. + +GEORGE. No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. I baint +worth trapping. + +THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty +baggage from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so +be it her had the fortune. + +GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint +nothing. + +THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George. + +GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. [Steps +are heard in the staircase. + +THOMAS. We'll off to the meadow then, George. + +[GEORGE and THOMAS go out. + +[JOAN, dressed as a lady of fashion, and followed by CLARA, comes +into the kitchen. + +CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, +and let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more +easy and natural when you are in the air. + +JOAN. O I'm very nigh dead with fright when I'm within doors. 'Tis +so hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at +table 'tis worst of all. + +CLARA. You've stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the +headache, and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood. + +JOAN. But to-night 'twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have +asked them both to supper again. + +CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man? + +JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time, +mistress. + +CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, +and then I will shew you how it is to be eaten. + +JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the +parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, +what have I got to say to him? + +CLARA. O, I shouldn't trouble about that. I'd open my fan and take +no notice if I were you. + +JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, +mistress. And with the children, too. + +CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. +Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your +way with the children. + +JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with +them. + +CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, +Joan. Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner +here and there. + +JOAN. [With a heavy sigh.] 'Tis the here and the there as I finds +it so hard to manage. + +JESSIE. [Running in breathlessly.] A letter, a letter for Aunt +Clara. [CLARA involuntarily puts out her hand.] No, Joan. I was to +give it to Aunt Clara herself. I've run all the way. + +[JOAN slowly takes the letter, looking confused. + +JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt? + +JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don't want no children worriting +round me now. [Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to +speak brightly.] I mean--no, my dear little girl, I'd rather wait to +read it till I'm by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, +my pet. + +JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much. + +JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there's a sweet little +maid. + +JESSIE. I'd sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like. + +CLARA. [Taking JESSIE'S hand and leading her to the door.] Now, +Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter in quiet, but if you will +come back presently I will have a game with you outside. + +JESSIE. [As she runs off.] Mother won't let me talk with you any +more, alone. She says as you've made a fool of Georgie and you'll do +the same by us all. + +JOAN. [When JESSIE has run off.] There now, how did I do that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Better, much better. + +JOAN. 'Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of another, +with you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me. + +CLARA. [After a moment's thought.] No. It is not quite like that. +But 'tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly feeling in better +garments. + +JOAN. [Handing the letter to CLARA.] There, mistress, 'tis yours, +not mine. + +CLARA. [Glancing at it.] Lord Lovel's writing. [CLARA opens the +letter and reads it through.] He will not wait longer for my answer. +And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him. + +JOAN. O, mistress, whatever shall we do? + +CLARA. We had better own to everything at once. It will save +trouble in the end. + +JOAN. Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was +closing upon it, like! + +CLARA. Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, if the +man loves you truly. + +JOAN. Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is +coming up to see me now. I'd bring him to offer his self, if I was +but left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so. + +CLARA. And then, Joan? + +JOAN. And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, +mistress, maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn't +think no worse of me. + +[CLARA gets up and goes to the window, where she looks out for a few +minutes in silence. JOAN cries softly meanwhile. + +CLARA. [Turning towards JOAN.] As you will, Joan. Very likely +'twill be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches this place. + +JOAN. O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all +may go as well with you as 'tis with me. + +CLARA. [Sadly.] That is not likely, Joan. + +JOAN. What is it stands in the way, mistress? + +CLARA. Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and +hurting thing. + +JOAN. Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when +he do offer next. + +CLARA. I'll think of what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when +the heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into +shelter. [A slight pause. + +JOAN. [Looking through the window.] Look up quickly, mistress. +There's Hooper. + +CLARA. [Getting up.] Then I'll run away. May all be well with you, +dear Joan. [CLARA goes out. + +[JOAN seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan. MILES +enters, carrying a small box. + +MILES. Already astir, Miss Clara. 'Tis early hours to be sure for +one of our London beauties. + +[He advances towards her, and she stretches out her hand without +rising. He takes it ceremoniously. + +JOAN. You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper. + +[MILES places a chair in front of JOAN, and sits down on it. + +MILES. [Untying the parcel.] I've been so bold as to bring you a +little keepsake from my place in town, Missy. + +JOAN. How kind you are, Mister Miles. + +MILES. You'll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see +it, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. [Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of bright +artificial flowers.] There, what do you say to that, Miss? And we +can do you the same in all the leading tints. + +JOAN. O, 'tis wonderful modish. I declare I never did see anything +to beat it up in town. + +MILES. Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can hold our +own with the best of them in Painswick High Street. + +JOAN. I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper. + +[She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from MILES, +pretending to smell it. + +MILES. Well--and what's the next pleasure, Madam? + +[JOAN drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently. + +MILES. [Very gently.] What's Missy's next pleasure? + +JOAN. I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Miles. + +MILES. Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his. + +JOAN. O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are. + +MILES. Ladies never like the sound of business, so we'll set that +aside for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place of it. + +JOAN. Ah, that's a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. I loved you from the first, Miss. There's the true, high +born lady for you, says I to myself. There's beauty and style, +elegance and refinement. + +JOAN. Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. What about, sir? + +MILES. The answer to my question, Missy. + +JOAN. And what was that, I wonder? + +MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. Will she +oblige her Miles? + +JOAN. O that I will. With all my heart. + +MILES. [Standing up.] I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye +my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and +such trifles. + +JOAN. [Agitatedly.] O let us not destroy to-day by thoughts of +anything but our dear affection one for t'other. + +MILES. Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified in +her speech. + +JOAN. 'Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear Miles, promise +there shan't be nothing but--but love talk between you and me this +day. I could not bear it if we was to speak of, of other things, +like. + +MILES. [Getting up and walking about the room.] As you will--as you +will. Anything to oblige a lady. + +[He stops before the table, on which is laid EMILY'S silk dress, and +begins to finger it. + +JOAN. What's that you're looking at? + +MILES. Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, +I'll be bound. + +JOAN. O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with the +old silk. + +MILES. No, no, Missy, I'm a man of business habits, and 'tis my duty +to go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He and +I have got to talk things over a bit, you know. + +JOAN. Off so soon! O you have saddened me. + +MILES. Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, when +life is in front of us, Miss Clara? + +[He raises her hand, kisses it, and leaves her. As he goes out by +the door CLARA enters. + +JOAN. O, Mistress--stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at the +meadow! + +CLARA. Why, Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer to talk +about the--the wedding and the money. + +CLARA. The money? + +JOAN. The income which he thinks I have. + +CLARA. I'll run, but all this time I've been keeping Master Luke +Jenner quiet in the parlour. + +JOAN. O what does he want now? + +CLARA. Much the same as the other one wanted. + +JOAN. Must I see him? + +CLARA. Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. He's at +boiling point already. + +JOAN. Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and +keep Miles Hooper from the farmer. + +CLARA. I'll run my best, never fear. [She goes out. + +[LUKE JENNER comes in, a bunch of homely flowers in his hand. + +JOAN. [Seating herself.] You are early this morning, Mister Jenner. + +LUKE. [Sitting opposite to her.] I have that to say which would not +bide till sunset, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be. + +LUKE. 'Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you +was coming down here--"I could do with a rich wife if so be as I +could win her," I did tell myself. + +JOAN. O, Mister Jenner, now did you really? + +LUKE. But when I met you in the wood--saw you sitting there, so +still and yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. "That's the maid +for me," I says to myself. + +JOAN. [Tearfully.] O, Mister Jenner! + +LUKE. And if it had been beggar's rags upon her in the place of +satin, I'd have said the same. + +JOAN. [Very much stirred.] O, Mister Jenner, and did you really +think like that? + +LUKE. If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in the +deep ocean, 'twould be the best as could happen. There! + +JOAN. [Faintly.] O, Mister Jenner, why? + +LUKE. Because, very like 'twould shew to you as 'tis yourself I'm +after and not the fortune what you've got. + +JOAN. Mister Jenner, I'm mighty sorry. + +LUKE. Don't say I'm come too late, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, 'tis he and +I who are like to be wed. + +LUKE. I might have known I had no chance. + +JOAN. [Rising and trying to hide her emotion.] I wouldn't have had +it happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner. + +LUKE. [Laying his bunch of flowers on the table, his head bent, and +his eyes on the ground.] 'Twas none of your doing, Miss Clara. +You've naught to blame yourself for. 'Tis not your fault as you're +made so--so beautiful, and yet so homely. + +[JOAN looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately +leaves the room. + +[LUKE folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them in an +attitude of deepest despondency. After a few moments CLARA enters. + +CLARA. O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you? + +LUKE. [Raising his head and pointing to the window.] There she +goes, through the garden with her lover. + +CLARA. I wish that you were in his place. + +LUKE. [Bitterly.] I've no house with golden rails to offer her. +Nor any horse and chaise. + +CLARA. But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love. + +LUKE. What use is the love which be fastened up in a man's heart and +can spend itself on naught, I'd like to know. [He rises as though to +go and take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on the +table. Brokenly.] I brought them for her. But I count as he'll +have given her something better nor these. + +[CLARA takes the flowers gently from his hand, and as she does so, +EMILY enters. + +EMILY. What now if you please! First with George and then with +Luke. 'Twould be Thomas next if he wasn't an old sheep of a man as +wouldn't know if an eye was cast on him or no. But I'll soon put a +stop to all this. Shame on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine +piece of London vanity, I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so +off with you upstairs. + +[She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls. + + + +ACT IV.--Scene 1. + + + +The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers. A long table is +spread with silver, china and food. CLARA is setting mugs to each +place. MAGGIE comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of +salad. + +MAGGIE. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes to +enjoy themselves among the vegetables. + +CLARA. [Placing the last mug.] There--Now all is ready for them. + +MAGGIE. [Bending over a place at the end of the table.] Come you +and look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in +through the window. + +CLARA. [Goes to MAGGIE'S side and bends down over the table.] O +what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold on him, and his legs are +like feathers. + +MAGGIE. [Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting it fly +through the window.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say. + +CLARA. A stranger, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. You mind my words, 'tis a stranger as'll sit where yon was +stuck, afore the eating be finished. + +CLARA. I don't believe in such signs, myself. + +MAGGIE. I never knowed it not come true. + +[THOMAS comes in. He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased, +yet nervous. + +THOMAS. Well, maids. Upon my word 'tis a spread. Never saw so many +different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this house. + +MAGGIE. 'Tis in honour of Miss Clara's going to be married like, +master. + +THOMAS. So 'tis, so 'tis. Well--A single rose upon the bush. Bound +to be plucked, you know. Couldn't be left to fade in the sun, eh, +girls? + +CLARA. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going on, +master? Mistress has not told us yet. + +THOMAS. [Nervously.] Mistress haven't told you--haven't she? Well- +-well--at such a time we must all--all rejoice one with t'other, +like. No difference made t'wixt master and man. Nor t'wixt maid and +missus. Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my +wenches. Up against George--How's that? + +CLARA. That will do very well for us, Master. + +MAGGIE. I don't expect as missus will let we bide there long. + +THOMAS. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and at the +asking in marriage of my only sister like, 'tis me as shall say what +shall sit down with who. And there's an end of it. That's all. + +MAGGIE. I hear them a coming in, master. + +[EMILY, holding the hands of JESSIE and ROBIN, comes into the room. +Her eyes fall on THOMAS who is standing between CLARA and MAGGIE, +looking suddenly sheepish and nervous. + +EMILY. [In a voice of suppressed anger.] Thomas! O, if I catch any +more of these goings on in my kitchen. + +[JOAN, very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of MILES HOOPER, +follows EMILY into the room. + +EMILY. I'll not have the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. +If folk can't come to the time when they're asked, they baint worth +waiting for, so sit you down, all of you. + +[She sits down at the head of the table, a child on either side of +her. JOAN languidly sinks into a chair and MILES puts himself at her +right. A place at her left remains empty. THOMAS sits opposite. +Three places at the end of the table are left vacant. As they sit +down, GEORGE, wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief, comes in. + +EMILY. [Beginning to help a dish.] You need not think you're to be +helped first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, like. +The poor little children have been kept waiting a sad time for their +supper, first because you was such a while a having your head curled +and puffed out, and then 'twas Luke Jenner as didn't come. + +[CLARA sits down at a place at the end of the table. GEORGE and +MAGGIE still remain standing. + +EMILY. [Perceiving CLARA'S movement.] Well, I never did see +anything so forward. Who told you to sit yourself down along of your +betters, if you please, madam serving maid? + +[GEORGE comes involuntarily forward and stands behind CLARA'S chair. +CLARA does not move. + +EMILY. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you hear? +[Turning to MILES.] To see the way the young person acts one might +think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare and high. +But you'll not take any fool in, not you, for all that you like to +play the fine lady. Us can see through your game very clear, can't +us, Mr. Hooper? + +MILES. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the +privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could be +mistook by any of the games played by this young person. + +[CLARA looks him gravely in the face without moving. + +EMILY. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes! + +THOMAS. [Nervously.] Nay, nay, 'twas my doing, Emily. I did tell +the wenches as they might sit their-selves along of we, just for th' +occasion like. + +EMILY. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling +about like a lord in my kitchen? + +THOMAS. [Faintly.] Come, Emily, I'm the master. + +EMILY. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London +impudence? + +GEORGE. [Comes forward.] Master Luke be coming up the garden, +mistress. + +[LUKE JENNER enters. He goes straight up to JOAN and holds out his +hand to her, and then to MILES. + +LUKE. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, +my lad, 'tis rare--rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day. + +EMILY. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you've been and kept us waiting more +nor half an hour. Can't you sit yourself down and give other folk a +chance of eating their victuals quiet? There's naught to make all +this giddle-gaddle about as I can see. + +LUKE. [Sitting down in the empty place by JOAN'S side.] Beg pardon, +mistress, I know I'm a bit late. But the victuals as are waited for +do have a better flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from +the pot like. + +THOMAS. That's true 'tis. And 'tis hunger as do make the best +sauce. + +[GEORGE and MAGGIE quietly seat themselves on either side of CLARA. +EMILY is too busy dispensing the food to take any notice. GEORGE +hands plates and dishes to CLARA, and silently cares for her comfort +throughout the meal. + +THOMAS. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn't think to lose my little +sister afore she'd stopped a three days in the place. That I did +not. But I don't grudge her to a fine prospering young man like +friend Hooper, no, I don't. + +EMILY. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See if you +can't make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. [Turning +to LUKE.] We have two serving maids and a man, Mister Jenner, but +they're to be allowed to act the quality to-day, so we've got to wait +upon ourselves. + +LUKE. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, +mistress. That's my saying at home. + +THOMAS. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me +'tis otherwise. I've got another pair of hands in the place as do +for me as well, nor better than my own. + +EMILY. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you'd be without mine. + +THOMAS. I wasn't thinking of yourn, Emily. 'Tis George's hands as I +was speaking of. + +EMILY. [Contemptuously.] George! You'll all find out your mistake +one day, Thomas. + +MILES. [To JOAN, who has been nervously handling her knife and fork +and watching CLARA'S movements furtively.] My sweet Miss is not +shewing any appetite. + +JOAN. I'm--I'm not used to country fare. + +EMILY. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara +can't feed 'cause she's not used to country fare! What next, I'd +like to know! + +ROBIN. [Who has been watching JOAN.] Why does Aunt sometimes put +her knife in her mouth, Mother? + +MILES. My good boy, 'tis plain you've never mixed among the quality +or you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of +acting. This summer 'tis the stylish thing to put on a countryfied +mode at table. + +JESSIE. Joan don't eat like that, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. Joan's only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to +distinguish between such people and fine ladles like your aunt. + +JOAN. [Forcing herself to be more animated.] Give me some fruit, +Miles--I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. 'Tis far too warm. + +MILES. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of my +Missy's voice. + +THOMAS. Ah, 'tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. +There was a day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like. + +EMILY. [Sharply.] I don't seem to remember that day, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Sheepishly, his look falling.] Ah--'twas afore--afore our +courting time, Emily. + +LUKE. [Energetically.] Prime weather for the hay, farmer. I count +as this dry will last until the whole of it be carried. [A knock is +heard at the door. + +THOMAS. Now who'll that be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the +path, Mother? + +EMILY. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking out +of the window the same time, Thomas? + +THOMAS. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who 'tis. + +[JOAN looks anxiously across the table at CLARA. Then she drops her +spoon and fork and takes up her fan, using it violently whilst GEORGE +slowly gets up and opens the door. LORD LOVEL is seen standing on +the threshold. + +LORD LOVEL. [To GEORGE.] Kindly tell me, my man, is this the farm +they call Ox Lease? + +GEORGE. Ah, that's right enough. + +LORD LOVEL. I'm sorry to break in upon a party like this, but I want +to see Miss Clara Spring if she is here. + +THOMAS. [Standing up.] You've come at the very moment, master. +This be a giving in marriage supper. And 'tis Miss Clara, what's +only sister to me, as is to be wed. + +LORD LOVEL. Impossible, my good sir! + +THOMAS. Ah, that's it. Miles Hooper, he's the happy man. If you be +come by Painswick High Street you'll have seen his name up over the +shop door. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara--Miles Hooper--No, I can't believe it. + +THOMAS. [Pointing towards JOAN and MILES.] There they be--the both +of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. You're right welcome, +master, to sit down along of we as one of the family on this +occasion. + +LORD LOVEL. [Looking at JOAN who has suddenly dropped her fan and is +leaning back with a look of supplication towards CLARA.] I must have +come to the wrong place--that's not the Miss Clara Spring I know. + +MILES. [Bending over JOAN.] My sweet Missy has no acquaintance with +this gentleman, I am sure. + +[LORD LOVEL suddenly turns round and perceives CLARA seated by MAGGIE +at the table. He quickly goes towards her, holding out his hand. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. [Looking at her +cap and apron.] Why have you dressed yourself like this? + +THOMAS. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. +The young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the +Spotted Cow on his way up. + +JOAN. [Very faintly, looking at CLARA.] O do you stand by me now. + +CLARA. [Lays her hand on LORD LOVEL's arm.] Come with me, my lord. +I think I can explain everything if you will only step outside with +me. Come--[She leads him swiftly through the door which GEORGE shuts +behind them.] + +[JOAN leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint. + +THOMAS. Well, now--but that's a smartish wench, getting him out so +quiet, like. George, you'd best step after them to see as the young +man don't annoy her in any way. + +EMILY. That young person can take good care of herself. Sit you +down, Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you can. + +JESSIE. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother? + +EMILY. 'Cause he was in that state when a man don't know his right +leg from his left arm. + +GEORGE. [Who has remained standing.] Look you here, Master Thomas-- +see here mistress. 'Tis time as there was an end of this cursed play +acting, or whatever 'tis called. + +EMILY. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I'd +like for you to know. + +GEORGE. O yes there have been, mistress. And 'tis time it was +finished. [Pointing to JOAN.] You just take and ask that young +person what she do mean by tricking herself out in Miss Clara's gowns +and what not, and by having herself called by Miss Clara's own name. + +MILES. [Taking JOAN'S hand in his.] My sweet Miss must pay no +attention to the common fellow. I dare him to speak like that of my +little lady bride. + +GEORGE. A jay bird in peacock's feathers, that's what 'tis. And +she's took you all in, the every one of you. + +JESSIE. O George, isn't she really our aunt from London? + +GEORGE. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie. + +THOMAS. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore. + +EMILY. 'Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon. + +LUKE. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow in +all the years I've known of him. George baint made to that shape. + +ROBIN. Then who is Aunt Clara, George? + +GEORGE. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, and +none other. + +THOMAS. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish. + +GEORGE. I can't help that, master. Foolish deeds do call for +foolish words, may be. + +MILES. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [He pours out +water for JOAN and bends affectionately over her.] Put the drunken +fellow outside and let's have an end of this. + +GEORGE. [Advancing.] Yes, us'll have an end to it very shortly. +But I be going to put a straight question to the maid first, and 'tis +a straight answer as her'll have to give me in reply. + +MILES. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude +manners. + +GEORGE. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, +and then I'll go when you will. + +MILES. Well, my man, what's that? + +GEORGE. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at +baptism, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such +a question. Thomas, you'll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, +or something. + +GEORGE. [Angrily.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all night. + +[JOAN suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands, her +form shaken by violent weeping. The door opens and CLARA enters +followed by LORD LOVEL. She has taken off her cap and apron. + +JOAN. [Raising her head and stretching out her hands to CLARA.] O +speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help. + +CLARA. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to +forgive us both for taking you in like this. + +THOMAS. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing. + +EMILY. I'm not going to believe a word the young person says. + +LORD LOVEL. She has told you but the truth, my good friends. + +EMILY. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I'd like +to know? + +CLARA. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his +name. + +EMILY. If you think I'm going to be took in with such nonsense, the +more fool you, I says. + +LORD LOVEL. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis +Spring. She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their own, +agreed to change parts for a few days. + +THOMAS. [Turning to JOAN.] Is this really so, my maid? + +[JOAN bows her head, her handkerchief still covering her face. + +THOMAS. [To CLARA.] Who ever would have thought on such a thing? + +CLARA. 'Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up, +Joan, and do not cry so pitifully. + +JOAN. [Looking up at MILES.] You'll never go and change towards me +now that we're most as good as wed, will you, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. [Rising and speaking with cold deliberation.] Ladies and +gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening. + +THOMAS. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, it +seems. But things'll settle back to their right places if you gives +them a chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat. + +EMILY. Don't be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what's been stung +by a wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet's nest. + +MILES. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place for me. I +have been sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest. + +JOAN. O Mister Hooper, 'twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for +the best, I did. + +MILES. [Going to the door.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time +you want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select +your partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a suitable +one to toy with, let me tell you. + +ROBIN. Aren't you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. I am not, Master Robin. + +JESSIE. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but you +couldn't very well, could he, Mother? + +[MILES, covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the +right and left, goes out. JOAN leans back almost fainting in her +chair. + +LUKE. [Taking her hand.] This is the finest hearing in all the +world for me, Miss--Miss Joan. + +JOAN. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me. + +LUKE. And that I'd never do, though I'm blest if I know why you did +it. + +CLARA. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were +things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by +changing places, one with the other. + +THOMAS. [To CLARA.] Well, my maid, I'm blessed if I do know what +you was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving wench. + +CLARA. [Turning a little towards GEORGE.] I thought to find +something which was mine when I was a little child, but which I lost. + +JESSIE. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. 'Twas +he as brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off. + +ROBIN. Yes. And 'twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt +Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield. + +JESSIE. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt all +the time. + +ROBIN. I believe it too. + +THOMAS. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like? + +GEORGE. 'Twas not one, but many things. And if you wants a clear +proof [Turning to CLARA]--put back the laces of your sleeve, Miss +Clara. + +CLARA. What for, George? + +GEORGE. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did +pull up your sleeves. 'Twas then I held the proof. Not that 'twas +needed for me, like. + +[CLARA pushes up both her sleeves, and holds out her arms towards +GEORGE. + +GEORGE. [Pointing to the scar.] There 'tis--there's where th' old +gander have left his mark. + +THE CHILDREN. [Getting up.] Where, where! O do let us see! + +[They run round to where CLARA stands and look eagerly at the mark on +her arm which she shews to them. + +THOMAS. George, my lad, you baint th' only one as can play fox. + +EMILY. Don't you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a +more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when +'twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him. + +THOMAS. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint +th' only fox. How now, my lad? + +GEORGE. I don't see what you be driving at, master. + +THOMAS. [Slyly.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George? + +CLARA. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me. + +GEORGE. [Stepping forward till he is by CLARA'S side.] No, and that +I will not do. 'Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I'll +keep it. + +CLARA. [To GEORGE.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I +can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember the days when you +used to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting +me over the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by +their thorns? + +GEORGE. Hark you here, Clara. This once I'll speak. I never had +but one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through +the woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I learnt she +the note of every bird. And when th' evening was come, us would +watch together till th' old mother badger did get from out of her +hole, and start hunting in the long grasses. + +CLARA. [Taking GEORGE'S hand.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for +the disguise that I put upon myself. + +GEORGE. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint +no cloud upon the sky, Clara? + +CLARA. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might +raise up between you and me. + +THOMAS. That's all finished and done with now, my maid. If I'd a +hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should. + +EMILY. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough. + +LUKE. [Who has been sitting with JOAN'S hand in his.] Hark you +here, mistress. There's many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny +day. Baint that a true saying, Joan? + +JOAN. [Looking up radiantly.] O that it is, dear Luke. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be +said. + +EMILY. And that's the most sensible thing as has been spoke this +long while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, +grizzling sort of a muddler. She might have took up with this young +man, who has a very respectable appearance. + +LORD LOVEL. [Coming forward to GEORGE and shaking his hand.] I'm +proud to make your acquaintance, sir. + +EMILY. [Rising angrily.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us +might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of this +here table. 'Twill be midnight afore the things is cleared away and +washed up. + +THOMAS. What if it be, Emily. 'Tisn't very often as I gets the +chance of minding how 'twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a young +man in those days, too, I was. + +EMILY. And 'tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, Thomas. + +JESSIE. [Slipping her hand into THOMAS'S.] O do let us sit up till +midnight, Dad. + +ROBIN. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +MY MAN JOHN + + + + +CHARACTERS + +MRS. GARDNER. +WILLIAM, her son. +JOHN, his farm hand. +SUSAN, their maid. +JULIA, the owner of Luther's Farm. +LAURA, CHRIS, NAT, TANSIE, gipsies. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +The garden of the Road Farm. To the right an arbour covered with +roses. MRS. GARDNER is seated in it, knitting. WILLIAM is tying up +flowers and watering them. + +MRS. GARDNER. And you have come to a ripe age when 'tis the plain +duty of a man to turn himself towards matrimony, William. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis a bit of quiet that I'm after, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Quiet! 'tis a good shaking up as you want, William. +Why, you have got as set in your ways as last season's jelly. + +WILLIAM. Then let me bide so. 'Tis all I ask. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I'm got to be an old woman now, and 'tis +time that I had someone at my side to help in the house-keeping and +to share the work. + +WILLIAM. What's Susan for, if 'tisn't to do that? + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan? As idle a piece of goods as ever was seen on a +summer's day! No. 'Tisn't a serving maid that I was thinking of, +but someone who should be of more account in the house. 'Tis a +daughter that I'm wanting, William, and I've picked out the one who +is to my taste. + +WILLIAM. Then you've done more than I have, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis the young person whom Luther Smith has left his +farm and all his money to. I've got my eye on her for you, William. + +WILLIAM. Then you'll please to put your eye somewhere else, Mother, +for I've seen them, and they don't suit me. + +MRS. GARDNER. Come, this is news, William. Pray where did you meet? + +WILLIAM. 'Twas when I was in church last Sunday. In they came, the +two young maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie fowls, the +way they did step up over the stones and shake the plumes of them +this way and that. I don't hold with fancy tricks. I never could +abide them. No foreign wenches for me. And that's about all. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis true they are from town, but none the worse for +that, William. You have got sadly rude and cumbersome in your ways, +or you wouldn't feel as you do towards a suitable young person. 'Tis +from getting about with John so much, I think. + +WILLIAM. Now look you here, Mother, I've got used to my own ways, +and when a man's got set in his own ways, 'tis best to leave him +there. I'm past the age for marrying, and you ought to know this +better than anyone. + +MRS. GARDNER. I know that 'tis a rare lot of foolishness that you do +talk, William, seeing as you're not a year past thirty yet. But if +you can't be got to wed for love of a maid, perhaps you'll do so for +love of a purse, when 'tis fairly filled. + +WILLIAM. There's always been enough for you and me so far, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Ah, but that won't last for ever. I'm got an old +woman, and I can't do with the dairy nor the poultry as I was used to +do. And things have not the same prices to them as 'twas a few years +gone by. And last year's season was the worst that I remember. + +WILLIAM. So 'twas. But so long as there's a roof over our heads and +a loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to work on, where's the +harm, Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. O you put me out of all patience, William. Where's +the rent to come from if we go on like this? And the clothing, and +the food? And John's wages, and your flower seeds, if it comes to +that, for you have got terrible wasteful over the flowers. + +WILLIAM. I wish you'd take it quieter, Mother. Look at you bed of +musk, 'tis a grand smell that comes up from it all around. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I've no eye for musk, nor nose to smell +at it either till you've spoken the word that I require. + +WILLIAM. Best let things bide as they are, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. I'll leave you no rest till you do as I wish, William. +I'm got an old woman, and 'tis hard I should be denied in aught that +I've set my heart upon. + +WILLIAM. Please to set it upon something different, Mother, for I'm +not a marrying man, and John he'll tell you the same thing. + +MRS. GARDNER. John! I'm sick of the very name of him. I can't +think how 'tis that you can lower yourself by being so close with a +common farm hand, William. + +WILLIAM. Ah, 'twould be a rare hard matter to find the equal to +John, Mother. 'Tis of gold all through, and every bit of him, that +he is made. You don't see many like John these days, that's the +truth. + +MRS. GARDNER. Well, then, John, won't be here much longer, for we +shan't have anything to give him if things go on like this. + +WILLIAM. I'd wed forty wives sooner than lose John--and that I +would. + +MRS. GARDNER. I'm not asking you to wed forty. 'Tis only one. + +WILLIAM. And that one? + +MRS. GARDNER. The young person who's got Luther's farm. Her name is +Julia. + +WILLIAM. [Leaving his flower border and walking up and down +thoughtfully.] Would she be the one with the cherry colour ribbons +to her gown? + +MRS. GARDNER. I'm sure I don't know. I was not at church last +Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Or t'other one in green? + +MRS. GARDNER. You appear to have used your eyes pretty well, +William. + +WILLIAM. O, I can see a smartish bit about me when I choose. + +MRS. GARDNER. T'other wench is but the housekeeper. + +WILLIAM. Where did you get that from? + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Twas Susan who told me. She got it off someone down +in the village. + +WILLIAM. Well, which of the maids would have had the cherry-coloured +ribbons to her, Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. I'm sure I don't know, but if you go up there courting +this afternoon, may happen that you'll find out. + +WILLIAM. This afternoon? O, that's much too sudden like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Not a bit of it. Recollect, your fancy has been set +on her since Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Come, Mother, you can't expect a man to jump into the river +all of a sudden like this. + +MRS. GARDNER. I expect you to go up there this very day and to +commence telling her of your feelings. + +WILLIAM. But I've got no feelings that I can tell her of, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you'll please to find some, William. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis a thing that in all my life I've never done as to go +visiting of a strange wench of an afternoon. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then 'tis time you did begin. + +WILLIAM. And what's more, I'll not do it, neither. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then I must tell John that we have no further need of +his services, for where the money to pay him is to come from, I don't +know. + +[She rolls up her knitting and rises. + +WILLIAM. Stop a moment, Mother--stop a moment. Maybe 'twon't be so +bad when I've got more used to the idea. You've pitched it upon me +so sudden like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Rent day has pitched upon me more sudden, William. + +WILLIAM. Look you, Mother, I'll get and turn it about in my mind a +bit. And, maybe, I'll talk it over with John. I can't do more, can +I now? + +MRS. GARDNER. Talk it over with whom you please, William. But +remember 'tis this very afternoon that you have to start courting. +I've laid your best clothes out all ready on your bed. + +WILLIAM. [Sighing heavily.] O then I count there's no way out of +it. But how am I to bring it off? 'Tis that I'd like to know. + +MRS. GARDNER. Maybe your man will be able to give you some suitable +advice. Such things are beyond me, I'm afraid. + +[She gathers up her work things, and with a contemptuous look at her +son, she goes slowly out of the garden. + +[WILLIAM remains on the path lost in perturbed thought. Suddenly he +goes to the gate and calls loudly. + +WILLIAM. John, John! + +JOHN. [From afar.] Yes, master. + +WILLIAM. [Calling.] Come you here, John, as quick as you can run. + +JOHN. That I will, master. + +[JOHN hurries into the garden. + +WILLIAM. John, I'm powerful upset. + +JOHN. Mistress's fowls bain't got among the flowers again, be they, +Master William? + +WILLIAM. No, no, John. 'Tisn't so bad as that. But I'm in a +smartish fix, I can tell you. + +JOHN. How's that, master? + +WILLIAM. John, did you ever go a'courting? + +JOHN. Well, master, that's a thing to ask a man! + +WILLIAM. 'Tis a terrible serious matter, John. Did you ever go? + +JOHN. Courting? + +WILLIAM. Yes. + +JOHN. Why, I count as I have went a score of times, master. + +WILLIAM. A score of times, John! But that was before you were got +to the age you are now? + +JOHN. Before that, and now, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John? + +JOHN. To be sure, master. + +WILLIAM. Then you know how 'tis done? + +JOHN. Ah, that I does, master. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, you're the man for me. + +JOHN. Lord bless us, master, but what have you to do with courting? + +WILLIAM. You may well ask me, John. Why, look you here--until this +very morning, you would say I was a quiet and a peaceable man, with +the right place for everything and everything in its place. + +JOHN. Ah, and that you was, Master William. And a time for all +things too, and a decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served-- +that's truth. + +WILLIAM. Ah, John--the mistress has set her will to change all this. + +JOHN. Now, you'd knock me down with a feather. + +WILLIAM. That she has, John. I've got to set out courting--a thing +I've never thought to do in all my living days. + +JOHN. That I'll be bound you have not, Master William, though a +finer gentleman than yourself is not to be found in all the country +side. + +WILLIAM. [With shy eagerness.] Is that how I appear to you, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that you does, master. And 'tis the wonder with all +for miles around as how you've been and kept yourself to yourself +like this, so many years. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, it appears that I'm to pass out of my own +keeping. My Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, Master William, and 'tis but Thursday too. + +WILLIAM. Isn't that a proper day for this sort of business, John? + +JOHN. I've always been used to Saturday myself, but with a gentleman +'tis different like. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, there's nothing in this day or that as far as I +can see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and the day of it +does make but very little difference. + +JOHN. You're right there, master. But if I may be so bold, where is +it as you be going off courting this afternoon? + +WILLIAM. Ah--now you and me will have a straight talk one with +another--for 'tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of this fix +where the mistress has gone and put me. + +JOHN. And that I'll do, master--with all the will in the world. + +WILLIAM. Well then, John, 'tis to be one of those maids from strange +parts who are come to live at old Luther's, up yonder. + +JOHN. Ah, I seed the pair of them in church last Sunday. Fine +maids, the both of them, and properly suitable if you was to ask me. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis only the one I've got to court, John. + +JOHN. And I reckon that's one too many, Master William. + +WILLIAM. You're right there, John. 'Tis Mistress Julia I've to go +at. + +JOHN. And which of the pair would that be, Master William? + +WILLIAM. That one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown, I +believe. + +JOHN. Ah, t'other was plainer in her dressing, and did keep the head +of her bent smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn't get a +fair look upon she. + +WILLIAM. That would be the housekeeper or summat. 'Tis Julia, who +has the old man's money, I'm to court. + +JOHN. Well, master, I'll come along with you a bit of the road, to +keep your heart up like. + +WILLIAM. You must do more than that for me, John. You've got to +learn me how the courting is done before I set off. + +JOHN. Why, master, courting baint a thing what wants much learning, +that's the truth. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis all new to me, John. I'm blessed if I know how to +commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends me hot all over; and +then as cold again. + +JOHN. You start and get your clothes on, master. 'Tis half the +battle--clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his mouth of a +Saturday will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday with his best +coat to his back. + +WILLIAM. No, John. The clothes won't help me in this fix. You must +tell me how to start once I get to the farm and am by the door. + +JOHN. You might take a nosegay with you, master. + +WILLIAM. I might. And yet, 'tis a pity to cut the blooms for +naught. + +JOHN. I always takes a nosegay with me, of a Saturday night. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, who is it that you are courting then? + +JOHN. 'Tis that wench Susan, since you ask me, master. But not a +word of it to th' old mistress. + +WILLIAM. I'll not mention it, John. + +JOHN. Thank you kindly, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John, when the nosegay's all gathered and the +flowers bunched, what else should I do? + +JOHN. Well, then you gives it her when you gets to the door. And +very like she'll ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be a +particular fine looking gentleman. + +WILLIAM. I could not stand that, John. I've no tongue to me within +a strange house. + +JOHN. Well then, maybe as you and she will sit aside of one another +in an arbour in the garden, or sommat of the sort. + +WILLIAM. Yes, John. And what next? + +JOHN. I'm blessed if I do know, master. You go along and commence. + +WILLIAM. No, John, and that I won't. Not till I know more about it +like. + +JOHN. Well, master, I'm fairly puzzled hard to tell you. + +WILLIAM. I have the very thought, John. Do you bring Susan out +here. I'll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you get and court +her as well as you know how; and maybe that will learn me something. + +JOHN. Susan's a terrible hard wench to court, Master William. + +WILLIAM. 'Twill make the better lesson, John. + +JOHN. 'Tis a stone in place of a heart what Susan's got. + +WILLIAM. 'Twill very likely be the same with Julia. Go and bring +her quickly, John. + +[WILLIAM places himself behind the arbour. + +JOHN. As you will, master--but Susan have been wonderful nasty in +her ways with me of late. 'Tis my belief as she have took up with +one of they low gipsy lads what have been tenting up yonder, against +the wood. + +WILLIAM. Well, 'twill be your business to win her back to you, John. +See--am I properly hid, behind the arbour? + +JOHN. Grandly hid, master--I'll go and fetch the wench. [JOHN +leaves the garden. + +[WILLIAM remains hidden behind the arbour. After a few minutes JOHN +returns pulling SUSAN by the hand. + +SUSAN. And what are you about, bringing me into master's flower +garden at this time of the morning? I should like for mistress to +look out of one of the windows--you'd get into fine trouble, and me +too, John. + +JOHN. Susan, my dear, you be a passing fine wench to look upon, and +that's the truth. + +SUSAN. And is it to tell me such foolishness that you've brought me +all the way out of the kitchen? + +JOHN. [Stooping and picking a dandelion.] And to give you this +flower, dear Susan. + +SUSAN. [Throwing it down.] A common thing like that! I'll have +none of it. + +JOHN. 'Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan. The blue +fire do fairly leap from your eyes. + +SUSAN. O you're enough to anger a saint, John. What have you +brought me here for? + +JOHN. I thought I'd like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, +Susan. And that I did never see a finer. + +SUSAN. You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what +Master William's so powerful set on. + +JOHN. Ah--and 'tis true as you have sommat of the look of she when +you stands a pawing of the ground as you be now. + +SUSAN. Is it to insult me that you've got me away from the kitchen, +John? + +JOHN. Nay--'tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish wench--and +I'll go along to the church with you any day as you will name, my +dear. + +SUSAN. That you won't, John. I don't mind taking a nosegay of +flowers from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over +the garden gate of an evening, but I'm not a-going any further along +the road with you. That's all. [She moves towards the house. + +JOHN. Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan--and let me say sommat +of all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in +my heart for you. + +SUSAN. They may stir within you like an old waspes' nest for all I +care, John. + +JOHN. Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they. You +can speak honey sweet when it do please you to. + +SUSAN. 'Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, John. + +JOHN. I gets enough of that from mistress--I mean--well--I mean--[in +a loud, clear voice] --O mistress is a wonderful fine woman and no +mistake. + +SUSAN. You won't say as much when she comes round the corner and +catches you a wasting of your time like this, John. + +JOHN. Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of +the finest rose what blooms, Susan? + +SUSAN. Is that me, John? + +JOHN. Who else should it be, Susan? + +SUSAN. Well, John--sometimes I think there's not much amiss with +you. + +JOHN. O Susan, them be grand words. + +SUSAN. But then again--I do think as you be getting too much like +Master William. + +JOHN. And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth. + +SUSAN. Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. +And you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John. + +JOHN. Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way. + +SUSAN. I'm not so sure as I do, John. + +JOHN. Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan. + +SUSAN. And that I'll not. And what's more, I'm not a-going to stop +here talking foolish with you any longer. I've work to do within. +[SUSAN goes off. + +[JOHN, mopping his face and speaking regretfully as WILLIAM steps +from behind the arbour. + +JOHN. There, master. That's courting for you. That's the sort of +thing. And a caddling thing it is too. + +WILLIAM. But 'tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John. +And 'tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this +afternoon, there--that's what I've come to in my thoughts. + +JOHN. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now? + +WILLIAM. See here, John--we'll cut a nosegay for you to carry--some +of the best blooms I'll spare. And you, who know what courting is, +and who have such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once +and do the business for me. + +JOHN. Master, if 'twas an acre of stone as you'd asked me to plough, +I'd sooner do it nor a job like this. + +WILLIAM. John, you've been a good friend to me all the years that +you have lived on the farm, you'll not go and fail me now. + +JOHN. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William? +'Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of +she. + +WILLIAM. Your words are all right, John. 'Tisn't as though sensible +speech was needed. You do know what's wanted with the maids, whilst +I have never been used to them in any way whatever. So let's say no +more about it, but commence gathering the flowers. + +JOHN. [Heavily, but resigned.] Since you say so, master. [They +begin to gather flowers. + +WILLIAM. What blooms do young maids like the best, John? + +JOHN. Put in a sprig of thyme, master. + +WILLIAM. Yes--I can well spare that. + +JOHN. And a rose that's half opened, master. + +WILLIAM. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, +John. + +JOHN. 'Tain't likely as you can get through courtship without +parting with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you're called +upon to spill. + +WILLIAM. That's true, John--I'll gather the rose - + +JOHN. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave +flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out +of they. + +WILLIAM. Put them into the nosegay, John--And now--no more--'Tis +enough waste for one day. + +JOHN. 'Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I. + +WILLIAM. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John. + +JOHN. 'Tis to be hoped as 'twill be the same with the lady, master. + +WILLIAM. There, off you go, John. And mind, 'tis her with the +cherry ribbon to her gown and bonnet. + +JOHN. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her head +this day, being that 'tis Thursday? + +WILLIAM. An eye like--like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to +the face of her like yon rose. + +JOHN. That's enough, Master William. I'll not pitch upon the wrong +maid, never fear. And now I'll clean myself up a bit at the pump, +and set off straight away. + +WILLIAM. [Shaking JOHN's hand.] Good luck to you, my man. And if +you can bring it off quiet and decent like without me coming in till +at the last, why, 'tis a five pound note that you shall have for your +trouble. + +JOHN. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no +mistake about that. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +A wood. To the right a fallen tree (or a bench). JOHN comes from +the left, a large bunch of flowers in his hand. + +JOHN. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? Well, +bless my soul, but 'tis a rare caddling business what master's put +upon I. 'Tis worse nor any job he have set me to in all the years +I've been along of him, so 'tis. But I'm the one to bring it off +slick and straight, and, bless me, if I won't take and hide myself by +yon great bush till I see the wenches a-coming up. That'll give me +time to have a quiet look at the both and pick out she what master's +going a-courting of. + +[JOHN puts himself behind some thick bushes as JULIA and LAURA come +forward. JULIA is very simply dressed. Her head is bare, and she is +carrying her white cotton sunbonnet. LAURA wears finer clothes and +her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry colour. + +LAURA. [Stopping by the bench.] We'll sit down--'Tis a warm day, +and I've had enough of walking. + +[She sinks down on the seat. + +JULIA. [Looking all round her.] 'Tis beautiful and quiet here. O +this is ever so much better than the farm. + +LAURA. The farm! What's wrong with that, I should like to know? + +JULIA. Everything. 'Tis more like a prison than a home to me. +Within the house there's always work crying out to be done--and +outside I believe 'tis worse--work--nothing else speaking to me. + +LAURA. You're a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there's many would give +their eyes to change with you. + +JULIA. But out here 'tis all peace, and freedom. There's naught +calling out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and the +breezes move them this way, and that. The ground is thick with +leaves and blossoms and no one has got to sweep it, and the hard +things with great noises to them, like pails and churns, are far away +and clean forgot. + +LAURA. 'Tisn't much use as you'll be on the farm. + +JULIA. I wish I'd never come nigh to it. I was happier far before. + +LAURA. 'Tis a grand life. You'll see it as I do one of these days. + +JULIA. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear the +cattle lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and 'tis a +heart of lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers in +the fields calls me, but 'tis to the dairy I must go, to work. And +at noonday, when the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for its +coolness, 'tis the kitchen I must be in--or picking green stuff for +the market. And so on till night, when the limbs of me can do no +more and the spirit in me is like a bird with the wing of it broken. + +LAURA. You'll harden to it all by winter time right enough. + +JULIA. O I'll never harden to it. 'Tis not that way I am made. +Some girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do +their task nor ask for anything beyond, but 'tis not so with me. + +LAURA. How is it then with you? + +JULIA. [Pointing.] There--see that blue thing yonder flying from +one blossom to another. That's how 'tis with me. Shut me up close +in one place, I perish. Let me go free, and I can fly and live. + +LAURA. You do talk a powerful lot of foolishness that no one could +understand. + +JULIA. O, do not let us talk at all. Let us bide still, and get +ourselves refreshed by the sweetness and the wildness of the forest. + +JULIA turns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood +around her. + +LAURA arranges her ribbons and smoothes out her gown. Neither of +them speak for a few minutes. + +LAURA. [Looking up and pointing.] See those strange folk over +there? What are they? + +JULIA. [Looking in the same direction.] I know them. They are +gipsies from the hill near to us. + +LAURA. They should be driven away then. I don't like such folk +roosting around. + +JULIA. But I do. They are friends to me. Many's the time I have +run out at dusk to speak with them as they sit round their fire. + +LAURA. Then you didn't ought to have done so. Let's get off now, +before they come up. + +JULIA. No, no. Let us talk to them all. [Calling.] Tansie and +Chris, come you here and sit down alongside of us. [CHRIS, NAT, and +TANSIE come up. + +CHRIS. Good morning to you, mistress. 'Tis a fine brave day, to- +day. + +JULIA. That it is, Chris. There never was so fine a day. And we +have come to spend all of it in this forest. + +TANSIE. Ah, but 'tis warm upon the high road. + +NAT. We be come right away from the town, mistress. + +JULIA. Then sit down, all of you, and we will talk in the cool +shade. + +LAURA. Not here, if you please. I am not used to such company. + +JULIA. Not here? Very well, my friends, let us go further into the +wood and you shall stretch yourselves under the green trees and we +will all rest there together. + +LAURA. Well, what next! You might stop to consider how 'twill look +in the parish. + +JULIA. How what will look? + +LAURA. How 'twill look for you to be seen going off in such company +like this. + +JULIA. The trees have not eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. +There's no one to see me but you, and you can turn your head t'other +way. Come Tansie, come + +Chris. [She turns towards the three gipsies. + +TANSIE. Nat's in a sorry way, this morning--baint you, Nat? + +NAT. Let I be. You do torment anyone till they scarce do know if +they has senses to them or no. + +TANSIE. You're not one to miss what you never had, Nat. + +CHRIS. Let the lad bide in quiet, will you. 'Tis a powerful little +nagging wench as you be. + +JULIA. Why are you heavy and sad this fine day, Nat? + +TANSIE. 'Tis love what's the matter with he, mistress. + +JULIA. Love? O, that's not a thing that should bring heaviness or +gloom, but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips. + +TANSIE. Ah, but when there's been no meeting in the dusk since +Sunday, and no message sent! + +CHRIS. Keep that tongue of your'n where it should be, and give over, +Tansie. Susan's not one as would play tricks with her lad. + +JULIA. Now I have a thirst to hear all about this, Nat, so come off +further into the wood, all of you, where we can speak in quiet. + +[She holds out her hand to NAT. + +LAURA. Upon my word, but something must be done to bring these +goings on to an end. + +JULIA. Come, Nat--you shall tell me all your trouble. I understand +the things of the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know how to +give you comfort in your distress--come + +[JULIA and NAT, followed by CHRIS and TANSIE, move off out of sight. +LAURA is left sitting on the bench alone. Presently JOHN comes out +carefully from behind the bushes, holding his bunch of flowers. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +LAURA. The same to you, master. + +JOHN. Folks do call me John. + +LAURA. Indeed? Good morning, John. + +JOHN. A fine brave sun to-day, mistress. + +LAURA. But pleasant enough here in the shade. + +JOHN. Now, begging your pardon, but what you wants over the head of +you baint one of these great trees full of flies and insects, but an +arbour trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at +his place yonder. + +LAURA. Indeed? And who may your master be, John? + +JOHN. 'Tis Master William Gardner, what's the talk of the country +for miles around, mistress. And that he be. + +LAURA. Master William Gardner! What, he of Road Farm? + +JOHN. The very same, mistress. And as grand a gentleman as anyone +might wish for to see. + +LAURA. Yes--I seem to have heard something told about him, but I +don't rightly remember what 'twas. + +JOHN. You may have heard tell as the finest field of beans this +season, that's his. + +LAURA. I don't think 'twas of beans that I did hear. + +JOHN. Or that 'twas his spotted hilt what fetched the highest price +of any in the market Saturday? + +LAURA. No, 'twasn't that neither. + +JOHN. Or that folks do come as thick as flies on a summer's day from +all parts of the country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. Ah, +and before 'tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for it, all of +them, like a pack of dogs with a bone. So 'tis. + +LAURA. 'Twasn't that, I don't think. + +JOHN. Or 'twas that th' old missis--she as is mother to Master +William--her has a tongue what's sharper nor longer than any vixen's +going. But that's between you and I, missis. + +LAURA. Ah--'Twas that I did hear tell of. Now I remember it. + +JOHN. But Master William--the tongue what he do keep be smooth as +honey, and a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the +chance. + +LAURA. Indeed? He must be a pleasant sort of a gentleman. + +JOHN. For he could be led with kindness same as anything else. But +try for to drive him, as old Missis do--and very likely 'tis hoofed +as you'll get for your pains. + +LAURA. I like a man with some spirit to him, myself. + +JOHN. Ah, Master William has a rare spirit to him, and that he has. +You should hear him when th' old Missis's fowls be got into his +flower garden. 'Tis sommat as is not likely to be forgot in a hurry. +That 'tisn't. + +LAURA. You carry a handsome nosegay of blossoms there, John. Are +they from your master's garden? + +JOHN. Ah, there're not amiss. I helped for to raise they too. + +LAURA. And to whom are you taking them now, John? + +JOHN. To the lady what my master's a-courting of, mistress. + +LAURA. And whom may that be, John? + +JOHN. Why, 'tis yourself, mistress. + +LAURA. Me, John? Why, I've never clapped eyes on Master William +Gardner so far as I know of. + +JOHN. But he've clapped eyes on you, mistress--'twas at Church last +Sunday. And 'tis not a bit of food, nor a drop of drink, nor an hour +of sleep, as Master William have taken since. + +LAURA. O, you do surprise me, John? + +JOHN. That's how 'tis with he, mistress. 'Tis many a year as I've +served Master William--but never have I seen him in the fix where he +be in to-day. + +LAURA. Why--how is it with him then? + +JOHN. As it might be with the cattle when the flies do buzz about +they, thick in the sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a- +trampling and a-tossing, and never a minute's rest. + +LAURA. Well, now--to think of such a thing. Indeed! + +JOHN. I've seen a horse right up to the neck of him in that old quag +ahind of our place--a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth and a- +plunging so as 'twould terrify anyone to harken to it. And that's +how 'tis to-day with Master William up at home, so 'tis. + +LAURA. And only saw me once--at Church last Sunday, John? + +JOHN. Ah--and they old maid flies do sting but once, but 'tis a +terrible big bump as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that 'tis. + +LAURA. O John--'tis a fine thing to be loved like that. + +JOHN. So I should say--ah, 'tisn't every day that a man like Master +William goes a-courting. + +LAURA. But he hasn't set out yet, John. + +JOHN. You take and hold the nosegay, mistress, and I'll go straight +off and fetch him, so being as you're agreeable. + +LAURA. O yes, and that I am, John--You go and fetch him quick. I'll +bide here gladly, waiting till he comes. + +JOHN. That's it. I knowed you for a sensible lady the moment I +pitched my eyes on to you. And when master do come up, you take and +talk to him nicely and meek-like and lead him on from one thing to +t'other: and you'll find as he'll go quiet as a sheep after the +first set off, spite of the great spirit what's at the heart of he. + +LAURA. John, I'll do all as you say, and more than all. Only, you +get along and send him quickly to me. And--yes, you might give him a +good hint, John--I'm not averse to his attentions. + +JOHN. Ah, and I should think you wasn't, for 'twould be a hard job +to find a nicer gentleman nor Master William. + +LAURA. That I know it would. Why, John, my heart's commenced +beating ever so fast, it has. + +JOHN. Then you may reckon how 'tis with the poor master! Why, 'tis +my belief as 'twill be raving madness as'll be the end of he if +sommat don't come to put a finish to this unrest. + +LAURA. O John, 'twould never do for such a fine gentleman to go +crazy. Do you set off quick and send him along to me, and I'll take +and do my very best for to quiet him, like. + +JOHN. [Rising and about to set off.] Ah, 'tis a powerful lot of +calming as Master William do require. But you be the one for to give +it him. You just bide where you do sit now whilst I goes and fetches +him, mistress. + +LAURA. O that I will, my good, dear John. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +The same wood. + +WILLIAM and JOHN come up. WILLIAM carries a large market basket +containing vegetables. + +JOHN. [Looking round and seeing no one.] Bless my soul, but 'twas +on the seat as I did leave she. + +WILLIAM. We have kept her waiting a bit too long whilst we were +cutting the green stuff. And now 'twill be best to let matters bide +over till to-morrow. + +JOHN. Why, master 'tis my belief as you be all of a-tremble like. + +WILLIAM. I wish we were well out of this business, John. 'Tis not +to my liking in any way. + +JOHN. 'Tis a fine looking lady, and that 'tis. You take and court +her, Master William. + +WILLIAM. How am I to court the wench when she's not here? + +JOHN. [Pointing.] Look yonder, master, there she comes through them +dark trees. + +WILLIAM. You've got to bide somewhere nigh me, John. I could not be +left alone with a wench who's a stranger to me. + +JOHN. Don't you get flustered, Master William. See here, I'll hide +me ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should want me, why, +there I'm close at hand. + +WILLIAM. I'd rather you did stand at my side, John. + +[JOHN hides himself behind the bushes. LAURA comes slowly up. +WILLIAM stands awkwardly before her, saying nothing. Presently he +takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily and she bows to him. For +some moments they stand embarrassed, looking at one another. + +WILLIAM. [Suddenly bringing out a bunch of carrots from his basket +and holding them up.] See these young carrots, mistress. + +LAURA. Indeed I do, master. + +WILLIAM. 'Tisn't everywhere that you do see such fine grown ones for +the time of year. + +LAURA. You're right there, master. We have none of them up at our +place. + +WILLIAM. [Holding them towards her.] Then be pleased to accept +these, mistress. + +LAURA. [Taking the carrots.] Thank you kindly, master. [There is +another embarrassed silence. WILLIAM looks distractedly from LAURA +to his basket. Then he takes out a bunch of turnips. + +WILLIAM. You couldn't beat these nowhere, not if you were to try. + +LAURA. I'm sure you could not, master. + +WILLIAM. They do call this sort the Early Snowball. 'Tis a foolish +name for a table root. + +LAURA. 'Tis a beautiful turnip. + +WILLIAM. [Giving her the bunch.] You may as well have them too. + +LAURA. O you're very kind, master. + +[There is another long silence. WILLIAM shuffles on his feet--LAURA +bends admiringly over her gifts. + +WILLIAM. There's young beans and peas and a spring cabbage too, +within the basket. I do grow a little of most everything. + +LAURA. O shall we sit down and look at the vegetables together? + +WILLIAM. [Visibly relieved.] We might do worse nor that. [They sit +down side by side with the basket between them. + +LAURA. [Lifting the cabbage.] O, this is quite a little picture! +See how the leaves do curl backwards--so fresh and green! + +WILLIAM. Ah, and that one has a rare white heart to it, it has. + +LAURA. I do love the taste of a spring cabbage, when it has a slice +of fat bacon along with it. + +WILLIAM. I might have brought a couple of pounds with me if I'd have +thought. Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging in the +pantry. + +LAURA. [Shyly.] Next time, maybe. + +WILLIAM. [Eagerly.] 'Twouldn't take ten minutes for me to run back. + +LAURA. Not now--O no master--not now. Do you bide a little longer +here and tell me about--about t'other things in the basket. + +WILLIAM. [Mopping his face with a handkerchief.] Well--there's the +beans--I count that yours haven't come up very smart this year. + +LAURA. That they've not. The whole place has been let to run +dreadful wild. + +WILLIAM. I'd--I'd like to show you how 'tis in my garden, one of +these days. + +LAURA. I'd be very pleased to walk along with you there. + +WILLIAM. [Hurriedly.] Ah--you should see it later on when the--the- +-the parsnips are a bit forrarder. + +LAURA. I'd like to see the flower garden now, where this nosegay +came from. + +WILLIAM. [Looking round uneasily.] I don't know what the folks +would say if they were to see you and me a-going on the road in broad +day--I'm sure I don't. + +LAURA. Why, what should they say, Master Gardner? + +WILLIAM. They might get saying--they might say as--as I'd got a- +courting, or sommat foolish. + +LAURA. Well--and would that be untrue? + +WILLIAM. [Looking at her very uncomfortably.] I'm blessed if I do +know--I mean - + +LAURA. This nosegay--and look, those young carrots--and the turnips +and beans, why did you bring them for me, master, unless it was that +you intended something by it? + +WILLIAM. [Very confused.] That's so. So 'tis. That's true. I +count you have got hold of the sow by the ear right enough this time. +And the less said about it the better. [A slight silence. + +LAURA. [Looking up shyly in WILLIAM's face.] What was it drew you +to me first, master? + +WILLIAM. I believe 'twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced to take +notice of you, like. + +LAURA. Yes, but what was it about me that took your fancy in Church +on Sunday? + +WILLIAM. I'm blessed if I know, unless 'twas those coloured ribbons +that you have got to your bonnet. + +LAURA. You are partial to the colour? + +WILLIAM. Ah, 'tis well enough. + +LAURA. See here. [Taking a flower from her dress.] This is of the +same colour. I will put it in your coat. + +[She fastens it in his coat. WILLIAM looks very uncomfortable and +nervous. + +WILLIAM. Well, bless my soul, but women folk have got some powerful +strange tricks to them. + +LAURA. [Pinning the flower in its place.] There--my gift to you, +master. + +WILLIAM. You may call me by my name, if you like, 'tis more +suitable, seeing that we might go along to Church together one of +these days. + +LAURA. O William, you have made me very happy--I do feel all mazy +like with my gladness. + +WILLIAM. Well, Julia, we might do worse than to--to--name the day. + +LAURA. Why do you call me Julia? + +WILLIAM. Seeing that I've given you leave to call me William 'tis +only suitable that I should use your name as well. + +LAURA. But my name is not Julia. + +WILLIAM. What is it then, I should like to know? + +LAURA. 'Tis Laura, William. + +WILLIAM. Folks did tell me that you were named Julia. + +LAURA. No--Laura is my name; but I live with Mistress Julia up at +Luther's Farm, and I help her with the work. House-keeping, dairy, +poultry, garden. O there's nothing I can't turn my hand to, Master +William. + +WILLIAM. [Starts up from the seat in deepest consternation.] John, +John--Come you here, I say! Come here. + +JOHN. [Emerges from the bushes.] My dearest master! + +WILLIAM. What's this you've been and done, John? + +JOHN. Why, master--the one with the cherry ribbons, to her you did +say. + +WILLIAM. [Disgustedly.] 'Tis the wrong one. + +LAURA. What are you two talking about? William, do you mean to say +as that man of yours was hid in the bushes all the while? + +WILLIAM. Now, John, you've got to get me out of the fix where I'm +set. + +JOHN. O my dear master, don't you take on so. 'Tis a little bit of +misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right very soon. + +WILLIAM. Then you get to work and set it right, John, for 'tis +beyond the power of me to do so. I'll be blessed if I'll ever get +meddling with this sort of job again. + +JOHN. Now don't you get so heated, master, but leave it all to me. +[Turning to LAURA.] My good wench, it seems that there has been a +little bit of misunderstanding between you and my gentleman here. + +LAURA. [Angrily.] So that's what you call it--misunderstanding 'tis +a fine long word, but not much of meaning, to it, I'm thinking. + +JOHN. Then you do think wrong. Suppose you was to go to market for +to buy a nice spring chicken and when you was got half on the way to +home you was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl in place +of it, what would you do then? + +LAURA. I don't see that chickens or fowls have anything to do with +the matter. + +JOHN. Then you're not the smart maid I took you for. 'Tis not you +as would be suitable in my master's home. And what's more, 'tis not +you as my master's come a-courting of. + +LAURA. If 'tis not me, who is it then? + +[WILLIAM looks at her sheepishly and then turns away. + +JOHN. 'Tis your mistress, since you wants to know. + +LAURA. [Indignantly.] O, I see it all now--How could I have been so +misled! + +JOHN. However could poor master have been so mistook, I say. + +LAURA. [Turning away passionately.] O, I've had enough of you and-- +and your master. + +JOHN. Now that's what I do like for to hear. Because me and master +have sommat else to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in this old wood +the rest of the day. Us have got a smartish lot of worry ahead of +we, haven't us, master? + +WILLIAM. You never said a truer word, John. + +JOHN. Come along then Master William. You can leave the spring +vegetables to she. 'Tis more nor she deserves, seeing as her might +have known as 'twas her mistress the both of us was after, all the +time. + +[LAURA throws herself on the seat and begins to cry silently, but +passionately. + +WILLIAM. O John, this courting, 'tis powerful heavy work. + +JOHN. [Taking WILLIAM'S arm.] Come you along with me, master, and +I'll give you a helping hand with it all. + +LAURA. [Looking up and speaking violently.] I warrant you will, you +clown. But let me advise you to look better afore you leap next +time, or very likely 'tis in sommat worse than a ditchful of nettles +as you'll find yourself. + +JOHN. [Looking back over his shoulders as he goes off with WILLIAM.] +I reckon as you've no call to trouble about we, mistress. Us is they +what can look after theirselves very well. Suppose you was to wash +your face and dry your eyes and set about the boiling of yon spring +cabbage. 'Twould be sensibler like nor to bide grizzling after one +as is beyond you in his station, so 'twould. + +[JOHN and WILLIAM go out, leaving LAURA weeping on the bench, the +basket of vegetables by her side. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 3. + + + +JULIA is sitting at the foot of a tree in the wood. CHRIS, NAT and +TANSIE are seated near her on the ground. + +JULIA. I wish this day might last for always. + +CHRIS. Why, when to-morrow's come, 'twill be the same. + +JULIA. That it will not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow's work. + +TANSIE. One day 'tis much the same as t'other with me. + +NAT. 'Tis what we gets to eat as do make the change. + +TANSIE. I should have thought as how a grand young mistress like +yourself might have had the days to your own liking. + +JULIA. Ah, and so I did once. But that was before Uncle died and +left me the farm. Now, 'tis all different with the days. + +CHRIS. How was it with you afore then, mistress? + +JULIA. Much the same as 'tis with that bird flying yonder. I did so +as I listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was up, then I +did sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when 'twas dark, why, then +I did roam. There was naught to hold me back from my fancy. + +TANSIE. And how is it now with you, mistress? + +JULIA. 'Tis all said in one word. + +CHRIS. What's that? + +JULIA. 'Tis "work." + +NAT. Work? + +CHRIS. Work? + +TANSIE. Work! And yet 'tis a fine young lady as you do look in your +muslin gown with silky ribbons to it and all. + +JULIA. I'm a farmer, Tansie. And for a farmer 'tis work of one +sort, or t'other from when the sun is up till the candle has burned +itself short. If 'tisn't working with my own hands, 'tis driving of +the hands of another. + +CHRIS. I've heard tell as a farmer do spin gold all the day same as +one of they great spiders as go putting out silk from their mouths. + +JULIA. And what is gold to me, Chris, who have no one but myself to +spend it on + +CHRIS. Folks do say as the laying up of gold be one of the finest +things in the world. + +JULIA. It will never bring happiness to me, Chris. + +CHRIS. Come, mistress, 'tis a fine thing to have a great stone roof +above the head of you. + +JULIA. I'd sooner get my shelter from the green leaves. + +NAT. And a grand thing to have your victuals spread afore you each +time 'stead of having to go lean very often. + +JULIA. O, a handful of berries and a drink of fresh water is enough +for me. + +TANSIE. And beautiful it must be to stretch the limbs of you upon +feathers when night do come down, with a fine white sheet drawn up +over your head. + +JULIA. O, I could rest more sweetly on the grass and moss yonder. + +NAT. I did never sleep within four walls but once, and then 'twas in +gaol. + +JULIA. O Nat, you were never in gaol, were you? + +NAT. 'Twas that they mistook I for another. And when the morning +did come, they did let I go again. + +CHRIS. I count 'twas a smartish long night, that! + +NAT. 'Twas enough for to shew me how it do feel when anyone has got +to bide sleeping with the walls all around of he. + +JULIA. And the ceiling above, Nat. And locked door. And other folk +lying breathing in the house, hard by. All dark and close. + +CHRIS. And where us may lie, the air do run swift over we. We has +the smell of the earth and the leaves on us as we do sleep. There +baint no darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through up +yonder. + +TANSIE. And no sound of other folk breathing but the crying of th' +owls and the foxes' bark. + +JULIA. Ah, that must be a grand sound, the barking of a fox. I +never did hear one. Never. + +CHRIS. Ah, 'tis a powerful thin sound, that--but one to raise the +hair on a man's head and to clam the flesh of he, at dead of night. + +NAT. You come and bide along of we one evening, and you shall +hearken to the fox, and badger too, if you've the mind. + +JULIA. O that would please me more than anything in the world. + +TANSIE. And when 'twas got a little lighter, so that the bushes +could be seen, and the fields, I'd shew you where the partridge has +her nest beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten them +too. + +CHRIS. And I'll take and lead you to a place what I do know of, +where the water flows clear as a diamond over the stones. And if you +bides there waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come along-- +and there's a dinner such as the Queen might not get every day of the +week. + +JULIA. O Chris, who is there to say I must bide in one place when +all in me is thirsting to be in t'other! + +CHRIS. I'm sure I don't know. + +NAT. I should move about where I did like, if 'twas me. + +TANSIE. A fine young lady like you can do as she pleases. + +JULIA. Well then, it pleases me to bide with you in the free air. + +CHRIS. Our life, 'tis a poor life, and wandering. 'Tis food one +day, and may be going without the next. 'Tis the sun upon the faces +of us one hour--and then the rain. But 'tis in freedom that us +walks, and we be the masters of our own limbs. + +JULIA. Will you be good to me if I journey with you? + +CHRIS. Ah, 'tis not likely as I'll ever fail you, mistress. + +JULIA. Do not call me mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia. + +CHRIS. 'Tis a well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as clear +water upon the tongue. + +JULIA. Tansie, how will it be for me to go with you? + +TANSIE. 'Twill be well enough with the spirit of you I don't doubt, +but how'll it be with the fine clothes what you have on? + +NAT. [Suddenly looking up.] Why, there's Susan coming. + +JULIA. [Looking in the same direction.] So that is Susan? + +TANSIE. I count as her has had a smartish job to get away from th' +old missis so early in the day. + +CHRIS. 'Tis a rare old she cat, and handy with the claw's of her, +Susan's missis. + +[SUSAN comes shyly forward. + +NAT. Come you here, Susan, and sit along of we. + +JULIA. Yes, sit down with us in this cool shade, Susan. You look +warm from running. + +SUSAN. O, I didn't know you was here, Mistress Julia. + +JULIA. Well, Susan, and so you live at Road Farm. Are you happy +there? + +SUSAN. I should be if 'twern't for mistress. + +JULIA. No mistress could speak harshly to you, Susan--you are so +young and pretty. + +SUSAN. Ah, but mistress takes no account of aught but the work you +does, and the tongue of her be wonderful lashing. + +JULIA. Then how comes it that you have got away to the forest so +early on a week day? + +SUSAN. 'Tis that mistress be powerful took up with sommat else this +afternoon, and so I was able to run out for a while and her didn't +notice me. + +TANSIE. Why Su, what's going on up at the farm so particular to-day? + +SUSAN. 'Tis courting. + +ALL. Courting? + +SUSAN. Yes. That 'tis. 'Tis our Master William what's dressed up +in his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting with a basket of green +stuff on his arm big enough to fill the market, very nigh. + +CHRIS. Well, well, who'd have thought he had it in him? + +NAT. He's a gentleman what's not cut out for courting, to my mind. + +SUSAN. Indeed he isn't, Nat. And however the mistress got him +dressed and set off on that business, I don't know. + +JULIA. But you have not told us who the lady is, Susan. + +SUSAN. [Suddenly very embarrassed.] I--I--don't think as I do +rightly know who 'tis, mistress. + +CHRIS. Why, look you, Susan, you'll have to take and hide yourself +if you don't want for them to know as you be got along of we. + +SUSAN. What's that, Chris? + +CHRIS. [Pointing.] See there, that man of Master Gardner's be a- +coming along towards us fast. Look yonder - + +SUSAN. O whatever shall I do? 'Tis John, and surely he will tell of +me when he gets back. + +SAT. Come you off with me afore he do perceive you, Susan. I'll +take you where you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the world if +you'll but come along of me. + +JULIA. That's it. Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. And do you +go along too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in the +stillness of the wood for a while. + +[SUSAN, TANSIE and NAT go out. + +CHRIS. Be I to leave you too, Julia? + +JULIA. [Slowly.] Only for a little moment, Chris; then you can come +for me again. I would like to stay with myself in quiet for a while. +New thoughts have come into my mind and I cannot rightly understand +what they do say to me, unless I hearken to them alone. + +CHRIS. Then I'll leave you, Julia. For things be stirring powerful +in my mind too, and I'd give sommat for to come to an understanding +with they. Ah, that I would. + +[They look at one another in silence for a moment, then CHRIS slowly +follows the others, leaving JULIA alone. JULIA sits alone in the +wood. Presently she begins to sing. + +JULIA. [Singing.] + +I sowed the seeds of love, +It was all in the Spring; +In April, in May, and in June likewise +When small birds they do sing. + +[JOHN with a large basket on his arm comes up to her. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +JULIA. Good afternoon. + +JOHN. Now I count as you would like to know who 'tis that's made so +bold in speaking to you, Mistress. + +JULIA. Why, you're Master Gardner's farm hand, if I'm not mistaken. + +JOHN. Ah, that's right enough. And there be jobs as I wish Master +William would get and do for hisself instead of putting them on I. + +JULIA. Well, and how far may you be going this afternoon? + +JOHN. I baint going no further than where I be a-standing now, +mistress. + +JULIA. It would appear that your business was with me, then? + +JOHN. Ah, you've hit the right nail, mistress. 'Tis with you. 'Tis +a straight offer as my master have sent me out for to make. + +JULIA. Now I wonder what sort of an offer that might be! + +JOHN. 'Tis master's hand in marriage, and a couple of pigs jowls, +home-cured, within this here basket. + +JULIA. O my good man, you're making game of me. + +JOHN. And that I baint, mistress. 'Twas in the church as Master +William seed you first. And 'tis very nigh sick unto death with love +as he have been since then. + +JULIA. Is he too sick to come and plead his cause himself, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that he be. Do go moulting about the place with his +victuals left upon the dish--a sighing and a grizzling so that any +maid what's got a heart to th' inside of she would be moved in pity, +did she catch ear of it, and would lift he out of the torment. + +JULIA. Well, John, I've not seen or heard any of this sad to-do, so +I can't be moved in pity. + +JOHN. An, do you look within this basket at the jowls what Master +William have sent you. Maybe as they'll go to your heart straighter +nor what any words might. + +[JOHN sits down on the bench by JULIA and opens the basket. JULIA +looks in. + +JULIA. I have no liking for pigs' meat myself. + +JOHN. Master's pig meat be different to any in the county, mistress. +"Tell her," says Master William, "'tis a rare fine bit of mellow jowl +as I be a sending she." + +JULIA. O John, I'm a very poor judge of such things. + +JOHN. And look you here. I never seed a bit of Master William's +home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this day. No, +that I have not, mistress. + +JULIA. [Shutting the basket.] Well--I have no use for such a gift, +John, so it may be returned again to the family. I am sorry you had +the trouble of bringing it so far. + +JOHN. You may not be partial to pig meat, mistress, but you'll send +back the key of Master William's heart same as you have done the +jowls. + +JULIA. I have no use for the key of Master William's heart either, +John. And you may tell him so, from me. + +JOHN. Why, mistress. You don't know what you be a talking of. A +man like my master have never had to take a No in place of Yes in all +the born days of him. + +JULIA. [Rising.] Then he'll have to take it now, John. And I'm +thinking 'tis time you set off home again with your load. + +JOHN. Well, mistress, I don't particular care to go afore you have +given me a good word or sommat as'll hearten up poor Master William +in his love sickness. + +JULIA. Truly, John, I don't know what you would have me say. + +JOHN. I warrant there be no lack of words to the inside of you, if +so be as you'd open you mouth a bit wider. 'Tis not silence as a +maid is troubled with in general. + +JULIA. O, I have plenty of words ready, John, should you care to +hear them. + +JOHN. Then out with them, Mistress Julia, and tell the master as how +you'll take the offer what he have made you. + +JULIA. I've never seen your master, John, but I know quite enough +about him to say I'll never wed with him. Please to make that very +clear when you get back. + +JOHN. 'Tis plain as you doesn't know what you be a talking of. And +'tis a wonder as how such foolishness can came from the mouth of a +sensible looking maid like yourself. + +JULIA. I shall not marry Master William Gardner. + +JOHN. I reckon as you'll be glad enough to eat up every one of them +words the day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more splendid +gentleman nor he never fetched his breath. + +JULIA. I'll never wed a farmer, John. + +JOHN. And then, look at the gift what Master William's been and sent +you. 'Tisn't to everyone as master do part with his pig meat. That +'tisn't. + +JULIA. [Rising.] Well, you can tell your master I'm not one that +can be courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. And that I'll not +wed until I can give my heart along with my hand. + +JOHN. I'd like to know where you would find a better one nor master +for to give your heart to, mistress? + +JULIA. May be I have not far to search. + +JOHN. [Taking up the basket.] You're a rare tricksy maid as ever I +did see. Tricksy and tossy too. + +JULIA. There--that's enough, John. Suppose you set off home and +tell your master he can hang up his meat again in the larder, for all +that it concerns me. + +JOHN. I'll be blowed if I do say anything of the sort, mistress. I +shall get and tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought +to the matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, 'tis very like +as a dish of trotters may prove acceptabler. + +JULIA. Say what you like, John. Only let me bide quiet in this good +forest now. I want to be with my thoughts. + +JOHN. [Preparing to go and speaking aloud to himself.] Her's a +wonderful contrary bird to be sure. And bain't a shy one neither, +what gets timid and flustered and is easily netted. My word, but me +and master has a job before us for to catch she. + +JULIA. I hear you, and 'tis very rudely that you talk. There's an +old saying that I never could see the meaning of before, but now I +think 'tis clear, "Like master, like man," they say. I'll have none +of Master William, and you can tell him so. + +[JOHN goes out angrily. JULIA sits down again on the bench and +begins to sing. + +JULIA. [Singing.] + +My gardener stood by +And told me to take great care, +For in the middle of a red rose-bud +There grows a sharp thorn there. + +[LAURA comes slowly forward, carrying the basket of vegetables on one +arm. She holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying. + +JULIA. Why, Laura, what has made you cry so sadly? + +LAURA. O, Julia, 'twas a rare red rose as I held in my hand, and a +rare cruel thorn that came from it and did prick me. + +JULIA. And a rare basket of green stuff that you have been getting. + +LAURA. [Sinking down on the seat, and weeping violently.] His dear +gift to me! + +JULIA. [Looking into the basket.] O a wonderful fine gift, to be +sure. Young carrots and spring cabbage. I've had a gift offered +too--but mine was jowls. + +LAURA. Jowls. O, and did you not take them? + +JULIA. No, I sent them back to the giver, with the dry heart which +was along with them in the same basket. + +LAURA. O Julia, how could you be so hard and cruel? + +JULIA. Come, wouldn't you have done the same? + +LAURA. [Sobbing vehemently.] That I should not, Julia. + +JULIA. Perhaps you've seen the gentleman then? + +LAURA. I have. And O, Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. I never +saw one that was his like. + +JULIA. The rare red rose with its thorn, Laura. + +LAURA. He did lay the heart of him before me--thinking my name was +Julia. + +JULIA. And did he lay the vegetables too? + +LAURA. 'Twas all the doing of a great fool, that man of his. + +JULIA. And you--did you give him what he asked of you--before he +knew that your name was not Julia? + +LAURA. O, I did--that I did. [A short silence. + +JULIA. And could you forget the prick of the thorn, did you hold the +rose again, Laura? + +LAURA. O that I could. For me there'd be naught but the rose, were +it laid once more in my hand. But 'tis not likely to be put there, +since 'tis you he favours. + +JULIA. But I don't favour him. + +LAURA. You'll favour him powerful well when you see him, Julia. + +JULIA. I've given my heart already, but 'tis not to him. + +LAURA. You've given your heart? + +JULIA. Yes, Chris has all of it, Laura. There is nothing left for +anyone else in the world. + +LAURA. O Julia, think of your position. + +JULIA. That I will not do. I am going to think of yours. + +LAURA. [Beginning to cry.] I'm no better in my station than a +serving maid, like Susan. + +JULIA. [Pointing.] There she comes [calling] Susan, Susan! + +[SUSAN comes up. During the next sentences LAURA takes one bunch of +vegetables after another from the basket, smoothing each in turn with +a fond caressing movement. + +SUSAN. Did you call, mistress? + +JULIA. Yes, Susan. That I did. + +SUSAN. Can I help you in any way, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, and that you can. You have got to run quickly back to +the farm. + +SUSAN. Be it got terrible late, mistress? + +JULIA. 'Tis not only that. You have got to find your master and +tell him to expect a visit from me in less than an hour's time from +now. Do you understand? + +SUSAN. O, yes, mistress, and that I do--to tell master as you be +coming along after he as fast as you can run. + +JULIA. Well--I should not have put it in that way, but 'tis near +enough may be. So off, and make haste, Susan. + +SUSAN. Please, mistress, I could make the words have a more loving +sound to them if you do wish it. + +JULIA. My goodness, Susan, what are you thinking of? Say naught, +but that I'm coming. Run away now, and run quickly. [SUSAN goes +off. + +LAURA. [Looking up, a bunch of carrots in her hands.] What are you +going to do now, Julia? + +JULIA. You shall see, when you have done playing with those carrots. + +LAURA. He pulled them, every one, with his own hands, Julia. + +JULIA. My love has gathered something better for me than a carrot. +See, a spray of elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the +wind. + +[She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress, and shews it to +LAURA. + +LAURA. The roots that lie warm in the earth do seem more homely like +to me. + +JULIA. Well--each one has their own way in love--and mine lies +through the dark woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. And +'tis your road that we will take this afternoon--so come along +quickly with me, Laura, for the sun has already begun to change its +light. + +[LAURA replaces the vegetables in her basket and rises from the seat +as the curtain falls. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The Garden of Road Farm as in Act I. + +MRS. GARDNER is knitting in the Arbour. WILLIAM strolls about +gloomily, his hands in his pockets. + +MRS. GARDNER. And serve you right, William, for sending the man when +you should have gone yourself. + +WILLIAM. John has a tongue that is better used to this sort of +business than mine. + +MRS. GARDNER. Nonsense, when was one of our family ever known to +fail in the tongue? + +WILLIAM. If she that was asked first had only been the right one, +all would have been over and done with now. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis John that you have got to thank for the blunder. + +WILLIAM. [Sighing.] That was a rare fine maid, and no mistake. + +MRS. GARDNER. And a rare brazen hussy, from all that has reached my +ears. + +WILLIAM. Well--I've done with courting--now and for all time, that I +have. And you may roast me alive if I'll ever go nigh to a maid +again. + +MRS. GARDNER. That you shall, William--and quickly too. There's no +time like the present, and your Sunday clothes are upon you still. + +WILLIAM. I was just going up to change, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you'll please to remain as you are. You may take +what gift you like along with you this time, so long as it's none of +my home-cured meat. + +WILLIAM. I'm blessed if I do stir out again this day. Why, look at +the seedlings crying for water, and the nets to lay over the fruit +and sommat of everything wanting to be done all around of me. I'll +not stir. + +[JOHN comes towards them. + +MRS. GARDNER. Here's John. Suppose he were to make himself useful +in the garden for once instead of meddling in things that are none of +his business. + +JOHN. I'll be blowed if 'tis any more courting as I'll do, neither +for Master William nor on my own account. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, 'twasn't your fault that the lady wouldn't take +me, you did your best with her, I know. + +JOHN. An that I did, Master William, but a more contrary coxsy sort +of a maid I never did see. "I baint one as fancies pig meat," her +did say. And the nose of she did curl away up till it could go no +higher. That's not the wench for me, I says to myself. + +MRS. GARDNER. Is the jowl hung up in its right place again, John? + +JOHN. That 'tis, mistress. I put it back myself, and a good job for +that 'taint went out of the family and off to the mouths of +strangers, so says I. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you tend to Master William's garden John, instead +of talking. We've had enough of your tongue for one day. + +JOHN. Why, be Master William goin' out for to court again, this +afternoon? + +WILLIAM. No, John--No, I've had enough of that for my life time. + +JOHN. So have I, master, and more nor enough. I don't care +particular if I never set eyes on a maid again. + +WILLIAM. [Pointing to a plot of ground.] That's where I pulled the +young carrots this morning. + +JOHN. Ah, and so you did, master. + +WILLIAM. And there's from where I took the Early Snowballs. + +JOHN. And a great pity as you did. There be none too many of that +sort here. + +WILLIAM. She had a wonderful soft look in her eyes as she did handle +them and the spring cabbage, John. + +JOHN. Ah, and a wonderful hard tongue when her knowed 'twasn't for +she as they was pulled. + +WILLIAM. Was t'other maid anything of the same pattern, John? + +JOHN. Upon my word, if t'other wasn't the worst of the two, for she +did put a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she did give I, and +the words did fall from she like so many bricks on my head. + +WILLIAM. Pity the first was not the right maid. + +JOHN. Ah, a maid what can treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon did +baint the sort for to mistress it over we, I'm thinking. + +MRS. GARDNER. See here, John--suppose you were to let your tongue +bide still in its home awhile, and start doing something with your +hands. + +JOHN. That's right enough, mistress. What's wanted, Master William? + +WILLIAM. I'm blessed if I can recollect, John. This courting +business lies heavy on me, and I don't seem able to get above it, +like. + +JOHN. I'd let it alone, master, if I was you. They be all alike, +the maids. And 'twouldn't be amiss if we was to serve they as we +serves the snails when they gets to the young plants. + +[SUSAN comes hurriedly into the garden. + +SUSAN. Please master, please mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. What do you mean, Susan, by coming into the garden +without your cap? Go and put it on at once. + +SUSAN. The wind must have lifted it from me, mistress, for I was +running ever so fast. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you expect me to believe that, Susan--and not a +breath stirring the flowers or trees, or anything? + +SUSAN. 'Twas the lady I met as--as--as I was coming across the field +from feeding the fowls. + +MRS. GARDNER. What lady, Susan? + +SUSAN. Her from Luther's, mistress. + +JOHN. And what of she; out with it, wench. + +SUSAN. She did tell I to say as she be coming along as fast as she +may after Master William. + +WILLIAM. [As though to himself with an accent of despair.] No. No. + +JOHN. There, master, didn't I tell you so? + +WILLIAM. [Very nervously.] What did you tell me, John? + +JOHN. That, let her abide and her'd find the senses of she +presently. + +WILLIAM. O I'm blessed if I do know what to do. + +[JOHN takes his master's arm and draws him aside. + +JOHN. You pluck up your heart, my dearest master, and court she +hard. And in less nor a six months 'tis along to church as you'll be +a-driving she. + +WILLIAM. But John, 'tis t'other with the cherry ribbons that has +taken all my fancy. + +JOHN. No, no, Master William. You take and court the mistress. You +take and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from she. +T'other wench is but the serving maid. + +SUSAN. The lady's coming along ever so quickly, master. + +[MRS. GARDNER, rising and folding up her knitting. + +MRS. GARDNER. You'll please to come indoors with me, William, and +I'll brush you down and make you look more presentable than you +appear just now. Susan, you'll get a cap to you head at once, do you +hear me! And John, take and water master's seedlings. Any one can +stand with their mouths open and their eyes as big as gooseberries if +they've a mind. 'Tis not particular sharp to do so. Come, William. + +WILLIAM. I'd like a word or two with John first, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. You come along with me this moment, William. 'Tis a +too many words by far that you've had with John already, and much +good they've done to you. Come you in with me. + +WILLIAM. O I'm blessed if I do know whether 'tis on my head or on my +feet that I'm standing. + +[WILLIAM follows his mother slowly and gloomily into the house. + +JOHN. Well--if ever there was a poor, tormented animal 'tis the +master. + +SUSAN. Ah, mistress should have been born a drover by rights. 'Tis +a grand nagging one as her'd have made, and sommat what no beast +would ever have got the better of. + +JOHN. I wouldn't stand in Master William's shoes, not if you was to +put me knee deep in gold. + +SUSAN. Nor I. + +JOHN. Ah, this courting business, 'tis a rare caddling muddle when +'tis all done and said. + +SUSAN. 'Tis according as some folks do find it, Master John. + +JOHN. 'Tis a smartish lot as you'll get of it come Sunday night, my +wench. You wait and see. + +SUSAN. That shews how little you do know. 'Twill be better nor ever +with me then. + +JOHN. 'Twill be alone by yourself as you'll go walking, Su. + +SUSAN. We'll see about that when the time comes, John. + +JOHN. All I says is that I baint a-going walking with you. + +SUSAN. I never walk with two, John. + +JOHN. You'll have to learn to go in your own company. + +SUSAN. I shall go by the side of my husband by then, very likely. + +JOHN. Your husband? What tales be you a-giving out now? + +SUSAN. 'Tis to Nat as I'm to be wed come Saturday. + +JOHN. Get along with you, Susan, and put a cap to your head. +Mistress will be coming out presently, and then you know how 'twill +be if her catches you so. Get along in with you. + +SUSAN. Now you don't believe what I'm telling you--but it's true, O +it's true. + +JOHN. Look here--There's company at the gate, and you a-standing +there like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in and make +yourself a decenter appearance and then go and tell the mistress as +they be comed. + +SUSAN. [Preparing to go indoors and speaking over her shoulder.] +'Tis in the parson's gown as you should be clothed, Master John. Ah, +'tis a wonderful wordy preacher as you would make, to be sure. And +'tis a rare crop as one might raise with the seed as do fall from +your mouth. + +[She goes indoors. JULIA comes leisurely into the garden. + +JULIA. Well, John, and how are you feeling now? + +JOHN. Nicely, thank you, mistress. See yon arbour? + +JULIA. And that I do, John. + +JOHN. Well, you may go and sit within it till the master has leisure +to come and speak with you. + +JULIA. Thank you, John, but I would sooner stop and watch you tend +the flowers. + +JOHN. 'Tis all one to me whether you does or you does not. + +JULIA. Now, John, you are angry with me still. + +JOHN. I likes a wench as do know the mind of she, and not one as can +blow hot one moment and cold the next. + +JULIA. There was never a moment when I did not know my own mind, +John. And that's the truth. + +JOHN. Well, us won't say no more about that. 'Taint fit as there +should be ill feeling nor quarrelling 'twixt me and you. + +JULIA. You're right, John. And there was something that I had it in +my mind to ask you. + +JOHN. You can say your fill. There baint no one but me in the +garden. + +JULIA. John, you told me that since Sunday your master has been sick +with love. + +JOHN. That's right enough, mistress. I count as we shall bury he if +sommat don't come to his relief. + +JULIA. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if 'tis for +love of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening. + +JOHN. You'd best go and ask it of his self, mistress. 'Tis a +smartish lot of work as I've got to attend to here. + +JULIA. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you. + +JOHN. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a- +buzzin round a man's head. + +JULIA. Now, John--you must tell me which of the two it is. Is it +Laura whom your master loves, or Julia? + +JOHN. 'Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me. + +JULIA. No, John, you're not looking straight at me. You are looking +down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine. + +JOHN. [Looking up crossly.] I've got my work to think of. I'm not +one to stand cackling with a maid. + +JULIA. Could you swear me it is Julia? + +JOHN. 'Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide over, so as I +can get the watering finished. + +JULIA. [Seizes the watering can.] Now, John, you have got to speak +the truth to me. + +JOHN. Give up yon can, I tell you. O you do act wonderful unseemly +for a young lady. + +JULIA. [Withholding the can.] Not till I have the truth from you. + +JOHN. [Angrily.] Well then, is it likely that my master would set +his fancy on such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, Master William do +know better nor to do such a thing, I can tell you. + +JULIA. Then 'tis for Laura that he is love-sick, John. + +JOHN. Give I the watering can. + +JULIA. [Giving him the can.] Here it is, dear John. O I had a +fancy all the time that 'twas to Laura your master had lost his +heart. And now I see I made no mistake. + +JOHN. I shouldn't have spoke as I did if you hadn't a buzzed around +I till I was drove very nigh crazy. Master William, he'll never +forgive me this. + +JULIA. That he will, I'm sure, when he has listened to what I have +got to say to him. + +JOHN. You do set a powerful store on what your tongue might say, but +I'd take and bide quiet at home if I was you and not come hunting of +a nice reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very garden. + +JULIA. O John, you're a sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge me +very unkindly. But I'll not bear malice if you will just run in and +tell your master that I want a word with him. + +JOHN. A word? Why not say fifty? When was a maid ever satisfied +with one word I'd like to know? + +JULIA. Well--I shan't say more than six, very likely, so fetch him +to me now, John, and I'll wait here in the garden. [JOHN looks at +her with exasperated contempt. Then he slowly walks away towards the +house. JULIA goes in the opposite direction to the garden gate. + +JULIA. [Calling.] Chris! [CHRIS comes in. + +JULIA. [Pointing.] O Chris, look at this fine garden--and yon +arbour--see the fine house, with lace curtains to the windows of it. + +CHRIS. [Sullenly.] Ah--I sees it all very well. + +JULIA. And all this could be mine for the stretching out of a hand. + +CHRIS. Then stretch it. + +JULIA. 'Twould be like putting a wild bird into a gilded cage, to +set me here in this place. No, I must go free with you, Chris--and +we will wander where our spirits lead us--over all the world if we +have a mind to do so. + +CHRIS. Please God you'll not grieve at your choice. + +JULIA. That I never shall. Now call to Laura. Is she in the lane +outside? + +CHRIS. There, she be come to the gate now. + +[LAURA comes in, followed by NAT and TANSIE. + +JULIA. [Pointing to a place on the ground.] Laura, see, here is the +place from which your young carrots were pulled. + +LAURA. O look at the flowers, Julia--Lillies, pinks and red roses. + +JULIA. 'Tis a fine red rose that shall be gathered for you +presently, Laura. [JOHN comes up. + +JOHN. The master's very nigh ready now, mistress. + +[SUSAN follows him. + +SUSAN. The mistress says, please to be seated till she do come. + +JOHN. [To CHRIS and NAT.] Now, my men, we don't want the likes of +you in here. You had best get off afore Master William catches sight +of you. + +JULIA. No, John. These are my friends, and I wish them to hear all +that I have to say to your master. + +JOHN. Ah, 'tis in the grave as poor Master William will be landed +soon if you don't have a care. + +LAURA. [Anxiously.] O is he so delicate as that, John? + +JOHN. Ah--and that he be. And these here love matters and courtings +and foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don't give him but a +week longer if things do go on as they be now. + +[WILLIAM and MRS. GARDNER come in. WILLIAM looks nervously round +him. MRS. GARDNER perceives the gipsies, and SUSAN talking to NAT. + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan, get you to your place in the kitchen, as quick +as you can. John, put yon roadsters through the gate, if you please. +[Turning to JULIA.] Now young Miss? + +JULIA. A very good evening to you, mistress. And let me make Chris +known to you for he and I are to be wed to-morrow. + +[She takes CHRIS by the hand and leads him forward. + +MRS. GARDNER. What's this? William, do you understand what the +young person is telling us? + +JULIA. [Taking LAURA with her other hand.] And here is Laura to +whom I have given all my land and all my money. She is the mistress +of Luther's now. + +JOHN. [Aside to WILLIAM.] Now master, hearken to that. Can't you +lift your spirits a bit. + +JULIA. [To MRS. GARDNER.] And I beg you to accept her as a +daughter. She will make a better farmer's wife than ever I shall. + +JOHN. [In a loud whisper.] Start courting, master. + +WILLIAM. O I dare not quite so sudden, John. + +MRS. GARDNER. [Sitting down.] It will take a few moments for me to +understand this situation. + +JULIA. There is no need for any hurry. We have all the evening +before us. + +JOHN. [Hastily gathers a rosebud and puts it into WILLIAM'S hand.] +Give her a blossom, master. 'Tis an easy start off. + +WILLIAM. [Coming forward shyly with the flower.] Would you fancy a +rosebud, mistress? + +LAURA. O that I would, master. + +WILLIAM. Should you care to see--to see where the young celery is +planted out? + +LAURA. O, I'd dearly love to see the spot. + +WILLIAM. I'll take you along to it then. [He gives her his arm, +very awkwardly, and they move away. + +MRS. GARDNER. [Sitting down.] Well--things have changed since I was +young. + +JOHN. [Looking viciously at NAT and SUSAN.] Ah, I counts they have, +mistress, and 'tis all for the worse. + +SUSAN. [Comes forward timidly.] And me and Nat are to be married +too, mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. I should have given you notice anyhow to-night, Susan, +so perhaps it's just as well you have made sure of some sort of a +roof to your head. + +NAT. 'Twill be but the roof of th' old cart, mistress; but I warrant +as her'll sleep bravely under it, won't you, Su. + +SUSAN. That I shall, dear Nat. + +TANSIE. Well, Master John, have you a fancy to come tenting along of +we. + +JOHN. Upon my word, but I don't know how 'tis with the young people +nowadays, they be so bold. + +JULIA. [Who has been standing apart, her hand in that of CHRIS.] +New days, new ways, John. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, but 'tis hard to keep up with all these goings +on, and no mistake. + +JULIA. No need for you to try, John. If you are too old to run with +us you must abide still and watch us as we go. + +CHRIS. But there, you needn't look downhearted, master, for I knows +someone as'll give you a rare warm welcome if so be as you should +change your mind and take your chance in the open, same as we. + +TANSIE. You shall pay for that, Chris. + +JOHN. [Stiffly.] I hope as I've a properer sense of my duty nor +many others what I could name. + +MRS. GARDNER. Those are the first suitable words that have been +spoken in my hearing this afternoon. + +[WILLIAM, with LAURA on his arm, returns. LAURA carries a small +cucumber very lovingly. + +LAURA. Julia, look! The first one of the season! O, isn't it a +picture! + +JULIA. O Laura, 'tis a fine wedding gift to be sure. + +WILLIAM. [Stepping up to JOHN.] John, my man, here's a five pound +note to your pocket. I'd never have won this lady here if it hadn't +been for you. + +JOHN. [Taking the note.] Don't name it, dear master. 'Tis a long +courtship what has no ending to it, so I always says. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis one upset after another, but suppose you were to +make yourself useful for once, Susan, and bring out the tray with the +cake and glasses on it. + +JOHN. Ah, that's it, and I'll go along of she and help draw the +cider. Courtship be powerful drying work. + +LAURA. [Looking into WILLIAM'S eyes.] O William, 'twas those Early +Snowballs that did first stir up my heart. + +WILLIAM. 'Twas John who thought of them. Why, John has more +sensible thoughts to the mind of him than any other man in the world- +-and when the cider is brought, 'tis to John's health we will all +drink. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +PRINCESS ROYAL + + + + +CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY + +ROSE, MARION, village girls. +LADY MILLICENT. +ALICE, her maid. +LEAH, an old gipsy. +SUSAN, otherwise Princess Royal, her grand-daughter. +JOCKIE, a little swine herd. +LADY CULLEN. +Her ladies in waiting (or one lady only). +LORD CULLEN, her only son. +As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in this Play. + +The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by girls. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +A village green. Some girls with market baskets come on to it, each +one carrying a leaflet which she is earnestly reading. + +Gradually all the girls approach from different sides reading +leaflets. + +Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is sitting-- +she lights a pipe and begins to smoke as ROSE, her basket full of +market produce, comes slowly forward reading her sheet of paper. She +is followed by MARION--also reading. + +ROSE. Well, 'tis like to be a fine set out, this May Day. + +MARION. I can make naught of it myself. + +ROSE. Why, 'tis Lord Cullen putting it about as how he be back from +the war and thinking of getting himself wed, like. + +MARION. I understands that much, I do. + +ROSE. Only he can't find the maid what he's lost his heart to. + +MARION. [Reading.] The wench what his lordship did see a-dancing +all by herself in the forest when he was hid one day all among the +brambles, a-rabbiting or sommat. + +ROSE. And when my lord would have spoke with her, the maid did turn +and fled away quick as a weasel. + +MARION. And his lordship off to the fighting when 'twas next morn. + +ROSE. So now, each maid of us in the village and all around be to +dance upon the green come May Day so that my lord may see who 'twas +that pleased his fancy. + +[SUSAN comes up and stands quietly listening. She is bare foot and +her skirt is ragged, she wears a shawl over her shoulders and her +hair is rough and untidy. On her arm she carries a basket containing +a few vegetables and other marketings. + +MARION. And when he do pitch upon the one, 'tis her as he will wed. + +ROSE. 'Twill be a thing to sharpen the claws of th' old countess +worse nor ever--that marriage. + +MARION. Ah, I reckon as her be mortal angered with all the giddle- +gaddle this business have set up among the folk. + +ROSE. [Regretfully.] I've never danced among the trees myself. + +MARION. [Sadly.] Nor I, neither, Rose. + +ROSE. I'd dearly like to be a countess, Marion. + +MARION. His lordship might think I was the maid. I'm spry upon my +feet you know. + +[SUSAN comes still nearer. + +MARION. [Turning to her and speaking rudely.] Well, Princess Rags, +'tisn't likely as 'twas you a-dancing one of your Morris dances in +the wood that day! + +ROSE. [Mockingly.] 'Tisn't likely as his lordship would set his +thoughts on a wench what could caper about like a Morris man upon the +high road. So there. + +SUSAN. [Indifferently.] I never danced upon the high road, I dances +only where 'tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon me. No mortal eyes. + +MARION. [Impudently.] Get along with you, Princess Royal. Go off +to th' old gipsy Gran'ma yonder. We don't want the likes of you +along of us. + +ROSE. Go off and dance to your own animals, Miss Goatherd. All of +us be a-going to practise our steps against May Day. Come along +girls. + +[She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange +themselves for a Country Dance. SUSAN goes slowly towards her +GRANDMOTHER and sits on the ground by her side, looking sadly and +wistfully at the dancers. At the end of the dance, the girls pick up +their baskets and go off in different directions across the green. +SUSAN and her GRANDMOTHER remain in their places. The gipsy +continues to smoke and SUSAN absently turns over the things in her +basket. + +SUSAN. They mock me in the name they have fixed to me--Princess +Royal. + +GRANDMOTHER. Let them mock. I'll bring the words back to them like +scorpions upon their tongues. + +[There is a little silence and then SUSAN begins to sing as though to +herself. + +SUSAN. [Singing.] + +"As I walked out one May morning, +So early in the Spring; +I placed my back against the old garden gate, +And I heard my true love sing." {1} + +GRANDMOTHER. [At the end of the singing.] It might be the blackcap +a-warbling all among of the branches. So it might. + +SUSAN. Ah, 'twas I that was a-dancing in the shade of the woods that +day. + +GRANDMOTHER. He'll never look on the likes of you--that's sure +enough, my little wench. + +SUSAN. I wish he was a goat-herd like myself--O that I do. + +GRANDMOTHER. Then there wouldn't be no use in your wedding yourself +with him as I can see. + +SUSAN. 'Tis himself, not his riches that I want. + +GRANDMOTHER. You be speaking foolishness. What do you know of him-- +what do us blind worms know about the stars above we? + +SUSAN. I see'd him pass by upon his horse one day. All there was of +him did shine like the sun upon the water--I was very near dazed by +the brightness. So I was. + +[The GRANDMOTHER continues to smoke in silence. + +SUSAN. [Softly.] And 'twas then I lost the heart within me to him. + +[JOCKIE runs up beating his tabor. + +SUSAN. [Springing up.] Come, Jockie, I have a mind to dance a step +or two. [Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.] Tears be for +them as have idle times and not for poor wenches what mind cattle and +goats. Come, play me my own music, Jock. And play it as I do like +it best. + +[JOCKIE begins to play the tune of "Princess Royal" and SUSAN dances. +Whilst SUSAN is dancing LADY MILLICENT and her waiting maid come +slowly by and stand watching. SUSAN suddenly perceives them and +throws herself on the ground. JOCKIE stops playing. + +LADY MILLICENT. [Fanning herself.] A wondrous bold dance, upon my +word--could it have been that which captivated my lord, Alice? + +ALICE. O no, mistress. His lordship has no fancy for boldness in a +maid. + +LADY MILLICENT. Immodest too. A Morris dance. The girl should hide +her face in shame. + +ALICE. And there she is, looking at your ladyship with her gipsy +eyes, bold as a brass farthing. + +SUSAN. [Starting up and speaking passionately.] I'll not be taunted +for my dancing--I likes to dance wild, and leap with my body when my +spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies and move in +the air same as the birds do move when 'tis mating time. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, 'tis so with she. She baint no tame mouse what +creeps from its hole along of t'others and who do go shuffle shuffle, +in and out of the ring, mild as milk and naught in the innards of +they but the squeak. + +SUSAN. [Defiantly.] 'Twas my dance gained his lordship's praise--so +there, fine madam. + +LADY MILLICENT. Your dance? Who are you then? + +ALICE. A gipsy wench, mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for one +of they great farms. + +GRANDMOTHER. Have a care for that tongue of yours, madam waiting +maid. For I know how to lay sommat upon it what you won't fancy. + +LADY MILLICENT. [Coming up to SUSAN and laying her hand on her arm.] +Now tell me your name, my girl. + +SUSAN. They call me Princess Royal. + +LADY MILLICENT. O that must be in jest. Why, you are clothed in +rags, poor thing. + +SUSAN. [Shaking herself free.] I'd sooner wear my own rags nor the +laces which you have got upon you. + +LADY MILLICENT. Now why do you say such a thing? + +SUSAN. 'Twas in these rags as I danced in the wood that day, and +'tis by these rags as my lord will know me once more. + +LADY MILLICENT. Listen, I will cover you in silk and laces, Princess +Royal. + +ALICE. Susan is the maid's name. + +SUSAN. I don't want none of your laces or silks. + +LADY MILLICENT. And feed you with poultry and cream and sweetmeats. + +SUSAN. I want naught but my crust of bread. + +LADY MILLICENT. I'll fill your hands with gold pieces. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Sue? + +SUSAN. [Doggedly.] I hear her well enough, Gran. + +LADY MILLICENT. If you'll teach me your dance against May Day. +Then, I'll clothe myself much after your fashion and dance upon the +green with the rest. + +SUSAN. I'll not learn you my dance. Not for all the gold in the +world. You shan't go and take the only thing I have away from me. + +LADY MILLICENT. [Angrily.] Neither shall a little gipsy wretch like +you take my love from me. We were as good as promised to each other +at our christening. + +ALICE. Don't put yourself out for the baggage, madam. His lordship +would never look on her. + +GRANDMOTHER. Gold, did you say, mistress? + +LADY MILLICENT. Gold? O yes--an apron full of gold, and silver too. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Susan? + +SUSAN. [Doggedly.] I'll not do it for a King's ransom. + +GRANDMOTHER. You will. You'll do it for the sake of poor old Gran, +what's been father and mother to you--and what's gone hungered and +thirsty so that you might have bread and drink. + +SUSAN. [Distractedly.] O I can never give him up. + +GRANDMOTHER. He'll never be yourn to give--Dance till your legs is +off and he'll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when 'tis all +finished. + +ALICE. Whilst my lady belongs to his lordship's own class, 'tis but +suitable as she should be the one to wed with him--knowing the +foreign tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. +There's a lady anyone would be proud to take before the Court in +London. + +[SUSAN turns away with a movement of despair. The GRANDMOTHER begins +to smoke again. LADY MILLICENT fans herself and ALICE arranges her +own shawl. + +GRANDMOTHER. I could do with a little pig up at our place if I'd the +silver to take into the market for to buy him with. [A silence. + +GRANDMOTHER. And I could do with a pair of good shoes to my poor old +feet come winter time when 'tis snowing. [Another silence. + +GRANDMOTHER. And 'twould be good not to go to bed with the pain of +hunger within my lean old body--so 'twould. [SUSAN turns round +suddenly. + +SUSAN. I'll do it, Gran. I'll do it for your sake. 'Tis very +likely true what you do say, all of you. I'd but dance my feet off +for naught. When he came to look into my gipsy eyes, 'twould all be +over and done with. + +LADY MILLICENT. Sensible girl. + +ALICE. 'Tis time she should see which way her bread was spread. + +SUSAN. Come, Jockie, come ladies--come Gran--we'll be off to the +quiet of our own place where I can learn her ladyship the steps and +capers. + +GRANDMOTHER. [Rising and pointing to an advancing figure.] You'd +best make haste. The mice be a-running from their holes once more-- +t'wouldn't do for they to know aught about this. + +SUSAN. Let us go quickly then. + +[The GRANDMOTHER, SUSAN, LADY MILLICENT with ALICE and JOCKIE go out +as a crowd of village girls come on to the green, and laughing and +talking together, arrange themselves to practise a Country Dance. + +End of Act I. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on the green. +A dais has been put up at one end of it. + +MARION. How slow the time do pass, this May Day. + +ROSE. Let's while it away with a song or two. + +[They all join in singing. At the end of the song the gipsy comes +slowly and painfully across the green, casting black looks to right +and to left. She is followed by SUSAN, who appears weighed down by +sadness. + +ROSE. Good afternoon, Princess Royal Rags. Are we to see you +cutting capers before his lordship this afternoon? + +MARION. Get along and hide your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. +I'd be ashamed to go without shoes if 'twas me. + +SUSAN. O leave me alone--you be worse nor a nest of waspes--that you +be. + +GRANDMOTHER. [Turning fiercely round.] Us'll smoke them out of +their holes one day--see if us do not. + +[They pass over to the tree where the GRANDMOTHER sits down and SUSAN +crouches by her side. Presently they are joined by JOCKIE. The +girls sing a verse or two of another song, and during this LADY +MILLICENT, enveloped in a big cloak, goes over to the tree, followed +by ALICE, also wearing a long cloak and they sit down by the side of +SUSAN. + +MARION. [Pointing.] Who are those yonder, Rose? + +ROSE. I'm sure I don't know, Marion--strangers, may be. + +MARION. O my heart goes wild this afternoon. + +ROSE. Mine too. Look, there they come. + +[The Music begins to play and old LADY CULLEN, followed by her lady +companions, comes slowly towards the dais, on which she seats +herself. + +LADY CULLEN. Dear me, what a gathering to be sure. + +HER LADY. Indeed it is an unusual sight. + +LADY CULLEN. And O what a sad infatuation on the part of my poor +boy. + +HER LADY. The war has been known to turn many a brain. + +LADY CULLEN. And yet my son holds his own with the brightest +intelligences of the day. + +HER LADY. Only one little spot of his lordship's brain seems to be +affected. + +LADY CULLEN. Just so. But here he comes, poor misguided youth. + +[LORD CULLEN comes slowly over the green, looking to right and to +left. He mounts the dais and sits down by his mother, and the music +plays for a country dance. "The Twenty Ninth of May." The girls +arrange themselves, and during the dance LORD CULLEN scans each face +very eagerly. The dance ends and the girls pass in single file +before the dais. + +LORD CULLEN. No, no--that was not the music of it, that was not the +dance--not a face among them resembles the image I carry in my heart. + +LADY CULLEN. [Aside.] Thank goodness. May that face never be seen +again. + +[A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and danced. + +LORD CULLEN. [At the end of it.] Worse and worse. Could I have +dreamed both the music and the dance and the dancer? + +LADY CULLEN. [Soothingly.] I am sure this was the case, my dear +son. + +LORD CULLEN. [Rallying.] I heard her voice singing in the forest +before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest voice and song I +ever heard. [Looking around.] Can any of these maid, sing to me, I +wonder? + +MARION. [Steps forward.] I only know one song, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN signs to her to sing, and she stands before the dais and +sings a verse of "Bedlam." + +LORD CULLEN. [Impatiently.] No, no--that is not in the least what I +remember. [Turning to ROSE.] You try now. + +ROSE. I don't sing, my lord--but--[Indicating another girl in the +group] she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful lot of songs. + +[A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of "The Lark in +the Morn." + +LORD CULLEN. Not that. Mine was a song to stir the depths of a +man's heart and bring tears up from the fountains of it. + +[He leans back in deep dejection--and at this moment LADY MILLICENT +and ALICE come forward. + +LORD CULLEN. [Eagerly.] I seem to know that russet skirt--those +bare, small feet. [Standing up quickly.] Mother, look at that maid +with the red kerchief on her head. + +LADY CULLEN. Some sort of a gipsy dress, to all appearance. + +LORD CULLEN. [Doubtfully.] The skirt she wore was torn and ragged-- +that day in the forest. She had no gold rings to her ears, nor +silken scarf upon her head--But this might be her dress for holidays. + +[JOCKIE advances and begins to play the tune of "Princess Royal." + +LORD CULLEN. [Eagerly.] That is the right music--O is it possible +my quest is ended! + +[LADY MILLICENT and ALICE, standing opposite one to another begin to +dance--slowly and clumsily, and in evident doubt as to their steps. +LORD CULLEN watches them for a moment and then claps his hands +angrily as a sign for the music to stop. The dancers pause. + +LORD CULLEN. This is a sad mimicry of my beautiful love. But there +lies something behind the masquerade which I shall probe. + +[He leaves the dais and goes straight towards LADY MILLICENT, who +turns from him in confusion. + +LORD CULLEN. From whom did you take the manner and the colour of +your garments, my maid? + +[LADY MILLICENT remains obstinately silent. + +LORD CULLEN. [To ALICE.] Perhaps you have a tongue in your head. +From whom did you try to learn those steps? + +[ALICE turns sulkily away. JOCKIE comes forward. + +JOCKIE. I'll tell your lordship all about it, and I'll take your +lordship straight to the right wench, that I will, if so be as your +lordship will give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what goes +empty and hungered most of the year round. + +LORD CULLEN. A handful of gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly. + +[JOCKIE leads the way to the tree where SUSAN is sitting. She stands +up as LORD CULLEN approaches, and for a moment they gaze at one +another in silence. + +GRANDMOTHER. You might curtsey to the gentleman, Susan. + +LORD CULLEN. No--there's no need of that, from her to me. [Turning +to JOCKIE and putting his hand in his pocket.] Here, my boy, is a +golden pound for you--and more shall follow later. + +[He then takes SUSAN'S hand and leads her to the foot of the dais. + +LORD CULLEN. Will you dance for me again, Susan? + +SEVERAL OF THE GIRLS. [Mockingly.] Princess Royal is her name. + +MARION. [Rudely.] Or Princess Rags. + +SUSAN. 'Tis all took out of my hands now, I can but do as your +lordship says. Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely too. + +[JOCKIE places himself near her and begins to play. SUSAN dances by +herself. At the end of her dance LORD CULLEN leads the applause, and +even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it. He then takes SUSAN +by the hand and mounts the dais with her and presents her to his +mother. + +LADY CULLEN. [Aside, to her companion.] I wonder if the young +person understands that my poor boy is a little touched in the brain? + +LORD CULLEN. Here is your daughter, mother. + +[LADY CULLEN and SUSAN look at one another in silence. After a +moment SUSAN turns to LORD CULLEN. + +SUSAN. I'm a poor ragged thing to be daughter to the likes of she. +But the heart within of me is grander nor that of any queen, because +of the love that it holds for you, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN takes her hand and leads her to the front of the dais. + +LORD CULLEN. We will be married to-morrow, my princess. And all +these good people shall dance at our wedding. + +MARION. [Springing up.] And we'll do a bit of dancing now as well. +Come, Jockie, give us the tune of "Haste to the Wedding." + +ROSE. That's it. Come girls - + +LADY MILLICENT. [To ALICE.] I pray he won't find out about me. + +[The old GRANDMOTHER has come slowly towards the middle of the green. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, and my little wench will know how to pay back some +of the vipers tongues which slandered her, when she sits on her +velvet chair as a countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck +and the rubies a-crowning of her head. Her'll not forget the snakes +what did lie in the grass. Her'll have her heel upon they, so that +their heads be put low and there shan't go no more venom from their +great jaws to harm she, my pretty lamb--my little turtle. + +[The music begins to play and all those on the green form themselves +for the dance. LORD CULLEN and SUSAN stand side by side in front of +the dais, and the GRANDMOTHER lights a pipe and smokes it as she +watches the dance from below. At the end of the dance LORD CULLEN, +leading SUSAN, comes down from the dais and, followed by LADY CULLEN +and her ladies, passes between two lines of girls and so off the +stage. The girls follow in procession, and lastly the GRANDMOTHER +preceded by JOCKIE, beating his drum. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +THE SEEDS OF LOVE + + + + +CHARACTERS + +JOHN DANIEL, aged 30, a Miller. +ROSE-ANNA his sister. +KITTY, aged 16, his sister. +ROBERT PEARCE, aged 26. +LIZ, JANE elderly cousins of Robert. +JEREMY, John's servant--of middle age. +MARY MEADOWS, aged 24, a Herbalist. +LUBIN. +ISABEL. + +The time is Midsummer. + + + +ACT I + + + +A woodland road outside MARY'S cottage. There are rough seats in the +porch and in front of the window. Bunches of leaves and herbs hang +drying around door and window. MARY is heard singing within. + +MARY. [Singing.] + +I sowed the seeds of Love, +And I sowed them in the Spring. +I gathered them up in the morning so soon. +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing, +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {2} + +[MARY comes out of the cottage, a bundle of enchanter's nightshade in +her arms. She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes +indoors. + +MARY. [Singing.] + +The violet I did not like, +Because it bloomed so soon; +The lily and the pink I really over think, +So I vowed I would wait till June, +So I vowed I would wait till June. + +[During the singing LUBIN comes slowly and heavily along the road. +He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his +shoulder. In front of the cottage he pauses, looks round doubtfully, +and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath the +window. + +MARY. [Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing.] + +"For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot, +Give it time, it will rise up again." + +LUBIN. [Looking up gloomily.] And that it won't, mistress. + +MARY. [Suddenly perceiving him and coming out.] O you are fair +spent from journeying. Can I do anything for you, master? + +LUBIN. [Gazing at her fixedly.] You speak kindly for a stranger, +but 'tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me. + +MARY. [Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the +house.] See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There's +medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir. + +LUBIN. There's not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth +that could cure the sickness I have within me. + +MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master. + +LUBIN. So 'tis. 'Tis love. + +MARY. Love? + +LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when +riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to +another. + +[ISABEL has been slowly approaching, she wears a cotton handkerchief +over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her +arm. Her movements are languid and sad. + +MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love. + +ISABEL. [Coming forward and speaking earnestly.] O tell me of them +quickly, mistress. + +MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint? + +ISABEL. [Sinking down on the grass at MARY'S feet.] So bruised and +wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well +have been a hundred miles or more. + +LUBIN. Framilode? 'Tis there you come from? + +ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. +Do you know the place, master? + +LUBIN. [In deep gloom.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too. + +MARY. [Leaning forward and clasping her hands.] Him as is there to- +day, or him who was? + +LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year +ago. + +[ISABEL covers her face and is shaken by sobs. LUBIN leans his elbow +on his knee, shading his eyes with his hand. + +MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be +given us for that. + +ISABEL. [Looking up.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. 'Tis +like when a quist do sing, as you speaks. + +MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. 'Twill be strange if I +do not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you. + +LUBIN. 'Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred. + +MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder? + +LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I--we courted and was +like to marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She +would not take a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what +you do see me now--just a day labourer. + +ISABEL. Mine, 'tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man +and me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a +powerful rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. +'Twas he that 'ticed my lover off to foreign parts. + +LUBIN. [With a heavy sigh.] These things are almost more than I can +bear. + +ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then 'twas seldom +like. Then 'twas never. And then there comed a day--[She is +interrupted by her weeping. + +MARY. Try to get out your story--you can let the tears run +afterwards if you have a mind. + +ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. +He brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine +stuff with money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just +about to wed. + +LUBIN. Did he name the maid? + +ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel's mill up yonder. + +LUBIN. Rose-Anna--She with whom I was to have gone to church. + +MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose. + +ISABEL. O 'twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the +riverside, him and me. + +LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday +afternoon. + +[A pause during which LUBIN and ISABEL seem lost in their own sad +memories. MARY gets up softly and goes within the cottage. + +ISABEL. And when I heared as 'twas to-morrow they were to wed, +though 'twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up +and got me upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn +and day just for one look upon his face again. + +LUBIN. 'Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt +myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so +cruel false into mine. + +ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him 'twould do no good-- +poor wench of a serving maid like me. + +LUBIN. [Looking down at himself.] She'd spurn me from the door were +I to stand there knocking--in the coat I have upon me now. No--let +her go her way and wed her fancy man. + +[LUBIN shades his eyes with one hand. ISABEL bows her head on her +knees weeping. MARY comes out of the house carrying two glass bowls +of water. + +MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh +water from the spring will revive you from your travelling. + +LUBIN. [Looking up.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, +mistress. + +ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die. + +[MARY giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink +slowly. + +MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by for another. +A man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but 'tis the scarlet +rose as takes his fancy come to-morrow. + +ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress? + +MARY. [Slowly.] After many years. + +LUBIN. And could you wed you to another? + +MARY. [Still more slowly.] Give the grass that has been trampled +underfoot a bit of time, 'twill rise again. There's healing all +around of us for every ill, did we but know it. + +LUBIN. I'd give sommat to know where 'tis then. + +MARY. There isn't a herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to +them that are in pain. + +ISABEL. Give me a bloom that'll put me to sleep for always, +mistress. + +MARY. There's evil plants as well, but 'tisn't a many. There's hen +bane which do kill the fowls and fishes if they eat the seed of it. +And there's water hemlock which lays dumbness upon man. + +LUBIN. I've heard them tell of that, I have. + +MARY. And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the +feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon +the door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house. + +LUBIN. And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon the +heart, mistress + +ISABEL. [Speaking in anguish.] Aught that can turn our faithless +lovers back again to we? + +MARY. That I have. See these small packages--you that love Robert, +take you this--and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your hand. + +[She puts a small paper packet into the hands of each. + +LUBIN. [Looking uncertainly at his packet.] What'll this do for me, +I'd like to know? + +MARY. 'Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, +and another seed as well. You put it in her glass of water--and the +love comes back to you afore next sun-rise. + +ISABEL. And will it be the same with I? + +MARY. You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. To- +morrow at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall +do what you will with it. + +ISABEL. O I can't believe in this. 'Tis too good to be true, and +that it be--A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little +wretch like me! + +LUBIN. [Slowly.] 'Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like +us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was when +I did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as one of +theirselves. But now! Why, they'd take and hound me away from the +door. + +ISABEL. And me too. + +MARY. [Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from the +bunch drying.] That'll bring luck, may be. + +[ISABEL takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet +in her bundle. LUBIN puts his packet away also. Whilst they are +doing this, MARY strolls a little way on the road. + +MARY. [Returning.] The man from Daniels be coming along. + +LUBIN. [Hastily.] What, old Andrews? + +MARY. No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have +the patience to keep in with him. + +LUBIN. How's that? + +MARY. So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer at the +cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, and +that's why master do put up with him. + +[JEREMY comes heavily towards them, a straw in his mouth. His hat is +pushed to the back of his head. His expression is still and +impassive. He comes straight towards MARY, then halts. + +MARY. Come, Jeremy, I reckon 'tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram +you be come here this morning? + +JEREMY. [Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and +pointing to them.] Who be they? + +MARY. Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest. + +[JEREMY continues to look them all over in silence. + +MARY. How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Powerful bad. + +MARY. O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened? + +[LUBIN and ISABEL lean forward, listening eagerly. + +JEREMY. 'Tis a pretty caddle, that's all. + +MARY. The mistress isn't took ill? or Miss Kitty? + +JEREMY. I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn't be none of +this here marrying to-morrow. + +MARY. What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry? + +JEREMY. One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on. + +MARY. 'Tis three you've got up there. + +JEREMY. There you're mistook. Th' idle wench and the lad be both +away--off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of +they. I be left with all upon me like, and 'tis too much. + +MARY. What shall you do, Jerry? + +JEREMY. I'll be blowed if I'm agoin' to do anything. There. + +MARY. But you'll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set +the table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses +and all, Jerry--seeing as you're the only one. + +JEREMY. I'll not. I'm not one as steps beyond my own work, and +master do know it too. + +MARY. Then how are they going to manage? + +JEREMY. I'm out to find them as'll manage for them. [Turning +sharply to LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young man? + +LUBIN. I--I count as I've nothing particular in view. + +JEREMY. [Turning to ISABEL.] And you, wench? + +ISABEL. [Faintly.] I've gone from the place where I was servant. + +JEREMY. Then you'll come along of me--the both of you. + +ISABEL. [Shrinking.] O no--I couldn't go among--among strangers. + +JEREMY. I never takes no count of a female's vapours. You'll come +along of me. You'll curl the mistress's hair and lace her gown and +keep her tongue quiet--and you [turning to LUBIN] my man, will set +the tables and wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town +this dinner-time. + +LUBIN. [Angrily.] I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and +I'll not start now. + +JEREMY. You will. I'm not agoin' a half mile further this warm +morning. Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you. + +MARY. [Looking fixedly at ISABEL.] This is a chance for you, my +dear. You'll not find a better. + +JEREMY. Better? I count as you'll not better this'n. Good money +for your pains--victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can +drink on a summer's day. I count you'll not better that. + +LUBIN. [As though to himself.] I could not go. + +JEREMY. Some cattle want a lot of driving. + +ISABEL. [Timidly to LUBIN.] If I go, could not you try and come +along with me, master? + +LUBIN. You'll never have the heart to go through with it. + +JEREMY. 'Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. Don't you +go and put fancies into the head of her. + +ISABEL. [To LUBIN.] I'll go if so be as you'll come along of me +too. + +[LUBIN bends his head and remains thinking deeply. + +JEREMY. 'Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches--I'll get +me a drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you'll be ready time +I've finished. + +MARY. I'll see that you're not kept waiting, Jeremy. + +JEREMY. [Turning back after he has started.] What be they called, +Mary? + +[MARY looks doubtfully towards LUBIN and ISABEL. + +ISABEL. My name--they calls me Isabel. + +JEREMY. [Turning to LUBIN.] And yourn? + +LUBIN. [In confusion.] I don't rightly recollect. + +JEREMY. [Impassively.] 'Tis of no account, us'll call you William +like the last one. + +ISABEL. O, and couldn't I be called like the last one too? + +JEREMY. Then us'll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and +doubtless you'll not prove much worser. + +[He goes away. + +MARY. This is your chance. A good chance too - + +LUBIN. They'll know the both of us. Love isn't never quite so dead +but what a sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring +some breath to it again. + +ISABEL. You're right there, master--sommat'll stir in the hearts of +them when they sees we--and 'tis from the door as us'll be chased for +masking on them like this. + +MARY. But not before the seeds of love have done their work. Come, +Isabel; come, Lubin--I will so dress you that you shall not be +recognised. + +[MARY goes indoors. ISABEL slowly rises and takes up her bundle. +LUBIN remains seated, looking gloomily before him. + +ISABEL. Come, think what 'twill feel to be along of our dear loves +and look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of their voices +once again. + +LUBIN. That's what I am a-thinking of. 'Twill be hot iron drove +right into the heart all the while. Ah, that's about it. + +ISABEL. I'll gladly bear the pain. + +LUBIN. [After a pause.] Then so will I. We'll go. + +[He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows +her into the cottage. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +The living room at Daniel's Mill. In the window ROSE-ANNA is seated +awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown. KITTY is +moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in +disorder about the room and JOHN stands with his back to the grate +gravely surveying them. + +ROSE. [Petulantly.] Whatever shall we do, John! Me not dressed, +everything no how, and them expected in less nor a half hour's time + +KITTY. There! I've finished a-dusting the chairs. Now I'll set +them in their places. + +ROSE. No one is thinking of me! Who's going to help me on with my +gown and curl my hair like Robert was used to seeing me wear it at +Aunt's? + +KITTY. Did you have it different down at Bristol, Rose? + +ROSE. Of course I did. 'Twouldn't do to be countrified in the town. + +JOHN. Your hair's well enough like that. 'Tisn't of hair as +anyone'll be thinking when they comes in, but of victuals. And how +we're a-going to get the table and all fixed up in so short a time do +fairly puzzle me. + +KITTY. I'll do the table. + +ROSE. No. You've got to help me with my gown. O that was a good- +for-nothing baggage, leaving us in the lurch! + +JOHN. Well, I've done my best to get us out of the fix. + +ROSE. And what would that be, pray? + +KITTY. Why John, you've done nothing but stand with your back to the +grate this last hour. + +JOHN. I've sent off Jerry. + +ROSE. [Scornfully.] Much good that'll do. + +KITTY. We know just how far Jerry will have gone. + +JOHN. I told him not to shew hisself unless he could bring a couple +of servants back along with him. + +ROSE. [Angrily.] You're more foolish than I took you to be, John. +Get you off at once and fetch Jerry from his cider at the Red Bull. +He's not much of a hand about the house, but he's better than no one. + +JOHN. [Sighing heavily.] Jeremy's not the man to start his drinking +so early in the day. + +ROSE. I've caught him at the cask soon after dawn. + +KITTY. And so have I, John. How you put up with his independent +ways I don't know. + +JOHN. Ah, 'tisn't everyone as has such a powerful strong head as +Jerry's. He's one that can be trusted to take his fill, and none the +worse with him afterwards. + +[A knock at the door, which is pushed open by JEREMY. + +JEREMY. [From the doorway.] Well, Master John--well, mistress? + +ROSE. [Sharply.] Master was just starting out for to fetch you +home, Jerry. + +JEREMY. [Ignoring her.] Well, master, I've brought a couple back +along of me. + +ROSE. Ducklings or chickens? + +JEREMY. I've gotten them too. + +KITTY. Do you mean that you've found some servants for us, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Two outside. Female and male. + +JOHN. Didn't I tell you so! There's naught that Jerry cannot do. +You'll have a drink for this, my man + +ROSE. You may take my word he's had that already, John. + +JEREMY. I have, mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the poultry +in my basket. Down at the Bull. + +ROSE. What sort of a maid is it? + +JEREMY. Ah, 'tis for you to tell me that, mistress, when you've had +her along of you a bit. + +ROSE. And the man? + +JEREMY. Much the same as any other male. + +ROSE. [Impatiently.] Do you step outside, John, and have a look at +them, and if they're suitable bring them in and we'll set them about +their work. + +[JOHN goes out. KITTY peers through the window. + +JEREMY. I reckon I can go off and feed the hilts now. 'Tis the +time. + +ROSE. Feed the hilts! Indeed you can't do no such thing. O I'm mad +with vexation that nothing is well ordered or suitably prepared for +Mr. Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol town. Whatever will +they say to such a house when they do see it? + +JEREMY. I'm sure I don't know. + +KITTY. [From the window.] I see the new servants. John is bringing +them up the walk. The man's face is hid by his broad hat, but the +girl looks neat enough in her cotton gown and sun-bonnet. + +[JOHN comes into the room, followed by LUBIN and ISABEL. LUBIN +shuffles off his hat, but holds it between his face and the people in +the room. + +JEREMY. [Pointing to them and speaking to ROSE.] There you are, +mistress--man-servant and maid. + +ROSE. What do we know about them? Folk picked up by Jerry at the +Red Bull. + +JEREMY. No, from the roadside. + +ROSE. Worser far. + +JOHN. No, no, Rose. These young persons were spoken for by Mary +Meadows. And 'tis rare fortunate for we to obtain their services at +short notice like this. + +ROSE. [To ISABEL.] What are you called, my girl? + +ISABEL. [Faintly.] Isabel is my name, but I'd sooner you called me +Lucy. + +ROSE. And that I will. My tongue is used to Lucy. The other is a +flighty, fanciful name for a servant. + +KITTY. And what is the man called, John? + +LUBIN. [Harshly.] I am called William. + +KITTY. William and Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this morning. + +ROSE. O do not let us waste any more time! Jerry, do you take the +man and shew him his work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come to me +and help me with my gown and my hair dressing. We have not a minute +to lose. + +KITTY. They may be upon us any time now. I'll go out and gather the +flowers for the parlour, since you don't want me any more within, +Rose. + +JOHN. And I'll get and finish Jeremy's work in the yard. 'Tis +upside down and round about and no how to-day. But we'll come out of +it some time afore next year I reckon. + +JEREMY. Don't you ever go for to get married, master. There could +never come a worser caddle into a man's days nor matrimony, I count. + +[JOHN, on his way to the door, pauses--as though momentarily lost in +thought. + +JOHN. Was Mary Meadows asked to drop in at any time to-day, Rose? + +ROSE. [Who is taking up her gown and ribbons to show to ISABEL, and +speaking crossly.] I'm sure I don't know, nor care. I've enough to +think about as 'tis. + +KITTY. [Taking JOHN's arm playfully.] You're terribly took up with +Mary Meadows, John. + +JOHN. There isn't many like her, Kitty. She do rear herself above +t'others as--as a good wheat stalk from out the rubbish. + +[JOHN and KITTY go slowly out. + +JEREMY. [As though to himself.] I sees as how I shall have to keep +an eye on master--[turning to LUBIN and signing to him.] But come, +my man, us has no time for romance, 'tis dish washing as lies afore +you now. + +[LUBIN jerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture. Then +he seems to remember himself and follows JEREMY humbly from the room. +ROSE takes up some ribbons and laces. + +ROSE. [To ISABEL, who is standing near.] Now, Lucy, we must look +sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from Bristol town will soon be +here. I have not met with the cousins yet, but I've been told as +they're very fine ladies--They stood in place of parents to my +Robert, you know. 'Tis unfortunate we should be in such a sad muddle +the day they come. + +ISABEL. When I have helped you into your gown, mistress, I shall +soon have the dinner spread and all in order. I be used to such +work, and I'm considered spry upon my feet. + +ROSE. 'Tis more serious that you should be able to curl my hair in +the way that Mr. Robert likes. + +ISABEL. [Sadly.] I don't doubt but that I shall be able to do that +too, mistress. + +ROSE. Very well. Take the gown and come with me up to my room. + +[They go out together, ISABEL carrying the gown. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +The same room. The table is laid for dinner and ISABEL is putting +flowers upon it. LUBIN wearing his hat, enters with large jugs of +cider, which he sets upon a side table. + +ISABEL. [Looking up from her work.] Shall us ever have the heart to +go on with it, Master Lubin? + +LUBIN. [Bitterly.] Do not you "Master" me, Isabel. I'm only a +common servant in the house where once I was lover and almost +brother. + +ISABEL. [Coming up to him.] O do not take it so hard, Lubin--Us can +do naught at this pass but trust what the young woman did tell me. + +LUBIN. [Gloomily.] The sight of Rose has stirred up my love so +powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back from my +eyes. + +ISABEL. [Pressing her eyes with her apron.] What'll it be for me +when Robert comes in? + +LUBIN. We'll have to help one another, Isabel, in the plight where +we stand. + +ISABEL. That's it. And perchance as them seeds'll do the rest. + +[They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is heard +outside. + +KITTY. [Runs in.] They've come. All of them. And do you know that +Robert's cousins are no fine ladies at all, as he said, but just two +common old women dressed grand-like. + +ISABEL. That will be a sad shock to poor mistress. + +KITTY. O, she is too much taken up with Mister Robert to notice yet. +But quick! They are all sharp set from the drive. Fetch in the +dishes, William and Lucy. + +ISABEL. All shall be ready in a moment, Miss Kitty. + +[She goes hurriedly out followed by LUBIN. KITTY glances round the +room and then stands at the side of the front door. JOHN, giving an +arm to each of ROBERT'S cousins, enters. The cousins are dressed in +coloured flowered dresses, and wear bonnets that are heavy with +bright plumes. They look cumbered and ill at ease in their clothes, +and carry their sunshades and gloves awkwardly. + +LIZ. [Looking round her.] Very comfortable, I'm sure. But I count +as that there old-fashioned grate do take a rare bit of elbow grease. + +JANE. Very pleasant indeed. But I didn't reckon as the room would +be quite the shape as 'tis. + +LIZ. Come to that, I didn't expect the house to look as it do. + +JANE. Very ancient in appearance, I'm sure. + +JOHN. Ah, the house has done well enough for me and my father and +grandfather afore me. + +[ROSE, very grandly dressed, comes in hanging on ROBERT'S arm. +ROBERT is clothed in the fashion of the town. + +ROSE. Please to remove your bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please to remove +yours, Miss Jane. + +JOHN. [Heartily.] Ah, that's so--'Twill be more homely like for +eating. + +ROSE. There's a glass upon the wall. + +LIZ. I prefer to remain as I be. + +JANE. Sister and me have our caps packed up in the tin box. + +KITTY. [Bringing the tin box from the doorway.] Shall I take you +upstairs to change? Dinner's not quite ready yet. + +LIZ. That will suit us best, I'm sure. Come, sister. + +[KITTY leads the way out, followed by both sisters. + +JOHN. I'll just step outside and see that Jerry's tending to the +horse. + +[He hurries out, and ROBERT is left alone with ROSE. + +ROSE. [Coming towards him and holding out her hands.] O, Robert, is +it the same between us as it was last time? + +ROBERT. [Looking at her critically.] You've got your hair different +or something. + +ROSE. [Putting her hand to her head.] The new maid. A stupid +country wench. + +ROBERT. You've got my meaning wrong. 'Tis that I've never seen you +look so well before. + +ROSE. O dear Robert! + +ROBERT. You've got my fancy more than ever, Rose. + +ROSE. O, I'm so happy to be going off with you to-morrow, and I love +it down at Bristol. Robert, I'm tired and sick of country life. + +ROBERT. We'll make a grand fine lady of you there, Rose. + +ROSE. [A little sharply.] Am I not one in looks already, Robert? + +ROBERT. You're what I do dote upon. I can't say no more. + +[LUBIN and ISABEL enter carrying dishes, which they set upon the +table. ROBERT and ROSE turn their backs to them and look out into +the garden. The staircase door is opened, and LIZ, JANE and KITTY +come into the room. LIZ and JANE are wearing gaudy caps trimmed with +violet and green ribbons. + +ROSE. We'll sit down, now. John won't be a moment before he's here. + +[She sits down at one end of the table and signs to ROBERT to place +himself next to her. The sisters and KITTY seat themselves. JOHN +comes hurriedly in. + +JOHN. That's right. Everyone in their places? But no cover laid +for Mary? + +ROSE. [Carelessly.] We can soon have one put, should she take it +into her head to drop in. + +JOHN. That's it. Now ladies, now Robert--'tis thirsty work a- +driving upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We'll lead off with a +drink of home-made cider. The eating'll come sweeter afterwards. + +ROBERT. That's it, Miller. + +[LUBIN and ISABEL come forward and take the cider mugs from each +place to the side table, where LUBIN fills them from a large jug. In +the mugs of ROSE-ANNA and ROBERT, ISABEL shakes the contents of the +little packets. Whilst they are doing this the following talk is +carried on at the table. + +LIZ [Taking up a spoon.] Real plated, sister. + +JANE. Upon my word, so 'tis. + +ROSE. And not so bright as I should wish to see it neither. I've +had a sad trouble with my maids of late. + +LIZ. Sister and I don't keep none of them, thank goodness. + +JANE. We does our work with our own hands. We'd be ashamed if 'twas +otherwise. + +ROBERT. [Scowling at them.] I've been and engaged a house-full of +servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what 'tis to live like a lady +once she enters our family. + +JOHN. Servants be like green fly on the bush. They do but spoil th' +home and everything they do touch. All save one. + +KITTY. And that one's Jerry, I suppose. + +JOHN. You're right there, Kitty, that you are. A harder head was +never given to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders. + +[LUBIN and ISABEL here put round the mugs of cider, and everyone +drinks thirstily. ISABEL stands behind the chairs of ROSE and ROBERT +and LUBIN at JOHN'S side. + +ROBERT. [Setting down his mug.] There's a drink what can't be got +in foreign parts. + +ROSE. [Looking fondly at him.] Let the maid fill your mug again, my +dear one. + +ROBERT. [Carelessly handing it to ISABEL.] I don't mind if I do +have another swill. + +[ISABEL fills the mug and puts it by his side. + +LIZ. As good as any I ever tasted. + +JANE. Couldn't better it at the King's Head up our way. + +JOHN. Good drink--plenty of it. Now we'll start upon the meat I +reckon. + +[He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve, and LUBIN hands +round plates. During this ROBERT'S gaze restlessly wanders about the +room, finally fixing itself on ISABEL, who presently goes out to the +back kitchen with plates. + +ROBERT. The new serving maid you've got there, Rose, should wear a +cap and not her bonnet. + +ROSE. How sharp you are to notice anything. + +ROBERT. A very pretty looking wench, from what I can see. + +ROSE. [Speaking more to the cousins than to ROBERT.] O she's but a +rough and untrained girl got in all of a hurry. Not at all the sort +I've been used to in this house, I can tell you. + +[ISABEL comes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table. + +LIZ. [To JANE.] A mellower piece of pig meat I never did taste, +sister. + +JANE. I'm sorry I went and took the poultry. + +KITTY. John will carve you some ham if you'd like to try it, Miss +Jane. + +JANE. I'm sure I'm much obliged. + +[JEREMY comes in.] + +JEREMY. [Coming to the back of JANE'S chair.] Don't you get mixing +of your meats is what I says. Commence with ham and finish with he. +That's what do suit the inside of a delicate female. + +JANE. [Looking up admiringly.] Now that's just what old Uncle he +did used to say. + +JEREMY. Old uncle did know what he was a-talking about then. + +LIZ. [Warming and looking less awkward and ill at ease.] 'Twas the +gout what kept Uncle so low in his eating, 'twas not th' inclination +of him. + +JEREMY. Ah 'twouldn't be the gout nor any other disease as would +keep me from a platter of good food. + +JOHN. Nor from your mug of drink neither, Jerry. + +[JEREMY laughs and moves off to the side table. + +LIZ. A very pleasant sort of man. + +JANE. I do like anyone what's homely. + +JOHN. [Calling out heartily.] Do you listen to that, Jerry! The +ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I don't know what +else. + +JEREMY. The mugs want filling once more. + +[He stolidly goes round the table refilling the mugs. ROSE'S gaze +wanders about her. + +ROSE. [To ROBERT.] That's not a bad looking figure of a man - + +ROBERT. Who? + +ROSE. Well--the new farm hand. + +ROBERT. A sulky looking brute. I'd not let him wear his hat to +table if I was master here. + +ROSE. He puts me in mind of--well--there, I can't recollect who +'tis. [A knock is heard at the door. + +ROSE. [Sharply to ISABEL.] Go and see who 'tis, Lucy. + +[ISABEL opens the door, and MARY MEADOWS stands on the threshold, a +large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers in her hand. + +JOHN. [Rising up in great pleasure.] You're late, Mary. But you're +welcome as the--as the very sunshine. + +ROSE. Set another place, Lucy. + +MARY. Not for me, Rose. I did not come here to eat or drink, but to +bring you these few blossoms and my love. + +ROSE. [Rises from the table and takes the nosegay.] I'm sure you're +very kind, Mary--Suppose we were all to move into the parlour now we +have finished dinner, and then we could enjoy a bit of conversation. + +LIZ. Very pleasant, I'm sure. + +JANE. I see no objection. + +KITTY. [Running round to look at the flowers.] And Mary shall tell +us how to make charms out of the flowers--and the meanings of the +blossoms and all the strange things she knows about them. + +JOHN. [Taking a flower from the bunch and putting it into his coat.] +Yes, and how to brew tea as'll curl up anyone's tongue within the +mouth for a year--and fancy drinks for sheep with foot rot, and +powders against the murrain and any other nonsense that you do +please. + +MARY. Now, John, I'll not have you damage my business like this. + +LIZ. Maybe as the young person's got sommat what'll be handy with +your complaint, sister. + +JANE. Or for when you be took with th' air in your head so bad, +Jane. + +ROSE. Yes, I reckon that Mary has a charm for every ill beneath the +sun. Let's go off to the parlour along of her. You're not coming +with us, John, are you? + +JOHN. I'd not miss the telling of these things for anything in the +world, foolishness though they be. + +ROSE. Come along then--all of you. + +[They all go out. JEREMY holds the door open for them. As she +passes through it LIZ says, looking at him. + +LIZ. We shall hope for your company, too. + +JANE. To be sure, mister. + +JEREMY. [Haughtily.] I bain't one for parlours, nor charms, ma'am. +I be here for another purpose. + +[They leave the room. + +JEREMY. [Having watched the party out, moves towards the cider jug.] +Now, my man, now, my wench--us'll see what can be done with the +victuals and drink they've been and left. 'Tis a fair heavy feed and +drink as I do need. Sommat as'll lift me up through all the trials +of this here foolish matrimony and stuff. + +[He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain falls. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The next morning. ROBERT'S cousins are standing by the fire-place of +the same room. + +LIZ. 'Tis powerful unhomely here, Jane. + +JANE. And that 'tis. I wish as Robert had never brought us along of +him. + +LIZ. She's a stuck-up jay of a thing what he's about to wed if ever +I seed one. + +JANE. That her be. He'll live to wish hisself dead and buried one +day. + +LIZ. There bain't but one sensible tongue in the whole place to my +mind. + +JANE. Ah, he's a man to anyone's liking, sister. + +LIZ. 'Tis homelike as he do make I to feel among all these +strangers. + +JANE. Here he comes. + +[JEREMY with a yoke and two pails stands at the doorway. + +LIZ. Now do you come in, mister, and have a bit of talk along of we. + +JANE. Set down them pails and do as sister says, Mister Jeremy. + +[JEREMY looks them all over and then slowly and deliberately sets +down his pails. + +LIZ. That's right, sister and me was feeling terribly lonesome here +this morning. + +JANE. And we was wishing as we'd never left home to come among all +these stranger folk. + +LIZ. Not that we feels you to be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JANE. You be a plain homely man such as me and sister be accustomed +to. + +JEREMY. Anything more? + +LIZ. I suppose you've put by a tidy bit--seeing as you be of a +certain age. + +JANE. Although your looks favour you well, don't they, sister? + +LIZ. To be sure they do. + +JANE. And I reckon as you could set up a home of your own any day, +mister. + +JEREMY. [Pointing through the window.] See that there roof against +the mill? + +LIZ. Indeed I do. + +JEREMY. That's where I do live. + +[Both sisters move quickly to the window. + +JANE. A very comfortable looking home indeed. + +LIZ. I likes the looks of it better nor this great old house. + +JANE. [Archly.] Now I daresay there's but one thing wanted over +there, Mister Jeremy. + +JEREMY. What's that? + +JANE. A good wife to do and manage for you. + +JEREMY. I never was done for nor managed by a female yet, and blowed +if I will be now. + +LIZ. [Shaking her finger at him.] Sister an' me knows what comes of +such words, don't us, sister? 'Tis an old saying in our family as +one wedding do make a many. + +JEREMY. Give me a woman's tongue for foolishness. I've heared a +saying too in my family, which be--get a female on to your hearth and +'tis Bedlam straight away. + +JANE. Now, sister, did you ever hear the like of that? + +LIZ. Us'll have to change his mind for him, Jane. + +JEREMY. I reckon 'twould take a rare lot of doing to change that, +mistress. + +JANE. Bain't you a-goin' to get yourself ready for church soon? + +JEREMY. Dashed if I ever heard tell of such foolishness. Who's to +mind the place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling out? + +LIZ. There's the man William. + +JEREMY. I bain't a-goin' to leave the place to a stranger. + +JANE. Why, sister, us'll feel lost and lonesome without mister, +shan't us, Liz? + +LIZ. That us will. What if us stayed at home and helped to mind the +house along of he? + +JANE. [Slowly.] And did not put our new gowns upon the backs of we +after all the money spent? + +JEREMY. Ah, there you be. 'Tis the same with all females. +Creatures of vanity--even if they be got a bit long in the tooth. +'Tis all the same. + +[JANE and LIZ draw themselves up, bridling, but LIZ relaxes. + +LIZ. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know. + +[JOHN enters.] + +JOHN. Jerry, and I've been seeking you everywhere. Come you off to +the yard. 'Tis as much as we shall do to be ready afore church time. +I never knew you to idle in the house afore. + +JEREMY. [Taking up his pails, sarcastically.] 'Twas the females as +tempted I, master, but 'twon't occur again, so there. [He hurries +off, followed by JOHN. + +LIZ. [With dignity.] Us'll go upstairs and dress, sister. + +JANE. 'Tis time we did so. All them new-fashioned things be awkward +in the fastenings. + +[They go upstairs. + +[ROBERT and ROSE come in from the garden. ROBERT carries a little +card-board box in his hand, which he places on the table. ROSE sits +down listlessly on a chair leaning her arms on the table. + +ROBERT. [Undoing the box.] This is the bouquet what I promised to +bring from town. + +ROSE. [Her gaze wandering outside.] Well, we might as well look at +it afore I go to dress. + +[ROBERT uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white +flowers surrounded by a lace frill. + +ROSE. [Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face.] +Why, they are false ones. + +ROBERT. [Contemptuously.] My good girl, who ever went to church +with orange blossom that was real, I'd like to know? + +ROSE. [Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table.] I'm sure I +don't care. I reckon that one thing's about as good as another to be +married with. + +ROBERT. [Going to the window and looking out.] Ah--I daresay 'tis +so. + +ROSE. I feel tired of my wedding day already--that I do. + +ROBERT. There's a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what +a man's hardly used to, so it seems to me. + +ROSE. [Wildly.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we +die. + +ROBERT. Now--if 'twas with the right - + +ROSE. Right what, Robert? + +ROBERT. [Confused.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, Rose. +Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to dress yourself. We +might as well get it all over and finished with. + +ROSE. [Rising slowly.] Perhaps 'twould be best. I'll go to my +room, and you might call the girl Lucy and send her up to help me +with my things. + +ROBERT. Won't you take the bouquet along of you? + +ROSE. No--let it bide there. I can have it later. + +[She goes slowly from the room. + +[Left to himself, ROBERT strolls to the open door and looks gloomily +out on the garden. Suddenly his face brightens. + +ROBERT. Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment. + +LUCY. [From outside.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths, +master. + +ROBERT. Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress +wants you, Lucy. + +LUCY. [Coming to the door.] Mistress wants me, did you say? + +ROBERT. Yes, you've got to go and dress her for the church. But you +can spare me a minute or two first. + +ISABEL. [Going quickly across the room to the staircase door.] +Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master. 'Tis late already. + +ROBERT. [Catches her hand and pulls her back.] I've never had a +good look at your face yet, my girl--you act uncommon coy, and that +you do. + +ISABEL. [Turning her head away and speaking angrily.] Let go of my +hand, I tell you. I don't want no nonsense of that sort. + +ROBERT. Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and +there's sommat about the appearance of you - + +ISABEL. Let go of me, master. Suppose as anyone should look through +the window. + +ROBERT. Let them look. I'd give a good bit for all the world to see +us now. + +ISABEL. O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert? + +ROBERT. What I say. 'Tis with you as I'd be going along to church +this morning. Not her what's above. + +ISABEL. But I wouldn't go with you--No, not for all the gold in the +world. + +ROBERT. Ah, you've changed since yesterday. When I caught your eye +at dinner, 'twas gentle as a dove's--and your hand, when it gave me +my mug of cider did seem--well did seem to put a caress upon me like. + +ISABEL. O there lies a world of time twixt yesterday and to-day, +Master Robert. + +ROBERT. So it do seem. For to-day 'tis all thorns and thistles with +you--But I'm a-goin' to have my look at your pretty face and my kiss +of it too. + +ISABEL. I shall scream out loud if you touches me--that I shall. + +ROBERT. [Pulling her to him.] Us'll see about that. + +[He tries to get a sight of her face, but she twists and turns. +Finally he seizes both her hands and covers them with kisses as KITTY +enters. + +KITTY. O whatever's going on! Rose, Rose, John--come you in here +quickly, do. [To LUCY.] O you bad, wicked girl. I knew you +couldn't be a very nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy. + +[ISABEL, released by ROBERT, goes over to the window arranging her +disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears. ROBERT watches +her sullenly. + +KITTY. [Goes to the staircase door and calls loudly.] Rose, Rose-- +come you down as quick as you can run. + +ROSE. [Coming down.] What's all this, I'd like to know? + +KITTY. It's Lucy, behaving dreadful--O you must send her straight +away from the house, Rose. + +ROSE. What has she done, then? + +KITTY. Going on with Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing. + +ISABEL. O no, mistress, twasn't so, I do swear to you. + +ROBERT. [Brutally.] Yes 'twas. The maid so put me powerful in mind +of someone who--who - + +ROSE. [Coldly.] I understand you, Robert. Well, 'tis lucky that +all this didn't come off an hour or so later. + +KITTY. [Tearfully.] O Rose, what do you mean? + +ROSE. I mean that what's not broken don't need no mending. Robert +can go to church with someone else to-day, he can. And no harm done. + +[She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins pulling it to +pieces and throwing it all about the room. + +KITTY. O Rose, Rose, don't take it so hard. 'Twasn't Robert's +fault. 'Twas the girl off the road what led him on. I know it. +Tell her to get out of the house. I'll dress you--I'll do the work. +Only be just and sensible again; dear Rose. + +ROSE. Let the girl bide. It makes no difference to me. There'll be +no marrying for me to-day. + +[JOHN comes in at the door. + +KITTY. [Running to him.] O John, John--do you quiet down Rose and +tell her to get upstairs and dress. She's a-saying that she won't +marry Robert because of his goings on with the new servant--But, O, +you'll talk her into reason again, won't you, dear John? + +JOHN. Come, come, what's all this cackle about, Rose? + +ROSE. I'm breaking off with Robert, that's all, John. + +JOHN. Robert, can't you take and explain a bit what 'tis. + +ROBERT. [Sullenly.] A little bit of play 'twixt me and the wench +there, and that's about all, I reckon. + +JOHN. Now that's an unsensible sort of thing to get doing on your +marriage day, to my thinking. + +KITTY. 'Twasn't Robert's fault, I know. 'Twas the maid off the road +who started it. + +[Here ISABEL sinks down on a chair by the window, leaning her arms on +the table and bowing her head, in tears. + +JOHN. [Going to the door.] Jeremy--Jeremy--come you in here a +minute. + +[Instead of JEREMY, LUBIN comes in. + +JOHN. 'Twas Jeremy I did call--not you. + +LUBIN. He's gone off the place for a few minutes. + +JOHN. [Vexedly.] Ah, 'tis early for the Red Bull. + +LUBIN. Can I--can I do anything for you, master? + +JOHN. Not unless you can account for the sort of serving wench off +the roadside what Jerry has put upon us. + +LUBIN. What is there to account for in her, master? + +ROSE. [Passionately.] O I don't particular mind about what's +happened. Let her kiss with Robert if she has the mind. 'Tis always +the man who commences. + +JOHN. 'Tis not. There are some wenches who don't know how to leave +anyone alone. Worser than cattle flies, that sort. + +ISABEL. [Going across the room to LUBIN'S side.] O you shame me by +them words, I bain't that sort of maid--you'll answer for me-- +William? + +[LUBIN silently takes her hand. + +ROSE. [Her eyes fixed on LUBIN.] I'll tell you what, John; I'll +tell you, Kitty. I wish I'd held me to my first lover and I wish +'twas with Lubin that I was a-going to the church to-day. + +ROBERT. [Sullenly.] Then I'll say sommat, Rose. I wish 'twas with +Isabel that I was getting wed. + +JOHN. Now, now--'Tis like two children a quarrelling over their +playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed, Rose- +Anna--And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be at the door afore +you're ready if you don't quicken yourselves up a bit. Kitty, you go +and help your sister. + +ROSE. [With a jealous glance at Isabel.] No, I'll have Lucy with +me. + +JOHN. That's it, you keep her out of mischief + +KITTY. I've got my own dress to put on. + +JOHN. And Robert, you and me will have a drink after all this +caddle. 'Tis dry work getting ready for marriage so it appears. + +ROBERT. 'Tis fiery dry to my thinking. + +ROSE. [Crossing the room and going up to LUBIN.] I have no flowers +to take to church with me, William; go you to the waterside, I have a +mind to carry some of the blue things what grow there. + +KITTY. Forget-me-nots, you mean! + +ROSE. Forget-me-nots, I mean. And none but you to gather them for +me, William. Because--because--well, you do put me in thoughts of +someone that I once held and now have lost. That's all. + +[Curtain. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 2. + + + +The same room half an hour later. ISABEL is picking up the scattered +orange blossom which she ties together and lays on the window sill. +LUBIN comes in with a large bunch of river forget-me-nots. + +LUBIN. I didn't think to find you here, Isabel. + +ISABEL. O but that is a beautiful blue flower. I will take the +bunch upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it. + +LUBIN. [Putting it on the table.] No--do you bide a moment here +with me. + +[ISABEL looks helplessly at LUBIN who takes her hands slowly in his. + +LUBIN. What are we going to do? + +ISABEL. I wish as we had never touched the seeds. + +LUBIN. O cursed seeds of love--Far better to have left all as 'twas +yesterday in the morning. + +ISABEL. He has followed me like my shadow, courting and courting me +hard and all the time, Lubin. + +LUBIN. She sought me out in the yard at day-break, and what I'd have +given twenty years of life for yester eve I could have thrown into +the stream this morning. + +ISABEL [Sadly.] So 'tis with my feelings. + +LUBIN. She has altered powerful, to my fancy, in these years. + +ISABEL. And Robert be differenter too from what I do remember. [A +long silence. + +LUBIN. Have you thought as it might be in us two these changes have +come about, Isabel? + +ISABEL. I was just the maid as ever I was until - + +LUBIN. And so was I unchanged, until I started travelling up on the +same road as you, Isabel. + +[For a few minutes they look gravely into one another's eyes. + +LUBIN. [Taking ISABEL'S hands.] So that's how 'tis with you and me. + +ISABEL. O Lubin--a poor serving maid like I am. + +LUBIN. I'll have no one else in the whole world. + +ISABEL. What could I have seen in him, times gone by? + +LUBIN. And was it ever true that I did sit through a long Sunday her +hand in mine? [Another silence. + +ISABEL. But how's us ever to get out of the caddle where we be? + +LUBIN. [Gaily.] We'll just run away off to the Fair as t'other +servants did. + +ISABEL. And leave them in their hate for one another? No--'twould +be too cruel. Us'll run to the young mistress what knows all about +them herbs. I count as there be seeds or sommat which could set the +hearts of them two back in the right places again. Come - + +LUBIN. Have it your own way then. But 'twill have to be done very +quickly if 'tis done at all. + +ISABEL. Us'll fly over the ground like. + +[She puts her hand impetuously in LUBIN'S and they go out together. +As they do so, ISABEL'S bonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded +on the floor. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 3. + + + +A few minutes later. LIZ and JANE wearing gay sprigged dresses and +feathered bonnets, come to the room. They carry fans and +handkerchiefs in their hands. It is seen that their gowns are not +fastened at the back. + +LIZ. Such a house I never heard tell of. Ring, ring at the bell and +no one to come nigh. + +JANE. Being unused to bells, sister, maybe as us did pull them wrong +or sommat. + +LIZ. I wish we'd had the gowns made different. + +JANE. To do up in the front--sensible like. + +[They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall, absorbed in +their dress, they do not notice that JEREMY has come in and is +watching them sarcastically. + +JEREMY. Being as grey as th' old badger don't keep a female back +from vanity. + +LIZ. O dear, Master Jeremy, what a turn you did give me, to be sure. + +JANE. We can't find no one in this house to attend upon we. + +JEREMY. I count as you can not. Bain't no one here. + +LIZ. We rang for the wench a many time. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you might ring. + +JANE. We want someone as'll fasten them niggly hooks to our gowns. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you may want. + +LIZ. Our sight bain't clear enough to do one for t'other, the +eyelets be made so small. + +JEREMY. Count as you'll have to go unfastened then. + +JANE. O now you be a laughing at us. Call the wench down, or we +shall never be ready in time. + +JEREMY. Man and maid be both gone off. Same as t'others, us'll have +to do without service + +LIZ. Gone off! + +JANE. Runned clean away? + +JEREMY. That's about it. + +JANE. Well now, sister, us'll have to ask the little Miss to help +we. + +JEREMY. I've harnessed the mare a many time. Don't see why I +shouldn't get the both of you fixed into the shafts like. + +LIZ and JANE. [Fanning themselves coyly.] O Master Jeremy - + +JEREMY. Come now. Let's have a try. I count as no one have a +steadier hand nor me this side of the river, nor a finer eye for +seeing as everything be in its place. I'll settle the both of you +afore I gets out the horse and trap. Turn round. + +[The sisters turn awkwardly, and with very self-conscious airs begin +to flutter their fans. JEREMY quickly hooks each gown in succession. +As he finishes the fastening of JANE'S dress ROSE, followed by KITTY, +comes into the room. She is wearing her bridal gown and veil. + +ROSE. [Pausing.] What's this, Jeremy? + +JEREMY. The servants be runned away same as t'others--that's all, +mistress. + +ROSE. Run away? + +JEREMY. So I do reckon. Bain't anywhere about the place. + +ROSE. [Flinging herself down on a chair by the table, in front of +the bunch of forget-me-nots.] Let them be found. Let them be +brought back at once. + +KITTY. For my part I'm glad they've gone off. The girl was a wild, +bad thing. I saw how she went on with Robert. + +ROSE. [Brokenly to JEREMY.] You found them. Bring them back, +Jerry. + +KITTY. No--wait till you and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. +Then 'twon't matter quite so much. + +ROSE. I'll never wed me to Robert, I'll only wed me to him who +gathered these blue flowers here. + +KITTY. Good heavens, Rose, 'twas the man William. + +[KITTY looks in consternation from ROSE to the cousins and then to +JEREMY, who remains impassive and uninterested, sucking a straw. +ROSE clasps her hands round the forget-me-nots and sits gazing at +them, desolately unhappy. ROBERT enters. He is very grandly dressed +for the wedding, but as he comes into the room he sees ISABEL'S +cotton bonnet on the floor. He stoops, picks it up and laying it +reverently on the table, sinks into a chair opposite ROSE and raising +one of its ribbons, kisses this with passion. + +ROBERT. There--I'd not change this for a thousand sacks of gold--I +swear I'd not. + +KITTY. Now Robert--get up, the two of you. Are you bewitched or +sommat--O Jerry, stir them, can't you. + +LIZ. Robert, 'tisn't hardly suitable--with the young miss so sweetly +pretty in her white gown. + +JANE. And wedding veil and all. And sister and me hooked up into +our new sprigs, ready for the ceremony. + +JEREMY. [Looking at them with cold contempt.] Let them bide. The +mush'll swim out of they same as 'twill swim off the cider vat. Just +let the young fools bide. + +KITTY. O this'll never do. Jerry forgetting of his manners and all. +[Calling at the garden door.] John, John, come you here quickly, +there's shocking goings on. [JOHN, in best clothes comes in. + +JOHN. What's the rattle now, Kitty? I declare I might be turning +round on top of my own mill wheel such times as these. + +KITTY. Rose says she won't wed Robert, and Robert's gone off his +head all along of that naughty servant maid. + +[JOHN stands contemplating ROSE and ROBERT. ROSE seems lost to the +outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots, whilst +ROBERT, in sullen gloom, keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet. + +JOHN. Come, Rose, 'tis time you commenced to act a bit different. +[ROSE does not answer. + +JOHN. Come, Robert, if you play false to my sister at the last +moment, you know with whom you'll have to reckon like. [ROBERT pays +no heed to him. + +JOHN. [To JEREMY.] Can you do naught to work upon them a bit, +Jerry? + +JEREMY. I'd have a jug of cider in, master. 'Twill settle them all. +Folks do get 'sterical and vapourish face to face with matrimony. +Put some drink afore of them, and see how 'twill act. + +LIZ. O what a wise thought, Master Jerry. + +JANE. Most suitable, I call it. + +[Here MARY MEADOWS comes in, JOHN turns eagerly to her. + +JOHN. O Mary--have you come to help us in the fix where we are? [He +signs to ROSE and ROBERT. + +MARY. What has happened, John? + +JEREMY. I'll tell you in a couple of words, mistress. + +LIZ. No--do you fetch the cider, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JOHN. 'Tis more than I can do with, Mary. Rose is set against +Robert, and Robert is set against Rose. Rose--well I'm fairly +ashamed to mention it--Rose has lost her senses and would wed the +servant William--and Robert is a-courting of the maid. + +JEREMY. Ah, let each fool follow their own liking, says I. + +LIZ. And sister and me all dressed in our new gowns for the church. + +JANE. And Jerry had to do the hooking for we, both of the servants +having runned away. + +MARY. Well, now I'm here I'll lend a hand. I'll help with the +dinner time you're at church. You shall not need to trouble about +anything, Mr. John. + +JOHN. O once I do get them to the church and the ring fixed and all +I shan't trouble about nothing, Mary. But 'tis how to move them from +where they be! That's the puzzle. + +ROSE. I'll never move till the hand that gathered these flowers be +here to raise me. + +ROBERT. I'll sit here to the end of the world sooner nor go along to +be wed with Miss over there. + +MARY. 'Tis midsummer heat have turned their brains. But I know a +cooling draught that will heal them of their sickness. Jeremy, do +you step into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh violet +leaves, one blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary. + +JEREMY. [Sighing.] What next? + +JOHN. Get gone at once, Jerry. + +[JEREMY goes to the door--as he does so LIZ and JANE start up and +follow him. + +LIZ. Sister and me will come along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy. + +JANE. And that us will, if our new gowns bain't hooked too tight for +we to bend. + +[They follow JEREMY to the garden. KITTY silently leaves the room +also. ROSE and ROBERT remain lost in their sorrowful reflections. +JOHN and MARY look at them for a moment and then turn to one another. + +JOHN. Mary, I never thought to see such a thing as this. + +MARY. You take my word for it, John, the storm will soon be blown +away. + +JOHN. I don't know how I should stand up against the worry of it +all, wasn't it for you, Mary. + +[A short silence. + +JOHN. [Taking MARY'S hand.] 'Twill be a bit lonesome for me here, +when they've gone off, Mary. + +MARY. You'll have Kitty to do for you then. + +JOHN. Kitty be going to live along of them at Bristol too, after a +while. + +MARY. [Looking round the room.] Then I count as it might feel a bit +desolate like in this great house alone. + +JOHN. [Taking MARY'S hand.] I cannot face it, Mary. I've loved you +many years, you know. + +MARY. I know you have, dear John. + +JOHN. Can't you forget he what was false to you, days gone by, and +take me as your husband now? + +MARY. [Doubtfully.] I don't hardly know. + +JOHN. You used to sing sommat--the grass that was trampled under +foot, give it time, it will rise up again. + +MARY. [Drying her eyes.] Ah, it has risen, dear John--and I count +it have covered the wound of those past days--my heart do tell me so, +this minute. + +JOHN. [Holding both her hands.] Then 'tis one long midsummer afore +you and me, Mary. + +MARY. That's how 'twill be, dear John. + +[JEREMY, followed by the cousins, enters. He holds a bunch of leaves +towards MARY. + +JEREMY. There you be, mistress. Fools' drink for fools. A mug of +good cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker. + +[MARY takes the bunch, and still holding JOHN'S hand, leads him to +the kitchen. JEREMY watches the pair sarcastically. + +JEREMY. 'Tis all finished with the master, then. + +[The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their faces with +handkerchiefs. + +LIZ. Dear me, 'tis warm. + +JANE. I hope my face don't show mottled, sister? + +JEREMY. I was saying as how 'twas all finished with the master. + +[MARY, followed by JOHN, comes forward carrying two glasses. She +gives one to ROSE and the other to ROBERT. + +MARY. Now do you take a good draught of this, the both of you. With +violet leaves the fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease +lightens every trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to +anyone with its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest. + +[She leaves the table and stands far back in the room by JOHN'S side. +ROSE slowly lifts her glass and begins to drink. ROBERT does the +same. They are watched with anxiety by all in the room. When they +have emptied their glasses ROSE dries her tears and pushes the +flowers a little way from her. ROBERT shakes himself and moves the +cotton bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor. Meanwhile +KITTY has come quietly to the garden door and stands there watching +the scene intently. + +LIZ. Bain't we going to get a drink too? + +JANE. Seems as though master have been and forgot we. + +JEREMY. [Starting up and going to the kitchen.] If I've been and +forgot you two old women, I've remembered myself. Be blowed if I can +get through any more of this foolishness without a wet of my mouth. + +[He goes out. + +ROSE. [Speaking faintly.] Does it show upon my face, the crying, +Robert? + +ROBERT. [Looking at her.] No, no, Rose, your eyes be brighter nor +ever they were. + +ROSE. [Pushing the forget-me-nots yet further away.] Those flowers +are dying. My fancy ones were best. + +KITTY. [Coming forward with the orange blossoms.] Here they are, +dear Rose. + +ROSE. [Taking them.] O how beautiful they do look. I declare I can +smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert. + +ROBERT. All the orange blossom in the world bain't so sweet as one +kiss from your lips, Rose. + +ROSE. Now is that truly so? + +ROBERT. Ah, 'tis heavy work a-waiting for the coach, Rose. + +JOHN. [Coming forward and taking MARY'S hand.] And yours won't be +the only marriage Rose-Anna. Did you never think that me and Mary +might - + +KITTY. [Running forward.] But I did--O so many times, John. +[JEREMY enters with LUBIN and ISABEL. + +JEREMY. Servants be comed back. Man was to the Red Bull, I count. +Female a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn. + +ROSE. [Coldly.] I don't care whether they be here or not. Set them +to work, Jerry, whilst we are to church. + +LIZ. That's it, Master Jeremy. I was never so put out in my life, +as when sister did keep on ringing and the wench was not there to +help us on with our gowns. + +[ROSE and ROBERT get up and go towards the door. They pause before +LUBIN and ISABEL. + +ROSE. The man puts me in mind of someone whom I knew before, called +Lubin. I thought I had a fancy for him once--but 'twasn't really so. + +ROBERT. And the girl do favour a little servant wench from +Framilode. + +ROSE. [Jealously.] You never went a-courting with a servant wench, +now did you, my heart's dearest? + +ROBERT. Never in all my days, Rose. 'Twas but the fanciful thoughts +of a boy towards she, that I had. + +ROSE. [Putting her arm in ROBERT'S.] Well, we have nothing to do +with anything more of it now, dear Robert. + +ROBERT. You're about right, my true love, we'll get us off to the +church. + +JEREMY. Ah, coach have been waiting a smartish while, I reckon. +'Tis on master as expense'll fall. + +[ROSE and ROBERT with cold glances at LUBIN and ISABEL, pass out of +the door. + +JOHN. [Giving his arm to MARY.] Now, Mary--now, Kitty. [They pass +out. + +LIZ. Now, Jeremy, sister and me bain't going off all alone. + +JEREMY. [Offering an arm to each.] No further than the church door, +I say. I've better things to do nor a-giving of my arm to females be +they never so full of wiles. And you two do beat many what bain't +near so long in the tusk, ah, that you does. + +[JEREMY goes out with the sisters. + +LUBIN. [To ISABEL.] And shall we go off into the meadows, Isabel, +seeing that we are quite forgot? + +ISABEL. No--'tis through these faithless ones as us have learnt to +understand the hearts within of we. Let's bide and get the marriage +dinner ready for them first. + +[She stretches both her hands towards LUBIN, who takes them +reverently in his as the Curtain falls. + + + + +THE NEW YEAR + + + + +CHARACTERS + +STEVE BROWNING, a Blacksmith, also Parish Clerk. +GEORGE DAVIS, a Carpenter. +HARRY MOSS, a young Tramp. +MAY BROWNING. +JANE BROWNING. +DORRY BROWNING, aged twelve. +ANNIE SIMS. +ROSE SIMS. +VASHTI REED. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +A country roadside. It is late afternoon and already dusk. + +MAY BROWNING with HARRY MOSS come slowly forward. Close to a stile +which is a little off the road, MAY stops. + +MAY. There, you don't need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. +You get on quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and +the snow, too. + +HARRY. I don't care much about leaving you like this on the +roadside, May. And that's the truth, 'tis. + +MAY. Don't you take no more thought for I, Harry. 'Tis a good boy +as you've been to I since the day when we fell in together. But now +there bain't no more need for you to hold back your steps, going slow +and heavy when you might run spry and light. For 'tis home as I be +comed to now, I be. You go your way. + +HARRY. I see naught of any house afore us or behind. 'Tis very +likely dusk as is upon us, or may happen 'tis the fog getting up from +the river. + +MAY. [Coughing.] Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a +field path, bain't there? + +HARRY. [Taking a few steps to the right and peering through the +gloom.] Ah, and that there be. + +MAY. And at t'other end of it a house what's got a garden fence all +round. + +HARRY. Ah--and 'tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light +shining from out the windows of it, too, though 'tis shining dim-like +in the mist. + +MAY. 'Tis that yonder's my home, Harry. There's the door where I +must stand and knock. + +[For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with +weeping. + +HARRY. I wouldn't take on so, if 'twas me. + +MAY. And did you say as how there was a light in the window? 'Twill +be but fire light then, for th' old woman she never would bring out +the lamp afore 'twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, +what'd lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it +should go wasted. + +HARRY. There, 'tis shining better now--or maybe as the fog have +shifted. + +MAY. 'Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry. + +HARRY. Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I'll go +along of you a bit further. 'Twill not be much out of my way. +Nothing to take no count of. + +MAY. No, no, Harry. I bain't going to cross that field, nor yet +stand at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is +it like as I'd let them see me coming over the meadow and going +through the gate in this? [Holding up a ragged shawl.] In these? +[Pointing to her broken shoes.] And--as I be to-day. + +[Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of +anguished coughing. + +HARRY. There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, +like. Don't you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you'll +be wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn't +know that you be coming back. + +MAY. [Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough.] +Harry, you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. +'Tis all live coals within I here, so 'tis. + +HARRY. You get along home, and maybe as them'll find summat better +nor water from the ditch to give you. + +MAY. No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall and +cover me, or I won't never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. +Give I to drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in quiet till +all of the light be gone. + +HARRY. [Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her.] Where be +I to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground? + +MAY. [Pointing.] Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you +there, 'tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water +from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch. + +[HARRY goes off with the can. MAY watches him, drawing her shawl +again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing. + +[HARRY returns and holds out the can. + +MAY. 'Tis not very quick as you've been, Harry Moss. Here--give it +to I fast. Give! + +[HARRY puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands, which +shake feverishly, and she drinks with sharp avidity. + +MAY. 'Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and +have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. +Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it. +Drink of it, too, Harry. + +HARRY. 'Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat as'll lie more +warm and comfortable to th' inside like. I bain't one for much +water, and that's the truth, 'tis. [He empties the water on the +ground. + +MAY. Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be +gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, +where the lamps do shine and 'tis bright and warm in the places where +they sells the drink. + +HARRY. Once I sets off running by myself, I'll get there fast +enough, May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I +don't care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like. + +MAY. Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, +which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too. + +HARRY. [Sitting down by her side.] 'Tis a fine thing to have a home +what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the +limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside. How +was it as you ever came away from it, like? + +MAY. Ah, and that's what I be asking of myself most of the time, +Harry! For, 'tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut +the door behind me and went out. + +[A slight pause. + +MAY. Away from them all, upon the road--so 'twas. + +HARRY. And never see'd no more of them, nor sent to say how 'twas +with you, nor nothing? + +MAY. Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And +'twas finished. + +[A long pause, during which the darkness has gathered. + +HARRY. Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May? + +MAY. [Bitterly.] Ah now, whatever did! + +HARRY. 'Tweren't as though you might have been a young wench, +flighty like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the +streets of it. For, look you here, 'tis an old woman as you be now, +May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don't doubt. + +MAY. An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you 'tis so, I +count. But a twelve year gone by, O, 'twas a fine enough looking +maid as I was then--Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the +free ways of the road and the lights of the fair--And for the sun to +rise in one place where I was, and for I to be in t'other when her +should set. + +HARRY. I'd keep my breath for when 'twas wanted, if 'twas me. + +MAY. Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as +they'll be likely to know I again up at home? + +HARRY. How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that 'tis but +a ten days or less as I've been along of you on the road? And seeing +that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you +neither? + +MAY. Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I'll +tell you how 'twas in the days gone by? + +HARRY. 'Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. The night be +coming upon we wonderful fast. + +MAY. The hair, 'twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, +Harry. 'Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so 'twas. + +HARRY. Well, 'tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, +that it be. + +MAY. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. +'Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was +then, Harry. + +HARRY. 'Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May. + +MAY. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long +while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, +Harry, and that I can. Victuals to th' inside of I and a bit of +clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I +up. Why, there, Harry, you won't know as 'tis me when I've been to +home a day or two--or may be as 'twill take a week. + +HARRY. I count 'twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set +up as you once was, May. + +MAY. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by +the hair, which is different to what 'twas, or by the form of me, +which be got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don't come +never no change. So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do +appear to you. + +HARRY. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May. + +MAY. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they. + +HARRY. Them be set open wonderful wide and 'tis as though a heat +comed out from they. 'Tis not anyone as might care much for to look +into the eyes what you've got. + +MAY. [With despondence.] Maybe then, as them'll not know as 'tis +me, Harry Moss. + +HARRY. I count as they'll be hard put to, and that's the truth. + +MAY. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and +the breath of me so short, but 'twon't be long, I count, afore they +sees who 'tis. Though all be changed to th' eye like, there'll be +summat in me as'll tell they. And 'tis not a thing of shape, nor of +colour as'll speak for I--But 'tis summat what do come straight out +of the hearts of we and do say better words for we nor what the looks +nor tongues of us might tell. You mind me, Harry, there's that which +will come out of me as'll bring they to know who 'tis. + +HARRY. Ah, I reckon as you'll not let them bide till they does. + +MAY. And when they do know, and when they sees who 'tis, I count as +they'll be good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as +Steve, he was a hard one, and th' old woman what's his mother, hard +too--And that it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I +sees thing different now. + +HARRY. Ah, 'tis one thing to see by candle and another by day. + +MAY. For 'twas wild as I was in the time gone by. Wild after +pleasuring and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at the +countenance of I, and a-turning back for to look again. But, hark +you here, 'tis powerful changed as I be now. + +HARRY. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman into an +old one. + +MAY. I'm finished with the road journeying and standing about in the +streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking places-- +Men what don't want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to +follow if 'twasn't only a bit of eyelid as I'd lift on them, times +that is gone. + +HARRY. Ah, 'twould take a lot of looking to see you as you was. + +MAY. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to bide +quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and the +door shut. + +HARRY. I reckon as you be. + +MAY. And I'm thinking as they'll be rare pleased for to have I in +the house again. 'Twill be another pair of hands to the work like. +And when I was young, 'twas not on work as I was set much. + +HARRY. Ah, I did guess as much. + +MAY. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, 'tis a strong +arm as them'll have working for they; Steve, th' old woman what's his +mother, and little Dorry, too. + +HARRY. Dorry? I han't heard tell of she. + +MAY. That's my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling +on the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. +Bless the innocent heart of her! + +HARRY. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can't think! You must +have been drove to it like, wasn't you? + +MAY. 'Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. 'Twas very likely +the blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was +tied up to Steve, 'twas as if they had got I shut in a box. 'Twas +the bridle on my head and the bit in the mouth of I; and to be held +in where once I had gone free. [A short pause. + +MAY. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to be +calling I from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries +tossing in the wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where +they'd been stuck all summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I +powerful, so that one morning when the sun was up and the breeze +running, I comed out into the air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. +And 'twas done--so 'twas. + +HARRY. And didn't they never try for to stop you, nor for to bring +you back, May? + +MAY. No, Harry, they did not. + +HARRY. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the +door shut ahind of you? + +MAY. Ah--where! To the east, to the south, every part. 'Twas +morning with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them +as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into the +countenance of I. Then 'twas the best as they could give as I might +take; and 'twas for no lodging as I did want when dark did come +falling. + +HARRY. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, +May. + +MAY. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat +of the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a +grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat +upon, maybe. So 'twas with I. + +[She bows her head on her knees, and for a moment is shaken with +sudden grief. + +HARRY. Don't you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to +the end of your journeying this day, and that you be. + +MAY. [Raising her head.] Ah, 'tis so, 'tis so. And 'tis rare glad +as them'll be to see I once again. Steve, he's a hard man, but a +good one--And I'll tell you this, Harry Moss, he'll never take up +with no woman what's not me--and that he won't--I never knowed him +much as look on one, times past; and 'twill be the same as ever now, +I reckon. And little Dorry, 'twill be fine for her to get her mammy +back, I warrant--so 'twill. + +[A slight pause. + +MAY. Th' old woman--well--I shan't take it amiss if her should be +dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, +and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his +station and that. God rest the bones of she, for I count her'll have +been lying in the churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain't +one to bear malice, and if so be as her's above ground, 'tis a rare +poor old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her'll be +this day--so 'tis. + +HARRY. Look you here--the snow's begun to fall and 'tis night. Get +up and go in to them all yonder. 'Tis thick dark now and there be no +one on the road to see you as you do go. + +MAY. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me +be powerful weak. + +HARRY. [Lifting her up.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, +May. + +MAY. [Standing up.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I +bide alone. + +HARRY. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to +the door. + +MAY. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide +here a while in the quiet of my thoughts. 'Tis of little Dorry, and +of how pleased her'll be to see her mammy once again, as I be +thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han't got no home to go to, nor +fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you +quick. + +HARRY. There's summat in me what doesn't care about leaving you so, +May. + +MAY. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, +when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, +come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I'll be able to give +you summat to keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, 'tis empty- +handed as I be. + +HARRY. I don't want nothing from you, May, I don't. + +MAY. [Fumbling in her shawl.] There, Harry--'tis comed back to my +mind now. [She takes out part of a loaf of bread.] Take you this +bread. And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I +be to home with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close +against me; and plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. +There, Harry, take and eat. + +[She holds the bread to him + +HARRY. [Taking the bread.] I count 'twill all be well with you now, +May? + +MAY. I warrant as 'twill, for I be right to home. But go you +towards the town, Harry, for 'tis late. And God go with you, my +dear, now and all time. + +HARRY. I'll set off running then. For the night, 'tis upon us, May, +and the snow, 'tis thick in the air. + +[MAY turns to the stile and leans on it heavily, gazing across the +field. HARRY sets off quickly down the road. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +The living room in the Brownings' cottage. The room is divided by a +curtain which screens the fireside end from the draught of the +principal door. + +To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs. Chairs are +grouped round the hearth, and there is a table at which JANE BROWNING +is ironing a dress by the light of one candle. DORRY leans against +the table, watching her. + +JANE. [Putting aside the iron.] There, you take and lay it on the +bed upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I'm not a-going to +iron it twice. + +[She lays the dress carefully across DORRY'S arms. + +DORRY. Don't the lace look nice, Gran'ma? + +JANE. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come +straight down again. + +DORRY. Couldn't I put it on once, Gran'ma, just to see how it do +look on me? + +JANE. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! +You go and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear? + +DORRY. [Leaving the room by the door to the right.] I'd like to put +it on just once, I would. + +[JANE BROWNING blows out the candle and puts away the iron and +ironing cloth. She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as +DORRY comes back. + +DORRY. Dad's cleaning of himself ever so--I heard the water +splashing something dreadful as I went by his door. + +JANE. 'Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing as he be +about, I reckon. + +DORRY. [Sitting down on a stool.] I'd like to go along, too, and +see the dancing up at the schools to-night, I would. + +JANE. And what next, I should like to know! + +DORRY. And wear my new frock what's ironed, and the beads what Miss +Sims gived me. + +JANE. [Looking out at the window.] I'm thinking as we shall get +some snow by and bye. 'Tis come over so dark all of a sudden. + +DORRY. Couldn't I go along of they, Gran'ma, and wear my new frock, +and the beads, too? I never see'd them dance th' old year out yet, I +haven't. + +JANE. Get along with you, Dorry. 'Tis many a year afore you'll be +of an age for such foolishness. And that's what I calls it, this +messing about with dancing and music and I don't know what. + +DORRY. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she's let to go, she is. + +JANE. You bain't Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what's +to-morrow isn't enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I don't know +what is. + +DORRY. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran'ma, I do. Shall you put on +your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to +church? + +JANE. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you +knows how. + +DORRY. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims to the +dance, I shall. Dad's got that kind to me since last night--he gived +me a sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn't asked. And +won't it be nice when Miss Sims comes here to live, and when you has +someone to help you in the work, Gran'ma? + +JANE. Well--'tis to be hoped as 'twill be all right this time. + +DORRY. This time, Gran'ma! Why, wasn't it all right when Dad was +married afore, then? + +JANE. [Getting the lamp from a shelf.] I don't light up as a rule +till 'tis six o'clock, but I count it's a bit of snow coming as have +darkened the air like. + +DORRY. Gran'ma, isn't Miss Sims nice-looking, don't you think? I'd +like to wear my hair like hers and have earrings a-hanging from me +and a-shaking when I moves my head, I would. + +JANE. [Setting the lamp on the table.] Here, fetch me the matches, +do. + +DORRY. [Bringing the matches.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss +Sims, Gran'ma? + +JANE. I'm one as goes by other things nor looks--For like as not +'tis fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them--give me +a plain face and a heart what's pure, I says, and 'tis not far out as +you'll be. + +DORRY. Was my mammy's heart pure, Gran'ma? [A moment's silence. +JANE lights the lamp. DORRY leans at the table, watching her. + +DORRY. Was my mammy's--[A loud knock on the outside door. + +JANE. Who's that come bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there's +a good child. + +DORRY. It'll be Gran'ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at +the door loud with her stick. + +[DORRY runs to the window and looks out. + +DORRY. 'Tis her, and the snow white all upon her. + +[DORRY goes to the door to open it. + +JANE. [To herself.] Of all the meddlesome old women--why can't her +bide till her's wanted. + +[DORRY opens the door wide, and VASHTI Comes slowly in to the room, +leaning on a big staff. + +JANE. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the hill to- +day? 'Twould have been better had you bid at home, with the dark +coming on and the snow. + +DORRY. [Who has closed the door.] Sit down, Granny--there, close +against the fire, do. + +[VASHTI stands in the middle of the room, looking from one to +another. + +DORRY. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do. + +VASHTI. 'Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. And down to +the pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where 'tis fog, +And there be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the wind. +And no where may the bones of me rest this day. + +JANE. If 'tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you'd best +have stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave +sensible, and maybe as I'll get you summat warm to drink presently. + +DORRY. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we. + +[VASHTI sits stiffly down by the hearth, leaning on her stick. JANE +resumes her place, and DORRY puts her little stool between them. + +VASHTI. And in the night when I was laid down, against the +windowpane it fled a three times. A three time it fled and did beat +the pane as though 'twould get in. And I up and did open the window. +And the air it ran past I, and 'twas black, with naught upon it but +the smell of a shroud. So I knowed. + +DORRY. What did you know, Granny? + +VASHTI. [Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire, speaking +as though to herself.] Summat lost--summat lost, and what was trying +to get safe away. + +DORRY. Safe away? From what, Granny? + +VASHTI. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, what +holds in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I holds +here, and the knife to it be as long again by twice. + +DORRY. O, Granny, I'll be a-feared to go across the garden after +dark, I shall. + +JANE. What do you want to go and put that there into the child's +head for? I'd like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff. + +VASHTI. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand in +the mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And when the +door was closed, 'twas as if one did come running round the house and +did beat upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to open it, but +the place outside was full of emptiness, and 'twas they old carrion +crows what did talk to I out of the storm. + +JANE. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don't you speak of summat +what's got some sense to it? Come, don't you know as Steve, his +wedding day, 'tis to-morrow as ever is. + +DORRY. 'Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad's marriage. + +VASHTI. [Suddenly.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, then? + +DORRY. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don't you see how 'tis cleaned +and the new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget +'gainst the door where the old one always tripped me up? + +VASHTI. I see naught but what 'tis more like a burial here. So +'tis. And 'tis a burial as I've carried in my heart as I comed down +from the hills. + +DORRY. [Looking out of the window.] Granny, you'll be forced to +bide the night along of we, 'cause the snow be falling thick, and +'twill be likely as not as you'll lose your way if you start for to +go home again when 'tis snowing. + +JANE. Th' old thing may as well bide the night now she be come. +Hark you, Vashti, 'twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if +you bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever wants. + +VASHTI. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane +Browning? + +DORRY. Why, Granny, 'tis Dad's wedding day to-morrow, and 'tis a +white frock with lace to it as I'm going to wear, and beads what Miss +Sims gived me, and the shoes what was new except for being worn to +church three times. Shall I fetch them all and show to you, Granny? + +JANE. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely 'twill give +her thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in one +of her nasty moods to-day when you can't get a word what isn't +foolishness out of her. [DORRY runs upstairs. + +VASHTI. [Leaning forward.] Was her telling of a marriage? + +JANE. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, only you +don't trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of +yourself in the night. 'Tis our Steve what's going to marry Annie +Sims to-morrow. + +VASHTI. Steve Browning? + +JANE. I haven't patience with th' old gipsy! Yes--Steve. And 'tis +a twelvemonth or more as you'd knowed of it. + +VASHTI. Our Steve, what's husband to my May? + +JANE. 'Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that 'tis. +May, what went out trolloping along the roads 'stead of she biding at +home to mind the house and child! 'Tis how you did breed she up, +Vashti Reed, what led her to act as her did. And if you'd have bred +her different, 'twould have been all the same; for what's in the +blood is bound to out and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it +in the room, 'tain't no flower as you must look for. + +VASHTI. 'Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. But in the +blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through +the door again. God bless the head an feet of she! + +JANE. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb like +she, was bound for to meet her doom. And 'twas in the river up +London way where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same +petticoat to it as I've seed on May a score of times. Don't you +recollect how 'twas parson as brought the news to we? + +VASHTI. 'Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come +from the mouths of they, neither. + +JANE. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was gone +out. 'Twas not much as he did say, being a man what hasn't many +words to his tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat what +do hang up yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the sleeve of +it. Leastways, he didn't speak the words, but I seed what he was +after, and I took and sewed a bit on, and he's wore it ever since +till yesterday--And that's eleven year ago it be--so there. + +VASHTI. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And I seems to +feel the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain't +shrouded, nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of she-- +you take my words--and there shall come a day when the latch shall +rise and her be standing among us and a-calling on her child and +husband what's forgotten she. + +JANE. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such +things to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn't wonder if +he was to put you out of the door and into the snow--and 'tis most +unfitting for to talk so afore the child. + +VASHTI. [Calling out loudly.] Come back to I, May--you come back to +I--there bain't no one what thinks on the name of you, or what wants +you but your old mother. You come back to I! + +JANE. I'll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! 'Tain't +nothing to be proud on as you've got, and 'twould be better if you +was to be less free in your hollering. Look, here's Dorry coming. + +[DORRY comes into the kitchen; she is wearing her new white frock. + +DORRY. See, Granny, I've been and put it on for to show you better. +See the lace? Isn't it nice? And the beads, too. I didn't stop for +to put on my shoes, nor my new stockings. Nor my hat, what's got a +great long feather all round of it. + +JANE. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you'll crease and tumble that +frock so as it's not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go +to put it on for? + +DORRY. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as she +should come out of her trouble. Gran's always got some trouble in +her mind, han't you, Granny? + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by, my child. + +JANE. I'll give it you if you starts off again. + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by - + +DORRY. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny? + +VASHTI. 'Tis more'n eleven years since her wented out of the door, +my child--your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the door! And +likely as not 'twill be feet first as her shall be brought in again. + +DORRY. Granny, was my poor mammy, what's dead, nice looking like +Miss Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow? + +VASHTI. 'Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all +the green of it as was your mammy, my dear. + +DORRY. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, +like Miss Sims, Granny? + +JANE. 'Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and pleasuring +what was her undoing, as 'twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if +you don't take care. 'Tis she as you favours, and none of your +father's people, more's the pity, and 'tis more thoughtful and +serious as you'll have to grow if you don't want to come to harm. +You take and go right up, and off with that frock, do you hear me? + +DORRY. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I'd got it on, +I did. + +JANE. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, 'tis all as you +do think on, and 'tis plain to see what's got working in the inside +of you, Dorry. 'Tis the drop of bad blood as you has got from she +what bore you. But I might as well speak to that door for all you +cares. Only, hark you here, you'll be sorry one of these days as you +han't minded me better. And then 'twill be too late. + +[STEVE comes down the stairs, pushes open the door and enters. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, what's up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, +what be you a-crying for? + +DORRY. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad--now that I've +got my frock on and all.--O, I wants to be let to go. + +STEVE. Well, Mother--what do you say? 'Twouldn't hurt for she to +look in about half an hour, and Annie and me we could bring her back +betimes. + +DORRY. O, Dad, I wants to go if 'twas only for a minute. + +STEVE. There, there--you shall go and we'll say no more about it. + +JANE. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, +Steve. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, 'tain't every day as a man's married, that +'tain't. + +VASHTI. And so you're to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells +me as you're to be wed. + +STEVE. That's right enough, Gran. + +VASHTI. [Rising.] And there be no resting in me to-day, Steve. +There be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body and that will +not let me bide.--And 'tis steps as I hears on the roadside and in +the fields--and 'tis a bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be +moving, and peering about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for +to do away with the thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of +death--So 'tis. + +JANE. Now she's off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and +I'll give you summat as'll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in +your chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water boiling. + +[She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it. + +DORRY. [From the window.] Here's Miss Sims coming up the path, and +Rosie too. O, they're wrapped up all over 'cause 'tis snowing. I'll +open, I'll open. + +[She runs to the door and unlatches it. ANNIE and ROSE SIMS come in, +shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their cloaks, which STEVE +takes from them and hangs on the door. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +ANNIE. [As STEVE takes off her cloak.] 'Tis going to be a dreadful +night. The snow's coming down something cruel. + +ROSE. There won't be many to the dance if it keeps on like this, +will there? + +STEVE. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before +we sets out again. + +DORRY. Miss Sims, Miss Sims--Miss Rosie--I'm going along with you to +the dance, Dad says as I may. + +JANE. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, and +he so strict, I don't know. + +ANNIE. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry--I shouldn't hardly +know 'twas you. [Turning to VASHTI REED.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, +my eyes was very near blinded when I first got in out of the dark, +and I didn't see as you was there. + +ROSE. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold +weather? + +VASHTI. [Peering into their faces as they stand near her.] What be +you a-telling I of? + +ANNIE. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed? + +VASHTI. How be I? + +ROSE. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now 'tis come over such +nasty weather? + +VASHTI. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out in the +rain and all the wind, and driv' there too by them as was laid like +snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she +when her should have gotten to a time of weakness. + +JANE. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down in +the warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the +clothes which you have upon you. [Moving about and putting tea +things on the table.] I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for +th' old woman, with a drop of summat strong to it as will keep her +from using of her tongue so free till morning time. + +ANNIE. [Sitting down.] Poor old woman, 'tis a sad thing when folks +do come to such a pass as she. + +ROSE. And han't got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But +she's better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the +hedge as we was coming across the meadow. "Why," I says to Annie, +"it must be bad to have no home to bide in such a night as this!" +Isn't that so, Mrs. Browning? + +STEVE. Ah, you're right there, you're right. + +ROSE. I wouldn't much care to be upon the road to-night, would you, +Steve? + +VASHTI. And at that hour when th' old year be passing out, and dark +on all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead which be +in they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to +each, as the corpses do go by. There's many a night as I have stood +and have looked into they when them did draw near to I, but never the +face I did seek. + +[Here JANE, who has been making a cup of tea, and who has poured +something in it from a bottle, advances to VASHTI. + +JANE. Here, Vashti Reed, here's a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take +and drink it up and very likely 'twill warm th' inside of you, for +I'll lay as you haven't seen a mouthful of naught this day. + +STEVE. Ah, that's it, that's it. When folks do go leer 'tis a +powerful lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads of +they. + +[VASHTI takes the cup and slowly drinks. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran'ma, at what Miss +Sims have got on! + +VASHTI. [Putting down her cup and leaning forward.] Which of you be +clothed for marriage? + +JANE. Get along of you, Gran, 'tis for the dance up at the school as +they be come. + +VASHTI. Come you here--her what's to wed our Steve. Come you here +and let I look at you. My eyes bain't so quick as they was once. +Many tears have clouded they. But come you here. + +DORRY. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice +things. + +ANNIE. [Steps in front of VASHTI.] Here I be, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Be you the one what's going to wed our Steve come New Year. + +ANNIE. That's it, Mrs. Reed, that's it. + +VASHTI. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage +or for burial? + +STEVE. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don't you take +no account of she. 'Tis worry and that as have caused the mind of +she to wander a bit, but she don't mean nothing by it. + +ANNIE. All right, Steve. She don't trouble me at all. [To VASHTI.] +'Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? Han't he got +one already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do Steve +want for with a new one then? + +STEVE. Come on, girls. I can't stand no more of this. Let's off, +and call in to George's as we do go by. + +ROSE. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said as +how 'twouldn't be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve. + +STEVE. That's right, then we'll bide a bit longer till George do +call for we, only 'tis more nor I can stand when th' old lady gets +her tongue moving. + +DORRY. Why, look, Gran's fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that Gran's +dropped off and can't say none of her foolish things any more, do +stand so as Dad and Gran'ma can see the frock which you've got for +the dance. + +ANNIE. O, Dorry, you're a little torment, that's the truth. + +[She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she has +on. + +ROSE. Well, Steve? + +STEVE. Well, Rosie. + +ROSE. Haven't you got nothing as you can say, Steve? + +STEVE. What be I to say, Rose? + +ROSE. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course. + +STEVE. O, 'tis all right, I suppose. + +ROSE. All right! And is that about all as you've seen? Why, bless +you, Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to +know! + +STEVE. Well, there bain't nothing wrong, be there? + +ROSE. Of course there isn't. But I never did see such a man as you, +Steve. Why, I don't believe as you'd know whether Annie haves a pair +of eyes to her face or not, nor if they be the same colour one to +t'other. + +STEVE. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I've +picked out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I +is to be made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me +this night, I reckon. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder +what I should feel if 'twas me that was going to be married! + +ROSE. You get and ask Annie how 'tis with her, Dorry. I could tell +a fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the +candles that's burned right down to the very end of them, I could. + +ANNIE. Don't you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. +She's that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce +do know what she's a-saying of. But suppose you was just to ask her +what she's got wrapped so careful in that there paper in her hand. + +DORRY. O, Rosie, whatever is it? + +STEVE. What's that you've got hold on now, Rosie? + +ANNIE. Come, show them all, Rose. + +[ROSE slowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse +carnation and a fern. + +ROSE. There 'tis, then. + +DORRY. O my, Rosie--isn't it beautiful. Be you going to wear it to +the dance? + +ROSE. No, Dorry, 'tisn't for me. + +ANNIE. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, who is it for, Rosie--who is it for? + +ROSE. No--I'm not a-going to tell none of you. + +[She wraps it up carefully again. + +ANNIE. I'll tell then, for you. + +ROSE. No, you shan't, Annie--that you shan't! + +ANNIE. That I shall, then--come you here, Dorry--I'll whisper it to +your ear. [Whispers it to DORRY. + +DORRY. [Excitedly.] I know who 'tis--I know--'tis for Mr. Davis-- +for Mr. Davis! Think of that, Dad--the flower 'tis for George Davis. + +ROSE. O, Annie, how you could! + +STEVE. George - + +VASHTI. [Suddenly roused.] Who named George? There was but one man +as was called by that name--and he courted my girl till her was faint +and weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day when he was +come - + +DORRY. There's Gran gone off on her tales again. + +[JANE crosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head of VASHTI, +who relapses again into sleep. + +STEVE. [Sitting down by ROSE.] What's this, Rose? I han't heard +tell of this afore. Be there aught a-going on with you and George, +then? + +ROSE. No, Steve, there isn't nothing in it much, except that George +and me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like--and a two or +three time before. + +STEVE. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give to +George, then? + +ROSE. Well--'tis for George as I've saved it out of some what the +gardener up at Squire's gived me. + +STEVE. [As though to himself.] 'Tis a powerful many years since +George he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon a +maid, I didn't since - + +ROSE. Well, Steve, I'm sure there's no need for you to be upset over +it. 'Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he +doesn't. + +STEVE. Who said as I was upset, Rose? + +ROSE. Look at the long face what you've pulled. Annie, if 'twas me, +I shouldn't much care about marrying a man with such a look to him. + +ANNIE. What's up, Steve? What's come over you like, all of a +minute? + +STEVE. 'Tis naught, Annie, naught. 'Twas summat of past times what +comed into the thoughts of me. But 'tis naught. And, Rose, if so be +as 'twas you as George is after, I'd wish him to have luck, with all +my heart, I would, for George and me--well, we too has always stuck +close one to t'other, as you knows. + +JANE. Ah--that you has, George and you--you and George. + +ANNIE. Hark--there's someone coming up now. + +DORRY. O, let me open the door--let me open it! + +[She runs across the room and lifts the latch. GEORGE stands in the +doorway shaking the snow from him. Then he comes into the room. + +DORRY. I'm going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven't I got a +nice frock on? + +STEVE. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night? + +GEORGE. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss +Sims, good evening--Yes, Steve, I'll off with my coat, for 'tis +pretty well sprinkled with snow, like. + +[STEVE helps GEORGE to take off his overcoat. + +ROSE. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis. + +JANE. And that's a thing which han't no luck to it, if 'tis said +afore the proper time, Rosie. + +ROSE. Well, but 'tis New Year's Eve, isn't it? + +GEORGE. Ah, so 'tis--and a terrible nasty storm as ever I knowed! +'Twas comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, as I was a-crossing +of the meadow. And there lay some poor thing sheltering below the +hedge, with a bit of sacking throwed over her. I count 'tis very +near buried alive as anyone would be as slept out in such a night. + +STEVE. I reckon 'twould be so--so 'twould. But come you in and give +yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of +cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing. + +JANE. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when 'tis free +as you'll get them up at the school? + +STEVE. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I'll fetch it +right away. + +JANE. No, you don't. I'll have no one meddling in the pantry save +it's myself. Dorry, give me that there jug. + +DORRY. [Taking a jug from the dresser.] Here 'tis, Gran'ma, shall I +light the candle? + +JANE. So long as you'll hold the matches careful. + +ANNIE. Well--'tis to be hoped as the weather'll change afore +morning. + +ROSE. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride. + +GEORGE. That us shall, but it don't look much as though we should +get it. + +[JANE BROWNING and DORRY go out of the room. + +STEVE. Sit you down, George, along of we. 'Tis right pleased as I +be for to see you here to-night. + +GEORGE. Well, Steve, I bain't one for a lot of words but I be +powerful glad to see you look as you does, and 'tis all joy as I +wishes you and her what's to be your wife, to-morrow. + +ANNIE. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, +and a girl can't do no more, can she? + +ROSE. And so you're going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. 'Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has +broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got +together and I among they. + +ROSE. O, come, Mr. Davis! + +GEORGE. 'Tis with me as though t'were all hoof and horn as I was +made of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality +folks and such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his +self in parts when the ground be thick on them. + +ANNIE. Very likely 'tis a-shewing of them into their places of a +Sunday and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along +with the service, like, as has made Steve so easy. + +ROSIE. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, +too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the +Squire's for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don't know +what. + +GEORGE. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don't much agree with I, Miss +Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the +maids do pad about in boots what you can't hear, and do speak as +though 'twere church and parson at his sermon, I can't think of +naught but how 'twill feel for to be out in the open again. Why, +bless you, I do scarce fetch my breath in one of they places from +fear as there should be too much sound to it, and the noise of my own +hammer do very near scare I into fits. + +ROSE. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it? + +[MRS. BROWNING and DORRY come back and the cider is put upon the +table, DORRY and ANNIE getting glasses from the dresser. + +GEORGE. [Drinking.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss Sims. +And many years of happiness to you both. + +STEVE. Thank you kindly, George. + +ANNIE. Thank you, Mr. Davis. + +DORRY. Hasn't Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. +Davis? + +GEORGE. Well, I'm blessed if I'd taken no notice of it, Dorry. + +DORRY. Why, you're worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look +at Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she's got wrapped up in +that there paper in her hand. + +ROSE. O, Dorry, you little tease, you! + +DORRY. You just ask her, Mr. Davis. + +ROSE. [Undoing the parcel.] There, 'tis nothing to make such a +commotion of! Just a flower--see, Mr. Davis? I knowed as it was one +what you was partial to, and so I just brought it along with me. + +GEORGE. That there bain't for I, be it? + +ROSE. Indeed 'tis--if so as you'll accept of it. + +GEORGE. O, 'tis best saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be +most gone from it, if I was to wear it now. + +DORRY. No, no, Mr. Davis, 'tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put +it on him, Rosie, put it on him. + +ROSE. [Tossing the flower across the table to GEORGE.] He can put +it on hisself well enough, Dorry. + +GEORGE. [After a moment's hesitation.] I don't know so well about +that. + +ANNIE. Go on, Rosie--pin it into his coat. Come, 'tis getting late. + +DORRY. O, pin it in quick, Rosie--come along--and then we can start +to the dancing. + +ROSE. Shall I, Mr. Davis? + +[GEORGE gets up and crosses the room; ROSE takes the flower and DORRY +hands her a pin. She slowly pins the flower in his coat. + +STEVE. [Stretching out his hand to ANNIE.] You be so quiet like to- +night, Annie. There isn't nothing wrong, is there, my dear? + +ANNIE. 'Tis only I'm that full of gladness, Steve, as I don't seem +to find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most +days. + +STEVE. And that's how 'tis with I, too, Annie. 'Tis as though I was +out in the meadows, like--And as though 'twere Sunday, and such a +stillness all around that I might think 'twas only me as was upon the +earth. But then summat stirs in me sudden and I knows that you be +there, too, and 'tis my love for you what has put me right away from +the rest of them. + +ANNIE. Steve, you've had a poor, rough time, I know, but I'll do my +best for to smooth it like for you, I will. + +STEVE. See here, Annie--I be comed out of the rain and into the sun +once more. + +DORRY. [Leading GEORGE forward.] See how fine Mr. Davis do look-- +see, isn't he grand? O, Miss Sims, see how nice the flower do look +what Rosie has pinned in his coat! See, Gran'ma. + +JANE. I've enough to do putting away all these glasses which have +been messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed +this night, seeing as 'tis late already and you none of you gone off +yet. + +DORRY. O, let us be off, let us be off--and what am I to put over my +dress, Gran'ma, so as the snow shan't get to it? + +JANE. If you go careful and don't drop it in the snow may be as I'll +wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what's hanging behind the +door. + +ROSE. Give me my cloak, Steve--O, how I do love a bit of dancing, +don't you, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they great +drag horses, Miss Rose. + +ROSE. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don't believe half what you do say, +no more does Annie. + +ANNIE. If Mr. Davis don't know how to dance right, you're the one to +learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and I'll +look after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. Good-night, +Mrs. Reed. + +DORRY. Why, Granny's sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know. + +JANE. And about time, too. 'Tis to be hoped as we shan't have no +more trouble with her till morning. + +DORRY. [Her eyes raised to the door latch.] Just look, why the +latch is up. + +ANNIE. Whoever's that, I wonder? + +ROSE. 'Tis very likely someone with a horse what's lost a shoe, +Steve. + +JANE. I guess as 'tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis. + +STEVE. I bain't a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, not if +'twas the King hisself what stood at the door. + +GEORGE. If 'tis a corpse, I guess her'll have to wait till the +dancing's finished, then. + +[VASHTI groans in her sleep and turns over in the chair, her face to +the fire. + +STEVE. [Going to the door and speaking loudly.] Who's there? + +GEORGE. Us'll soon see. + +[GEORGE unbolts the door and opens it, first a little way, and then +wide. MAY is seen standing in the doorway. Her shawl is drawn over +head and the lower part of her face. + +GEORGE. Here's someone what's missed their way, I count. + +ROSE. Why, 'tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do +believe. + +ANNIE Whatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night! + +JANE. [Advancing firmly.] 'Tis one of they dirty roadsters what +there's too many of all about the country. Here, I'll learn you to +come to folks' houses this time of night, disturbing of a wedding +party. You take and get gone. We don't want such as you in here, we +don't. + +[MAY looks fixedly into JANE'S face. + +GEORGE. I count 'tis very nigh starved by the cold as she be. + +STEVE. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone. + +JANE. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that'll learn the +likes of she to come round begging at folks' houses what's +respectable. + +GEORGE. 'Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her this night. + +STEVE. And that 'tis, George, and what's more, I bain't a-going for +to do it. 'Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog was to +come to me for shelter I'd not be one to put him from the door. + +JANE. 'Tain't to be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my +kitchen when 'tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve. + +STEVE. To-morrow, 'tis my day, Mother, and I'll have the choosing of +my guests, like. [Turning to MAY.] Come you in out of the cold. +This night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, may be, in years +to come, 'twill please you to think back upon the eve afore my +wedding. + +[STEVE stands back, holding the door wide open. MAY, from the +threshold, has been looking first on one face and then on another. +Suddenly her eyes fall on ANNIE, who has moved to STEVE'S side, +laying her hand on his arm, and with a sudden defiance, she draws +herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 3. + + + +The same room, two hours later. VASHTI REED seems to be sleeping as +before by the fireside. On the settle MAY is huddled, her head bent, +the shawl drawn over her face. JANE BROWNING moves about, putting +away work things, cups and plates, seeing that the window is closed, +winding the clock, etc. There is a tap at the outer door and JANE +opens it. STEVE, ANNIE and DORRY enter. + +JANE. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to +let you all in and not able to get away to my bed? + +DORRY. O, Gran'ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, +I could. We comed away early 'cause Miss Sims, she said as the +dancing gived her the headache, but the New Year han't been danced in +yet, it han't. + +JANE. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that's what you've got to +do--and quickly. + +DORRY. All right, Gran'ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, Dad. +O, why, there's Granny! But her's tight asleep so I shan't say +nothing to her. O, I do wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and +music playing every night, I do! + +[DORRY goes towards the staircase door. + +JANE. [Calling after her.] I'm a-coming along directly. Be careful +with the candle, Dorry. + +[JANE opens the door and DORRY goes upstairs. STEVE and ANNIE come +towards the fireplace. + +STEVE. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing? + +JANE. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what's been +and got herself full of the drink, and that's what's the matter with +she. See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of +her; and not a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her +the drop of tea a while back. + +STEVE. Well, well--she won't do us no harm where she do bide. Leave +her in the warm till 'tis daylight, then let her go her way. + +JANE. She and Gran' be about right company one for t'other, I'm +thinking. + +STEVE. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to +bed, Mother. + +JANE. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home? + +ANNIE. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back--'tis but a +step--and I don't like for you to come out into the snow again. + +STEVE. I'm coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. +I'll be back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes. + +JANE. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I +han't left nothing out as might get took away, for 'tis poor work +leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like. + +[JANE lights a candle and goes upstairs. STEVE takes ANNIE'S hand +and they go together towards the outer door. As they pass to the +other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room, MAY +suddenly rears herself up on the settle, throwing back her shawl, and +she leans forward, listening intently. + +STEVE. To-morrow night, Annie! + +ANNIE. There'll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve. + +STEVE. You'll bide here, Annie, and 'tis more gladness than I can +rightly think on, that 'tis. + +ANNIE. Steve! + +STEVE. Well, Annie. + +ANNIE. There's summat what's been clouding you a bit this night. +You didn't know as how I'd seen it, but 'twas so. + +STEVE. Why, Annie, I didn't think as how you'd take notice as I was +different from ordinary. + +ANNIE. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the +looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what's hurted. Steve, I +couldn't abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on +and all. So I told you as I'd the headache. + +STEVE. O Annie, 'twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I +couldn't seem to get them pushed aside, like. + +ANNIE. How'd it be if you was to tell me, Steve. + +STEVE. I don't much care for to, Annie. But 'twas thoughts what +comed out of the time gone by, as may be I'd been a bit too hard +with--with her as was Dorry's mother. + +ANNIE. O, I'm sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble +at, Steve. + +STEVE. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might +go the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me +being so much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn't bear +for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of +me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I +could not stand it if 'twas as I should lose you. + +ANNIE. There's nothing in the world as could make you lose me, +Steve. For, look you here, I don't think as there's a woman on the +earth what's got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of +quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me is to be wed +and to live aside of one another till death do part us. + +STEVE. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake. + +ANNIE. And what you feels about the days gone by don't count, Steve, +'cause they bain't true of you. You was always a kind husband, and +from what I've hear-ed folks say, she was one as wasn't never suited +to neither you nor yours. + +STEVE. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks one +way or t'other can't do she no good. Only 'tis upon me as I could +take you to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had been +kinder to she, the time her was here. + +ANNIE. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you're regular done up, and +that's what 'tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this afore. + +STEVE. All right, my dear, don't you mind what I've been saying. +Very like 'tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But 'tis a good +thought, bain't it, Annie, that come to-morrow at this time, there +won't be no more need for us to part? + +ANNIE. [As he opens the door.] O, 'tis dark outside! + +[They both leave the cottage. MAY throws back her shawl as though +stifled. She gets up and first stands bending over VASHTI. Seeing +that she is still sleeping heavily, she goes to the door, opens it +gently and looks out. After a moment she closes it and walks about +the kitchen, examining everything with a fierce curiosity. She takes +up the shawl DORRY has been wearing, looks at it hesitatingly, and +then clasps it passionately to her face. Hearing steps outside she +flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle, where +she sits huddled in the corner, having wrapped herself again in her +shawl, only her eyes looking out unquietly from it. STEVE re-enters. +He bolts the door, then goes up to the table in front of the fire to +put out the lamp. + +STEVE. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you up a bit +this cold night? + +[MAY looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head. + +STEVE. All right. You can just bide where you be on the settle. +'Tis warmer within nor upon the road to-night, and I'll come and let +you out when 'tis morning. + +[MAY raises both her hands in an attitude of supplication. + +STEVE. [Pausing, with his hand on the burner of the lamp.] Be there +summat as you wants what I can give to you? + +[MAY looks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper. + +MAY. Let I bide quiet in the dark, 'tis all I wants now. [STEVE +puts out the lamp. + +STEVE. [As though to himself, as he goes towards the door upstairs.] +Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams. + +[Curtain. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 4. + + + +The fire is almost out. A square of moonlight falls on the floor +from the window. VASHTI still sleeps in the chimney corner. MAY is +rocking herself to and fro on the settle. + +MAY. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams- +-your dreams--Ah, where is it as they have gone, I'd like for to +know. The dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath the hedge. +Dreams! + +[She gets up, feels down the wall in a familiar way for the bellows-- +blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently. Then she draws +forward a chair and sits down before it. + +MAY. [Muttering to herself.] 'Tis my own hearth when 'tis all said +and done. + +[She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself, looking +sharply at VASHTI REED now and then. + +[Presently VASHTI'S eyes open, resting, at first unseeingly, and then +with recognition, on MAY'S face. + +VASHTI. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as you would. + +MAY. How did you know 'twas me, then? + +VASHTI. 'Cause I knowed. There 'tis. + +MAY. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming of +myself by this here fire. + +VASHTI. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don't see nothing of +it, then. + +MAY. Ah, I be got into an ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve-- +Steve, he looked in the face of I and didn't so much as think who +'twas. "Get off to the drunken sleep of you and to your dreams." +'Twas that what he did say to I. + +VASHTI. Your old mother do know better nor Steve. Ah, 'tweren't in +no shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face of +you, but stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the +water what layed on the roads, and on the dry where there be high +places, and in the grass of the meadows. That's how 'twas as I did +see you, May. + +MAY. And I would like to know how 'twas as Steve saw I. + +VASHTI. Ah, and there was they as did buzz around as thick as waspes +in summer time and as said, "She be under ground and rotting now-- +that her be." And they seed in I but a poor old woman what was +sleeping in the chimney corner, with no hearing to I. "Rotting +yourself," I says, and I rears up sudden, "She be there as a great +tree and all the leaves of it full out--and you--snakes in the grass, +snakes in the grass, all of you! There 'tis. + +MAY. [Mockingly.] "It's a good thought, bain't it, Annie, that to- +morrow this time there won't be no need for us to part?" And in the +days when I was a young woman and all the bloom of I upon me, +'twouldn't have been once as he'd have looked on such as her. + +VASHTI. And 'tis full of bloom and rare fine and handsome as you +appear now, May, leastways to my old eyes. And when you goes up to +Steve and shows yourself, I take it the door'll be shut in the face +of the mealy one what they've all been so took up with this long +while. I count that 'twill and no mistake. So 'tis. + +MAY. [Fiercely.] Hark you here, Mother, and 'tis to be wed to- +morrow as they be! Wed--the both of them, the both of them! And me +in my flesh, and wife to Steve! "Can I cover you up with a bit of +old sack or summat?" Old sack! When there be a coverlet with +feathers to it stretched over where he do lie upstairs. "I'll let +you out when 'tis morning." Ah, you will, will you, Steve Browning? +Us'll see how 'twill be when 'tis morning--Us'll see, just won't us +then! + +VASHTI. Ah, 'tis in her place as th' old woman will be set come +morning--And that her'll be--I count as 'tis long enough as her have +mistressed it over the house. [Shaking her fist towards the +ceiling.] You old she fox, you may gather the pads of you in under +of you now, and crouch you down t'other side of the fire like any +other old woman of your years--for my May's comed back, and her'll +show you your place what you've not known where 'twas in all the days +of your old wicked life. So 'tis. + +MAY. Her han't changed a hair of her, th' old stoat! Soon as I +heard the note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though 'twas +chattering in the cold as I had been but a moment afore. "One of +they dirty roadsters--I'll learn you to come disturbing of a wedding +party, I will." [Shaking her fist towards the ceiling.] No, you +bain't changed, you hardened old sinner--but the words out of the +cruel old mouth of you don't hurt I any more--not they. I be passed +out of the power of such as you. I knowed I'd have to face you when +I comed back, but I knowed, too, as I should brush you out of the way +of me, like I would brush one of they old maid flies. + +VASHTI. Ah, and so I telled she many a time. "You bide till my May +be comed home," I says. "She be already put safe to bed and 'tis in +the churchyard where her do take her rest," says she. Ah, what a +great liar that is, th' old woman what's Steve's mother! And the +lies they do grow right out of she tall as rushes, and the wind do +blow they to the left and to the right. So 'tis. + +MAY. Ah, she han't any more power for to hurt I in the ugly old body +of her. I be got beyond she. There be but one or two things as can +touch I now--But one or two. And I be struck to the heart, I be, +struck to the heart. + +[She bends forwards, rocking herself to and fro and weeping. + +MAY. [As though speaking to herself.] Back and fro, back and fro-- +On the dark of the earth and where 'twas light. When 'twas cold and +no sound but the steps of I on the road, and the fox's bark; when +'twas hot and the white dust smouldered in the mouth of I, and things +flying did plague I with the wings of they--But 'twas always the same +thought as I had--"Some day I shall come back to Steve," I did tell +me. And then again--"Some day I shall get and hold Dorry in my +arms." And now I be comed. And Steve--and Steve--Ah, I be struck +deep to the heart, 'tis so. Struck deep! + +VASHTI. You get upstairs to Steve, May. Get you up there and take +the place what's yours. + +MAY. My place, my place! Where's that I want to know! 'Tis another +what's got into the nest now, to lie snug and warm within. And 'tis +for I to spread the wings of me and to go out into the storm again. +So 'tis. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve, May, and let him but look on the form of +you and on the bloom, and us'll see what he will do with t'other +hussy then. Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got fattened +up and licked over by th' old woman till 'tis queens as they fancies +theirselves, you shall tell they summat about what they be, come +morning. And your poor old mother, her'll speak, too, what hasn't +been let sound her tongue these years gone by. Ah, hern shall know +what us do think of they, hern shall squat upon the floor and hear +the truth. + +MAY. He thought as I was sleeping; but I looked out on her and seed +the way his eyes was cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had cast your +eyes on me like that but once, in days gone by--maybe, maybe I'd not +have gone out and shut the door behind I. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve and let him see you with the candle lit. +Her bain't no match for he, the young weasel! 'Tis you as has the +blood of me and my people what was grand folk in times gone by, 'tis +you, May, as is the mate for he, above all them white-jowled things +what has honey at the mouth of they, but the heart running over with +poison--Ah, and what throws you the bone and keeps the meat for their +own bellies. What sets the skin afore you and laps the cream +theirselves. Vipers, all of them, and she-cats. There 'tis. + +MAY. Sit you down, Mother, and keep the tongue of you quiet. We +don't want for to waken they. + +VASHTI. [Sitting down heavily.] But we've got to waken Steve for he +to know as how you be comed home again. + +MAY. And where's the good of that, when there bain't so much as a +board nor a rag, but what's been stole from I? + +VASHTI. You go and say to him as 'tis his wife what have come back +to her place. And put th' old woman against the chimney there, and +let her see you a-cutting of the bread and of the meat, and a-setting +out of the food so as that they who be at the table can loose the +garments of them when the eating 'tis finished, if they has a mind +to, 'stead of drawing they together so not to feel 'tis leer. Ah, +'tis time you be comed, May, 'tis time. + +MAY. [Bitterly.] I'm thinking 'tis time! + +VASHTI. 'Tis the lies of they be growed big as wheat stalks and the +hardness of their hearts be worse nor death. But 'tis to judgment as +they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the hand of God +shall catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the earth. "Ah, +and do you mind how 'twas you served old Vashti, what never did harm +to no one all the life of her," I shall call out to th' old woman in +that hour when her shall be burning in the lake. And her shall beg +for a drop of water to lay upon the withered tongue of she, and it +shall be denied, for other hands nor ours be at work, and 'tis the +wicked as shall perish--yes, so 'tis. + +MAY. [Who has been bending forward, looking steadily into the fire.] +Stop that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going to set on I, too, May, now that you be comed +home. 'Tis poor work for an old woman like I. + +MAY. [As though to herself.] And as I was laid beneath the hedge-- +"'Tis cold as my limbs is, now," I says, "but I shall be warm this +night." And the pangs what was in the body of me did fairly quail I- +-"'Tis my fill of victuals as I shall soon put within," thinks I. +And they was laid a bit. The bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but +"I shan't feel lonesome no longer than this hour," I telled me. For +to my thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till I should be +comed back. And Dorry, too. There 'tis. [A long silence. + +MAY. I'd have been content to bide with the door shut--so long as it +was shut with they two and me inside the room--th' old woman--well, I +count I shouldn't have took many thought for she--she could have +bided in her place if she'd had a mind--I'd have set me down, when +once my clothes was decent and clean, and put my hands to the work +and made a tidy wife for Steve, as good nor better than that there +dressed-up thing out yonder--And bred Dorry up the right way, too, I +would. But 'tis done with now, so 'tis. + +VASHTI. [As though to herself.] And when 'tis morning and she gets +her down--"There, 'tis my girl as is mistress here, I'll say to her-- +and 'tis my girl as shall sit cup end of the table--and you get you +to the fire corner and bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, +spite that you do slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you." + +MAY. And I could set she back in her place, too, that tricked-up, +flashy thing over the way. I've but to climb the stairs and clap my +hand on Steve--"Get you from your dreams," I have got but to say, +"the woman what's yourn be comed home. Her have tasted the cup of +death, very near, and her have been a-thirst and an hungered. But +her has carried summat for you in her heart all the way what you +wouldn't find in the heart of t'other, no, not if you was to cut it +open and search it through." And the right belongs to I to shut the +door on t'other hussey, holding Steve to I till death divides we. + +VASHTI. Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as I did +pass by. "And may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon +you," I says to them, "for 'tis a poor old woman as I be what has +lost her child; and what's that to you if so be as the shoes on her +feet be broken or no? 'Tis naked as the toes of you shall go, that +hour when the days of this world shall be rolled by. Ah, 'tis naked +and set on the lake of burning fire as the hoofs of you shall run!" + +MAY. I could up and screech so that the house should ring with the +sound of me, "I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these many +years. What's this that you've got doing with another?" I could +take hold on him and make him look into the eyes of I, yes, and th' +old woman, too. "See here, your 'dirty roadster,' look well on to +her." "Why, 'tis May." But the eyes of him would then be cast so +that I should see no more than a house what has dead within, and the +blind pulled down. And I, what was thinking as there might be a +light in the window! + +VASHTI. "And you may holler," I says to them, "you may holler till +you be heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won't take no +account of you." And the lies of them which have turned into ropes +of hempen shall come up and strangle they. But me and my child shall +pass by all fatted up and clothed, and with the last flick, afore the +eyelids of they drop, they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the +teeth of them shall they repent them of their sins. Too late, too +late! There 'tis. + +MAY. Too late! There 'tis, I be comed home too late. + +[She rises and takes up her shawl, wrapping it about her shoulders, +and muttering. + +MAY. But I know a dark place full of water--'Tis Simon's pool they +calls it--And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and be +in quiet. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going up to Steve now? + +MAY. No, I bain't. 'Tis out from here that I be going. And back on +to the road. + +VASHTI. May, my pretty May, you're never going for to leave I, +what's such a poor old woman and wronged cruel. You step aloft and +rouse up Steve. He'll never have you go upon the roads again once he +do know as you've comed back. + +MAY. Steve! What's it to Steve whether the like of I do go or bide? +What be there in I for to quell the love of she which Steve's got in +him? Dead leaves for new. Ditch water for the clear spring. + +VASHTI. Give him to drink of it, May. + +MAY. [Looking upwards to the ceiling.] No, Steve. Hark you here. +I bain't a-going to do it. I bain't going to knock over the spoonful +of sweet what you be carrying to your mouth. You take and eat of it +in quiet and get you filled with the honey. 'Tain't my way to snatch +from no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed. +There, 'tis finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done. And, +don't you fear, Steve, as ever I'll trouble you no more. + +VASHTI. [Rising.] I be a-going to fetch him down, and that's what +I'm a-going for to do. + +MAY. [Pushing her back into her chair.] Harken you, Steve, he's +never got to know as I've been here. + +VASHTI. I tell you, May, I'll screech till he do come! + +MAY. [Sitting down by VASHTI and laying her hand on her.] I'll put +summat in your mouth as'll stop you if you start screeching, mother. +Why, hark you here. 'Tis enough of this old place as I've had this +night, and 'tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th' old woman-- +there's naught much changed in she--And Steve--well, Steve be +wonderful hard in the soul of him. "Can I get you an old sack," says +he--and never so much as seed 'twas I--Ah--'tis more than enough to +turn the stomach in anyone--that it is. [A slight pause. + +MAY. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside for long. +The four walls of this here room have very near done for me now, so +they have. And 'tis the air blowing free upon the road as I craves-- +Ah, and the wind which hollers, so that the cries of we be less nor +they of lambs new born. + +VASHTI. God bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door 'tis the +mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed. + +MAY. So 'tis. And if I stopped 'twould be the same, her'd be +between us always, the pretty cage bird--For look you here on I, +Mother, and here--[pointing to her feet]--and here--and here--See +what's been done to I what's knocked about in the world along the +roads, and then think if I be such a one as might hold the love of +Steve. + +VASHTI. [Beginning to whine desolately.] O, do not you go for to +leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead +all the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around of +I as might be the venomous beasts in the grass. Stop with I, my +pretty child--Stop along of your old mother, for the days of I be few +and numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land. + +MAY. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another +time. I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th' old woman won't +never know as I've been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth shut, +maybe I'll drop in at our own place on the hill one of these days and +bide comfortable along of you, only now--I'm off, do you hear? + +VASHTI. I can't abide for you to go. 'Tis more nor I can stand. +Why, if you goes, May, 'tis t'other wench and th' old woman what'll +get mistressing it here again in your place. [Rising up.] No--you +shan't go. I'll holler till I've waked them every one--you shan't! +My only child, my pretty May! Ah, 'tis not likely as you shall slip +off again. 'Tis not. + +MAY. Look you here, Mother--bide still, I say. [Looking round the +room distractedly.] See here--'tis rare dry as I be. You bide quiet +and us'll have a drink together, that us will. Look, th' old woman's +forgot to put away the bottle, us'll wet our mouths nice and quiet, +mother--she won't hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See! + +[MAY gets up and crosses the room; she takes the bottle off the shelf +where she has just perceived it, and also two glasses; she fills one +and hands it to her mother. + +VASHTI. [Stretching out her hand.] 'Tis rare dry and parched as I +be, now I comes to think on it, May. + +MAY. That's right--drink your fill, Mother. + +VASHTI. 'Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again, +May. + +MAY. Ah, 'tis my own drink and all, come to that. + +VASHTI. So 'tis. And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water. +I seed her spoon it in the pot, and 'twas not above a half spoon as +her did put in for I, th' old badger. My eye was on she, though, and +her'll have it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the +trumpet sound and all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking +on at her as is brought to judgment. How will it be then, you old +sinner, says I. + +MAY. [Re-filling the glass.] Take and drink this little drop more, +mother. + +[VASHTI drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half +closed eyes. + +MAY. [Putting away the bottle and glasses.] Her'll sleep very like, +now. And when her wakes, I take it 'twill appear as though she'd +been and dreamt summat. + +VASHTI. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. I +would not have you be on the roads. + +MAY. [Sitting down beside her.] O, the roads be fine on nights when +the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the +mouth of you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes +quick on through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and +'tis a large town and there be folk moving this way and that and the +music playing, and great fowls and horses what's got clocks to the +inside of they, a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a- +riding on them--And the booths with red sugar and white, all lit and +animals that's wild a-roaring and a-biting in the tents--And girls +what's dancing, standing there in satin gowns all over gold and +silver--And you walks to and fro in it all and 'tis good to be there +and free--And 'tis better to be in such places and to come and to go +where you have a mind than to be cooped in here, with th' old woman +and all--'Tis a fine life as you lives on the roads--and 'tis a +better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother. + +VASHTI. [Who has gradually been falling into sleep.] I count 'tis +so. 'Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count I'll go along +of you, come morning. + +MAY. That's it, Mother, that's it. Us'll take a bit of sleep afore +we sets off, won't us? And when morning comes, us'll open the door +and go out. + +VASHTI. That's it, when 'tis day. + +[Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep. + +[MAY watches her for some moments. Then she gets up softly and wraps +her shawl round her. The window shews signs of a gray light outside, +MAY goes quietly towards the outer door. As she reaches it, DORRY +comes into the room from the staircase. + +DORRY. [Going up to VASHTI.] Granny, 'tis the New Year! I'm come +down to see to the fire and to get breakfast for Dad and Gran'ma. +Why, Granny, you're sleeping still. And where's that poor tramp gone +off to? [She looks round the room and then sees MAY by the door. + +DORRY. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road afore 'tis +got light? + +MAY. [In a hoarse whisper.] And that I be. 'Tis very nigh to +daybreak, so 'tis. + +DORRY. Stop a moment. [Calling up the stairs.] Daddy, the tramp +woman, she's moving off already. + +STEVE. [From upstairs.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along +of she. I don't care that anyone should go an-hungered this day. + +DORRY. [Turning to MAY.] There--you bide a minute whilst I cuts the +loaf. My Dad's going to get married this day, and he don't care that +anyone should go hungry. + +[MAY comes slowly back into the room and stands watching DORRY, who +fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table. Then she +pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in. + +DORRY. The snow's very nigh gone, and 'tis like as not as the sun +may come out presently. Here's a piece of bread to take along of +you. There, it's a good big piece, take and eat it. + +[MAY hesitates an instant, then she stretches out her hand and takes +the bread and puts it beneath her shawl. + +MAY. And so there's going to be a wedding here to-day? + +DORRY. 'Tis my Dad as is to be married. + +MAY. 'Tis poor work, is twice marrying. + +DORRY. My Dad's ever so pleased, I han't seen him so pleased as I +can remember. I han't. + +MAY. Then maybe the second choosing be the best. + +DORRY. Yes, 'tis--Gran'ma says as 'tis--and Dad, he be ever so fond +of Miss Sims--and I be, too. + +MAY. Then you've no call to wish as her who's gone should come back +to you, like? + +DORRY. What's that you're saying? + +MAY. You don't never want as your mammy what you've lost should be +amongst you as afore? + +DORRY. I never knowed my mammy. Gran'ma says she had got summat bad +in her blood. And Granny's got the same. But Miss Sims, she's ever +so nice to Dad and me, and I'm real pleased as she's coming to stop +along of us always after that they're married, like. + +MAY. And th' old woman what's your gran'ma, Dorry? + +DORRY. However did you know as I was called "Dorry"? + +MAY. I heard them call you so last night. + +DORRY. And whatever do you want to know about Gran'ma? + +MAY. What have her got to say 'bout the--the--wench what's going to +marry your dad? + +DORRY. O, Gran'ma, she thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, and she +says as how poor Dad, what's been served so bad, will find out soon +what 'tis to have a real decent wife, what'll help with the work and +all, and what won't lower him by her ways, nor nothing. + +MAY. Look you here--'tis growing day. I must be getting off and on +to the road. + +DORRY. [Moving to the door.] I'll unbolt the door, then. O, 'tis +fine and daylight now. + +MAY. [Turning back at the doorway and looking at the room.] I +suppose you wouldn't like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry? + +DORRY. No, I shouldn't. Gran'ma, she don't let me go nigh road +people as a rule. She's a-feared as I should take summat from them, +I suppose. + +MAY. [Hoarsely, her hand on the door.] Then just say as you wishes +me well, Dorry. + +DORRY. I'll wish you a good New Year, then, and Gran'ma said as I +was to watch as you cleared off the place. [MAY goes out softly and +quickly. DORRY watches her until she is out of sight, and then she +shuts the door. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The same room. It is nearly mid-day, and the room is full of +sunshine. JANE BROWNING, in her best dress, is fastening DORRY'S +frock, close to the window. + +DORRY. Dad's been a rare long time a-cleaning of his self up, Gran. + +JANE. Will you bide still! However's this frock to get fastened and +you moving this way and that like some live eel--and just see what a +mark you've made on the elbow last night, putting your arm down +somewhere where you didn't ought to--I might just as well have never +washed the thing. + +DORRY. Granny's sound asleep still--she'll have to be waked time we +goes along to the church. + +JANE. That her shan't be. Her shall just bide and sleep the drink +out of her, her shall. Do you think as I didn't find out who 'twas +what had got at the bottle as Dad left on the dresser last night. + +DORRY. Poor Gran, she do take a drop now and then. + +JANE. Shame on th' old gipsy. Her shall be left to bide till she +have slept off some of the nonsense which is in her. + +DORRY. Granny do say a lot of funny things sometimes, don't she, +now? + +JANE. You get and put on your hat and button your gloves, and let +the old gipsy be. We can send her off home when 'tis afternoon, and +us back from church. Now, where did I lay that bonnet? Here 'tis. + +[She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall. +STEVE comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves, carrying his coat. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat. + +STEVE. And when's a man to look pleased if 'tis not on his wedding +morn, Dorry? + +DORRY. The tramp what was here did say as how 'twas poor work twice +marrying, but you don't find it be so, Dad, do you now? + +STEVE. And that I don't, my little wench. 'Tis as nigh heaven as I +be like to touch--and that's how 'tis with me. + +JANE. [Taking STEVE'S coat from him.] Ah, 'tis a different set out +altogether this time. That 'tis. 'Tis a-marrying into your own +rank, like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies. + +DORRY. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran? + +JANE. [Beginning to brush STEVE'S coat.] Ah, much in the same +pattern as th' old woman what's drunk asleep against the fireside. +Here, button up them gloves, 'tis time we was off. + +DORRY. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I +grows up I'd like to look as she do, so I would. + +STEVE. [To JANE.] There, Mother, that'll do. I'd best put him on +now. + +JANE. [Holding out the coat for him.] Well, and you be got yourself +up rare smart, Steve. + +STEVE. 'Tis rare smart as I be feeling, Mother. I'm all a kind of a +dazzle within of me, same as 'tis with the sun upon the snow out +yonder. + +JANE. Why, look you, there's George a-coming up the path already. + +DORRY. He's wearing of the flower what Rosie gived him last night. + +STEVE. [Opening the door.] Good morning, George. A first class New +Year to you. You're welcome, if ever a man was. + +JANE. You bide where you do stand, George, till your feet is dry. +My floor was fresh wiped over this morning. + +GEORGE. [Standing on the door mat.] All right, Mrs. Browning. +Don't you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. How be you to-day, Steve? + +JANE. Dorry, come you upstairs along with me and get your coat put +on, so as your frock bain't crushed. + +DORRY. O, I wish I could go so that my nice frock was seen and no +coat. + +[They go upstairs. GEORGE rubs his feet on the mat and comes into +the room, walking up and down once or twice restlessly and in evident +distress of mind. + +STEVE. [Who has lit a pipe and is smoking.] Why, George, be you out +of sorts this morning? You don't look up to much, and that's the +truth. + +GEORGE. [Stopping before STEVE.] Hark you, Steve. 'Tis on my mind +to ask summat of you. Did you have much speech with the poor thing +what you took in from the snow last night? + +STEVE. No, George, and that I didn't. Her was mostly in a kind of +drunken sleep all the time, and naught to be got out from she. +Mother, her tried. But 'twas like trying to get water from the pump +yonder, when 'tis froze. + +GEORGE. Your mother's a poor one at melting ice, Steve, and 'tis +what we all knows. + +STEVE. Ah, 'twasn't much as we could do for the likes of she--what +was a regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of them. And if it hadn't +been so as 'twas my wedding eve, this one shouldn't have set foot +inside of the house. But 'tis a season when a man's took a bit soft +and foolish, like, the night afore his marriage. Bain't that so, +George? + +GEORGE. And when was it, Steve, as she went off from here? + +STEVE. That I couldn't rightly say, George, but I counts 'twas just +upon daybreak. And 'twas Dorry what seed her off the place and gived +her a piece of bread to take along of her. + +GEORGE. And do you think as she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve? + +STEVE. I'm blest if I do know, George. I never gived another +thought to she. What's up? + +GEORGE. They was getting the body of her from out of Simon's Pool as +I did come by. That's all. + +STEVE. From Simon's Pool, George? + +GEORGE. I count her must have went across the plank afore 'twas +fairly daylight. And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and her-- +her--as you did say. + +STEVE. In liquor. + +GEORGE. I reckon as her missed her footing, like. + +STEVE. Well, upon my word, George, who'd have thought on such a +thing! + +GEORGE. I count as her had been in the water and below the ice a +smartish while afore they catched sight of she. + +STEVE. Well, 'tis a cold finish to a hot life. + +GEORGE. They took and laid her on the grass, Steve, as I comed by. + +STEVE. If it had been me, I'd have turned the head of me t'other +side. + +GEORGE. There was summat in the fashion her was laid, Steve, as +drawed I near for to get a sight of the face of she. + +STEVE. Well, I shouldn't have much cared for that, George. + +GEORGE. Steve--did you get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing +last night? + +STEVE. No, nor wanted for to, neither. + +GEORGE. There was naught to make you think of - + +STEVE. Of what, George? + +GEORGE. There--Steve, I can't get it out, I can't. + +STEVE. Then let it bide in. + +GEORGE. 'Twas the way her was laid, and the long arms of she, and +the hands which was clapped one on t'other, as it might be in church. + +STEVE. [Looking through the window.] You shut up, George. Here's +Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. Don't you get saying +another word about yon poor wretch nor the end of her. I wouldn't +have my Annie upset for all the world to-day. 'Tis a thing as must +not be spoke of afore they, nor Dorry neither, do you hear? + +[He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the latch. + +GEORGE. Hold back, Steve, a minute. There's summat more as I've got +to say. + +STEVE. You take and shut your mouth up, old George, afore I opens +the door to the girls. + +GEORGE. 'Tis bound for to come from me afore you goes along to +church, Steve. + +STEVE. I warrant 'twill keep till us do come home again, George. + +[He throws the door wide open with a joyous movement. ANNIE and ROSE +in white dresses stand outside. + +STEVE. Well, Annie, this is a rare surprise, and that's the truth. +[ANNIE and ROSE come into the room. + +ROSE. Father, he's outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, and all the +rest. We said as 'twould be pleasanter if we was all to go up +together along to the church. + +STEVE. So 'twould be--so 'twould be--'Twas a grand thought of yourn, +Rosie. + +ANNIE. Steve - + +STEVE. [Taking her hand.] Annie, I'm fair beside myself this day. + +ANNIE. O, Steve, there was never a day in my life like this one. +[DORRY and JANE come down. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice! Gran'ma, don't Miss Sims +look nice? And Rosie, too. O, they have nice gowns and hats on, +haven't they, Dad? + +STEVE. I don't see no gowns nor hats, and that's the truth. But I +sees summat what's like--what's like a meadow of grass in springtime +afore the sun's got on to it. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, 'tis white, not green, as Miss Sims is wearing. + +STEVE. 'Tis in the eyes of her as I finds my meadow. + +DORRY. O, let me see, Dad, let me look, too! + +ROSE. [Going up to GEORGE, who has been standing aloof and moody in +the background.] Come, Mr. Davis, we must have a look, too. + +JANE. 'Get along, get along. We han't time for such foolishness. +It be close on twelve already. + +ANNIE. O, let me be, all of you! I declare, I don't know which way +to look, I don't. + +STEVE. I'll show you, Annie, then. + +ROSE. [To GEORGE.] Well, Mr. Davis, you don't seem over bright this +morning. + +STEVE. 'Tis with the nerves as he be took! + +DORRY. Look at what he's wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie. + +ROSE. 'Tis kept beautiful and fresh. + +STEVE. Come on, come on, all of you. 'Tis time we was at the +church. + +ROSE. Hark to him! He's in a rare hurry for to get out of the house +to-day. + +GEORGE. Bain't the old lady a-coming? + +JANE. That she bain't, the old drinking gipsy--'tis at the spirits +as her got in the night--and put away very near the best part of a +bottle. Now she's best left to sleep it off, she be. + +STEVE. Come on, George. Come, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, isn't it a pity as Granny will get at the drink, Mr. +Davis? And isn't Miss Sims nice in her white dress? And don't Dad +look smiling and pleased? I never did know Dad smile like this +afore. + +GEORGE. [Heavily.] Come on, Dorry--you take hold of me. You and +me, we'll keep nigh one to t'other this day, won't us? + +ROSE. [Calling from outside.] Come on, Mr. Davis. + +[They all go out. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 2. + + + +Nearly an hour later. The cottage room is full of sunlight. + +VASHTI REED is awake and gazing vacantly about her from the same +chair by the fire. Someone knocks repeatedly at the door from +outside. + +VASHTI. And 'tis no bit of rest as I gets for my bones, but they +must come and hustle I and call I from the dreams which was soft. +[The knocking is heard again. + +VASHTI. And I up and says to they, "Ah, and you would hustle a poor +old woman what's never harmed so much as a hair out of the ugly heads +of you. You would hunt and drive of her till she be very nigh done +to death. But there shall come a day when you shall be laid down and +a-taking of your bit of rest, and the thing what you knows of shall +get up upon you and smite you till you do go screeching from the +house, and fleeing to the uttermost part of the land--whilst me and +mine - + +[The door opens and HARRY MOSS enters. + +HARRY. Beg pardon, old Missis, but I couldn't make no one hear me. + +VASHTI. Seeing as them be sick of the abomination which was inside +of they. [Perceiving HARRY.] Well, and what be you as is comed into +this room? + +HARRY. 'Tis Moss as I be called, old Missis. And as I was a-going +by this place, I thought as I'd look in a moment, just for to ask how +'twas with May. + +VASHTI. They be all gone out from the house. All of them. They be +in clothes what do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps of white +among they. Them be set out in the best as they has, and in grand +things of many colours. There 'tis. + +HARRY. And be you th' old lady what's Steve's mother? + +VASHTI. I be not, sir. 'Tis mother to May as I be. May, what's +comed back, and what'll set t'other old vixen in her place soon as +they get home. + +HARRY. Then May, she be gone out, too, have her? + +VASHTI. [Looking round vaguely.] Ah, I counts as her be gone to +church along of t'other. + +HARRY. To church, Missis? + +VASHTI. There's marrying being done down here to-day. + +HARRY. Marrying, be there? Well, but I was 'most feared as how it +might have been t'other thing. + +VASHTI. Ah, that there be--marrying. But there bain't no more +victuals got into the house as I knows of. Th' old woman's seen to +that. + +HARRY. And be May gone out, too, along of them to see the marrying? + +VASHTI. Ah, I counts as her be. But her's a-coming back in a little +while, and you may sit down and bide till she does. + +HARRY. I'd sooner be about and on my way, Missis, if 'tis all the +same to you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get and tell May when +she do come home, that 'tis particular glad I be for to know as her +bain't took worse, nor nothing. And should I happen in these parts +again, 'tis very likely as I'll take a look in on she some day. + +VASHTI. Ah, her'll have got t'other old baggage set in the right +place by then. + +HARRY. [Looking round him.] Well, I be rare pleased to think of May +so comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible low. + +VASHTI. T'other'll be broughted lower. + +HARRY. Look you here, old Missis, 'tis a stomach full of naught as I +carries. If so be as you has a crust to spare - + +VASHTI. [Pointing to a door.] There be a plate of meat inside of +that cupboard. You take and fill your belly with it. + +HARRY. Thank you kindly, Missis, but I counts I han't the time for +heavy feeding this morning. + +VASHTI. 'Twould serve she right, th' old sinner, for the place to be +licked up clean, against the time when her was come'd back, so +'twould. + +HARRY. Well, Missis, you can tell May 'tis a brave New Year as I do +wish she. + +VASHTI. [Listening to bells which are heard suddenly ringing.] +There, there they be! Harken to them! 'Tis with bells as they be +coming out. Bells what's ringing. I count 'tis fine as May do look +now in her marriage gown. Harken, 'tis the bells a-shaking of the +window pane. I be an old woman, but the hearing of me bain't +spoiled. + +HARRY. I warrant it bain't, Missis. Why, they're ringing wonderful +smart. 'Tis enough, upon my word, for to fetch down every stone of +the old place. + +VASHTI. Get you out upon the garden path and tell I if you sees them +a-coming. + +HARRY. That's it, old Missis, and so I will. + +[He goes outside the house. + +VASHTI. [Sitting upright and looking with fixed vacancy before her.] +And when they was all laid low and the heads of them bowed. "You +would, would you," I says, for they was lifting the ends of their +ugly mouths at I. And I passed among they and them did quail and +crouch, being with fear. And me and mine did reach the place what +was on the top. "See now yourselves," I says, "if so be that you do +not go in blindness and in dark." 'Twas May what stood there aside +of I. And "Look you," I says, "over the bended necks of you my child +shall pass. For you be done to death by the lies which growed within +you and waxed till the bodies of you was fed with them and the poison +did gush out from your lips." But my little child stood in the +light, and the hands of her was about the stars. + +HARRY. [Coming in.] Look, they be all a-coming over the meadow, old +Missis. But May han't comed with they--May han't come too. + +[The wedding party enters the room as the curtain falls.] + + +Footnotes: + +{1} "As I walked Out." From Folk Songs from Essex collected by R. +Vaughan Williams. The whole, or two verses can be sung. + +{2} "The Seeds of Love," "Folk Songs from Somerset," edited by Cecil +J. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/sxfd10.zip b/old/sxfd10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..82bb324 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sxfd10.zip diff --git a/old/sxfd10h.htm b/old/sxfd10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..91afaba --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sxfd10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13413 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII"> +<title>Six Plays</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Six Plays, by Florence Henrietta Darwin</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Six Plays, by Florence Henrietta Darwin +(#1 in our series by Florence Henrietta Darwin) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Six Plays + +Author: Florence Henrietta Darwin + +Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5618] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 23, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p> +<a name="startoftext"></a> +Transcribed from the 1921 W. Heffer & Sons edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +SIX PLAYS BY FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Contents:<br> + The Lovers’ Tasks<br> + Bushes and Briars<br> + My man John<br> + Princess Royal<br> + The Seeds of Love<br> + The New Year<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE LOVERS’ TASKS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARACTERS<br> +<br> +FARMER DANIEL,<br> +ELIZABETH, <i>his wife.<br> +</i>MILLIE, <i>her daughter.<br> +</i>ANNET, <i>his niece.<br> +</i>MAY, <i>Annet</i>’<i>s sister</i>,<i> aged ten.<br> +</i>GILES, <i>their brother.<br> +</i>ANDREW, <i>a rich young farmer.<br> +</i>GEORGE, JOHN <i>servants to Giles.<br> +<br> +</i>AN OLD MAN.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT I. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The parlour at Camel Farm.<br> +<br> +Time</i>:<i> An afternoon in May.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH <i>is sewing by the table with </i>ANNET. <i>At +the open doorway </i>MAY <i>is polishing a bright mug.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. [<i>Looking up</i>.] There’s Uncle, +back from the Fair.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Looking out of the door</i>.] O Uncle’s got +some rare big packets in his arms, he has.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Put down that mug afore you damage it, May; and, Annet, +do you go and help your uncle in.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Setting down the mug</i>.] O let me go along of +her too - [ANNET <i>rises and goes to the door followed by </i>MAY, +<i>who has dropped her polishing leather upon the ground.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. [<i>Picking it up and speaking to herself in exasperation</i>.] +If ever there was a careless little wench, ’tis she. I never +did hold with the bringing up of other folks children and if I’d +had my way, ’tis to the poor-house they’d have went, instead +of coming here where I’ve enough to do with my own.<br> +<br> +[<i>The </i>FARMER <i>comes in followed by </i>ANNET <i>and </i>MAY +<i>carrying large parcels.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Well Mother, I count I’m back a smartish bit +sooner nor what you did expect.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I’m not one that can be taken by surprise, Dan. +May, lay that parcel on the table at once, and put away your uncle’s +hat and overcoat.<br> +<br> +DAN. Nay, the overcoat’s too heavy for the little maid - +I’ll hang it up myself.<br> +<br> +[<i>He takes off his coat and goes out into the passage to hang it up</i>. +<i>May runs after him with his hat.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. I do want to know what’s in all those great packets, +Aunt.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I daresay you’ll be told all in good season. +Here, take up and get on with that sewing, I dislike to see young people +idling away their time.<br> +<br> +[<i>The </i>FARMER <i>and </i>MAY <i>come back.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. And now, untie the packets quickly, uncle.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. [<i>Sinking into a big chair</i>.] Not so fast, +my little maid, not so fast - ’tis a powerful long distance as +I have journeyed this day, and ’tis wonderful warm for the time +of year.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I don’t hold with drinking nor with taking bites +atween meals, but as your uncle has come a good distance, and the day +is warm, you make take the key of the pantry, Annet, and draw a glass +of cider for him.<br> +<br> +[<i>She takes the key from her pocket and hands it to </i>ANNET, <i>who +goes out.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. That’s it, Mother - that’s it. And +when I’ve wetted my mouth a bit I’ll be able the better +to tell you all about how ’twas over there.<br> +<br> +MAY. O I’d dearly like to go to a Fair, I would. You +always said that you’d take me the next time you went, Uncle.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah and so I did, but when I comed to think it over, Fairs +baint the place for little maids, I says to mother here - and no, that +they baint, she answers back. But we’ll see how ’tis +when you be growed a bit older, like. Us’ll see how ’twill +be then, won’t us Mother?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I wouldn’t encourage the child in her nonsense, +if I was you, Dan. She’s old enough to know better than +to ask to be taken to such places. Why in all my days I never +set my foot within a fair, pleasure or business, nor wanted to, either.<br> +<br> +MAY. And never rode on the pretty wood horses, Aunt, all spotted +and with scarlet bridles to them?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Certainly not. I wonder at your asking such a +question, May. But you do say some very unsuitable things for +a little child of your age.<br> +<br> +MAY. And did you get astride of the pretty horses at the Fair, +Uncle?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Nay, nay, - they horses be set in the pleasure part of +the Fair, and where I goes ’tis all for doing business like.<br> +<br> +[ANNET <i>comes back with the glass of cider</i>. DANIEL <i>takes +it from her.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. [<i>Drinking</i>.] You might as well have brought +the jug, my girl.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. No, Father, ’twill spoil your next meal as it +is.<br> +<br> +[<i>The girls sit down at the table</i>,<i> taking up their work.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. [<i>Putting down his glass</i>.] But, bless +my soul, yon was a Fair in a hundred. That her was.<br> +<br> +BOTH GIRLS. O do tell us of all that you did see there, Uncle.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. There was a cow - well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows +as I’ve seen in my time, but this one, why, the King haven’t +got the match to she in all his great palace, and that’s the truth, +so ’tis.<br> +<br> +ANNET. O don ’t tell us about the cows, Uncle, we want to +know about all the other things.<br> +<br> +MAY. The shows of acting folk, and the wild animals, and the nice +sweets.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. They don’t want to hear about anything sensible, +Dan. They’re like all the maids now, with their thoughts +set on pleasuring and foolishness.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, the maids was different in our day, wasn’t they +Mother?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And that they were. Why, when I was your age, +Annet, I should have been ashamed if I couldn’t have held my own +in any proper or suitable conversation.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, you was a rare sensible maid in your day, Mother. +Do you mind when you comed along of me to Kingham sale? “You’re +never going to buy an animal with all that white to it, Dan, you says +to me.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Ah - I recollect.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. “’Tis true her has a whitish leg,” I +says, “but so have I, and so have you, Mother - and who’s +to think the worse on we for that?” Ah, I could always bring +you round to look at things quiet and reasonable in those days - that +I could.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And a good thing if there were others of the same pattern +now, I’m thinking.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. So ’twould be - so ’twould be. But times +do bring changes in the forms of the cattle and I count ’tis the +same with the womenfolk. ’Tis one thing this year and ’tis +t’other in the next.<br> +<br> +MAY. Do tell us more of what you did see at the Fair, Uncle.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. There was a ram. My word! but the four feet of he +did cover a good two yards of ground; just as it might be, standing.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Come, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. And the horns upon the head of he did reach out very nigh +as far as might do the sails of one of they old wind-mills.<br> +<br> +MAY. O Uncle, and how was it with the wool of him?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. The wool, my wench, did stand a good three foot from all +around of the animal. You might have set a hen with her eggs on +top of it - and that you might. And now I comes to recollect how +’twas, you could have set a hen one side of the wool and a turkey +t’other.<br> +<br> +MAY. O Uncle, that must have been a beautiful animal! And +what was the tail of it?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. The tail, my little maid? Why ’twas longer +nor my arm and as thick again - ’twould have served as a bell +rope to the great bell yonder in Gloucester church - and so ’twould. +Ah, ’twas sommat like a tail, I reckon, yon.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Come, Father, such talk is hardly suited to little +girls, who should know better than to ask so many teasing questions.<br> +<br> +ANNET. ’Tisn’t only May, Aunt, I do love to hear what +uncle tells, when he has been out for a day or two.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And did you have company on the way home, Father?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. That I did. ’Twas along of young Andrew as +I did come back.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Along of Andrew? Girls, you may now go outside +into the garden for a while. Yes, put aside your work.<br> +<br> +MAY. Can’t we stop till the packets are opened?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. You heard what I said? Go off into the garden, +and stop there till I send for you. And take uncle’s glass +and wash it at the spout as you go.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Taking the glass</i>.] I’ll wash it, Aunt. +Come May, you see aunt doesn’t want us any longer.<br> +<br> +MAY. Now they’re going to talk secrets together. O +I should dearly love to hear the secrets of grown-up people. [ANNET +<i>and </i>MAY <i>go out together.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Annet be got a fine big wench, upon my word. +Now haven’t her, Mother?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. She’s got old enough to be put to service, and +if I’d have had my way, ’tis to service she’d have +gone this long time since, and that it is.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. ’Twould be poor work putting one of dead sister’s +wenches out to service, so long as us have a roof over the heads of +we and plenty to eat on the table.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Well, you must please yourself about it Father, as +you do most times. But ’tis uncertain work taking up with +other folks children as I told you from the first. See what a +lot of trouble you and me have had along of Giles.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Giles be safe enough in them foreign parts where I did +send him. You’ve no need to trouble your head about he, +Mother - unless ’tis a letter as he may have got sending to Mill.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. No, Father, Giles has never sent a letter since the +day he left home. But very often there is no need for letters +to keep remembrance green. ’Tis a plant what thrives best +on a soil that is bare.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, Mother, and what be you a-driving at? I warrant +as Mill have got over them notions as she did have once. And, +look you here, ’twas with young Andrew as I did journey back from +the Fair. And he be a-coming up presently for to get his answer.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. All I say is that I hope he may get it then.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, I reckon as ’tis rare put about as he have been +all this long while, and never a downright “yes” to what +he do ask.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>comes softly in and hides behind the door</i>.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Well, that’s not my fault, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. But her’ll have to change her note this day, that +her’ll have. For I’ve spoke for she, and ’tis +for next month as I’ve pitched the wedding day.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And you may pitch, Father. You may lead the mare +down to the pond, but she’ll not drink if she hasn’t the +mind to. You know what Millie is. ’Tisn’t from +my side that she gets it either.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. And ’tain’t from me. I be all for easy +going and each one to his self like.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Yes, there you are, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. But I reckon as the little maid will hearken to what I +says. Her was always a wonderful good little maid to her dad. +And her did always know, that when her dad did set his foot down, well, +there ’twas. ’Twas down.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Well, if you think you can shew her that, Father, ’tis +a fortunate job on all sides.<br> +<br> +[<i>They suddenly see </i>MAY <i>who has been quiet behind the door.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. May, what are you a-doing here I should like to +know? Didn’t I send you out into the garden along of your +sister?<br> +<br> +MAY. Yes, Auntie, but I’ve comed back.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Then you can be off again, and shut the door this time, +do your hear?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. That’s it, my little maid. Run along - and +look you, May, just you tell Cousin Millie as we wants her in here straight +away. And who knows bye and bye whether there won’t be sommat +in yon great parcel for a good little wench.<br> +<br> +MAY. O Uncle - I’d like to see it now.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Nay, nay - this is not a suitable time - Aunt and me has +business what’s got to be settled like. Nay - ’tis +later on as the packets is to be opened.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Get along off, you tiresome child. - One word might +do for some, but it takes twenty to get you to move. - Run along now, +do you hear me?<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>goes.<br> +<br> +</i>Well, Father, I’ve done my share with Millie and she don’t +take a bit of notice of what I say. So now it’s your turn.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, I count ’tis more man’s work, this here, +so ’tis. There be things which belongs to females and there +be others which do not. You get and leave it all to me. +I’ll bring it off.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. All right, Father, just you try your way - I’ll +have nothing more to do with it. [MILLIE <i>comes in.</i>]<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Why, Father, you’re back early from the Fair.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. That’s so, my wench. See that package over +yonder?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O, that I do, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Yon great one’s for you, Mill.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O Father, what’s inside it?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. ’Tis a new, smart bonnet, my wench.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. For me, Father?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah - who else should it be for, Mill?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O Father, you are good to me.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. And a silk cloak as well.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. A silken cloak, and a bonnet - O Father, ’tis too +much for you to give me all at once, like.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Young Andrew did help me with the choice, and ’tis +all to be worn on this day month, my girl.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Why, Father, what’s to happen then?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. ’Tis for you to go along to church in, Mill.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. To church, Father?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, that ’tis - you in the cloak and bonnet, and +upon the arm of young Andrew, my wench.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O no, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. But ’tis “yes” as you have got to learn, +my wench. And quickly too. For ’tis this very evening +as Andrew be coming for his answer. And ’tis to be “yes” +this time.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O no, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. You’ve an hour before you, my wench, in which to +get another word to your tongue.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I can’t learn any word that isn’t “no,” +Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Look at me, my wench. My foot be down. I means +what I says - <br> +<br> +MILLIE. And I mean what I say, too, Father. And I say, No!<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Millie, I’ve set down my foot.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. And so have I, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. And ’tis “yes” as you must say to young +Andrew when he do come a-courting of you this night.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. That I’ll never say, Father. I don’t +want cloaks nor bonnets, nor my heart moved by gifts, or tears brought +to my eyes by fair words. I’ll not wed unless I can give +my love along with my hand. And ’tis not to Andrew I can +give that, as you know.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. And to whom should a maid give her heart if ’twasn’t +to Andrew? A finer lad never trod in a pair of shoes. I’ll +be blest if I do know what the wenches be a-coming to.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. There, Father, I told you what to expect.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. But ’tis master as I’ll be, hark you, Mother, +hark you, Mill. And ’tis “Yes” as you have got +to fit your tongue out with my girl, afore ’tis dark. [<i>Rising</i>.] +I be a’going off to the yard, but, Mother, her’ll know what +to say to you, her will.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Dad, do you stop and shew me the inside of my packet. +Let us put Andrew aside and be happy - do!<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, I’ve got other things as is waiting to be done +nor breaking in a tricksome filly to run atween the shafts. ’Tis +fitter work for females, and so ’tis.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And so I told you, Father, from the start. <br> +<br> +MILLIE. And ’tis “No” that I shall say.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain</i>.]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT I. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>It is dusk on the same evening.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE <i>is standing by the table folding up the silken cloak</i>. +ANNET <i>sits watching her, on her knees lies a open parcel disclosing +a woollen shawl. In a far corner of the room </i>MAY <i>is seated +on a stool making a daisy chain.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. ’Twas very good of Uncle to bring me this nice +shawl, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. You should have had a cloak like mine, Annet, by rights.<br> +<br> +ANNET. I’m not going to get married, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. [<i>Sitting down with a sudden movement of despondence +and stretching her arms across the table</i>.] O don’t you +speak to me of that, Annet. ’Tis more than I can bear to-night.<br> +<br> +ANNET. But, Millie, he’s coming for your answer now. +You musn’t let him find you looking so.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. My face shall look as my heart feels. And that is +all sorrow, Annet.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Can’t you bring yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. No, that I cannot, Annet, I’ve tried a score of +times, I have - but there it is - I cannot.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Is it that you’ve not forgotten Giles, then?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I never shall forget him, Annet. Why, ’tis +a five year this day since father sent him off to foreign parts, and +never a moment of all that time has my heart not remembered him.<br> +<br> +ANNET. I feared ’twas so with you, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O I’ve laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted +the pillow all over so that I’ve had to turn it t’other +side up.<br> +<br> +ANNET. And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor +nothing?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, +Annet. But, O, he’s none the worse for that.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was +it when you and he did part, one with t’other?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I did give him my ring, Annet - secret like - when we +were walking in the wood.<br> +<br> +ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Yes, grandmother’s ring, that she left me. +And I did say to him - if ever I do turn false to you and am like to +wed another, Giles - look you at these white stones.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said +to him, the stones shall darken. But you’ll never see that +day. [<i>She begins to cry.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. Don’t you give way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis +very likely that Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and +Andrew, - well, Andrew he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had. +And ’tis Andrew you have got to wed, you know.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew - I’m sick at the very name of him.<br> +<br> +ANNET. See the fine house you’ll live in. Think on +the grand parlour that you’ll sit in all the day with a servant +to wait on you and naught but Sunday clothes on your back.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I’d sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of +me.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. +And Uncle says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for +good and all.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O I cannot see him - I’m wearied to death of Andrew, +and that’s the very truth it is.<br> +<br> +ANNET. O Millie - I wonder how ’twould feel to be you for +half-an-hour and to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking +for me to say Yes.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O I wish ’twas you and not me that he was after, +Annet.<br> +<br> +ANNET. ’Tisn’t likely that anyone such as Master Andrew +will ever come courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I’d +dearly love to know how ’twould feel.<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes +in silence</i>,<i> then her face brightens.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Shall what, Mill?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here - ’Tis sick to +death I am with courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and +if I’m to wed Andrew come next month, I’ll not be tormented +with him before that time, - so ’tis you that shall stop and talk +with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll slip out to the woods and +gather flowers.<br> +<br> +ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. In the dusk he’ll never know that ’tisn’t +me. Being cousins, we speak after the same fashion, and in the +shape of us there’s not much that’s amiss.<br> +<br> +ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill - why, ’tis a grand +young lady that you look - whilst I -<br> +<br> +MILLIE. [<i>Taking up the silken cloak</i>.] Here - put +this over your gown, Annet.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Standing up</i>.] I don’t mind just trying +it on, like.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. [<i>Fastening it</i>.] There - and now the bonnet, +with the veil pulled over the face.<br> +<br> +[<i>She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on </i>ANNET.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. [<i>Standing back and surveying her cousin</i>.] +There, Annet, there May, who is to tell which of us ’tis?<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Coming forward</i>.] O I should never know that +’twasn’t you, Cousin Mill.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. And I could well mistake her for myself too, so listen, +Annet. ’Tis you that shall talk with Master Andrew when +he comes to-night. And ’tis you that shall give him my answer. +I’ll not burn my lips by speaking the word he asks of me.<br> +<br> +ANNET. O Mill - I cannot - no I cannot.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Don’t let him have it very easily, Annet. +Set him a ditch or two to jump before he gets there. And let the +thorns prick him a bit before he gathers the flower. You know +my way with him.<br> +<br> +MAY. And I know it too, Millie - Why, your tongue, ’tis +very near as sharp as when Aunt do speak.<br> +<br> +ANNET. O Millie, take off these things - I cannot do it, that’s +the truth.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Looking out through the door</i>.] There’s +Andrew a-coming over the mill yard.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Here, sit down, Annet, with the back of you to the light.<br> +<br> +[<i>She pushes </i>ANNET <i>into a chair beneath the window.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Can I get into the cupboard and listen to it, Cousin +Mill?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. If you promise to bide quiet and to say naught of it afterwards.<br> +<br> +MAY. O I promise, I promise - I’ll just leave a crack of +the door open for to hear well.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>gets into the cupboard</i>. MILLIE <i>takes up </i>ANNET’S +<i>new shawl and puts it all over her.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE. No one will think that ’tisn’t you, in +the dusk.<br> +<br> +ANNET. O Millie, what is it that you’ve got me to do?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Never you mind, Annet - you shall see what ’tis +to have a grand suitor and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, +where I can think on Giles.<br> +<br> +[<i>She runs out of the door just as </i>ANDREW <i>comes up</i>. +ANDREW <i>knocks and then enters the open door.<br> +<br> +</i>ANDREW. Where’s Annet off to in such a hurry?<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Very faintly</i>.] I’m sure I don’t +know. [ANDREW <i>lays aside his hat and comes up to the window</i>. +<i>He stands before </i>ANNET <i>looking down on her</i>. <i>She +becomes restless under his gaze</i>,<i> and at last signs to him to +sit down.<br> +<br> +</i>ANDREW. [<i>Sitting down on a chair a little way from her</i>.] +The Master said that I might come along to-night, Millie - Otherwise +- [ANNET <i>is still silent.<br> +<br> +</i>Otherwise I shouldn’t have dared do so.<br> +<br> +[ANNET <i>sits nervously twisting the ribbons of her cloak.<br> +<br> +</i>The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, might +be changed like. [ANNET <i>is still silent.<br> +<br> +</i>And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely ’twould +be something different as you might say.<br> +<br> +[<i>A long silence.<br> +<br> +</i>Was I wrong in coming, Millie?<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Faintly</i>.] ’Twould have been better +had you stayed away like.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Then there isn’t any change in your feelings towards +me, Millie?<br> +<br> +ANNET. O, there’s a sort of a change, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>Slowly</i>.] O Mill, that’s good hearing. +What sort of a change is it then?<br> +<br> +ANNET. ’Tis very hard to say, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Look you, Mill, ’tis more than a five year that +I’ve been a-courting of you faithful.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Sighing</i>.] Indeed it is, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. And I’ve never got naught but blows for my pains.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply</i>.] +O I’m so sorry - No - I mean - ’Tis your own fault, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words +from another, Millie.<br> +<br> +ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to - I mean, ’tis +as well that you should get used to blows, seeing we’re to be +wed, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Then ’tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news +- Why, I do scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Very sadly</i>.] Very likely you’ll be +glad enough to be dreaming a month from now, poor Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>Drawing nearer</i>.] I am brave, Millie, now +that you speak to me so kind and gentle, and I’ll ask you to name +the day.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Shrinking back</i>.] O ’twill be a very +long distance from now, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart +and play with it same as a cat does with the mouse.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Becoming gay and hard in her manner</i>.] Your +heart, Andrew? ’Twill go all the better afterwards if ’tis +tossed about a bit first.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you’ll +wed me.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Warding him off with her hand</i>.] You shall +have my answer in a new song Andrew, which I have been learning.<br> +<br> +[ANDREW <i>sits down despondently and prepares to listen.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over +in your mind. [<i>She begins to sing</i>:<br> +<br> +Say can you plough me an acre of land<br> +Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme.<br> +Between the sea and the salt sea strand<br> +And you shall be a true lover of mine?<br> +<br> +[<i>A slight pause</i>. ANNET <i>looks questioningly at </i>ANDREW, +<i>who turns away with a heavy sigh.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +Yes, if you plough it with one ram’s horn<br> +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme<br> +And sow it all over with one peppercorn<br> +And you shall be a true lover of mine.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. ’Tis all foolishness.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +Say can you reap with a sickle of leather<br> +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme<br> +And tie it all up with a Tom-tit’s feather<br> +And you shall be a true lover of mine.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>Rises up impatiently</i>.] I can stand no more. +You’ve danced upon my heart till ’tis fairly brittle, and +ready to be broke by a feather.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Very gently</i>.] O Andrew, I’ll mend your +heart one day.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>In a harder voice</i>.] But very likely there’ll +be a crack left to it always.<br> +<br> +[FARMER DANIEL <i>and </i>ELIZABETH <i>come into the room.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>Boldly</i>.] ’Tis for a month from now.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I’m not deaf, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. [<i>Shaking </i>ANDREW’S <i>hand</i>.] Ah +my boy, I knowed as you’d bring the little maid to the senses +of she.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself +as though for church.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. ’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the fowls +when they be come out from moult. They be bound to pick about +this way and that in their new feathers.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Well, ’tis to be hoped the young people have +fixed it up for good and all this time.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come Mill, my wench, you be wonderful quiet. Where’s +your tongue?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I think we’ve all had quite enough of Millie’s +tongue, Father. Let her give it a rest if she’ve a mind.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. I warrant she be gone as shy as a May bettel when ’tis +daylight. But us’ll take it as she have fixed it up in her +own mind like. Come, Mother, such a time as this, you won’t +take no objection to the drawing of a jug of cider.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And supper just about to be served? I’m +surprised at you, Father. No, I can’t hear of cider being +drawn so needless like.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, well, - have it your own way - but I always says, +and my father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine +drink, and that’s how ’twas in my time.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Millie, do you call your cousins in to supper.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, and where be the maids gone off to this time of night, +Mother?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Annet did pass me as I came through the yard, Master<br> +<br> +[MAY, <i>quietly opens the cupboard door and comes out.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. So that’s where you’ve been, you deceitful +little wench.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Well, to think of that, Millie.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And how long may you have bid there, I should like +to know?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come, come, my little maid, ’tis early days for +you to be getting a lesson in courtship.<br> +<br> +MAY. O there wasn’t any courtship, Uncle, and I didn’t +hear nothing at all to speak of.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. There, run along quick and find your sister. +Supper’s late already, and that it is.<br> +<br> +ANNET. I’ll go with her.<br> +<br> +[<i>She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the door.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. Stop a moment, Millie. What are you thinking +of to go trailing out in the dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. +Take and lay them in the box at once, do you hear?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. That’s it, Mill. ’Twouldn’t do +for to mess them up afore the day. ’Twas a fair price as +I gived for they, and that I can tell you, my girl.<br> +<br> +[ANNET <i>stops irresolutely</i>. MAY <i>seizes her hand.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Come off, come off, “Cousin Millie”; ’tis +not damp outside, and O I’m afeared to cross the rickyard by myself.<br> +<br> +[<i>She pulls </i>ANNET <i>violently by the hand and draws her out of +the door.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. Off with the cloak this minute, Millie.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Calling back</i>.] She’s a-taking of it off, +Aunt, she is.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the maid. +She don’t act like herself to-day.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, that be asking too much of a maid, to act like herself, +and the wedding day close ahead of she.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I’d be content with a suitable behaviour, Father. +I’m not hard to please.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ +old mare when her first comes up from grass.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well for you to talk, Father but +’tis I who have got to do.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come Mother, come Andrew, I be sharp set. And ’tis +the feel of victuals and no words as I wants in my mouth.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Well, Father, I’m not detaining you. There’s +the door, and the food has been cooling on the table this great while.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come you, Andrew, come you, Mother. Us’ll +make a bit of a marriage feast this night.<br> +<br> +[<i>He leads the way and the others follow him out.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT II. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A woodland path</i>. GILES <i>comes forward with his two servants</i>,<i> +</i>GEORGE <i>and </i>JOHN, <i>who are carrying heavy packets.<br> +<br> +</i>GILES. ’Tis powerful warm to-day. We will take +a bit of rest before we go further.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Setting down his packet</i>.] That’s it, +master. ’Tis a rare weight as I’ve been carrying across +my back since dawn.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Also setting down his burden</i>.] Ah, I be pleased +for to lay aside yon. ’Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying +to and fro with gold and silver.<br> +<br> +GILES. Our travelling is very nigh finished. There lies +the road which goes to Camel Farm.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Oh, I count as that must be a rare sort of a place, master.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Seeing as us haven’t stopped scarce an hour since +us landed off the sea.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. But have come running all the while same as the fox may +run in th’ early morning towards the poultry yard.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th’ +insides of we.<br> +<br> +GILES. ’Tis very little further that you have got to journey, +my good lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master?<br> +<br> +GILES. ’Tis the place out of all the world to me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I count ’tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing +as we be come from brave foreign parts, master.<br> +<br> +GILES. ’Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands +that lie beneath the sun, my lads.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That’s good hearing, master. And is the victuals +like to be as fine as the place?<br> +<br> +GILES. O, you’ll fare well enough yonder.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink +that was over there neither.<br> +<br> +GILES. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the +grandest roof that ever sheltered a man’s head. And you +shall sit at a table spread as you’ve not seen this many a year.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That’ll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets +upon our legs again.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that’s +the truth.<br> +<br> +[<i>The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees</i>. +<i>GILES</i> <i>walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient +at any delay</i>. <i>From time to time he glances at a ring which +he wears</i>,<i> sighing heavily as he does so.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>An old man comes up</i>,<i> leaning on his staff.<br> +<br> +</i>OLD MAN. Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen.<br> +<br> +GILES. Good-morning, master.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. ’Tis a wonderful warm sun to-day.<br> +<br> +GILES. You’re right there, master.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. I warrant as you be journeying towards the same place +where I be going, my lord.<br> +<br> +GILES. And where is that, old master?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Towards Camel Farm.<br> +<br> +GILES. You’re right. ’Tis there and nowhere +else that we are going.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Ah, us’ll have to go smartish if us is to be there +in time.<br> +<br> +GILES. In time for what, my good man?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. In time for to see the marrying, my lord.<br> +<br> +GILES. The marrying? What’s that you’re telling +me?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. ’Tis at noon this day that she’s to be wed.<br> +<br> +GILES. Who are you speaking of, old man?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. And where is your lordship journeying this day if ’tis +not to the marrying?<br> +<br> +GILES. Who’s getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. ’Tis th’ old farmer’s daughter what’s +to wed come noon-tide.<br> +<br> +GILES. [<i>Starting</i>.] Millie! O that is heavy +news. [<i>Looking at his hand</i>.] Then ’tis as I +feared, for since daybreak yesterday the brightness has all gone from +out of the seven stones. That’s how ’twould be, she +told me once.<br> +<br> +[<i>He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. Us’ll see no Camel Farm this day.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And th’ inside of I be crying out for victuals.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Then you be not of these parts, masters?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, ’tis a fine gentleman, master. But powerful +misfortunate in things of the heart.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, he’d best have stopped where he was. Camel +Farm baint no place for the like of he to go courting at.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold +and marble with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that +you might.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. All painted glass. And each chair with golden legs +to him, and a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did +dream of after a night’s drinking, old man. [GILES <i>comes +slowly towards them.<br> +<br> +</i>GILES. And who is she to wed, old man?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, +my lord?<br> +<br> +GILES. Yes. With whom does she go to church to-day?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. ’Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go. +What lives up Cranham way.<br> +<br> +GILES. Ah, th’ old farmer was always wonderful set on him. +[<i>A pause.<br> +<br> +</i>OLD MAN. I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, +master, and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water there, +and the shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me at night +time.<br> +<br> +GILES. What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that +the heart of you be whole and unbroken?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Us poor old wretches don’t carry no hearts to th’ +insides of we. The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals +and from the winter’s cold when snow do lie on the ground and +the wind do moan over the fields, and when the fox do bark.<br> +<br> +GILES. What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter +set against the cruel torment of a disappointed love?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that +I be got a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and +did carry a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the +feel of them clean forgot.<br> +<br> +GILES. Then what do you up yonder at the marrying this morning?<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Oh, I do take me to those places where there be burying +or marriage, for the hearts of folk at these seasons be warmed and kinder, +like. And ’tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food +be thrown out to the poor old dog what waits patient at the door.<br> +<br> +GILES. [<i>Looks intently at him for a moment</i>.] See +here, old master. I would fain strike a bargain with you. +And ’tis with a handful of golden pieces that I will pay your +service.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Anything to oblige you, my young lord.<br> +<br> +GILES. [<i>To </i>GEORGE.] Take out a handful from the bag +of gold. And you, John, give him some of the silver.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>and </i>JOHN <i>untie their bags and take out gold and silver</i>. +<i>They twist it up in a handkerchief which they give to the old man.</i>]<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. May all the blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, +for ’tis plain to see that you be one of the greatest and finest +gentlemen ever born to the land.<br> +<br> +GILES. My good friend, you’re wrong there, I was a poor +country lad, but I had the greatest treasure that a man could hold on +this earth. ’Twas the love of my cousin Millie. And +being poor, I was put from out the home, and sent to seek my fortune +in parts beyond the sea.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Now, who’d have thought ’twas so, for the +looks of you be gentle born all over.<br> +<br> +GILES. “Come back with a bushel of gold in one hand and +one of silver in t’other” the old farmer said to me, “and +then maybe I’ll let you wed my daughter.”<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. And here you be comed back, and there lie the gold and +the silver bags.<br> +<br> +GILES. And yonder is Millie given in marriage to another.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Taint done yet, master.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tisn’t too late, by a long way, master.<br> +<br> +GILES. [<i>To </i>OLD MAN.] And so I would crave something +of you, old friend. Lend me your smock, and your big hat and your +staff. In that disguise I will go to the farm and look upon my +poor false love once more. If I find that her heart is already +given to another, I shall not make myself known to her. But if +she still holds to her love for me, then -<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Go in the fine clothes what you have upon you, master. +And even should the maid’s heart, be given to another, the sight +of so grand a cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, that’s so, it is. You go as you be clothed +now, master. I know what maids be, and ’tis finery and good +coats which do work more on the hearts of they nor anything else in +the wide world.<br> +<br> +GILES. No, no, my lads. I will return as I did go from yonder. +Poor, and in mean clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth +speak one word for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite +of everything, my sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from +her.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. [<i>Taking off his hat</i>.] Here you are master.<br> +<br> +[GILES <i>hands his own hat to </i>GEORGE. <i>He then takes off +his coat and gives it to </i>JOHN. <i>The </i>OLD MAN <i>takes +off his smock</i>,<i> GILES puts it on.<br> +<br> +</i>OLD MAN. Pull the hat well down about the face of you, master, +so as the smooth skin of you be hid.<br> +<br> +GILES. [<i>Turning round in his disguise</i>.] How’s +that, my friends?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. You be a sight too straight in the back, master.<br> +<br> +GILES. [<i>Stooping</i>.] I’ll soon better that.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Be you a-going in them fine buckled shoes, master?<br> +<br> +GILES. I had forgot the shoes. When I get near to the house +’tis barefoot that I will go.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Then let us be off, master, for the’ time be running +short.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, that ’tis. I count it be close on noon-day +now by the look of the sun.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. And heaven be with you, my young gentleman.<br> +<br> +GILES. My good friends, you shall go with me a little further. +And when we have come close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter +of a wood that I know of and await the signal I shall give you.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. And what’ll that be, master?<br> +<br> +GILES. I shall blow three times, and loudly from my whistle, here.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And be we to come up to the farm when we hears you?<br> +<br> +GILES. As quickly as you can run. ’Twill be the sign +that I need all of you with me.<br> +<br> +GEORGE <i>and </i>JOHN. That’s it, master. Us do understand +what ’tis as we have got to do.<br> +<br> +OLD MAR. Ah, ’tis best to be finished with hearts that beat +to the tune of a maid’s tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads +with naught but them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th’ +inside. So ’tis.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT III. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The parlour at Camel Farm</i>. ELIZABETH, <i>in her best dress</i>,<i> +is moving about the room putting chairs in their places and arranging +ornaments on the dresser</i>,<i> etc</i>. MAY <i>stands at the +door with a large bunch of flowers in her hands.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. And what do you want to run about in the garden +for when I’ve just smoothed your hair and got you all ready to +go to church?<br> +<br> +MAY. I’ve only been helping Annet gather some flowers to +put upon the table.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. You should know better then. Didn’t I tell +you to sit still in that chair with your hands folded nicely till we +were ready to start.<br> +<br> +MAY. Why, I couldn’t be sitting there all the while, now +could I, Aunt?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. This’ll be the last time as I tie your ribbon, +mind.<br> +<br> +[<i>She smoothes </i>MAY’s <i>hair and ties it up for her</i>. +ANNET <i>comes into the room with more flowers.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. What’s your cousin doing now, Annet?<br> +<br> +ANNET. The door of her room is still locked, Aunt. And what +she says is that she do want to bide alone there<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. In all my days I never did hear tell of such a thing, +I don’t know what’s coming to the world, I don’t.<br> +<br> +MAY. I count that Millie do like to be all to herself whilst she +is a-dressing up grand in her white gown, and the silken cloak and bonnet.<br> +<br> +ANNET. Millie’s not a-dressing of herself up. I heard +her crying pitiful as I was gathering flowers in the garden.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Crying? She’ll have something to cry about +if she doesn’t look out, when her father comes in, and hears how +she’s a-going on.<br> +<br> +MAY. I wonder why Cousin Millie’s taking on like this. +I shouldn’t, if ’twas me getting married.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Look you, May, you get and run up, and knock at the +door and tell her that ’twill soon be time for us to set off to +church and that she have got to make haste in her dressing.<br> +<br> +MAY. I’ll run, Aunt, only ’tis very likely as she’ll +not listen to anything that I say. [MAY <i>goes out.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. Now Annet, no idling here, if you please. +Set the nosegay in water, and when you’ve given a look round to +see that everything is in its place, upstairs with you, and on with +your bonnet, do you hear? Uncle won’t wish to be kept waiting +for you, remember.<br> +<br> +ANNET. I’m all ready dressed, except for my bonnet, Aunt. +’Tis Millie that’s like to keep Uncle waiting this morning. +[<i>She goes out.<br> +<br> +</i>[DANIEL <i>comes in.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Well, Mother - well, girls - but, bless my soul, where’s +Millie got to?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Millie has not seen fit to shew herself this morning, +Father. She’s biding up in her room with the door locked, +and nothing that I’ve been able to say has been attended to, so +perhaps you’ll kindly have your try.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Bless my soul - where’s May? Where’s +Annet? Send one of the little maids up to her, and tell her ’tis +very nigh time for us to be off.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I’m fairly tired of sending up to her, Father. +You’d best go yourself.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>comes into the room.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Please Aunt, the door, ’tis still locked, and Millie +is crying ever so sadly within, and she won’t open to me, nor +speak, nor nothing.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. There, Father, - perhaps you’ll believe what +I tell you another time. Millie has got that hardened and wayward, +there’s no managing of her, there’s not.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, ’twon’t be very long as us’ll have +the managing of she. ’Twill be young Andrew as’ll +take she in hand after this day.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well to talk of young Andrew, but +who’s a-going to get her to church with him I’d like to +know.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Why, ’tis me as’ll do it, to be sure.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Very well, Father, and we shall all be much obliged +to you.<br> +<br> +[DANIEL <i>goes to the door and shouts up the stairs</i>.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, Millie, my wench. Come you down here. +’Tis time we did set out. Do you hear me, Mill. ’Tis +time we was off.<br> +<br> +[ELIZABETH <i>waits listening</i>. <i>No answer comes</i>.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Don’t you hear what I be saying, Mill? Come +you down at once. [<i>There is no answer</i>.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Millie, there be Andrew a-waiting for to take you to church. +Come you down this minute.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. You’d best take sommat and go and break open +the door, Father. ’Tis the sensiblest thing as you can do, +only you’d never think of anything like that by yourself.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. I likes doing things my own way, Mother. Women-folk, +they be so buzzing. ’Tis like a lot of insects around of +anyone on a summer’s day. A-saying this way and that - whilst +a man do go at anything quiet and calm-like. [ANNET <i>comes in.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. Please, Uncle, Millie says that she isn’t coming +down for no one.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. [<i>Roaring in fury</i>.] What! What’s +that, my wench - isn’t a-coming down for no one? Hear that, +Mother, hear that? I’ll have sommat to say to that, I will. +[<i>Going to the door.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. [<i>Roaring up the stairs</i>.] Hark you, Mill, +down you comes this moment else I’ll smash the door right in, +and that I will.<br> +<br> +[DANIEL <i>comes back into the room</i>,<i> storming violently.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Ah, ’tis a badly bred up wench is Millie, and +her’d have growed up very different if I’d a-had the bringing +up of she. But spoiled she is and spoiled her’ve always +been, and what could anyone look for from a filly what’s been +broke in by women folk!<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. There, there, Father - there’s no need to bluster +in this fashion. Take up the poker and go and break into the door +quiet and decent, like anyone else would do. And girls - off for +your bonnets this moment I tell you.<br> +<br> +[<i>She takes up a poker and hands it to </i>DANIEL, <i>who mops his +face and goes slowly out and upstairs</i>. ANNET <i>and </i>MAY +<i>leave the room</i>. <i>The farmer is heard banging at the door +of Millie</i>’<i>s bedroom.<br> +<br> +</i>[ELIZABETH <i>moves about the room setting it in order</i>. +ANDREW <i>comes in at the door</i>. <i>He carries a bunch of flowers</i>,<i> +which he lays on the table.<br> +<br> +</i>ANDREW. Good-morning to you, mistress.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Good-morning, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. What’s going on upstairs?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. ’Tis Father at a little bit of carpentering.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I’m come too soon, I reckon.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. We know what young men be upon their wedding morn! +I warrant as the clock can’t run too fast for them at such a time.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. You’re right there, mistress. But the clock +have moved powerful slow all these last few weeks - for look you here, +’tis a month this day since I last set eyes on Mill or had a word +from her lips - so ’tis.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. You’ll have enough words presently. Hark, +she’s coming down with Father now.<br> +<br> +[ANDREW <i>turns eagerly towards the door</i>. <i>The farmer enters +with </i>MILLIE <i>clinging to his arm</i>,<i> she wears her ordinary +dress</i>. <i>Her hair is ruffled and in disorder</i>,<i> and +she has been crying.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Andrew, my lad, good morning to you.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Good morning, master.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. You mustn’t mind a bit of an April shower, my boy. +’Tis the way with all maids on their wedding morn. Isn’t +that so, Mother?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I wouldn’t make such a show of myself if I was +you, Mill. Go upstairs this minute and wash your face and smooth +your hair and put yourself ready for church.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Nay, she be but just come from upstairs, Mother. +Let her bide quiet a while with young Andrew here; whilst do you come +along with me and get me out my Sunday coat. ’Tis time I +was dressed for church too, I’m thinking.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the house this +morning, and that’s the truth. Andrew, I’ll not have +you keep Millie beyond a five minutes. ’Tis enough of one +another as you’ll get later on, like. Father, go you off +upstairs for your coat. ’Tis hard work for me, getting you +all to act respectable, that ’tis.<br> +<br> +[DANIEL <i>and </i>ELIZABETH <i>leave the room</i>. ANDREW <i>moves +near </i>MILLIE <i>and holds out both his hands</i>. <i>She draws +herself haughtily away.<br> +<br> +</i>ANDREW. Millie - ’tis our wedding day.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. And what if it is, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie, it cuts me to the heart to see your face all wet +with tears.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Did you think to see it otherwise, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. No smile upon your lips, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Have I anything to smile about, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. No love coming from your eyes, Mill.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. That you have never seen, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. And all changed in the voice of you too.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. What do you mean by that, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Listen, Millie - ’tis a month since I last spoke +with you. Do you recollect? ’Twas the evening of the +great Fair.<br> +<br> +MILLIE And what if it was?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie, you were kinder to me that night than ever you +had been before. I seemed to see such a gentle look in your eyes +then. And when you spoke, ’twas as though - as though - +well - ’twas one of they quists a-cooing up in the trees as I +was put in mind of.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Well, there’s nothing more to be said about that +now, Andrew. That night’s over and done with.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I’ve carried the thought of it in my heart all this +time, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I never asked you to, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I’ve brought you a nosegay of flowers, Mill. +They be rare blossoms with grand names what I can’t recollect +to all of them.<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>takes the nosegay</i>,<i> looks at it for an instant</i>,<i> +and then lets it fall.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE. I have no liking for flowers this day, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. O Millie, and is it so as you and me are going to our +marriage?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew. ’Tis so. I never said it +could be different. I have no heart to give you. My love +was given long ago to another. And that other has forgotten me +by now.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. O Millie, you shall forget him too when once you are wed +to me, I promise you.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. ’Tis beyond the power of you or any man to make +me do that, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie, what’s the good of we two going on to church +one with t’other?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. There’s no good at all, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie, I could have sworn that you had begun to care +sommat more than ordinary for me that last time we were together.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Then you could have sworn wrong. I care nothing +for you, Andrew, no, nothing. But I gave my word I’d go +to church with you and be wed. And - I’ll not break my word, +I’ll not.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. And is this all that you can say to me to-day, Mill?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew, ’tis all. And now, ’tis +very late, and I have got to dress myself.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. [<i>Calling loudly from above</i>.] Millie, what +are you stopping for? Come you up here and get your gown on, do.<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>looks haughtily at </i>ANDREW <i>as she passes him</i>. +<i>She goes slowly out of the room.<br> +<br> +</i>[ANDREW <i>picks up the flowers and stands holding them</i>,<i> +looking disconsolately down upon them</i>. MAY <i>comes in</i>,<i> +furtively.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. All alone, Andrew? Has Millie gone to put her fine +gown on?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Yes, Millie’s gone to dress herself.<br> +<br> +MAY. O that’s a beautiful nosegay, Andrew. Was it +brought for Mill?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Yes, May, but she won’t have it.<br> +<br> +MAY. Millie don’t like you very much, Andrew, do she?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Millie’s got quite changed towards me since last +time.<br> +<br> +MAY. And when was that, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Why, last time was the evening of the Fair, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. When I was hid in the cupboard yonder, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. So you were, May. Well, can’t you recollect +how ’twas that she spoke to me then?<br> +<br> +MAY. O yes, Andrew, and that I can. ’Twas a quist +a-cooing in the tree one time - and then - she did recollect herself +and did sharpen up her tongue and ’twas another sort of bird what +could drive its beak into the flesh of anyone - so ’twas.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. O May - you say she did recollect herself - what do you +mean by those words?<br> +<br> +MAY. You see, she did give her word that she would speak sharp +and rough to you.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. What are you talking about, May? Do you mean that +the tongue of her was not speaking as the heart of her did feel?<br> +<br> +MAY. I guess ’twas sommat like that, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. O May, you have gladdened me powerful by these words.<br> +<br> +MAY. But, O you must not tell of me, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I will never do so, May - only I shall know better how +to be patient, and to keep the spirit of me up next time that she do +strike out against me.<br> +<br> +MAY. I’m not a-talking of Mill, Andrew.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Who are you talking of then, I’d like to know?<br> +<br> +MAY. ’Twas Annet.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. What was?<br> +<br> +MAY. Annet who was dressed up in the cloak and bonnet of Millie +that night and who did speak with you so gentle and nice.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Annet!<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. [<i>Is heard calling</i>.] There, father, come +along down and give your face a wash at the pump.<br> +<br> +MAY. Let’s go quick together into the garden, Andrew, and +I’ll tell you all about it and how ’twas that Annet acted +so.<br> +<br> +[<i>She seizes </i>ANDREW’S <i>hand and pulls him out of the room +with her.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT III. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A few minutes later.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH <i>stands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror +on the wall</i>. DANIEL <i>is mopping his face with a big</i>,<i> +bright handkerchief</i>. ANNET, <i>dressed for church</i>,<i> +is by the table</i>. <i>She sadly takes up the nosegay of flowers +which </i>ANDREW <i>brought for </i>MILLIE, <i>and moves her hand caressingly +over it.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. If you think that your neckerchief is put on right +’tis time you should know different, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. What’s wrong with it then, I’d like to know?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. ’Tis altogether wrong. ’Tis like +the two ears of a heifer sticking out more than anything else that I +can think on.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Have it your own way, Mother - and fix it as you like.<br> +<br> +[<i>He stands before her and she rearranges it.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNET. These flowers were lying on the ground.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Thrown there in a fine fit of temper, I warrant.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Her was as quiet as a new born lamb once the door was +broke open and she did see as my word, well, ’twas my word.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. We all hear a great deal about your word, Father, but +’twould be better for there to be more do and less say about you.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. [<i>Going over to Annet and looking at her intently</i>.] +Why, my wench - what be you a-dropping tears for this day?<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Drying her eyes</i>.] ’Twas - ’twas +the scent out of one of the flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, that’s a likely tale it is. Hear that, +Mother? ’Tis with her eyes that this little wench do snuff +at a flower. That’s good, bain’t it?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I haven’t patience with the wenches now-a-days. +Lay down that nosegay at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her +room. I warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, I warrant as her’ll need a smartish bit of time +for to take the creases out of the face of she.<br> +<br> +[ANDREW <i>and </i>MAY <i>come in.</i>]<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, Andrew, my lad, ’tis about time as we was +on the way to church I reckon.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I count as ’tis full early yet, master.<br> +<br> +[<i>He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the room to the +window where </i>ANNET <i>is standing</i>,<i> and trying to control +her tears.<br> +<br> +</i>ANDREW. Annet, Millie will have none of my blossoms. +I should like it well if you would carry them in your hand to church +this day.<br> +<br> +ANNET. [<i>Looking wonderingly at him</i>.] Me, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Yes, you, Annet. For, look you, they become you +well. They have sommat of the sweetness of you in them. +And the touch of them is soft and gentle. And - I would like you +to keep them in your hands this day, Annet.<br> +<br> +ANNET. O Andrew, I never was given anything like this before.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>Slowly</i>.] I should like to give you a great +deal more, Annet - only I cannot. And ’tis got too late.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Too late - I should think it was. What’s +come to the maid! In my time girls didn’t use to spend a +quarter of the while afore the glass as they do now. Suppose you +was to holler for her again, Father.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Anything to please you, Mother -<br> +<br> +MAY. I hear her coming, Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk.<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>comes slowly into the room in her wedding clothes</i>. +<i>She holds herself very upright and looks from one to another quietly +and coldly.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Andrew’s gived your nosegay to Annet, Millie.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. ’Twould have been a pity to have wasted the fresh +blossoms.<br> +<br> +MAY. But they were gathered for you, Mill.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Annet seems to like them better than I did.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, my wench - you be tricked out as though you was +off to the horse show. Mother, there bain’t no one as can +beat our wench in looks anywhere this side of the country.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. She’s right enough in the clothing of her, but +’twould be better if her looks did match the garments more. +Come, Millie, can’t you appear pleasanter like on your wedding +day?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I’m very thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink +of water before we set out?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And what next, I should like to know?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. ’Tis only a drink of water that I’m asking +for.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, that’s reasonable, Mother, bain’t it?<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Run along and get some for your cousin, May. +[MAY <i>runs out of the room.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. Come you here, Andrew, did you ever see a wench to +beat ourn in looks, I say?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>Who has remained near </i>ANNET <i>without moving</i>.] +’Tis very fine that Millie’s looking.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Fine, I should think ’twas. You was a fine +looking wench, Mother, the day I took you to church, but ’tis +my belief that Millie have beat you in the appearance of her same as +the roan heifer did beat th’ old cow when the both was took along +to market. Ah, and did fetch very near the double of what I gived +for the dam.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>returns carrying a glass bowl full of water.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Here’s a drink of cold water, Millie. I took +it from the spring.<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>takes the bowl</i>. <i>At the same moment a loud knocking +is heard at the outside door.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. Who’s that, I should like to know?<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>sets down the bowl on the table</i>. <i>She listens +with a sudden intent</i>,<i> anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated.<br> +<br> +</i>DANIEL. I’ll learn anyone to come meddling with me on +a day when ’tis marrying going on.<br> +<br> +[<i>The knocking is again heard.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE. [<i>To </i>MAY, <i>who would have opened the door</i>.] +No, no. ’Tis I who will open the door.<br> +<br> +[<i>She raises the latch and flings the door wide open</i>. GILES +<i>disguised as a poor and bent old man</i>,<i> comes painfully into +the room.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. We don’t want no beggars nor roadsters here +to-day, if you please.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, and that us don’t. Us be a wedding party +here, and ’tis for you to get moving on, old man.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. He is poor and old. And he has wandered far, in +the heat of the morning. Look at his sad clothing.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. [<i>To </i>ANNET.] I never heard her put so much +gentleness to her words afore.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. And ’tis my wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted +from here.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I never knowed you so careful of a poor wretch afore, +Millie. ’Tis quite a new set out, this.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I am in mind of another, who may be wandering, and hungered, +and in poor clothing this day.<br> +<br> +MAY. Give him something quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that +we can start for the wedding.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. [<i>Coming close to </i>GILES.] What is it I can +do for you, master?<br> +<br> +GILES. ’Tis only a drink of water that I ask, mistress.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. [<i>Taking up the glass bowl</i>.] Only a drink +of water, master? Then take, and be comforted.<br> +<br> +[<i>She holds the bowl before him for him to drink</i>. <i>As +he takes it</i>,<i> he drops a ring into the water</i>. <i>He +then drinks and hands the bowl back to </i>MILLIE<i>. For a moment +she gazes speechless at the bottom of the bowl</i>. <i>Then she +lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but for </i>MAY, <i>who +takes it from her.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE. Master, from whom did you get this?<br> +<br> +GILES. Look well at the stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded +and dim.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. And not more clouded than the heart which is in me, master. +O do you bring me news?<br> +<br> +GILES. Is it not all too late for news, mistress?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Not if it be the news for which my heart craves, master.<br> +<br> +GILES. And what would that be, mistress?<br> +<br> +[MILLIE <i>goes to </i>GILES, <i>and with both hands slowly pushes back +his big hat and gazes at him.<br> +<br> +</i>MILLIE. O Giles, my true love. You are come just in +time. Another hour and I should have been wed.<br> +<br> +GILES. And so you knew me, Mill?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O Giles, no change of any sort could hide you from the +eyes of my love.<br> +<br> +GILES. Your love, Millie. And is that still mine?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. It always has been yours, Giles. O I will go with +you so gladly in poor clothing and in hunger all over the face of the +earth.<br> +<br> +[<i>She goes to him and clasps his arm</i>;<i> and</i>,<i> standing +by his side</i>,<i> faces all those in the room.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. [<i>Angrily</i>.] Please to come to your +right senses, Millie.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come, Andrew, set your foot down as I’ve set mine.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Nay, master. There’s naught left for me to +say. The heart does shew us better nor all words which way we +have to travel.<br> +<br> +MAY. And are you going to marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, +who looks so brave and fine in his wedding clothes, Millie?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I am going to marry him I have always loved, May - and +- O Andrew, I never bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard +words to you sometimes. - But you’ll not remember me always - +you will find gladness too, some day.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I count as I shall, Millie.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come, come, I’ll have none of this - my daughter +wed to a beggar off the highway! Mother, ’tis time you had +a word here.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. No, Father, I’ll leave you to manage this affair. +’Tis you who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and +unruly, and ’tis to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant +position.<br> +<br> +MAY. Dear Millie - don’t wed my brother Giles. Why, +look at his ragged smock and his bare feet.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. I shall be proud to go bare too, so long as I am by his +side, May.<br> +<br> +[GILES <i>goes to the door and blows his whistle three times and loudly.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. What’s that for, Giles?<br> +<br> +GILES. You shall soon see, little May.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. I’ll be hanged if I’ll stand any more of this +caddling nonsense. Here, Mill - the trap’s come to the door. +Into it with you, I say.<br> +<br> +GILES. I beg you to wait a moment, master.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Wait! - ’Tis a sight too long as we have waited +this day. If all had been as I’d planned, we should have +been to church by now. But womenfolk, there be no depending on +they. No, and that there bain’t.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE, JOHN <i>and the </i>OLD MAN <i>come up</i>. GEORGE <i>and +</i>JOHN <i>carry their packets and the </i>OLD MAN <i>has </i>GILES’ +<i>coat and hat over his arm.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. And who are these persons, Giles?<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>and </i>JOHN <i>set down their burdens on the floor and begin +to mop their faces</i>. <i>The </i>OLD MAN <i>stretches out his +fine coat and hat and buckled shoes to </i>GILES.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Here they be, my lord, and I warrant as you’ll +feel more homely like in they, nor what you’ve got upon you now. +[GILES <i>takes the things from him.<br> +<br> +</i>GILES. Thank you, old master. [<i>He turns to </i>MILLIE.] +Let me go into the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting +longer than a few moments.<br> +<br> +[<i>He goes out.<br> +<br> +</i>ELIZABETH. [<i>To </i>GEORGE.] And who may you be, I +should like to know? You appear to be making very free with my +parlour.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. We be the servants what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Old Missis, indeed. Father, you shall speak to +these persons.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Well, my men. I scarce do know whether I be a-standing +on my head or upon my heels, and that’s the truth ’tis.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, and that I can well understand, master, for I’m +a married man myself, and my woman has a tongue to her head very similar +to that of th’ old missis yonder - so I know what ’tis.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Put them both out of the door, Father, do you hear +me? ’Tis to the cider as they’ve been getting. +That’s clear.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. My good friends, what is it that you carry in those bundles +there?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis gold in mine.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And silver here.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Depend upon it ’tis two wicked thieves we have +got among us, flying from justice.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. No, no - did not you hear them say, their master is Giles.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. And a better master never trod the earth.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And a finer or a richer gentleman I never want to see.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Do you hear that, Father? O you shocking liars +- ’tis stolen goods that you’ve been and brought to our +innocent house this day. But, Father, do you up and fetch in the +constable, do you hear?<br> +<br> +MAY. O I’ll run. I shall love to see them going off +to gaol.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Be quiet, May. Can’t you all see how ’tis. +Giles has done the cruel hard task set him by Father - and is back again +with the bushel of silver and that of gold to claim my hand. [GILES +<i>enters</i>.] But Giles - I’d have given it to you had +you come to me poor and forlorn and ragged, for my love has never wandered +from you in all this long time.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. No, Giles - and that it has not. Millie has never +given me one kind word nor one gentle look all the years that I’ve +been courting of her, and that’s the truth. And you can +call witness to it if you care.<br> +<br> +GILES. Uncle, Aunt, I’ve done the task you set me years +ago - and now I claim my reward. I went from this house a poor +wretch, with nothing but the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain +me. I have returned with all that the world can give me of riches +and prosperity. Will you now let me be the husband of your daughter?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. O say ye, Uncle, for look how fine and grand he is in +his coat - and the bags are stuffed full to the brim and ’tis +with gold and silver.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. Well - ’tis a respectabler end than I thought +as you’d come to, Giles. And different nor what you deserved.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come, come, Mother. - The fewer words to this, the better. +Giles, my boy - get you into the trap and take her along to the church +and drive smart.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Annet - will you come there with me too?<br> +<br> +ANNET. O Andrew - what are you saying?<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Come, come. Where’s the wind blowing from +now? Here, Mother, do you listen to this.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I shall be deaf before I’ve done, but it appears +to me that Annet’s not lost any time in making the most of her +chances.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, and she be none the worse for that. ’Tis +what we all likes to do. Where’d I be in the market if I +did let my chances blow by me? Hear that, Andrew?<br> +<br> +ANDREW. I’m a rare lucky man this day, farmer.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. Ah, and ’tis a rare good little wench, Annet - though +she bain’t so showy as our’n. A rare good little maid. +And now ’tis time we was all off to church, seeing as this is +to be a case of double harness like.<br> +<br> +MAY. O Annet, you can’t be wed in that plain gown.<br> +<br> +ANNET. May, I’m so happy that I feel as though I were clothed +all over with jewels.<br> +<br> +ANDREW. Give me your hand, Annet.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Mockingly</i>.] Millie - don’t you want to +give a drink of water to yon poor old man?<br> +<br> +MILLIE. That I will, May? Here - fetch me something that’s +better than water for him.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. I’ll have no cider drinking out of meal times +here.<br> +<br> +MILLIE. Then ’twill I have to be when we come back from +church.<br> +<br> +OLD MAN. Bless you, my pretty lady, but I be used to waiting. +I’ll just sit me down outside in the sun till you be man and wife.<br> +<br> +ELIZABETH. And that’ll not be till this day next year if +this sort of thing goes on any longer.<br> +<br> +DANIEL. That’s right, Mother. You take and lead the +way. ’Tis the womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. +But I knows how to settle with they - [<i>roaring</i>] - come Mill, +come Giles, Andrew, Annet, May. Come Mother, out of th’ +house with all of you and to church, I say.<br> +<br> +[<i>He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out of the +room</i>. <i>When they have gone</i>,<i> the </i>OLD MAN <i>sinks +on a bench in the door-way.<br> +<br> +</i>OLD MAN. I’m done with all the foolishness of life and +I can sit me down and sleep till it be time to eat.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +BUSHES AND BRIARS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARACTERS<br> +<br> +THOMAS SPRING, <i>a farmer</i>,<i> aged </i>35.<br> +EMILY, <i>his wife</i>,<i> the same age.<br> +</i>CLARA, <i>his sister</i>,<i> aged </i>21.<br> +JESSIE AND ROBIN, <i>the children of Thomas and Emily</i>,<i> aged </i>10 +<i>and </i>8.<br> +JOAN, <i>maid to Clara.<br> +</i>MILES HOOPER, <i>a rich draper.<br> +</i>LUKE JENNER, <i>a farmer.<br> +</i>LORD LOVEL.<br> +GEORGE, <i>aged </i>28.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT I. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A wood</i>. <i>It is a morning in June.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE, <i>carrying an empty basket</i>,<i> comes slowly through +the wood</i>. <i>On reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it</i>,<i> +placing his basket on the ground</i>. <i>With his stick he absently +moves the grass and leaves that lie before him</i>,<i> and is so deeply +lost in his own thoughts that he does not hear the approach of </i>MILES +<i>and </i>LUKE <i>until they are by his side.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. Here’s the very man to tell us all we want to +know.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Why, if ’tisn’t George from Ox Lease.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>half rises.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. No, sit you down again, my lad, and we’ll rest +awhile by the side of you.<br> +<br> +LUKE. That’s it, Miles. Nothing couldn’t have +fallen out better for us, I’m thinking.<br> +<br> +MILES. You’re about right, Luke. Now, George, my man, +we should very much appreciate a few words with you.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Taking up his basket</i>.] Morning baint the +time for words, masters. I count as words will keep till the set +of sun. ’Tis otherwise with work.<br> +<br> +MILES. Work, why, George, ’tis clear you are come out but +to gather flowers this morning.<br> +<br> +LUKE. ’Tis the very first time as ever I caught George an +idling away of his time like this.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis over to Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch +back a couple of young chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets +what do lay.<br> +<br> +LUKE. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease +afore July was in.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such +a thing. But mistress, her says, you can’t sit a maid from +town at table unless there be poultry afore of she. They be rare +nesh in their feeding, maids from town, so mistress do say.<br> +<br> +MILES. That just brings us to our little matter, George. +When is it that you expect the young lady?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom +since yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come +on their own feet from where the morning coach do set them down.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Nay, but there’s only one maid what’s expected.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Miss Clara, what’s master’s sister; and the +serving wench of she.<br> +<br> +MILES. Well, George, ’twas a great day for your master when +old Madam Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the quality.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, +from the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place +where ’twas seeded.<br> +<br> +MILES. No, no, George, you don’t know what you’re +talking about. A little country wench may bloom into something +very modish and elegant, once taken from her humble home and set amongst +carpets of velvet and curtains of satin. You’ll see.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked +upon by curtains, nor yet carpets, master.<br> +<br> +MILES. Take my word for it, George, Ox Lease will have to smarten +up a bit for this young lady. I know the circles she has been +moving in, and ’tis to the best of everything that she has been +used.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Rising</i>.] That’s what mistress do say. +And that’s why I be sent along down to Brook with haymaking going +on and all. Spring chicken with sparrow grass be the right feeding +for such as they. So mistress do count.<br> +<br> +MILES. Stop a moment, George. You have perhaps heard the +letters from Miss Clara discussed in the family from time to time.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Miss Clara did never send but two letters home in all +the while she was gone. The first of them did tell as how th’ +old lady was dead and had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. +And the second was to say as how her was coming back to the farm this +morning.<br> +<br> +LUKE. And hark you here, George, was naught mentioned about Miss +Clara’s fine suitors in neither of them letters?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That I cannot say, Master Jenner.<br> +<br> +MILES. Nothing of their swarming thick around her up in London, +George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. They may be swarming by the thousand for aught as I do +know. They smells gold as honey bees do smell the blossom. +Us’ll have a good few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we’re +many hours older, so I counts.<br> +<br> +MILES. Well, George, that’ll liven up the place a bit, I +don’t doubt.<br> +<br> +LUKE. ’Tis a bit of quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do +want. Isn’t that so, George, my lad?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Preparing to set off</i>.] I’ll say good +morning to you, masters. I count I’ve been and wasted a +smartish time already on the road. We be a bit hard pressed up +at the farm this day.<br> +<br> +MILES. But George, my man, we have a good many questions to ask +of you before you set off.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Them questions will have to bide till another time, I +reckon. I’m got late already, master.<br> +<br> +[<i>He hurries off.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. Arriving by the morning coach! I shall certainly +make my call to the farm before sunset. What do you say, Jenner?<br> +<br> +LUKE. You’re a rich man, Miles, and I am poor. But +we have always been friends.<br> +<br> +MILES. And our fathers before us, Luke.<br> +<br> +LUKE. And the courting of the same maid shall not come between +us.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Slowly</i>.] That’ll be all right, Luke.<br> +<br> +LUKE. What I do say is, let’s start fair. Neck to +neck, like.<br> +<br> +MILES. As you please, my good Luke.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Then, do you tell me honest, shall I do in the clothes I’m +a-wearing of now, Miles?<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Regarding him critically</i>.] That neckerchief +is not quite the thing, Luke.<br> +<br> +LUKE. ’Tis my Sunday best.<br> +<br> +MILES. Step over to the High Street with me, my lad. I’ve +got something in the shop that will be the very thing. You shall +have it half price for ’tis only a bit damaged in one of the corners.<br> +<br> +LUKE. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Miles.<br> +<br> +MILES. That’s all right, Luke.<br> +<br> +LUKE. George would look better to my thinking if there was a new +coat to the back of him.<br> +<br> +MILES. Ah, poor beggar, he would, and no mistake.<br> +<br> +LUKE. I warrant as Emily do keep it afore him as how he was took +in from off the road by th’ old farmer in his day.<br> +<br> +MILES. I flatter myself that I have a certain way with the ladies. +They come to me confidential like and I tell them what’s what, +and how that, this or t’other is worn about town. But with +Missis Spring ’tis different. That’s a woman I could +never get the right side of no how.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Ah, poor Thomas! There’s a man who goes down +trod and hen scratched if you like.<br> +<br> +MILES. ’Tis altogether a very poor place up at Ox Lease, +for young Miss.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Pulling out his watch</i>.] Time’s slipping +on. What if we were to stroll on to the shop and see about my +neckerchief, Miles?<br> +<br> +MILES. I’m sure I’m quite agreeable, Luke. ’Twill +help to pass away the morning.<br> +<br> +[<i>He puts his arm in </i>LUKE’S <i>and they go briskly off in +the direction of the village.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT I. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CLARA, <i>followed by </i>JOAN, <i>comes through the wood</i>. +CLARA <i>is dressed in a long</i>,<i> rich cloak and wears a bonnet +that is brightly trimmed with feathers and ribbons</i>. JOAN <i>wears +a cotton bonnet and small shawl</i>. <i>She carries her mistress</i>’<i>s +silken bag over her arm.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. [<i>Pointing to the fallen tree</i>.] There is +the very resting place for us. We will sit down under the trees +for a while. [<i>She seats herself.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Dusting the tree with her handkerchief before she +sits on it</i>.] Have we much further to go, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Only a mile or two, so far as I can remember.<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Tis rough work for the feet, down in these parts, +mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. If London roads were paved with diamonds I’d sooner +have my feet treading this rugged way that leads to home.<br> +<br> +JOAN. What sort of a place shall we find it when we gets there, +mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I was but seven when I left them all, Joan. And that +is fourteen years ago to-day.<br> +<br> +JOAN. So many years may bring about some powerful big changes, +mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. But I dream that I shall find all just as it was when I +went away. Only that Gran’ma won’t be there.<br> +<br> +[<i>There is a short silence during which </i>CLARA <i>seems lost in +thought</i>. JOAN <i>flicks the dust off her shoes with a branch +of leaves.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. ’Tis the coaches I do miss down in these parts.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I would not have driven one step of the way this morning, +Joan. In my fancy I have been walking up from the village and +through the wood and over the meadows since many a day. I have +not forgotten one turn of the path.<br> +<br> +JOAN. The road has not changed then, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. No. But it does not seem quite so broad or so fine +as I remembered it to be. That is all.<br> +<br> +JOAN. And very likely the house won’t seem so fine neither, +mistress, after the grand rooms which you have been used to.<br> +<br> +JOAN. What company shall we see there, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Well, there’s Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily +his wife. Then the two children.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>After a short silence</i>,<i> and as though to herself</i>.] +And there was George.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Yes, mistress<br> +<br> +CLARA. Georgie seemed so big and tall to me in those days. +I wonder how old he really was, when I was seven.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Would that be a younger brother of yours, like, mistress<br> +<br> +CLARA. No, George minded the horses and looked after the cows +and poultry. Sometimes he would drive me into market with him +on a Saturday. And in the evenings I would follow him down to +the pool to see the cattle watered.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could +never abide the sight nor the sound of those animals.<br> +<br> +CLARA. You’ll soon get over that, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. And I don’t care for poultry neither, very much. +I goes full of fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping +about.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm</i>.] There, +do you see this little scar? I was helping George to feed the +ducks and geese when the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down +and took a piece right out of my arm.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking intently on the scar</i>.] I have often +seen that there mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander +will be living along of the poultry still?<br> +<br> +CLARA. I wish he might be, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall +go with our lives in our hands, as you might say.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>As though to herself</i>.] When the days got +colder, we would sit under the straw rick, George and I. And he +would sing to me. Some of his songs, I could say off by heart +this day.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking nervously upward</i>.] O do look at that +nasty little thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. +Who ever put such a thing up in the tree I’d like to know.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Brushing it gently aside</i>.] That won’t +hurt you - a tiny caterpillar.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>After a moment</i>.] What more could the farm +hand do, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. He would clasp on his bells and dance in the Morris on +certain days, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Tis to be hoped as there’ll be some dancing +or something to liven us all up a bit down here.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Why, Joan, I believe you’re tired already of the +country.<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Tis so powerful quiet and heavy like, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. ’Tis full of sounds. Listen to the doves in +the trees and the lambs calling from the meadow.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’d sooner have the wheels of the coaches and the +cries upon the street, and the door bell a ringing every moment and +fine gentlemen and ladies being shewn up into the parlour.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Stretching out her arms</i>.] O how glad I am +to be free of all that. And most of all, how glad to be ridded +of one person.<br> +<br> +JOAN. His lordship will perhaps follow us down here, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. No, I have forbidden it. I must have a month of quiet, +and he is to wait that time for his answer.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, you’ll never disappoint so fine a gentleman.<br> +<br> +CLARA. You forget that Lord Lovel and I have played together as +children. It is as a brother that I look upon him.<br> +<br> +JOAN. His lordship don’t look upon you as a sister, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Rising</i>.] That is a pity, Joan. But +see, it is getting late and we must be moving onwards.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>rises and smoothes and shakes out her skirt.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. Here, loosen my cloak, Joan, and untie the ribbons +of my bonnet.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, keep the pretty clothes upon you till you have +got to the house.<br> +<br> +CLARA. No, no - such town garments are not suited to the woods +and meadows. I want to feel the country breeze upon my head, and +my limbs must be free from the weight of the cloak. I had these +things upon me during the coach journey. They are filled with +road dust and I dislike them now.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Unfastening the cloak and untying the bonnet</i>.] +They are fresh and bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Retying a blue ribbon which she wears in her hair</i>.] +I have taken a dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire +them, they shall be yours.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Mine? The French bonnet and the satin cloak?<br> +<br> +CLARA. To comfort you for the pains of the country, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, let us stop a moment longer in this quiet place +so that I may slip them on and see how they become me.<br> +<br> +CLARA. As you will. Listen, that is the cuckoo singing.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Throwing off her cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing +herself hastily in the bonnet and cloak</i>.] O what must it feel +like to be a grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I am very glad to be without them for a while. How +good the air feels on my head.<br> +<br> +JOAN. There, mistress, how do I look?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Very nicely, Joan. So nicely that if you like, you +may keep them upon you for the remainder of the way.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, may I really do so?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Yes. And Joan, do you go onwards to the farm by the +quickest path which is through this wood and across the high road. +Anyone will shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander +about in some of the meadows which I remember. But I will join +you all in good time.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Very well, mistress. If I set off in a few moments +it will do, I suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself +as I am now, in the little glass which you carry in your silk bag.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Going off</i>.] Don’t spend too much time +looking at what will be shewn you, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Never fear, mistress. I’ll be there afore you, +if I have to run all the way. [CLARA <i>wanders off.<br> +<br> +</i>[JOAN <i>sits down again on the trunk of the fallen tree</i>. +<i>She opens the silken bag</i>,<i> draws out a small hand glass and +looks long and steadily at her own reflection</i>. <i>Then she +glances furtively around and</i>,<i> seeing that she is quite alone</i>,<i> +she takes a small powder box from the bag and hastily opening it</i>,<i> +she gives her face several hurried touches with the powder puff.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Surveying the effect in the glass</i>.] Just +to take off the brown of my freckles. Now if any one was to come +upon me sitting here they wouldn’t know as I was other than a +real, high lady. All covered with this nice cloak as I be, the +French bonnet on my head, and powder to my face, who’s to tell +the difference? But O - these must be hid first.<br> +<br> +[<i>She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the ground</i>. +<i>She hastily rolls them up in a small bundle and stuffs them into +the silken bag</i>. <i>Then she takes up the glass and surveys +herself again.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. How should I act now if some grand gentleman was to +come up and commence talking to me? Perhaps he might even take +me for a lady of title in these fine clothes, and ’twould be a +pity to have to undeceive him.<br> +<br> +[<i>She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then lowers +the lace veil over her face.<br> +<br> +</i>[MILES <i>and </i>LUKE <i>come slowly up behind her</i>. MILES +<i>nudges </i>LUKE <i>with his elbow</i>,<i> signing to him to remain +where he is whilst he steps forward in front of </i>JOAN.<br> +<br> +MILES. Pardon me, madam, but you appear to have mistook the way. +Allow me to set you on the right path for Ox Lease.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Letting the mirror fall on her lap and speaking very +low</i>.] How do you know I am going to Ox Lease, sir?<br> +<br> +MILES. You see, madam, I happen to know that a stylish young miss +from town is expected there to-day.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Coming forward and speaking in a loud whisper</i>.] +Now Miles. I count as you made one of the biggest blunders of +the time. Our young lady be journeying along of her servant wench. +This one baint she.<br> +<br> +MILES. If we have made a small error, madam, allow me to beg your +pardon.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Don’t mention it, sir. Everyone is mistaken +sometimes.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Well, I’m powerful sorry if we have given any offence, +mam.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking up at </i>LUKE <i>with sudden boldness and speaking +in a slow</i>,<i> affected voice</i>.] There’s nothing to +make so much trouble about, sir.<br> +<br> +MILES. Can we be of any assistance to you, madam? The wood +may appear rather dense at this point.<br> +<br> +JOAN. That it does. Dense and dark - and the pathway! +My goodness, but my feet have never travelled over such rough ground +before.<br> +<br> +Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt that the +delicate texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by our stones +and ruts.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Insensibly pulling her skirts over her thick walking +shoes</i>.] Well, it’s vastly different to London streets, +where I generally take exercise - at least when I’m not a-riding +in the coach.<br> +<br> +MILES. The country is but a sad place at the best, Miss Clara +Spring.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking round furtively and speaking in a whisper</i>.] +O, how did you guess my - my name?<br> +<br> +LUKE. Come, ’twasn’t a hard matter, that.<br> +<br> +MILES. Missey can command my services.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Rallying</i>,<i> and standing up</i>.] Then gentlemen, +do you walk a bit of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation +as we go along.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Offering his arm</i>.] You take my arm, Miss Clara +- do - .<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Also offering his arm</i>.] I shall also give +myself the pleasure of supporting Miss.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Taking an arm of each</i>.] O thank you, kindly +gentlemen. Now we shall journey very comfortably, I am sure.<br> +<br> +[<i>They all set out walking in the direction of the farm.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm</i>. <i>There are three doors</i>. +<i>One opens to the staircase</i>,<i> one to the garden and a third +into the back kitchen</i>. <i>At a table in the middle of the +room </i>EMILY <i>stands ironing some net window curtains</i>. +JESSIE <i>and </i>ROBIN <i>lean against the table watching her</i>. +<i>By the open doorway</i>,<i> looking out on the garden</i>,<i> stands +</i>THOMAS, <i>a mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread +in the other</i>. <i>As he talks</i>,<i> he takes alternate drinks +and bites.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Speaking in a shrill</i>,<i> angry voice</i>.] +Now Thomas, suppose you was to take that there bread a step further +away and eat it in the garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling +it all over my clean floor.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Don’t you be so testy, Emily. The dogs’ll +lick the crumbs up as clean as you like presently.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Dogs? I’d like to see the dog as’ll shew +its nose in here to-day when I’ve got it all cleaned up against +the coming of fine young madam.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Finishing his bread and looking wistfully at his empty +hand</i>.] The little maid’ll take a brush and sweep up +her daddy’s crumbs, now, won’t her?<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’ll give it to any one who goes meddling in my brush +cupboard now that I’ve just put all in order against the prying +and nozzling of the good-for-nothing baggage what’s coming along +with your sister.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. What’s baggage, Mother?<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Sharply</i>.] Never you mind. Get and take +your elbow off my ironing sheet.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Looking at her father</i>.] I count as you’d +like a piece more bread, Dad?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Well, I don’t say but ’twouldn’t come +amiss. ’Tis hungry work in th’ hayfield. And +us be to go without our dinners this day, isn’t that so, Emily?<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Slamming down her iron on the stand</i>.] If +I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twenty times, ’twas +but the one pair of hands as I was gived at birth. Now, what have +you got to say against that, Thomas?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Sheepishly</i>.] I’m sure I don’t +know.<br> +<br> +EMILY. And if so be as I’m to clean and wash and cook, and +run, and wait, and scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other +folk must go without hot cooking at mid-day.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Faintly</i>.] ’Twasn’t nothing cooked, +like. ’Twas a bit of bread as I did ask for.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Getting up</i>.] I’ll get it for you, +Dad. I know where the loaf bides and the knife too. I’ll +cut you, O such a large piece.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Seizing her roughly by the hand</i>.] You’ll +do nothing of the sort. You’ll take this here cold iron +into Maggie and you’ll bring back one that is hot. How am +I to get these curtains finished and hung and all, by the time the dressed +up parrots come sailing in, I’d like to know.<br> +<br> +[JESSIE <i>runs away with the iron.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. [<i>Setting down his mug and coming to the table</i>.] +I’d leave the windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping +rose do form the suitablest shade for they, to my thinking.<br> +<br> +EMILY. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, +take your hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty +thumbs shewing all over the clean net what I’ve washed and dried +and ironed, and been a-messing about with since ’twas light?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Now that’s what I be trying for to say. There’s +no need for you to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because +of little Clara coming back. Home’s home. And ’twon’t +be neither the curtains nor the hot dinner as Clara will be thinking +of when her steps into th’ old place once more.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Running back with the hot iron which she sets down +on the table</i>.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Shy and abashed under a withering glance from </i>EMILY +<i>who has taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net</i>.] +Her’ll remember, very like, how ’twas when her left - some +fourteen year ago. And her’ll have her eyes on Gran’ma’s +chair, what’s empty.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass +what’s for dinner.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. And her’ll look up to th’ old clock, and different +things what’s still in their places. The grand parts where +she have been bred up will be forgot. ’Twill be only home +as her’ll think on.<br> +<br> +EMILY. I haven’t patience to listen to such stuff. +<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>After a pause</i>.] I count that ’tisn’t +likely as a young woman what’s been left riches as Clara have, +would choose to make her home along of such as we for always, like.<br> +<br> +EMILY. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, +but when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank +you, Thomas, I’m not going to do it.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. What are spangled plumes, Mother? <br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Viciously</i>.] You’ll see plenty of them +presently.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she?<br> +<br> +[<i>A slight pause during which </i>EMILY <i>irons vigorously.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>As she irons</i>.] Some folk have all the +honey. It do trickle from the mouths of them and down to the ground.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then?<br> +<br> +EMILY. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts +and the vinegar.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Like you, Mother - Least, that’s what Maggie said +this morning.<br> +<br> +EMILY. What’s that?<br> +<br> +JESSIE. That ’twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had +growed, Mother.<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’ll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself +if she can’t fetch them out respectful like. [<i>Shouting</i>.] +Mag, come you here this minute - what are you after now, I’d like +to know, you ugly, idle piece of mischief?<br> +<br> +[MAGGIE, <i>wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen.<br> +<br> +</i>MAGGIE. Was you calling, mistress?<br> +<br> +EMILY. What’s this you’ve got saying to Miss Jessie, +I should like to know.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Running to </i>MAGGIE <i>and laying her hand on her +arm</i>.] Dear Maggie, ’tis only what you did tell about +poor mother’s tongue being in the vinegar jar.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. O Miss Jessie.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Hark you here, my girl - if ’twasn’t hay time +you should bundle up your rags and off with you this minute. But +as ’tis awkward being short of a pair of hands just now, you’ll +bide a week or two and then you’ll get outside of my door with +no more character to you nor what I took you with.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, come Emily. The girl’s a good one for +to work, and that she is.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Be quiet, Thomas. This is my business, and you’ll +please to keep your words till they’re wanted.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. O mistress, I didn’t mean no harm, I didn’t.<br> +<br> +EMILY. I don’t want no words nor no tears neither. +<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Beginning to cry loudly</i>.] I be the only +girl as have stopped with you more nor a month, I be. T’others +wouldn’t bide a day, some of them.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Be quiet. Back to your work with you. And when +the hay is all carried, off with you, ungrateful minx, to where you +came from.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. O let us keep her always, Mother, she’s kind. +<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Don’t you cry, Mag. I’ll marry you when +I’m a big man like Daddy.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Harken to them, Emily! She’s been a good maid +to the children. I’d not part with any one so hasty, if +’twas me.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Very angrily</i>.] When I want your opinion, +Thomas, I’ll ask for it. Suppose you was to go out and see +after something which you do understand.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. O I’ll go down to the field fast enough, I can tell +you. ’Twas only being hungered as drove me into the hornets’ +nest, as you might say.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Ironing fiercely</i>.] What’s that?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Nothing. I did only say as I was a-going back to +the field when George do come home.<br> +<br> +EMILY. There again. Did you ever know the man to be so slow +before. I warrant as he have gone drinking or mischiefing down +at the Spotted Cow instead of coming straight home with they chicken.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Nay, nay. George is not the lad to do a thing like +that. A quieter more well bred up lad nor George never trod in +shoes.<br> +<br> +EMILY [<i>Glancing at </i>MAGGIE.] What are you tossing your head +like that for, Maggie? Please to recollect as you’re a lazy, +good-for-nothing little slut of a maid servant, and not a circus pony +all decked out for the show.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Maggie’s fond of Georgie. And Georgie’s +kind to Mag.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Fearfully</i>.] O don’t, Miss Jessie, +for goodness sake.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Viciously</i>.] I’ll soon put an end to +anything in that quarter.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Now, Emily - take it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara +upon us before us knows where we are.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Folding the curtains</i>.] I’ll settle +her too, if she comes before I’m ready for her.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Pointing through the open</i>.] There’s +George, coming with the basket.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>comes into the room</i>. <i>He carefully rubs his feet +on the mat as he enters</i>. <i>Then he advances to the table</i>. +MAGGIE <i>dries her eyes with the back of her hand</i>. JESSIE +<i>is standing with her arm in </i>MAGGIE’S.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Well, and where have you been all this while, I’d +like to know?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. To Brook Farm, mam, and home.<br> +<br> +EMILY. You’ve been up to some mischief on the way, I warrant.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, Emily.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>looks calmly into </i>EMILY’S <i>face</i>. <i>Then +his gaze travels leisurely round the room.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. I was kept waiting while they did pluck and dress +the chicken.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Lifting the cloth covering the basket</i>,<i> and looking +within it</i>.] I’d best have gone myself. Of all +the thick-headed men I ever did see, you’re the thickest. +Upon my word you are.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. What’s wrong now, mistress?<br> +<br> +EMILY. ’Taint chicken at all what you’ve been and +fetched me.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I’ll be blowed if I do know what ’tis then.<br> +<br> +EMILY. If I’d been given a four arms and legs at birth same +as th’ horses, I’d have left a pair of them at home and +gone and done the job myself, I would. And then you should see +what I’d have brought back.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. You can’t better what I’ve got here. +From the weight it might be two fat capons. So it might.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Seizing the basket roughly</i>.] Here, Mag, off +into the pantry with them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the +road ditch would have done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with +these clean curtains and lay them careful on the bed. I’ll +put them to the windows later.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. George, my boy, did you meet with any one on the way, +like?<br> +<br> +EMILY. You’d best ask no questions if you don’t want +to be served with lies, Thomas.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Throwing a glance of disdain at </i>EMILY.] +Miles Hooper and Farmer Jenner was taking the air ’long of one +another in the wood, master.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Miles Hooper and Luke a-taking of the air, and of a weekday +morning!<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That they was, master. And they did stop I -<br> +<br> +EMILY. Ah, now you’ve got it, Thomas. Now we shall +know why George was upon the road the best part of the day and me kept +waiting for the chicken.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Steadily</i>.] Sunday clothes to the back of +both of them. And, when was Miss Clara expected up at home.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a fair commotion all over these parts already, +I warrant. There wasn’t nothing else spoke of in market +last time, but how as sister Clara with all her money was to come home.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Coming back</i>.] I’ve laid the curtains +on the bed, shall I gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother?<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’d like to see you! Flowers in the bedroom? +I never heard tell of such senseless goings on. What next, I’d +like to know?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Miss Clara always did fill a mug of clover blooms and +set it aside of her bed when her was a little thing - so high.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Do you remember our fine aunt, then, Georgie?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I remembers Miss Clara right enough.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Don’t you flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy +piece of town goods will trouble herself to remember you.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. The little maid had a good enough heart to her afore she +was took away from us.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Do you think our aunt Clara has growed into a coxsy town +lady, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No, I do not, Miss Jessie.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Beginning to stir about noisily as she sets the kitchen +in order</i>.] Get off with you to the field, Thomas, can’t +you. I’ve had enough to do as ’tis without a great +hulking man standing about and taking up all the room.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, George, us’ll clear out down to th’ +hay field, and snatch a bite as we do go.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That’s it, master.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Calling angrily after them</i>.] There’s +no dinner for no one to-day, I tell you.<br> +<br> +[THOMAS <i>and </i>GEORGE <i>go out of the back kitchen door</i>. +EMILY <i>begins putting the irons away</i>,<i> folding up the ironing +sheet and setting the chairs back against the wall.<br> +<br> +</i>[JESSIE <i>and </i>ROBIN, <i>from their places at the table</i>,<i> +watch her intently.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>As she moves about</i>.] ’Twouldn’t +be half the upset if the wench was coming by herself, but to have a +hussy of a serving maid sticking about in the rooms along of us, is +more nor I can stand.<br> +<br> +[<i>She begins violently to sweep up the hearth</i>.<br> +<br> +[<i>Steps are heard outside.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. Hark, what’s that, mother?<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’ll give it to any one who wants to come in here.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Running to the open door</i>.] They’re +coming up the path. ’Tis our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen +either side of she.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Running also to the door</i>.] O I want to look +on her too.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Putting the broom in a corner</i>.] ’Tis +no end to the vexation. But she’ll have to wait on herself. +I’ve no time to play the dancing bear. And that I’ve +not.<br> +<br> +[JOAN, <i>between </i>MILES HOOPER <i>and </i>LUKE JENNER, <i>comes +up to the open door.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. [<i>To Jessie</i>.] See here, my little maid, +what’ll you give Mister Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe +up to the farm?<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I know who ’tis you’ve brought. ’Tis +my Aunt Clara.<br> +<br> +LUKE. You’re a smart little wench, if ever there was one.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I know who ’tis, too, ’cause of the spangled +plumes in the bonnet of she. Mother said as there’d be some.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Coming forward</i>.] Well, Clara, if ’twas +by the morning coach as you did come, you’re late. If ’twas +by th’ evening one, you’re too soon by a good few hours.<br> +<br> +MILES. Having come by the morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant +fancy to stroll here through the woodlands, Missis Spring.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Ah, and ’twas lost on the way as we did find her, +like a strayed sheep.<br> +<br> +MILES. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer +safely home.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Scornfully looking </i>JOAN <i>over from head to foot</i>.] +Where’s that serving wench of yours got to, Clara?<br> +<br> +MILES. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent +her maid on by another road.<br> +<br> +EMILY. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have +found something of mischief for her idle hands to do.<br> +<br> +MILES. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat +fatigued by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately +framed, Missis Spring.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Pointing ungraciously</i>.] There’s chairs +right in front of you.<br> +<br> +[MILES <i>and </i>LUKE <i>lead </i>JOAN <i>forward</i>,<i> placing her +in an armchair with every attention</i>. JOAN <i>sinks into it</i>,<i> +and</i>,<i> taking a little fan from the silken bag on her arm</i>,<i> +begins to fan herself violently.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Watching her with fierce contempt</i>.] Maybe +as you’d like my kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, +seeing as your fine maid is gadding about the high roads instead of +minding what it concerns her to attend to.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Faintly</i>.] O no, thank you. The day is +rather warm - that’s all.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Warm, I should think it was warm in under of that great +white curtain.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Aunt Clara, I’m Jessie.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Are you, my dear?<br> +<br> +ROBIN. And I’m Robin.<br> +<br> +MILES. Now, I wager, if you are both good little children, this +pretty lady will give you each a kiss.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Faintly</i>.] To be sure I will.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Then you’ll have to take off that white thing from +your face. ’Tis like what mother do spread over the currant +bushes to keep the birds from the fruit.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>slowly raises her veil</i>,<i> showing her face</i>.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Shall I give you a kiss, Aunt?<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’d be careful if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies +be brittle as fine china.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. O I’ll kiss her very lightly, Mother.<br> +<br> +[<i>She goes up to </i>JOAN <i>and kisses her</i>. ROBIN <i>then +reaches up his face and </i>JOAN <i>kisses him.<br> +<br> +</i>ROBIN. [<i>Rubbing his mouth</i>.] The flour do come +from Aunt same as it does from a new loaf.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>To </i>JOAN.] You must pardon these ignorant +little country brats, Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O there’s nothing amiss, thank you.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Amiss, who said as there was? When folks what can +afford to lodge at the inn do come down and fasten theirselves on the +top of poor people, they must take things as they do find them and not +start grumbling at the first set off.<br> +<br> +LUKE. There, there, Missis Spring. There wasn’t naught +said about grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long +distance, and it behoves us all as she should find summat of a welcome +at the end of her journey, like.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Aside to </i>JOAN.] How strange this country +tongue must fall on your ears, Miss Clara!<br> +<br> +JOAN. I don’t understand about half of what they say.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Overhearing her</i>.] O, you don’t, don’t +you. Well, Clara, I was always one for plain words, and I say +’tis a pity when folks do get above the position to which they +was bred, and for all the fine satins and plumes upon you, the body +what’s covered by them belongs to Clara Spring, what’s sister +to Thomas. And all the world knows what Thomas is - A poor, mean +spirited, humble born man with but two coats to the back of him, and +with not a thought to the mind of him which is not foolishness. +And I judge from by what they be in birth, and not by the bags of gold +what have been left them by any old madams in their dotage. So +now you see how I takes it all and you and me can start fair, like.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>To </i>LUKE.] O Mister - Mister Jenner, I feel +so faint.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Taking her fan</i>.] Allow me. [<i>He begins +to fan her</i>.] I assure you she means nothing by it. It’s +her way. You see, she knows no better.<br> +<br> +LUKE. I’d fetch out summat for her to eat if I was you, +missis. ’Tis famished as the poor young maid must be.<br> +<br> +EMILY. She should have come when ’twas meal time then. +I don’t hold with bites nor drinks in between whiles.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O I’m dying for a glass of milk - or water would do +as well.<br> +<br> +MILES. My dear young lady - anything to oblige. [<i>Turning +to Jessie</i>.] Come, my little maid, see if you can’t make +yourself useful in bringing a tray of refreshment for your auntie. +And you [<i>turning to Robin</i>]<i> </i>trot off and help sister.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Not if I know it. Stop where you are, Jess. +Robin, you dare to move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I’m +afeared she must wait till supper time.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. And a great pie of gooseberries.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Faintly</i>.] O I couldn’t touch a mouthful +of food, don’t speak to me about it.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I likes talking of dinner. After I’ve done +eating of it, I likes next best to talk about it.<br> +<br> +LUKE. See here, missis. Let’s have a glass of summat +cool for Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Calling angrily</i>.] Maggie, Maggie, where are +you, you great lazy-boned donkey?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Comes in from the back kitchen</i>,<i> her apron held +to her eyes</i>.] Did you call me, mistress?<br> +<br> +EMILY. Get up a bucket of water from the well. Master’s +sister wants a drink.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Between sobs</i>.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, +or would the young lady like it in a jug?<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>With exasperation</i>.] There’s no end +to the worriting that other folks do make.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>To </i>JOAN.] Do you know what Maggie’s +crying for, Aunt Clara?<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m sure I don’t, little boy.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. ’Tis because she’s got to go. Mother’s +sent her off. ’Twas what she said of mother’s tongue.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Roughly taking hold of </i>ROBIN <i>and </i>JESSIE.] +Come you along with me, you ill-behaved little varmints. ’Tis +the back kitchen and the serving maid as is the properest place for +such as you. I’ll not have you bide ’mongst the company +no longer. [<i>She goes out with the children and followed by +</i>MAGGIE.]<br> +<br> +[<i>Directly they have left the room </i>JOAN, <i>whose manner has been +nervously shrinking</i>,<i> seems to recover herself and she assumes +a languid</i>,<i> artificial air</i>,<i> badly imitating the ways of +a lady of fashion.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan</i>.] +Well, I never did meet with such goings on before.<br> +<br> +MILES. You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, +Miss Clara. We must not expect to find the same polite ways down +here.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Come now, ’tisn’t so bad as all that with we. +There baint many what has the tongue of mistress yonder.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m quite unused to such people.<br> +<br> +LUKE. And yet, Miss Clara, ’tisn’t as though they +were exactly strangers to you like.<br> +<br> +JOAN. They feel as good as strangers to me, any way.<br> +<br> +MILES. Ah, how well I understand that, Miss. ’Tisn’t +very often as we lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached +woollen at my counters.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn’t +feel so terrible faint and sinking.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Going to the back kitchen door</i>.] Here, Maggie, +stir yourself up a bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Runs in with a tray on which is a jug of water and +a glass</i>.] I’m bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. +Maggie’s crying ever so badly, and Mother’s sent her upstairs +to wash her face and put her hair tidy.<br> +<br> +[JESSIE <i>puts the tray on the table near to where </i>JOAN <i>is sitting</i>. +MILES HOOFER <i>busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in +handing it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to </i>JOAN.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Drinking</i>.] Such a coarse glass!<br> +<br> +MILES. Ah, you must let me send you up one from my place during +your stay here. Who could expect a lady to drink from such a thing +as that?<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Laying aside the glass</i>.] There’s a taste +of mould in the water too.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. It’s fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, +she did.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking disdainfully round on the room</i>.] Such +a strange room. So very common.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Nay, you mustn’t judge of the house by this. +Don’t you recollect the parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds +and the chiney cupboard?<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking round again</i>.] Such an old-fashioned +place as this I never did see. ’Tis a low sort of room too, +no carpet on the boards nor cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant.<br> +<br> +MILES. Ah, we find the mansions in town very different to a country +farm house, don’t we Miss?<br> +<br> +JOAN. I should think we did, Mister Hooper. Why, look at +that great old wooden chair by the hearth? Don’t it look +un-stylish, upon my word, with no cushions to it nor nothing.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Coming quite close to </i>JOAN <i>and looking straight +into her face</i>.] That’s great gran’ma’s chair, +what Dad said you’d be best pleased for to see.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>looks very confused and begins to fan herself hastily.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. And th’ old clock’s another thing what +Dad did say as you’d look upon.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O the old clock’s well enough, to be sure.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I did want to gather a nosegay of flowers to set in your +bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, she said, no.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Languidly</i>.] I must say I don’t see any +flowers blooming here that I should particular care about having in +my apartment.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. And Father said as how you’d like to smell the blossoms +in the garden. And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the +clover blooms when you was a little girl and set them by you where you +did sleep.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Crossly</i>.] O run away, child, I’m tired +to death with all this chatter. How would you like to be so pestered +after such a travel over the rough country roads as I have had?<br> +<br> +LUKE. Now, my little maid, off you go. Take back the tray +to Mother, and be careful as you don’t break the glasses on it.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Taking up the tray</i>.] I’m off to play +in the hayfield along of Robin, then.<br> +<br> +[LUKE <i>opens the back kitchen door for her and she goes out</i>. +<i>Meanwhile </i>MILES <i>has taken up the fan and is fanning </i>JOAN, +<i>who leans back in her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look.<br> +<br> +</i>LUKE. [<i>Coming to her side and sitting down</i>.] +’Twill seem more homelike when Thomas do come up from the field.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Raising herself and looking at him</i>.] You mustn’t +trouble about me, Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable +presently.<br> +<br> +[<i>The back door opens and </i>MAGGIE <i>comes hurriedly in.<br> +<br> +</i>MAGGIE. Please, mistress, there be a young person a-coming +through the rick yard.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Nervously</i>.] A young person?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. Mistress be at the gooseberries a-gathering of them, and +the children be gone off to th’ hay field.<br> +<br> +MILES. ’Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. +Shall I fetch the young woman in to you?<br> +<br> +JOAN. My maid, did you say? My maid?<br> +<br> +LUKE. Ah, depend on it, ’tis she.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, +mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white +handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes +and a-calling of the geese and poultry.<br> +<br> +LUKE. That’s her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Agitatedly</i>.] No, no - I mean - I want to see +her particular - and alone. I’ll go to meet her. You +- gentlemen - [MAGGIE <i>goes slowly into the back kitchen.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. [<i>Placing a chair for </i>JOAN.] Delicate ladies +should not venture out into the heat at this time of day.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going +to the window</i>.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll +in the garden. I have need of the services of my - my young woman. +But when she has put me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask +you to be good enough to come back and while away an hour for me in +this sad place.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Fervently</i>.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss.<br> +<br> +LUKE. That’s right. Us’ll wait while you do +lay aside your bonnet.<br> +<br> +[MILES <i>and </i>LUKE <i>go out through the garden door</i>. +MILES, <i>turning to bow low before he disappears</i>. JOAN <i>stands +as though distraught in the middle of the room</i>. <i>Through +the open door of the back kitchen the voices of </i>CLARA <i>and </i>MAGGIE +<i>are distinctly heard.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. Is no one at home then?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. Ah, go you straight on into the kitchen, you’ll +find whom you be searching for in there. I’d take and shew +you in myself only I’m wanted down to th’ hayfield now.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Don’t put yourself to any trouble about me. +I know my way.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>comes into the kitchen</i>. <i>She has tied a white +handkerchief over her head</i>,<i> and carries a bunch of wildflowers +in her hands.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. Still in your cloak and bonnet! Why, I thought +by now you would have unpacked our things and made yourself at home.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Joining her hands supplicatingly and coming towards +</i>CLARA, <i>speaking almost in a whisper</i>.] O mistress, you’ll +never guess what I’ve been and done. But ’twasn’t +all my fault at the commencement.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Looking her over searchingly</i>.] You do look +very disturbed, Joan, what has happened?<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Twas the fine bonnet and cloak, mam. ’Twas +they as did it.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Did what?<br> +<br> +JOAN. Put the thought into my head, like.<br> +<br> +CLARA. What thought?<br> +<br> +JOAN. As how ’twould feel to be a real grand lady, like +you, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. What then, Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. So I began to pretend all to myself as how that I was one, +mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Come, tell me all.<br> +<br> +JOAN. And whilst I was sat down upon that fallen tree, and sort +of pretending to myself, the two gentlemen came along.<br> +<br> +CLARA. What gentlemen?<br> +<br> +JOAN. Gentlemen as was after courting you, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Courting me?<br> +<br> +JOAN. Yes, and they commenced speaking so nice and respectful +like.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Go on, Joan, don’t be afraid.<br> +<br> +JOAN. It did seem to fall in with the game I was a-playing with +myself. And then, before I did know how, ’twas they was +both of them a-taking me for you, mam.<br> +<br> +CLARA. And did you not un-deceive them, Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Very ashamedly</i>.] No, mam.<br> +<br> +CLARA. You should have told them the truth about yourself at once.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O I know I should have, mistress. But there was something +as held me back when I would have spoke the words.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I wonder what that could have been?<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Twas them being such very nice and kind gentlemen. +And, O mistress, you’ll not understand it, because you’ve +told me many times as the heart within you have never been touched by +love.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Suddenly sitting down</i>.] And has yours been +touched to-day, Joan, by love?<br> +<br> +JOAN. That it have, mistress. Love have struck at it heavily.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Through which of the gentlemen did it strike, Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. Through both. Leastways, ’tis Mister Jenner +that my feelings do go out most quickly to, mistress. But ’tis +Mister Hooper who do court the hardest and who has the greatest riches +like.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Well, and what do you want me to do or to say now, Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. See here, mistress, I want you to give me a chance. +They’ll never stoop to wed me if they knows as I’m but a +poor serving maid.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Your dressing up as a fine lady won’t make you other +than what you are, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Once let me get the fish in my net, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Are you proposing to catch the two, Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. I shall take the one as do offer first, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. That’ll be Mister Hooper, I should think.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I should go riding in my own chaise, mistress, if ’twas +him.<br> +<br> +CLARA. But, Joan, either of these men would have to know the truth +before there could be any marriage.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I knows that full well, mistress. But let one of them +just offer hisself. By that time my heart and his would be so +closely twined together like, ’twould take more nor such a little +thing as my station being low to part us.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>sits very still for a few moments</i>,<i> looking straight +before her</i>,<i> lost in thought</i>. JOAN <i>sinks on to a +chair by the table as though suddenly tired out</i>,<i> and she begins +to cry gently.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. Listen, Joan. I’m one for the straight +paths. I like to walk in open fields and over the bare heath. +Only times come when one is driven to take to the ways which are set +with bushes and with briars.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Lifting her head and drying her eyes</i>.] O mistress, +I feel to be asking summat as is too heavy for you to give.<br> +<br> +CLARA. But for a certain thing, I could never have lent myself +to this acting game of yours, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. No, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Only that, to-day, my heart too has gone from my own keeping.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, you don’t mean to say as his lordship +have followed us down already.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Scornfully</i>.] His lordship! As if I +should be stirred by him!<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Humbly</i>.] Who might it be, mistress, if I may +ask?<br> +<br> +CLARA. ’Tis one who would never look upon me with thoughts +of love if I went to him as I am now, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I can’t rightly understand you, mam.<br> +<br> +CLARA. My case is just the same as yours, Joan. You say +that your fine gentlemen would not look upon a serving maid.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m certain of it, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. And the man I - I love will never let his heart go out +to mine with the heaviness of all these riches lying between us.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I count that gold do pave the way for most of us, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. So for this once, I will leave the clear high road, Joan. +And you and I will take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God +they do not wound us past healing at the end of our travel.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, ’twill be a lightsome journey for me.<br> +<br> +CLARA. But the moment that you reach happiness, Joan, remember +to confess.<br> +<br> +JOAN. There won’t be nothing to fear then, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Make him love you for yourself, Joan. O we must each +tie the heart of our true love so tightly to our own that naught shall +ever be able to cut the bonds.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Yes, mistress, and I’m sure I’m very much obliged +to you.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Ah, I am lending myself to all this, because I, too, have +something to win or lose.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Where did you meet him, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. I did not meet him. I stood on the high ground, and +he passed below. His face was raised to the light, and I saw its +look. I think my love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, +Joan. But when he passed beneath me in the meadow, it awoke.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O mistress, what sort of an appearance has the gentleman?<br> +<br> +CLARA. I don’t know how to answer you, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I count as it would take a rare, grand looking man for to +put his lordship into the shadow, like.<br> +<br> +CLARA. You are right there, Joan. But now we must talk of +your affairs. Your fine courtiers will be coming in presently +and you must know how to receive them in a good way.<br> +<br> +JOAN. That’s what do hamper me dreadful, my speech and other +things. How would it be if you was to help me a little bit, like?<br> +<br> +CLARA. With all my heart.<br> +<br> +JOAN. How should I act so not to be found out, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. You must speak little, and low. Do not show haste +in your goings and comings. Put great care into your way of eating +and drinking.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O that will be a fearsome hard task. What else?<br> +<br> +CLARA. You must be sisterly with Thomas.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’d clean forgot him. I don’t doubt but +what he’ll ferret out the truth in no time.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I don’t think so. I was but a little child +when I left him. He will not remember how I looked. And +our colouring is alike, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Tis the eating and drinking as do play most heavily +upon my mind, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Then think of these words as you sit at table. Eat +as though you were not hungry and drink as though there were no such +thing as thirst. Let your hands move about your plate as if they +were too tired to lift the knife and fork.<br> +<br> +[JOAN, <i>darts to the dresser - seizes up a plate with a knife and +fork</i>,<i> places them on the table and sits down before them</i>,<i> +pretending to cut up meat</i>. CLARA <i>watches her smilingly.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Absently</i>,<i> raising the knife to her mouth</i>.] +How’s that, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Not so, not so, Joan. That might betray you.<br> +<br> +JOAN. What, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. ’Tis the fork which journeys to the mouth, and the +knife stops at home on the plate.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Dispiritedly</i>.] ’Tis almost more than +I did reckon for when I started.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Well, we mustn’t think of that now. We must +hold up our spirits, you and I.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Getting up and putting away the crockery</i>.] +I’d best take off the bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn’t +I?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Yes, that you had. We will go upstairs together and +I will help you change into another gown. Come quickly so that +we may have plenty of time.<br> +<br> +[<i>They go towards the staircase door</i>,<i> </i>CLARA <i>leading +the way</i>. <i>With her hand on the latch of the door she gives +one look round the kitchen</i>. <i>Then with a sudden movement +she goes up to the wooden armchair at the hearth and bends her head +till her lips touch it</i>,<i> she then runs upstairs</i>,<i> followed +by </i>JOAN.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT II. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>After a few moments </i>MILES HOOPER <i>and </i>LUKE JENNER <i>come +into the kitchen</i>. <i>They both look round the room enquiringly.<br> +<br> +</i>LUKE. Ah, she be still up above with that there serving wench +what’s come.<br> +<br> +MILES. My good man, you didn’t expect our fair miss to have +finished her toilet under an hour, did you?<br> +<br> +LUKE. I don’t see what there was to begin on myself, let +alone finish.<br> +<br> +MILES. ’Tis clear you know little of the ways of our town +beauties, Luke.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Still, I mean to have my try with her, Miles Hooper.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Sarcastically</i>.] I’m quite agreeable, +Mister Jenner.<br> +<br> +[THOMAS <i>and </i>GEORGE <i>come in</i>. GEORGE <i>carries a +bucket of water.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Where’s the little maid got to? George +and me be come up from the field on purpose for to bid her welcome home.<br> +<br> +MILES. Miss is still at her toilet, farmer.<br> +<br> +[JOAN, <i>in a flowered silk gown</i>,<i> comes slowly and carefully +into the room</i>,<i> followed by </i>CLARA, <i>who carries a lace shawl +over one arm</i>. <i>She has put on a large white apron</i>,<i> +but wears nothing on her head but the narrow blue ribbon</i>. +<i>During the following scene she stands quietly</i>,<i> half hidden +by the door.<br> +<br> +</i>[JOAN <i>looks nervously round the room</i>,<i> then she draws herself +up very haughtily</i>. MILES <i>comes forward and bows low.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. [<i>Looking </i>JOAN <i>up and down</i>.] Well, +bless my soul, who’d have guessed at the change it do make in +a wench?<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Holding out her hand</i>,<i> very coldly</i>.] +A good afternoon to you, sir.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Taking her hand slowly</i>.] Upon my word, but +you might knock me over.<br> +<br> +MILES. Miss has grown into a very superb young lady, Thomas.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Still looking at her</i>.] That may be so, yet +’twasn’t as such I had figured she in the eye of my mind, +like. [<i>There is a moment</i>’<i>s silence.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. George, my boy, you and sister Clara used to be up +to rare games one with t’other once on a time. [<i>Turning +to </i>JOAN.] There, my wench, I count you’ve not forgotten +Georgie?<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m afeared I’ve not much of a memory.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Shake hands, my maid, and very like as the memory will +come back to roost same as the fowls do.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Bowing coldly</i>.] Good afternoon, George.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Aside to Luke</i>.] Now that’s what I call +a bit of stylish breeding.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>has made no answer to </i>JOAN’s <i>bow</i>. +<i>He quietly ignores it</i>,<i> and takes up his pail of water</i>. +<i>As he does so he catches sight of </i>CLARA, <i>who has been watching +the whole scene from the corner where she is partly concealed</i>. +<i>He looks at her for one moment</i>,<i> and then sets the bucket down +again.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Why, George - I guess as it’s took you as it +took me, us didn’t think how ’twould appear when Miss Clara +was growed up.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Quietly</i>.] No, us did not, master.<br> +<br> +[<i>He carries his pail into the back kitchen as </i>EMILY <i>and the +children come in.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. What’s all this to-do in my kitchen, I should +like to know?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Us did but come up for to - to give a handshake to sister +Clara, like.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Well, now you can go off back to work again. And +you -<i> </i>[<i>turning to </i>JOAN] - now that you’ve finished +curling of your hair and dressing of yourself up, you can go and sit +down in the best parlour along with your fancy gentlemen.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Offering his arm to </i>JOAN.] It will be my +sweet pleasure to conduct Missy to the parlour.<br> +<br> +[LUKE <i>offers his arm on the other side</i>,<i> and </i>JOAN <i>moves +off with both the young men.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>As she goes</i>.] Indeed, I shall be glad +to rest on a comfortable couch. I’m dead tired of the country +air already.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Calling after her</i>.] You’ll not go off +to sleep afore the chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt?<br> +<br> +[MILES, LUKE <i>and </i>JOAN <i>having gone out</i>,<i> </i>EMILY <i>begins +to bang the chairs back in their places and to arrange the room</i>,<i> +watched by the two children</i>. CLARA, <i>who has remained half +hidden by the door</i>,<i> now goes quietly upstairs.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Calling</i>.] Here, George, Mag.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>comes in.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. Well, George, ’tisn’t much worse nor I +expected.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I don’t like Aunt Clara.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I hates her very much.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Slowly</i>.] And I don’t seem to fancy +her neither.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT III. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Two days have passed by.<br> +<br> +It is morning</i>. CLARA, <i>wearing an apron and a muslin cap +on her head</i>,<i> sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief</i>. +MAGGIE, <i>who is dusting the plates on the dressers</i>,<i> pauses +to watch her.<br> +<br> +</i>MAGGIE. I’d sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that +I would, nor have to set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I count ’tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, +serving a young miss such as yourn be.<br> +<br> +CLARA. What makes you say that, Maggie?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in +the tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis +when she do come to that age.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Why do you think this, Mag?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor +the very worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word +did cost she more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how +destructive she be with her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore +to ribbons last night, and to-day yon handkerchief.<br> +<br> +CLARA. These things are soon mended.<br> +<br> +[MAGGIE <i>continues to dust for a few moments.<br> +<br> +</i>MAGGIE. The day you comed here, ’twas a bit of ribbon +as you did have around of your hair.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>After a moment</i>’<i>s hesitation</i>.] +I put it on to keep my hair neat on the journeying.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Coming nearer</i>.] I count as you’ve +not missed it, have you?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the hayfield.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. ’Tain’t lost.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Where is it then?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. Look here, I could tell you, but I shan’t.<br> +<br> +CLARA. If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. ’Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid +as you be, and to give away ribbons, so ’twould.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>takes no notice of her and goes on sewing.<br> +<br> +</i>MAGGIE. [<i>More insistently</i>.] ’Twasn’t +me as found the ribbon.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Who was it then?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I daresay you’d like for to know, but I’m +not going to say nothing more about it.<br> +<br> +[MAGGIE <i>leans against the table watching </i>CLARA <i>as she sews.<br> +<br> +</i>[EMILY <i>with both the children now come in</i>. EMILY <i>carries +a basket of potatoes</i>,<i> and </i>JESSIE <i>a large bowl.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Setting down the basket</i>.] Maggie, you +idle, bad girl, whatever are you doing here when master expects you +down in the meadow to help with the raking?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I be just a-going off yonder, mistress.<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’d thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine +young serving minxes down here - you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but +you’ll be a hundred times worser now.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I’ll be off and help master. I’ve been +and put the meat on to boil as you said, missis.<br> +<br> +[MAGGIE <i>goes off.<br> +<br> +</i>[CLARA <i>continues to sew</i>,<i> quietly</i>. JESSIE <i>has +put her bowl down on the table</i>,<i> and now comes to her side</i>. +ROBIN <i>also comes close to her</i>. EMILY <i>flings herself +into a chair for a moment and contemptuously watches them.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. We don’t care much about our new aunt, Joan.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good +from London town in them great boxes.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn’t +brought us nothing.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy +gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you children.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Will Aunt Clara get married soon?<br> +<br> +EMILY. ’Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set +out in the house I have never seen afore in all my days. Young +women as is hale and hearty having their victuals took up to their rooms +and a-lying in bed till ’tis noon or later.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. ’Tis only one of them as lies in bed.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>To </i>CLARA.] Do you think Aunt has got sommat +for us upstairs, Joan?<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Rising and putting down her work</i>.] I know +she has, Robin.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Don’t let me catch you speaking to Master Spring +as though you and he was of the same station, young person.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch +the gifts that your aunt has brought for you.<br> +<br> +[<i>She goes leisurely towards the staircase door</i>,<i> smiling at +the children.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. Ah, and you may tell your young madam that ’tis +high time as she was out of bed and abroad. Hear that? [CLARA +<i>goes out.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not +like Aunt.<br> +<br> +EMILY. She’s a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. +Look at the hands of her, ’tis not a day’s hard work as +they have done in her life, I’ll warrant.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do +you think?<br> +<br> +EMILY. Sommat what you don’t need, I warrant. ’Tis +always so. When folks take it into their heads to give you aught, +’tis very nigh always sommat which you could do better without.<br> +<br> +[EMILY <i>gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire</i>,<i> and +fetching a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which +she lays on the table.<br> +<br> +</i>[CLARA <i>enters carrying some parcels</i>. <i>She brings +them to the table</i>. <i>Both the children run to her.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. [<i>Holding out a long parcel to </i>EMILY <i>and speaking +to the children</i>.] The first is for your mother, children.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>With an angry exclamation</i>.] Now, you mark +my words, ’twill be sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge +for all the use ’twill be.<br> +<br> +[<i>She comes near</i>,<i> opens the parcel and perceives it to be a +length of rich black silk.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. My mistress thought it might be suitable.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Suitable? I’ll suitable her. When shall +my two hands find time to sew me a gown out of it, I’d like to +know? And if ’twas sewn, when would my limbs find time to +sit down within of it? [<i>Flinging it down on the table</i>.] +Suitable? You can tell your mistress from me as she can keep her +gifts to herself if she can’t do better nor this.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Stroking the silk</i>.] O Mother, the feel of +it be softer nor a dove’s feather.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Feeling it too</i>.] ’Tis better nor the +new kittens’ fur.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards +you children.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, +with her aunt’s dear love. And this book of pictures is +for Master Robin.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Seizing the beads with delight</i>.] I love +a string of beads. [<i>Putting them on</i>.] How do they +look on me?<br> +<br> +EMILY. Off with them this moment. I’ll learn her to +give strings of rubbish to my child.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Beginning to cry</i>.] O do let me wear it just +a little while, just till dinner, Mother.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do +you hear.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Taking the necklace off</i>.] I love the feel +of it - might I keep it in my hand then?<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Seizing it</i>.] ’Twill be put by with +the silk dress. So there. ’Tis not a suitable thing +for a little girl like you.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Looking up from the pages of his book</i>.] No +one shan’t take my book from me. There be pictures of great +horses and sheep and cows in it - and no one shan’t hide it from +me.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table</i>.] +Next time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope +as she’ll ask me to come and see her a-doing of it.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Coming up to </i>CLARA <i>very tearfully</i>.] +And was there naught for Dad in the great box?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Perhaps there may be.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie?<br> +<br> +CLARA. I don’t know.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Sharply</i>.] Look you here, young woman. +Suppose you was to take and do something useful with that idle pair +of hands as you’ve got.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Us knows what fine promises lead to.<br> +<br> +CLARA. But I mean it. Do let me help a little.<br> +<br> +EMILY. See them taters?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Yes.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against +when I wants to cook them.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>A little doubtfully</i>.] Yes - I’ll - +I’ll try -<br> +<br> +EMILY. Ah, ’tis just as I thought. You’re one +of them who would stir the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black +their hands with the poker.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Eagerly</i>.] No, no - it isn’t that. +I’ll gladly do them. Come, Miss Jessie, you will shew me +if I do them wrongly, won’t you?<br> +<br> +JESSIE. O yes, I’ll help you because I like you, Joan.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I’ll help too, when I have finished looking at my +book.<br> +<br> +[EMILY <i>goes out</i>. CLARA <i>sits down by the table and takes +up a potato and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work</i>. +JESSIE <i>stands by her watching.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. You mustn’t take no account of Mother when she +speaks so sharp. ’Tis only her way.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie’s +sent off?<br> +<br> +CLARA. O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Yes, you don’t do them taters very nice.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. That don’t matter, I like you, and you can tell me +fine things about other parts.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there +he comes with the vegetables from the garden.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>comes in with a large basket of vegetables</i>,<i> which +he sets down in the back kitchen</i>. <i>Then he stands at the +door</i>,<i> silently watching the group near the table.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the +tales out of what you do sing.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs +this time of day?<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Mother’s gone upstairs, she won’t know nothing.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt +have brought me.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Slowly approaching the table</i>.] That be a +brave, fine book of pictures, Master Robin.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Holding up the open book</i>.] I don’t +fancy Aunt Clara much, but I likes her better nor I did because of this +book.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE’S <i>eyes wander from the book to </i>CLARA <i>as she +bends over her work.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. Joan doesn’t know how to do them very nicely, +does she George!<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis the first time you’ve been set down to +such work, may be, mistress.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. You mustn’t say “mistress” to Joan, +you know. Why, Mother would be ever so angry if she was to hear +you. Joan’s only a servant.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Looking up</i>.] Like you, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Steadily</i>.] What I was saying is - ’Tis +the first time as you have been set afore a bowl of taters like this.<br> +<br> +CLARA. You are right, George. It is the first time since +- since I was quite a little child. And I think I’m very +clumsy at my work.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over +their fingers.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, +same as Maggie does.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>puts aside the knife and basket</i>,<i> turns back her sleeves</i>,<i> +and then resumes her work</i>. GEORGE’S <i>eyes are rivetted +on her hands and arms for a moment</i>. <i>Then he turns as though +to go away.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. Don’t go away, Georgie. Come and tell +us how you like Aunt Clara now that she’s growed into such a grand +lady.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Coming back to the table</i>.] I don’t +like nothing about her, Miss Jessie.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride +the big horses to the trough, Georgie?<br> +<br> +ROBIN. And from the time when th’ old gander did take a +big piece right out of her arm, Georgie?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>His eyes on </i>CLARA’S <i>bent head</i>.] +I count her be wonderful changed, like.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. So that you would scarce know her?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. So that I should scarce know she.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string +of coral beads. But naught for you, Georgie.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance +like.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>With sudden earnestness</i>.] O that she has, +George.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. She didn’t seem to know him by her looks.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Looks often speak but poorly for the heart.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Who has been watching </i>CLARA.] See there, +Joan. You’ve been and cut that big tater right in half. +Mother will be cross.<br> +<br> +CLARA. O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk +at the same time.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself +on the edge of the table</i>.] Here, - give them all to me. +I understand such work, and ’tis clear that you do not. +I’ll finish them off in a few minutes, and mistress will never +be the wiser.<br> +<br> +CLARA. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have +a mind. ’Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework.<br> +<br> +</i>JESSIE. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this +day.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. You ask him, Joan.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Will not you sing one little verse, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Nay - strangers from London town would have no liking +for the songs we sing down here among the fields.<br> +<br> +CLARA. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased +me very well.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. What was it called?<br> +<br> +CLARA. I cannot remember the name - but there was something of +bushes and of briars in it.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I know which that is. ’Tis a pretty song. +Sing it, Georgie.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Nay - sing it yourself, Miss Jessie.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. ’Tis like this at the beginning. - [<i>she</i> <i>sings +or repeats</i>]<i> -<br> +<br> +</i>“Through bushes and through briars<br> +I lately took my way,<br> +All for to hear the small birds sing<br> +And the lambs to skip and play.”<br> +<br> +CLARA. That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I can’t say any more.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Gently singing or speaking.</i>]<br> +<br> +I overheard my own true love,<br> +Her voice it was so clear.<br> +“Long time I have been waiting for<br> +The coming of my dear.”<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Heaving a sigh</i>.] That’s it.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Shall I go on with the song, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. As you please.<br> +<br> +CLARA.<br> +<br> +“Sometimes I am uneasy<br> +And troubled in my mind,<br> +Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love<br> +And tell to him my mind.”<br> +<br> +“And if I would go to my love<br> +My love he will say nay<br> +If I show to him my boldness<br> +He’ll ne’er love me again.”<br> +<br> +JESSIE. When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear +her a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then?<br> +<br> +CLARA. I don’t know, Jessie.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all +what she did keep in her mind.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, +that he never got to the other side for her to tell him.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Yes, that’s how ’twas, I count.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Running up to </i>ROBIN.] I’m going to +look at your book along of you, Robin.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. But I’m the one to turn the leaves, remember. +[<i>The children sit side by side looking at the picture book</i>. +CLARA <i>sews</i>. GEORGE <i>goes on with the potatoes</i>. +<i>As the last one is finished and tossed into the water</i>,<i> he +looks at </i>CLARA <i>for the first time</i>. <i>A long silence.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Tell me how it was then, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I did used to put her on the horse’s back, and we +would go down to the water trough in the evening time and -<br> +<br> +CLARA. What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Us would walk in the woods aside of one another - And +I would lift she to a high branch in a tree - and pretend for to leave +her there.<br> +<br> +CLARA. And then?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Her would call upon me pitiful - and I would come back +from where I was hid.<br> +<br> +CLARA. And did her crying cease?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. She would take and spring as though her was one of they +little wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Where would she spring to, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she.<br> +<br> +CLARA. And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, +George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long +as her was in the care of me.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Slowly</i>,<i> after a short pause</i>.] I do +not think she can have forgotten those days, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Getting up and speaking harshly</i>.] They’re +best forgot. Put them away. There be briars and brambles +and thorns and sommat of all which do hurt the flesh of man atween that +time and this’n.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief +to her eyes</i>. GEORGE <i>looks gloomily on the floor</i>. +EMILY <i>enters.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table +I’d like to know?<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>gets hastily off</i>. <i>Both children look up from +their book.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Looking freezingly at </i>CLARA.] ’Tis +plain as a turnpike what you’ve been after, young person. +If you was my serving wench, ’tis neck and crop as you should +be thrown from the door.<br> +<br> +CLARA. What for, mistress?<br> +<br> +EMILY. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? +I’ll soon tell you. For making a fool of George and setting +your cap at him and scandalising of my innocent children in their own +kitchen.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. This be going a bit too far, missis. I’ll +not have things said like that.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took +from - a grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more’n +what you eats nor what we get of work from out of your body, you great +hulk.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Springing up angrily</i>.] O I’ll not hear +such things said. I’ll not.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull +your mistress out of bed - and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust +the flour on to her face. ’Tis about all you be fit for.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Angrily going to the stair door</i>.] Very well. +’Tis best that I should go. I might say something you would +not like.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Advancing towards </i>EMILY.] Look you here, +mistress. I’ve put up with it going on for fifteen years. +But sometimes ’tis almost more nor I can bear. If ’twasn’t +for Master Thomas I’d have cleared out this long time ago.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Don’t flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. We has always been good friends, farmer and me. +’Tis not for what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of +I as we do hold together. But ’tis this - as he and I do +understand one another.<br> +<br> +EMILY. We’ll see what master has to say when I tell him +how you was found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with +that saucy piece of London trash.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I’m off. I’ve no patience to listen +any longer. You called me roadster varmint. Well, let it +be so. On the road I was born and on the road I was picked from +my dead mother’s side, and I count as ’tis on the road as +I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I’ll not have +road dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint though +I be, there be things which I do hold brighter nor silver and cleaner +nor new opened leaves, and I’ll not have defilement throwed upon +them.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Seizing the arms of </i>JESSIE <i>and </i>ROBIN.] +The lad’s raving. ’Tis plain as he’s been getting +at the cider. Come you off with me to the haymaking, Robin and +Jess.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. May I take my book along of me?<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Flinging the book down violently</i>.] I’ll +book you! What next?<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. +He was only doing the taters for her.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>As they go out</i>.] The lazy good-for-nothing +cat. I’ll get her packed off from here afore another sun +has set, see if I don’t.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>is left alone in the kitchen</i>. <i>When all sounds +of </i>EMILY <i>and the children have died away</i>,<i> he sighs</i>. +<i>Then</i>,<i> looking furtively round the room</i>,<i> he draws a +blue ribbon slowly from his pocket</i>. <i>He spreads it out on +one hand and stands looking down on it</i>,<i> sadly and longingly</i>. +<i>Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it</i>. <i>Just +as he is doing this </i>THOMAS <i>comes into the room.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Why, George, my lad.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket</i>.] +Yes, Master Thomas.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Looking meaningly at </i>GEORGE.] ’Tis +a pretty enough young maid, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. What did you say, Master?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. That one with the bit of blue round the head of her.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Blue?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Yes, master.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. ’Twasn’t a piece of blue ribbon as I did find +one day, but ’twas a blossom dropped from her gown.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Whose gown, master? I’ll warrant ’twasn’t +missus’s.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. ’Twasn’t +the mistress then.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, I count as it could not have been she.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. First love, ’tis best, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, upon my word, that ’tis.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. But my maid went and got her married to another.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. More’s the pity, Master Thomas.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Sighing</i>.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might +have been - with her and me, like.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Soft and sweet as the field lark, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master +Thomas.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Ah, George, don’t you never run into the trap, no +matter whether ’tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did +dream on. Once in, never out. There ’tis.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. +I baint worth trapping.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty +baggage from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so +be it her had the fortune.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There +baint nothing.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. +[<i>Steps are heard in the staircase</i>.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. We’ll off to the meadow then, George.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>and </i>THOMAS <i>go out.<br> +<br> +</i>[JOAN, <i>dressed as a lady of fashion</i>,<i> and followed by </i>CLARA, +<i>comes into the kitchen.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the +garden, and let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways +are more easy and natural when you are in the air.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O I’m very nigh dead with fright when I’m within +doors. ’Tis so hard to move about without knocking myself +against sommat. But at table ’tis worst of all.<br> +<br> +CLARA. You’ve stopped up in your room two breakfasts with +the headache, and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood.<br> +<br> +JOAN. But to-night ’twill be something cruel, for Farmer +Thomas have asked them both to supper again.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man?<br> +<br> +JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the +time, mistress.<br> +<br> +CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon +the table, and then I will shew you how it is to be eaten.<br> +<br> +JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting +in the parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, +what have I got to say to him?<br> +<br> +CLARA. O, I shouldn’t trouble about that. I’d +open my fan and take no notice if I were you.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, +mistress. And with the children, too.<br> +<br> +CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. +Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in +your way with the children.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with +them.<br> +<br> +CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, +Joan. Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner +here and there.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>With a heavy sigh</i>.] ’Tis the here and +the there as I finds it so hard to manage.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Running in breathlessly</i>.] A letter, a letter +for Aunt Clara. [CLARA <i>involuntarily puts out her hand</i>.] +No, Joan. I was to give it to Aunt Clara herself. I’ve +run all the way.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>slowly takes the letter</i>,<i> looking confused</i>.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt?<br> +<br> +JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don’t want no children worriting +round me now. [<i>Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself +to speak brightly</i>.] I mean - no, my dear little girl, I’d +rather wait to read it till I’m by myself; but thank you very +kindly all the same, my pet.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there’s +a sweet little maid.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I’d sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, +like.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Taking </i>JESSIE’S <i>hand and leading her to +the door</i>.] Now, Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter +in quiet, but if you will come back presently I will have a game with +you outside.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>As she runs off</i>.] Mother won’t let +me talk with you any more, alone. She says as you’ve made +a fool of Georgie and you’ll do the same by us all.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>When </i>JESSIE <i>has run off</i>.] There now, +how did I do that, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Better, much better.<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of +another, with you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>After a moment</i>’<i>s thought</i>.] No. +It is not quite like that. But ’tis, perhaps, the dressing +up of an ugly feeling in better garments.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Handing the letter to </i>CLARA.] There, mistress, +’tis yours, not mine.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Glancing at it</i>.] Lord Lovel’s writing. +[CLARA <i>opens the letter and reads it through</i>.] He will +not wait longer for my answer. And he is coming here as fast as +horses can bring him.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O, mistress, whatever shall we do?<br> +<br> +CLARA. We had better own to everything at once. It will +save trouble in the end.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was +closing upon it, like!<br> +<br> +CLARA. Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, +if the man loves you truly.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. +Hooper is coming up to see me now. I’d bring him to offer +his self, if I was but left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or +so.<br> +<br> +CLARA. And then, Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, +mistress, maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn’t +think no worse of me.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>gets up and goes to the window</i>,<i> where she looks out +for a few minutes in silence</i>. JOAN <i>cries softly meanwhile.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. [<i>Turning towards </i>JOAN.] As you will, Joan. +Very likely ’twill be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches +this place.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do +pray as all may go as well with you as ’tis with me.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Sadly</i>.] That is not likely, Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. What is it stands in the way, mistress?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp +and hurting thing.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship +when he do offer next.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I’ll think of what you say, Joan. There comes +a moment when the heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain +get into shelter. [<i>A slight pause.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Looking through the window</i>.] Look up quickly, +mistress. There’s Hooper.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Getting up</i>.] Then I’ll run away. +May all be well with you, dear Joan. [CLARA <i>goes out.<br> +<br> +</i>[JOAN <i>seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan</i>. +MILES <i>enters</i>,<i> carrying a small box.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. Already astir, Miss Clara. ’Tis early hours +to be sure for one of our London beauties.<br> +<br> +[<i>He advances towards her</i>,<i> and she stretches out her hand without +rising</i>. <i>He takes it ceremoniously.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper.<br> +<br> +[MILES <i>places a chair in front of </i>JOAN, <i>and sits down on it.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. [<i>Untying the parcel</i>.] I’ve been +so bold as to bring you a little keepsake from my place in town, Missy.<br> +<br> +JOAN. How kind you are, Mister Miles.<br> +<br> +MILES. You’ll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when +you see it, Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of +bright artificial flowers</i>.] There, what do you say to that, +Miss? And we can do you the same in all the leading tints.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O, ’tis wonderful modish. I declare I never +did see anything to beat it up in town.<br> +<br> +MILES. Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can +hold our own with the best of them in Painswick High Street.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper.<br> +<br> +[<i>She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from </i>MILES, +<i>pretending to smell it.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. Well - and what’s the next pleasure, Madam?<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently.<br> +<br> +</i>MILES. [<i>Very gently</i>.] What’s Missy’s +next pleasure?<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Miles.<br> +<br> +MILES. Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are.<br> +<br> +MILES. Ladies never like the sound of business, so we’ll +set that aside for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place +of it.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Ah, that’s a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper.<br> +<br> +MILES. I loved you from the first, Miss. There’s the +true, high born lady for you, says I to myself. There’s +beauty and style, elegance and refinement.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper?<br> +<br> +MILES. Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +JOAN. What about, sir?<br> +<br> +MILES. The answer to my question, Missy.<br> +<br> +JOAN. And what was that, I wonder?<br> +<br> +MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. +Will she oblige her Miles?<br> +<br> +JOAN. O that I will. With all my heart.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Standing up</i>.] I would not spoil this moment, +but by and bye my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her +income, and such trifles.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Agitatedly</i>.] O let us not destroy to-day by +thoughts of anything but our dear affection one for t’other.<br> +<br> +MILES. Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified +in her speech.<br> +<br> +JOAN. ’Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear +Miles, promise there shan’t be nothing but - but love talk between +you and me this day. I could not bear it if we was to speak of, +of other things, like.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Getting up and walking about the room</i>.] As +you will - as you will. Anything to oblige a lady.<br> +<br> +[<i>He stops before the table</i>,<i> on which is laid </i>EMILY’S +<i>silk dress</i>,<i> and begins to finger it.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. What’s that you’re looking at?<br> +<br> +MILES. Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, +I’ll be bound.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with +the old silk.<br> +<br> +MILES. No, no, Missy, I’m a man of business habits, and +’tis my duty to go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother +Thomas. He and I have got to talk things over a bit, you know.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Off so soon! O you have saddened me.<br> +<br> +MILES. Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, +when life is in front of us, Miss Clara?<br> +<br> +[<i>He raises her hand</i>,<i> kisses it</i>,<i> and leaves her</i>. +<i>As he goes out by the door </i>CLARA <i>enters.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. O, Mistress - stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at +the meadow!<br> +<br> +CLARA. Why, Joan, what has happened?<br> +<br> +JOAN. All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer +to talk about the - the wedding and the money.<br> +<br> +CLARA. The money?<br> +<br> +JOAN. The income which he thinks I have.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I’ll run, but all this time I’ve been keeping +Master Luke Jenner quiet in the parlour.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O what does he want now?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Much the same as the other one wanted.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Must I see him?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. +He’s at boiling point already.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, +and keep Miles Hooper from the farmer.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I’ll run my best, never fear. [<i>She goes +out.<br> +<br> +</i>[LUKE JENNER <i>comes in</i>,<i> a bunch of homely flowers in his +hand.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Seating herself</i>.] You are early this morning, +Mister Jenner.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Sitting opposite to her</i>.] I have that to say +which would not bide till sunset, Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be.<br> +<br> +LUKE. ’Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first +heard as you was coming down here - “I could do with a rich wife +if so be as I could win her,” I did tell myself.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O, Mister Jenner, now did you really?<br> +<br> +LUKE. But when I met you in the wood - saw you sitting there, +so still and yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. “That’s +the maid for me,” I says to myself.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Tearfully</i>.] O, Mister Jenner!<br> +<br> +LUKE. And if it had been beggar’s rags upon her in the place +of satin, I’d have said the same.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Very much stirred</i>.] O, Mister Jenner, and +did you really think like that?<br> +<br> +LUKE. If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in +the deep ocean, ’twould be the best as could happen. There!<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Faintly</i>.] O, Mister Jenner, why?<br> +<br> +LUKE. Because, very like ’twould shew to you as ’tis +yourself I’m after and not the fortune what you’ve got.<br> +<br> +JOAN. Mister Jenner, I’m mighty sorry.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Don’t say I’m come too late, Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +JOAN. You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, +’tis he and I who are like to be wed.<br> +<br> +LUKE. I might have known I had no chance.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Rising and trying to hide her emotion</i>.] I +wouldn’t have had it happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Laying his bunch of flowers on the table</i>,<i> his +head bent</i>,<i> and his eyes on the ground</i>.] ’Twas +none of your doing, Miss Clara. You’ve naught to blame yourself +for. ’Tis not your fault as you’re made so - so beautiful, +and yet so homely.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately +leaves the room.<br> +<br> +</i>[LUKE <i>folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them +in an attitude of deepest despondency</i>. <i>After a few moments +</i>CLARA <i>enters.<br> +<br> +</i>CLARA. O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you?<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Raising his head and pointing to the window</i>.] +There she goes, through the garden with her lover.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I wish that you were in his place.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Bitterly</i>.] I’ve no house with golden +rails to offer her. Nor any horse and chaise.<br> +<br> +CLARA. But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love.<br> +<br> +LUKE. What use is the love which be fastened up in a man’s +heart and can spend itself on naught, I’d like to know. +[<i>He rises as though to go and take up the bunch of flowers which +has been lying on the table</i>. <i>Brokenly.</i>] I brought +them for her. But I count as he’ll have given her something +better nor these.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>takes the flowers gently from his hand</i>,<i> and as she +does so</i>,<i> </i>EMILY <i>enters.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. What now if you please! First with George and +then with Luke. ’Twould be Thomas next if he wasn’t +an old sheep of a man as wouldn’t know if an eye was cast on him +or no. But I’ll soon put a stop to all this. Shame +on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine piece of London vanity, +I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so off with you upstairs.<br> +<br> +[<i>She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT IV. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers</i>. <i>A +long table is spread with silver</i>,<i> china and food</i>. CLARA +<i>is setting mugs to each place</i>. MAGGIE <i>comes in from +the back kitchen with a large dish of salad.<br> +<br> +</i>MAGGIE. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes +to enjoy themselves among the vegetables.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Placing the last mug</i>.] There - Now all is +ready for them.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Bending over a place at the end of the table</i>.] +Come you and look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed +in through the window.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Goes to </i>MAGGIE’S <i>side and bends down over +the table</i>.] O what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold +on him, and his legs are like feathers.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. [<i>Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting +it fly through the window</i>.] The sign of a stranger, so they +do say.<br> +<br> +CLARA. A stranger, Maggie?<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. You mind my words, ’tis a stranger as’ll sit +where yon was stuck, afore the eating be finished.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I don’t believe in such signs, myself.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I never knowed it not come true.<br> +<br> +[THOMAS <i>comes in</i>. <i>He is wearing his best clothes and +looks pleased</i>,<i> yet nervous.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Well, maids. Upon my word ’tis a spread. +Never saw so many different vituals brought together all at a time afore +in this house.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. ’Tis in honour of Miss Clara’s going to be +married like, master.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. So ’tis, so ’tis. Well - A single rose +upon the bush. Bound to be plucked, you know. Couldn’t +be left to fade in the sun, eh, girls?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going +on, master? Mistress has not told us yet.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Nervously</i>.] Mistress haven’t told +you - haven’t she? Well - well - at such a time we must +all - all rejoice one with t’other, like. No difference +made t’wixt master and man. Nor t’wixt maid and missus. +Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my wenches. +Up against George - How’s that?<br> +<br> +CLARA. That will do very well for us, Master.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I don’t expect as missus will let we bide there +long.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and +at the asking in marriage of my only sister like, ’tis me as shall +say what shall sit down with who. And there’s an end of +it. That’s all.<br> +<br> +MAGGIE. I hear them a coming in, master.<br> +<br> +[EMILY, <i>holding the hands of </i>JESSIE <i>and </i>ROBIN, <i>comes +into the room</i>. <i>Her eyes fall on </i>THOMAS <i>who is standing +between </i>CLARA <i>and </i>MAGGIE, <i>looking suddenly sheepish and +nervous.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>In a voice of suppressed anger</i>.] Thomas! +O, if I catch any more of these goings on in my kitchen.<br> +<br> +[JOAN, <i>very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of </i>MILES +HOOPER, <i>follows </i>EMILY <i>into the room.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. I’ll not have the food kept back any longer for +Luke Jenner. If folk can’t come to the time when they’re +asked, they baint worth waiting for, so sit you down, all of you.<br> +<br> +[<i>She sits down at the head of the table</i>,<i> a child on either +side of her</i>. JOAN <i>languidly sinks into a chair and </i>MILES +<i>puts himself at her right</i>. <i>A place at her left remains +empty</i>. THOMAS <i>sits opposite</i>. <i>Three places +at the end of the table are left vacant</i>. <i>As they sit down</i>,<i> +</i>GEORGE, <i>wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief</i>,<i> comes +in.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Beginning to help a dish</i>.] You need not +think you’re to be helped first, Clara, for all that the party +is given for you, like. The poor little children have been kept +waiting a sad time for their supper, first because you was such a while +a having your head curled and puffed out, and then ’twas Luke +Jenner as didn’t come.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>sits down at a place at the end of the table</i>. GEORGE +<i>and </i>MAGGIE <i>still remain standing.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. [<i>Perceiving </i>CLARA’S <i>movement</i>.] +Well, I never did see anything so forward. Who told you to sit +yourself down along of your betters, if you please, madam serving maid?<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>comes involuntarily forward and stands behind </i>CLARA’S +<i>chair</i>. CLARA <i>does not move.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you +hear? [<i>Turning to </i>MILES.] To see the way the young person +acts one might think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare +and high. But you’ll not take any fool in, not you, for +all that you like to play the fine lady. Us can see through your +game very clear, can’t us, Mr. Hooper?<br> +<br> +MILES. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who +has the privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could +be mistook by any of the games played by this young person.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>looks him gravely in the face without moving.<br> +<br> +</i>EMILY. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes!<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Nervously</i>.] Nay, nay, ’twas my doing, +Emily. I did tell the wenches as they might sit their-selves along +of we, just for th’ occasion like.<br> +<br> +EMILY. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling +about like a lord in my kitchen?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Faintly</i>.] Come, Emily, I’m the master.<br> +<br> +EMILY. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London +impudence?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Comes forward</i>.] Master Luke be coming up +the garden, mistress.<br> +<br> +[LUKE JENNER <i>enters</i>. <i>He goes straight up to </i>JOAN +<i>and holds out his hand to her</i>,<i> and then to </i>MILES.<br> +<br> +LUKE. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. +Miles, my lad, ’tis rare - rare pleased as I be to shake your +hand this day.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you’ve been and kept us +waiting more nor half an hour. Can’t you sit yourself down +and give other folk a chance of eating their victuals quiet? There’s +naught to make all this giddle-gaddle about as I can see.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Sitting down in the empty place by </i>JOAN’S +<i>side</i>.] Beg pardon, mistress, I know I’m a bit late. +But the victuals as are waited for do have a better flavour to them +nor those which be ate straight from the pot like.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. That’s true ’tis. And ’tis hunger +as do make the best sauce.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>and </i>MAGGIE <i>quietly seat themselves on either side +of </i>CLARA. EMILY <i>is too busy dispensing the food to take +any notice</i>. GEORGE <i>hands plates and dishes to </i>CLARA, +<i>and silently cares for her comfort throughout the meal.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn’t think +to lose my little sister afore she’d stopped a three days in the +place. That I did not. But I don’t grudge her to a +fine prospering young man like friend Hooper, no, I don’t.<br> +<br> +EMILY. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See +if you can’t make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. +[<i>Turning to </i>LUKE.] We have two serving maids and a man, +Mister Jenner, but they’re to be allowed to act the quality to-day, +so we’ve got to wait upon ourselves.<br> +<br> +LUKE. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, mistress. +That’s my saying at home.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with +me ’tis otherwise. I’ve got another pair of hands +in the place as do for me as well, nor better than my own.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you’d be without +mine.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. I wasn’t thinking of yourn, Emily. ’Tis +George’s hands as I was speaking of.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Contemptuously</i>.] George! You’ll +all find out your mistake one day, Thomas.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>To </i>JOAN, <i>who has been nervously handling her +knife and fork and watching </i>CLARA’S <i>movements furtively</i>.] +My sweet Miss is not shewing any appetite.<br> +<br> +JOAN. I’m - I’m not used to country fare.<br> +<br> +EMILY. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. +Clara can’t feed ’cause she’s not used to country +fare! What next, I’d like to know!<br> +<br> +ROBIN. [<i>Who has been watching </i>JOAN.] Why does Aunt +sometimes put her knife in her mouth, Mother?<br> +<br> +MILES. My good boy, ’tis plain you’ve never mixed +among the quality or you would know that each London season has its +own new fashion of acting. This summer ’tis the stylish +thing to put on a countryfied mode at table.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Joan don’t eat like that, Mister Hooper.<br> +<br> +MILES. Joan’s only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You +should learn to distinguish between such people and fine ladles like +your aunt.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Forcing herself to be more animated</i>.] Give +me some fruit, Miles - I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. +’Tis far too warm.<br> +<br> +MILES. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of +my Missy’s voice.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles +Hooper. There was a day when such things did come handy to my +tongue, like.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Sharply</i>.] I don’t seem to remember +that day, Thomas.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Sheepishly</i>,<i> his look falling</i>.] Ah +- ’twas afore - afore our courting time, Emily.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Energetically</i>.] Prime weather for the hay, +farmer. I count as this dry will last until the whole of it be +carried. [<i>A knock is heard at the door.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Now who’ll that be? Did you see anyone +a-coming up the path, Mother?<br> +<br> +EMILY. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking +out of the window the same time, Thomas?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who ’tis.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>looks anxiously across the table at </i>CLARA. <i>Then +she drops her spoon and fork and takes up her fan</i>,<i> using it violently +whilst </i>GEORGE <i>slowly gets up and opens the door</i>. LORD +LOVEL <i>is seen standing on the threshold.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD LOVEL. [<i>To </i>GEORGE.] Kindly tell me, my man, +is this the farm they call Ox Lease?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, that’s right enough.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. I’m sorry to break in upon a party like this, +but I want to see Miss Clara Spring if she is here.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Standing up</i>.] You’ve come at the very +moment, master. This be a giving in marriage supper. And +’tis Miss Clara, what’s only sister to me, as is to be wed.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. Impossible, my good sir!<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Ah, that’s it. Miles Hooper, he’s the +happy man. If you be come by Painswick High Street you’ll +have seen his name up over the shop door.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara - Miles Hooper - No, I can’t believe +it.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Pointing towards </i>JOAN <i>and </i>MILES.] +There they be - the both of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. +You’re right welcome, master, to sit down along of we as one of +the family on this occasion.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. [<i>Looking at </i>JOAN <i>who has suddenly dropped +her fan and is leaning back with a look of supplication towards </i>CLARA.] +I must have come to the wrong place - that’s not the Miss Clara +Spring I know.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Bending over </i>JOAN.] My sweet Missy has no +acquaintance with this gentleman, I am sure.<br> +<br> +[LORD LOVEL <i>suddenly turns round and perceives </i>CLARA <i>seated +by </i>MAGGIE <i>at the table</i>. <i>He quickly goes towards +her</i>,<i> holding out his hand.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. +[<i>Looking at her cap and apron</i>.] Why have you dressed yourself +like this?<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch +here. The young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long +at the Spotted Cow on his way up.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Very faintly</i>,<i> looking at </i>CLARA.] O +do you stand by me now.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Lays her hand on </i>LORD LOVEL’s <i>arm</i>.] +Come with me, my lord. I think I can explain everything if you +will only step outside with me. Come - [<i>She leads him swiftly +through the door which </i>GEORGE <i>shuts behind them.</i>]<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. Well, now - but that’s a smartish wench, getting +him out so quiet, like. George, you’d best step after them +to see as the young man don’t annoy her in any way.<br> +<br> +EMILY. That young person can take good care of herself. +Sit you down, Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you +can.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother?<br> +<br> +EMILY. ’Cause he was in that state when a man don’t +know his right leg from his left arm.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Who has remained standing</i>.] Look you here, +Master Thomas - see here mistress. ’Tis time as there was +an end of this cursed play acting, or whatever ’tis called.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I’d +like for you to know.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. O yes there have been, mistress. And ’tis +time it was finished. [<i>Pointing to </i>JOAN.] You just +take and ask that young person what she do mean by tricking herself +out in Miss Clara’s gowns and what not, and by having herself +called by Miss Clara’s own name.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Taking </i>JOAN’S <i>hand in his</i>.] +My sweet Miss must pay no attention to the common fellow. I dare +him to speak like that of my little lady bride.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. A jay bird in peacock’s feathers, that’s what +’tis. And she’s took you all in, the every one of +you.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. O George, isn’t she really our aunt from London?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore.<br> +<br> +EMILY. ’Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon.<br> +<br> +LUKE. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow +in all the years I’ve known of him. George baint made to +that shape.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Then who is Aunt Clara, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, +and none other.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I can’t help that, master. Foolish deeds do +call for foolish words, may be.<br> +<br> +MILES. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [<i>He +pours out water for </i>JOAN <i>and bends affectionately over her</i>.] +Put the drunken fellow outside and let’s have an end of this.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Advancing</i>.] Yes, us’ll have an end +to it very shortly. But I be going to put a straight question +to the maid first, and ’tis a straight answer as her’ll +have to give me in reply.<br> +<br> +MILES. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your +rude manners.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, +and then I’ll go when you will.<br> +<br> +MILES. Well, my man, what’s that?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at baptism, +Mister Hooper.<br> +<br> +MILES. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased +by such a question. Thomas, you’ll have to get this stupid +fellow locked up, or something.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Angrily</i>.] Her shall say it, if I stands +here all night.<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands</i>,<i> +her form shaken by violent weeping</i>. <i>The door opens and +</i>CLARA <i>enters followed by </i>LORD LOVEL. <i>She has taken +off her cap and apron.<br> +<br> +</i>JOAN. [<i>Raising her head and stretching out her hands to +</i>CLARA.] O speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help.<br> +<br> +CLARA. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you +to forgive us both for taking you in like this.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing.<br> +<br> +EMILY. I’m not going to believe a word the young person +says.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. She has told you but the truth, my good friends.<br> +<br> +EMILY. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I’d +like to know?<br> +<br> +CLARA. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel +is his name.<br> +<br> +EMILY. If you think I’m going to be took in with such nonsense, +the more fool you, I says.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis +Spring. She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their +own, agreed to change parts for a few days.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Turning to </i>JOAN.] Is this really so, my +maid?<br> +<br> +[JOAN <i>bows her head</i>,<i> her handkerchief still covering her face.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. [<i>To </i>CLARA.] Who ever would have thought +on such a thing?<br> +<br> +CLARA. ’Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. +Look up, Joan, and do not cry so pitifully.<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking up at </i>MILES.] You’ll never go +and change towards me now that we’re most as good as wed, will +you, Mister Hooper?<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Rising and speaking with cold deliberation</i>.] +Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant +evening.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, +it seems. But things’ll settle back to their right places +if you gives them a chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Don’t be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what’s +been stung by a wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet’s +nest.<br> +<br> +MILES. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place +for me. I have been sported with. My good name has been +treated as a jest.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O Mister Hooper, ’twas my doing, all of it, but I +did it for the best, I did.<br> +<br> +MILES. [<i>Going to the door</i>.] Thank you, my good woman. +Next time you want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you +will select your partner with more care. The name of Hooper is +not a suitable one to toy with, let me tell you.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Aren’t you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper?<br> +<br> +MILES. I am not, Master Robin.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but +you couldn’t very well, could he, Mother?<br> +<br> +[MILES, <i>covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the +right and left</i>,<i> goes out</i>. JOAN <i>leans back almost +fainting in her chair.<br> +<br> +</i>LUKE. [<i>Taking her hand</i>.] This is the finest hearing +in all the world for me, Miss - Miss Joan.<br> +<br> +JOAN. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me.<br> +<br> +LUKE. And that I’d never do, though I’m blest if I +know why you did it.<br> +<br> +CLARA. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There +were things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, +by changing places, one with the other.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>To </i>CLARA.] Well, my maid, I’m blessed +if I do know what you was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving +wench.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Turning a little towards </i>GEORGE.] I thought +to find something which was mine when I was a little child, but which +I lost.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. +’Twas he as brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed +off.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. Yes. And ’twas George as did find your blue +hair ribbon Aunt Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt +all the time.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I believe it too.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Twas not one, but many things. And if you +wants a clear proof [<i>Turning to </i>CLARA] - put back the laces of +your sleeve, Miss Clara.<br> +<br> +CLARA. What for, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you +did pull up your sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. +Not that ’twas needed for me, like.<br> +<br> +[CLARA <i>pushes up both her sleeves</i>,<i> and holds out her arms +towards </i>GEORGE.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Pointing to the scar</i>.] There ’tis +- there’s where th’ old gander have left his mark.<br> +<br> +THE CHILDREN. [<i>Getting up</i>.] Where, where! O +do let us see!<br> +<br> +[<i>They run round to where </i>CLARA <i>stands and look eagerly at +the mark on her arm which she shews to them.<br> +<br> +</i>THOMAS. George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can +play fox.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. +For a more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might +tell when ’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses +upon him.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, +he baint th’ only fox. How now, my lad?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I don’t see what you be driving at, master.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. [<i>Slyly</i>.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, +George?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back +to me.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Stepping forward till he is by </i>CLARA’S <i>side</i>.] +No, and that I will not do. ’Tis little enough as I holds, +but what little, I’ll keep it.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>To </i>GEORGE.] Those words are like a frail +bridge on which I can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember +the days when you used to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of +the wood, lifting me over the briars and the brambles so that I should +not be hurt by their thorns?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Hark you here, Clara. This once I’ll speak. +I never had but one true love, and that was a little maid what would +run through the woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. +I learnt she the note of every bird. And when th’ evening +was come, us would watch together till th’ old mother badger did +get from out of her hole, and start hunting in the long grasses.<br> +<br> +CLARA. [<i>Taking </i>GEORGE’S <i>hand</i>.] Then, +Georgie, there was no need for the disguise that I put upon myself.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there +baint no cloud upon the sky, Clara?<br> +<br> +CLARA. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might +raise up between you and me.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. That’s all finished and done with now, my maid. +If I’d a hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, +he should.<br> +<br> +EMILY. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about +enough.<br> +<br> +LUKE. [<i>Who has been sitting with </i>JOAN’S <i>hand in +his</i>.] Hark you here, mistress. There’s many a +cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day. Baint that a true saying, +Joan?<br> +<br> +JOAN. [<i>Looking up radiantly</i>.] O that it is, dear +Luke.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to +be said.<br> +<br> +EMILY. And that’s the most sensible thing as has been spoke +this long while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, +grizzling sort of a muddler. She might have took up with this +young man, who has a very respectable appearance.<br> +<br> +LORD LOVEL. [<i>Coming forward to </i>GEORGE <i>and shaking his +hand</i>.] I’m proud to make your acquaintance, sir.<br> +<br> +EMILY. [<i>Rising angrily</i>.] Come Thomas, come Luke, +come Clara. Us might be a barn full of broody hens the way we +be set around of this here table. ’Twill be midnight afore +the things is cleared away and washed up.<br> +<br> +THOMAS. What if it be, Emily. ’Tisn’t very often +as I gets the chance of minding how ’twas in times gone past. +Ah, I was a young man in those days, too, I was.<br> +<br> +EMILY. And ’tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, +Thomas.<br> +<br> +JESSIE. [<i>Slipping her hand into </i>THOMAS’S.] +O do let us sit up till midnight, Dad.<br> +<br> +ROBIN. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain</i>.]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +MY MAN JOHN<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARACTERS<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER.<br> +WILLIAM, <i>her son.<br> +</i>JOHN, <i>his farm hand.<br> +</i>SUSAN, <i>their maid.<br> +</i>JULIA, <i>the owner of Luther’s Farm.<br> +</i>LAURA, CHRIS, NAT, TANSIE, <i>gipsies.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT I. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The garden of the Road Farm. To the right an arbour covered +with roses</i>. MRS. GARDNER<i> is seated in it</i>,<i> knitting. +</i>WILLIAM <i>is tying up flowers and watering them.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER. And you have come to a ripe age when ’tis +the plain duty of a man to turn himself towards matrimony, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Tis a bit of quiet that I’m after, Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Quiet! ’tis a good shaking up as you want, +William. Why, you have got as set in your ways as last season’s +jelly.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Then let me bide so. ’Tis all I ask.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I’m got to be an old woman +now, and ’tis time that I had someone at my side to help in the +house-keeping and to share the work.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. What’s Susan for, if ’tisn’t to do +that?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Susan? As idle a piece of goods as ever was +seen on a summer’s day! No. ’Tisn’t a +serving maid that I was thinking of, but someone who should be of more +account in the house. ’Tis a daughter that I’m wanting, +William, and I’ve picked out the one who is to my taste.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Then you’ve done more than I have, Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis the young person whom Luther Smith has +left his farm and all his money to. I’ve got my eye on her +for you, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Then you’ll please to put your eye somewhere else, +Mother, for I’ve seen them, and they don’t suit me.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Come, this is news, William. Pray where did +you meet?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Twas when I was in church last Sunday. In +they came, the two young maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie +fowls, the way they did step up over the stones and shake the plumes +of them this way and that. I don’t hold with fancy tricks. +I never could abide them. No foreign wenches for me. And +that’s about all.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis true they are from town, but none the +worse for that, William. You have got sadly rude and cumbersome +in your ways, or you wouldn’t feel as you do towards a suitable +young person. ’Tis from getting about with John so much, +I think.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Now look you here, Mother, I’ve got used to my +own ways, and when a man’s got set in his own ways, ’tis +best to leave him there. I’m past the age for marrying, +and you ought to know this better than anyone.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I know that ’tis a rare lot of foolishness +that you do talk, William, seeing as you’re not a year past thirty +yet. But if you can’t be got to wed for love of a maid, +perhaps you’ll do so for love of a purse, when ’tis fairly +filled.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. There’s always been enough for you and me so far, +Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Ah, but that won’t last for ever. I’m +got an old woman, and I can’t do with the dairy nor the poultry +as I was used to do. And things have not the same prices to them +as ’twas a few years gone by. And last year’s season +was the worst that I remember.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. So ’twas. But so long as there’s a +roof over our heads and a loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to +work on, where’s the harm, Mother?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. O you put me out of all patience, William. +Where’s the rent to come from if we go on like this? And +the clothing, and the food? And John’s wages, and your flower +seeds, if it comes to that, for you have got terrible wasteful over +the flowers.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I wish you’d take it quieter, Mother. Look +at you bed of musk, ’tis a grand smell that comes up from it all +around.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I’ve no eye for musk, nor +nose to smell at it either till you’ve spoken the word that I +require.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Best let things bide as they are, Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I’ll leave you no rest till you do as I wish, +William. I’m got an old woman, and ’tis hard I should +be denied in aught that I’ve set my heart upon.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Please to set it upon something different, Mother, for +I’m not a marrying man, and John he’ll tell you the same +thing.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. John! I’m sick of the very name of him. +I can’t think how ’tis that you can lower yourself by being +so close with a common farm hand, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Ah, ’twould be a rare hard matter to find the equal +to John, Mother. ’Tis of gold all through, and every bit +of him, that he is made. You don’t see many like John these +days, that’s the truth.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Well, then, John, won’t be here much longer, +for we shan’t have anything to give him if things go on like this.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’d wed forty wives sooner than lose John - and +that I would.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I’m not asking you to wed forty. ’Tis +only one.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. And that one?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. The young person who’s got Luther’s +farm. Her name is Julia.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Leaving his flower border and walking up and down +thoughtfully.</i>] Would she be the one with the cherry colour +ribbons to her gown?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I’m sure I don’t know. I was not +at church last Sunday.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Or t’other one in green?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. You appear to have used your eyes pretty well, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. O, I can see a smartish bit about me when I choose.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. T’other wench is but the housekeeper.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Where did you get that from?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. ’Twas Susan who told me. She got it +off someone down in the village.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well, which of the maids would have had the cherry-coloured +ribbons to her, Mother?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I’m sure I don’t know, but if you go +up there courting this afternoon, may happen that you’ll find +out.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. This afternoon? O, that’s much too sudden +like.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Not a bit of it. Recollect, your fancy has +been set on her since Sunday.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Come, Mother, you can’t expect a man to jump into +the river all of a sudden like this.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I expect you to go up there this very day and to +commence telling her of your feelings.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. But I’ve got no feelings that I can tell her of, +Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to find some, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Tis a thing that in all my life I’ve never +done as to go visiting of a strange wench of an afternoon.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Then ’tis time you did begin.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. And what’s more, I’ll not do it, neither.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Then I must tell John that we have no further need +of his services, for where the money to pay him is to come from, I don’t +know.<br> +<br> +[<i>She rolls up her knitting and rises.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. Stop a moment, Mother - stop a moment. Maybe +’twon’t be so bad when I’ve got more used to the idea. +You’ve pitched it upon me so sudden like.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Rent day has pitched upon me more sudden, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Look you, Mother, I’ll get and turn it about in +my mind a bit. And, maybe, I’ll talk it over with John. +I can’t do more, can I now?<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Talk it over with whom you please, William. +But remember ’tis this very afternoon that you have to start courting. +I’ve laid your best clothes out all ready on your bed.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Sighing heavily.</i>] O then I count there’s +no way out of it. But how am I to bring it off? ’Tis +that I’d like to know.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Maybe your man will be able to give you some suitable +advice. Such things are beyond me, I’m afraid.<br> +<br> +[<i>She gathers up her work things</i>,<i> and with a contemptuous look +at her son</i>,<i> she goes slowly out of the garden.<br> +<br> +</i>[WILLIAM <i>remains on the path lost in perturbed thought. +Suddenly he goes to the gate and calls loudly.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. John, John!<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>From afar.</i>] Yes, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Calling.</i>] Come you here, John, as quick +as you can run.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That I will, master.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>hurries into the garden.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. John, I’m powerful upset.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Mistress’s fowls bain’t got among the flowers +again, be they, Master William?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. No, no, John. ’Tisn’t so bad as that. +But I’m in a smartish fix, I can tell you.<br> +<br> +JOHN. How’s that, master?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. John, did you ever go a’courting?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, master, that’s a thing to ask a man!<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Tis a terrible serious matter, John. Did +you ever go?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Courting?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Yes.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, I count as I have went a score of times, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. A score of times, John! But that was before you +were got to the age you are now?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Before that, and now, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. And now, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. To be sure, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Then you know how ’tis done?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, that I does, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well, John, you’re the man for me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Lord bless us, master, but what have you to do with courting?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. You may well ask me, John. Why, look you here - +until this very morning, you would say I was a quiet and a peaceable +man, with the right place for everything and everything in its place.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, and that you was, Master William. And a time for +all things too, and a decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served +- that’s truth.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Ah, John - the mistress has set her will to change all +this.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now, you’d knock me down with a feather.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. That she has, John. I’ve got to set out courting +- a thing I’ve never thought to do in all my living days.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That I’ll be bound you have not, Master William, though +a finer gentleman than yourself is not to be found in all the country +side.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>With shy eagerness.</i>] Is that how I appear +to you, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, and that you does, master. And ’tis the +wonder with all for miles around as how you’ve been and kept yourself +to yourself like this, so many years.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well, John, it appears that I’m to pass out of +my own keeping. My Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Bless my soul, Master William, and ’tis but Thursday +too.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Isn’t that a proper day for this sort of business, +John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’ve always been used to Saturday myself, but with +a gentleman ’tis different like.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well, John, there’s nothing in this day or that +as far as I can see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and +the day of it does make but very little difference.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You’re right there, master. But if I may be +so bold, where is it as you be going off courting this afternoon?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Ah - now you and me will have a straight talk one with +another - for ’tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of +this fix where the mistress has gone and put me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And that I’ll do, master - with all the will in the +world.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well then, John, ’tis to be one of those maids +from strange parts who are come to live at old Luther’s, up yonder.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, I seed the pair of them in church last Sunday. +Fine maids, the both of them, and properly suitable if you was to ask +me.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Tis only the one I’ve got to court, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And I reckon that’s one too many, Master William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. You’re right there, John. ’Tis Mistress +Julia I’ve to go at.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And which of the pair would that be, Master William?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. That one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown, +I believe.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, t’other was plainer in her dressing, and did keep +the head of her bent smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn’t +get a fair look upon she.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. That would be the housekeeper or summat. ’Tis +Julia, who has the old man’s money, I’m to court.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, master, I’ll come along with you a bit of the +road, to keep your heart up like.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. You must do more than that for me, John. You’ve +got to learn me how the courting is done before I set off.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, master, courting baint a thing what wants much learning, +that’s the truth.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Tis all new to me, John. I’m blessed +if I know how to commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends +me hot all over; and then as cold again.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You start and get your clothes on, master. ’Tis +half the battle - clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his +mouth of a Saturday will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday with +his best coat to his back.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. No, John. The clothes won’t help me in this +fix. You must tell me how to start once I get to the farm and +am by the door.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You might take a nosegay with you, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I might. And yet, ’tis a pity to cut the +blooms for naught.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I always takes a nosegay with me, of a Saturday night.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Why, John, who is it that you are courting then?<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis that wench Susan, since you ask me, master. +But not a word of it to th’ old mistress.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’ll not mention it, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Thank you kindly, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. And now, John, when the nosegay’s all gathered +and the flowers bunched, what else should I do?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, then you gives it her when you gets to the door. +And very like she’ll ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be +a particular fine looking gentleman.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I could not stand that, John. I’ve no tongue +to me within a strange house.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well then, maybe as you and she will sit aside of one another +in an arbour in the garden, or sommat of the sort.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Yes, John. And what next?<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’m blessed if I do know, master. You go along +and commence.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. No, John, and that I won’t. Not till I know +more about it like.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, master, I’m fairly puzzled hard to tell you.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I have the very thought, John. Do you bring Susan +out here. I’ll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you +get and court her as well as you know how; and maybe that will learn +me something.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Susan’s a terrible hard wench to court, Master William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Twill make the better lesson, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis a stone in place of a heart what Susan’s +got.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Twill very likely be the same with Julia. +Go and bring her quickly, John.<br> +<br> +[WILLIAM <i>places himself behind the arbour.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. As you will, master - but Susan have been wonderful +nasty in her ways with me of late. ’Tis my belief as she +have took up with one of they low gipsy lads what have been tenting +up yonder, against the wood.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well, ’twill be your business to win her back to +you, John. See - am I properly hid, behind the arbour?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Grandly hid, master - I’ll go and fetch the wench. +[JOHN <i>leaves the garden.<br> +<br> +</i>[WILLIAM <i>remains hidden behind the arbour. After a few +minutes </i>JOHN <i>returns pulling </i>SUSAN <i>by the hand.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. And what are you about, bringing me into master’s +flower garden at this time of the morning? I should like for mistress +to look out of one of the windows - you’d get into fine trouble, +and me too, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Susan, my dear, you be a passing fine wench to look upon, +and that’s the truth.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. And is it to tell me such foolishness that you’ve +brought me all the way out of the kitchen?<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Stooping and picking a dandelion.</i>] And to +give you this flower, dear Susan.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Throwing it down.</i>] A common thing like that! +I’ll have none of it.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan. +The blue fire do fairly leap from your eyes.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. O you’re enough to anger a saint, John. What +have you brought me here for?<br> +<br> +JOHN. I thought I’d like to tell you as you was such a fine +wench, Susan. And that I did never see a finer.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what +Master William’s so powerful set on.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah - and ’tis true as you have sommat of the look +of she when you stands a pawing of the ground as you be now.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Is it to insult me that you’ve got me away from the +kitchen, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Nay - ’tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish +wench - and I’ll go along to the church with you any day as you +will name, my dear.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. That you won’t, John. I don’t mind taking +a nosegay of flowers from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice +to me over the garden gate of an evening, but I’m not a-going +any further along the road with you. That’s all. [<i>She +moves towards the house.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan - and let me +say sommat of all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young +birds in my heart for you.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. They may stir within you like an old waspes’ nest +for all I care, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they. +You can speak honey sweet when it do please you to.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, +John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I gets enough of that from mistress - I mean - well - I +mean - [<i>in a loud, clear voice</i>] - O mistress is a wonderful +fine woman and no mistake.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. You won’t say as much when she comes round the corner +and catches you a wasting of your time like this, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness +of the finest rose what blooms, Susan?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Is that me, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Who else should it be, Susan?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Well, John - sometimes I think there’s not much amiss +with you.<br> +<br> +JOHN. O Susan, them be grand words.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. But then again - I do think as you be getting too much +like Master William.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. +And you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I’m not so sure as I do, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. And that I’ll not. And what’s more, I’m +not a-going to stop here talking foolish with you any longer. +I’ve work to do within. [SUSAN <i>goes off.<br> +<br> +</i>[JOHN, <i>mopping his face and speaking regretfully as </i>WILLIAM +<i>steps from behind the arbour.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. There, master. That’s courting for you. +That’s the sort of thing. And a caddling thing it is too.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. But ’tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, +John. And ’tis you and none other who shall do the job for +me this afternoon, there - that’s what I’ve come to in my +thoughts.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. See here, John - we’ll cut a nosegay for you to +carry - some of the best blooms I’ll spare. And you, who +know what courting is, and who have such fine words to your tongue, +shall step up at once and do the business for me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Master, if ’twas an acre of stone as you’d asked +me to plough, I’d sooner do it nor a job like this.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. John, you’ve been a good friend to me all the years +that you have lived on the farm, you’ll not go and fail me now.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William? +’Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes +of she.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Your words are all right, John. ’Tisn’t +as though sensible speech was needed. You do know what’s +wanted with the maids, whilst I have never been used to them in any +way whatever. So let’s say no more about it, but commence +gathering the flowers.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Heavily</i>,<i> but resigned.</i>] Since you say +so, master. [<i>They begin to gather flowers.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. What blooms do young maids like the best, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Put in a sprig of thyme, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Yes - I can well spare that.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And a rose that’s half opened, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, +John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tain’t likely as you can get through courtship +without parting with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as +you’re called upon to spill.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. That’s true, John - I’ll gather the rose +-<br> +<br> +JOHN. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave +flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out +of they.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Put them into the nosegay, John - And now - no more - +’Tis enough waste for one day.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, +says I.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis to be hoped as ’twill be the same with +the lady, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. There, off you go, John. And mind, ’tis her +with the cherry ribbon to her gown and bonnet.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her +head this day, being that ’tis Thursday?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. An eye like - like a bullace, John. And a grand +colour to the face of her like yon rose.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s enough, Master William. I’ll not +pitch upon the wrong maid, never fear. And now I’ll clean +myself up a bit at the pump, and set off straight away.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Shaking </i>JOHN’s <i>hand.</i>] Good +luck to you, my man. And if you can bring it off quiet and decent +like without me coming in till at the last, why, ’tis a five pound +note that you shall have for your trouble.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no +mistake about that.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT II. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A wood. To the right a fallen tree </i>(<i>or a bench</i>). +JOHN <i>comes from the left</i>,<i> a large bunch of flowers in his +hand.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? +Well, bless my soul, but ’tis a rare caddling business what master’s +put upon I. ’Tis worse nor any job he have set me to in +all the years I’ve been along of him, so ’tis. But +I’m the one to bring it off slick and straight, and, bless me, +if I won’t take and hide myself by yon great bush till I see the +wenches a-coming up. That’ll give me time to have a quiet +look at the both and pick out she what master’s going a-courting +of.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>puts himself behind some thick bushes as </i>JULIA <i>and </i>LAURA +<i>come forward</i>. JULIA <i>is very simply dressed. Her +head is bare</i>,<i> and she is carrying her white cotton sunbonnet</i>. +LAURA <i>wears finer clothes and her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons +of cherry colour.<br> +<br> +</i>LAURA. [<i>Stopping by the bench.</i>] We’ll sit +down - ’Tis a warm day, and I’ve had enough of walking.<br> +<br> +[<i>She sinks down on the seat.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. [<i>Looking all round her.</i>] ’Tis beautiful +and quiet here. O this is ever so much better than the farm.<br> +<br> +LAURA. The farm! What’s wrong with that, I should +like to know?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Everything. ’Tis more like a prison than a +home to me. Within the house there’s always work crying +out to be done - and outside I believe ’tis worse - work - nothing +else speaking to me.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You’re a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there’s +many would give their eyes to change with you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. But out here ’tis all peace, and freedom. There’s +naught calling out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, +and the breezes move them this way, and that. The ground is thick +with leaves and blossoms and no one has got to sweep it, and the hard +things with great noises to them, like pails and churns, are far away +and clean forgot.<br> +<br> +LAURA. ’Tisn’t much use as you’ll be on the +farm.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I wish I’d never come nigh to it. I was happier +far before.<br> +<br> +LAURA. ’Tis a grand life. You’ll see it as I +do one of these days.<br> +<br> +JULIA. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear +the cattle lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and ’tis +a heart of lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers +in the fields calls me, but ’tis to the dairy I must go, to work. +And at noonday, when the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for +its coolness, ’tis the kitchen I must be in - or picking green +stuff for the market. And so on till night, when the limbs of +me can do no more and the spirit in me is like a bird with the wing +of it broken.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You’ll harden to it all by winter time right enough.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O I’ll never harden to it. ’Tis not that +way I am made. Some girls can set themselves down with four walls +round them, and do their task nor ask for anything beyond, but ’tis +not so with me.<br> +<br> +LAURA. How is it then with you?<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Pointing.</i>] There - see that blue thing yonder +flying from one blossom to another. That’s how ’tis +with me. Shut me up close in one place, I perish. Let me +go free, and I can fly and live.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You do talk a powerful lot of foolishness that no one could +understand.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O, do not let us talk at all. Let us bide still, +and get ourselves refreshed by the sweetness and the wildness of the +forest.<br> +<br> +JULIA <i>turns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood +around her</i>.<br> +<br> +LAURA <i>arranges her ribbons and smoothes out her gown. Neither +of them speak for a few minutes.<br> +<br> +</i>LAURA. [<i>Looking up and pointing.</i>] See those strange +folk over there? What are they?<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Looking in the same direction.</i>] I know them. +They are gipsies from the hill near to us.<br> +<br> +LAURA. They should be driven away then. I don’t like +such folk roosting around.<br> +<br> +JULIA. But I do. They are friends to me. Many’s +the time I have run out at dusk to speak with them as they sit round +their fire.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Then you didn’t ought to have done so. Let’s +get off now, before they come up.<br> +<br> +JULIA. No, no. Let us talk to them all. [<i>Calling.</i>] +Tansie and Chris, come you here and sit down alongside of us. +[CHRIS, NAT, <i>and </i>TANSIE <i>come up.<br> +<br> +</i>CHRIS. Good morning to you, mistress. ’Tis a fine +brave day, to-day.<br> +<br> +JULIA. That it is, Chris. There never was so fine a day. +And we have come to spend all of it in this forest.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. Ah, but ’tis warm upon the high road.<br> +<br> +NAT. We be come right away from the town, mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Then sit down, all of you, and we will talk in the cool +shade.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Not here, if you please. I am not used to such company.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Not here? Very well, my friends, let us go further +into the wood and you shall stretch yourselves under the green trees +and we will all rest there together.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Well, what next! You might stop to consider how ’twill +look in the parish.<br> +<br> +JULIA. How what will look?<br> +<br> +LAURA. How ’twill look for you to be seen going off in such +company like this.<br> +<br> +JULIA. The trees have not eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. +There’s no one to see me but you, and you can turn your head t’other +way. Come Tansie, come<br> +<br> +Chris. [<i>She turns towards the three gipsies.<br> +<br> +</i>TANSIE. Nat’s in a sorry way, this morning - baint you, +Nat?<br> +<br> +NAT. Let I be. You do torment anyone till they scarce do +know if they has senses to them or no.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. You’re not one to miss what you never had, Nat.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Let the lad bide in quiet, will you. ’Tis a +powerful little nagging wench as you be.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Why are you heavy and sad this fine day, Nat?<br> +<br> +TANSIE. ’Tis love what’s the matter with he, mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Love? O, that’s not a thing that should bring +heaviness or gloom, but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. Ah, but when there’s been no meeting in the dusk +since Sunday, and no message sent!<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Keep that tongue of your’n where it should be, and +give over, Tansie. Susan’s not one as would play tricks +with her lad.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Now I have a thirst to hear all about this, Nat, so come +off further into the wood, all of you, where we can speak in quiet.<br> +<br> +[<i>She holds out her hand to </i>NAT.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Upon my word, but something must be done to bring these +goings on to an end.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Come, Nat - you shall tell me all your trouble. I +understand the things of the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know +how to give you comfort in your distress - come<br> +<br> +[JULIA <i>and </i>NAT, <i>followed by </i>CHRIS <i>and </i>TANSIE, <i>move +off out of sight</i>. LAURA <i>is left sitting on the bench alone. +Presently </i>JOHN <i>comes out carefully from behind the bushes</i>,<i> +holding his bunch of flowers.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. A good day to you, mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. The same to you, master.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Folks do call me John.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Indeed? Good morning, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. A fine brave sun to-day, mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. But pleasant enough here in the shade.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now, begging your pardon, but what you wants over the head +of you baint one of these great trees full of flies and insects, but +an arbour trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at +his place yonder.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Indeed? And who may your master be, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis Master William Gardner, what’s the talk +of the country for miles around, mistress. And that he be.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Master William Gardner! What, he of Road Farm?<br> +<br> +JOHN. The very same, mistress. And as grand a gentleman +as anyone might wish for to see.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Yes - I seem to have heard something told about him, but +I don’t rightly remember what ’twas.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You may have heard tell as the finest field of beans this +season, that’s his.<br> +<br> +LAURA. I don’t think ’twas of beans that I did hear.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Or that ’twas his spotted hilt what fetched the highest +price of any in the market Saturday?<br> +<br> +LAURA. No, ’twasn’t that neither.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Or that folks do come as thick as flies on a summer’s +day from all parts of the country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. +Ah, and before ’tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for +it, all of them, like a pack of dogs with a bone. So ’tis.<br> +<br> +LAURA. ’Twasn’t that, I don’t think.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Or ’twas that th’ old missis - she as is mother +to Master William - her has a tongue what’s sharper nor longer +than any vixen’s going. But that’s between you and +I, missis.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Ah - ’Twas that I did hear tell of. Now I remember +it.<br> +<br> +JOHN. But Master William - the tongue what he do keep be smooth +as honey, and a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the chance.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Indeed? He must be a pleasant sort of a gentleman.<br> +<br> +JOHN. For he could be led with kindness same as anything else. +But try for to drive him, as old Missis do - and very likely ’tis +hoofed as you’ll get for your pains.<br> +<br> +LAURA. I like a man with some spirit to him, myself.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, Master William has a rare spirit to him, and that he +has. You should hear him when th’ old Missis’s fowls +be got into his flower garden. ’Tis sommat as is not likely +to be forgot in a hurry. That ’tisn’t.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You carry a handsome nosegay of blossoms there, John. +Are they from your master’s garden?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, there’re not amiss. I helped for to raise +they too.<br> +<br> +LAURA. And to whom are you taking them now, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. To the lady what my master’s a-courting of, mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. And whom may that be, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, ’tis yourself, mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Me, John? Why, I’ve never clapped eyes on Master +William Gardner so far as I know of.<br> +<br> +JOHN. But he’ve clapped eyes on you, mistress - ’twas +at Church last Sunday. And ’tis not a bit of food, nor a +drop of drink, nor an hour of sleep, as Master William have taken since.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O, you do surprise me, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s how ’tis with he, mistress. ’Tis +many a year as I’ve served Master William - but never have I seen +him in the fix where he be in to-day.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Why - how is it with him then?<br> +<br> +JOHN. As it might be with the cattle when the flies do buzz about +they, thick in the sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a-trampling +and a-tossing, and never a minute’s rest.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Well, now - to think of such a thing. Indeed!<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’ve seen a horse right up to the neck of him in that +old quag ahind of our place - a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth +and a-plunging so as ’twould terrify anyone to harken to it. +And that’s how ’tis to-day with Master William up at home, +so ’tis.<br> +<br> +LAURA. And only saw me once - at Church last Sunday, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah - and they old maid flies do sting but once, but ’tis +a terrible big bump as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that ’tis.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O John - ’tis a fine thing to be loved like that.<br> +<br> +JOHN. So I should say - ah, ’tisn’t every day that +a man like Master William goes a-courting.<br> +<br> +LAURA. But he hasn’t set out yet, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You take and hold the nosegay, mistress, and I’ll +go straight off and fetch him, so being as you’re agreeable.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O yes, and that I am, John - You go and fetch him quick. +I’ll bide here gladly, waiting till he comes.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s it. I knowed you for a sensible lady +the moment I pitched my eyes on to you. And when master do come +up, you take and talk to him nicely and meek-like and lead him on from +one thing to t’other: and you’ll find as he’ll go +quiet as a sheep after the first set off, spite of the great spirit +what’s at the heart of he.<br> +<br> +LAURA. John, I’ll do all as you say, and more than all. +Only, you get along and send him quickly to me. And - yes, you +might give him a good hint, John - I’m not averse to his attentions.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, and I should think you wasn’t, for ’twould +be a hard job to find a nicer gentleman nor Master William.<br> +<br> +LAURA. That I know it would. Why, John, my heart’s +commenced beating ever so fast, it has.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Then you may reckon how ’tis with the poor master! +Why, ’tis my belief as ’twill be raving madness as’ll +be the end of he if sommat don’t come to put a finish to this +unrest.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O John, ’twould never do for such a fine gentleman +to go crazy. Do you set off quick and send him along to me, and +I’ll take and do my very best for to quiet him, like.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Rising and about to set off.</i>] Ah, ’tis +a powerful lot of calming as Master William do require. But you +be the one for to give it him. You just bide where you do sit +now whilst I goes and fetches him, mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O that I will, my good, dear John.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain</i>.]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT II. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The same wood.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM <i>and </i>JOHN <i>come up</i>. WILLIAM <i>carries +a large market basket containing vegetables.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. [<i>Looking round and seeing no one.</i>] Bless +my soul, but ’twas on the seat as I did leave she.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. We have kept her waiting a bit too long whilst we were +cutting the green stuff. And now ’twill be best to let matters +bide over till to-morrow.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, master ’tis my belief as you be all of a-tremble +like.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I wish we were well out of this business, John. +’Tis not to my liking in any way.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis a fine looking lady, and that ’tis. +You take and court her, Master William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. How am I to court the wench when she’s not here?<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Pointing.</i>] Look yonder, master, there she +comes through them dark trees.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. You’ve got to bide somewhere nigh me, John. +I could not be left alone with a wench who’s a stranger to me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Don’t you get flustered, Master William. See +here, I’ll hide me ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should +want me, why, there I’m close at hand.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’d rather you did stand at my side, John.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>hides himself behind the bushes</i>. LAURA <i>comes slowly +up</i>. WILLIAM <i>stands awkwardly before her</i>,<i> saying +nothing. Presently he takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily +and she bows to him. For some moments they stand embarrassed</i>,<i> +looking at one another.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. [<i>Suddenly bringing out a bunch of carrots from +his basket and holding them up.</i>] See these young carrots, +mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Indeed I do, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Tisn’t everywhere that you do see such fine +grown ones for the time of year.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You’re right there, master. We have none of +them up at our place.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Holding them towards her.</i>] Then be pleased +to accept these, mistress.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Taking the carrots.</i>] Thank you kindly, master. +[<i>There is another embarrassed silence</i>. WILLIAM <i>looks +distractedly from </i>LAURA <i>to his basket. Then he takes out +a bunch of turnips.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. You couldn’t beat these nowhere, not if you +were to try.<br> +<br> +LAURA. I’m sure you could not, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. They do call this sort the Early Snowball. ’Tis +a foolish name for a table root.<br> +<br> +LAURA. ’Tis a beautiful turnip.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Giving her the bunch.</i>] You may as well +have them too.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O you’re very kind, master.<br> +<br> +[<i>There is another long silence</i>. WILLIAM <i>shuffles on +his feet </i>- LAURA <i>bends admiringly over her gifts.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. There’s young beans and peas and a spring cabbage +too, within the basket. I do grow a little of most everything.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O shall we sit down and look at the vegetables together?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Visibly relieved.</i>] We might do worse nor +that. [<i>They sit down side by side with the basket between them.<br> +<br> +</i>LAURA. [<i>Lifting the cabbage.</i>] O, this is quite +a little picture! See how the leaves do curl backwards - so fresh +and green!<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Ah, and that one has a rare white heart to it, it has.<br> +<br> +LAURA. I do love the taste of a spring cabbage, when it has a +slice of fat bacon along with it.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I might have brought a couple of pounds with me if I’d +have thought. Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging +in the pantry.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Shyly.</i>] Next time, maybe.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Eagerly.</i>] ’Twouldn’t take ten +minutes for me to run back.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Not now - O no master - not now. Do you bide a little +longer here and tell me about - about t’other things in the basket.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Mopping his face with a handkerchief.</i>] +Well - there’s the beans - I count that yours haven’t come +up very smart this year.<br> +<br> +LAURA. That they’ve not. The whole place has been +let to run dreadful wild.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’d - I’d like to show you how ’tis +in my garden, one of these days.<br> +<br> +LAURA. I’d be very pleased to walk along with you there.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Hurriedly.</i>] Ah - you should see it later +on when the - the - the parsnips are a bit forrarder.<br> +<br> +LAURA. I’d like to see the flower garden now, where this +nosegay came from.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Looking round uneasily.</i>] I don’t +know what the folks would say if they were to see you and me a-going +on the road in broad day - I’m sure I don’t.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Why, what should they say, Master Gardner?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. They might get saying - they might say as - as I’d +got a-courting, or sommat foolish.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Well - and would that be untrue?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Looking at her very uncomfortably.</i>] I’m +blessed if I do know - I mean -<br> +<br> +LAURA. This nosegay - and look, those young carrots - and the +turnips and beans, why did you bring them for me, master, unless it +was that you intended something by it?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Very confused.</i>] That’s so. +So ’tis. That’s true. I count you have got hold +of the sow by the ear right enough this time. And the less said +about it the better. [<i>A slight silence.<br> +<br> +</i>LAURA. [<i>Looking up shyly in </i>WILLIAM’s face.] +What was it drew you to me first, master?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I believe ’twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced +to take notice of you, like.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Yes, but what was it about me that took your fancy in Church +on Sunday?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I know, unless ’twas those +coloured ribbons that you have got to your bonnet.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You are partial to the colour?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Ah, ’tis well enough.<br> +<br> +LAURA. See here. [<i>Taking a flower from her dress.</i>] +This is of the same colour. I will put it in your coat.<br> +<br> +[<i>She fastens it in his coat</i>. WILLIAM <i>looks very uncomfortable +and nervous.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. Well, bless my soul, but women folk have got some +powerful strange tricks to them.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Pinning the flower in its place.</i>] There - +my gift to you, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. You may call me by my name, if you like, ’tis more +suitable, seeing that we might go along to Church together one of these +days.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O William, you have made me very happy - I do feel all +mazy like with my gladness.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well, Julia, we might do worse than to - to - name the +day.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Why do you call me Julia?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Seeing that I’ve given you leave to call me William +’tis only suitable that I should use your name as well.<br> +<br> +LAURA. But my name is not Julia.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. What is it then, I should like to know?<br> +<br> +LAURA. ’Tis Laura, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Folks did tell me that you were named Julia.<br> +<br> +LAURA. No - Laura is my name; but I live with Mistress Julia up +at Luther’s Farm, and I help her with the work. House-keeping, +dairy, poultry, garden. O there’s nothing I can’t +turn my hand to, Master William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Starts up from the seat in deepest consternation.</i>] +John, John - Come you here, I say! Come here.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Emerges from the bushes.</i>] My dearest master!<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. What’s this you’ve been and done, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, master - the one with the cherry ribbons, to her you +did say.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Disgustedly.</i>] ’Tis the wrong one.<br> +<br> +LAURA. What are you two talking about? William, do you mean +to say as that man of yours was hid in the bushes all the while?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Now, John, you’ve got to get me out of the fix +where I’m set.<br> +<br> +JOHN. O my dear master, don’t you take on so. ’Tis +a little bit of misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right +very soon.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Then you get to work and set it right, John, for ’tis +beyond the power of me to do so. I’ll be blessed if I’ll +ever get meddling with this sort of job again.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now don’t you get so heated, master, but leave it +all to me. [<i>Turning to </i>LAURA.] My good wench, it +seems that there has been a little bit of misunderstanding between you +and my gentleman here.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Angrily.</i>] So that’s what you call it +- misunderstanding ’tis a fine long word, but not much of meaning, +to it, I’m thinking.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Then you do think wrong. Suppose you was to go to +market for to buy a nice spring chicken and when you was got half on +the way to home you was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl +in place of it, what would you do then?<br> +<br> +LAURA. I don’t see that chickens or fowls have anything +to do with the matter.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Then you’re not the smart maid I took you for. +’Tis not you as would be suitable in my master’s home. +And what’s more, ’tis not you as my master’s come +a-courting of.<br> +<br> +LAURA. If ’tis not me, who is it then?<br> +<br> +[WILLIAM <i>looks at her sheepishly and then turns away.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. ’Tis your mistress, since you wants to know.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Indignantly.</i>] O, I see it all now - How could +I have been so misled!<br> +<br> +JOHN. However could poor master have been so mistook, I say.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Turning away passionately.</i>] O, I’ve +had enough of you and - and your master.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now that’s what I do like for to hear. Because +me and master have sommat else to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in +this old wood the rest of the day. Us have got a smartish lot +of worry ahead of we, haven’t us, master?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. You never said a truer word, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Come along then Master William. You can leave the +spring vegetables to she. ’Tis more nor she deserves, seeing +as her might have known as ’twas her mistress the both of us was +after, all the time.<br> +<br> +[LAURA <i>throws herself on the seat and begins to cry silently</i>,<i> +but passionately.<br> +<br> +</i>WILLIAM. O John, this courting, ’tis powerful heavy +work.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Taking </i>WILLIAM’S <i>arm.</i>] Come you +along with me, master, and I’ll give you a helping hand with it +all.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Looking up and speaking violently.</i>] I warrant +you will, you clown. But let me advise you to look better afore +you leap next time, or very likely ’tis in sommat worse than a +ditchful of nettles as you’ll find yourself.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Looking back over his shoulders as he goes off with +</i>WILLIAM.] I reckon as you’ve no call to trouble about +we, mistress. Us is they what can look after theirselves very +well. Suppose you was to wash your face and dry your eyes and +set about the boiling of yon spring cabbage. ’Twould be +sensibler like nor to bide grizzling after one as is beyond you in his +station, so ’twould.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>and </i>WILLIAM <i>go out</i>,<i> leaving </i>LAURA <i>weeping +on the bench</i>,<i> the basket of vegetables by her side.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT II. - Scene 3.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +JULIA <i>is sitting at the foot of a tree in the wood</i>. CHRIS, +NAT <i>and </i>TANSIE <i>are seated near her on the ground.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. I wish this day might last for always.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Why, when to-morrow’s come, ’twill be the same.<br> +<br> +JULIA. That it will not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow’s +work.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. One day ’tis much the same as t’other with +me.<br> +<br> +NAT. ’Tis what we gets to eat as do make the change.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. I should have thought as how a grand young mistress like +yourself might have had the days to your own liking.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Ah, and so I did once. But that was before Uncle +died and left me the farm. Now, ’tis all different with +the days.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. How was it with you afore then, mistress?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Much the same as ’tis with that bird flying yonder. +I did so as I listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was +up, then I did sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when ’twas +dark, why, then I did roam. There was naught to hold me back from +my fancy.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. And how is it <i>now </i>with you, mistress?<br> +<br> +JULIA. ’Tis all said in one word.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. What’s that?<br> +<br> +JULIA. ’Tis “work.”<br> +<br> +NAT. Work?<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Work?<br> +<br> +TANSIE. Work! And yet ’tis a fine young lady as you +do look in your muslin gown with silky ribbons to it and all.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I’m a farmer, Tansie. And for a farmer ’tis +work of one sort, or t’other from when the sun is up till the +candle has burned itself short. If ’tisn’t working +with my own hands, ’tis driving of the hands of another.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. I’ve heard tell as a farmer do spin gold all the +day same as one of they great spiders as go putting out silk from their +mouths.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And what is gold to me, Chris, who have no one but myself +to spend it on<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Folks do say as the laying up of gold be one of the finest +things in the world.<br> +<br> +JULIA. It will never bring happiness to me, Chris.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Come, mistress, ’tis a fine thing to have a great +stone roof above the head of you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I’d sooner get my shelter from the green leaves.<br> +<br> +NAT. And a grand thing to have your victuals spread afore you +each time ’stead of having to go lean very often.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O, a handful of berries and a drink of fresh water is enough +for me.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. And beautiful it must be to stretch the limbs of you upon +feathers when night do come down, with a fine white sheet drawn up over +your head.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O, I could rest more sweetly on the grass and moss yonder.<br> +<br> +NAT. I did never sleep within four walls but once, and then ’twas +in gaol.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O Nat, you were never in gaol, were you?<br> +<br> +NAT. ’Twas that they mistook I for another. And when +the morning did come, they did let I go again.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. I count ’twas a smartish long night, that!<br> +<br> +NAT. ’Twas enough for to shew me how it do feel when anyone +has got to bide sleeping with the walls all around of he.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And the ceiling above, Nat. And locked door. +And other folk lying breathing in the house, hard by. All dark +and close.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. And where us may lie, the air do run swift over we. +We has the smell of the earth and the leaves on us as we do sleep. +There baint no darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through +up yonder.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. And no sound of other folk breathing but the crying of +th’ owls and the foxes’ bark.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Ah, that must be a grand sound, the barking of a fox. +I never did hear one. Never.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Ah, ’tis a powerful thin sound, that - but one to +raise the hair on a man’s head and to clam the flesh of he, at +dead of night.<br> +<br> +NAT. You come and bide along of we one evening, and you shall +hearken to the fox, and badger too, if you’ve the mind.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O that would please me more than anything in the world.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. And when ’twas got a little lighter, so that the +bushes could be seen, and the fields, I’d shew you where the partridge +has her nest beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten +them too.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. And I’ll take and lead you to a place what I do know +of, where the water flows clear as a diamond over the stones. +And if you bides there waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come +along - and there’s a dinner such as the Queen might not get every +day of the week.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O Chris, who is there to say I must bide in one place when +all in me is thirsting to be in t’other!<br> +<br> +CHRIS. I’m sure I don’t know.<br> +<br> +NAT. I should move about where I did like, if ’twas me.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. A fine young lady like you can do as she pleases.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well then, it pleases me to bide with you in the free air.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Our life, ’tis a poor life, and wandering. +’Tis food one day, and may be going without the next. ’Tis +the sun upon the faces of us one hour - and then the rain. But +’tis in freedom that us walks, and we be the masters of our own +limbs.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Will you be good to me if I journey with you?<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Ah, ’tis not likely as I’ll ever fail you, +mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Do not call me mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. ’Tis a well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as +clear water upon the tongue.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Tansie, how will it be for me to go with you?<br> +<br> +TANSIE. ’Twill be well enough with the spirit of you I don’t +doubt, but how’ll it be with the fine clothes what you have on?<br> +<br> +NAT. [<i>Suddenly looking up.</i>] Why, there’s Susan +coming.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Looking in the same direction.</i>] So that is +Susan?<br> +<br> +TANSIE. I count as her has had a smartish job to get away from +th’ old missis so early in the day.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. ’Tis a rare old she cat, and handy with the claw’s +of her, Susan’s missis.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>comes shyly forward.<br> +<br> +</i>NAT. Come you here, Susan, and sit along of we.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Yes, sit down with us in this cool shade, Susan. +You look warm from running.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. O, I didn’t know you was here, Mistress Julia.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well, Susan, and so you live at Road Farm. Are you +happy there?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I should be if ’twern’t for mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. No mistress could speak harshly to you, Susan - you are +so young and pretty.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Ah, but mistress takes no account of aught but the work +you does, and the tongue of her be wonderful lashing.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Then how comes it that you have got away to the forest +so early on a week day?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis that mistress be powerful took up with sommat +else this afternoon, and so I was able to run out for a while and her +didn’t notice me.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. Why Su, what’s going on up at the farm so particular +to-day?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis courting.<br> +<br> +ALL. Courting?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Yes. That ’tis. ’Tis our Master +William what’s dressed up in his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting +with a basket of green stuff on his arm big enough to fill the market, +very nigh.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Well, well, who’d have thought he had it in him?<br> +<br> +NAT. He’s a gentleman what’s not cut out for courting, +to my mind.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Indeed he isn’t, Nat. And however the mistress +got him dressed and set off on that business, I don’t know.<br> +<br> +JULIA. But you have not told us who the lady is, Susan.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Suddenly very embarrassed.</i>] I - I - don’t +think as I do rightly know who ’tis, mistress.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Why, look you, Susan, you’ll have to take and hide +yourself if you don’t want for them to know as you be got along +of we.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. What’s that, Chris?<br> +<br> +CHRIS. [<i>Pointing.</i>] See there, that man of Master +Gardner’s be a-coming along towards us fast. Look yonder +-<br> +<br> +SUSAN. O whatever shall I do? ’Tis John, and surely +he will tell of me when he gets back.<br> +<br> +SAT. Come you off with me afore he do perceive you, Susan. +I’ll take you where you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the +world if you’ll but come along of me.<br> +<br> +JULIA. That’s it. Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. +And do you go along too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in +the stillness of the wood for a while.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN, TANSIE <i>and </i>NAT <i>go out.<br> +<br> +</i>CHRIS. Be I to leave you too, Julia?<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Slowly.</i>] Only for a little moment, Chris; +then you can come for me again. I would like to stay with myself +in quiet for a while. New thoughts have come into my mind and +I cannot rightly understand what they do say to me, unless I hearken +to them alone.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Then I’ll leave you, Julia. For things be stirring +powerful in my mind too, and I’d give sommat for to come to an +understanding with they. Ah, that I would.<br> +<br> +[<i>They look at one another in silence for a moment</i>,<i> then </i>CHRIS +<i>slowly follows the others</i>,<i> leaving </i>JULIA <i>alone</i>. +JULIA <i>sits alone in the wood. Presently she begins to sing.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +I sowed the seeds of love,<br> +It was all in the Spring;<br> +In April, in May, and in June likewise<br> +When small birds they do sing.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>with a large basket on his arm comes up to her.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. A good day to you, mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Good afternoon.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now I count as you would like to know who ’tis that’s +made so bold in speaking to you, Mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Why, you’re Master Gardner’s farm hand, if +I’m not mistaken.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, that’s right enough. And there be jobs as +I wish Master William would get and do for hisself instead of putting +them on I.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well, and how far may you be going this afternoon?<br> +<br> +JOHN. I baint going no further than where I be a-standing now, +mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. It would appear that your business was with me, then?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, you’ve hit the right nail, mistress. ’Tis +with you. ’Tis a straight offer as my master have sent me +out for to make.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Now I wonder what sort of an offer that might be!<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis master’s hand in marriage, and a couple +of pigs jowls, home-cured, within this here basket.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O my good man, you’re making game of me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And that I baint, mistress. ’Twas in the church +as Master William seed you first. And ’tis very nigh sick +unto death with love as he have been since then.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Is he too sick to come and plead his cause himself, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, and that he be. Do go moulting about the place +with his victuals left upon the dish - a sighing and a grizzling so +that any maid what’s got a heart to th’ inside of she would +be moved in pity, did she catch ear of it, and would lift he out of +the torment.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well, John, I’ve not seen or heard any of this sad +to-do, so I can’t be moved in pity.<br> +<br> +JOHN. An, do you look within this basket at the jowls what Master +William have sent you. Maybe as they’ll go to your heart +straighter nor what any words might.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>sits down on the bench by </i>JULIA <i>and opens the basket. +</i>JULIA <i>looks in.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. I have no liking for pigs’ meat myself.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Master’s pig meat be different to any in the county, +mistress. “Tell her,” says Master William, “’tis +a rare fine bit of mellow jowl as I be a sending she.”<br> +<br> +JULIA. O John, I’m a very poor judge of such things.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And look you here. I never seed a bit of Master William’s +home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this day. +No, that I have not, mistress.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Shutting the basket.</i>] Well - I have no use +for such a gift, John, so it may be returned again to the family. +I am sorry you had the trouble of bringing it so far.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You may not be partial to pig meat, mistress, but you’ll +send back the key of Master William’s heart same as you have done +the jowls.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I have no use for the key of Master William’s heart +either, John. And you may tell him so, from me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, mistress. You don’t know what you be a +talking of. A man like my master have never had to take a No in +place of Yes in all the born days of him.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Rising.</i>] Then he’ll have to take it +now, John. And I’m thinking ’tis time you set off +home again with your load.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, mistress, I don’t particular care to go afore +you have given me a good word or sommat as’ll hearten up poor +Master William in his love sickness.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Truly, John, I don’t know what you would have me +say.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I warrant there be no lack of words to the inside of you, +if so be as you’d open you mouth a bit wider. ’Tis +not silence as a maid is troubled with in general.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O, I have plenty of words ready, John, should you care +to hear them.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Then out with them, Mistress Julia, and tell the master +as how you’ll take the offer what he have made you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I’ve never seen your master, John, but I know quite +enough about him to say I’ll never wed with him. Please +to make that very clear when you get back.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis plain as you doesn’t know what you be a +talking of. And ’tis a wonder as how such foolishness can +came from the mouth of a sensible looking maid like yourself.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I shall not marry Master William Gardner.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I reckon as you’ll be glad enough to eat up every +one of them words the day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more +splendid gentleman nor he never fetched his breath.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I’ll never wed a farmer, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And then, look at the gift what Master William’s been +and sent you. ’Tisn’t to everyone as master do part +with his pig meat. That ’tisn’t.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Rising.</i>] Well, you can tell your master I’m +not one that can be courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. +And that I’ll not wed until I can give my heart along with my +hand.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’d like to know where you would find a better one +nor master for to give your heart to, mistress?<br> +<br> +JULIA. May be I have not far to search.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Taking up the basket.</i>] You’re a rare +tricksy maid as ever I did see. Tricksy and tossy too.<br> +<br> +JULIA. There - that’s enough, John. Suppose you set +off home and tell your master he can hang up his meat again in the larder, +for all that it concerns me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’ll be blowed if I do say anything of the sort, mistress. +I shall get and tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought +to the matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, ’tis very +like as a dish of trotters may prove acceptabler.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Say what you like, John. Only let me bide quiet in +this good forest now. I want to be with my thoughts.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Preparing to go and speaking aloud to himself.</i>] +Her’s a wonderful contrary bird to be sure. And bain’t +a shy one neither, what gets timid and flustered and is easily netted. +My word, but me and master has a job before us for to catch she.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I hear you, and ’tis very rudely that you talk. +There’s an old saying that I never could see the meaning of before, +but now I think ’tis clear, “Like master, like man,” +they say. I’ll have none of Master William, and you can +tell him so.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>goes out angrily</i>. JULIA <i>sits down again on the +bench and begins to sing.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +My gardener stood by<br> +And told me to take great care,<br> +For in the middle of a red rose-bud<br> +There grows a sharp thorn there.<br> +<br> +[LAURA <i>comes slowly forward</i>,<i> carrying the basket of vegetables +on one arm. She holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. Why, Laura, what has made you cry so sadly?<br> +<br> +LAURA. O, Julia, ’twas a rare red rose as I held in my hand, +and a rare cruel thorn that came from it and did prick me.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And a rare basket of green stuff that you have been getting.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Sinking down on the seat</i>,<i> and weeping violently.</i>] +His dear gift to me!<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Looking into the basket.</i>] O a wonderful fine +gift, to be sure. Young carrots and spring cabbage. I’ve +had a gift offered too - but mine was jowls.<br> +<br> +LAURA. Jowls. O, and did you not take them?<br> +<br> +JULIA. No, I sent them back to the giver, with the dry heart which +was along with them in the same basket.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O Julia, how could you be so hard and cruel?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Come, wouldn’t you have done the same?<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Sobbing vehemently.</i>] That I should not, Julia.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Perhaps you’ve seen the gentleman then?<br> +<br> +LAURA. I have. And O, Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. +I never saw one that was his like.<br> +<br> +JULIA. The rare red rose with its thorn, Laura.<br> +<br> +LAURA. He did lay the heart of him before me - thinking my name +was Julia.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And did he lay the vegetables too?<br> +<br> +LAURA. ’Twas all the doing of a great fool, that man of +his.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And you - did you give him what he asked of you - before +he knew that your name was not Julia?<br> +<br> +LAURA. O, I did - that I did. [<i>A short silence</i>.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And could you forget the prick of the thorn, did you hold +the rose again, Laura?<br> +<br> +LAURA. O that I could. For me there’d be naught but +the rose, were it laid once more in my hand. But ’tis not +likely to be put there, since ’tis you he favours.<br> +<br> +JULIA. But I don’t favour him.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You’ll favour him powerful well when you see him, +Julia.<br> +<br> +JULIA. I’ve given my heart already, but ’tis not to +him.<br> +<br> +LAURA. You’ve given your heart?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Yes, Chris has all of it, Laura. There is nothing +left for anyone else in the world.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O Julia, think of your position.<br> +<br> +JULIA. That I will not do. I am going to think of yours.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Beginning to cry.</i>] I’m no better in +my station than a serving maid, like Susan.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Pointing.</i>] There she comes [<i>calling</i>] +Susan, Susan!<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>comes up. During the next sentences </i>LAURA <i>takes +one bunch of vegetables after another from the basket</i>,<i> smoothing +each in turn with a fond caressing movement.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. Did you call, mistress?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Yes, Susan. That I did.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Can I help you in any way, Miss Julia?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Yes, and that you can. You have got to run quickly +back to the farm.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Be it got terrible late, mistress?<br> +<br> +JULIA. ’Tis not only that. You have got to find your +master and tell him to expect a visit from me in less than an hour’s +time from now. Do you understand?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. O, yes, mistress, and that I do - to tell master as you +be coming along after he as fast as you can run.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well - I should not have put it in that way, but ’tis +near enough may be. So off, and make haste, Susan.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Please, mistress, I could make the words have a more loving +sound to them if you do wish it.<br> +<br> +JULIA. My goodness, Susan, what are you thinking of? Say +naught, but that I’m coming. Run away now, and run quickly. +[SUSAN <i>goes off.<br> +<br> +</i>LAURA. [<i>Looking up</i>,<i> a bunch of carrots in her hands.</i>] +What are you going to do now, Julia?<br> +<br> +JULIA. You shall see, when you have done playing with those carrots.<br> +<br> +LAURA. He pulled them, every one, with his own hands, Julia.<br> +<br> +JULIA. My love has gathered something better for me than a carrot. +See, a spray of elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the wind.<br> +<br> +[<i>She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress</i>,<i> and shews +it to </i>LAURA.<br> +<br> +LAURA. The roots that lie warm in the earth do seem more homely +like to me.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well - each one has their own way in love - and mine lies +through the dark woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. +And ’tis your road that we will take this afternoon - so come +along quickly with me, Laura, for the sun has already begun to change +its light.<br> +<br> +[LAURA <i>replaces the vegetables in her basket and rises from the seat +as the curtain falls.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT III. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The Garden of Road Farm as in Act I.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER <i>is knitting in the Arbour</i>. WILLIAM <i>strolls +about gloomily</i>,<i> his hands in his pockets.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER. And serve you right, William, for sending the +man when you should have gone yourself.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. John has a tongue that is better used to this sort of +business than mine.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Nonsense, when was one of our family ever known +to fail in the tongue?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. If she that was asked first had only been the right one, +all would have been over and done with now.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis John that you have got to thank for the +blunder.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Sighing.</i>] That was a rare fine maid, and +no mistake.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. And a rare brazen hussy, from all that has reached +my ears.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Well - I’ve done with courting - now and for all +time, that I have. And you may roast me alive if I’ll ever +go nigh to a maid again.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. That you shall, William - and quickly too. +There’s no time like the present, and your Sunday clothes are +upon you still.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I was just going up to change, Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to remain as you are. +You may take what gift you like along with you this time, so long as +it’s none of my home-cured meat.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I do stir out again this day. +Why, look at the seedlings crying for water, and the nets to lay over +the fruit and sommat of everything wanting to be done all around of +me. I’ll not stir.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>comes towards them.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER. Here’s John. Suppose he were to +make himself useful in the garden for once instead of meddling in things +that are none of his business.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’ll be blowed if ’tis any more courting as +I’ll do, neither for Master William nor on my own account.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Why, John, ’twasn’t your fault that the lady +wouldn’t take me, you did your best with her, I know.<br> +<br> +JOHN. An that I did, Master William, but a more contrary coxsy +sort of a maid I never did see. “I baint one as fancies +pig meat,” her did say. And the nose of she did curl away +up till it could go no higher. That’s not the wench for +me, I says to myself.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Is the jowl hung up in its right place again, John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. That ’tis, mistress. I put it back myself, and +a good job for that ’taint went out of the family and off to the +mouths of strangers, so says I.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Do you tend to Master William’s garden John, +instead of talking. We’ve had enough of your tongue for +one day.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Why, be Master William goin’ out for to court again, +this afternoon?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. No, John - No, I’ve had enough of that for my life +time.<br> +<br> +JOHN. So have I, master, and more nor enough. I don’t +care particular if I never set eyes on a maid again.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Pointing to a plot of ground.</i>] That’s +where I pulled the young carrots this morning.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, and so you did, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. And there’s from where I took the Early Snowballs.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And a great pity as you did. There be none too many +of that sort here.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. She had a wonderful soft look in her eyes as she did +handle them and the spring cabbage, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, and a wonderful hard tongue when her knowed ’twasn’t +for she as they was pulled.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Was t’other maid anything of the same pattern, +John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Upon my word, if t’other wasn’t the worst of +the two, for she did put a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she +did give I, and the words did fall from she like so many bricks on my +head.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Pity the first was not the right maid.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, a maid what can treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon +did baint the sort for to mistress it over we, I’m thinking.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. See here, John - suppose you were to let your tongue +bide still in its home awhile, and start doing something with your hands.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. What’s +wanted, Master William?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I can recollect, John. This +courting business lies heavy on me, and I don’t seem able to get +above it, like.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’d let it alone, master, if I was you. They +be all alike, the maids. And ’twouldn’t be amiss if +we was to serve they as we serves the snails when they gets to the young +plants.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>comes hurriedly into the garden.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. Please master, please mistress.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. What do you mean, Susan, by coming into the garden +without your cap? Go and put it on at once.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. The wind must have lifted it from me, mistress, for I was +running ever so fast.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Do you expect me to believe that, Susan - and not +a breath stirring the flowers or trees, or anything?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Twas the lady I met as - as - as I was coming across +the field from feeding the fowls.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. What lady, Susan?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Her from Luther’s, mistress.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And what of she; out with it, wench.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. She did tell I to say as she be coming along as fast as +she may after Master William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>As though to himself with an accent of despair.</i>] +No. No.<br> +<br> +JOHN. There, master, didn’t I tell you so?<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Very nervously.</i>] What did you tell me, +John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. That, let her abide and her’d find the senses of she +presently.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know what to do.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>takes his master’s arm and draws him aside.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. You pluck up your heart, my dearest master, and court +she hard. And in less nor a six months ’tis along to church +as you’ll be a-driving she.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. But John, ’tis t’other with the cherry ribbons +that has taken all my fancy.<br> +<br> +JOHN. No, no, Master William. You take and court the mistress. +You take and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from +she. T’other wench is but the serving maid.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. The lady’s coming along ever so quickly, master.<br> +<br> +[MRS. GARDNER, <i>rising and folding up her knitting.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER. You’ll please to come indoors with me, +William, and I’ll brush you down and make you look more presentable +than you appear just now. Susan, you’ll get a cap to you +head at once, do you hear me! And John, take and water master’s +seedlings. Any one can stand with their mouths open and their +eyes as big as gooseberries if they’ve a mind. ’Tis +not particular sharp to do so. Come, William.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’d like a word or two with John first, Mother.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. You come along with me this moment, William. +’Tis a too many words by far that you’ve had with John already, +and much good they’ve done to you. Come you in with me.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know whether ’tis on +my head or on my feet that I’m standing.<br> +<br> +[WILLIAM <i>follows his mother slowly and gloomily into the house.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Well - if ever there was a poor, tormented animal ’tis +the master.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Ah, mistress should have been born a drover by rights. +’Tis a grand nagging one as her’d have made, and sommat +what no beast would ever have got the better of.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I wouldn’t stand in Master William’s shoes, +not if you was to put me knee deep in gold.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Nor I.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, this courting business, ’tis a rare caddling muddle +when ’tis all done and said.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis according as some folks do find it, Master John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot as you’ll get of it come +Sunday night, my wench. You wait and see.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. That shews how little you do know. ’Twill be +better nor ever with me then.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Twill be alone by yourself as you’ll go walking, +Su.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. We’ll see about that when the time comes, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. All I says is that I baint a-going walking with you.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I never walk with two, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You’ll have to learn to go in your own company.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I shall go by the side of my husband by then, very likely.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Your husband? What tales be you a-giving out now?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis to Nat as I’m to be wed come Saturday.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Get along with you, Susan, and put a cap to your head. +Mistress will be coming out presently, and then you know how ’twill +be if her catches you so. Get along in with you.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Now you don’t believe what I’m telling you +- but it’s true, O it’s true.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Look here - There’s company at the gate, and you a-standing +there like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in and make +yourself a decenter appearance and then go and tell the mistress as +they be comed.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Preparing to go indoors and speaking over her shoulder.</i>] +’Tis in the parson’s gown as you should be clothed, Master +John. Ah, ’tis a wonderful wordy preacher as you would make, +to be sure. And ’tis a rare crop as one might raise with +the seed as do fall from your mouth.<br> +<br> +[<i>She goes indoors</i>. JULIA <i>comes leisurely into the garden.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. Well, John, and how are you feeling now?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Nicely, thank you, mistress. See yon arbour?<br> +<br> +JULIA. And that I do, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, you may go and sit within it till the master has leisure +to come and speak with you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Thank you, John, but I would sooner stop and watch you +tend the flowers.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis all one to me whether you does or you does not.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Now, John, you are angry with me still.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I likes a wench as do know the mind of she, and not one +as can blow hot one moment and cold the next.<br> +<br> +JULIA. There was never a moment when I did not know my own mind, +John. And that’s the truth.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, us won’t say no more about that. ’Taint +fit as there should be ill feeling nor quarrelling ’twixt me and +you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. You’re right, John. And there was something +that I had it in my mind to ask you.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You can say your fill. There baint no one but me in +the garden.<br> +<br> +JULIA. John, you told me that since Sunday your master has been +sick with love.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. I count as we +shall bury he if sommat don’t come to his relief.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if ’tis +for love of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You’d best go and ask it of his self, mistress. +’Tis a smartish lot of work as I’ve got to attend to here.<br> +<br> +JULIA. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you.<br> +<br> +JOHN. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and +a-buzzin round a man’s head.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Now, John - you must tell me which of the two it is. +Is it Laura whom your master loves, or Julia?<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me.<br> +<br> +JULIA. No, John, you’re not looking straight at me. +You are looking down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Looking up crossly.</i>] I’ve got my work +to think of. I’m not one to stand cackling with a maid.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Could you swear me it is Julia?<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide +over, so as I can get the watering finished.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Seizes the watering can.</i>] Now, John, you +have got to speak the truth to me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Give up yon can, I tell you. O you do act wonderful +unseemly for a young lady.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Withholding the can.</i>] Not till I have the +truth from you.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Angrily.</i>] Well then, is it likely that my +master would set his fancy on such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, +Master William do know better nor to do such a thing, I can tell you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. Then ’tis for Laura that he is love-sick, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Give I the watering can.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Giving him the can.</i>] Here it is, dear John. +O I had a fancy all the time that ’twas to Laura your master had +lost his heart. And now I see I made no mistake.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I shouldn’t have spoke as I did if you hadn’t +a buzzed around I till I was drove very nigh crazy. Master William, +he’ll never forgive me this.<br> +<br> +JULIA. That he will, I’m sure, when he has listened to what +I have got to say to him.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You do set a powerful store on what your tongue might say, +but I’d take and bide quiet at home if I was you and not come +hunting of a nice reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very +garden.<br> +<br> +JULIA. O John, you’re a sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge +me very unkindly. But I’ll not bear malice if you will just +run in and tell your master that I want a word with him.<br> +<br> +JOHN. A word? Why not say fifty? When was a maid ever +satisfied with one word I’d like to know?<br> +<br> +JULIA. Well - I shan’t say more than six, very likely, so +fetch him to me now, John, and I’ll wait here in the garden. +[JOHN <i>looks at her with exasperated contempt. Then he slowly +walks away towards the house</i>. JULIA <i>goes in the opposite +direction to the garden gate.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. [<i>Calling.</i>] Chris! [CHRIS <i>comes +in.<br> +<br> +</i>JULIA. [<i>Pointing.</i>] O Chris, look at this fine +garden - and yon arbour - see the fine house, with lace curtains to +the windows of it.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. [<i>Sullenly.</i>] Ah - I sees it all very well.<br> +<br> +JULIA. And all this could be mine for the stretching out of a +hand.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Then stretch it.<br> +<br> +JULIA. ’Twould be like putting a wild bird into a gilded +cage, to set me here in this place. No, I must go free with you, +Chris - and we will wander where our spirits lead us - over all the +world if we have a mind to do so.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. Please God you’ll not grieve at your choice.<br> +<br> +JULIA. That I never shall. Now call to Laura. Is she +in the lane outside?<br> +<br> +CHRIS. There, she be come to the gate now.<br> +<br> +[LAURA <i>comes in</i>,<i> followed by </i>NAT <i>and </i>TANSIE.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Pointing to a place on the ground.</i>] Laura, +see, here is the place from which your young carrots were pulled.<br> +<br> +LAURA. O look at the flowers, Julia - Lillies, pinks and red roses.<br> +<br> +JULIA. ’Tis a fine red rose that shall be gathered for you +presently, Laura. [JOHN <i>comes up.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. The master’s very nigh ready now, mistress.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>follows him.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. The mistress says, please to be seated till she do +come.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>To </i>CHRIS <i>and </i>NAT.] Now, my men, we +don’t want the likes of you in here. You had best get off +afore Master William catches sight of you.<br> +<br> +JULIA. No, John. These are my friends, and I wish them to +hear all that I have to say to your master.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, ’tis in the grave as poor Master William will +be landed soon if you don’t have a care.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Anxiously.</i>] O is he so delicate as that, +John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah - and that he be. And these here love matters and +courtings and foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don’t +give him but a week longer if things do go on as they be now.<br> +<br> +[WILLIAM <i>and </i>MRS. GARDNER <i>come in</i>. WILLIAM <i>looks +nervously round him</i>. MRS. GARDNER <i>perceives the gipsies</i>,<i> +and </i>SUSAN <i>talking to </i>NAT.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Susan, get you to your place in the kitchen, as +quick as you can. John, put yon roadsters through the gate, if +you please. [<i>Turning to </i>JULIA.] Now young Miss?<br> +<br> +JULIA. A very good evening to you, mistress. And let me +make Chris known to you for he and I are to be wed to-morrow.<br> +<br> +[<i>She takes </i>CHRIS <i>by the hand and leads him forward.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER. What’s this? William, do you understand +what the young person is telling us?<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Taking </i>LAURA <i>with her other hand.</i>] +And here is Laura to whom I have given all my land and all my money. +She is the mistress of Luther’s now.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Aside to </i>WILLIAM.] Now master, hearken to +that. Can’t you lift your spirits a bit.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>To </i>MRS. GARDNER.] And I beg you to accept +her as a daughter. She will make a better farmer’s wife +than ever I shall.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>In a loud whisper.</i>] Start courting, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. O I dare not quite so sudden, John.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. [<i>Sitting down.</i>] It will take a few +moments for me to understand this situation.<br> +<br> +JULIA. There is no need for any hurry. We have all the evening +before us.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Hastily gathers a rosebud and puts it into </i>WILLIAM’S +<i>hand.</i>] Give her a blossom, master. ’Tis an +easy start off.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Coming forward shyly with the flower.</i>] +Would you fancy a rosebud, mistress?<br> +<br> +LAURA. O that I would, master.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. Should you care to see - to see where the young celery +is planted out?<br> +<br> +LAURA. O, I’d dearly love to see the spot.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. I’ll take you along to it then. [<i>He gives +her his arm</i>,<i> very awkwardly</i>,<i> and they move away.<br> +<br> +</i>MRS. GARDNER. [<i>Sitting down.</i>] Well - things have +changed since I was young.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Looking viciously at </i>NAT <i>and </i>SUSAN.] +Ah, I counts they have, mistress, and ’tis all for the worse.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Comes forward timidly.</i>] And me and Nat are +to be married too, mistress.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. I should have given you notice anyhow to-night, +Susan, so perhaps it’s just as well you have made sure of some +sort of a roof to your head.<br> +<br> +NAT. ’Twill be but the roof of th’ old cart, mistress; +but I warrant as her’ll sleep bravely under it, won’t you, +Su.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. That I shall, dear Nat.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. Well, Master John, have you a fancy to come tenting along +of we.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Upon my word, but I don’t know how ’tis with +the young people nowadays, they be so bold.<br> +<br> +JULIA. [<i>Who has been standing apart</i>,<i> her hand in that +of </i>CHRIS.] New days, new ways, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Bless my soul, but ’tis hard to keep up with all these +goings on, and no mistake.<br> +<br> +JULIA. No need for you to try, John. If you are too old +to run with us you must abide still and watch us as we go.<br> +<br> +CHRIS. But there, you needn’t look downhearted, master, +for I knows someone as’ll give you a rare warm welcome if so be +as you should change your mind and take your chance in the open, same +as we.<br> +<br> +TANSIE. You shall pay for that, Chris.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Stiffly.</i>] I hope as I’ve a properer +sense of my duty nor many others what I could name.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. Those are the first suitable words that have been +spoken in my hearing this afternoon.<br> +<br> +[WILLIAM, <i>with </i>LAURA <i>on his arm</i>,<i> returns</i>. +LAURA <i>carries a small cucumber very lovingly.<br> +<br> +</i>LAURA. Julia, look! The first one of the season! +O, isn’t it a picture!<br> +<br> +JULIA. O Laura, ’tis a fine wedding gift to be sure.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. [<i>Stepping up to </i>JOHN.] John, my man, here’s +a five pound note to your pocket. I’d never have won this +lady here if it hadn’t been for you.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Taking the note.</i>] Don’t name it, dear +master. ’Tis a long courtship what has no ending to it, +so I always says.<br> +<br> +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis one upset after another, but suppose +you were to make yourself useful for once, Susan, and bring out the +tray with the cake and glasses on it.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, that’s it, and I’ll go along of she and +help draw the cider. Courtship be powerful drying work.<br> +<br> +LAURA. [<i>Looking into </i>WILLIAM’S <i>eyes.</i>] +O William, ’twas those Early Snowballs that did first stir up +my heart.<br> +<br> +WILLIAM. ’Twas John who thought of them. Why, John +has more sensible thoughts to the mind of him than any other man in +the world - and when the cider is brought, ’tis to John’s +health we will all drink.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +PRINCESS ROYAL<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY<br> +<br> +ROSE, MARION, <i>village girls.<br> +</i>LADY MILLICENT.<br> +ALICE, <i>her maid.<br> +</i>LEAH, <i>an old gipsy.<br> +</i>SUSAN, <i>otherwise Princess Royal</i>,<i> her grand-daughter.<br> +</i>JOCKIE, <i>a little swine herd.<br> +</i>LADY CULLEN.<br> +<i>Her ladies in waiting (or one lady only).<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN, <i>her only son.<br> +As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in this Play.<br> +<br> +The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by girls.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT I. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A village green. Some girls with market baskets come on to +it</i>,<i> each one carrying a leaflet which she is earnestly reading.<br> +<br> +Gradually all the girls approach from different sides reading leaflets.<br> +<br> +Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is sitting - +she lights a pipe and begins to smoke as </i>ROSE, <i>her basket full +of market produce</i>,<i> comes slowly forward reading her sheet of +paper. She is followed by </i>MARION - <i>also reading.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. Well, ’tis like to be a fine set out, this May +Day.<br> +<br> +MARION. I can make naught of it myself.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Why, ’tis Lord Cullen putting it about as how he be +back from the war and thinking of getting himself wed, like.<br> +<br> +MARION. I understands that much, I do.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Only he can’t find the maid what he’s lost his +heart to.<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Reading.</i>] The wench what his lordship did +see a-dancing all by herself in the forest when he was hid one day all +among the brambles, a-rabbiting or sommat.<br> +<br> +ROSE. And when my lord would have spoke with her, the maid did +turn and fled away quick as a weasel.<br> +<br> +MARION. And his lordship off to the fighting when ’twas +next morn.<br> +<br> +ROSE. So now, each maid of us in the village and all around be +to dance upon the green come May Day so that my lord may see who ’twas +that pleased his fancy.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>comes up and stands quietly listening. She is bare foot +and her skirt is ragged</i>,<i> she wears a shawl over her shoulders +and her hair is rough and untidy. On her arm she carries a basket +containing a few vegetables and other marketings.<br> +<br> +</i>MARION. And when he do pitch upon the one, ’tis her +as he will wed.<br> +<br> +ROSE. ’Twill be a thing to sharpen the claws of th’ +old countess worse nor ever - that marriage.<br> +<br> +MARION. Ah, I reckon as her be mortal angered with all the giddle-gaddle +this business have set up among the folk.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Regretfully.</i>] I’ve never danced among +the trees myself.<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Sadly.</i>] Nor I, neither, Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I’d dearly like to be a countess, Marion.<br> +<br> +MARION. His lordship might think I was the maid. I’m +spry upon my feet you know.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>comes still nearer.<br> +<br> +</i>MARION. [<i>Turning to her and speaking rudely.</i>] +Well, Princess Rags, ’tisn’t likely as ’twas you a-dancing +one of your Morris dances in the wood that day!<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Mockingly.</i>] ’Tisn’t likely as +his lordship would set his thoughts on a wench what could caper about +like a Morris man upon the high road. So there.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Indifferently.</i>] I never danced upon the high +road, I dances only where ’tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon +me. No mortal eyes.<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Impudently.</i>] Get along with you, Princess +Royal. Go off to th’ old gipsy Gran’ma yonder. +We don’t want the likes of you along of us.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Go off and dance to your own animals, Miss Goatherd. +All of us be a-going to practise our steps against May Day. Come +along girls.<br> +<br> +[<i>She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange themselves +for a Country Dance</i>. SUSAN <i>goes slowly towards her </i>GRANDMOTHER +<i>and sits on the ground by her side</i>,<i> looking sadly and wistfully +at the dancers. At the end of the dance</i>,<i> the girls pick +up their baskets and go off in different directions across the green</i>. +SUSAN <i>and her </i>GRANDMOTHER <i>remain in their places. The +gipsy continues to smoke and </i>SUSAN <i>absently turns over the things +in her basket.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. They mock me in the name they have fixed to me - Princess +Royal.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Let them mock. I’ll bring the words back +to them like scorpions upon their tongues.<br> +<br> +[<i>There is a little silence and then </i>SUSAN <i>begins to sing as +though to herself.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +“As I walked out one May morning,<br> +So early in the Spring;<br> +I placed my back against the old garden gate,<br> +And I heard my true love sing.” <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a><br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. [<i>At the end of the singing.</i>] It might +be the blackcap a-warbling all among of the branches. So it might.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Ah, ’twas I that was a-dancing in the shade of the +woods that day.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never look on the likes of you - that’s +sure enough, my little wench.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I wish he was a goat-herd like myself - O that I do.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Then there wouldn’t be no use in your wedding +yourself with him as I can see.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis himself, not his riches that I want.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. You be speaking foolishness. What do you know +of him - what do us blind worms know about the stars above we?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I see’d him pass by upon his horse one day. +All there was of him did shine like the sun upon the water - I was very +near dazed by the brightness. So I was.<br> +<br> +[<i>The </i>GRANDMOTHER <i>continues to smoke in silence.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. [<i>Softly.</i>] And ’twas then I lost +the heart within me to him.<br> +<br> +[JOCKIE <i>runs up beating his tabor.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. [<i>Springing up.</i>] Come, Jockie, I have a +mind to dance a step or two. [<i>Rubbing her eyes with the back +of her hands.</i>] Tears be for them as have idle times and not +for poor wenches what mind cattle and goats. Come, play me my +own music, Jock. And play it as I do like it best.<br> +<br> +[JOCKIE <i>begins to play the tune of</i> “<i>Princess Royal</i>” +<i>and </i>SUSAN <i>dances. Whilst </i>SUSAN <i>is dancing </i>LADY +MILLICENT <i>and her waiting maid come slowly by and stand watching</i>. +SUSAN <i>suddenly perceives them and throws herself on the ground</i>. +JOCKIE <i>stops playing.<br> +<br> +</i>LADY MILLICENT. [<i>Fanning herself.</i>] A wondrous +bold dance, upon my word - could it have been that which captivated +my lord, Alice?<br> +<br> +ALICE. O no, mistress. His lordship has no fancy for boldness +in a maid.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. Immodest too. A Morris dance. The +girl should hide her face in shame.<br> +<br> +ALICE. And there she is, looking at your ladyship with her gipsy +eyes, bold as a brass farthing.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Starting up and speaking passionately.</i>] I’ll +not be taunted for my dancing - I likes to dance wild, and leap with +my body when my spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies +and move in the air same as the birds do move when ’tis mating +time.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, ’tis so with she. She baint no tame +mouse what creeps from its hole along of t’others and who do go +shuffle shuffle, in and out of the ring, mild as milk and naught in +the innards of they but the squeak.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Defiantly.</i>] ’Twas my dance gained his +lordship’s praise - so there, fine madam.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. Your dance? Who are you then?<br> +<br> +ALICE. A gipsy wench, mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for +one of they great farms.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Have a care for that tongue of yours, madam waiting +maid. For I know how to lay sommat upon it what you won’t +fancy.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. [<i>Coming up to </i>SUSAN <i>and laying her hand +on her arm.</i>] Now tell me your name, my girl.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. They call me Princess Royal.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. O that must be in jest. Why, you are clothed +in rags, poor thing.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Shaking herself free.</i>] I’d sooner wear +my own rags nor the laces which you have got upon you.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. Now why do you say such a thing?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Twas in these rags as I danced in the wood that +day, and ’tis by these rags as my lord will know me once more.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. Listen, I will cover you in silk and laces, Princess +Royal.<br> +<br> +ALICE. Susan is the maid’s name.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I don’t want none of your laces or silks.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. And feed you with poultry and cream and sweetmeats.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I want naught but my crust of bread.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. I’ll fill your hands with gold pieces.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Sue?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Doggedly.</i>] I hear her well enough, Gran.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. If you’ll teach me your dance against May +Day. Then, I’ll clothe myself much after your fashion and +dance upon the green with the rest.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I’ll not learn you my dance. Not for all the +gold in the world. You shan’t go and take the only thing +I have away from me.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. [<i>Angrily.</i>] Neither shall a little +gipsy wretch like you take my love from me. We were as good as +promised to each other at our christening.<br> +<br> +ALICE. Don’t put yourself out for the baggage, madam. +His lordship would never look on her.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Gold, did you say, mistress?<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. Gold? O yes - an apron full of gold, and +silver too.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Susan?<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Doggedly</i>.] I’ll not do it for a King’s +ransom.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. You will. You’ll do it for the sake of +poor old Gran, what’s been father and mother to you - and what’s +gone hungered and thirsty so that you might have bread and drink.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. [<i>Distractedly.</i>] O I can never give him up.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never be yourn to give - Dance till your +legs is off and he’ll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when +’tis all finished.<br> +<br> +ALICE. Whilst my lady belongs to his lordship’s own class, +’tis but suitable as she should be the one to wed with him - knowing +the foreign tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. +There’s a lady anyone would be proud to take before the Court +in London.<br> +<br> +[SUSAN <i>turns away with a movement of despair. The </i>GRANDMOTHER +<i>begins to smoke again</i>. LADY MILLICENT <i>fans herself and +</i>ALICE <i>arranges her own shawl.<br> +<br> +</i>GRANDMOTHER. I could do with a little pig up at our place +if I’d the silver to take into the market for to buy him with. +[<i>A silence.<br> +<br> +</i>GRANDMOTHER. And I could do with a pair of good shoes to my +poor old feet come winter time when ’tis snowing. [<i>Another +silence.<br> +<br> +</i>GRANDMOTHER. And ’twould be good not to go to bed with +the pain of hunger within my lean old body - so ’twould. +[SUSAN <i>turns round suddenly.<br> +<br> +</i>SUSAN. I’ll do it, Gran. I’ll do it for +your sake. ’Tis very likely true what you do say, all of +you. I’d but dance my feet off for naught. When he +came to look into my gipsy eyes, ’twould all be over and done +with.<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. Sensible girl.<br> +<br> +ALICE. ’Tis time she should see which way her bread was +spread.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Come, Jockie, come ladies - come Gran - we’ll be +off to the quiet of our own place where I can learn her ladyship the +steps and capers.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. [<i>Rising and pointing to an advancing figure.</i>] +You’d best make haste. The mice be a-running from their +holes once more - t’wouldn’t do for they to know aught about +this.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. Let us go quickly then.<br> +<br> +[<i>The </i>GRANDMOTHER, SUSAN, LADY MILLICENT <i>with </i>ALICE <i>and +</i>JOCKIE <i>go out as a crowd of village girls come on to the green</i>,<i> +and laughing and talking together</i>,<i> arrange themselves to practise +a Country Dance.<br> +<br> +End of Act I.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on the green. +A dais has been put up at one end of it.<br> +<br> +</i>MARION. How slow the time do pass, this May Day.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Let’s while it away with a song or two.<br> +<br> +[<i>They all join in singing. At the end of the song the gipsy +comes slowly and painfully across the green</i>,<i> casting black looks +to right and to left. She is followed by </i>SUSAN, <i>who appears +weighed down by sadness.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. Good afternoon, Princess Royal Rags. Are we to +see you cutting capers before his lordship this afternoon?<br> +<br> +MARION. Get along and hide your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. +I’d be ashamed to go without shoes if ’twas me.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. O leave me alone - you be worse nor a nest of waspes - +that you be.<br> +<br> +GRANDMOTHER. [<i>Turning fiercely round.</i>] Us’ll +smoke them out of their holes one day - see if us do not.<br> +<br> +[<i>They pass over to the tree where the </i>GRANDMOTHER <i>sits down +and </i>SUSAN <i>crouches by her side. Presently they are joined +by </i>JOCKIE. <i>The girls sing a verse or two of another song</i>,<i> +and during this </i>LADY MILLICENT, <i>enveloped in a big cloak</i>,<i> +goes over to the tree</i>,<i> followed by </i>ALICE, <i>also wearing +a long cloak and they sit down by the side of </i>SUSAN.<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Pointing.</i>] Who are those yonder, Rose?<br> +<br> +ROSE. I’m sure I don’t know, Marion - strangers, may +be.<br> +<br> +MARION. O my heart goes wild this afternoon.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Mine too. Look, there they come.<br> +<br> +[<i>The Music begins to play and old </i>LADY CULLEN, <i>followed by +her lady companions</i>,<i> comes slowly towards the dais</i>,<i> on +which she seats herself.<br> +<br> +</i>LADY CULLEN. Dear me, what a gathering to be sure.<br> +<br> +HER LADY. Indeed it is an unusual sight.<br> +<br> +LADY CULLEN. And O what a sad infatuation on the part of my poor +boy.<br> +<br> +HER LADY. The war has been known to turn many a brain.<br> +<br> +LADY CULLEN. And yet my son holds his own with the brightest intelligences +of the day.<br> +<br> +HER LADY. Only one little spot of his lordship’s brain seems +to be affected.<br> +<br> +LADY CULLEN. Just so. But here he comes, poor misguided +youth.<br> +<br> +[LORD CULLEN <i>comes slowly over the green</i>,<i> looking to right +and to left. He mounts the dais and sits down by his mother</i>,<i> +and the music plays for a country dance</i>. “<i>The Twenty +Ninth of May</i>.” <i>The girls arrange themselves</i>,<i> +and during the dance </i>LORD CULLEN <i>scans each face very eagerly. +The dance ends and the girls pass in single file before the dais.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. No, no - that was not the music of it, that was +not the dance - not a face among them resembles the image I carry in +my heart.<br> +<br> +LADY CULLEN. [<i>Aside.</i>] Thank goodness. May that +face never be seen again.<br> +<br> +[<i>A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and danced.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. [<i>At the end of it.</i>] Worse and worse. +Could I have dreamed both the music and the dance and the dancer?<br> +<br> +LADY CULLEN. [<i>Soothingly.</i>] I am sure this was the +case, my dear son.<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. [<i>Rallying.</i>] I heard her voice singing +in the forest before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest +voice and song I ever heard. [<i>Looking around.</i>] Can +any of these maid, sing to me, I wonder?<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Steps forward.</i>] I only know one song, my +lord.<br> +<br> +[LORD CULLEN <i>signs to her to sing</i>,<i> and she stands before the +dais and sings a verse of</i> “<i>Bedlam</i>.”<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. [<i>Impatiently.</i>] No, no - that is not +in the least what I remember. [<i>Turning to </i>ROSE.] +You try now.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I don’t sing, my lord - but - [<i>Indicating another +girl in the group</i>] she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful +lot of songs.<br> +<br> +[<i>A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of</i> “<i>The +Lark in the Morn</i>.”<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. Not that. Mine was a song to stir the depths +of a man’s heart and bring tears up from the fountains of it.<br> +<br> +[<i>He leans back in deep dejection - and at this moment </i>LADY MILLICENT +<i>and </i>ALICE <i>come forward.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. [<i>Eagerly.</i>] I seem to know that russet +skirt - those bare, small feet. [<i>Standing up quickly.</i>] +Mother, look at that maid with the red kerchief on her head.<br> +<br> +LADY CULLEN. Some sort of a gipsy dress, to all appearance.<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. [<i>Doubtfully.</i>] The skirt she wore was +torn and ragged - that day in the forest. She had no gold rings +to her ears, nor silken scarf upon her head - But this might be her +dress for holidays.<br> +<br> +[JOCKIE <i>advances and begins to play the tune of </i>“<i>Princess +Royal</i>.”<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. [<i>Eagerly.</i>] That is the right music - +O is it possible my quest is ended!<br> +<br> +[LADY MILLICENT <i>and </i>ALICE, <i>standing opposite one to another +begin to dance - slowly and clumsily</i>,<i> and in evident doubt as +to their steps</i>. LORD CULLEN <i>watches them for a moment and +then claps his hands angrily as a sign for the music to stop. +The dancers pause.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. This is a sad mimicry of my beautiful love. +But there lies something behind the masquerade which I shall probe.<br> +<br> +[<i>He leaves the dais and goes straight towards </i>LADY MILLICENT, +<i>who turns from him in confusion.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. From whom did you take the manner and the colour +of your garments, my maid?<br> +<br> +[LADY MILLICENT <i>remains obstinately silent</i>.<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. [<i>To </i>ALICE.] Perhaps you have a tongue +in your head. From whom did you try to learn those steps?<br> +<br> +[ALICE <i>turns sulkily away</i>. JOCKIE <i>comes forward.<br> +<br> +</i>JOCKIE. I’ll tell your lordship all about it, and I’ll +take your lordship straight to the right wench, that I will, if so be +as your lordship will give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what +goes empty and hungered most of the year round.<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. A handful of gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly.<br> +<br> +[JOCKIE <i>leads the way to the tree where </i>SUSAN <i>is sitting. +She stands up as </i>LORD CULLEN <i>approaches</i>,<i> and for a moment +they gaze at one another in silence.<br> +<br> +</i>GRANDMOTHER. You might curtsey to the gentleman, Susan.<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. No - there’s no need of that, from her to me. +[<i>Turning to </i>JOCKIE <i>and putting his hand in his pocket.</i>] +Here, my boy, is a golden pound for you - and more shall follow later.<br> +<br> +[<i>He then takes </i>SUSAN’S <i>hand and leads her to the foot +of the dais.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. Will you dance for me again, Susan?<br> +<br> +SEVERAL OF THE GIRLS. [<i>Mockingly.</i>] Princess Royal +is her name.<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Rudely.</i>] Or Princess Rags.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. ’Tis all took out of my hands now, I can but do as +your lordship says. Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely +too.<br> +<br> +[JOCKIE <i>places himself near her and begins to play</i>. SUSAN +<i>dances by herself. At the end of her dance </i>LORD CULLEN +<i>leads the applause</i>,<i> and even the ladies on the dais join faintly +in it. He then takes </i>SUSAN <i>by the hand and mounts the dais +with her and presents her to his mother.<br> +<br> +</i>LADY CULLEN. [<i>Aside</i>,<i> to her companion.</i>] +I wonder if the young person understands that my poor boy is a little +touched in the brain?<br> +<br> +LORD CULLEN. Here is your daughter, mother.<br> +<br> +[LADY CULLEN <i>and </i>SUSAN <i>look at one another in silence. +After a moment </i>SUSAN <i>turns to </i>LORD CULLEN.<br> +<br> +SUSAN. I’m a poor ragged thing to be daughter to the likes +of she. But the heart within of me is grander nor that of any +queen, because of the love that it holds for you, my lord.<br> +<br> +[LORD CULLEN <i>takes her hand and leads her to the front of the dais.<br> +<br> +</i>LORD CULLEN. We will be married to-morrow, my princess. +And all these good people shall dance at our wedding.<br> +<br> +MARION. [<i>Springing up.</i>] And we’ll do a bit +of dancing now as well. Come, Jockie, give us the tune of “Haste +to the Wedding.”<br> +<br> +ROSE. That’s it. Come girls -<br> +<br> +LADY MILLICENT. [<i>To </i>ALICE.] I pray he won’t +find out about me.<br> +<br> +[<i>The old </i>GRANDMOTHER <i>has come slowly towards the middle of +the green.<br> +<br> +</i>GRANDMOTHER. Ah, and my little wench will know how to pay +back some of the vipers tongues which slandered her, when she sits on +her velvet chair as a countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck +and the rubies a-crowning of her head. Her’ll not forget +the snakes what did lie in the grass. Her’ll have her heel +upon they, so that their heads be put low and there shan’t go +no more venom from their great jaws to harm she, my pretty lamb - my +little turtle.<br> +<br> +[<i>The music begins to play and all those on the green form themselves +for the dance</i>. LORD CULLEN <i>and </i>SUSAN <i>stand side +by side in front of the dais</i>,<i> and the </i>GRANDMOTHER <i>lights +a pipe and smokes it as she watches the dance from below. At the +end of the dance </i>LORD CULLEN, <i>leading </i>SUSAN, <i>comes down +from the dais and</i>,<i> followed by </i>LADY CULLEN <i>and her ladies</i>,<i> +passes between two lines of girls and so off the stage. The girls +follow in procession</i>,<i> and lastly the </i>GRANDMOTHER <i>preceded +by </i>JOCKIE, <i>beating his drum.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>Curtain.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE SEEDS OF LOVE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARACTERS<br> +<br> +JOHN DANIEL, <i>aged </i>30, <i>a Miller.<br> +</i>ROSE-ANNA <i>his sister.<br> +</i>KITTY, <i>aged </i>16, <i>his sister</i>.<br> +ROBERT PEARCE, <i>aged </i>26.<br> +LIZ, JANE <i>elderly cousins of Robert.<br> +</i>JEREMY, <i>John’s servant - of middle age.<br> +</i>MARY MEADOWS, <i>aged </i>24, <i>a Herbalist.<br> +</i>LUBIN.<br> +ISABEL.<br> +<br> +<i>The time is Midsummer.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT I<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A woodland road outside </i>MARY’S <i>cottage. There +are rough seats in the porch and in front of the window. Bunches +of leaves and herbs hang drying around door and window</i>. MARY +<i>is heard singing within.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +I sowed the seeds of Love,<br> +And I sowed them in the Spring.<br> +I gathered them up in the morning so soon.<br> +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing,<br> +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. <a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2">{2}</a><br> +<br> +[MARY <i>comes out of the cottage</i>,<i> a bundle of enchanter</i>’<i>s +nightshade in her arms. She hangs it by a string to the wall and +then goes indoors.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. [<i>Singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +The violet I did not like,<br> +Because it bloomed so soon;<br> +The lily and the pink I really over think,<br> +So I vowed I would wait till June,<br> +So I vowed I would wait till June.<br> +<br> +[<i>During the singing </i>LUBIN <i>comes slowly and heavily along the +road. He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe +over his shoulder. In front of the cottage he pauses</i>,<i> looks +round doubtfully</i>,<i> and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the +bench beneath the window.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. [<i>Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing.</i>]<br> +<br> +“For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot,<br> +Give it time, it will rise up again.”<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Looking up gloomily.</i>] And that it won’t, +mistress.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Suddenly perceiving him and coming out.</i>] O +you are fair spent from journeying. Can I do anything for you, +master?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Gazing at her fixedly.</i>] You speak kindly +for a stranger, but ’tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to +do aught for me.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of +the house.</i>] See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? +There’s medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. There’s not a root nor yet a herb on the face of +the earth that could cure the sickness I have within me.<br> +<br> +MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. So ’tis. ’Tis love.<br> +<br> +MARY. Love?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played +false when riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was +all mine to another.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>has been slowly approaching</i>,<i> she wears a cotton handkerchief +over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm. +Her movements are languid and sad.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Coming forward and speaking earnestly.</i>] +O tell me of them quickly, mistress.<br> +<br> +MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Sinking down on the grass at </i>MARY’S <i>feet.</i>] +So bruised and wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up +here might well have been a hundred miles or more.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. Framilode? ’Tis there you come from?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon +the ferry. Do you know the place, master?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>In deep gloom.</i>] Ah, the place and the ferry +man too.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Leaning forward and clasping her hands.</i>] Him +as is there to-day, or him who was?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three +year ago.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>covers her face and is shaken by sobs</i>. LUBIN <i>leans +his elbow on his knee</i>,<i> shading his eyes with his hand.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such +things be given us for that.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Looking up.</i>] You be gentle in your voices +mistress. ’Tis like when a quist do sing, as you speaks.<br> +<br> +MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. ’Twill +be strange if I do not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for +you.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. ’Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred.<br> +<br> +MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I - we courted +and was like to marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my +all. She would not take a poor man, so I left these parts and +got to be what you do see me now - just a day labourer.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. Mine, ’tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert +the ferry-man and me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there +came a powerful rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. +’Twas he that ’ticed my lover off to foreign parts.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>With a heavy sigh.</i>] These things are almost +more than I can bear.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then ’twas +seldom like. Then ’twas never. And then there comed +a day - [<i>She is interrupted by her weeping.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. Try to get out your story - you can let the tears run +afterwards if you have a mind.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. +He brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff +with money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about +to wed.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. Did he name the maid?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel’s mill up yonder.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. Rose-Anna - She with whom I was to have gone to church.<br> +<br> +MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O ’twas such beautiful times as we did have down +by the riverside, him and me.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday +afternoon.<br> +<br> +[<i>A pause during which </i>LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL <i>seem lost in +their own sad memories</i>. MARY <i>gets up softly and goes within +the cottage.<br> +<br> +</i>ISABEL. And when I heared as ’twas to-morrow they were +to wed, though ’twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart +of me, I up and got me upon the road and did travel along by starlight +and dawn and day just for one look upon his face again.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. ’Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I +am come to hurt myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that +have looked so cruel false into mine.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him ’twould do +no good - poor wench of a serving maid like me.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Looking down at himself.</i>] She’d spurn +me from the door were I to stand there knocking - in the coat I have +upon me now. No - let her go her way and wed her fancy man.<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>shades his eyes with one hand</i>. ISABEL <i>bows her +head on her knees weeping</i>. MARY <i>comes out of the house +carrying two glass bowls of water.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. +This fresh water from the spring will revive you from your travelling.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Looking up.</i>] The heart of me is stricken +past all remedy, mistress.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die.<br> +<br> +[MARY <i>giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink slowly.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by +for another. A man may give all his love to the gilly flower, +but ’tis the scarlet rose as takes his fancy come to-morrow.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress?<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Slowly.</i>] After many years.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. And could you wed you to another?<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Still more slowly.</i>] Give the grass that has +been trampled underfoot a bit of time, ’twill rise again. +There’s healing all around of us for every ill, did we but know +it.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. I’d give sommat to know where ’tis then.<br> +<br> +MARY. There isn’t a herb nor a leaf but what carries its +message to them that are in pain.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. Give me a bloom that’ll put me to sleep for always, +mistress.<br> +<br> +MARY. There’s evil plants as well, but ’tisn’t +a many. There’s hen bane which do kill the fowls and fishes +if they eat the seed of it. And there’s water hemlock which +lays dumbness upon man.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. I’ve heard them tell of that, I have.<br> +<br> +MARY. And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear +it at the feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet +you nail upon the door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your +house.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon +the heart, mistress<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Speaking in anguish.</i>] Aught that can turn +our faithless lovers back again to we?<br> +<br> +MARY. That I have. See these small packages - you that love +Robert, take you this - and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your +hand.<br> +<br> +[<i>She puts a small paper packet into the hand</i>s<i> of each.<br> +<br> +</i>LUBIN. [<i>Looking uncertainly at his packet.</i>] What’ll +this do for me, I’d like to know?<br> +<br> +MARY. ’Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, +fine as dust, and another seed as well. You put it in her glass +of water - and the love comes back to you afore next sun-rise.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. And will it be the same with I?<br> +<br> +MARY. You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. +To-morrow at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall +do what you will with it.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O I can’t believe in this. ’Tis too +good to be true, and that it be - A fine gentleman as Robert be now +and a poor little wretch like me!<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Slowly.</i>] ’Tis but a foolish dream like. +How are folks like us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? +Time was when I did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same +as one of theirselves. But now! Why, they’d take and +hound me away from the door.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. And me too.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from +the bunch drying.</i>] That’ll bring luck, may be.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet +in her bundle</i>. LUBIN <i>puts his packet away also. Whilst +they are doing this</i>,<i> </i>MARY <i>strolls a little way on the +road.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. [<i>Returning.</i>] The man from Daniels be coming +along.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Hastily.</i>] What, old Andrews?<br> +<br> +MARY. No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller +John do have the patience to keep in with him.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. How’s that?<br> +<br> +MARY. So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer +at the cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, +and that’s why master do put up with him.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>comes heavily towards them</i>,<i> a straw in his mouth. +His hat is pushed to the back of his head. His expression is still +and impassive. He comes straight towards </i>MARY, <i>then halts.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. Come, Jeremy, I reckon ’tis not for rue nor tea +of marjoram you be come here this morning?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and +pointing to them.</i>] Who be they?<br> +<br> +MARY. Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>continues to look them all over in silence.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Powerful bad.<br> +<br> +MARY. O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened?<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL <i>lean forward</i>,<i> listening eagerly.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. ’Tis a pretty caddle, that’s all.<br> +<br> +MARY. The mistress isn’t took ill? or Miss Kitty?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn’t +be none of this here marrying to-morrow.<br> +<br> +MARY. What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on.<br> +<br> +MARY. ’Tis three you’ve got up there.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. There you’re mistook. Th’ idle wench +and the lad be both away - off afore dawn to the Fair and took their +clothes along of they. I be left with all upon me like, and ’tis +too much.<br> +<br> +MARY. What shall you do, Jerry?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’ll be blowed if I’m agoin’ to do anything. +There.<br> +<br> +MARY. But you’ll have to stir yourself up and deck the house +and set the table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and +horses and all, Jerry - seeing as you’re the only one.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’ll not. I’m not one as steps beyond +my own work, and master do know it too.<br> +<br> +MARY. Then how are they going to manage?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’m out to find them as’ll manage for them. +[<i>Turning sharply to </i>LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young +man?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. I - I count as I’ve nothing particular in view.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Turning to </i>ISABEL.] And you, wench?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Faintly.</i>] I’ve gone from the place +where I was servant.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Then you’ll come along of me - the both of you.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Shrinking.</i>] O no - I couldn’t go among +- among strangers.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I never takes no count of a female’s vapours. +You’ll come along of me. You’ll curl the mistress’s +hair and lace her gown and keep her tongue quiet - and you [<i>turning +to </i>LUBIN] my man, will set the tables and wait upon the quality +what we expect from Bristol town this dinner-time.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Angrily.</i>] I never waited on man nor woman +in my life, and I’ll not start now.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. You will. I’m not agoin’ a half mile +further this warm morning. Back to the Mill you goes along of +me, the two of you.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Looking fixedly at </i>ISABEL.] This is a chance +for you, my dear. You’ll not find a better.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Better? I count as you’ll not better this’n. +Good money for your pains - victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, +all you can drink on a summer’s day. I count you’ll +not better that.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>As though to himself.</i>] I could not go.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Some cattle want a lot of driving.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Timidly to </i>LUBIN.] If I go, could not you +try and come along with me, master?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. You’ll never have the heart to go through with it.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. ’Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. +Don’t you go and put fancies into the head of her.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>To </i>LUBIN.] I’ll go if so be as you’ll +come along of me too.<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>bends his head and remains thinking deeply.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. ’Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches +- I’ll get me a drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap +you’ll be ready time I’ve finished.<br> +<br> +MARY. I’ll see that you’re not kept waiting, Jeremy.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Turning back after he has started.</i>] What +be they called, Mary?<br> +<br> +[MARY <i>looks doubtfully towards </i>LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. My name - they calls me Isabel.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Turning to </i>LUBIN.] And yourn?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>In confusion.</i>] I don’t rightly recollect.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Impassively.</i>] ’Tis of no account, +us’ll call you William like the last one.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O, and couldn’t I be called like the last one too?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Then us’ll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut +her was, and doubtless you’ll not prove much worser.<br> +<br> +[<i>He goes away.<br> +<br> +</i>MARY. This is your chance. A good chance too -<br> +<br> +LUBIN. They’ll know the both of us. Love isn’t +never quite so dead but what a sound in the speech or a movement of +the hand will bring some breath to it again.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. You’re right there, master - sommat’ll stir +in the hearts of them when they sees we - and ’tis from the door +as us’ll be chased for masking on them like this.<br> +<br> +MARY. But not before the seeds of love have done their work. +Come, Isabel; come, Lubin - I will so dress you that you shall not be +recognised.<br> +<br> +[MARY <i>goes indoors</i>. ISABEL <i>slowly rises and takes up +her bundle</i>. LUBIN <i>remains seated</i>,<i> looking gloomily +before him.<br> +<br> +</i>ISABEL. Come, think what ’twill feel to be along of +our dear loves and look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of +their voices once again.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. That’s what I am a-thinking of. ’Twill +be hot iron drove right into the heart all the while. Ah, that’s +about it.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. I’ll gladly bear the pain.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>After a pause.</i>] Then so will I. We’ll +go.<br> +<br> +[<i>He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows +her into the cottage.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The living room at Daniel’s Mill. In the window </i>ROSE-ANNA +<i>is seated awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown</i>. +KITTY <i>is moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which +are in disorder about the room and </i>JOHN <i>stands with his back +to the grate gravely surveying them.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>Petulantly.</i>] Whatever shall we do, John! +Me not dressed, everything no how, and them expected in less nor a half +hour’s time<br> +<br> +KITTY. There! I’ve finished a-dusting the chairs. +Now I’ll set them in their places.<br> +<br> +ROSE. No one is thinking of me! Who’s going to help +me on with my gown and curl my hair like Robert was used to seeing me +wear it at Aunt’s?<br> +<br> +KITTY. Did you have it different down at Bristol, Rose?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Of course I did. ’Twouldn’t do to be countrified +in the town.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Your hair’s well enough like that. ’Tisn’t +of hair as anyone’ll be thinking when they comes in, but of victuals. +And how we’re a-going to get the table and all fixed up in so +short a time do fairly puzzle me.<br> +<br> +KITTY. I’ll do the table.<br> +<br> +ROSE. No. You’ve got to help me with my gown. +O that was a good-for-nothing baggage, leaving us in the lurch!<br> +<br> +JOHN. Well, I’ve done my best to get us out of the fix.<br> +<br> +ROSE. And what would that be, pray?<br> +<br> +KITTY. Why John, you’ve done nothing but stand with your +back to the grate this last hour.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’ve sent off Jerry.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Scornfully.</i>] Much good that’ll do.<br> +<br> +KITTY. We know just how far Jerry will have gone.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I told him not to shew hisself unless he could bring a couple +of servants back along with him.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Angrily.</i>] You’re more foolish than I +took you to be, John. Get you off at once and fetch Jerry from +his cider at the Red Bull. He’s not much of a hand about +the house, but he’s better than no one.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Sighing heavily.</i>] Jeremy’s not the man +to start his drinking so early in the day.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I’ve caught him at the cask soon after dawn.<br> +<br> +KITTY. And so have I, John. How you put up with his independent +ways I don’t know.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, ’tisn’t everyone as has such a powerful +strong head as Jerry’s. He’s one that can be trusted +to take his fill, and none the worse with him afterwards.<br> +<br> +[<i>A knock at the door</i>,<i> which is pushed open by </i>JEREMY.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>From the doorway.</i>] Well, Master John - well, +mistress?<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Sharply.</i>] Master was just starting out for +to fetch you home, Jerry.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Ignoring her.</i>] Well, master, I’ve +brought a couple back along of me.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Ducklings or chickens?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’ve gotten them too.<br> +<br> +KITTY. Do you mean that you’ve found some servants for us, +Jerry?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Two outside. Female and male.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Didn’t I tell you so! There’s naught that +Jerry cannot do. You’ll have a drink for this, my man<br> +<br> +ROSE. You may take my word he’s had that already, John.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I have, mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the +poultry in my basket. Down at the Bull.<br> +<br> +ROSE. What sort of a maid is it?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah, ’tis for you to tell me that, mistress, when +you’ve had her along of you a bit.<br> +<br> +ROSE. And the man?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Much the same as any other male.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Impatiently.</i>] Do you step outside, John, and +have a look at them, and if they’re suitable bring them in and +we’ll set them about their work.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>goes out</i>. KITTY <i>peers through the window.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. I reckon I can go off and feed the hilts now. +’Tis the time.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Feed the hilts! Indeed you can’t do no such +thing. O I’m mad with vexation that nothing is well ordered +or suitably prepared for Mr. Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol +town. Whatever will they say to such a house when they do see +it?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’m sure I don’t know.<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>From the window.</i>] I see the new servants. +John is bringing them up the walk. The man’s face is hid +by his broad hat, but the girl looks neat enough in her cotton gown +and sun-bonnet.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>comes into the room</i>,<i> followed by </i>LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL. +LUBIN <i>shuffles off his hat</i>,<i> but holds it between his face +and the people in the room.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. [<i>Pointing to them and speaking to </i>ROSE.] +There you are, mistress - man-servant and maid.<br> +<br> +ROSE. What do we know about them? Folk picked up by Jerry +at the Red Bull.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. No, from the roadside.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Worser far.<br> +<br> +JOHN. No, no, Rose. These young persons were spoken for +by Mary Meadows. And ’tis rare fortunate for we to obtain +their services at short notice like this.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>To </i>ISABEL.] What are you called, my girl?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Faintly.</i>] Isabel is my name, but I’d +sooner you called me Lucy.<br> +<br> +ROSE. And that I will. My tongue is used to Lucy. +The other is a flighty, fanciful name for a servant.<br> +<br> +KITTY. And what is the man called, John?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Harshly.</i>] I am called William.<br> +<br> +KITTY. William and Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this +morning.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O do not let us waste any more time! Jerry, do you +take the man and shew him his work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come +to me and help me with my gown and my hair dressing. We have not +a minute to lose.<br> +<br> +KITTY. They may be upon us any time now. I’ll go out +and gather the flowers for the parlour, since you don’t want me +any more within, Rose.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And I’ll get and finish Jeremy’s work in the +yard. ’Tis upside down and round about and no how to-day. +But we’ll come out of it some time afore next year I reckon.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Don’t you ever go for to get married, master. +There could never come a worser caddle into a man’s days nor matrimony, +I count.<br> +<br> +[JOHN, <i>on his way to the door</i>,<i> pauses - as though momentarily +lost in thought.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Was Mary Meadows asked to drop in at any time to-day, +Rose?<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Who is taking up her gown and ribbons to show to </i>ISABEL, +<i>and speaking crossly.</i>] I’m sure I don’t know, +nor care. I’ve enough to think about as ’tis.<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>Taking </i>JOHN’s <i>arm playfully.</i>] +You’re terribly took up with Mary Meadows, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. There isn’t many like her, Kitty. She do rear +herself above t’others as - as a good wheat stalk from out the +rubbish.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>and </i>KITTY <i>go slowly out.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. [<i>As though to himself.</i>] I sees as how +I shall have to keep an eye on master - [<i>turning to </i>LUBIN <i>and +signing to him.</i>] But come, my man, us has no time for romance, +’tis dish washing as lies afore you now.<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>jerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture. +Then he seems to remember himself and follows </i>JEREMY <i>humbly from +the room</i>. ROSE <i>takes up some ribbons and laces.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>To </i>ISABEL, <i>who is standing near.</i>] +Now, Lucy, we must look sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from Bristol +town will soon be here. I have not met with the cousins yet, but +I’ve been told as they’re very fine ladies - They stood +in place of parents to my Robert, you know. ’Tis unfortunate +we should be in such a sad muddle the day they come.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. When I have helped you into your gown, mistress, I shall +soon have the dinner spread and all in order. I be used to such +work, and I’m considered spry upon my feet.<br> +<br> +ROSE. ’Tis more serious that you should be able to curl +my hair in the way that Mr. Robert likes.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Sadly.</i>] I don’t doubt but that I shall +be able to do that too, mistress.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Very well. Take the gown and come with me up to my +room.<br> +<br> +[<i>They go out together</i>,<i> </i>ISABEL <i>carrying the gown.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The same room. The table is laid for dinner and </i>ISABEL +<i>is putting flowers upon it</i>. LUBIN <i>wearing his hat</i>,<i> +enters with large jugs of cider</i>,<i> which he sets upon a side table.<br> +<br> +</i>ISABEL. [<i>Looking up from her work.</i>] Shall us +ever have the heart to go on with it, Master Lubin?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Bitterly.</i>] Do not you “Master” +me, Isabel. I’m only a common servant in the house where +once I was lover and almost brother.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Coming up to him.</i>] O do not take it so hard, +Lubin - Us can do naught at this pass but trust what the young woman +did tell me.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Gloomily.</i>] The sight of Rose has stirred +up my love so powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back +from my eyes.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Pressing her eyes with her apron.</i>] What’ll +it be for me when Robert comes in?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. We’ll have to help one another, Isabel, in the plight +where we stand.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. That’s it. And perchance as them seeds’ll +do the rest.<br> +<br> +[<i>They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is heard outside.<br> +<br> +</i>KITTY. [<i>Runs in.</i>] They’ve come. All +of them. And do you know that Robert’s cousins are no fine +ladies at all, as he said, but just two common old women dressed grand-like.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. That will be a sad shock to poor mistress.<br> +<br> +KITTY. O, she is too much taken up with Mister Robert to notice +yet. But quick! They are all sharp set from the drive. +Fetch in the dishes, William and Lucy.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. All shall be ready in a moment, Miss Kitty.<br> +<br> +[<i>She goes hurriedly out followed by </i>LUBIN. KITTY <i>glances +round the room and then stands at the side of the front door. +</i>JOHN, <i>giving an arm to each of </i>ROBERT’S <i>cousins</i>,<i> +enters. The cousins are dressed in coloured flowered dresses</i>,<i> +and wear bonnets that are heavy with bright plumes. They look +cumbered and ill at ease in their clothes</i>,<i> and carry their sunshades +and gloves awkwardly.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. [<i>Looking round her.</i>] Very comfortable, I’m +sure. But I count as that there old-fashioned grate do take a +rare bit of elbow grease.<br> +<br> +JANE. Very pleasant indeed. But I didn’t reckon as +the room would be quite the shape as ’tis.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Come to that, I didn’t expect the house to look as +it do.<br> +<br> +JANE. Very ancient in appearance, I’m sure.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Ah, the house has done well enough for me and my father +and grandfather afore me.<br> +<br> +[ROSE, <i>very grandly dressed</i>,<i> comes in hanging on </i>ROBERT’S +<i>arm</i>. ROBERT <i>is clothed in the fashion of the town.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. Please to remove your bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please +to remove yours, Miss Jane.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Heartily.</i>] Ah, that’s so - ’Twill +be more homely like for eating.<br> +<br> +ROSE. There’s a glass upon the wall.<br> +<br> +LIZ. I prefer to remain as I be.<br> +<br> +JANE. Sister and me have our caps packed up in the tin box.<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>Bringing the tin box from the doorway.</i>] Shall +I take you upstairs to change? Dinner’s not quite ready +yet.<br> +<br> +LIZ. That will suit us best, I’m sure. Come, sister.<br> +<br> +[KITTY <i>leads the way out</i>,<i> followed by both sisters.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. I’ll just step outside and see that Jerry’s +tending to the horse.<br> +<br> +[<i>He hurries out</i>,<i> and </i>ROBERT <i>is left alone with </i>ROSE.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Coming towards him and holding out her hands.</i>] +O, Robert, is it the same between us as it was last time?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Looking at her critically.</i>] You’ve +got your hair different or something.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Putting her hand to her head.</i>] The new maid. +A stupid country wench.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. You’ve got my meaning wrong. ’Tis that +I’ve never seen you look so well before.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O dear Robert!<br> +<br> +ROBERT. You’ve got my fancy more than ever, Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O, I’m so happy to be going off with you to-morrow, +and I love it down at Bristol. Robert, I’m tired and sick +of country life.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. We’ll make a grand fine lady of you there, Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>A little sharply.</i>] Am I not one in looks already, +Robert?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. You’re what I do dote upon. I can’t +say no more.<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL <i>enter carrying dishes</i>,<i> which they +set upon the table</i>. ROBERT <i>and </i>ROSE <i>turn their backs +to them and look out into the garden. The staircase door is opened</i>,<i> +and </i>LIZ, JANE <i>and </i>KITTY <i>come into the room</i>. +LIZ <i>and </i>JANE <i>are wearing gaudy caps trimmed with violet and +green ribbons.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. We’ll sit down, now. John won’t be +a moment before he’s here.<br> +<br> +[<i>She sits down at one end of the table and signs to </i>ROBERT <i>to +place himself next to her. The sisters and </i>KITTY <i>seat themselves</i>. +JOHN <i>comes hurriedly in.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. That’s right. Everyone in their places? +But no cover laid for Mary?<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Carelessly.</i>] We can soon have one put, should +she take it into her head to drop in.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s it. Now ladies, now Robert - ’tis +thirsty work a-driving upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We’ll +lead off with a drink of home-made cider. The eating’ll +come sweeter afterwards.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. That’s it, Miller.<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL <i>come forward and take the cider mugs from +each place to the side table</i>,<i> where </i>LUBIN <i>fills them from +a large jug. In the mugs of </i>ROSE-ANNA <i>and </i>ROBERT, ISABEL +<i>shakes the contents of the little packets. Whilst they are +doing this the following talk is carried on at the table.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ [<i>Taking up a spoon.</i>] Real plated, sister.<br> +<br> +JANE. Upon my word, so ’tis.<br> +<br> +ROSE. And not so bright as I should wish to see it neither. +I’ve had a sad trouble with my maids of late.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Sister and I don’t keep none of them, thank goodness.<br> +<br> +JANE. We does our work with our own hands. We’d be +ashamed if ’twas otherwise.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Scowling at them.</i>] I’ve been and engaged +a house-full of servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what ’tis +to live like a lady once she enters our family.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Servants be like green fly on the bush. They do but +spoil th’ home and everything they do touch. All save one.<br> +<br> +KITTY. And that one’s Jerry, I suppose.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You’re right there, Kitty, that you are. A harder +head was never given to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders.<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL <i>here put round the mugs of cider</i>,<i> +and everyone drinks thirstily</i>. ISABEL <i>stands behind the +chairs of </i>ROSE <i>and </i>ROBERT <i>and </i>LUBIN <i>at </i>JOHN’S +<i>side.<br> +<br> +</i>ROBERT. [<i>Setting down his mug.</i>] There’s +a drink what can’t be got in foreign parts.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Looking fondly at him.</i>] Let the maid fill +your mug again, my dear one.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Carelessly handing it to </i>ISABEL.] I don’t +mind if I do have another swill.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>fills the mug and puts it by his side</i>.<br> +<br> +LIZ. As good as any I ever tasted.<br> +<br> +JANE. Couldn’t better it at the King’s Head up our +way.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Good drink - plenty of it. Now we’ll start upon +the meat I reckon.<br> +<br> +[<i>He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve</i>,<i> and </i>LUBIN +<i>hands round plates. During this </i>ROBERT’S <i>gaze +restlessly wanders about the room</i>,<i> finally fixing itself on </i>ISABEL, +<i>who presently goes out to the back kitchen with plates.<br> +<br> +</i>ROBERT. The new serving maid you’ve got there, Rose, +should wear a cap and not her bonnet.<br> +<br> +ROSE. How sharp you are to notice anything.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. A very pretty looking wench, from what I can see.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Speaking more to the cousins than to </i>ROBERT.] +O she’s but a rough and untrained girl got in all of a hurry. +Not at all the sort I’ve been used to in this house, I can tell +you.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>comes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. [<i>To </i>JANE.] A mellower piece of pig meat +I never did taste, sister.<br> +<br> +JANE. I’m sorry I went and took the poultry.<br> +<br> +KITTY. John will carve you some ham if you’d like to try +it, Miss Jane.<br> +<br> +JANE. I’m sure I’m much obliged.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>comes in.</i>]<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Coming to the back of </i>JANE’S <i>chair.</i>] +Don’t you get mixing of your meats is what I says. Commence +with ham and finish with he. That’s what do suit the inside +of a delicate female.<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Looking up admiringly.</i>] Now that’s just +what old Uncle he did used to say.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Old uncle did know what he was a-talking about then.<br> +<br> +LIZ. [<i>Warming and looking less awkward and ill at ease.</i>] +’Twas the gout what kept Uncle so low in his eating, ’twas +not th’ inclination of him.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah ’twouldn’t be the gout nor any other disease +as would keep me from a platter of good food.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Nor from your mug of drink neither, Jerry.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>laughs and moves off to the side table</i>.<br> +<br> +LIZ. A very pleasant sort of man.<br> +<br> +JANE. I do like anyone what’s homely.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Calling out heartily.</i>] Do you listen to that, +Jerry! The ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I +don’t know what else.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. The mugs want filling once more.<br> +<br> +[<i>He stolidly goes round the table refilling the mugs</i>. ROSE’S +<i>gaze wanders about her.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>To </i>ROBERT.] That’s not a bad looking +figure of a man -<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Who?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Well - the new farm hand.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. A sulky looking brute. I’d not let him wear +his hat to table if I was master here.<br> +<br> +ROSE. He puts me in mind of - well - there, I can’t recollect +who ’tis. [<i>A knock is heard at the door.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>Sharply to </i>ISABEL.] Go and see who ’tis, +Lucy.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>opens the door</i>,<i> and </i>MARY MEADOWS <i>stands on +the threshold</i>,<i> a large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers in her +hand.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. [<i>Rising up in great pleasure.</i>] You’re +late, Mary. But you’re welcome as the - as the very sunshine.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Set another place, Lucy.<br> +<br> +MARY. Not for me, Rose. I did not come here to eat or drink, +but to bring you these few blossoms and my love.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Rises from the table and takes the nosegay</i>.] +I’m sure you’re very kind, Mary - Suppose we were all to +move into the parlour now we have finished dinner, and then we could +enjoy a bit of conversation.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Very pleasant, I’m sure.<br> +<br> +JANE. I see no objection.<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>Running round to look at the flowers.</i>] And +Mary shall tell us how to make charms out of the flowers - and the meanings +of the blossoms and all the strange things she knows about them.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Taking a flower from the bunch and putting it into his +coat.</i>] Yes, and how to brew tea as’ll curl up anyone’s +tongue within the mouth for a year - and fancy drinks for sheep with +foot rot, and powders against the murrain and any other nonsense that +you do please.<br> +<br> +MARY. Now, John, I’ll not have you damage my business like +this.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Maybe as the young person’s got sommat what’ll +be handy with your complaint, sister.<br> +<br> +JANE. Or for when you be took with th’ air in your head +so bad, Jane.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Yes, I reckon that Mary has a charm for every ill beneath +the sun. Let’s go off to the parlour along of her. +You’re not coming with us, John, are you?<br> +<br> +JOHN. I’d not miss the telling of these things for anything +in the world, foolishness though they be.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Come along then - all of you.<br> +<br> +[<i>They all go out</i>. JEREMY <i>holds the door open for them</i>. +<i>As she passes through it </i>LIZ <i>says</i>,<i> looking at him.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. We shall hope for your company, too.<br> +<br> +JANE. To be sure, mister.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Haughtily.</i>] I bain’t one for parlours, +nor charms, ma’am. I be here for another purpose.<br> +<br> +[<i>They leave the room.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. [<i>Having watched the party out</i>,<i> moves towards +the cider jug.</i>] Now, my man, now, my wench - us’ll see +what can be done with the victuals and drink they’ve been and +left. ’Tis a fair heavy feed and drink as I do need. +Sommat as’ll lift me up through all the trials of this here foolish +matrimony and stuff.<br> +<br> +[<i>He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain falls.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT III. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The next morning</i>. ROBERT’S <i>cousins are standing +by the fire-place of the same room.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. ’Tis powerful unhomely here, Jane.<br> +<br> +JANE. And that ’tis. I wish as Robert had never brought +us along of him.<br> +<br> +LIZ. She’s a stuck-up jay of a thing what he’s about +to wed if ever I seed one.<br> +<br> +JANE. That her be. He’ll live to wish hisself dead +and buried one day.<br> +<br> +LIZ. There bain’t but one sensible tongue in the whole place +to my mind.<br> +<br> +JANE. Ah, he’s a man to anyone’s liking, sister.<br> +<br> +LIZ. ’Tis homelike as he do make I to feel among all these +strangers.<br> +<br> +JANE. Here he comes.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>with a yoke and two pails stands at the doorway.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. Now do you come in, mister, and have a bit of talk along +of we.<br> +<br> +JANE. Set down them pails and do as sister says, Mister Jeremy.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>looks them all over and then slowly and deliberately sets +down his pails.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. That’s right, sister and me was feeling terribly +lonesome here this morning.<br> +<br> +JANE. And we was wishing as we’d never left home to come +among all these stranger folk.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Not that we feels you to be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy.<br> +<br> +JANE. You be a plain homely man such as me and sister be accustomed +to.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Anything more?<br> +<br> +LIZ. I suppose you’ve put by a tidy bit - seeing as you +be of a certain age.<br> +<br> +JANE. Although your looks favour you well, don’t they, sister?<br> +<br> +LIZ. To be sure they do.<br> +<br> +JANE. And I reckon as you could set up a home of your own any +day, mister.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Pointing through the window.</i>] See that there +roof against the mill?<br> +<br> +LIZ. Indeed I do.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. That’s where I do live.<br> +<br> +[<i>Both sisters move quickly to the window</i>.<br> +<br> +JANE. A very comfortable looking home indeed.<br> +<br> +LIZ. I likes the looks of it better nor this great old house.<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Archly.</i>] Now I daresay there’s but one +thing wanted over there, Mister Jeremy.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. What’s that?<br> +<br> +JANE. A good wife to do and manage for you.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I never was done for nor managed by a female yet, and +blowed if I will be now.<br> +<br> +LIZ. [<i>Shaking her finger at him.</i>] Sister an’ +me knows what comes of such words, don’t us, sister? ’Tis +an old saying in our family as one wedding do make a many.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Give me a woman’s tongue for foolishness. +I’ve heared a saying too in my family, which be - get a female +on to your hearth and ’tis Bedlam straight away.<br> +<br> +JANE. Now, sister, did you ever hear the like of that?<br> +<br> +LIZ. Us’ll have to change his mind for him, Jane.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I reckon ’twould take a rare lot of doing to change +that, mistress.<br> +<br> +JANE. Bain’t you a-goin’ to get yourself ready for +church soon?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Dashed if I ever heard tell of such foolishness. +Who’s to mind the place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling +out?<br> +<br> +LIZ. There’s the man William.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I bain’t a-goin’ to leave the place to a stranger.<br> +<br> +JANE. Why, sister, us’ll feel lost and lonesome without +mister, shan’t us, Liz?<br> +<br> +LIZ. That us will. What if us stayed at home and helped +to mind the house along of he?<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Slowly.</i>] And did not put our new gowns upon +the backs of we after all the money spent?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah, there you be. ’Tis the same with all females. +Creatures of vanity - even if they be got a bit long in the tooth. +’Tis all the same.<br> +<br> +[JANE <i>and </i>LIZ <i>draw themselves up</i>,<i> bridling</i>,<i> +but </i>LIZ <i>relaxes.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>enters.</i>]<br> +<br> +JOHN. Jerry, and I’ve been seeking you everywhere. +Come you off to the yard. ’Tis as much as we shall do to +be ready afore church time. I never knew you to idle in the house +afore.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Taking up his pails</i>,<i> sarcastically.</i>] +’Twas the females as tempted I, master, but ’twon’t +occur again, so there. [<i>He hurries off</i>,<i> followed by +</i>JOHN.<br> +<br> +LIZ. [<i>With dignity.</i>] Us’ll go upstairs and +dress, sister.<br> +<br> +JANE. ’Tis time we did so. All them new-fashioned +things be awkward in the fastenings.<br> +<br> +[<i>They go upstairs.<br> +<br> +</i>[ROBERT <i>and </i>ROSE <i>come in from the garden</i>. ROBERT +<i>carries a little card-board box in his hand</i>,<i> which he places +on the table</i>. ROSE <i>sits down listlessly on a chair leaning +her arms on the table.<br> +<br> +</i>ROBERT. [<i>Undoing the box.</i>] This is the bouquet +what I promised to bring from town.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Her gaze wandering outside.</i>] Well, we might +as well look at it afore I go to dress.<br> +<br> +[ROBERT <i>uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white flowers +surrounded by a lace frill.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to +her face.</i>] Why, they are false ones.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Contemptuously.</i>] My good girl, who ever +went to church with orange blossom that was real, I’d like to +know?<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table.</i>] +I’m sure I don’t care. I reckon that one thing’s +about as good as another to be married with.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Going to the window and looking out.</i>] Ah +- I daresay ’tis so.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I feel tired of my wedding day already - that I do.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. There’s a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the +day, what a man’s hardly used to, so it seems to me.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Wildly.</i>] O, I reckon we may get used to it +in time afore we die.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Now - if ’twas with the right -<br> +<br> +ROSE. Right what, Robert?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Confused.</i>] I hardly know what I was a-going +to say, Rose. Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to +dress yourself. We might as well get it all over and finished +with.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Rising slowly.</i>] Perhaps ’twould be best. +I’ll go to my room, and you might call the girl Lucy and send +her up to help me with my things.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Won’t you take the bouquet along of you?<br> +<br> +ROSE. No - let it bide there. I can have it later.<br> +<br> +[<i>She goes slowly from the room.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>Left to himself</i>,<i> </i>ROBERT <i>strolls to the open door +and looks gloomily out on the garden</i>. <i>Suddenly his face +brightens.<br> +<br> +</i>ROBERT. Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment.<br> +<br> +LUCY. [<i>From outside.</i>] I be busy just now hanging +out my cloths, master.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress +wants you, Lucy.<br> +<br> +LUCY. [<i>Coming to the door.</i>] Mistress wants me, did +you say?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Yes, you’ve got to go and dress her for the church. +But you can spare me a minute or two first.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Going quickly across the room to the staircase door.</i>] +Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master. ’Tis late already.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Catches her hand and pulls her back.</i>] I’ve +never had a good look at your face yet, my girl - you act uncommon coy, +and that you do.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Turning her head away and speaking angrily.</i>] +Let go of my hand, I tell you. I don’t want no nonsense +of that sort.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, +and there’s sommat about the appearance of you -<br> +<br> +ISABEL. Let go of me, master. Suppose as anyone should look +through the window.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Let them look. I’d give a good bit for all +the world to see us now.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. What I say. ’Tis with you as I’d be +going along to church this morning. Not her what’s above.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. But I wouldn’t go with you - No, not for all the +gold in the world.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Ah, you’ve changed since yesterday. When I +caught your eye at dinner, ’twas gentle as a dove’s - and +your hand, when it gave me my mug of cider did seem - well did seem +to put a caress upon me like.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O there lies a world of time twixt yesterday and to-day, +Master Robert.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. So it do seem. For to-day ’tis all thorns +and thistles with you - But I’m a-goin’ to have my look +at your pretty face and my kiss of it too.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. I shall scream out loud if you touches me - that I shall.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Pulling her to him.</i>] Us’ll see about +that.<br> +<br> +[<i>He tries to get a sight of her face</i>,<i> but she twists and turns</i>. +<i>Finally he seizes both her hands and covers them with kisses as </i>KITTY +<i>enters.<br> +<br> +</i>KITTY. O whatever’s going on! Rose, Rose, John +- come you in here quickly, do. [<i>To </i>LUCY.] O you +bad, wicked girl. I knew you couldn’t be a very nice servant +brought in off the road by Jeremy.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL, <i>released by </i>ROBERT, <i>goes over to the window arranging +her disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears</i>. ROBERT +<i>watches her sullenly.<br> +<br> +</i>KITTY. [<i>Goes to the staircase door and calls loudly.</i>] +Rose, Rose - come you down as quick as you can run.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Coming down.</i>] What’s all this, I’d +like to know?<br> +<br> +KITTY. It’s Lucy, behaving dreadful - O you must send her +straight away from the house, Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. What has she done, then?<br> +<br> +KITTY. Going on with Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O no, mistress, twasn’t so, I do swear to you.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Brutally.</i>] Yes ’twas. The maid +so put me powerful in mind of someone who - who -<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Coldly.</i>] I understand you, Robert. Well, +’tis lucky that all this didn’t come off an hour or so later.<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>Tearfully.</i>] O Rose, what do you mean?<br> +<br> +ROSE. I mean that what’s not broken don’t need no +mending. Robert can go to church with someone else to-day, he +can. And no harm done.<br> +<br> +[<i>She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins pulling it to +pieces and throwing it all about the room.<br> +<br> +</i>KITTY. O Rose, Rose, don’t take it so hard. ’Twasn’t +Robert’s fault. ’Twas the girl off the road what led +him on. I know it. Tell her to get out of the house. +I’ll dress you - I’ll do the work. Only be just and +sensible again; dear Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Let the girl bide. It makes no difference to me. +There’ll be no marrying for me to-day.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>comes in at the door.<br> +<br> +</i>KITTY. [<i>Running to him.</i>] O John, John - do you +quiet down Rose and tell her to get upstairs and dress. She’s +a-saying that she won’t marry Robert because of his goings on +with the new servant - But, O, you’ll talk her into reason again, +won’t you, dear John?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Come, come, what’s all this cackle about, Rose?<br> +<br> +ROSE. I’m breaking off with Robert, that’s all, John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Robert, can’t you take and explain a bit what ’tis.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Sullenly.</i>] A little bit of play ’twixt +me and the wench there, and that’s about all, I reckon.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now that’s an unsensible sort of thing to get doing +on your marriage day, to my thinking.<br> +<br> +KITTY. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault, I know. +’Twas the maid off the road who started it.<br> +<br> +[<i>Here </i>ISABEL <i>sinks down on a chair by the window</i>,<i> leaning +her arms on the table and bowing her head</i>,<i> in tears.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. [<i>Going to the door.</i>] Jeremy - Jeremy - +come you in here a minute.<br> +<br> +[<i>Instead of </i>JEREMY, LUBIN <i>comes in.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. ’Twas Jeremy I did call - not you.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. He’s gone off the place for a few minutes.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Vexedly.</i>] Ah, ’tis early for the Red +Bull.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. Can I - can I do anything for you, master?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Not unless you can account for the sort of serving wench +off the roadside what Jerry has put upon us.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. What is there to account for in her, master?<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Passionately.</i>] O I don’t particular +mind about what’s happened. Let her kiss with Robert if +she has the mind. ’Tis always the man who commences.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis not. There are some wenches who don’t +know how to leave anyone alone. Worser than cattle flies, that +sort.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. [<i>Going across the room to </i>LUBIN’S <i>side.</i>] +O you shame me by them words, I bain’t that sort of maid - you’ll +answer for me - William?<br> +<br> +[LUBIN <i>silently takes her hand.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>Her eyes fixed on </i>LUBIN.] I’ll tell +you what, John; I’ll tell you, Kitty. I wish I’d held +me to my first lover and I wish ’twas with Lubin that I was a-going +to the church to-day.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Sullenly.</i>] Then I’ll say sommat, Rose. +I wish ’twas with Isabel that I was getting wed.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Now, now - ’Tis like two children a quarrelling over +their playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed, +Rose-Anna - And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be at the +door afore you’re ready if you don’t quicken yourselves +up a bit. Kitty, you go and help your sister.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>With a jealous glance at Isabel.</i>] No, I’ll +have Lucy with me.<br> +<br> +JOHN. That’s it, you keep her out of mischief<br> +<br> +KITTY. I’ve got my own dress to put on.<br> +<br> +JOHN. And Robert, you and me will have a drink after all this +caddle. ’Tis dry work getting ready for marriage so it appears.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. ’Tis fiery dry to my thinking.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Crossing the room and going up to </i>LUBIN.] +I have no flowers to take to church with me, William; go you to the +waterside, I have a mind to carry some of the blue things what grow +there.<br> +<br> +KITTY. Forget-me-nots, you mean!<br> +<br> +ROSE. Forget-me-nots, I mean. And none but you to gather +them for me, William. Because - because - well, you do put me +in thoughts of someone that I once held and now have lost. That’s +all.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT III. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The same room half an hour later</i>. ISABEL <i>is picking +up the scattered orange blossom which she ties together and lays on +the window sill</i>. LUBIN <i>comes in with a large bunch of river +forget-me-nots.<br> +<br> +</i>LUBIN. I didn’t think to find you here, Isabel.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O but that is a beautiful blue flower. I will take +the bunch upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Putting it on the table.</i>] No - do you bide +a moment here with me.<br> +<br> +[ISABEL <i>looks helplessly at </i>LUBIN <i>who takes her hands slowly +in his.<br> +<br> +</i>LUBIN. What are we going to do?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. I wish as we had never touched the seeds.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. O cursed seeds of love - Far better to have left all as +’twas yesterday in the morning.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. He has followed me like my shadow, courting and courting +me hard and all the time, Lubin.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. She sought me out in the yard at day-break, and what I’d +have given twenty years of life for yester eve I could have thrown into +the stream this morning.<br> +<br> +ISABEL [<i>Sadly.</i>] So ’tis with my feelings.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. She has altered powerful, to my fancy, in these years.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. And Robert be differenter too from what I do remember. +[<i>A long silence.<br> +<br> +</i>LUBIN. Have you thought as it might be in us two these changes +have come about, Isabel?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. I was just the maid as ever I was until -<br> +<br> +LUBIN. And so was I unchanged, until I started travelling up on +the same road as you, Isabel.<br> +<br> +[<i>For a few minutes they look gravely into one another</i>’<i>s +eyes.<br> +<br> +</i>LUBIN. [<i>Taking </i>ISABEL’S <i>hands</i>.] +So that’s how ’tis with you and me.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. O Lubin - a poor serving maid like I am.<br> +<br> +LUBIN. I’ll have no one else in the whole world.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. What could I have seen in him, times gone by?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. And was it ever true that I did sit through a long Sunday +her hand in mine? [<i>Another silence.<br> +<br> +</i>ISABEL. But how’s us ever to get out of the caddle where +we be?<br> +<br> +LUBIN. [<i>Gaily.</i>] We’ll just run away off to +the Fair as t’other servants did.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. And leave them in their hate for one another? No +- ’twould be too cruel. Us’ll run to the young mistress +what knows all about them herbs. I count as there be seeds or +sommat which could set the hearts of them two back in the right places +again. Come -<br> +<br> +LUBIN. Have it your own way then. But ’twill have +to be done very quickly if ’tis done at all.<br> +<br> +ISABEL. Us’ll fly over the ground like.<br> +<br> +[<i>She puts her hand impetuously in </i>LUBIN’S <i>and they go +out together</i>. <i>As they do so</i>,<i> </i>ISABEL’S +<i>bonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded on the floor.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT III. - Scene 3.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A few minutes later</i>. LIZ <i>and </i>JANE <i>wearing gay +sprigged dresses and feathered bonnets</i>,<i> come to the room</i>. +<i>They carry fans and handkerchiefs in their hands</i>. <i>It +is seen that their gowns are not fastened at the back.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. Such a house I never heard tell of. Ring, ring +at the bell and no one to come nigh.<br> +<br> +JANE. Being unused to bells, sister, maybe as us did pull them +wrong or sommat.<br> +<br> +LIZ. I wish we’d had the gowns made different.<br> +<br> +JANE. To do up in the front - sensible like.<br> +<br> +[<i>They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall</i>,<i> absorbed +in their dress</i>,<i> they do not notice that </i>JEREMY <i>has come +in and is watching them sarcastically.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. Being as grey as th’ old badger don’t +keep a female back from vanity.<br> +<br> +LIZ. O dear, Master Jeremy, what a turn you did give me, to be +sure.<br> +<br> +JANE. We can’t find no one in this house to attend upon +we.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I count as you can not. Bain’t no one here.<br> +<br> +LIZ. We rang for the wench a many time.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah, and you might ring.<br> +<br> +JANE. We want someone as’ll fasten them niggly hooks to +our gowns.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah, and you may want.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Our sight bain’t clear enough to do one for t’other, +the eyelets be made so small.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Count as you’ll have to go unfastened then.<br> +<br> +JANE. O now you be a laughing at us. Call the wench down, +or we shall never be ready in time.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Man and maid be both gone off. Same as t’others, +us’ll have to do without service<br> +<br> +LIZ. Gone off!<br> +<br> +JANE. Runned clean away?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. That’s about it.<br> +<br> +JANE. Well now, sister, us’ll have to ask the little Miss +to help we.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’ve harnessed the mare a many time. Don’t +see why I shouldn’t get the both of you fixed into the shafts +like.<br> +<br> +LIZ and JANE. [<i>Fanning themselves coyly.</i>] O Master +Jeremy -<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Come now. Let’s have a try. I count +as no one have a steadier hand nor me this side of the river, nor a +finer eye for seeing as everything be in its place. I’ll +settle the both of you afore I gets out the horse and trap. Turn +round.<br> +<br> +[<i>The sisters turn awkwardly</i>,<i> and with very self-conscious +airs begin to flutter their fans</i>. JEREMY <i>quickly hooks +each gown in succession</i>. <i>As he finishes the fastening of +</i>JANE’S <i>dress </i>ROSE, <i>followed by </i>KITTY, <i>comes +into the room</i>. <i>She is wearing her bridal gown and veil.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. [<i>Pausing.</i>] What’s this, Jeremy?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. The servants be runned away same as t’others - that’s +all, mistress.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Run away?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. So I do reckon. Bain’t anywhere about the +place.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Flinging herself down on a chair by the table</i>,<i> +in front of the bunch of forget-me-nots.</i>] Let them be found. +Let them be brought back at once.<br> +<br> +KITTY. For my part I’m glad they’ve gone off. +The girl was a wild, bad thing. I saw how she went on with Robert.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Brokenly to </i>JEREMY.] You found them. +Bring them back, Jerry.<br> +<br> +KITTY. No - wait till you and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. +Then ’twon’t matter quite so much.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I’ll never wed me to Robert, I’ll only wed me +to him who gathered these blue flowers here.<br> +<br> +KITTY. Good heavens, Rose, ’twas the man William.<br> +<br> +[KITTY <i>looks in consternation from </i>ROSE <i>to the cousins and +then to </i>JEREMY, <i>who remains impassive and uninterested</i>,<i> +sucking a straw</i>. ROSE <i>clasps her hands round the forget-me-nots +and sits gazing at them</i>,<i> desolately unhappy</i>. ROBERT +<i>enters</i>. <i>He is very grandly dressed for the wedding</i>,<i> +but as he comes into the room he sees </i>ISABEL’S <i>cotton bonnet +on the floor</i>. <i>He stoops</i>,<i> picks it up and laying +it reverently on the table</i>,<i> sinks into a chair opposite </i>ROSE +<i>and raising one of its ribbons</i>,<i> kisses this with passion.<br> +<br> +</i>ROBERT. There - I’d not change this for a thousand sacks +of gold - I swear I’d not.<br> +<br> +KITTY. Now Robert - get up, the two of you. Are you bewitched +or sommat - O Jerry, stir them, can’t you.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Robert, ’tisn’t hardly suitable - with the young +miss so sweetly pretty in her white gown.<br> +<br> +JANE. And wedding veil and all. And sister and me hooked +up into our new sprigs, ready for the ceremony.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Looking at them with cold contempt.</i>] Let +them bide. The mush’ll swim out of they same as ’twill +swim off the cider vat. Just let the young fools bide.<br> +<br> +KITTY. O this’ll never do. Jerry forgetting of his +manners and all. [<i>Calling at the garden door.</i>] John, +John, come you here quickly, there’s shocking goings on. +[JOHN, <i>in best clothes comes in.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. What’s the rattle now, Kitty? I declare +I might be turning round on top of my own mill wheel such times as these.<br> +<br> +KITTY. Rose says she won’t wed Robert, and Robert’s +gone off his head all along of that naughty servant maid.<br> +<br> +[JOHN <i>stands contemplating </i>ROSE <i>and </i>ROBERT. ROSE +<i>seems lost to the outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots</i>,<i> +whilst </i>ROBERT, <i>in sullen gloom</i>,<i> keeps his eyes fixed on +the sun-bonnet.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Come, Rose, ’tis time you commenced to act a bit +different. [ROSE <i>does not answer.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Come, Robert, if you play false to my sister at the +last moment, you know with whom you’ll have to reckon like. +[ROBERT <i>pays no heed to him.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. [<i>To </i>JEREMY.] Can you do naught to work +upon them a bit, Jerry?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’d have a jug of cider in, master. ’Twill +settle them all. Folks do get ’sterical and vapourish face +to face with matrimony. Put some drink afore of them, and see +how ’twill act.<br> +<br> +LIZ. O what a wise thought, Master Jerry.<br> +<br> +JANE. Most suitable, I call it.<br> +<br> +[<i>Here </i>MARY MEADOWS <i>comes in</i>,<i> </i>JOHN <i>turns eagerly +to her.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. O Mary - have you come to help us in the fix where we +are? [<i>He signs to </i>ROSE <i>and </i>ROBERT.<br> +<br> +MARY. What has happened, John?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I’ll tell you in a couple of words, mistress.<br> +<br> +LIZ. No - do you fetch the cider, dear Mister Jeremy.<br> +<br> +JOHN. ’Tis more than I can do with, Mary. Rose is +set against Robert, and Robert is set against Rose. Rose - well +I’m fairly ashamed to mention it - Rose has lost her senses and +would wed the servant William - and Robert is a-courting of the maid.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah, let each fool follow their own liking, says I.<br> +<br> +LIZ. And sister and me all dressed in our new gowns for the church.<br> +<br> +JANE. And Jerry had to do the hooking for we, both of the servants +having runned away.<br> +<br> +MARY. Well, now I’m here I’ll lend a hand. I’ll +help with the dinner time you’re at church. You shall not +need to trouble about anything, Mr. John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. O once I do get them to the church and the ring fixed and +all I shan’t trouble about nothing, Mary. But ’tis +how to move them from where they be! That’s the puzzle.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I’ll never move till the hand that gathered these +flowers be here to raise me.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. I’ll sit here to the end of the world sooner nor +go along to be wed with Miss over there.<br> +<br> +MARY. ’Tis midsummer heat have turned their brains. +But I know a cooling draught that will heal them of their sickness. +Jeremy, do you step into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh +violet leaves, one blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Sighing.</i>] What next?<br> +<br> +JOHN. Get gone at once, Jerry.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>goes to the door - as he does so </i>LIZ <i>and </i>JANE +<i>start up and follow him</i>.<br> +<br> +LIZ. Sister and me will come along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy.<br> +<br> +JANE. And that us will, if our new gowns bain’t hooked too +tight for we to bend.<br> +<br> +[<i>They follow </i>JEREMY <i>to the garden</i>. KITTY <i>silently +leaves the room also</i>. ROSE <i>and </i>ROBERT <i>remain lost +in their sorrowful reflections</i>. JOHN <i>and </i>MARY <i>look +at them for a moment and then turn to one another.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. Mary, I never thought to see such a thing as this.<br> +<br> +MARY. You take my word for it, John, the storm will soon be blown +away.<br> +<br> +JOHN. I don’t know how I should stand up against the worry +of it all, wasn’t it for you, Mary.<br> +<br> +[<i>A short silence.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. [<i>Taking </i>MARY’S <i>hand.</i>] ’Twill +be a bit lonesome for me here, when they’ve gone off, Mary.<br> +<br> +MARY. You’ll have Kitty to do for you then.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Kitty be going to live along of them at Bristol too, after +a while.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Looking round the room.</i>] Then I count as it +might feel a bit desolate like in this great house alone.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Taking </i>MARY’S <i>hand.</i>] I cannot +face it, Mary. I’ve loved you many years, you know.<br> +<br> +MARY. I know you have, dear John.<br> +<br> +JOHN. Can’t you forget he what was false to you, days gone +by, and take me as your husband now?<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Doubtfully.</i>] I don’t hardly know.<br> +<br> +JOHN. You used to sing sommat - the grass that was trampled under +foot, give it time, it will rise up again.<br> +<br> +MARY. [<i>Drying her eyes.</i>] Ah, it has risen, dear John +- and I count it have covered the wound of those past days - my heart +do tell me so, this minute.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Holding both her hands.</i>] Then ’tis one +long midsummer afore you and me, Mary.<br> +<br> +MARY. That’s how ’twill be, dear John.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY, <i>followed by the cousins</i>,<i> enters</i>. <i>He +holds a bunch of leaves towards </i>MARY.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. There you be, mistress. Fools’ drink for fools. +A mug of good cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker.<br> +<br> +[MARY <i>takes the bunch</i>,<i> and still holding </i>JOHN’S +<i>hand</i>,<i> leads him to the kitchen</i>. JEREMY <i>watches +the pair sarcastically.<br> +<br> +</i>JEREMY. ’Tis all finished with the master, then.<br> +<br> +[<i>The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their faces with +handkerchiefs.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. Dear me, ’tis warm.<br> +<br> +JANE. I hope my face don’t show mottled, sister?<br> +<br> +JEREMY. I was saying as how ’twas all finished with the +master.<br> +<br> +[MARY, <i>followed by </i>JOHN, <i>comes forward carrying two glasses</i>. +<i>She gives one to </i>ROSE <i>and the other to </i>ROBERT.<br> +<br> +MARY. Now do you take a good draught of this, the both of you. +With violet leaves the fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease lightens +every trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to anyone +with its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest.<br> +<br> +[<i>She leaves the table and stands far back in the room by </i>JOHN’S +<i>side</i>. ROSE <i>slowly lifts her glass and begins to drink</i>. +ROBERT <i>does the same</i>. <i>They are watched with anxiety +by all in the room</i>. <i>When they have emptied their glasses +</i>ROSE <i>dries her tears and pushes the flowers a little way from +her</i>. ROBERT <i>shakes himself and moves the cotton bonnet +so that it falls unheeded to the floor</i>. <i>Meanwhile </i>KITTY +<i>has come quietly to the garden door and stands there watching the +scene intently.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. Bain’t we going to get a drink too?<br> +<br> +JANE. Seems as though master have been and forgot we.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Starting up and going to the kitchen.</i>] If +I’ve been and forgot you two old women, I’ve remembered +myself. Be blowed if I can get through any more of this foolishness +without a wet of my mouth.<br> +<br> +[<i>He goes out</i>.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Speaking faintly.</i>] Does it show upon my face, +the crying, Robert?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. [<i>Looking at her.</i>] No, no, Rose, your eyes +be brighter nor ever they were.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Pushing the forget-me-nots yet further away.</i>] +Those flowers are dying. My fancy ones were best.<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>Coming forward with the orange blossoms.</i>] +Here they are, dear Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Taking them.</i>] O how beautiful they do look. +I declare I can smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. All the orange blossom in the world bain’t so sweet +as one kiss from your lips, Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Now is that truly so?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Ah, ’tis heavy work a-waiting for the coach, Rose.<br> +<br> +JOHN. [<i>Coming forward and taking </i>MARY’S <i>hand.</i>] +And yours won’t be the only marriage Rose-Anna. Did you +never think that me and Mary might -<br> +<br> +KITTY. [<i>Running forward.</i>] But I did - O so many times, +John. [JEREMY <i>enters with </i>LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Servants be comed back. Man was to the Red Bull, +I count. Female a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Coldly.</i>] I don’t care whether they be +here or not. Set them to work, Jerry, whilst we are to church.<br> +<br> +LIZ. That’s it, Master Jeremy. I was never so put +out in my life, as when sister did keep on ringing and the wench was +not there to help us on with our gowns.<br> +<br> +[ROSE <i>and </i>ROBERT <i>get up and go towards the door</i>. +<i>They pause before </i>LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL.<br> +<br> +ROSE. The man puts me in mind of someone whom I knew before, called +Lubin. I thought I had a fancy for him once - but ’twasn’t +really so.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. And the girl do favour a little servant wench from Framilode.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Jealously.</i>] You never went a-courting with +a servant wench, now did you, my heart’s dearest?<br> +<br> +ROBERT. Never in all my days, Rose. ’Twas but the +fanciful thoughts of a boy towards she, that I had.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Putting her arm in </i>ROBERT’S.] Well, +we have nothing to do with anything more of it now, dear Robert.<br> +<br> +ROBERT. You’re about right, my true love, we’ll get +us off to the church.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. Ah, coach have been waiting a smartish while, I reckon. +’Tis on master as expense’ll fall.<br> +<br> +[ROSE <i>and </i>ROBERT <i>with cold glances at </i>LUBIN <i>and </i>ISABEL, +<i>pass out of the door.<br> +<br> +</i>JOHN. [<i>Giving his arm to </i>MARY.] Now, Mary - now, +Kitty. [<i>They pass out.<br> +<br> +</i>LIZ. Now, Jeremy, sister and me bain’t going off all +alone.<br> +<br> +JEREMY. [<i>Offering an arm to each.</i>] No further than +the church door, I say. I’ve better things to do nor a-giving +of my arm to females be they never so full of wiles. And you two +do beat many what bain’t near so long in the tusk, ah, that you +does.<br> +<br> +[JEREMY <i>goes out with the sisters.<br> +<br> +</i>LUBIN. [<i>To </i>ISABEL.] And shall we go off into +the meadows, Isabel, seeing that we are quite forgot?<br> +<br> +ISABEL. No - ’tis through these faithless ones as us have +learnt to understand the hearts within of we. Let’s bide +and get the marriage dinner ready for them first.<br> +<br> +[<i>She stretches both her hands towards </i>LUBIN, <i>who takes them +reverently in his as the Curtain falls.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>THE NEW YEAR<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARACTERS<br> +<br> +STEVE BROWNING, <i>a Blacksmith</i>,<i> also Parish Clerk.<br> +</i>GEORGE DAVIS, <i>a Carpenter.<br> +</i>HARRY MOSS, <i>a young Tramp.<br> +</i>MAY BROWNING.<br> +JANE BROWNING.<br> +DORRY BROWNING, <i>aged twelve.<br> +</i>ANNIE SIMS.<br> +ROSE SIMS.<br> +VASHTI REED.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ACT I. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>A country roadside</i>. <i>It is late afternoon and already +dusk.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY BROWNING <i>with </i>HARRY MOSS <i>come slowly forward</i>. +<i>Close to a stile which is a little off the road</i>,<i> </i>MAY <i>stops.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. There, you don’t need to come no further with I, +Harry Moss. You get on quick towards the town afore the night +be upon you, and the snow, too.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I don’t care much about leaving you like this on +the roadside, May. And that’s the truth, ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. Don’t you take no more thought for I, Harry. +’Tis a good boy as you’ve been to I since the day when we +fell in together. But now there bain’t no more need for +you to hold back your steps, going slow and heavy when you might run +spry and light. For ’tis home as I be comed to now, I be. +You go your way.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I see naught of any house afore us or behind. ’Tis +very likely dusk as is upon us, or may happen ’tis the fog getting +up from the river.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Coughing.</i>] Look you across that stile, Harry. +There be a field path, bain’t there?<br> +<br> +HARRY. [<i>Taking a few steps to the right and peering through +the gloom.</i>] Ah, and that there be.<br> +<br> +MAY. And at t’other end of it a house what’s got a +garden fence all round.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Ah - and ’tis so. And now as I comes to look +there be a light shining from out the windows of it, too, though ’tis +shining dim-like in the mist.<br> +<br> +MAY. ’Tis that yonder’s my home, Harry. There’s +the door where I must stand and knock.<br> +<br> +[<i>For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with +weeping.<br> +<br> +</i>HARRY. I wouldn’t take on so, if ’twas me.<br> +<br> +MAY. And did you say as how there was a light in the window? +’Twill be but fire light then, for th’ old woman she never +would bring out the lamp afore ’twas night, close-handed old she-cat +as her was, what’d lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her +sooner nor it should go wasted.<br> +<br> +HARRY. There, ’tis shining better now - or maybe as the +fog have shifted.<br> +<br> +MAY. ’Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I’ll +go along of you a bit further. ’Twill not be much out of +my way. Nothing to take no count of.<br> +<br> +MAY. No, no, Harry. I bain’t going to cross that field, +nor yet stand at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. +Why, is it like as I’d let them see me coming over the meadow +and going through the gate in this? [<i>Holding up a ragged shawl.</i>] +In these? [<i>Pointing to her broken shoes.</i>] And - as +I be to-day.<br> +<br> +[<i>Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit +of anguished coughing.<br> +<br> +</i>HARRY. There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, +like. Don’t you go for to waste the breath inside of you +when you’ll be wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder +and as doesn’t know that you be coming back.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough.</i>] +Harry, you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. +’Tis all live coals within I here, so ’tis.<br> +<br> +HARRY. You get along home, and maybe as them’ll find summat +better nor water from the ditch to give you.<br> +<br> +MAY. No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall +and cover me, or I won’t never go across the field nor a-nigh +the house. Give I to drink, give I to drink. And then let +me bide in quiet till all of the light be gone.<br> +<br> +HARRY. [<i>Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her.</i>] +Where be I to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground?<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Pointing.</i>] Up yonder, where the ash tree do +stand. Look you there, ’tis a bit of spouting as do come +through the hedge, and water from it, flowing downwards away to the +ditch.<br> +<br> +[HARRY <i>goes off with the can</i>. MAY <i>watches him</i>,<i> +drawing her shawl again about her and striving to suppress a fit of +coughing.<br> +<br> +</i>[HARRY <i>returns and holds out the can.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. ’Tis not very quick as you’ve been, Harry +Moss. Here - give it to I fast. Give!<br> +<br> +[HARRY <i>puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands</i>,<i> +which shake feverishly</i>,<i> and she drinks with sharp avidity.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. ’Tis the taste as I have thought on these many +a year. Ah, and have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay +sleeping, that I have. Water from yonder spout, with the taste +of dead leaves sharp in it. Drink of it, too, Harry.<br> +<br> +HARRY. ’Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat +as’ll lie more warm and comfortable to th’ inside like. +I bain’t one for much water, and that’s the truth, ’tis. +[<i>He empties the water on the ground.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark +be gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, +where the lamps do shine and ’tis bright and warm in the places +where they sells the drink.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Once I sets off running by myself, I’ll get there +fast enough, May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, +for I don’t care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, +like.<br> +<br> +MAY. Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my +body, which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too.<br> +<br> +HARRY. [<i>Sitting down by her side.</i>] ’Tis a fine +thing to have a home what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit +of fire to heat the limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can +put inside. How was it as you ever came away from it, like?<br> +<br> +MAY. Ah, and that’s what I be asking of myself most of the +time, Harry! For, ’tis summat like a twelve or eleven year +since I shut the door behind me and went out.<br> +<br> +[<i>A slight pause.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Away from them all, upon the road - so ’twas.<br> +<br> +HARRY. And never see’d no more of them, nor sent to say +how ’twas with you, nor nothing?<br> +<br> +MAY. Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind +me. And ’twas finished.<br> +<br> +[<i>A long pause</i>,<i> during which the darkness has gathered.<br> +<br> +</i>HARRY. Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May?<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Bitterly.</i>] Ah now, whatever did!<br> +<br> +HARRY. ’Tweren’t as though you might have been a young +wench, flighty like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about +the streets of it. For, look you here, ’tis an old woman +as you be now, May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don’t +doubt.<br> +<br> +MAY. An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you +’tis so, I count. But a twelve year gone by, O, ’twas +a fine enough looking maid as I was then - Only a wild one, Harry, a +wild one, all for the free ways of the road and the lights of the fair +- And for the sun to rise in one place where I was, and for I to be +in t’other when her should set.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I’d keep my breath for when ’twas wanted, if +’twas me.<br> +<br> +MAY. Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be +as they’ll be likely to know I again up at home?<br> +<br> +HARRY. How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that ’tis +but a ten days or less as I’ve been along of you on the road? +And seeing that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks +of you neither?<br> +<br> +MAY. Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then +I’ll tell you how ’twas in the days gone by?<br> +<br> +HARRY. ’Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. +The night be coming upon we wonderful fast.<br> +<br> +MAY. The hair, ’twas bright upon my head eleven years gone +by, Harry. ’Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, +so ’twas.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Well, ’tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf +now, May, that it be.<br> +<br> +MAY. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. +’Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that +was then, Harry.<br> +<br> +HARRY. ’Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long +while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, +and that I can. Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of +clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of +I up. Why, there, Harry, you won’t know as ’tis me +when I’ve been to home a day or two - or may be as ’twill +take a week.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I count ’twill take a rare lot of victuals afore +you be set up as you once was, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up +at home by the hair, which is different to what ’twas, or by the +form of me, which be got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there +don’t come never no change. So look you at they, Harry, +and tell I how it do appear to you.<br> +<br> +HARRY. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though +a heat comed out from they. ’Tis not anyone as might care +much for to look into the eyes what you’ve got.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>With despondence.</i>] Maybe then, as them’ll +not know as ’tis me, Harry Moss.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s +the truth.<br> +<br> +MAY. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, +and the breath of me so short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, +afore they sees who ’tis. Though all be changed to th’ +eye like, there’ll be summat in me as’ll tell they. +And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll speak +for I - But ’tis summat what do come straight out of the hearts +of we and do say better words for we nor what the looks nor tongues +of us might tell. You mind me, Harry, there’s that which +will come out of me as’ll bring they to know who ’tis.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Ah, I reckon as you’ll not let them bide till they +does.<br> +<br> +MAY. And when they do know, and when they sees who ’tis, +I count as they’ll be good to me, I count they will. I did +used to think as Steve, he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s +his mother, hard too - And that it did please him for to keep a rein +on me like, but I sees thing different now.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Ah, ’tis one thing to see by candle and another by +day.<br> +<br> +MAY. For ’twas wild as I was in the time gone by. +Wild after pleasuring and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at +the countenance of I, and a-turning back for to look again. But, +hark you here, ’tis powerful changed as I be now.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman +into an old one.<br> +<br> +MAY. I’m finished with the road journeying and standing +about in the streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking +places - Men what don’t want to look more nor once on I now, and +what used to follow if ’twasn’t only a bit of eyelid as +I’d lift on them, times that is gone.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Ah, ’twould take a lot of looking to see you as you +was.<br> +<br> +MAY. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to +bide quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and +the door shut.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I reckon as you be.<br> +<br> +MAY. And I’m thinking as they’ll be rare pleased for +to have I in the house again. ’Twill be another pair of +hands to the work like. And when I was young, ’twas not +on work as I was set much.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Ah, I did guess as much.<br> +<br> +MAY. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, ’tis +a strong arm as them’ll have working for they; Steve, th’ +old woman what’s his mother, and little Dorry, too.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Dorry? I han’t heard tell of she.<br> +<br> +MAY. That’s my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left +she crawling on the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare +big girl. Bless the innocent heart of her!<br> +<br> +HARRY. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can’t think! +You must have been drove to it like, wasn’t you?<br> +<br> +MAY. ’Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. ’Twas +very likely the blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when +I was tied up to Steve, ’twas as if they had got I shut in a box. +’Twas the bridle on my head and the bit in the mouth of I; and +to be held in where once I had gone free. [<i>A short pause.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to +be calling I from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries +tossing in the wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where they’d +been stuck all summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I powerful, +so that one morning when the sun was up and the breeze running, I comed +out into the air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. And ’twas +done - so ’twas.<br> +<br> +HARRY. And didn’t they never try for to stop you, nor for +to bring you back, May?<br> +<br> +MAY. No, Harry, they did not.<br> +<br> +HARRY. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and +the door shut ahind of you?<br> +<br> +MAY. Ah - where! To the east, to the south, every part. +’Twas morning with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. +And them as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into +the countenance of I. Then ’twas the best as they could +give as I might take; and ’twas for no lodging as I did want when +dark did come falling.<br> +<br> +HARRY. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, +May.<br> +<br> +MAY. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the +heat of the day they do wither and die. And that what has once +been a grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground +and spat upon, maybe. So ’twas with I.<br> +<br> +[<i>She bows her head on her knees</i>,<i> and for a moment is shaken +with sudden grief.<br> +<br> +</i>HARRY. Don’t you take on so, May. Look you here, +you be comed to the end of your journeying this day, and that you be.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Raising her head.</i>] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis +so. And ’tis rare glad as them’ll be to see I once +again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good one - And I’ll +tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman what’s +not me - and that he won’t - I never knowed him much as look on +one, times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. +And little Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, +I warrant - so ’twill.<br> +<br> +[<i>A slight pause.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Th’ old woman - well - I shan’t take it amiss +if her should be dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen +to I, that her was, and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was +above I in his station and that. God rest the bones of she, for +I count her’ll have been lying in the churchyard a good few years +by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, and if so be as +her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no +poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day - so ’tis.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Look you here - the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis +night. Get up and go in to them all yonder. ’Tis thick +dark now and there be no one on the road to see you as you do go.<br> +<br> +MAY. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of +me be powerful weak.<br> +<br> +HARRY. [<i>Lifting her up.</i>] The feel of your body be +as burning wood, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Standing up.</i>] Put me against the stile, Harry, +and then let I bide alone.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just +to the door.<br> +<br> +MAY. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide +here a while in the quiet of my thoughts. ’Tis of little +Dorry, and of how pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, +as I be thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home +to go to, nor fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town. +And go you quick.<br> +<br> +HARRY. There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about +leaving you so, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, +when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, +come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to +give you summat to keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis +empty-handed as I be.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Fumbling in her shawl.</i>] There, Harry - ’tis +comed back to my mind now. [<i>She takes out part of a loaf of +bread.</i>] Take you this bread. And to-night, when you +eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home with Steve a-holding +of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and plenty of good victuals, +with a bed to lie upon warm. There, Harry, take and eat.<br> +<br> +[<i>She holds the bread to him<br> +<br> +</i>HARRY. [<i>Taking the bread.</i>] I count ’twill +all be well with you now, May?<br> +<br> +MAY. I warrant as ’twill, for I be right to home. +But go you towards the town, Harry, for ’tis late. And God +go with you, my dear, now and all time.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I’ll set off running then. For the night, ’tis +upon us, May, and the snow, ’tis thick in the air.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>turns to the stile and leans on it heavily</i>,<i> gazing across +the field</i>. HARRY <i>sets off quickly down the road.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The living room in the Brownings</i>’<i> cottage</i>. +<i>The room is divided by a curtain which screens the fireside end from +the draught of the principal door.<br> +<br> +To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs</i>. +<i>Chairs are grouped round the hearth</i>,<i> and there is a table +at which </i>JANE BROWNING <i>is ironing a dress by the light of one +candle</i>. DORRY <i>leans against the table</i>,<i> watching +her.<br> +<br> +</i>JANE. [<i>Putting aside the iron.</i>] There, you take +and lay it on the bed upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I’m +not a-going to iron it twice.<br> +<br> +[<i>She lays the dress carefully across </i>DORRY’S <i>arms.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. Don’t the lace look nice, Gran’ma?<br> +<br> +JANE. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come straight +down again.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Couldn’t I put it on once, Gran’ma, just to +see how it do look on me?<br> +<br> +JANE. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever +next! You go and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear?<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Leaving the room by the door to the right.</i>] +I’d like to put it on just once, I would.<br> +<br> +[JANE BROWNING <i>blows out the candle and puts away the iron and ironing +cloth</i>. <i>She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as +</i>DORRY <i>comes back.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. Dad’s cleaning of himself ever so - I heard the +water splashing something dreadful as I went by his door.<br> +<br> +JANE. ’Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing +as he be about, I reckon.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Sitting down on a stool.</i>] I’d like +to go along, too, and see the dancing up at the schools to-night, I +would.<br> +<br> +JANE. And what next, I should like to know!<br> +<br> +DORRY. And wear my new frock what’s ironed, and the beads +what Miss Sims gived me.<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Looking out at the window.</i>] I’m thinking +as we shall get some snow by and bye. ’Tis come over so +dark all of a sudden.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Couldn’t I go along of they, Gran’ma, and wear +my new frock, and the beads, too? I never see’d them dance +th’ old year out yet, I haven’t.<br> +<br> +JANE. Get along with you, Dorry. ’Tis many a year +afore you’ll be of an age for such foolishness. And that’s +what I calls it, this messing about with dancing and music and I don’t +know what.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she’s let to go, +she is.<br> +<br> +JANE. You bain’t Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the +wedding what’s to-morrow isn’t enough to stuff you up with +nonsense, I don’t know what is.<br> +<br> +DORRY. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran’ma, I do. +Shall you put on your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore +we goes to church?<br> +<br> +JANE. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, +if you knows how.<br> +<br> +DORRY. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims +to the dance, I shall. Dad’s got that kind to me since last +night - he gived me a sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn’t +asked. And won’t it be nice when Miss Sims comes here to +live, and when you has someone to help you in the work, Gran’ma?<br> +<br> +JANE. Well - ’tis to be hoped as ’twill be all right +this time.<br> +<br> +DORRY. This time, Gran’ma! Why, wasn’t it all +right when Dad was married afore, then?<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Getting the lamp from a shelf.</i>] I don’t +light up as a rule till ’tis six o’clock, but I count it’s +a bit of snow coming as have darkened the air like.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Gran’ma, isn’t Miss Sims nice-looking, don’t +you think? I’d like to wear my hair like hers and have earrings +a-hanging from me and a-shaking when I moves my head, I would.<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Setting the lamp on the table.</i>] Here, fetch +me the matches, do.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Bringing the matches.</i>] Was my mammy nice-looking, +like Miss Sims, Gran’ma?<br> +<br> +JANE. I’m one as goes by other things nor looks - For like +as not ’tis fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has +them - give me a plain face and a heart what’s pure, I says, and +’tis not far out as you’ll be.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Was my mammy’s heart pure, Gran’ma? [<i>A +moment</i>’<i>s silence</i>. JANE <i>lights the lamp</i>. +DORRY <i>leans at the table</i>,<i> watching her.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. Was my mammy’s - [<i>A loud knock on the outside +door.<br> +<br> +</i>JANE. Who’s that come bothering round! Run and +see, Dorry, there’s a good child.<br> +<br> +DORRY. It’ll be Gran’ma Vashti, I daresay. She +do mostly knock at the door loud with her stick.<br> +<br> +[DORRY <i>runs to the window and looks out.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. ’Tis her, and the snow white all upon her.<br> +<br> +[DORRY <i>goes to the door to open it.<br> +<br> +</i>JANE. [<i>To herself.</i>] Of all the meddlesome old +women - why can’t her bide till her’s wanted.<br> +<br> +[DORRY <i>opens the door wide</i>,<i> and </i>VASHTI <i>Comes slowly +in to the room</i>,<i> leaning on a big staff.<br> +<br> +</i>JANE. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the +hill to-day? ’Twould have been better had you bid at home, +with the dark coming on and the snow.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Who has closed the door.</i>] Sit down, Granny +- there, close against the fire, do.<br> +<br> +[VASHTI <i>stands in the middle of the room</i>,<i> looking from one +to another.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. +And down to the pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where +’tis fog, And there be summat in I what drives I onward, as might +the wind. And no where may the bones of me rest this day.<br> +<br> +JANE. If ’tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you’d +best have stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave +sensible, and maybe as I’ll get you summat warm to drink presently.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we.<br> +<br> +[VASHTI <i>sits stiffly down by the hearth</i>,<i> leaning on her stick</i>. +JANE <i>resumes her place</i>,<i> and </i>DORRY <i>puts her little stool +between them.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. And in the night when I was laid down, against the +windowpane it fled a three times. A three time it fled and did +beat the pane as though ’twould get in. And I up and did +open the window. And the air it ran past I, and ’twas black, +with naught upon it but the smell of a shroud. So I knowed.<br> +<br> +DORRY. What did you know, Granny?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire</i>,<i> +speaking as though to herself.</i>] Summat lost - summat lost, +and what was trying to get safe away.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Safe away? From what, Granny?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, +what holds in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I +holds here, and the knife to it be as long again by twice.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, Granny, I’ll be a-feared to go across the garden +after dark, I shall.<br> +<br> +JANE. What do you want to go and put that there into the child’s +head for? I’d like for Steve to hear you talking of such +stuff.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand +in the mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And +when the door was closed, ’twas as if one did come running round +the house and did beat upon it for to be let in. Then I did go +for to open it, but the place outside was full of emptiness, and ’twas +they old carrion crows what did talk to I out of the storm.<br> +<br> +JANE. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don’t you +speak of summat what’s got some sense to it? Come, don’t +you know as Steve, his wedding day, ’tis to-morrow as ever is.<br> +<br> +DORRY. ’Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad’s +marriage.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Suddenly.</i>] Be this house made ready for +a-marrying, then?<br> +<br> +DORRY. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don’t you see +how ’tis cleaned and the new net curtains in the windows, and +the bit of drugget ’gainst the door where the old one always tripped +me up?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. I see naught but what ’tis more like a burial here. +So ’tis. And ’tis a burial as I’ve carried in +my heart as I comed down from the hills.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Looking out of the window.</i>] Granny, you’ll +be forced to bide the night along of we, ’cause the snow be falling +thick, and ’twill be likely as not as you’ll lose your way +if you start for to go home again when ’tis snowing.<br> +<br> +JANE. Th’ old thing may as well bide the night now she be +come. Hark you, Vashti, ’twill save you the journey down +to-morrow like, if you bides the night, and the chimney corner is all +as you ever wants.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane +Browning?<br> +<br> +DORRY. Why, Granny, ’tis Dad’s wedding day to-morrow, +and ’tis a white frock with lace to it as I’m going to wear, +and beads what Miss Sims gived me, and the shoes what was new except +for being worn to church three times. Shall I fetch them all and +show to you, Granny?<br> +<br> +JANE. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely ’twill +give her thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in +one of her nasty moods to-day when you can’t get a word what isn’t +foolishness out of her. [DORRY <i>runs upstairs.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. [<i>Leaning forward.</i>] Was her telling of +a marriage?<br> +<br> +JANE. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, +only you don’t trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams +of yourself in the night. ’Tis our Steve what’s going +to marry Annie Sims to-morrow.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Steve Browning?<br> +<br> +JANE. I haven’t patience with th’ old gipsy! +Yes - Steve. And ’tis a twelvemonth or more as you’d +knowed of it.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Our Steve, what’s husband to my May?<br> +<br> +JANE. ’Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that +’tis. May, what went out trolloping along the roads ’stead +of she biding at home to mind the house and child! ’Tis +how you did breed she up, Vashti Reed, what led her to act as her did. +And if you’d have bred her different, ’twould have been +all the same; for what’s in the blood is bound to out and show; +and when you picks a weed and sets it in the room, ’tain’t +no flower as you must look for.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. +But in the blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come +through the door again. God bless the head an feet of she!<br> +<br> +JANE. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb +like she, was bound for to meet her doom. And ’twas in the +river up London way where the body of her was catched, floating, and +the same petticoat to it as I’ve seed on May a score of times. +Don’t you recollect how ’twas parson as brought the news +to we?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what +may come from the mouths of they, neither.<br> +<br> +JANE. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was +gone out. ’Twas not much as he did say, being a man what +hasn’t many words to his tongue. But he took and fetched +down his big coat what do hang up yonder, and told I to put a bit of +black to the sleeve of it. Leastways, he didn’t speak the +words, but I seed what he was after, and I took and sewed a bit on, +and he’s wore it ever since till yesterday - And that’s +eleven year ago it be - so there.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And +I seems to feel the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. +Her bain’t shrouded, nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the +limbs of she - you take my words - and there shall come a day when the +latch shall rise and her be standing among us and a-calling on her child +and husband what’s forgotten she.<br> +<br> +JANE. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such +things to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn’t +wonder if he was to put you out of the door and into the snow - and +’tis most unfitting for to talk so afore the child.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Calling out loudly.</i>] Come back to I, May +- you come back to I - there bain’t no one what thinks on the +name of you, or what wants you but your old mother. You come back +to I!<br> +<br> +JANE. I’ll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! +’Tain’t nothing to be proud on as you’ve got, and +’twould be better if you was to be less free in your hollering. +Look, here’s Dorry coming.<br> +<br> +[DORRY <i>comes into the kitchen</i>;<i> she is wearing her new white +frock.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. See, Granny, I’ve been and put it on for to show +you better. See the lace? Isn’t it nice? And +the beads, too. I didn’t stop for to put on my shoes, nor +my new stockings. Nor my hat, what’s got a great long feather +all round of it.<br> +<br> +JANE. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you’ll crease and tumble +that frock so as it’s not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever +did you go to put it on for?<br> +<br> +DORRY. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as +she should come out of her trouble. Gran’s always got some +trouble in her mind, han’t you, Granny?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by, my child.<br> +<br> +JANE. I’ll give it you if you starts off again.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by -<br> +<br> +DORRY. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Tis more’n eleven years since her wented +out of the door, my child - your poor mammy. Out of the door, +out of the door! And likely as not ’twill be feet first +as her shall be brought in again.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Granny, was my poor mammy, what’s dead, nice looking +like Miss Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind +a-moving all the green of it as was your mammy, my dear.<br> +<br> +DORRY. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, +like Miss Sims, Granny?<br> +<br> +JANE. ’Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and +pleasuring what was her undoing, as ’twill be the undoing of you, +too, Dorry, if you don’t take care. ’Tis she as you +favours, and none of your father’s people, more’s the pity, +and ’tis more thoughtful and serious as you’ll have to grow +if you don’t want to come to harm. You take and go right +up, and off with that frock, do you hear me?<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I’d +got it on, I did.<br> +<br> +JANE. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, ’tis +all as you do think on, and ’tis plain to see what’s got +working in the inside of you, Dorry. ’Tis the drop of bad +blood as you has got from she what bore you. But I might as well +speak to that door for all you cares. Only, hark you here, you’ll +be sorry one of these days as you han’t minded me better. +And then ’twill be too late.<br> +<br> +[STEVE <i>comes down the stairs</i>,<i> pushes open the door and enters.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. Well, Mother, what’s up now? Gran, you +here? Why, Dorry, what be you a-crying for?<br> +<br> +DORRY. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad - now that +I’ve got my frock on and all. - O, I wants to be let to go.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, Mother - what do you say? ’Twouldn’t +hurt for she to look in about half an hour, and Annie and me we could +bring her back betimes.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, Dad, I wants to go if ’twas only for a minute.<br> +<br> +STEVE. There, there - you shall go and we’ll say no more +about it.<br> +<br> +JANE. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, +Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, Mother, ’tain’t every day as a man’s +married, that ’tain’t.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And so you’re to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? +They tells me as you’re to be wed.<br> +<br> +STEVE. That’s right enough, Gran.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Rising.</i>] And there be no resting in me to-day, +Steve. There be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body +and that will not let me bide. - And ’tis steps as I hears on +the roadside and in the fields - and ’tis a bad taste as is in +my victuals, and I must be moving, and peering about, and a-taking cold +water into my mouth for to do away with the thing on my tongue, which +is as the smell of death - So ’tis.<br> +<br> +JANE. Now she’s off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti +Reed, and I’ll give you summat as’ll very likely warm you +and keep you quiet in your chair a while. Just you wait till I +gets the water boiling.<br> +<br> +[<i>She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. [<i>From the window.</i>] Here’s Miss Sims +coming up the path, and Rosie too. O, they’re wrapped up +all over ’cause ’tis snowing. I’ll open, I’ll +open.<br> +<br> +[<i>She runs to the door and unlatches it</i>. ANNIE <i>and </i>ROSE +SIMS <i>come in</i>,<i> shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their +cloaks</i>,<i> which </i>STEVE <i>takes from them and hangs on the door.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +ANNIE. [<i>As </i>STEVE <i>takes off her cloak.</i>] ’Tis +going to be a dreadful night. The snow’s coming down something +cruel.<br> +<br> +ROSE. There won’t be many to the dance if it keeps on like +this, will there?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before +we sets out again.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Miss Sims, Miss Sims - Miss Rosie - I’m going along +with you to the dance, Dad says as I may.<br> +<br> +JANE. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, +and he so strict, I don’t know.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry - I shouldn’t +hardly know ’twas you. [<i>Turning to </i>VASHTI REED.] +Good evening, Mrs. Reed, my eyes was very near blinded when I first +got in out of the dark, and I didn’t see as you was there.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold +weather?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Peering into their faces as they stand near her.</i>] +What be you a-telling I of?<br> +<br> +ANNIE. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. How be I?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now ’tis come +over such nasty weather?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out +in the rain and all the wind, and driv’ there too by them as was +laid like snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow +she when her should have gotten to a time of weakness.<br> +<br> +JANE. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down +in the warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the clothes +which you have upon you. [<i>Moving about and putting tea things +on the table.</i>] I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea +for th’ old woman, with a drop of summat strong to it as will +keep her from using of her tongue so free till morning time.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. [<i>Sitting down.</i>] Poor old woman, ’tis +a sad thing when folks do come to such a pass as she.<br> +<br> +ROSE. And han’t got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. +But she’s better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching +below the hedge as we was coming across the meadow. “Why,” +I says to Annie, “it must be bad to have no home to bide in such +a night as this!” Isn’t that so, Mrs. Browning?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Ah, you’re right there, you’re right.<br> +<br> +ROSE. I wouldn’t much care to be upon the road to-night, +would you, Steve?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And at that hour when th’ old year be passing out, +and dark on all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead +which be in they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read +the face to each, as the corpses do go by. There’s many +a night as I have stood and have looked into they when them did draw +near to I, but never the face I did seek.<br> +<br> +[<i>Here </i>JANE, <i>who has been making a cup of tea</i>,<i> and who +has poured something in it from a bottle</i>,<i> advances to </i>VASHTI.<br> +<br> +JANE. Here, Vashti Reed, here’s a nice cup of hot tea for +you. Take and drink it up and very likely ’twill warm th’ +inside of you, for I’ll lay as you haven’t seen a mouthful +of naught this day.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Ah, that’s it, that’s it. When folks +do go leer ’tis a powerful lot of fancies as do get from the stomach +to the heads of they.<br> +<br> +[VASHTI <i>takes the cup and slowly drinks.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran’ma, +at what Miss Sims have got on!<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Putting down her cup and leaning forward.</i>] +Which of you be clothed for marriage?<br> +<br> +JANE. Get along of you, Gran, ’tis for the dance up at the +school as they be come.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Come you here - her what’s to wed our Steve. +Come you here and let I look at you. My eyes bain’t so quick +as they was once. Many tears have clouded they. But come +you here.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your +nice things.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. [<i>Steps in front of </i>VASHTI.] Here I be, Mrs. +Reed.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Be you the one what’s going to wed our Steve come +New Year.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. That’s it, Mrs. Reed, that’s it.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage +or for burial?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don’t +you take no account of she. ’Tis worry and that as have +caused the mind of she to wander a bit, but she don’t mean nothing +by it.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. All right, Steve. She don’t trouble me at all. +[<i>To </i>VASHTI.] ’Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good +wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? +Han’t he got one already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. +What do Steve want for with a new one then?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Come on, girls. I can’t stand no more of this. +Let’s off, and call in to George’s as we do go by.<br> +<br> +ROSE. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said +as how ’twouldn’t be many minutes afore he joined us here, +Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. That’s right, then we’ll bide a bit longer +till George do call for we, only ’tis more nor I can stand when +th’ old lady gets her tongue moving.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Why, look, Gran’s fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, +now that Gran’s dropped off and can’t say none of her foolish +things any more, do stand so as Dad and Gran’ma can see the frock +which you’ve got for the dance.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. O, Dorry, you’re a little torment, that’s the +truth.<br> +<br> +[<i>She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she +has on.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. Well, Steve?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, Rosie.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Haven’t you got nothing as you can say, Steve?<br> +<br> +STEVE. What be I to say, Rose?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course.<br> +<br> +STEVE. O, ’tis all right, I suppose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. All right! And is that about all as you’ve seen? +Why, bless you, Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should +like to know!<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, there bain’t nothing wrong, be there?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Of course there isn’t. But I never did see such +a man as you, Steve. Why, I don’t believe as you’d +know whether Annie haves a pair of eyes to her face or not, nor if they +be the same colour one to t’other.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl +as I’ve picked out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow +she and I is to be made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh +enough for me this night, I reckon.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, +I wonder what I should feel if ’twas me that was going to be married!<br> +<br> +ROSE. You get and ask Annie how ’tis with her, Dorry. +I could tell a fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, +and of the candles that’s burned right down to the very end of +them, I could.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Don’t you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, +neither. She’s that flustered herself about the dance to-night +that she scarce do know what she’s a-saying of. But suppose +you was just to ask her what she’s got wrapped so careful in that +there paper in her hand.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, Rosie, whatever is it?<br> +<br> +STEVE. What’s that you’ve got hold on now, Rosie?<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Come, show them all, Rose.<br> +<br> +[ROSE <i>slowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse carnation +and a fern.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. There ’tis, then.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O my, Rosie - isn’t it beautiful. Be you going +to wear it to the dance?<br> +<br> +ROSE. No, Dorry, ’tisn’t for me.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, who is it for, Rosie - who is it for?<br> +<br> +ROSE. No - I’m not a-going to tell none of you.<br> +<br> +[<i>She wraps it up carefully again.<br> +<br> +</i>ANNIE. I’ll tell then, for you.<br> +<br> +ROSE. No, you shan’t, Annie - that you shan’t!<br> +<br> +ANNIE. That I shall, then - come you here, Dorry - I’ll +whisper it to your ear. [<i>Whispers it to </i>DORRY.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Excitedly.</i>] I know who ’tis - I know +- ’tis for Mr. Davis - for Mr. Davis! Think of that, Dad +- the flower ’tis for George Davis.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O, Annie, how you could!<br> +<br> +STEVE. George -<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Suddenly roused.</i>] Who named George? +There was but one man as was called by that name - and he courted my +girl till her was faint and weary of the sound and shape of he, and +so on a day when he was come -<br> +<br> +DORRY. There’s Gran gone off on her tales again.<br> +<br> +[JANE <i>crosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head of </i>VASHTI, +<i>who relapses again into sleep.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. [<i>Sitting down by </i>ROSE.] What’s this, +Rose? I han’t heard tell of this afore. Be there aught +a-going on with you and George, then?<br> +<br> +ROSE. No, Steve, there isn’t nothing in it much, except +that George and me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like - and +a two or three time before.<br> +<br> +STEVE. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give +to George, then?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Well - ’tis for George as I’ve saved it out +of some what the gardener up at Squire’s gived me.<br> +<br> +STEVE. [<i>As though to himself.</i>] ’Tis a powerful +many years since George he went a-courting. I never knowed him +so much as look upon a maid, I didn’t since -<br> +<br> +ROSE. Well, Steve, I’m sure there’s no need for you +to be upset over it. ’Tis nothing to you who George walks +out with, or who he doesn’t.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Who said as I was upset, Rose?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Look at the long face what you’ve pulled. Annie, +if ’twas me, I shouldn’t much care about marrying a man +with such a look to him.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. What’s up, Steve? What’s come over you +like, all of a minute?<br> +<br> +STEVE. ’Tis naught, Annie, naught. ’Twas summat +of past times what comed into the thoughts of me. But ’tis +naught. And, Rose, if so be as ’twas you as George is after, +I’d wish him to have luck, with all my heart, I would, for George +and me - well, we too has always stuck close one to t’other, as +you knows.<br> +<br> +JANE. Ah - that you has, George and you - you and George.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Hark - there’s someone coming up now.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, let me open the door - let me open it!<br> +<br> +[<i>She runs across the room and lifts the latch</i>. GEORGE <i>stands +in the doorway shaking the snow from him</i>. <i>Then he comes +into the room.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. I’m going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, +haven’t I got a nice frock on?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. +Miss Sims, good evening - Yes, Steve, I’ll off with my coat, for +’tis pretty well sprinkled with snow, like.<br> +<br> +[STEVE <i>helps </i>GEORGE <i>to take off his overcoat.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis.<br> +<br> +JANE. And that’s a thing which han’t no luck to it, +if ’tis said afore the proper time, Rosie.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Well, but ’tis New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, so ’tis - and a terrible nasty storm as ever +I knowed! ’Twas comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, +as I was a-crossing of the meadow. And there lay some poor thing +sheltering below the hedge, with a bit of sacking throwed over her. +I count ’tis very near buried alive as anyone would be as slept +out in such a night.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I reckon ’twould be so - so ’twould. +But come you in and give yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say +to getting us a glass of cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing.<br> +<br> +JANE. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when ’tis +free as you’ll get them up at the school?<br> +<br> +STEVE. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I’ll +fetch it right away.<br> +<br> +JANE. No, you don’t. I’ll have no one meddling +in the pantry save it’s myself. Dorry, give me that there +jug.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Taking a jug from the dresser.</i>] Here ’tis, +Gran’ma, shall I light the candle?<br> +<br> +JANE. So long as you’ll hold the matches careful.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Well - ’tis to be hoped as the weather’ll change +afore morning.<br> +<br> +ROSE. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That us shall, but it don’t look much as though +we should get it.<br> +<br> +[JANE BROWNING <i>and </i>DORRY <i>go out of the room.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. Sit you down, George, along of we. ’Tis +right pleased as I be for to see you here to-night.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Well, Steve, I bain’t one for a lot of words but +I be powerful glad to see you look as you does, and ’tis all joy +as I wishes you and her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for +Steve, and a girl can’t do no more, can she?<br> +<br> +ROSE. And so you’re going to church along of Steve, Mr. +Davis?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow +what has broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk +got together and I among they.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O, come, Mr. Davis!<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis with me as though t’were all hoof and +horn as I was made of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up +with the quality folks and such things, and he do know better nor I +how to carry his self in parts when the ground be thick on them.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Very likely ’tis a-shewing of them into their places +of a Sunday and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along +with the service, like, as has made Steve so easy.<br> +<br> +ROSIE. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, +too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s +for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know what.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don’t much agree +with I, Miss Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, +where the maids do pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and +do speak as though ’twere church and parson at his sermon, I can’t +think of naught but how ’twill feel for to be out in the open +again. Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch my breath in one of they +places from fear as there should be too much sound to it, and the noise +of my own hammer do very near scare I into fits.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it?<br> +<br> +[MRS. BROWNING <i>and </i>DORRY <i>come back and the cider is put upon +the table</i>,<i> </i>DORRY <i>and </i>ANNIE <i>getting glasses from +the dresser.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. [<i>Drinking.</i>] Your health, Steve, and yours, +too, Miss Sims. And many years of happiness to you both.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Thank you kindly, George.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Thank you, Mr. Davis.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Hasn’t Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the +dance, Mr. Davis?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Well, I’m blessed if I’d taken no notice of +it, Dorry.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Why, you’re worse nor Dad, I do declare! But +you just look at Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she’s +got wrapped up in that there paper in her hand.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O, Dorry, you little tease, you!<br> +<br> +DORRY. You just ask her, Mr. Davis.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Undoing the parcel.</i>] There, ’tis nothing +to make such a commotion of! Just a flower - see, Mr. Davis? +I knowed as it was one what you was partial to, and so I just brought +it along with me.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. That there bain’t for I, be it?<br> +<br> +ROSE. Indeed ’tis - if so as you’ll accept of it.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. O, ’tis best saved against to-morrow. The +freshness will be most gone from it, if I was to wear it now.<br> +<br> +DORRY. No, no, Mr. Davis, ’tis for now! To wear at +the dance. Put it on him, Rosie, put it on him.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Tossing the flower across the table to </i>GEORGE.] +He can put it on hisself well enough, Dorry.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>After a moment</i>’<i>s hesitation.</i>] +I don’t know so well about that.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Go on, Rosie - pin it into his coat. Come, ’tis +getting late.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, pin it in quick, Rosie - come along - and then we can +start to the dancing.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Shall I, Mr. Davis?<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>gets up and crosses the room</i>;<i> </i>ROSE <i>takes the +flower and </i>DORRY <i>hands her a pin</i>. <i>She slowly pins +the flower in his coat.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. [<i>Stretching out his hand to </i>ANNIE.] You +be so quiet like to-night, Annie. There isn’t nothing wrong, +is there, my dear?<br> +<br> +ANNIE. ’Tis only I’m that full of gladness, Steve, +as I don’t seem to find words to my tongue for the things what +I can talk on most days.<br> +<br> +STEVE. And that’s how ’tis with I, too, Annie. +’Tis as though I was out in the meadows, like - And as though +’twere Sunday, and such a stillness all around that I might think +’twas only me as was upon the earth. But then summat stirs +in me sudden and I knows that you be there, too, and ’tis my love +for you what has put me right away from the rest of them.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Steve, you’ve had a poor, rough time, I know, but +I’ll do my best for to smooth it like for you, I will.<br> +<br> +STEVE. See here, Annie - I be comed out of the rain and into the +sun once more.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Leading </i>GEORGE <i>forward.</i>] See how fine +Mr. Davis do look - see, isn’t he grand? O, Miss Sims, see +how nice the flower do look what Rosie has pinned in his coat! +See, Gran’ma.<br> +<br> +JANE. I’ve enough to do putting away all these glasses which +have been messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get +off to bed this night, seeing as ’tis late already and you none +of you gone off yet.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, let us be off, let us be off - and what am I to put +over my dress, Gran’ma, so as the snow shan’t get to it?<br> +<br> +JANE. If you go careful and don’t drop it in the snow may +be as I’ll wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what’s +hanging behind the door.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Give me my cloak, Steve - O, how I do love a bit of dancing, +don’t you, Mr. Davis?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they +great drag horses, Miss Rose.<br> +<br> +ROSE. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don’t believe half what +you do say, no more does Annie.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. If Mr. Davis don’t know how to dance right, you’re +the one to learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, +and I’ll look after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. +Good-night, Mrs. Reed.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Why, Granny’s sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know.<br> +<br> +JANE. And about time, too. ’Tis to be hoped as we +shan’t have no more trouble with her till morning.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Her eyes raised to the door latch.</i>] Just +look, why the latch is up.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Whoever’s that, I wonder?<br> +<br> +ROSE. ’Tis very likely someone with a horse what’s +lost a shoe, Steve.<br> +<br> +JANE. I guess as ’tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I bain’t a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, +not if ’twas the King hisself what stood at the door.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. If ’tis a corpse, I guess her’ll have to wait +till the dancing’s finished, then.<br> +<br> +[VASHTI <i>groans in her sleep and turns over in the chair</i>,<i> her +face to the fire.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. [<i>Going to the door and speaking loudly.</i>] +Who’s there?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Us’ll soon see.<br> +<br> +[GEORGE <i>unbolts the door and opens it</i>,<i> first a little way</i>,<i> +and then wide</i>. MAY <i>is seen standing in the doorway</i>. +<i>Her shawl is drawn over head and the lower part of her face.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. Here’s someone what’s missed their way, +I count.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Why, ’tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the +hedge, I do believe.<br> +<br> +ANNIE Whatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night!<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Advancing firmly.</i>] ’Tis one of they +dirty roadsters what there’s too many of all about the country. +Here, I’ll learn you to come to folks’ houses this time +of night, disturbing of a wedding party. You take and get gone. +We don’t want such as you in here, we don’t.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>looks fixedly into </i>JANE’S <i>face.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. I count ’tis very nigh starved by the cold as +she be.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone.<br> +<br> +JANE. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that’ll +learn the likes of she to come round begging at folks’ houses +what’s respectable.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her +this night.<br> +<br> +STEVE. And that ’tis, George, and what’s more, I bain’t +a-going for to do it. ’Tis but a few hours to my wedding, +and if a dog was to come to me for shelter I’d not be one to put +him from the door.<br> +<br> +JANE. ’Tain’t to be expected as I shall let a dirty +tramp bide in my kitchen when ’tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, +Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. To-morrow, ’tis my day, Mother, and I’ll have +the choosing of my guests, like. [<i>Turning to </i>MAY.] +Come you in out of the cold. This night you shall bide fed and +warmed, so that, may be, in years to come, ’twill please you to +think back upon the eve afore my wedding.<br> +<br> +[STEVE <i>stands back</i>,<i> holding the door wide open</i>. +MAY, <i>from the threshold</i>,<i> has been looking first on one face +and then on another</i>. <i>Suddenly her eyes fall on </i>ANNIE, +<i>who has moved to </i>STEVE’S <i>side</i>,<i> laying her hand +on his arm</i>,<i> and with a sudden defiance</i>,<i> she draws herself +up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 3.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The same room</i>,<i> two hours later</i>. VASHTI REED <i>seems +to be sleeping as before by the fireside</i>. <i>On the settle +</i>MAY <i>is huddled</i>,<i> her head bent</i>,<i> the shawl drawn +over her face</i>. JANE BROWNING <i>moves about</i>,<i> putting +away work things</i>,<i> cups and plates</i>,<i> seeing that the window +is closed</i>,<i> winding the clock</i>,<i> etc</i>. <i>There +is a tap at the outer door and </i>JANE <i>opens it</i>. STEVE, +ANNIE <i>and </i>DORRY <i>enter.<br> +<br> +</i>JANE. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up +for to let you all in and not able to get away to my bed?<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, Gran’ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped +all night, I could. We comed away early ’cause Miss Sims, +she said as the dancing gived her the headache, but the New Year han’t +been danced in yet, it han’t.<br> +<br> +JANE. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that’s what you’ve +got to do - and quickly.<br> +<br> +DORRY. All right, Gran’ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; +good-night, Dad. O, why, there’s Granny! But her’s +tight asleep so I shan’t say nothing to her. O, I do wish +as there was dancing, and lamps, and music playing every night, I do!<br> +<br> +[DORRY <i>goes towards the staircase door.<br> +<br> +</i>JANE. [<i>Calling after her.</i>] I’m a-coming +along directly. Be careful with the candle, Dorry.<br> +<br> +[JANE <i>opens the door and </i>DORRY <i>goes upstairs</i>. STEVE +<i>and </i>ANNIE <i>come towards the fireplace.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing?<br> +<br> +JANE. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what’s +been and got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s +the matter with she. See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep +under the shawl of her; and not a word nor sound have I got out of she +since giving her the drop of tea a while back.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, well - she won’t do us no harm where she do +bide. Leave her in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let +her go her way.<br> +<br> +JANE. She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, +I’m thinking.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get +up to bed, Mother.<br> +<br> +JANE. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe +to home?<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back - ’tis +but a step - and I don’t like for you to come out into the snow +again.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I’m coming along of you, Annie. Get off to +bed, Mother. I’ll be back to lock up and all that in less +nor ten minutes.<br> +<br> +JANE. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as +I han’t left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis +poor work leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like.<br> +<br> +[JANE <i>lights a candle and goes upstairs</i>. STEVE <i>takes +</i>ANNIE’S <i>hand and they go together towards the outer door</i>. +<i>As they pass to the other side of the curtain which is drawn across +the room</i>,<i> </i>MAY <i>suddenly rears herself up on the settle</i>,<i> +throwing back her shawl</i>,<i> and she leans forward</i>,<i> listening +intently.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. To-morrow night, Annie!<br> +<br> +ANNIE. There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, +Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness +than I can rightly think on, that ’tis.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Steve!<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, Annie.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit +this night. You didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but +’twas so.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take +notice as I was different from ordinary.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat +in the looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. +Steve, I couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music +going on and all. So I told you as I’d the headache.<br> +<br> +STEVE. O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, +and I couldn’t seem to get them pushed aside, like.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I don’t much care for to, Annie. But ’twas +thoughts what comed out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been +a bit too hard with - with her as was Dorry’s mother.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing +to grumble at, Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might +go the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being +so much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t +bear for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you +aside of me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, +and I could not stand it if ’twas as I should lose you.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. There’s nothing in the world as could make you lose +me, Steve. For, look you here, I don’t think as there’s +a woman on the earth what’s got such a feeling as is in my heart +this night, of quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me +is to be wed and to live aside of one another till death do part us.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. And what you feels about the days gone by don’t count, +Steve, ’cause they bain’t true of you. You was always +a kind husband, and from what I’ve hear-ed folks say, she was +one as wasn’t never suited to neither you nor yours.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks +one way or t’other can’t do she no good. Only ’tis +upon me as I could take you to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be +as I had been kinder to she, the time her was here.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you’re regular done +up, and that’s what ’tis. I never hear-ed you take +on like this afore.<br> +<br> +STEVE. All right, my dear, don’t you mind what I’ve +been saying. Very like ’tis a bit unnerved as I be this +night. But ’tis a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, +that come to-morrow at this time, there won’t be no more need +for us to part?<br> +<br> +ANNIE. [<i>As he opens the door.</i>] O, ’tis dark +outside!<br> +<br> +[<i>They both leave the cottage</i>. MAY <i>throws back her shawl +as though stifled</i>. <i>She gets up and first stands bending +over </i>VASHTI. S<i>eeing that she is still sleeping heavily</i>,<i> +she goes to the door</i>,<i> opens it gently and looks out</i>. +<i>After a moment she closes it and walks about the kitchen</i>,<i> +examining everything with a fierce curiosity</i>. <i>She takes +up the shawl </i>DORRY <i>has been wearing</i>,<i> looks at it hesitatingly</i>,<i> +and then clasps it passionately to her face</i>. <i>Hearing steps +outside she flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle</i>,<i> +where she sits huddled in the corner</i>,<i> having wrapped herself +again in her shawl</i>,<i> only her eyes looking out unquietly from +it</i>. STEVE <i>re-enters</i>. <i>He bolts the door</i>,<i> +then goes up to the table in front of the fire to put out the lamp.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you +up a bit this cold night?<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. All right. You can just bide where you be on +the settle. ’Tis warmer within nor upon the road to-night, +and I’ll come and let you out when ’tis morning.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>raises both her hands in an attitude of supplication.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. [<i>Pausing</i>,<i> with his hand on the burner of +the lamp.</i>] Be there summat as you wants what I can give to +you?<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>looks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Let I bide quiet in the dark, ’tis all I wants +now. [STEVE <i>puts out the lamp.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. [<i>As though to himself</i>,<i> as he goes towards +the door upstairs.</i>] Then get off to your drunken sleep again, +and your dreams.<br> +<br> +[<i>Curtain.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT II. - Scene 4.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The fire is almost out</i>. <i>A square of moonlight falls +on the floor from the window</i>. VASHTI <i>still sleeps in the +chimney corner</i>. MAY <i>is rocking herself to and fro on the +settle.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! +Your dreams - your dreams - Ah, where is it as they have gone, I’d +like for to know. The dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath +the hedge. Dreams!<br> +<br> +[<i>She gets up</i>,<i> feels down the wall in a familiar way for the +bellows - blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently</i>. +<i>Then she draws forward a chair and sits down before it.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. [<i>Muttering to herself.</i>] ’Tis my own +hearth when ’tis all said and done.<br> +<br> +[<i>She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself</i>,<i> looking +sharply at </i>VASHTI REED <i>now and then.<br> +<br> +</i>[<i>Presently </i>VASHTI’S <i>eyes open</i>,<i> resting</i>,<i> +at first unseeingly</i>,<i> and then with recognition</i>,<i> on </i>MAY’S +<i>face.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as +you would.<br> +<br> +MAY. How did you know ’twas me, then?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Cause I knowed. There ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming +of myself by this here fire.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don’t +see nothing of it, then.<br> +<br> +MAY. Ah, I be got into an ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve +- Steve, he looked in the face of I and didn’t so much as think +who ’twas. “Get off to the drunken sleep of you and +to your dreams.” ’Twas that what he did say to I.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Your old mother do know better nor Steve. Ah, ’tweren’t +in no shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face +of you, but stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the +water what layed on the roads, and on the dry where there be high places, +and in the grass of the meadows. That’s how ’twas +as I did see you, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. And I would like to know how ’twas as Steve saw I.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, and there was they as did buzz around as thick as +waspes in summer time and as said, “She be under ground and rotting +now - that her be.” And they seed in I but a poor old woman +what was sleeping in the chimney corner, with no hearing to I. +“Rotting yourself,” I says, and I rears up sudden, “She +be there as a great tree and all the leaves of it full out - and you +- snakes in the grass, snakes in the grass, all of you! There +’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Mockingly.</i>] “It’s a good thought, +bain’t it, Annie, that to-morrow this time there won’t be +no need for us to part?” And in the days when I was a young +woman and all the bloom of I upon me, ’twouldn’t have been +once as he’d have looked on such as her.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. And ’tis full of bloom and rare fine and handsome +as you appear now, May, leastways to my old eyes. And when you +goes up to Steve and shows yourself, I take it the door’ll be +shut in the face of the mealy one what they’ve all been so took +up with this long while. I count that ’twill and no mistake. +So ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Fiercely.</i>] Hark you here, Mother, and ’tis +to be wed to-morrow as they be! Wed - the both of them, the both +of them! And me in my flesh, and wife to Steve! “Can +I cover you up with a bit of old sack or summat?” Old sack! +When there be a coverlet with feathers to it stretched over where he +do lie upstairs. “I’ll let you out when ’tis +morning.” Ah, you will, will you, Steve Browning? +Us’ll see how ’twill be when ’tis morning - Us’ll +see, just won’t us then!<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, ’tis in her place as th’ old woman will +be set come morning - And that her’ll be - I count as ’tis +long enough as her have mistressed it over the house. [<i>Shaking +her fist towards the ceiling.</i>] You old she fox, you may gather +the pads of you in under of you now, and crouch you down t’other +side of the fire like any other old woman of your years - for my May’s +comed back, and her’ll show you your place what you’ve not +known where ’twas in all the days of your old wicked life. +So ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. Her han’t changed a hair of her, th’ old stoat! +Soon as I heard the note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though ’twas +chattering in the cold as I had been but a moment afore. “One +of they dirty roadsters - I’ll learn you to come disturbing of +a wedding party, I will.” [<i>Shaking her fist towards the +ceiling.</i>] No, you bain’t changed, you hardened old sinner +- but the words out of the cruel old mouth of you don’t hurt I +any more - not they. I be passed out of the power of such as you. +I knowed I’d have to face you when I comed back, but I knowed, +too, as I should brush you out of the way of me, like I would brush +one of they old maid flies.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, and so I telled she many a time. “You +bide till my May be comed home,” I says. “She be already +put safe to bed and ’tis in the churchyard where her do take her +rest,” says she. Ah, what a great liar that is, th’ +old woman what’s Steve’s mother! And the lies they +do grow right out of she tall as rushes, and the wind do blow they to +the left and to the right. So ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. Ah, she han’t any more power for to hurt I in the ugly +old body of her. I be got beyond she. There be but one or +two things as can touch I now - But one or two. And I be struck +to the heart, I be, struck to the heart.<br> +<br> +[<i>She bends forwards</i>,<i> rocking herself to and fro and weeping.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. [<i>As though speaking to herself.</i>] Back and +fro, back and fro - On the dark of the earth and where ’twas light. +When ’twas cold and no sound but the steps of I on the road, and +the fox’s bark; when ’twas hot and the white dust smouldered +in the mouth of I, and things flying did plague I with the wings of +they - But ’twas always the same thought as I had - “Some +day I shall come back to Steve,” I did tell me. And then +again - “Some day I shall get and hold Dorry in my arms.” +And now I be comed. And Steve - and Steve - Ah, I be struck deep +to the heart, ’tis so. Struck deep!<br> +<br> +VASHTI. You get upstairs to Steve, May. Get you up there +and take the place what’s yours.<br> +<br> +MAY. My place, my place! Where’s that I want to know! +’Tis another what’s got into the nest now, to lie snug and +warm within. And ’tis for I to spread the wings of me and +to go out into the storm again. So ’tis.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Get you to Steve, May, and let him but look on the form +of you and on the bloom, and us’ll see what he will do with t’other +hussy then. Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got fattened +up and licked over by th’ old woman till ’tis queens as +they fancies theirselves, you shall tell they summat about what they +be, come morning. And your poor old mother, her’ll speak, +too, what hasn’t been let sound her tongue these years gone by. +Ah, hern shall know what us do think of they, hern shall squat upon +the floor and hear the truth.<br> +<br> +MAY. He thought as I was sleeping; but I looked out on her and +seed the way his eyes was cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had +cast your eyes on me like that but once, in days gone by - maybe, maybe +I’d not have gone out and shut the door behind I.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Get you to Steve and let him see you with the candle lit. +Her bain’t no match for he, the young weasel! ’Tis +you as has the blood of me and my people what was grand folk in times +gone by, ’tis you, May, as is the mate for he, above all them +white-jowled things what has honey at the mouth of they, but the heart +running over with poison - Ah, and what throws you the bone and keeps +the meat for their own bellies. What sets the skin afore you and +laps the cream theirselves. Vipers, all of them, and she-cats. +There ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. Sit you down, Mother, and keep the tongue of you quiet. +We don’t want for to waken they.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Sitting down heavily.</i>] But we’ve got +to waken Steve for he to know as how you be comed home again.<br> +<br> +MAY. And where’s the good of that, when there bain’t +so much as a board nor a rag, but what’s been stole from I?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. You go and say to him as ’tis his wife what have +come back to her place. And put th’ old woman against the +chimney there, and let her see you a-cutting of the bread and of the +meat, and a-setting out of the food so as that they who be at the table +can loose the garments of them when the eating ’tis finished, +if they has a mind to, ’stead of drawing they together so not +to feel ’tis leer. Ah, ’tis time you be comed, May, +’tis time.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Bitterly.</i>] I’m thinking ’tis time!<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Tis the lies of they be growed big as wheat stalks +and the hardness of their hearts be worse nor death. But ’tis +to judgment as they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the +hand of God shall catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the +earth. “Ah, and do you mind how ’twas you served old +Vashti, what never did harm to no one all the life of her,” I +shall call out to th’ old woman in that hour when her shall be +burning in the lake. And her shall beg for a drop of water to +lay upon the withered tongue of she, and it shall be denied, for other +hands nor ours be at work, and ’tis the wicked as shall perish +- yes, so ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Who has been bending forward</i>,<i> looking steadily +into the fire.</i>] Stop that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Be you a-going to set on I, too, May, now that you be +comed home. ’Tis poor work for an old woman like I.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>As though to herself.</i>] And as I was laid beneath +the hedge - “’Tis cold as my limbs is, now,” I says, +“but I shall be warm this night.” And the pangs what +was in the body of me did fairly quail I - “’Tis my fill +of victuals as I shall soon put within,” thinks I. And they +was laid a bit. The bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but “I +shan’t feel lonesome no longer than this hour,” I telled +me. For to my thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till +I should be comed back. And Dorry, too. There ’tis. +[<i>A long silence.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. I’d have been content to bide with the door shut +- so long as it was shut with they two and me inside the room - th’ +old woman - well, I count I shouldn’t have took many thought for +she - she could have bided in her place if she’d had a mind - +I’d have set me down, when once my clothes was decent and clean, +and put my hands to the work and made a tidy wife for Steve, as good +nor better than that there dressed-up thing out yonder - And bred Dorry +up the right way, too, I would. But ’tis done with now, +so ’tis.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>As though to herself.</i>] And when ’tis +morning and she gets her down - “There, ’tis my girl as +is mistress here, I’ll say to her - and ’tis my girl as +shall sit cup end of the table - and you get you to the fire corner +and bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, spite that you do +slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you.”<br> +<br> +MAY. And I could set she back in her place, too, that tricked-up, +flashy thing over the way. I’ve but to climb the stairs +and clap my hand on Steve - “Get you from your dreams,” +I have got but to say, “the woman what’s yourn be comed +home. Her have tasted the cup of death, very near, and her have +been a-thirst and an hungered. But her has carried summat for +you in her heart all the way what you wouldn’t find in the heart +of t’other, no, not if you was to cut it open and search it through.” +And the right belongs to I to shut the door on t’other hussey, +holding Steve to I till death divides we.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as +I did pass by. “And may the light from out the thunder cloud +fall upon you,” I says to them, “for ’tis a poor old +woman as I be what has lost her child; and what’s that to you +if so be as the shoes on her feet be broken or no? ’Tis +naked as the toes of you shall go, that hour when the days of this world +shall be rolled by. Ah, ’tis naked and set on the lake of +burning fire as the hoofs of you shall run!”<br> +<br> +MAY. I could up and screech so that the house should ring with +the sound of me, “I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these +many years. What’s this that you’ve got doing with +another?” I could take hold on him and make him look into +the eyes of I, yes, and th’ old woman, too. “See here, +your ‘dirty roadster,’ look well on to her.” +“Why, ’tis May.” But the eyes of him would then +be cast so that I should see no more than a house what has dead within, +and the blind pulled down. And I, what was thinking as there might +be a light in the window!<br> +<br> +VASHTI. “And you may holler,” I says to them, “you +may holler till you be heard over the face of all the earth, but no +one won’t take no account of you.” And the lies of +them which have turned into ropes of hempen shall come up and strangle +they. But me and my child shall pass by all fatted up and clothed, +and with the last flick, afore the eyelids of they drop, they shall +behold we, and, a-clapping of the teeth of them shall they repent them +of their sins. Too late, too late! There ’tis.<br> +<br> +MAY. Too late! There ’tis, I be comed home too late.<br> +<br> +[<i>She rises and takes up her shawl</i>,<i> wrapping it about her shoulders</i>,<i> +and muttering.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. But I know a dark place full of water - ’Tis Simon’s +pool they calls it - And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder +and be in quiet.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Be you a-going up to Steve now?<br> +<br> +MAY. No, I bain’t. ’Tis out from here that I +be going. And back on to the road.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. May, my pretty May, you’re never going for to leave +I, what’s such a poor old woman and wronged cruel. You step +aloft and rouse up Steve. He’ll never have you go upon the +roads again once he do know as you’ve comed back.<br> +<br> +MAY. Steve! What’s it to Steve whether the like of +I do go or bide? What be there in I for to quell the love of she +which Steve’s got in him? Dead leaves for new. Ditch +water for the clear spring.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Give him to drink of it, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Looking upwards to the ceiling.</i>] No, Steve. +Hark you here. I bain’t a-going to do it. I bain’t +going to knock over the spoonful of sweet what you be carrying to your +mouth. You take and eat of it in quiet and get you filled with +the honey. ’Tain’t my way to snatch from no one so +that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed. There, ’tis +finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done. And, don’t +you fear, Steve, as ever I’ll trouble you no more.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Rising.</i>] I be a-going to fetch him down, +and that’s what I’m a-going for to do.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Pushing her back into her chair.</i>] Harken you, +Steve, he’s never got to know as I’ve been here.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. I tell you, May, I’ll screech till he do come!<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Sitting down by </i>VASHTI <i>and laying her hand on +her.</i>] I’ll put summat in your mouth as’ll stop +you if you start screeching, mother. Why, hark you here. +’Tis enough of this old place as I’ve had this night, and +’tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th’ old woman +- there’s naught much changed in she - And Steve - well, Steve +be wonderful hard in the soul of him. “Can I get you an +old sack,” says he - and never so much as seed ’twas I - +Ah - ’tis more than enough to turn the stomach in anyone - that +it is. [<i>A slight pause.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside +for long. The four walls of this here room have very near done +for me now, so they have. And ’tis the air blowing free +upon the road as I craves - Ah, and the wind which hollers, so that +the cries of we be less nor they of lambs new born.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. God bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door ’tis +the mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed.<br> +<br> +MAY. So ’tis. And if I stopped ’twould be the +same, her’d be between us always, the pretty cage bird - For look +you here on I, Mother, and here - [<i>pointing to her feet</i>] - and +here - and here - See what’s been done to I what’s knocked +about in the world along the roads, and then think if I be such a one +as might hold the love of Steve.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Beginning to whine desolately.</i>] O, do not +you go for to leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if +you was dead all the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the +wicked around of I as might be the venomous beasts in the grass. +Stop with I, my pretty child - Stop along of your old mother, for the +days of I be few and numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land.<br> +<br> +MAY. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another +time. I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th’ old +woman won’t never know as I’ve been nigh. And if you +keeps your mouth shut, maybe I’ll drop in at our own place on +the hill one of these days and bide comfortable along of you, only now +- I’m off, do you hear?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. I can’t abide for you to go. ’Tis more +nor I can stand. Why, if you goes, May, ’tis t’other +wench and th’ old woman what’ll get mistressing it here +again in your place. [<i>Rising up.</i>] No - you shan’t +go. I’ll holler till I’ve waked them every one - you +shan’t! My only child, my pretty May! Ah, ’tis +not likely as you shall slip off again. ’Tis not.<br> +<br> +MAY. Look you here, Mother - bide still, I say. [<i>Looking +round the room distractedly.</i>] See here - ’tis rare dry +as I be. You bide quiet and us’ll have a drink together, +that us will. Look, th’ old woman’s forgot to put +away the bottle, us’ll wet our mouths nice and quiet, mother - +she won’t hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See!<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>gets up and crosses the room</i>;<i> she takes the bottle off +the shelf where she has just perceived it</i>,<i> and also two glasses</i>; +<i>she fills one and hands it to her mother.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. [<i>Stretching out her hand.</i>] ’Tis +rare dry and parched as I be, now I comes to think on it, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. That’s right - drink your fill, Mother.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here +again, May.<br> +<br> +MAY. Ah, ’tis my own drink and all, come to that.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. So ’tis. And the tea what she gived me was +but ditch water. I seed her spoon it in the pot, and ’twas +not above a half spoon as her did put in for I, th’ old badger. +My eye was on she, though, and her’ll have it cast up at she when +the last day shall come and the trumpet sound and all flesh stand quailing, +and me and mine looking on at her as is brought to judgment. How +will it be then, you old sinner, says I.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Re-filling the glass.</i>] Take and drink this +little drop more, mother.<br> +<br> +[VASHTI <i>drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half closed +eyes.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. [<i>Putting away the bottle and glasses.</i>] Her’ll +sleep very like, now. And when her wakes, I take it ’twill +appear as though she’d been and dreamt summat.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. +I would not have you be on the roads.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Sitting down beside her.</i>] O, the roads be fine +on nights when the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls +into the mouth of you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. +And you goes quick on through it till you comes to where the lights +do blink, and ’tis a large town and there be folk moving this +way and that and the music playing, and great fowls and horses what’s +got clocks to the inside of they, a-stirring them up for to run, and +girls and men a-riding on them - And the booths with red sugar and white, +all lit and animals that’s wild a-roaring and a-biting in the +tents - And girls what’s dancing, standing there in satin gowns +all over gold and silver - And you walks to and fro in it all and ’tis +good to be there and free - And ’tis better to be in such places +and to come and to go where you have a mind than to be cooped in here, +with th’ old woman and all - ’Tis a fine life as you lives +on the roads - and ’tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, +Mother.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Who has gradually been falling into sleep.</i>] +I count ’tis so. ’Tis prime in the freshening of the +day. I count I’ll go along of you, come morning.<br> +<br> +MAY. That’s it, Mother, that’s it. Us’ll +take a bit of sleep afore we sets off, won’t us? And when +morning comes, us’ll open the door and go out.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. That’s it, when ’tis day.<br> +<br> +[<i>Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep.<br> +<br> +</i>[MAY <i>watches her for some moments</i>. <i>Then she gets +up softly and wraps her shawl round her</i>. <i>The window shews +signs of a gray light outside</i>,<i> </i>MAY <i>goes quietly towards +the outer door</i>. <i>As she reaches it</i>,<i> </i>DORRY <i>comes +into the room from the staircase.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. [<i>Going up to </i>VASHTI.] Granny, ’tis +the New Year! I’m come down to see to the fire and to get +breakfast for Dad and Gran’ma. Why, Granny, you’re +sleeping still. And where’s that poor tramp gone off to? +[<i>She looks round the room and then sees </i>MAY <i>by the door.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road +afore ’tis got light?<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>In a hoarse whisper.</i>] And that I be. +’Tis very nigh to daybreak, so ’tis.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Stop a moment. [<i>Calling up the stairs.</i>] +Daddy, the tramp woman, she’s moving off already.<br> +<br> +STEVE. [<i>From upstairs.</i>] Then give her a bit of bread +to take along of she. I don’t care that anyone should go +an-hungered this day.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Turning to </i>MAY.] There - you bide a minute +whilst I cuts the loaf. My Dad’s going to get married this +day, and he don’t care that anyone should go hungry.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>comes slowly back into the room and stands watching </i>DORRY, +<i>who fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table</i>. +<i>Then she pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. The snow’s very nigh gone, and ’tis like +as not as the sun may come out presently. Here’s a piece +of bread to take along of you. There, it’s a good big piece, +take and eat it.<br> +<br> +[MAY <i>hesitates an instant</i>,<i> then she stretches out her hand +and takes the bread and puts it beneath her shawl.<br> +<br> +</i>MAY. And so there’s going to be a wedding here to-day?<br> +<br> +DORRY. ’Tis my Dad as is to be married.<br> +<br> +MAY. ’Tis poor work, is twice marrying.<br> +<br> +DORRY. My Dad’s ever so pleased, I han’t seen him +so pleased as I can remember. I han’t.<br> +<br> +MAY. Then maybe the second choosing be the best.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Yes, ’tis - Gran’ma says as ’tis - and +Dad, he be ever so fond of Miss Sims - and I be, too.<br> +<br> +MAY. Then you’ve no call to wish as her who’s gone +should come back to you, like?<br> +<br> +DORRY. What’s that you’re saying?<br> +<br> +MAY. You don’t never want as your mammy what you’ve +lost should be amongst you as afore?<br> +<br> +DORRY. I never knowed my mammy. Gran’ma says she had +got summat bad in her blood. And Granny’s got the same. +But Miss Sims, she’s ever so nice to Dad and me, and I’m +real pleased as she’s coming to stop along of us always after +that they’re married, like.<br> +<br> +MAY. And th’ old woman what’s your gran’ma, +Dorry?<br> +<br> +DORRY. However did you know as I was called “Dorry”?<br> +<br> +MAY. I heard them call you so last night.<br> +<br> +DORRY. And whatever do you want to know about Gran’ma?<br> +<br> +MAY. What have her got to say ’bout the - the - wench what’s +going to marry your dad?<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, Gran’ma, she thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, +and she says as how poor Dad, what’s been served so bad, will +find out soon what ’tis to have a real decent wife, what’ll +help with the work and all, and what won’t lower him by her ways, +nor nothing.<br> +<br> +MAY. Look you here - ’tis growing day. I must be getting +off and on to the road.<br> +<br> +DORRY. [<i>Moving to the door.</i>] I’ll unbolt the +door, then. O, ’tis fine and daylight now.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Turning back at the doorway and looking at the room.</i>] +I suppose you wouldn’t like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry?<br> +<br> +DORRY. No, I shouldn’t. Gran’ma, she don’t +let me go nigh road people as a rule. She’s a-feared as +I should take summat from them, I suppose.<br> +<br> +MAY. [<i>Hoarsely</i>,<i> her hand on the door.</i>] Then +just say as you wishes me well, Dorry.<br> +<br> +DORRY. I’ll wish you a good New Year, then, and Gran’ma +said as I was to watch as you cleared off the place. [MAY <i>goes +out softly and quickly</i>. DORRY <i>watches her until she is +out of sight</i>,<i> and then she shuts the door.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT III. - Scene 1.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>The same room</i>. <i>It is nearly mid-day</i>,<i> and the +room is full of sunshine</i>. JANE BROWNING, <i>in her best dress</i>,<i> +is fastening </i>DORRY’S <i>frock</i>,<i> close to the window.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. Dad’s been a rare long time a-cleaning of his +self up, Gran.<br> +<br> +JANE. Will you bide still! However’s this frock to +get fastened and you moving this way and that like some live eel - and +just see what a mark you’ve made on the elbow last night, putting +your arm down somewhere where you didn’t ought to - I might just +as well have never washed the thing.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Granny’s sound asleep still - she’ll have to +be waked time we goes along to the church.<br> +<br> +JANE. That her shan’t be. Her shall just bide and +sleep the drink out of her, her shall. Do you think as I didn’t +find out who ’twas what had got at the bottle as Dad left on the +dresser last night.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Poor Gran, she do take a drop now and then.<br> +<br> +JANE. Shame on th’ old gipsy. Her shall be left to +bide till she have slept off some of the nonsense which is in her.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Granny do say a lot of funny things sometimes, don’t +she, now?<br> +<br> +JANE. You get and put on your hat and button your gloves, and +let the old gipsy be. We can send her off home when ’tis +afternoon, and us back from church. Now, where did I lay that +bonnet? Here ’tis.<br> +<br> +[<i>She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall</i>. +STEVE <i>comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves</i>,<i> carrying his +coat.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat.<br> +<br> +STEVE. And when’s a man to look pleased if ’tis not +on his wedding morn, Dorry?<br> +<br> +DORRY. The tramp what was here did say as how ’twas poor +work twice marrying, but you don’t find it be so, Dad, do you +now?<br> +<br> +STEVE. And that I don’t, my little wench. ’Tis +as nigh heaven as I be like to touch - and that’s how ’tis +with me.<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Taking </i>STEVE’S <i>coat from him.</i>] +Ah, ’tis a different set out altogether this time. That +’tis. ’Tis a-marrying into your own rank, like, and +no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran?<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Beginning to brush </i>STEVE’S <i>coat.</i>] +Ah, much in the same pattern as th’ old woman what’s drunk +asleep against the fireside. Here, button up them gloves, ’tis +time we was off.<br> +<br> +DORRY. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. +When I grows up I’d like to look as she do, so I would.<br> +<br> +STEVE. [<i>To </i>JANE.] There, Mother, that’ll do. +I’d best put him on now.<br> +<br> +JANE. [<i>Holding out the coat for him.</i>] Well, and you +be got yourself up rare smart, Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. ’Tis rare smart as I be feeling, Mother. I’m +all a kind of a dazzle within of me, same as ’tis with the sun +upon the snow out yonder.<br> +<br> +JANE. Why, look you, there’s George a-coming up the path +already.<br> +<br> +DORRY. He’s wearing of the flower what Rosie gived him last +night.<br> +<br> +STEVE. [<i>Opening the door.</i>] Good morning, George. +A first class New Year to you. You’re welcome, if ever a +man was.<br> +<br> +JANE. You bide where you do stand, George, till your feet is dry. +My floor was fresh wiped over this morning.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Standing on the door mat.</i>] All right, Mrs. +Browning. Don’t you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. +How be you to-day, Steve?<br> +<br> +JANE. Dorry, come you upstairs along with me and get your coat +put on, so as your frock bain’t crushed.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, I wish I could go so that my nice frock was seen and +no coat.<br> +<br> +[<i>They go upstairs</i>. GEORGE <i>rubs his feet on the mat and +comes into the room</i>,<i> walking up and down once or twice restlessly +and in evident distress of mind.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. [<i>Who has lit a pipe and is smoking.</i>] Why, +George, be you out of sorts this morning? You don’t look +up to much, and that’s the truth.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Stopping before </i>STEVE.] Hark you, Steve. +’Tis on my mind to ask summat of you. Did you have much +speech with the poor thing what you took in from the snow last night?<br> +<br> +STEVE. No, George, and that I didn’t. Her was mostly +in a kind of drunken sleep all the time, and naught to be got out from +she. Mother, her tried. But ’twas like trying to get +water from the pump yonder, when ’tis froze.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Your mother’s a poor one at melting ice, Steve, +and ’tis what we all knows.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Ah, ’twasn’t much as we could do for the likes +of she - what was a regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of them. +And if it hadn’t been so as ’twas my wedding eve, this one +shouldn’t have set foot inside of the house. But ’tis +a season when a man’s took a bit soft and foolish, like, the night +afore his marriage. Bain’t that so, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. And when was it, Steve, as she went off from here?<br> +<br> +STEVE. That I couldn’t rightly say, George, but I counts +’twas just upon daybreak. And ’twas Dorry what seed +her off the place and gived her a piece of bread to take along of her.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. And do you think as she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve?<br> +<br> +STEVE. I’m blest if I do know, George. I never gived +another thought to she. What’s up?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. They was getting the body of her from out of Simon’s +Pool as I did come by. That’s all.<br> +<br> +STEVE. From Simon’s Pool, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I count her must have went across the plank afore ’twas +fairly daylight. And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and +her - her - as you did say.<br> +<br> +STEVE. In liquor.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I reckon as her missed her footing, like.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, upon my word, George, who’d have thought on +such a thing!<br> +<br> +GEORGE. I count as her had been in the water and below the ice +a smartish while afore they catched sight of she.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, ’tis a cold finish to a hot life.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. They took and laid her on the grass, Steve, as I comed +by.<br> +<br> +STEVE. If it had been me, I’d have turned the head of me +t’other side.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. There was summat in the fashion her was laid, Steve, as +drawed I near for to get a sight of the face of she.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Well, I shouldn’t have much cared for that, George.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Steve - did you get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing +last night?<br> +<br> +STEVE. No, nor wanted for to, neither.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. There was naught to make you think of -<br> +<br> +STEVE. Of what, George?<br> +<br> +GEORGE. There - Steve, I can’t get it out, I can’t.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Then let it bide in.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Twas the way her was laid, and the long arms of +she, and the hands which was clapped one on t’other, as it might +be in church.<br> +<br> +STEVE. [<i>Looking through the window.</i>] You shut up, +George. Here’s Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. +Don’t you get saying another word about yon poor wretch nor the +end of her. I wouldn’t have my Annie upset for all the world +to-day. ’Tis a thing as must not be spoke of afore they, +nor Dorry neither, do you hear?<br> +<br> +[<i>He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the latch.<br> +<br> +</i>GEORGE. Hold back, Steve, a minute. There’s summat +more as I’ve got to say.<br> +<br> +STEVE. You take and shut your mouth up, old George, afore I opens +the door to the girls.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. ’Tis bound for to come from me afore you goes along +to church, Steve.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I warrant ’twill keep till us do come home again, +George.<br> +<br> +[<i>He throws the door wide open with a joyous movement</i>. ANNIE +<i>and </i>ROSE <i>in white dresses stand outside.<br> +<br> +</i>STEVE. Well, Annie, this is a rare surprise, and that’s +the truth. [ANNIE <i>and </i>ROSE <i>come into the room.<br> +<br> +</i>ROSE. Father, he’s outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, +and all the rest. We said as ’twould be pleasanter if we +was all to go up together along to the church.<br> +<br> +STEVE. So ’twould be - so ’twould be - ’Twas +a grand thought of yourn, Rosie.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. Steve -<br> +<br> +STEVE. [<i>Taking her hand.</i>] Annie, I’m fair beside +myself this day.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. O, Steve, there was never a day in my life like this one. +[DORRY <i>and </i>JANE <i>come down.<br> +<br> +</i>DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice! Gran’ma, +don’t Miss Sims look nice? And Rosie, too. O, they +have nice gowns and hats on, haven’t they, Dad?<br> +<br> +STEVE. I don’t see no gowns nor hats, and that’s the +truth. But I sees summat what’s like - what’s like +a meadow of grass in springtime afore the sun’s got on to it.<br> +<br> +DORRY. Why, Dad, ’tis white, not green, as Miss Sims is +wearing.<br> +<br> +STEVE. ’Tis in the eyes of her as I finds my meadow.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, let me see, Dad, let me look, too!<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Going up to </i>GEORGE, <i>who has been standing aloof +and moody in the background.</i>] Come, Mr. Davis, we must have +a look, too.<br> +<br> +JANE. ’Get along, get along. We han’t time for +such foolishness. It be close on twelve already.<br> +<br> +ANNIE. O, let me be, all of you! I declare, I don’t +know which way to look, I don’t.<br> +<br> +STEVE. I’ll show you, Annie, then.<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>To </i>GEORGE.] Well, Mr. Davis, you don’t +seem over bright this morning.<br> +<br> +STEVE. ’Tis with the nerves as he be took!<br> +<br> +DORRY. Look at what he’s wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie.<br> +<br> +ROSE. ’Tis kept beautiful and fresh.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Come on, come on, all of you. ’Tis time we +was at the church.<br> +<br> +ROSE. Hark to him! He’s in a rare hurry for to get +out of the house to-day.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. Bain’t the old lady a-coming?<br> +<br> +JANE. That she bain’t, the old drinking gipsy - ’tis +at the spirits as her got in the night - and put away very near the +best part of a bottle. Now she’s best left to sleep it off, +she be.<br> +<br> +STEVE. Come on, George. Come, Dorry.<br> +<br> +DORRY. O, isn’t it a pity as Granny will get at the drink, +Mr. Davis? And isn’t Miss Sims nice in her white dress? +And don’t Dad look smiling and pleased? I never did know +Dad smile like this afore.<br> +<br> +GEORGE. [<i>Heavily.</i>] Come on, Dorry - you take hold +of me. You and me, we’ll keep nigh one to t’other +this day, won’t us?<br> +<br> +ROSE. [<i>Calling from outside.</i>] Come on, Mr. Davis.<br> +<br> +[<i>They all go out.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>ACT III. - Scene 2.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Nearly an hour later</i>. <i>The cottage room is full of sunlight.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI REED <i>is awake and gazing vacantly about her from the same +chair by the fire</i>. <i>Someone knocks repeatedly at the door +from outside.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. And ’tis no bit of rest as I gets for my bones, +but they must come and hustle I and call I from the dreams which was +soft. [<i>The knocking is heard again.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. And I up and says to they, “Ah, and you would +hustle a poor old woman what’s never harmed so much as a hair +out of the ugly heads of you. You would hunt and drive of her +till she be very nigh done to death. But there shall come a day +when you shall be laid down and a-taking of your bit of rest, and the +thing what you knows of shall get up upon you and smite you till you +do go screeching from the house, and fleeing to the uttermost part of +the land - whilst me and mine -<br> +<br> +[<i>The door opens and </i>HARRY MOSS <i>enters.<br> +<br> +</i>HARRY. Beg pardon, old Missis, but I couldn’t make no +one hear me.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Seeing as them be sick of the abomination which was inside +of they. [<i>Perceiving </i>HARRY.] Well, and what be you +as is comed into this room?<br> +<br> +HARRY. ’Tis Moss as I be called, old Missis. And as +I was a-going by this place, I thought as I’d look in a moment, +just for to ask how ’twas with May.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. They be all gone out from the house. All of them. +They be in clothes what do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps +of white among they. Them be set out in the best as they has, +and in grand things of many colours. There ’tis.<br> +<br> +HARRY. And be you th’ old lady what’s Steve’s +mother?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. I be not, sir. ’Tis mother to May as I be. +May, what’s comed back, and what’ll set t’other old +vixen in her place soon as they get home.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Then May, she be gone out, too, have her?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Looking round vaguely.</i>] Ah, I counts as +her be gone to church along of t’other.<br> +<br> +HARRY. To church, Missis?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. There’s marrying being done down here to-day.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Marrying, be there? Well, but I was ’most feared +as how it might have been t’other thing.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, that there be - marrying. But there bain’t +no more victuals got into the house as I knows of. Th’ old +woman’s seen to that.<br> +<br> +HARRY. And be May gone out, too, along of them to see the marrying?<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, I counts as her be. But her’s a-coming +back in a little while, and you may sit down and bide till she does.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I’d sooner be about and on my way, Missis, if ’tis +all the same to you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get +and tell May when she do come home, that ’tis particular glad +I be for to know as her bain’t took worse, nor nothing. +And should I happen in these parts again, ’tis very likely as +I’ll take a look in on she some day.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Ah, her’ll have got t’other old baggage set +in the right place by then.<br> +<br> +HARRY. [<i>Looking round him.</i>] Well, I be rare pleased +to think of May so comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible +low.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. T’other’ll be broughted lower.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Look you here, old Missis, ’tis a stomach full of +naught as I carries. If so be as you has a crust to spare -<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Pointing to a door.</i>] There be a plate of +meat inside of that cupboard. You take and fill your belly with +it.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Thank you kindly, Missis, but I counts I han’t the +time for heavy feeding this morning.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. ’Twould serve she right, th’ old sinner, for +the place to be licked up clean, against the time when her was come’d +back, so ’twould.<br> +<br> +HARRY. Well, Missis, you can tell May ’tis a brave New Year +as I do wish she.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. [<i>Listening to bells which are heard suddenly ringing.</i>] +There, there they be! Harken to them! ’Tis with bells +as they be coming out. Bells what’s ringing. I count +’tis fine as May do look now in her marriage gown. Harken, +’tis the bells a-shaking of the window pane. I be an old +woman, but the hearing of me bain’t spoiled.<br> +<br> +HARRY. I warrant it bain’t, Missis. Why, they’re +ringing wonderful smart. ’Tis enough, upon my word, for +to fetch down every stone of the old place.<br> +<br> +VASHTI. Get you out upon the garden path and tell I if you sees +them a-coming.<br> +<br> +HARRY. That’s it, old Missis, and so I will.<br> +<br> +[<i>He goes outside the house.<br> +<br> +</i>VASHTI. [<i>Sitting upright and looking with fixed vacancy +before her.</i>] And when they was all laid low and the heads +of them bowed. “You would, would you,” I says, for +they was lifting the ends of their ugly mouths at I. And I passed +among they and them did quail and crouch, being with fear. And +me and mine did reach the place what was on the top. “See +now yourselves,” I says, “if so be that you do not go in +blindness and in dark.” ’Twas May what stood there +aside of I. And “Look you,” I says, “over the +bended necks of you my child shall pass. For you be done to death +by the lies which growed within you and waxed till the bodies of you +was fed with them and the poison did gush out from your lips.” +But my little child stood in the light, and the hands of her was about +the stars.<br> +<br> +HARRY. [<i>Coming in.</i>] Look, they be all a-coming over +the meadow, old Missis. But May han’t comed with they - +May han’t come too.<br> +<br> +[<i>The wedding party enters the room as the curtain falls.</i>]<br> +<br> +<br> +Footnotes:<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> “<i>As +I walked Out</i>.” <i>From Folk Songs from Essex collected +by R. Vaughan Williams. The whole</i>,<i> or two verses can be +sung.<br> +<br> +</i><a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2">{2}</a> “The +Seeds of Love,” “Folk Songs from Somerset,” edited +by Cecil J. Sharp and Charles L. 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