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+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.
+
+
+
+
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