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diff --git a/5618-0.txt b/5618-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16f9036 --- /dev/null +++ b/5618-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12691 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Six Plays, by Florence Henrietta Darwin, +Edited by Cecil Sharp + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Six Plays + + +Author: Florence Henrietta Darwin + +Editor: Cecil Sharp + +Release Date: December 18, 2014 [eBook #5618] +[This file was first posted on July 23, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX PLAYS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1921 W. Heffer & Sons edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Florence Henrietta Darwin] + + + + + + SIX PLAYS + By FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + and an Introduction by CECIL SHARP + + + Memoir and Portrait of the Author + + * * * * * + +W. HEFFER & SONS LTD., +CAMBRIDGE, 1921. + + SIX PLAYS + + BY + FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + The Plays may be had in paper covers at + 1s. 6d. net as under + +1. LOVERS’ TASKS + +2. BUSHES & BRIARS + +3. MY MAN JOHN + +4. PRINCESS ROYAL } + +5. THE SEEDS OF LOVE } In one volume + +6. THE NEW YEAR + W. HEFFER & SONS LTD. + CAMBRIDGE + +INTRODUCTION + + +I HAVE been asked to write a few lines of introduction to these volumes +of Country Plays, and I do so, not because I can claim any right to speak +with authority on the subject of drama, but in order that I may associate +myself and express my sympathy with the endeavour which the author has +made to restore to his rightful estate the English peasant with whom my +work for twenty years or more has brought me into close relations. + +There have been few serious attempts to depict English country life on +the stage. Nor, for that matter, can it be said that the English peasant +has fared over well in our literature. Nevertheless, the English +countryman has qualities all his own, no less distinctive nor less +engaging than those of his Irish, Scottish, Russian, or Continental +neighbours, even though his especial characteristics have hitherto been +for the most part either ignored or grossly travestied by the playwright. +Now in these plays, as it seems to me, he has at last come into his own +kingdom and is painted, perhaps for the first time on the stage, in his +true colours, neither caricatured on the one hand, nor, on the other, +sentimentalised, but faithfully portrayed by a peculiarly sympathetic and +skilful hand. + +It is well, too, that an authentic record should be preserved of the life +that has been lived in our country villages year in year out for +centuries before its last vestiges—and they are all that now remain—have +been completely submerged in the oncoming tide of modern civilisation and +progress. Moreover, the songs and dances of the English peasantry that +have become widely known in the last few years have awakened a general +interest and curiosity in all that concerns the lives and habits of +country people and there are many who will be glad to know what manner of +men and women were they who created things of so rare and delicate a +beauty. + +These plays are very simple plays. With one exception, “The New Year,” +they rest for their effects upon dialogue rather than upon dramatic +action or plot. There is nothing harrowing, problematical, or +pathological about any of them. The stories are as simple, obvious and +naïve, and have the same happy endings as those which the folk delight to +sing about in their own songs, and from which, indeed, judging by the +titles she has given to her plays, the author drew her inspiration. + +It will be noticed that Lady Darwin has eliminated dialect from the +speech which she has put into the mouths of her characters. This is not +because the English villager has no vernacular of his own—there are as +many dialects in England as there are counties—but because dialect, as no +doubt Lady Darwin knew full well, is not of the essence of speech. It is +the way in which language is used for the purpose of expression, the +order in which words are strung together, the subtle, elusive turns of +speech, the character of its figures and metaphors, rather than local +peculiarities of intonation and pronunciation, which betray and illumine +character. And it is upon these, the essential characteristics of +speech, that the author of these plays has wisely and, for the most part, +wholly, relied to give life and character to the actors of her dramas. +The results she has achieved by these means is nothing less than amazing. +So accurately has she caught the peculiar inflections, the inversions, +the curious meanderings and involutions of peasant speech, so +penetrating—uncanny at times—is her insight into the structure and +working of the peasant mind, that, did one not know that this was +scarcely the fact, one would have been tempted to suspect that the author +had herself been born and bred in a country village and lived all her +days amongst those whose characters and habits of mind she has described +with such fidelity. + +Take, for instance, the lesson on courtship which My Man John gives to +his master—is not the actual phrasing almost photographic in its +accuracy? Note, too, the frequent use of homely metaphor:— + + ’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the fowls when they be come out from + moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in their new + feathers. + + I warrant she be gone shy as a May bettel when ’tis daylight. + + Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ old mare when + her first comes up from grass. + + I likes doing things my own way, mother. Womenfolk, they be so + buzzing. ’Tis like a lot of insects around of any one on a summer’s + day. A-saying this way and that—whilst a man do go at everything + quiet and calm-like. + +and the following typical sentences:— + + Well, mother, I count I’m back a smartish bit sooner nor what you did + expect. + + There was a cow—well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows as I’ve seen in my + time, but this one, why, the king haven’t got the match to she in all + his great palace, and that’s the truth, so ’tis. + + I bain’t one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got a + poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did carry + a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of + them clean forgot. + +The task of selection has not been an easy one. “The New Year” is the +only Country play on large and ambitious lines which Lady Darwin left +behind her, and it is on this account, as well as for its own merits, +which I venture to think are very considerable, that it has been +included. “Princess Royal” was written for a special occasion, and is +frankly more conventional and artificial than the others, but it will +nevertheless appeal to folk-dancers, and for that reason, rather than +perhaps for its intrinsic value, room has been found for it. The +remaining four are, in their several ways, typical of the author’s work, +and I for one have little doubt but that they will make a wide appeal, +more especially perhaps to those simple-minded people (of whom I am +persuaded there are many, even in these latter-days) who are able to +appreciate the unpretentious beauty of an art that is well-nigh artless +in its simplicity. Some of them may be too slight in design, too +delicate in texture, their beauty too elusive, to succeed on the +professional stage; I do not know. But there is a large demand for plays +of a non-professional character; and that Lady Darwin’s will be acted +with pleasure and listened to with delight in hut or hall or +country-house of a winter’s evening, I cannot doubt. + + CECIL SHARP. + + + + +FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + + +FLORENCE HENRIETTA FISHER was born at 3, Onslow Square, London, in the +year 1864; but to those of a younger generation it seemed that nearly the +whole of her youth had been spent in the New Forest, so largely did it +figure in her stories of the past. It was at Whitley Ridge, +Brockenhurst, that her earliest plays were written, and many marvellous +characters created; their names still live. It was there that she became +a very good violin player, as well as a musician in a wider sense. It +was in Brockenhurst Church that, in 1886, she married Frederic William +Maitland, later Downing professor of the laws of England. + +Mr. and Mrs. Maitland lived in Cambridge; for the first two years at +Brookside, and afterwards in the West Lodge of Downing College. + +Along with her love of music there had begun, and there continued a love +of animals, and, from Moses, a dog of Brockenhurst days, there stretched +down a long procession of dogs, cats, monkeys, foxes, moles, merecats, +mongeese, bush cats and marmosets, accompanied by a variety of birds. If +such a thing as a dumb animal has ever existed it certainly was not one +of hers, for, besides what they were able to say for themselves, they +spoke much through her. Not only were they able to recount all that had +happened to them in past home or jungle, they were perfectly able to give +advice in every situation and to join in every discussion. Neither were +their pens less ready than their tongues, and many were the letters of +flamboyant script and misspelt word that came forth from cage or basket. + +Frederic William Maitland possessed a small property at Brookthorpe, +Gloucestershire; and near this property, in a house in the village of +Edge and at the top of the Horsepools hill, he and his wife and their two +children spent most of their holidays. They were happy days. Animals +increased in number and rejoiced in freedom, fairs were attended, dancing +bears and bird carts came at intervals to the door, gipsies were +delighted in and protected, and it was there that many friendships with +country people were made. Several days a week would find Mrs. Maitland +driving down to Brookthorpe in donkey or pony cart to see tenants, to +enquire for or feed the sick, to visit the school, to advise and be +advised in the many difficulties of human life. With a wonderful memory +and power of reproducing that which she had heard, she brought back rare +harvest from these expeditions. All through her days she was told more +in a week than many people hear in a life-time. + +After much illness, Professor Maitland was told that he must leave +England, and in 1898 the Maitlands set sail to the island of Grand +Canary; and it was there that they spent each winter, with the exception +of one in Madeira, until Professor Maitland’s death in 1906. The beauty +and warmth of the island were a joy to Mrs. Maitland, washing out all the +difficulties of housekeeping and the labour of cooking. The day of +hardest work still left her time to set forth, accompanied by a faithful +one-legged hen, to seek the shade of chestnut or loquat tree, and there +to write. The song of frogs rising from watery palm grove, the hot dusty +scent of pepper tree, the cool scent of orange, the mountains sharp and +black against the evening sky, the brightly coloured houses crowded to +the brink of still brighter sea, were all things she loved, and their +images remained with her always. She became an expert talker of what she +called kitchen Spanish, and her store of country history increased +greatly, for, from Candelaria, the washer-woman to Don Luis the grocer, +she met no one who was not ready to tell her all the marvels that ever +they knew. + +In 1906 Frederic William Maitland landed on the island too ill to reach +the house that Mrs. Maitland had gone out earlier to prepare for him. He +was taken to an hotel in the city of Las Palmas, and there, on December +the 19th, he died. + +In the spring of 1907 Mrs. Maitland returned to England. + +In 1909 she added on to a small farm house at Brookthorpe, and there she +went to live. She was thus able to renew many friendships, and in some +slight degree take up the life that had been so dear to her. It was +during these last eleven years at Brookthorpe that she wrote all her +plays dealing with country people; the first for a class of village +children to whom she taught singing, the later ones in response to a +growing demand not only from other Gloucestershire villages, but from +village clubs and institutes scattered over a large part of England. She +saw several of her plays acted by the Oakridge and the Sapperton players, +and these performances and letters from other performers gave her great +pleasure. + +In 1913 she married Sir Francis Darwin. Their life at Brookthorpe was +varied by months spent at his house in Cambridge. It was there that she +died on March 5th, 1920. + +During her last years she had much illness to contend with. Unable to +play her violin, she turned to the spinet. She practised for hours, +wrote plays, and attended to her house when many would have lain in their +beds. + +Her religion became of increasingly great comfort and interest to her, +and it was in that light that she came, more and more, to look at all +things. + +In the minds of many who knew her in those years rose up the words: I +have fought a good fight. + + E. M. + + + + +THE LOVERS’ TASKS + + +CHARACTERS + + +FARMER DANIEL, + +ELIZABETH, _his wife_. + +MILLIE, _her daughter_. + +ANNET, _his niece_. + +MAY, _Annet’s sister_, _aged ten_. + +GILES, _their brother_. + +ANDREW, _a rich young farmer_. + +GEORGE _and_ JOHN, _servants to Giles_. + +AN OLD MAN. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + + _The parlour at Camel Farm_. + + _Time_: _An afternoon in May_. + +ELIZABETH _is sewing by the table with_ ANNET. _At the open doorway_ MAY +_is polishing a bright mug_. + +ELIZABETH. [_Looking up_.] There’s Uncle, back from the Fair. + +MAY. [_Looking out of the door_.] O Uncle’s got some rare big packets +in his arms, he has. + +ELIZABETH. Put down that mug afore you damage it, May; and, Annet, do +you go and help your uncle in. + +MAY. [_Setting down the mug_.] O let me go along of her too—[ANNET +_rises and goes to the door followed by_ MAY, _who has dropped her +polishing leather upon the ground_. + +ELIZABETH. [_Picking it up and speaking to herself in exasperation_.] +If ever there was a careless little wench, ’tis she. I never did hold +with the bringing up of other folks children and if I’d had my way, ’tis +to the poor-house they’d have went, instead of coming here where I’ve +enough to do with my own. + +[_The_ FARMER _comes in followed by_ ANNET _and_ MAY _carrying large +parcels_. + +DANIEL. Well Mother, I count I’m back a smartish bit sooner nor what you +did expect. + +ELIZABETH. I’m not one that can be taken by surprise, Dan. May, lay +that parcel on the table at once, and put away your uncle’s hat and +overcoat. + +DAN. Nay, the overcoat’s too heavy for the little maid—I’ll hang it up +myself. + +[_He takes off his coat and goes out into the passage to hang it up_. +_May runs after him with his hat_. + +ANNET. I do want to know what’s in all those great packets, Aunt. + +ELIZABETH. I daresay you’ll be told all in good season. Here, take up +and get on with that sewing, I dislike to see young people idling away +their time. + +[_The_ FARMER _and_ MAY _come back_. + +MAY. And now, untie the packets quickly, uncle. + +DANIEL. [_Sinking into a big chair_.] Not so fast, my little maid, not +so fast—’tis a powerful long distance as I have journeyed this day, and +’tis wonderful warm for the time of year. + +ELIZABETH. I don’t hold with drinking nor with taking bites atween +meals, but as your uncle has come a good distance, and the day is warm, +you make take the key of the pantry, Annet, and draw a glass of cider for +him. + +[_She takes the key from her pocket and hands it to_ ANNET, _who goes +out_. + +DANIEL. That’s it, Mother—that’s it. And when I’ve wetted my mouth a +bit I’ll be able the better to tell you all about how ’twas over there. + +MAY. O I’d dearly like to go to a Fair, I would. You always said that +you’d take me the next time you went, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Ah and so I did, but when I comed to think it over, Fairs baint +the place for little maids, I says to mother here—and no, that they +baint, she answers back. But we’ll see how ’tis when you be growed a bit +older, like. Us’ll see how ’twill be then, won’t us Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn’t encourage the child in her nonsense, if I was you, +Dan. She’s old enough to know better than to ask to be taken to such +places. Why in all my days I never set my foot within a fair, pleasure +or business, nor wanted to, either. + +MAY. And never rode on the pretty wood horses, Aunt, all spotted and +with scarlet bridles to them? + +ELIZABETH. Certainly not. I wonder at your asking such a question, May. +But you do say some very unsuitable things for a little child of your +age. + +MAY. And did you get astride of the pretty horses at the Fair, Uncle? + +DANIEL. Nay, nay,—they horses be set in the pleasure part of the Fair, +and where I goes ’tis all for doing business like. + +[ANNET _comes back with the glass of cider_. DANIEL _takes it from her_. + +DANIEL. [_Drinking_.] You might as well have brought the jug, my girl. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, ’twill spoil your next meal as it is. + +[_The girls sit down at the table_, _taking up their work_. + +DANIEL. [_Putting down his glass_.] But, bless my soul, yon was a Fair +in a hundred. That her was. + +BOTH GIRLS. O do tell us of all that you did see there, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a cow—well, ’tis a smartish lot of cows as I’ve seen +in my time, but this one, why, the King haven’t got the match to she in +all his great palace, and that’s the truth, so ’tis. + +ANNET. O don ’t tell us about the cows, Uncle, we want to know about all +the other things. + +MAY. The shows of acting folk, and the wild animals, and the nice +sweets. + +ELIZABETH. They don’t want to hear about anything sensible, Dan. +They’re like all the maids now, with their thoughts set on pleasuring and +foolishness. + +DANIEL. Ah, the maids was different in our day, wasn’t they Mother? + +ELIZABETH. And that they were. Why, when I was your age, Annet, I +should have been ashamed if I couldn’t have held my own in any proper or +suitable conversation. + +DANIEL. Ah, you was a rare sensible maid in your day, Mother. Do you +mind when you comed along of me to Kingham sale? “You’re never going to +buy an animal with all that white to it,” Dan, you says to me. + +ELIZABETH. Ah—I recollect. + +DANIEL. “’Tis true her has a whitish leg,” I says, “but so have I, and +so have you, Mother—and who’s to think the worse on we for that?” Ah, I +could always bring you round to look at things quiet and reasonable in +those days—that I could. + +ELIZABETH. And a good thing if there were others of the same pattern +now, I’m thinking. + +DANIEL. So ’twould be—so ’twould be. But times do bring changes in the +forms of the cattle and I count ’tis the same with the womenfolk. ’Tis +one thing this year and ’tis t’other in the next. + +MAY. Do tell us more of what you did see at the Fair, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a ram. My word! but the four feet of he did cover a +good two yards of ground; just as it might be, standing. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father. + +DANIEL. And the horns upon the head of he did reach out very nigh as far +as might do the sails of one of they old wind-mills. + +MAY. O Uncle, and how was it with the wool of him? + +DANIEL. The wool, my wench, did stand a good three foot from all around +of the animal. You might have set a hen with her eggs on top of it—and +that you might. And now I comes to recollect how ’twas, you could have +set a hen one side of the wool and a turkey t’other. + +MAY. O Uncle, that must have been a beautiful animal! And what was the +tail of it? + +DANIEL. The tail, my little maid? Why ’twas longer nor my arm and as +thick again—’twould have served as a bell rope to the great bell yonder +in Gloucester church—and so ’twould. Ah, ’twas sommat like a tail, I +reckon, yon. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father, such talk is hardly suited to little girls, who +should know better than to ask so many teasing questions. + +ANNET. ’Tisn’t only May, Aunt, I do love to hear what uncle tells, when +he has been out for a day or two. + +ELIZABETH. And did you have company on the way home, Father? + +DANIEL. That I did. ’Twas along of young Andrew as I did come back. + +ELIZABETH. Along of Andrew? Girls, you may now go outside into the +garden for a while. Yes, put aside your work. + +MAY. Can’t we stop till the packets are opened? + +ELIZABETH. You heard what I said? Go off into the garden, and stop +there till I send for you. And take uncle’s glass and wash it at the +spout as you go. + +ANNET. [_Taking the glass_.] I’ll wash it, Aunt. Come May, you see +aunt doesn’t want us any longer. + +MAY. Now they’re going to talk secrets together. O I should dearly love +to hear the secrets of grown-up people. [ANNET _and_ MAY _go out +together_. + +DANIEL. Annet be got a fine big wench, upon my word. Now haven’t her, +Mother? + +ELIZABETH. She’s got old enough to be put to service, and if I’d have +had my way, ’tis to service she’d have gone this long time since, and +that it is. + +DANIEL. ’Twould be poor work putting one of dead sister’s wenches out to +service, so long as us have a roof over the heads of we and plenty to eat +on the table. + +ELIZABETH. Well, you must please yourself about it Father, as you do +most times. But ’tis uncertain work taking up with other folks children +as I told you from the first. See what a lot of trouble you and me have +had along of Giles. + +DANIEL. Giles be safe enough in them foreign parts where I did send him. +You’ve no need to trouble your head about he, Mother—unless ’tis a letter +as he may have got sending to Mill. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, Giles has never sent a letter since the day he +left home. But very often there is no need for letters to keep +remembrance green. ’Tis a plant what thrives best on a soil that is +bare. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother, and what be you a-driving at? I warrant as Mill +have got over them notions as she did have once. And, look you here, +’twas with young Andrew as I did journey back from the Fair. And he be +a-coming up presently for to get his answer. + +ELIZABETH. All I say is that I hope he may get it then. + +DANIEL. Ah, I reckon as ’tis rare put about as he have been all this +long while, and never a downright “yes” to what he do ask. + +[MAY _comes softly in and hides behind the door_. + +ELIZABETH. Well, that’s not my fault, Father. + +DANIEL. But her’ll have to change her note this day, that her’ll have. +For I’ve spoke for she, and ’tis for next month as I’ve pitched the +wedding day. + +ELIZABETH. And you may pitch, Father. You may lead the mare down to the +pond, but she’ll not drink if she hasn’t the mind to. You know what +Millie is. ’Tisn’t from my side that she gets it either. + +DANIEL. And ’tain’t from me. I be all for easy going and each one to +his self like. + +ELIZABETH. Yes, there you are, Father. + +DANIEL. But I reckon as the little maid will hearken to what I says. +Her was always a wonderful good little maid to her dad. And her did +always know, that when her dad did set his foot down, well, there ’twas. +’Twas down. + +ELIZABETH. Well, if you think you can shew her that, Father, ’tis a +fortunate job on all sides. + +[_They suddenly see_ MAY _who has been quiet behind the door_. + +ELIZABETH. May, what are you a-doing here I should like to know? Didn’t +I send you out into the garden along of your sister? + +MAY. Yes, Auntie, but I’ve comed back. + +ELIZABETH. Then you can be off again, and shut the door this time, do +your hear? + +DANIEL. That’s it, my little maid. Run along—and look you, May, just +you tell Cousin Millie as we wants her in here straight away. And who +knows bye and bye whether there won’t be sommat in yon great parcel for a +good little wench. + +MAY. O Uncle—I’d like to see it now. + +DANIEL. Nay, nay—this is not a suitable time—Aunt and me has business +what’s got to be settled like. Nay—’tis later on as the packets is to be +opened. + +ELIZABETH. Get along off, you tiresome child.—One word might do for +some, but it takes twenty to get you to move.—Run along now, do you hear +me? + +[MAY _goes_. + +Well, Father, I’ve done my share with Millie and she don’t take a bit of +notice of what I say. So now it’s your turn. + +DANIEL. Ah, I count ’tis more man’s work, this here, so ’tis. There be +things which belongs to females and there be others which do not. You +get and leave it all to me. I’ll bring it off. + +ELIZABETH. All right, Father, just you try your way—I’ll have nothing +more to do with it. [MILLIE _comes in_.] + +MILLIE. Why, Father, you’re back early from the Fair. + +DANIEL. That’s so, my wench. See that package over yonder? + +MILLIE. O, that I do, Father. + +DANIEL. Yon great one’s for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. O Father, what’s inside it? + +DANIEL. ’Tis a new, smart bonnet, my wench. + +MILLIE. For me, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah—who else should it be for, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Father, you are good to me. + +DANIEL. And a silk cloak as well. + +MILLIE. A silken cloak, and a bonnet—O Father, ’tis too much for you to +give me all at once, like. + +DANIEL. Young Andrew did help me with the choice, and ’tis all to be +worn on this day month, my girl. + +MILLIE. Why, Father, what’s to happen then? + +DANIEL. ’Tis for you to go along to church in, Mill. + +MILLIE. To church, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah, that ’tis—you in the cloak and bonnet, and upon the arm of +young Andrew, my wench. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. But ’tis “yes” as you have got to learn, my wench. And quickly +too. For ’tis this very evening as Andrew be coming for his answer. And +’tis to be “yes” this time. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. You’ve an hour before you, my wench, in which to get another +word to your tongue. + +MILLIE. I can’t learn any word that isn’t “no,” Father. + +DANIEL. Look at me, my wench. My foot be down. I means what I says— + +MILLIE. And I mean what I say, too, Father. And I say, No! + +DANIEL. Millie, I’ve set down my foot. + +MILLIE. And so have I, Father. + +DANIEL. And ’tis “yes” as you must say to young Andrew when he do come +a-courting of you this night. + +MILLIE. That I’ll never say, Father. I don’t want cloaks nor bonnets, +nor my heart moved by gifts, or tears brought to my eyes by fair words. +I’ll not wed unless I can give my love along with my hand. And ’tis not +to Andrew I can give that, as you know. + +DANIEL. And to whom should a maid give her heart if ’twasn’t to Andrew? +A finer lad never trod in a pair of shoes. I’ll be blest if I do know +what the wenches be a-coming to. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father, I told you what to expect. + +DANIEL. But ’tis master as I’ll be, hark you, Mother, hark you, Mill. +And ’tis “Yes” as you have got to fit your tongue out with my girl, afore +’tis dark. [_Rising_.] I be a’going off to the yard, but, Mother, +her’ll know what to say to you, her will. + +MILLIE. Dad, do you stop and shew me the inside of my packet. Let us +put Andrew aside and be happy—do! + +DANIEL. Ah, I’ve got other things as is waiting to be done nor breaking +in a tricksome filly to run atween the shafts. ’Tis fitter work for +females, and so ’tis. + +ELIZABETH. And so I told you, Father, from the start. + +MILLIE. And ’tis “No” that I shall say. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT I.—Scene 2. + + + _It is dusk on the same evening_. + +MILLIE _is standing by the table folding up the silken cloak_. ANNET +_sits watching her_, _on her knees lies a open parcel disclosing a +woollen shawl_. _In a far corner of the room_ MAY _is seated on a stool +making a daisy chain_. + +ANNET. ’Twas very good of Uncle to bring me this nice shawl, Millie. + +MILLIE. You should have had a cloak like mine, Annet, by rights. + +ANNET. I’m not going to get married, Millie. + +MILLIE. [_Sitting down with a sudden movement of despondence and +stretching her arms across the table_.] O don’t you speak to me of that, +Annet. ’Tis more than I can bear to-night. + +ANNET. But, Millie, he’s coming for your answer now. You musn’t let him +find you looking so. + +MILLIE. My face shall look as my heart feels. And that is all sorrow, +Annet. + +ANNET. Can’t you bring yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie? + +MILLIE. No, that I cannot, Annet, I’ve tried a score of times, I +have—but there it is—I cannot. + +ANNET. Is it that you’ve not forgotten Giles, then? + +MILLIE. I never shall forget him, Annet. Why, ’tis a five year this day +since father sent him off to foreign parts, and never a moment of all +that time has my heart not remembered him. + +ANNET. I feared ’twas so with you, Millie. + +MILLIE. O I’ve laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted the pillow +all over so that I’ve had to turn it t’other side up. + +ANNET. And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor nothing? + +MILLIE. Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, Annet. +But, O, he’s none the worse for that. + +ANNET. Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was it when +you and he did part, one with t’other? + +MILLIE. I did give him my ring, Annet—secret like—when we were walking +in the wood. + +ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it? + +MILLIE. Yes, grandmother’s ring, that she left me. And I did say to +him—if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, Giles—look +you at these white stones. + +ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie. + +MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to him, +the stones shall darken. But you’ll never see that day. [_She begins to +cry_. + +ANNET. Don’t you give way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis very likely that +Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,—well, Andrew +he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And ’tis Andrew you have got to +wed, you know. + +MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew—I’m sick at the very name of him. + +ANNET. See the fine house you’ll live in. Think on the grand parlour +that you’ll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you and naught +but Sunday clothes on your back. + +MILLIE. I’d sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me. + +ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. And Uncle +says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good and all. + +MILLIE. O I cannot see him—I’m wearied to death of Andrew, and that’s +the very truth it is. + +ANNET. O Millie—I wonder how ’twould feel to be you for half-an-hour and +to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to say Yes. + +MILLIE. O I wish ’twas you and not me that he was after, Annet. + +ANNET. ’Tisn’t likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever come +courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I’d dearly love to know how +’twould feel. + +[MILLIE _raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in +silence_, _then her face brightens_. + +MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet. + +ANNET. Shall what, Mill? + +MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here—’Tis sick to death I am with +courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and if I’m to wed Andrew come +next month, I’ll not be tormented with him before that time,—so ’tis you +that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll slip out +to the woods and gather flowers. + +ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill. + +MILLIE. In the dusk he’ll never know that ’tisn’t me. Being cousins, we +speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us there’s not much +that’s amiss. + +ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill—why, ’tis a grand young lady that +you look—whilst I— + +MILLIE. [_Taking up the silken cloak_.] Here—put this over your gown, +Annet. + +ANNET. [_Standing up_.] I don’t mind just trying it on, like. + +MILLIE. [_Fastening it_.] There—and now the bonnet, with the veil +pulled over the face. + +[_She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on_ ANNET. + +MILLIE. [_Standing back and surveying her cousin_.] There, Annet, there +May, who is to tell which of us ’tis? + +MAY. [_Coming forward_.] O I should never know that ’twasn’t you, +Cousin Mill. + +MILLIE. And I could well mistake her for myself too, so listen, Annet. +’Tis you that shall talk with Master Andrew when he comes to-night. And +’tis you that shall give him my answer. I’ll not burn my lips by +speaking the word he asks of me. + +ANNET. O Mill—I cannot—no I cannot. + +MILLIE. Don’t let him have it very easily, Annet. Set him a ditch or +two to jump before he gets there. And let the thorns prick him a bit +before he gathers the flower. You know my way with him. + +MAY. And I know it too, Millie—Why, your tongue, ’tis very near as sharp +as when Aunt do speak. + +ANNET. O Millie, take off these things—I cannot do it, that’s the truth. + +MAY. [_Looking out through the door_.] There’s Andrew a-coming over the +mill yard. + +MILLIE. Here, sit down, Annet, with the back of you to the light. + +[_She pushes_ ANNET _into a chair beneath the window_. + +MAY. Can I get into the cupboard and listen to it, Cousin Mill? + +MILLIE. If you promise to bide quiet and to say naught of it afterwards. + +MAY. O I promise, I promise—I’ll just leave a crack of the door open for +to hear well. + +[MAY _gets into the cupboard_. MILLIE _takes up_ ANNET’S _new shawl and +puts it all over her_. + +MILLIE. No one will think that ’tisn’t you, in the dusk. + +ANNET. O Millie, what is it that you’ve got me to do? + +MILLIE. Never you mind, Annet—you shall see what ’tis to have a grand +suitor and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, where I can +think on Giles. + +[_She runs out of the door just as_ ANDREW _comes up_. ANDREW _knocks +and then enters the open door_. + +ANDREW. Where’s Annet off to in such a hurry? + +ANNET. [_Very faintly_.] I’m sure I don’t know. [ANDREW _lays aside +his hat and comes up to the window_. _He stands before_ ANNET _looking +down on her_. _She becomes restless under his gaze_, _and at last signs +to him to sit down_. + +ANDREW. [_Sitting down on a chair a little way from her_.] The Master +said that I might come along to-night, Millie—Otherwise—[ANNET _is still +silent_. + +Otherwise I shouldn’t have dared do so. + +[ANNET _sits nervously twisting the ribbons of her cloak_. + +The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, might be +changed like. [ANNET _is still silent_. + +And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely ’twould be something +different as you might say. + +[_A long silence_. + +Was I wrong in coming, Millie? + +ANNET. [_Faintly_.] ’Twould have been better had you stayed away like. + +ANDREW. Then there isn’t any change in your feelings towards me, Millie? + +ANNET. O, there’s a sort of a change, Andrew. + +ANDREW. [_Slowly_.] O Mill, that’s good hearing. What sort of a change +is it then? + +ANNET. ’Tis very hard to say, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Look you, Mill, ’tis more than a five year that I’ve been +a-courting of you faithful. + +ANNET. [_Sighing_.] Indeed it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And I’ve never got naught but blows for my pains. + +ANNET. [_Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply_.] O +I’m so sorry—No—I mean—’Tis your own fault, Andrew. + +ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words from +another, Millie. + +ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to—I mean, ’tis as well that +you should get used to blows, seeing we’re to be wed, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Then ’tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news—Why, I do +scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming. + +ANNET. [_Very sadly_.] Very likely you’ll be glad enough to be dreaming +a month from now, poor Andrew. + +ANDREW. [_Drawing nearer_.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to +me so kind and gentle, and I’ll ask you to name the day. + +ANNET. [_Shrinking back_.] O ’twill be a very long distance from now, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart and +play with it same as a cat does with the mouse. + +ANNET. [_Becoming gay and hard in her manner_.] Your heart, Andrew? +’Twill go all the better afterwards if ’tis tossed about a bit first. + +ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you’ll wed +me. + +ANNET. [_Warding him off with her hand_.] You shall have my answer in a +new song Andrew, which I have been learning. + +[ANDREW _sits down despondently and prepares to listen_. + +ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over in your mind. +[_She begins to sing_: + + Say can you plough me an acre of land + Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme. + Between the sea and the salt sea strand + And you shall be a true lover of mine? + +[_A slight pause_. ANNET _looks questioningly at_ ANDREW, _who turns +away with a heavy sigh_. + +ANNET. [_Singing_.] + + Yes, if you plough it with one ram’s horn + Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme + And sow it all over with one peppercorn + And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. ’Tis all foolishness. + +ANNET. [_Singing_.] + + Say can you reap with a sickle of leather + Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme + And tie it all up with a Tom-tit’s feather + And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. [_Rises up impatiently_.] I can stand no more. You’ve danced +upon my heart till ’tis fairly brittle, and ready to be broke by a +feather. + +ANNET. [_Very gently_.] O Andrew, I’ll mend your heart one day. + +ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already. + +ANNET. [_In a harder voice_.] But very likely there’ll be a crack left +to it always. + +[FARMER DANIEL _and_ ELIZABETH _come into the room_. + +DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie? + +ANDREW. [_Boldly_.] ’Tis for a month from now. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that? + +ELIZABETH. I’m not deaf, Father. + +DANIEL. [_Shaking_ ANDREW’S _hand_.] Ah my boy, I knowed as you’d bring +the little maid to the senses of she. + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself as +though for church. + +DANIEL. ’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the fowls when they be come out +from moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in their new +feathers. + +ELIZABETH. Well, ’tis to be hoped the young people have fixed it up for +good and all this time. + +DANIEL. Come Mill, my wench, you be wonderful quiet. Where’s your +tongue? + +ELIZABETH. I think we’ve all had quite enough of Millie’s tongue, +Father. Let her give it a rest if she’ve a mind. + +DANIEL. I warrant she be gone as shy as a May bettel when ’tis daylight. +But us’ll take it as she have fixed it up in her own mind like. Come, +Mother, such a time as this, you won’t take no objection to the drawing +of a jug of cider. + +ELIZABETH. And supper just about to be served? I’m surprised at you, +Father. No, I can’t hear of cider being drawn so needless like. + +DANIEL. Well, well,—have it your own way—but I always says, and my +father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine drink, and +that’s how ’twas in my time. + +ELIZABETH. Millie, do you call your cousins in to supper. + +DANIEL. Ah, and where be the maids gone off to this time of night, +Mother? + +ANDREW. Annet did pass me as I came through the yard, Master + +[MAY, _quietly opens the cupboard door and comes out_. + +ELIZABETH. So that’s where you’ve been, you deceitful little wench. + +ANDREW. Well, to think of that, Millie. + +ELIZABETH. And how long may you have bid there, I should like to know? + +DANIEL. Come, come, my little maid, ’tis early days for you to be +getting a lesson in courtship. + +MAY. O there wasn’t any courtship, Uncle, and I didn’t hear nothing at +all to speak of. + +ELIZABETH. There, run along quick and find your sister. Supper’s late +already, and that it is. + +ANNET. I’ll go with her. + +[_She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the door_. + +ELIZABETH. Stop a moment, Millie. What are you thinking of to go +trailing out in the dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. Take and +lay them in the box at once, do you hear? + +DANIEL. That’s it, Mill. ’Twouldn’t do for to mess them up afore the +day. ’Twas a fair price as I gived for they, and that I can tell you, my +girl. + +[ANNET _stops irresolutely_. MAY _seizes her hand_. + +MAY. Come off, come off, “Cousin Millie”; ’tis not damp outside, and O +I’m afeared to cross the rickyard by myself. + +[_She pulls_ ANNET _violently by the hand and draws her out of the door_. + +ELIZABETH. Off with the cloak this minute, Millie. + +MAY. [_Calling back_.] She’s a-taking of it off, Aunt, she is. + +ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the maid. She don’t act like +herself to-day. + +DANIEL. Ah, that be asking too much of a maid, to act like herself, and +the wedding day close ahead of she. + +ELIZABETH. I’d be content with a suitable behaviour, Father. I’m not +hard to please. + +DANIEL. Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ old mare +when her first comes up from grass. + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well for you to talk, Father but ’tis I who +have got to do. + +DANIEL. Come Mother, come Andrew, I be sharp set. And ’tis the feel of +victuals and no words as I wants in my mouth. + +ELIZABETH. Well, Father, I’m not detaining you. There’s the door, and +the food has been cooling on the table this great while. + +DANIEL. Come you, Andrew, come you, Mother. Us’ll make a bit of a +marriage feast this night. + +[_He leads the way and the others follow him out_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_A woodland path_. GILES _comes forward with his two servants_, GEORGE +_and_ JOHN, _who are carrying heavy packets_. + +GILES. ’Tis powerful warm to-day. We will take a bit of rest before we +go further. + +GEORGE. [_Setting down his packet_.] That’s it, master. ’Tis a rare +weight as I’ve been carrying across my back since dawn. + +JOHN. [_Also setting down his burden_.] Ah, I be pleased for to lay +aside yon. ’Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying to and fro with +gold and silver. + +GILES. Our travelling is very nigh finished. There lies the road which +goes to Camel Farm. + +GEORGE. Oh, I count as that must be a rare sort of a place, master. + +JOHN. Seeing as us haven’t stopped scarce an hour since us landed off +the sea. + +GEORGE. But have come running all the while same as the fox may run in +th’ early morning towards the poultry yard. + +JOHN. Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th’ insides +of we. + +GILES. ’Tis very little further that you have got to journey, my good +lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring. + +GEORGE. And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master? + +GILES. ’Tis the place out of all the world to me. + +JOHN. I count ’tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we be +come from brave foreign parts, master. + +GILES. ’Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie beneath +the sun, my lads. + +GEORGE. That’s good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be as +fine as the place? + +GILES. O, you’ll fare well enough yonder. + +JOHN. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that was +over there neither. + +GILES. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the grandest +roof that ever sheltered a man’s head. And you shall sit at a table +spread as you’ve not seen this many a year. + +GEORGE. That’ll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our +legs again. + +JOHN. I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that’s the truth. + +[_The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees_. +_GILES walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at any +delay_. _From time to time he glances at a ring which he wears_, +_sighing heavily as he does so_. + +[_An old man comes up_, _leaning on his staff_. + +OLD MAN. Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen. + +GILES. Good-morning, master. + +OLD MAN. ’Tis a wonderful warm sun to-day. + +GILES. You’re right there, master. + +OLD MAN. I warrant as you be journeying towards the same place where I +be going, my lord. + +GILES. And where is that, old master? + +OLD MAN. Towards Camel Farm. + +GILES. You’re right. ’Tis there and nowhere else that we are going. + +OLD MAN. Ah, us’ll have to go smartish if us is to be there in time. + +GILES. In time for what, my good man? + +OLD MAN. In time for to see the marrying, my lord. + +GILES. The marrying? What’s that you’re telling me? + +OLD MAN. ’Tis at noon this day that she’s to be wed. + +GILES. Who are you speaking of, old man? + +OLD MAN. And where is your lordship journeying this day if ’tis not to +the marrying? + +GILES. Who’s getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly? + +OLD MAN. ’Tis th’ old farmer’s daughter what’s to wed come noon-tide. + +GILES. [_Starting_.] Millie! O that is heavy news. [_Looking at his +hand_.] Then ’tis as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the +brightness has all gone from out of the seven stones. That’s how ’twould +be, she told me once. + +[_He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind_. + +GEORGE. Us’ll see no Camel Farm this day. + +JOHN. And th’ inside of I be crying out for victuals. + +OLD MAN. Then you be not of these parts, masters? + +GEORGE. No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master. + +JOHN. Ah, ’tis a fine gentleman, master. But powerful misfortunate in +things of the heart. + +GEORGE. Ah, he’d best have stopped where he was. Camel Farm baint no +place for the like of he to go courting at. + +JOHN. Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold and marble +with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that you might. + +GEORGE. All painted glass. And each chair with golden legs to him, and +a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of after a +night’s drinking, old man. [GILES _comes slowly towards them_. + +GILES. And who is she to wed, old man? + +OLD MAN. Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, my +lord? + +GILES. Yes. With whom does she go to church to-day? + +OLD MAN. ’Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go. What lives up +Cranham way. + +GILES. Ah, th’ old farmer was always wonderful set on him. [_A pause_. + +OLD MAN. I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, master, +and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water there, and the +shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me at night time. + +GILES. What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that the heart +of you be whole and unbroken? + +OLD MAN. Us poor old wretches don’t carry no hearts to th’ insides of +we. The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and from the +winter’s cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind do moan over +the fields, and when the fox do bark. + +GILES. What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter set +against the cruel torment of a disappointed love? + +OLD MAN. I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got +a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did carry a +heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of them +clean forgot. + +GILES. Then what do you up yonder at the marrying this morning? + +OLD MAN. Oh, I do take me to those places where there be burying or +marriage, for the hearts of folk at these seasons be warmed and kinder, +like. And ’tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food be thrown out to the +poor old dog what waits patient at the door. + +GILES. [_Looks intently at him for a moment_.] See here, old master. I +would fain strike a bargain with you. And ’tis with a handful of golden +pieces that I will pay your service. + +OLD MAN. Anything to oblige you, my young lord. + +GILES. [_To_ GEORGE.] Take out a handful from the bag of gold. And +you, John, give him some of the silver. + +[GEORGE _and_ JOHN _untie their bags and take out gold and silver_. +_They twist it up in a handkerchief which they give to the old man_.] + +OLD MAN. May all the blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, for ’tis +plain to see that you be one of the greatest and finest gentlemen ever +born to the land. + +GILES. My good friend, you’re wrong there, I was a poor country lad, but +I had the greatest treasure that a man could hold on this earth. ’Twas +the love of my cousin Millie. And being poor, I was put from out the +home, and sent to seek my fortune in parts beyond the sea. + +OLD MAN. Now, who’d have thought ’twas so, for the looks of you be +gentle born all over. + +GILES. “Come back with a bushel of gold in one hand and one of silver in +t’other” the old farmer said to me, “and then maybe I’ll let you wed my +daughter.” + +OLD MAN. And here you be comed back, and there lie the gold and the +silver bags. + +GILES. And yonder is Millie given in marriage to another. + +GEORGE. ’Taint done yet, master. + +JOHN. ’Tisn’t too late, by a long way, master. + +GILES. [_To_ OLD MAN.] And so I would crave something of you, old +friend. Lend me your smock, and your big hat and your staff. In that +disguise I will go to the farm and look upon my poor false love once +more. If I find that her heart is already given to another, I shall not +make myself known to her. But if she still holds to her love for me, +then— + +GEORGE. Go in the fine clothes what you have upon you, master. And even +should the maid’s heart, be given to another, the sight of so grand a +cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again. + +JOHN. Ah, that’s so, it is. You go as you be clothed now, master. I +know what maids be, and ’tis finery and good coats which do work more on +the hearts of they nor anything else in the wide world. + +GILES. No, no, my lads. I will return as I did go from yonder. Poor, +and in mean clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth speak one word +for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite of everything, my +sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from her. + +OLD MAN. [_Taking off his hat_.] Here you are master. + +[GILES _hands his own hat to_ GEORGE. _He then takes off his coat and +gives it to_ JOHN. _The_ OLD MAN _takes off his smock_, _GILES puts it +on_. + +OLD MAN. Pull the hat well down about the face of you, master, so as the +smooth skin of you be hid. + +GILES. [_Turning round in his disguise_.] How’s that, my friends? + +GEORGE. You be a sight too straight in the back, master. + +GILES. [_Stooping_.] I’ll soon better that. + +JOHN. Be you a-going in them fine buckled shoes, master? + +GILES. I had forgot the shoes. When I get near to the house ’tis +barefoot that I will go. + +GEORGE. Then let us be off, master, for the’ time be running short. + +JOHN. Ah, that ’tis. I count it be close on noon-day now by the look of +the sun. + +OLD MAN. And heaven be with you, my young gentleman. + +GILES. My good friends, you shall go with me a little further. And when +we have come close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter of a wood +that I know of and await the signal I shall give you. + +GEORGE. And what’ll that be, master? + +GILES. I shall blow three times, and loudly from my whistle, here. + +JOHN. And be we to come up to the farm when we hears you? + +GILES. As quickly as you can run. ’Twill be the sign that I need all of +you with me. + +GEORGE _and_ JOHN. That’s it, master. Us do understand what ’tis as we +have got to do. + +OLD MAR. Ah, ’tis best to be finished with hearts that beat to the tune +of a maid’s tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads with naught but +them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th’ inside. So ’tis. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_The parlour at Camel Farm_. ELIZABETH, _in her best dress_, _is moving +about the room putting chairs in their places and arranging ornaments on +the dresser_, _etc._ MAY _stands at the door with a large bunch of +flowers in her hands_. + +ELIZABETH. And what do you want to run about in the garden for when I’ve +just smoothed your hair and got you all ready to go to church? + +MAY. I’ve only been helping Annet gather some flowers to put upon the +table. + +ELIZABETH. You should know better then. Didn’t I tell you to sit still +in that chair with your hands folded nicely till we were ready to start. + +MAY. Why, I couldn’t be sitting there all the while, now could I, Aunt? + +ELIZABETH. This’ll be the last time as I tie your ribbon, mind. + +[_She smoothes_ MAY’S _hair and ties it up for her_. ANNET _comes into +the room with more flowers_. + +ELIZABETH. What’s your cousin doing now, Annet? + +ANNET. The door of her room is still locked, Aunt. And what she says is +that she do want to bide alone there. + +ELIZABETH. In all my days I never did hear tell of such a thing, I don’t +know what’s coming to the world, I don’t. + +MAY. I count that Millie do like to be all to herself whilst she is +a-dressing up grand in her white gown, and the silken cloak and bonnet. + +ANNET. Millie’s not a-dressing of herself up. I heard her crying +pitiful as I was gathering flowers in the garden. + +ELIZABETH. Crying? She’ll have something to cry about if she doesn’t +look out, when her father comes in, and hears how she’s a-going on. + +MAY. I wonder why Cousin Millie’s taking on like this. I shouldn’t, if +’twas me getting married. + +ELIZABETH. Look you, May, you get and run up, and knock at the door and +tell her that ’twill soon be time for us to set off to church and that +she have got to make haste in her dressing. + +MAY. I’ll run, Aunt, only ’tis very likely as she’ll not listen to +anything that I say. [MAY _goes out_. + +ELIZABETH. Now Annet, no idling here, if you please. Set the nosegay in +water, and when you’ve given a look round to see that everything is in +its place, upstairs with you, and on with your bonnet, do you hear? +Uncle won’t wish to be kept waiting for you, remember. + +ANNET. I’m all ready dressed, except for my bonnet, Aunt. ’Tis Millie +that’s like to keep Uncle waiting this morning. [_She goes out_. + +[DANIEL _comes in_. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother—well, girls—but, bless my soul, where’s Millie got +to? + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not seen fit to shew herself this morning, Father. +She’s biding up in her room with the door locked, and nothing that I’ve +been able to say has been attended to, so perhaps you’ll kindly have your +try. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul—where’s May? Where’s Annet? Send one of the +little maids up to her, and tell her ’tis very nigh time for us to be +off. + +ELIZABETH. I’m fairly tired of sending up to her, Father. You’d best go +yourself. + +[MAY _comes into the room_. + +MAY. Please Aunt, the door, ’tis still locked, and Millie is crying ever +so sadly within, and she won’t open to me, nor speak, nor nothing. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father,—perhaps you’ll believe what I tell you another +time. Millie has got that hardened and wayward, there’s no managing of +her, there’s not. + +DANIEL. Ah, ’twon’t be very long as us’ll have the managing of she. +’Twill be young Andrew as’ll take she in hand after this day. + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well to talk of young Andrew, but who’s a-going +to get her to church with him I’d like to know. + +DANIEL. Why, ’tis me as’ll do it, to be sure. + +ELIZABETH. Very well, Father, and we shall all be much obliged to you. + +[DANIEL _goes to the door and shouts up the stairs_. + +DANIEL. Well, Millie, my wench. Come you down here. ’Tis time we did +set out. Do you hear me, Mill. ’Tis time we was off. + +[ELIZABETH _waits listening_. _No answer comes_. + +DANIEL. Don’t you hear what I be saying, Mill? Come you down at once. +[_There is no answer_. + +DANIEL. Millie, there be Andrew a-waiting for to take you to church. +Come you down this minute. + +ELIZABETH. You’d best take sommat and go and break open the door, +Father. ’Tis the sensiblest thing as you can do, only you’d never think +of anything like that by yourself. + +DANIEL. I likes doing things my own way, Mother. Women-folk, they be so +buzzing. ’Tis like a lot of insects around of anyone on a summer’s day. +A-saying this way and that—whilst a man do go at anything quiet and +calm-like. [ANNET _comes in_. + +ANNET. Please, Uncle, Millie says that she isn’t coming down for no one. + +DANIEL. [_Roaring in fury_.] What! What’s that, my wench—isn’t +a-coming down for no one? Hear that, Mother, hear that? I’ll have +sommat to say to that, I will. [_Going to the door_. + +DANIEL. [_Roaring up the stairs_.] Hark you, Mill, down you comes this +moment else I’ll smash the door right in, and that I will. + +[DANIEL _comes back into the room_, _storming violently_. + +DANIEL. Ah, ’tis a badly bred up wench is Millie, and her’d have growed +up very different if I’d a-had the bringing up of she. But spoiled she +is and spoiled her’ve always been, and what could anyone look for from a +filly what’s been broke in by women folk! + +ELIZABETH. There, there, Father—there’s no need to bluster in this +fashion. Take up the poker and go and break into the door quiet and +decent, like anyone else would do. And girls—off for your bonnets this +moment I tell you. + +[_She takes up a poker and hands it to_ DANIEL, _who mops his face and +goes slowly out and upstairs_. ANNET _and_ MAY _leave the room_. _The +farmer is heard banging at the door of Millie’s bedroom_. + +[ELIZABETH _moves about the room setting it in order_. ANDREW _comes in +at the door_. _He carries a bunch of flowers_, _which he lays on the +table_. + +ANDREW. Good-morning to you, mistress. + +ELIZABETH. Good-morning, Andrew. + +ANDREW. What’s going on upstairs? + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis Father at a little bit of carpentering. + +ANDREW. I’m come too soon, I reckon. + +ELIZABETH. We know what young men be upon their wedding morn! I warrant +as the clock can’t run too fast for them at such a time. + +ANDREW. You’re right there, mistress. But the clock have moved powerful +slow all these last few weeks—for look you here, ’tis a month this day +since I last set eyes on Mill or had a word from her lips—so ’tis. + +ELIZABETH. You’ll have enough words presently. Hark, she’s coming down +with Father now. + +[ANDREW _turns eagerly towards the door_. _The farmer enters with_ +MILLIE _clinging to his arm_, _she wears her ordinary dress_. _Her hair +is ruffled and in disorder_, _and she has been crying_. + +DANIEL. Andrew, my lad, good morning to you. + +ANDREW. Good morning, master. + +DANIEL. You mustn’t mind a bit of an April shower, my boy. ’Tis the way +with all maids on their wedding morn. Isn’t that so, Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn’t make such a show of myself if I was you, Mill. Go +upstairs this minute and wash your face and smooth your hair and put +yourself ready for church. + +DANIEL. Nay, she be but just come from upstairs, Mother. Let her bide +quiet a while with young Andrew here; whilst do you come along with me +and get me out my Sunday coat. ’Tis time I was dressed for church too, +I’m thinking. + +ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the house this morning, and +that’s the truth. Andrew, I’ll not have you keep Millie beyond a five +minutes. ’Tis enough of one another as you’ll get later on, like. +Father, go you off upstairs for your coat. ’Tis hard work for me, +getting you all to act respectable, that ’tis. + +[DANIEL _and_ ELIZABETH _leave the room_. ANDREW _moves near_ MILLIE +_and holds out both his hands_. _She draws herself haughtily away_. + +ANDREW. Millie—’tis our wedding day. + +MILLIE. And what if it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it cuts me to the heart to see your face all wet with +tears. + +MILLIE. Did you think to see it otherwise, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No smile upon your lips, Millie. + +MILLIE. Have I anything to smile about, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No love coming from your eyes, Mill. + +MILLIE. That you have never seen, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And all changed in the voice of you too. + +MILLIE. What do you mean by that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Listen, Millie—’tis a month since I last spoke with you. Do you +recollect? ’Twas the evening of the great Fair. + +MILLIE And what if it was? + +ANDREW. Millie, you were kinder to me that night than ever you had been +before. I seemed to see such a gentle look in your eyes then. And when +you spoke, ’twas as though—as though—well—’twas one of they quists +a-cooing up in the trees as I was put in mind of. + +MILLIE. Well, there’s nothing more to be said about that now, Andrew. +That night’s over and done with. + +ANDREW. I’ve carried the thought of it in my heart all this time, +Millie. + +MILLIE. I never asked you to, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I’ve brought you a nosegay of flowers, Mill. They be rare +blossoms with grand names what I can’t recollect to all of them. + +[MILLIE _takes the nosegay_, _looks at it for an instant_, _and then lets +it fall_. + +MILLIE. I have no liking for flowers this day, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O Millie, and is it so as you and me are going to our marriage? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew. ’Tis so. I never said it could be different. I +have no heart to give you. My love was given long ago to another. And +that other has forgotten me by now. + +ANDREW. O Millie, you shall forget him too when once you are wed to me, +I promise you. + +MILLIE. ’Tis beyond the power of you or any man to make me do that, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, what’s the good of we two going on to church one with +t’other? + +MILLIE. There’s no good at all, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, I could have sworn that you had begun to care sommat +more than ordinary for me that last time we were together. + +MILLIE. Then you could have sworn wrong. I care nothing for you, +Andrew, no, nothing. But I gave my word I’d go to church with you and be +wed. And—I’ll not break my word, I’ll not. + +ANDREW. And is this all that you can say to me to-day, Mill? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew, ’tis all. And now, ’tis very late, and I have got +to dress myself. + +ELIZABETH. [_Calling loudly from above_.] Millie, what are you stopping +for? Come you up here and get your gown on, do. + +[MILLIE _looks haughtily at_ ANDREW _as she passes him_. _She goes +slowly out of the room_. + +[ANDREW _picks up the flowers and stands holding them_, _looking +disconsolately down upon them_. MAY _comes in_, _furtively_. + +MAY. All alone, Andrew? Has Millie gone to put her fine gown on? + +ANDREW. Yes, Millie’s gone to dress herself. + +MAY. O that’s a beautiful nosegay, Andrew. Was it brought for Mill? + +ANDREW. Yes, May, but she won’t have it. + +MAY. Millie don’t like you very much, Andrew, do she? + +ANDREW. Millie’s got quite changed towards me since last time. + +MAY. And when was that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Why, last time was the evening of the Fair, May. + +MAY. When I was hid in the cupboard yonder, Andrew? + +ANDREW. So you were, May. Well, can’t you recollect how ’twas that she +spoke to me then? + +MAY. O yes, Andrew, and that I can. ’Twas a quist a-cooing in the tree +one time—and then—she did recollect herself and did sharpen up her tongue +and ’twas another sort of bird what could drive its beak into the flesh +of anyone—so ’twas. + +ANDREW. O May—you say she did recollect herself—what do you mean by +those words? + +MAY. You see, she did give her word that she would speak sharp and rough +to you. + +ANDREW. What are you talking about, May? Do you mean that the tongue of +her was not speaking as the heart of her did feel? + +MAY. I guess ’twas sommat like that, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O May, you have gladdened me powerful by these words. + +MAY. But, O you must not tell of me, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I will never do so, May—only I shall know better how to be +patient, and to keep the spirit of me up next time that she do strike out +against me. + +MAY. I’m not a-talking of Mill, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Who are you talking of then, I’d like to know? + +MAY. ’Twas Annet. + +ANDREW. What was? + +MAY. Annet who was dressed up in the cloak and bonnet of Millie that +night and who did speak with you so gentle and nice. + +ANDREW. Annet! + +ELIZABETH. [_Is heard calling_.] There, father, come along down and +give your face a wash at the pump. + +MAY. Let’s go quick together into the garden, Andrew, and I’ll tell you +all about it and how ’twas that Annet acted so. + +[_She seizes_ ANDREW’S _hand and pulls him out of the room with her_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT III.—Scene 2. + + +_A few minutes later_. + +ELIZABETH _stands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror on the +wall_. DANIEL _is mopping his face with a big_, _bright handkerchief_. +ANNET, _dressed for church_, _is by the table_. _She sadly takes up the +nosegay of flowers which_ ANDREW _brought for_ MILLIE, _and moves her +hand caressingly over it_. + +ELIZABETH. If you think that your neckerchief is put on right ’tis time +you should know different, Father. + +DANIEL. What’s wrong with it then, I’d like to know? + +ELIZABETH. ’Tis altogether wrong. ’Tis like the two ears of a heifer +sticking out more than anything else that I can think on. + +DANIEL. Have it your own way, Mother—and fix it as you like. + +[_He stands before her and she rearranges it_. + +ANNET. These flowers were lying on the ground. + +ELIZABETH. Thrown there in a fine fit of temper, I warrant. + +DANIEL. Her was as quiet as a new born lamb once the door was broke open +and she did see as my word, well, ’twas my word. + +ELIZABETH. We all hear a great deal about your word, Father, but ’twould +be better for there to be more do and less say about you. + +DANIEL. [_Going over to Annet and looking at her intently_.] Why, my +wench—what be you a-dropping tears for this day? + +ANNET. [_Drying her eyes_.] ’Twas—’twas the scent out of one of the +flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Well, that’s a likely tale it is. Hear that, Mother? ’Tis with +her eyes that this little wench do snuff at a flower. That’s good, +bain’t it? + +ELIZABETH. I haven’t patience with the wenches now-a-days. Lay down +that nosegay at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her room. I +warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now. + +DANIEL. Ah, I warrant as her’ll need a smartish bit of time for to take +the creases out of the face of she. + +[ANDREW _and_ MAY _come in_.] + +DANIEL. Well, Andrew, my lad, ’tis about time as we was on the way to +church I reckon. + +ANDREW. I count as ’tis full early yet, master. + +[_He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the room to the +window where_ ANNET _is standing_, _and trying to control her tears_. + +ANDREW. Annet, Millie will have none of my blossoms. I should like it +well if you would carry them in your hand to church this day. + +ANNET. [_Looking wonderingly at him_.] Me, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Yes, you, Annet. For, look you, they become you well. They +have sommat of the sweetness of you in them. And the touch of them is +soft and gentle. And—I would like you to keep them in your hands this +day, Annet. + +ANNET. O Andrew, I never was given anything like this before. + +ANDREW. [_Slowly_.] I should like to give you a great deal more, +Annet—only I cannot. And ’tis got too late. + +ELIZABETH. Too late—I should think it was. What’s come to the maid! In +my time girls didn’t use to spend a quarter of the while afore the glass +as they do now. Suppose you was to holler for her again, Father. + +DANIEL. Anything to please you, Mother— + +MAY. I hear her coming, Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk. + +[MILLIE _comes slowly into the room in her wedding clothes_. _She holds +herself very upright and looks from one to another quietly and coldly_. + +MAY. Andrew’s gived your nosegay to Annet, Millie. + +MILLIE. ’Twould have been a pity to have wasted the fresh blossoms. + +MAY. But they were gathered for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. Annet seems to like them better than I did. + +DANIEL. Well, my wench—you be tricked out as though you was off to the +horse show. Mother, there bain’t no one as can beat our wench in looks +anywhere this side of the country. + +ELIZABETH. She’s right enough in the clothing of her, but ’twould be +better if her looks did match the garments more. Come, Millie, can’t you +appear pleasanter like on your wedding day? + +MILLIE. I’m very thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink of water before +we set out? + +ELIZABETH. And what next, I should like to know? + +MILLIE. ’Tis only a drink of water that I’m asking for. + +DANIEL. Well, that’s reasonable, Mother, bain’t it? + +ELIZABETH. Run along and get some for your cousin, May. [MAY _runs out +of the room_. + +DANIEL. Come you here, Andrew, did you ever see a wench to beat ourn in +looks, I say? + +ANDREW. [_Who has remained near_ ANNET _without moving_.] ’Tis very +fine that Millie’s looking. + +DANIEL. Fine, I should think ’twas. You was a fine looking wench, +Mother, the day I took you to church, but ’tis my belief that Millie have +beat you in the appearance of her same as the roan heifer did beat th’ +old cow when the both was took along to market. Ah, and did fetch very +near the double of what I gived for the dam. + +[MAY _returns carrying a glass bowl full of water_. + +MAY. Here’s a drink of cold water, Millie. I took it from the spring. + +[MILLIE _takes the bowl_. _At the same moment a loud knocking is heard +at the outside door_. + +ELIZABETH. Who’s that, I should like to know? + +[MILLIE _sets down the bowl on the table_. _She listens with a sudden +intent_, _anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated_. + +DANIEL. I’ll learn anyone to come meddling with me on a day when ’tis +marrying going on. + +[_The knocking is again heard_. + +MILLIE. [_To_ MAY, _who would have opened the door_.] No, no. ’Tis I +who will open the door. + +[_She raises the latch and flings the door wide open_. GILES _disguised +as a poor and bent old man_, _comes painfully into the room_. + +ELIZABETH. We don’t want no beggars nor roadsters here to-day, if you +please. + +DANIEL. Ah, and that us don’t. Us be a wedding party here, and ’tis for +you to get moving on, old man. + +MILLIE. He is poor and old. And he has wandered far, in the heat of the +morning. Look at his sad clothing. + +ANDREW. [_To_ ANNET.] I never heard her put so much gentleness to her +words afore. + +MILLIE. And ’tis my wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted from here. + +ELIZABETH. I never knowed you so careful of a poor wretch afore, Millie. +’Tis quite a new set out, this. + +MILLIE. I am in mind of another, who may be wandering, and hungered, and +in poor clothing this day. + +MAY. Give him something quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that we can +start for the wedding. + +MILLIE. [_Coming close to_ GILES.] What is it I can do for you, master? + +GILES. ’Tis only a drink of water that I ask, mistress. + +MILLIE. [_Taking up the glass bowl_.] Only a drink of water, master? +Then take, and be comforted. + +[_She holds the bowl before him for him to drink_. _As he takes it_, _he +drops a ring into the water_. _He then drinks and hands the bowl back +to_ MILLIE. _For a moment she gazes speechless at the bottom of the +bowl_. _Then she lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but for_ +MAY, _who takes it from her_. + +MILLIE. Master, from whom did you get this? + +GILES. Look well at the stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded and +dim. + +MILLIE. And not more clouded than the heart which is in me, master. O +do you bring me news? + +GILES. Is it not all too late for news, mistress? + +MILLIE. Not if it be the news for which my heart craves, master. + +GILES. And what would that be, mistress? + +[MILLIE _goes to_ GILES, _and with both hands slowly pushes back his big +hat and gazes at him_. + +MILLIE. O Giles, my true love. You are come just in time. Another hour +and I should have been wed. + +GILES. And so you knew me, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Giles, no change of any sort could hide you from the eyes of +my love. + +GILES. Your love, Millie. And is that still mine? + +MILLIE. It always has been yours, Giles. O I will go with you so gladly +in poor clothing and in hunger all over the face of the earth. + +[_She goes to him and clasps his arm_; _and_, _standing by his side_, +_faces all those in the room_. + +ELIZABETH. [_Angrily_.] Please to come to your right senses, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, Andrew, set your foot down as I’ve set mine. + +ANDREW. Nay, master. There’s naught left for me to say. The heart does +shew us better nor all words which way we have to travel. + +MAY. And are you going to marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, who +looks so brave and fine in his wedding clothes, Millie? + +MILLIE. I am going to marry him I have always loved, May—and—O Andrew, I +never bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard words to you +sometimes.—But you’ll not remember me always—you will find gladness too, +some day. + +ANDREW. I count as I shall, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, come, I’ll have none of this—my daughter wed to a beggar +off the highway! Mother, ’tis time you had a word here. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, I’ll leave you to manage this affair. ’Tis you +who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and unruly, and ’tis +to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant position. + +MAY. Dear Millie—don’t wed my brother Giles. Why, look at his ragged +smock and his bare feet. + +MILLIE. I shall be proud to go bare too, so long as I am by his side, +May. + +[GILES _goes to the door and blows his whistle three times and loudly_. + +MAY. What’s that for, Giles? + +GILES. You shall soon see, little May. + +DANIEL. I’ll be hanged if I’ll stand any more of this caddling nonsense. +Here, Mill—the trap’s come to the door. Into it with you, I say. + +GILES. I beg you to wait a moment, master. + +DANIEL. Wait!—’Tis a sight too long as we have waited this day. If all +had been as I’d planned, we should have been to church by now. But +womenfolk, there be no depending on they. No, and that there bain’t. + +[GEORGE, JOHN _and the_ OLD MAN _come up_. GEORGE _and_ JOHN _carry +their packets and the_ OLD MAN _has_ GILES’ _coat and hat over his arm_. + +ELIZABETH. And who are these persons, Giles? + +[GEORGE _and_ JOHN _set down their burdens on the floor and begin to mop +their faces_. _The_ OLD MAN _stretches out his fine coat and hat and +buckled shoes to_ GILES. + +OLD MAN. Here they be, my lord, and I warrant as you’ll feel more homely +like in they, nor what you’ve got upon you now. [GILES _takes the things +from him_. + +GILES. Thank you, old master. [_He turns to_ MILLIE.] Let me go into +the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a few +moments. + +[_He goes out_. + +ELIZABETH. [_To_ GEORGE.] And who may you be, I should like to know? +You appear to be making very free with my parlour. + +GEORGE. We be the servants what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis. + +ELIZABETH. Old Missis, indeed. Father, you shall speak to these +persons. + +DANIEL. Well, my men. I scarce do know whether I be a-standing on my +head or upon my heels, and that’s the truth ’tis. + +GEORGE. Ah, and that I can well understand, master, for I’m a married +man myself, and my woman has a tongue to her head very similar to that of +th’ old missis yonder—so I know what ’tis. + +ELIZABETH. Put them both out of the door, Father, do you hear me? ’Tis +to the cider as they’ve been getting. That’s clear. + +MILLIE. My good friends, what is it that you carry in those bundles +there? + +GEORGE. ’Tis gold in mine. + +JOHN. And silver here. + +ELIZABETH. Depend upon it ’tis two wicked thieves we have got among us, +flying from justice. + +MILLIE. No, no—did not you hear them say, their master is Giles. + +GEORGE. And a better master never trod the earth. + +JOHN. And a finer or a richer gentleman I never want to see. + +ELIZABETH. Do you hear that, Father? O you shocking liars—’tis stolen +goods that you’ve been and brought to our innocent house this day. But, +Father, do you up and fetch in the constable, do you hear? + +MAY. O I’ll run. I shall love to see them going off to gaol. + +MILLIE. Be quiet, May. Can’t you all see how ’tis. Giles has done the +cruel hard task set him by Father—and is back again with the bushel of +silver and that of gold to claim my hand. [GILES _enters_.] But +Giles—I’d have given it to you had you come to me poor and forlorn and +ragged, for my love has never wandered from you in all this long time. + +ANDREW. No, Giles—and that it has not. Millie has never given me one +kind word nor one gentle look all the years that I’ve been courting of +her, and that’s the truth. And you can call witness to it if you care. + +GILES. Uncle, Aunt, I’ve done the task you set me years ago—and now I +claim my reward. I went from this house a poor wretch, with nothing but +the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain me. I have returned +with all that the world can give me of riches and prosperity. Will you +now let me be the husband of your daughter? + +MILLIE. O say ye, Uncle, for look how fine and grand he is in his +coat—and the bags are stuffed full to the brim and ’tis with gold and +silver. + +ELIZABETH. Well—’tis a respectabler end than I thought as you’d come to, +Giles. And different nor what you deserved. + +DANIEL. Come, come, Mother.—The fewer words to this, the better. Giles, +my boy—get you into the trap and take her along to the church and drive +smart. + +ANDREW. Annet—will you come there with me too? + +ANNET. O Andrew—what are you saying? + +DANIEL. Come, come. Where’s the wind blowing from now? Here, Mother, +do you listen to this. + +ELIZABETH. I shall be deaf before I’ve done, but it appears to me that +Annet’s not lost any time in making the most of her chances. + +DANIEL. Ah, and she be none the worse for that. ’Tis what we all likes +to do. Where’d I be in the market if I did let my chances blow by me? +Hear that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. I’m a rare lucky man this day, farmer. + +DANIEL. Ah, and ’tis a rare good little wench, Annet—though she bain’t +so showy as our’n. A rare good little maid. And now ’tis time we was +all off to church, seeing as this is to be a case of double harness like. + +MAY. O Annet, you can’t be wed in that plain gown. + +ANNET. May, I’m so happy that I feel as though I were clothed all over +with jewels. + +ANDREW. Give me your hand, Annet. + +MAY. [_Mockingly_.] Millie—don’t you want to give a drink of water to +yon poor old man? + +MILLIE. That I will, May? Here—fetch me something that’s better than +water for him. + +ELIZABETH. I’ll have no cider drinking out of meal times here. + +MILLIE. Then ’twill I have to be when we come back from church. + +OLD MAN. Bless you, my pretty lady, but I be used to waiting. I’ll just +sit me down outside in the sun till you be man and wife. + +ELIZABETH. And that’ll not be till this day next year if this sort of +thing goes on any longer. + +DANIEL. That’s right, Mother. You take and lead the way. ’Tis the +womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. But I knows how to settle +with they—[_roaring_]—come Mill, come Giles, Andrew, Annet, May. Come +Mother, out of th’ house with all of you and to church, I say. + +[_He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out of the +room_. _When they have gone_, _the_ OLD MAN _sinks on a bench in the +door-way_. + +OLD MAN. I’m done with all the foolishness of life and I can sit me down +and sleep till it be time to eat. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +BUSHES AND BRIARS + + +CHARACTERS + + +THOMAS SPRING, _a farmer_, _aged_ 35. + +EMILY, _his wife_, _the same age_. + +CLARA, _his sister_, _aged_ 21. + +JESSIE AND ROBIN, _the children of Thomas and Emily_, _aged_ 10 _and_ 8. + +JOAN, _maid to Clara_. + +MILES HOOPER, _a rich draper_. + +LUKE JENNER, _a farmer_. + +LORD LOVEL. + +GEORGE, _aged_ 28. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + + _A wood_. _It is a morning in June_. + +GEORGE, _carrying an empty basket_, _comes slowly through the wood_. _On +reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it_, _placing his basket on the +ground_. _With his stick he absently moves the grass and leaves that lie +before him_, _and is so deeply lost in his own thoughts that he does not +hear the approach of_ MILES _and_ LUKE _until they are by his side_. + +MILES. Here’s the very man to tell us all we want to know. + +LUKE. Why, if ’tisn’t George from Ox Lease. + +[GEORGE _half rises_. + +MILES. No, sit you down again, my lad, and we’ll rest awhile by the side +of you. + +LUKE. That’s it, Miles. Nothing couldn’t have fallen out better for us, +I’m thinking. + +MILES. You’re about right, Luke. Now, George, my man, we should very +much appreciate a few words with you. + +GEORGE. [_Taking up his basket_.] Morning baint the time for words, +masters. I count as words will keep till the set of sun. ’Tis otherwise +with work. + +MILES. Work, why, George, ’tis clear you are come out but to gather +flowers this morning. + +LUKE. ’Tis the very first time as ever I caught George an idling away of +his time like this. + +GEORGE. ’Tis over to Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch back a +couple of young chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets what do +lay. + +LUKE. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease afore +July was in. + +GEORGE. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. +But mistress, her says, you can’t sit a maid from town at table unless +there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in their feeding, maids +from town, so mistress do say. + +MILES. That just brings us to our little matter, George. When is it +that you expect the young lady? + +GEORGE. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom since +yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come on their own +feet from where the morning coach do set them down. + +LUKE. Nay, but there’s only one maid what’s expected. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara, what’s master’s sister; and the serving wench of +she. + +MILES. Well, George, ’twas a great day for your master when old Madam +Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the quality. + +GEORGE. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, from +the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place where +’twas seeded. + +MILES. No, no, George, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A +little country wench may bloom into something very modish and elegant, +once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of velvet and +curtains of satin. You’ll see. + +GEORGE. ’Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by +curtains, nor yet carpets, master. + +MILES. Take my word for it, George, Ox Lease will have to smarten up a +bit for this young lady. I know the circles she has been moving in, and +’tis to the best of everything that she has been used. + +GEORGE. [_Rising_.] That’s what mistress do say. And that’s why I be +sent along down to Brook with haymaking going on and all. Spring chicken +with sparrow grass be the right feeding for such as they. So mistress do +count. + +MILES. Stop a moment, George. You have perhaps heard the letters from +Miss Clara discussed in the family from time to time. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara did never send but two letters home in all the while +she was gone. The first of them did tell as how th’ old lady was dead +and had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. And the second was to say +as how her was coming back to the farm this morning. + +LUKE. And hark you here, George, was naught mentioned about Miss Clara’s +fine suitors in neither of them letters? + +GEORGE. That I cannot say, Master Jenner. + +MILES. Nothing of their swarming thick around her up in London, George? + +GEORGE. They may be swarming by the thousand for aught as I do know. +They smells gold as honey bees do smell the blossom. Us’ll have a good +few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we’re many hours older, so I +counts. + +MILES. Well, George, that’ll liven up the place a bit, I don’t doubt. + +LUKE. ’Tis a bit of quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do want. Isn’t +that so, George, my lad? + +GEORGE. [_Preparing to set off_.] I’ll say good morning to you, +masters. I count I’ve been and wasted a smartish time already on the +road. We be a bit hard pressed up at the farm this day. + +MILES. But George, my man, we have a good many questions to ask of you +before you set off. + +GEORGE. Them questions will have to bide till another time, I reckon. +I’m got late already, master. + +[_He hurries off_. + +MILES. Arriving by the morning coach! I shall certainly make my call to +the farm before sunset. What do you say, Jenner? + +LUKE. You’re a rich man, Miles, and I am poor. But we have always been +friends. + +MILES. And our fathers before us, Luke. + +LUKE. And the courting of the same maid shall not come between us. + +MILES. [_Slowly_.] That’ll be all right, Luke. + +LUKE. What I do say is, let’s start fair. Neck to neck, like. + +MILES. As you please, my good Luke. + +LUKE. Then, do you tell me honest, shall I do in the clothes I’m +a-wearing of now, Miles? + +MILES. [_Regarding him critically_.] That neckerchief is not quite the +thing, Luke. + +LUKE. ’Tis my Sunday best. + +MILES. Step over to the High Street with me, my lad. I’ve got something +in the shop that will be the very thing. You shall have it half price +for ’tis only a bit damaged in one of the corners. + +LUKE. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Miles. + +MILES. That’s all right, Luke. + +LUKE. George would look better to my thinking if there was a new coat to +the back of him. + +MILES. Ah, poor beggar, he would, and no mistake. + +LUKE. I warrant as Emily do keep it afore him as how he was took in from +off the road by th’ old farmer in his day. + +MILES. I flatter myself that I have a certain way with the ladies. They +come to me confidential like and I tell them what’s what, and how that, +this or t’other is worn about town. But with Missis Spring ’tis +different. That’s a woman I could never get the right side of no how. + +LUKE. Ah, poor Thomas! There’s a man who goes down trod and hen +scratched if you like. + +MILES. ’Tis altogether a very poor place up at Ox Lease, for young Miss. + +LUKE. [_Pulling out his watch_.] Time’s slipping on. What if we were +to stroll on to the shop and see about my neckerchief, Miles? + +MILES. I’m sure I’m quite agreeable, Luke. ’Twill help to pass away the +morning. + +[_He puts his arm in_ LUKE’S _and they go briskly off in the direction of +the village_. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 2. + + +CLARA, _followed by_ JOAN, _comes through the wood_. CLARA _is dressed +in a long_, _rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with +feathers and ribbons_. JOAN _wears a cotton bonnet and small shawl_. +_She carries her mistress’s silken bag over her arm_. + +CLARA. [_Pointing to the fallen tree_.] There is the very resting place +for us. We will sit down under the trees for a while. [_She seats +herself_. + +JOAN. [_Dusting the tree with her handkerchief before she sits on it_.] +Have we much further to go, mistress? + +CLARA. Only a mile or two, so far as I can remember. + +JOAN. ’Tis rough work for the feet, down in these parts, mistress. + +CLARA. If London roads were paved with diamonds I’d sooner have my feet +treading this rugged way that leads to home. + +JOAN. What sort of a place shall we find it when we gets there, +mistress. + +CLARA. I was but seven when I left them all, Joan. And that is fourteen +years ago to-day. + +JOAN. So many years may bring about some powerful big changes, mistress. + +CLARA. But I dream that I shall find all just as it was when I went +away. Only that Gran’ma won’t be there. + +[_There is a short silence during which_ CLARA _seems lost in thought_. +JOAN _flicks the dust off her shoes with a branch of leaves_. + +JOAN. ’Tis the coaches I do miss down in these parts. + +CLARA. I would not have driven one step of the way this morning, Joan. +In my fancy I have been walking up from the village and through the wood +and over the meadows since many a day. I have not forgotten one turn of +the path. + +JOAN. The road has not changed then, mistress? + +CLARA. No. But it does not seem quite so broad or so fine as I +remembered it to be. That is all. + +JOAN. And very likely the house won’t seem so fine neither, mistress, +after the grand rooms which you have been used to. + +JOAN. What company shall we see there, mistress? + +CLARA. Well, there’s Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily his wife. Then +the two children. + +CLARA. [_After a short silence_, _and as though to herself_.] And there +was George. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress + +CLARA. Georgie seemed so big and tall to me in those days. I wonder how +old he really was, when I was seven. + +JOAN. Would that be a younger brother of yours, like, mistress + +CLARA. No, George minded the horses and looked after the cows and +poultry. Sometimes he would drive me into market with him on a Saturday. +And in the evenings I would follow him down to the pool to see the cattle +watered. + +JOAN. I’m mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the +sight nor the sound of those animals. + +CLARA. You’ll soon get over that, Joan. + +JOAN. And I don’t care for poultry neither, very much. I goes full of +fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about. + +CLARA. [_Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm_.] There, do you see +this little scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese when +the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a piece right +out of my arm. + +JOAN. [_Looking intently on the scar_.] I have often seen that there +mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be living along +of the poultry still? + +CLARA. I wish he might be, Joan. + +JOAN. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall go +with our lives in our hands, as you might say. + +CLARA. [_As though to herself_.] When the days got colder, we would sit +under the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to me. Some of +his songs, I could say off by heart this day. + +JOAN. [_Looking nervously upward_.] O do look at that nasty little +thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever put +such a thing up in the tree I’d like to know. + +CLARA. [_Brushing it gently aside_.] That won’t hurt you—a tiny +caterpillar. + +JOAN. [_After a moment_.] What more could the farm hand do, mistress? + +CLARA. He would clasp on his bells and dance in the Morris on certain +days, Joan. + +JOAN. ’Tis to be hoped as there’ll be some dancing or something to liven +us all up a bit down here. + +CLARA. Why, Joan, I believe you’re tired already of the country. + +JOAN. ’Tis so powerful quiet and heavy like, mistress. + +CLARA. ’Tis full of sounds. Listen to the doves in the trees and the +lambs calling from the meadow. + +JOAN. I’d sooner have the wheels of the coaches and the cries upon the +street, and the door bell a ringing every moment and fine gentlemen and +ladies being shewn up into the parlour. + +CLARA. [_Stretching out her arms_.] O how glad I am to be free of all +that. And most of all, how glad to be ridded of one person. + +JOAN. His lordship will perhaps follow us down here, mistress. + +CLARA. No, I have forbidden it. I must have a month of quiet, and he is +to wait that time for his answer. + +JOAN. O mistress, you’ll never disappoint so fine a gentleman. + +CLARA. You forget that Lord Lovel and I have played together as +children. It is as a brother that I look upon him. + +JOAN. His lordship don’t look upon you as a sister, mistress. + +CLARA. [_Rising_.] That is a pity, Joan. But see, it is getting late +and we must be moving onwards. + +[JOAN _rises and smoothes and shakes out her skirt_. + +CLARA. Here, loosen my cloak, Joan, and untie the ribbons of my bonnet. + +JOAN. O mistress, keep the pretty clothes upon you till you have got to +the house. + +CLARA. No, no—such town garments are not suited to the woods and +meadows. I want to feel the country breeze upon my head, and my limbs +must be free from the weight of the cloak. I had these things upon me +during the coach journey. They are filled with road dust and I dislike +them now. + +JOAN. [_Unfastening the cloak and untying the bonnet_.] They are fresh +and bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning. + +CLARA. [_Retying a blue ribbon which she wears in her hair_.] I have +taken a dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire them, they +shall be yours. + +JOAN. Mine? The French bonnet and the satin cloak? + +CLARA. To comfort you for the pains of the country, Joan. + +JOAN. O mistress, let us stop a moment longer in this quiet place so +that I may slip them on and see how they become me. + +CLARA. As you will. Listen, that is the cuckoo singing. + +JOAN. [_Throwing off her cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing herself +hastily in the bonnet and cloak_.] O what must it feel like to be a +grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time. + +CLARA. I am very glad to be without them for a while. How good the air +feels on my head. + +JOAN. There, mistress, how do I look? + +CLARA. Very nicely, Joan. So nicely that if you like, you may keep them +upon you for the remainder of the way. + +JOAN. O mistress, may I really do so? + +CLARA. Yes. And Joan, do you go onwards to the farm by the quickest +path which is through this wood and across the high road. Anyone will +shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander about in some of +the meadows which I remember. But I will join you all in good time. + +JOAN. Very well, mistress. If I set off in a few moments it will do, I +suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself as I am now, in the +little glass which you carry in your silk bag. + +CLARA. [_Going off_.] Don’t spend too much time looking at what will be +shewn you, Joan. + +JOAN. Never fear, mistress. I’ll be there afore you, if I have to run +all the way. [CLARA _wanders off_. + +[JOAN _sits down again on the trunk of the fallen tree_. _She opens the +silken bag_, _draws out a small hand glass and looks long and steadily at +her own reflection_. _Then she glances furtively around and_, _seeing +that she is quite alone_, _she takes a small powder box from the bag and +hastily opening it_, _she gives her face several hurried touches with the +powder puff_. + +JOAN. [_Surveying the effect in the glass_.] Just to take off the brown +of my freckles. Now if any one was to come upon me sitting here they +wouldn’t know as I was other than a real, high lady. All covered with +this nice cloak as I be, the French bonnet on my head, and powder to my +face, who’s to tell the difference? But O—these must be hid first. + +[_She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the ground_. _She +hastily rolls them up in a small bundle and stuffs them into the silken +bag_. _Then she takes up the glass and surveys herself again_. + +JOAN. How should I act now if some grand gentleman was to come up and +commence talking to me? Perhaps he might even take me for a lady of +title in these fine clothes, and ’twould be a pity to have to undeceive +him. + +[_She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then lowers the +lace veil over her face_. + +[MILES _and_ LUKE _come slowly up behind her_. MILES _nudges_ LUKE _with +his elbow_, _signing to him to remain where he is whilst he steps forward +in front of_ JOAN. + +MILES. Pardon me, madam, but you appear to have mistook the way. Allow +me to set you on the right path for Ox Lease. + +JOAN. [_Letting the mirror fall on her lap and speaking very low_.] How +do you know I am going to Ox Lease, sir? + +MILES. You see, madam, I happen to know that a stylish young miss from +town is expected there to-day. + +LUKE. [_Coming forward and speaking in a loud whisper_.] Now Miles. I +count as you made one of the biggest blunders of the time. Our young +lady be journeying along of her servant wench. This one baint she. + +MILES. If we have made a small error, madam, allow me to beg your +pardon. + +JOAN. Don’t mention it, sir. Everyone is mistaken sometimes. + +LUKE. Well, I’m powerful sorry if we have given any offence, mam. + +JOAN. [_Looking up at_ LUKE _with sudden boldness and speaking in a +slow_, _affected voice_.] There’s nothing to make so much trouble about, +sir. + +MILES. Can we be of any assistance to you, madam? The wood may appear +rather dense at this point. + +JOAN. That it does. Dense and dark—and the pathway! My goodness, but +my feet have never travelled over such rough ground before. + +Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt that the delicate +texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by our stones and ruts. + +JOAN. [_Insensibly pulling her skirts over her thick walking shoes_.] +Well, it’s vastly different to London streets, where I generally take +exercise—at least when I’m not a-riding in the coach. + +MILES. The country is but a sad place at the best, Miss Clara Spring. + +JOAN. [_Looking round furtively and speaking in a whisper_.] O, how did +you guess my—my name? + +LUKE. Come, ’twasn’t a hard matter, that. + +MILES. Missey can command my services. + +JOAN. [_Rallying_, _and standing up_.] Then gentlemen, do you walk a +bit of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation as we go +along. + +LUKE. [_Offering his arm_.] You take my arm, Miss Clara—do—. + +MILES. [_Also offering his arm_.] I shall also give myself the pleasure +of supporting Miss. + +JOAN. [_Taking an arm of each_.] O thank you, kindly gentlemen. Now we +shall journey very comfortably, I am sure. + +[_They all set out walking in the direction of the farm_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm_. _There are three doors_. _One opens to +the staircase_, _one to the garden and a third into the back kitchen_. +_At a table in the middle of the room_ EMILY _stands ironing some net +window curtains_. JESSIE _and_ ROBIN _lean against the table watching +her_. _By the open doorway_, _looking out on the garden_, _stands_ +THOMAS, _a mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread in the +other_. _As he talks_, _he takes alternate drinks and bites_. + +EMILY. [_Speaking in a shrill_, _angry voice_.] Now Thomas, suppose you +was to take that there bread a step further away and eat it in the +garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling it all over my clean +floor. + +THOMAS. Don’t you be so testy, Emily. The dogs’ll lick the crumbs up as +clean as you like presently. + +EMILY. Dogs? I’d like to see the dog as’ll shew its nose in here to-day +when I’ve got it all cleaned up against the coming of fine young madam. + +THOMAS. [_Finishing his bread and looking wistfully at his empty hand_.] +The little maid’ll take a brush and sweep up her daddy’s crumbs, now, +won’t her? + +EMILY. I’ll give it to any one who goes meddling in my brush cupboard +now that I’ve just put all in order against the prying and nozzling of +the good-for-nothing baggage what’s coming along with your sister. + +ROBIN. What’s baggage, Mother? + +EMILY. [_Sharply_.] Never you mind. Get and take your elbow off my +ironing sheet. + +JESSIE. [_Looking at her father_.] I count as you’d like a piece more +bread, Dad? + +THOMAS. Well, I don’t say but ’twouldn’t come amiss. ’Tis hungry work +in th’ hayfield. And us be to go without our dinners this day, isn’t +that so, Emily? + +EMILY. [_Slamming down her iron on the stand_.] If I’ve told you once, +I’ve told you twenty times, ’twas but the one pair of hands as I was +gived at birth. Now, what have you got to say against that, Thomas? + +THOMAS. [_Sheepishly_.] I’m sure I don’t know. + +EMILY. And if so be as I’m to clean and wash and cook, and run, and +wait, and scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other folk must +go without hot cooking at mid-day. + +THOMAS. [_Faintly_.] ’Twasn’t nothing cooked, like. ’Twas a bit of +bread as I did ask for. + +JESSIE. [_Getting up_.] I’ll get it for you, Dad. I know where the +loaf bides and the knife too. I’ll cut you, O such a large piece. + +EMILY. [_Seizing her roughly by the hand_.] You’ll do nothing of the +sort. You’ll take this here cold iron into Maggie and you’ll bring back +one that is hot. How am I to get these curtains finished and hung and +all, by the time the dressed up parrots come sailing in, I’d like to +know. + +[JESSIE _runs away with the iron_. + +THOMAS. [_Setting down his mug and coming to the table_.] I’d leave the +windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form the +suitablest shade for they, to my thinking. + +EMILY. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, take your +hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs shewing +all over the clean net what I’ve washed and dried and ironed, and been +a-messing about with since ’twas light? + +THOMAS. Now that’s what I be trying for to say. There’s no need for you +to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of little Clara +coming back. Home’s home. And ’twon’t be neither the curtains nor the +hot dinner as Clara will be thinking of when her steps into th’ old place +once more. + +JESSIE. [_Running back with the hot iron which she sets down on the +table_.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad? + +THOMAS. [_Shy and abashed under a withering glance from_ EMILY _who has +taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net_.] Her’ll remember, +very like, how ’twas when her left—some fourteen year ago. And her’ll +have her eyes on Gran’ma’s chair, what’s empty. + +ROBIN. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what’s for +dinner. + +THOMAS. And her’ll look up to th’ old clock, and different things what’s +still in their places. The grand parts where she have been bred up will +be forgot. ’Twill be only home as her’ll think on. + +EMILY. I haven’t patience to listen to such stuff. + +THOMAS. [_After a pause_.] I count that ’tisn’t likely as a young woman +what’s been left riches as Clara have, would choose to make her home +along of such as we for always, like. + +EMILY. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, but +when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank you, +Thomas, I’m not going to do it. + +ROBIN. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother. + +JESSIE. What are spangled plumes, Mother? + +EMILY. [_Viciously_.] You’ll see plenty of them presently. + +ROBIN. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she? + +[_A slight pause during which_ EMILY _irons vigorously_. + +EMILY. [_As she irons_.] Some folk have all the honey. It do trickle +from the mouths of them and down to the ground. + +ROBIN. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then? + +EMILY. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts and the +vinegar. + +JESSIE. Like you, Mother—Least, that’s what Maggie said this morning. + +EMILY. What’s that? + +JESSIE. That ’twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, Mother. + +EMILY. I’ll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she +can’t fetch them out respectful like. [_Shouting_.] Mag, come you here +this minute—what are you after now, I’d like to know, you ugly, idle +piece of mischief? + +[MAGGIE, _wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen_. + +MAGGIE. Was you calling, mistress? + +EMILY. What’s this you’ve got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like to +know. + +JESSIE. [_Running to_ MAGGIE _and laying her hand on her arm_.] Dear +Maggie, ’tis only what you did tell about poor mother’s tongue being in +the vinegar jar. + +MAGGIE. O Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. Hark you here, my girl—if ’twasn’t hay time you should bundle up +your rags and off with you this minute. But as ’tis awkward being short +of a pair of hands just now, you’ll bide a week or two and then you’ll +get outside of my door with no more character to you nor what I took you +with. + +THOMAS. Come, come Emily. The girl’s a good one for to work, and that +she is. + +EMILY. Be quiet, Thomas. This is my business, and you’ll please to keep +your words till they’re wanted. + +MAGGIE. O mistress, I didn’t mean no harm, I didn’t. + +EMILY. I don’t want no words nor no tears neither. + +MAGGIE. [_Beginning to cry loudly_.] I be the only girl as have stopped +with you more nor a month, I be. T’others wouldn’t bide a day, some of +them. + +EMILY. Be quiet. Back to your work with you. And when the hay is all +carried, off with you, ungrateful minx, to where you came from. + +JESSIE. O let us keep her always, Mother, she’s kind. + +ROBIN. Don’t you cry, Mag. I’ll marry you when I’m a big man like +Daddy. + +THOMAS. Harken to them, Emily! She’s been a good maid to the children. +I’d not part with any one so hasty, if ’twas me. + +EMILY. [_Very angrily_.] When I want your opinion, Thomas, I’ll ask for +it. Suppose you was to go out and see after something which you do +understand. + +THOMAS. O I’ll go down to the field fast enough, I can tell you. ’Twas +only being hungered as drove me into the hornets’ nest, as you might say. + +EMILY. [_Ironing fiercely_.] What’s that? + +THOMAS. Nothing. I did only say as I was a-going back to the field when +George do come home. + +EMILY. There again. Did you ever know the man to be so slow before. I +warrant as he have gone drinking or mischiefing down at the Spotted Cow +instead of coming straight home with they chicken. + +THOMAS. Nay, nay. George is not the lad to do a thing like that. A +quieter more well bred up lad nor George never trod in shoes. + +EMILY [_Glancing at_ MAGGIE.] What are you tossing your head like that +for, Maggie? Please to recollect as you’re a lazy, good-for-nothing +little slut of a maid servant, and not a circus pony all decked out for +the show. + +JESSIE. Maggie’s fond of Georgie. And Georgie’s kind to Mag. + +MAGGIE. [_Fearfully_.] O don’t, Miss Jessie, for goodness sake. + +EMILY. [_Viciously_.] I’ll soon put an end to anything in that quarter. + +THOMAS. Now, Emily—take it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara upon us +before us knows where we are. + +EMILY. [_Folding the curtains_.] I’ll settle her too, if she comes +before I’m ready for her. + +ROBIN. [_Pointing through the open_.] There’s George, coming with the +basket. + +[GEORGE _comes into the room_. _He carefully rubs his feet on the mat as +he enters_. _Then he advances to the table_. MAGGIE _dries her eyes +with the back of her hand_. JESSIE _is standing with her arm in_ +MAGGIE’S. + +EMILY. Well, and where have you been all this while, I’d like to know? + +GEORGE. To Brook Farm, mam, and home. + +EMILY. You’ve been up to some mischief on the way, I warrant. + +THOMAS. Come, Emily. + +[GEORGE _looks calmly into_ EMILY’S _face_. _Then his gaze travels +leisurely round the room_. + +GEORGE. I was kept waiting while they did pluck and dress the chicken. + +EMILY. [_Lifting the cloth covering the basket_, _and looking within +it_.] I’d best have gone myself. Of all the thick-headed men I ever did +see, you’re the thickest. Upon my word you are. + +GEORGE. What’s wrong now, mistress? + +EMILY. ’Taint chicken at all what you’ve been and fetched me. + +GEORGE. I’ll be blowed if I do know what ’tis then. + +EMILY. If I’d been given a four arms and legs at birth same as th’ +horses, I’d have left a pair of them at home and gone and done the job +myself, I would. And then you should see what I’d have brought back. + +GEORGE. You can’t better what I’ve got here. From the weight it might +be two fat capons. So it might. + +EMILY. [_Seizing the basket roughly_.] Here, Mag, off into the pantry +with them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the road ditch would have +done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with these clean curtains and lay +them careful on the bed. I’ll put them to the windows later. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, did you meet with any one on the way, like? + +EMILY. You’d best ask no questions if you don’t want to be served with +lies, Thomas. + +GEORGE. [_Throwing a glance of disdain at_ EMILY.] Miles Hooper and +Farmer Jenner was taking the air ’long of one another in the wood, +master. + +THOMAS. Miles Hooper and Luke a-taking of the air, and of a weekday +morning! + +GEORGE. That they was, master. And they did stop I— + +EMILY. Ah, now you’ve got it, Thomas. Now we shall know why George was +upon the road the best part of the day and me kept waiting for the +chicken. + +GEORGE. [_Steadily_.] Sunday clothes to the back of both of them. And, +when was Miss Clara expected up at home. + +THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a fair commotion all over these parts already, I +warrant. There wasn’t nothing else spoke of in market last time, but how +as sister Clara with all her money was to come home. + +JESSIE. [_Coming back_.] I’ve laid the curtains on the bed, shall I +gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother? + +EMILY. I’d like to see you! Flowers in the bedroom? I never heard tell +of such senseless goings on. What next, I’d like to know? + +GEORGE. Miss Clara always did fill a mug of clover blooms and set it +aside of her bed when her was a little thing—so high. + +JESSIE. Do you remember our fine aunt, then, Georgie? + +GEORGE. I remembers Miss Clara right enough. + +EMILY. Don’t you flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy piece of town +goods will trouble herself to remember you. + +THOMAS. The little maid had a good enough heart to her afore she was +took away from us. + +JESSIE. Do you think our aunt Clara has growed into a coxsy town lady, +George? + +GEORGE. No, I do not, Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. [_Beginning to stir about noisily as she sets the kitchen in +order_.] Get off with you to the field, Thomas, can’t you. I’ve had +enough to do as ’tis without a great hulking man standing about and +taking up all the room. + +THOMAS. Come, George, us’ll clear out down to th’ hay field, and snatch +a bite as we do go. + +GEORGE. That’s it, master. + +EMILY. [_Calling angrily after them_.] There’s no dinner for no one +to-day, I tell you. + +[THOMAS _and_ GEORGE _go out of the back kitchen door_. EMILY _begins +putting the irons away_, _folding up the ironing sheet and setting the +chairs back against the wall_. + +[JESSIE _and_ ROBIN, _from their places at the table_, _watch her +intently_. + +EMILY. [_As she moves about_.] ’Twouldn’t be half the upset if the +wench was coming by herself, but to have a hussy of a serving maid +sticking about in the rooms along of us, is more nor I can stand. + +[_She begins violently to sweep up the hearth_. + +[_Steps are heard outside_. + +JESSIE. Hark, what’s that, mother? + +EMILY. I’ll give it to any one who wants to come in here. + +JESSIE. [_Running to the open door_.] They’re coming up the path. ’Tis +our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen either side of she. + +ROBIN. [_Running also to the door_.] O I want to look on her too. + +EMILY. [_Putting the broom in a corner_.] ’Tis no end to the vexation. +But she’ll have to wait on herself. I’ve no time to play the dancing +bear. And that I’ve not. + +[JOAN, _between_ MILES HOOPER _and_ LUKE JENNER, _comes up to the open +door_. + +MILES. [_To Jessie_.] See here, my little maid, what’ll you give Mister +Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe up to the farm? + +JESSIE. I know who ’tis you’ve brought. ’Tis my Aunt Clara. + +LUKE. You’re a smart little wench, if ever there was one. + +ROBIN. I know who ’tis, too, ’cause of the spangled plumes in the bonnet +of she. Mother said as there’d be some. + +EMILY. [_Coming forward_.] Well, Clara, if ’twas by the morning coach +as you did come, you’re late. If ’twas by th’ evening one, you’re too +soon by a good few hours. + +MILES. Having come by the morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant +fancy to stroll here through the woodlands, Missis Spring. + +LUKE. Ah, and ’twas lost on the way as we did find her, like a strayed +sheep. + +MILES. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer safely +home. + +EMILY. [_Scornfully looking_ JOAN _over from head to foot_.] Where’s +that serving wench of yours got to, Clara? + +MILES. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent her maid on by +another road. + +EMILY. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have found +something of mischief for her idle hands to do. + +MILES. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat fatigued +by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately framed, +Missis Spring. + +EMILY. [_Pointing ungraciously_.] There’s chairs right in front of you. + +[MILES _and_ LUKE _lead_ JOAN _forward_, _placing her in an armchair with +every attention_. JOAN _sinks into it_, _and_, _taking a little fan from +the silken bag on her arm_, _begins to fan herself violently_. + +EMILY. [_Watching her with fierce contempt_.] Maybe as you’d like my +kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine +maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it concerns +her to attend to. + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O no, thank you. The day is rather warm—that’s all. + +EMILY. Warm, I should think it was warm in under of that great white +curtain. + +JESSIE. Aunt Clara, I’m Jessie. + +JOAN. Are you, my dear? + +ROBIN. And I’m Robin. + +MILES. Now, I wager, if you are both good little children, this pretty +lady will give you each a kiss. + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] To be sure I will. + +JESSIE. Then you’ll have to take off that white thing from your face. +’Tis like what mother do spread over the currant bushes to keep the birds +from the fruit. + +[JOAN _slowly raises her veil_, _showing her face_. + +JESSIE. Shall I give you a kiss, Aunt? + +EMILY. I’d be careful if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies be brittle as +fine china. + +JESSIE. O I’ll kiss her very lightly, Mother. + +[_She goes up to_ JOAN _and kisses her_. ROBIN _then reaches up his face +and_ JOAN _kisses him_. + +ROBIN. [_Rubbing his mouth_.] The flour do come from Aunt same as it +does from a new loaf. + +MILES. [_To_ JOAN.] You must pardon these ignorant little country +brats, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. O there’s nothing amiss, thank you. + +EMILY. Amiss, who said as there was? When folks what can afford to +lodge at the inn do come down and fasten theirselves on the top of poor +people, they must take things as they do find them and not start +grumbling at the first set off. + +LUKE. There, there, Missis Spring. There wasn’t naught said about +grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long distance, and it +behoves us all as she should find summat of a welcome at the end of her +journey, like. + +MILES. [_Aside to_ JOAN.] How strange this country tongue must fall on +your ears, Miss Clara! + +JOAN. I don’t understand about half of what they say. + +EMILY. [_Overhearing her_.] O, you don’t, don’t you. Well, Clara, I +was always one for plain words, and I say ’tis a pity when folks do get +above the position to which they was bred, and for all the fine satins +and plumes upon you, the body what’s covered by them belongs to Clara +Spring, what’s sister to Thomas. And all the world knows what Thomas +is—A poor, mean spirited, humble born man with but two coats to the back +of him, and with not a thought to the mind of him which is not +foolishness. And I judge from by what they be in birth, and not by the +bags of gold what have been left them by any old madams in their dotage. +So now you see how I takes it all and you and me can start fair, like. + +JOAN. [_To_ LUKE.] O Mister—Mister Jenner, I feel so faint. + +MILES. [_Taking her fan_.] Allow me. [_He begins to fan her_.] I +assure you she means nothing by it. It’s her way. You see, she knows no +better. + +LUKE. I’d fetch out summat for her to eat if I was you, missis. ’Tis +famished as the poor young maid must be. + +EMILY. She should have come when ’twas meal time then. I don’t hold +with bites nor drinks in between whiles. + +JOAN. O I’m dying for a glass of milk—or water would do as well. + +MILES. My dear young lady—anything to oblige. [_Turning to Jessie_.] +Come, my little maid, see if you can’t make yourself useful in bringing a +tray of refreshment for your auntie. And you [_turning to Robin_] trot +off and help sister. + +EMILY. Not if I know it. Stop where you are, Jess. Robin, you dare to +move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I’m afeared she must wait till +supper time. + +ROBIN. There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt. + +JESSIE. And a great pie of gooseberries. + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O I couldn’t touch a mouthful of food, don’t speak +to me about it. + +ROBIN. I likes talking of dinner. After I’ve done eating of it, I likes +next best to talk about it. + +LUKE. See here, missis. Let’s have a glass of summat cool for Miss +Clara. + +EMILY. [_Calling angrily_.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great +lazy-boned donkey? + +MAGGIE. [_Comes in from the back kitchen_, _her apron held to her +eyes_.] Did you call me, mistress? + +EMILY. Get up a bucket of water from the well. Master’s sister wants a +drink. + +MAGGIE. [_Between sobs_.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would the +young lady like it in a jug? + +EMILY. [_With exasperation_.] There’s no end to the worriting that +other folks do make. + +JESSIE. Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother. + +ROBIN. [_To_ JOAN.] Do you know what Maggie’s crying for, Aunt Clara? + +JOAN. I’m sure I don’t, little boy. + +ROBIN. ’Tis because she’s got to go. Mother’s sent her off. ’Twas what +she said of mother’s tongue. + +EMILY. [_Roughly taking hold of_ ROBIN _and_ JESSIE.] Come you along +with me, you ill-behaved little varmints. ’Tis the back kitchen and the +serving maid as is the properest place for such as you. I’ll not have +you bide ’mongst the company no longer. [_She goes out with the children +and followed by_ MAGGIE.] + +[_Directly they have left the room_ JOAN, _whose manner has been +nervously shrinking_, _seems to recover herself and she assumes a +languid_, _artificial air_, _badly imitating the ways of a lady of +fashion_. + +JOAN. [_Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan_.] Well, I +never did meet with such goings on before. + +MILES. You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, Miss +Clara. We must not expect to find the same polite ways down here. + +LUKE. Come now, ’tisn’t so bad as all that with we. There baint many +what has the tongue of mistress yonder. + +JOAN. I’m quite unused to such people. + +LUKE. And yet, Miss Clara, ’tisn’t as though they were exactly strangers +to you like. + +JOAN. They feel as good as strangers to me, any way. + +MILES. Ah, how well I understand that, Miss. ’Tisn’t very often as we +lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at my +counters. + +JOAN. I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn’t feel so +terrible faint and sinking. + +LUKE. [_Going to the back kitchen door_.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself +up a bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count. + +JESSIE. [_Runs in with a tray on which is a jug of water and a glass_.] +I’m bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. Maggie’s crying ever so +badly, and Mother’s sent her upstairs to wash her face and put her hair +tidy. + +[JESSIE _puts the tray on the table near to where_ JOAN _is sitting_. +MILES HOOFER _busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in +handing it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to_ JOAN. + +JOAN. [_Drinking_.] Such a coarse glass! + +MILES. Ah, you must let me send you up one from my place during your +stay here. Who could expect a lady to drink from such a thing as that? + +JOAN. [_Laying aside the glass_.] There’s a taste of mould in the water +too. + +JESSIE. It’s fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, she did. + +JOAN. [_Looking disdainfully round on the room_.] Such a strange room. +So very common. + +LUKE. Nay, you mustn’t judge of the house by this. Don’t you recollect +the parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds and the chiney cupboard? + +JOAN. [_Looking round again_.] Such an old-fashioned place as this I +never did see. ’Tis a low sort of room too, no carpet on the boards nor +cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant. + +MILES. Ah, we find the mansions in town very different to a country farm +house, don’t we Miss? + +JOAN. I should think we did, Mister Hooper. Why, look at that great old +wooden chair by the hearth? Don’t it look un-stylish, upon my word, with +no cushions to it nor nothing. + +JESSIE. [_Coming quite close to_ JOAN _and looking straight into her +face_.] That’s great gran’ma’s chair, what Dad said you’d be best +pleased for to see. + +[JOAN _looks very confused and begins to fan herself hastily_. + +JESSIE. And th’ old clock’s another thing what Dad did say as you’d look +upon. + +JOAN. O the old clock’s well enough, to be sure. + +JESSIE. I did want to gather a nosegay of flowers to set in your +bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, she said, no. + +JOAN. [_Languidly_.] I must say I don’t see any flowers blooming here +that I should particular care about having in my apartment. + +JESSIE. And Father said as how you’d like to smell the blossoms in the +garden. And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the clover blooms +when you was a little girl and set them by you where you did sleep. + +JOAN. [_Crossly_.] O run away, child, I’m tired to death with all this +chatter. How would you like to be so pestered after such a travel over +the rough country roads as I have had? + +LUKE. Now, my little maid, off you go. Take back the tray to Mother, +and be careful as you don’t break the glasses on it. + +JESSIE. [_Taking up the tray_.] I’m off to play in the hayfield along +of Robin, then. + +[LUKE _opens the back kitchen door for her and she goes out_. +_Meanwhile_ MILES _has taken up the fan and is fanning_ JOAN, _who leans +back in her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look_. + +LUKE. [_Coming to her side and sitting down_.] ’Twill seem more +homelike when Thomas do come up from the field. + +JOAN. [_Raising herself and looking at him_.] You mustn’t trouble about +me, Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable presently. + +[_The back door opens and_ MAGGIE _comes hurriedly in_. + +MAGGIE. Please, mistress, there be a young person a-coming through the +rick yard. + +JOAN. [_Nervously_.] A young person? + +MAGGIE. Mistress be at the gooseberries a-gathering of them, and the +children be gone off to th’ hay field. + +MILES. ’Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch the +young woman in to you? + +JOAN. My maid, did you say? My maid? + +LUKE. Ah, depend on it, ’tis she. + +MAGGIE. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, +mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white +handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes and +a-calling of the geese and poultry. + +LUKE. That’s her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag. + +JOAN. [_Agitatedly_.] No, no—I mean—I want to see her particular—and +alone. I’ll go to meet her. You—gentlemen—[MAGGIE _goes slowly into the +back kitchen_. + +MILES. [_Placing a chair for_ JOAN.] Delicate ladies should not venture +out into the heat at this time of day. + +JOAN. [_With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going to the +window_.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the garden. +I have need of the services of my—my young woman. But when she has put +me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask you to be good enough to +come back and while away an hour for me in this sad place. + +MILES. [_Fervently_.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss. + +LUKE. That’s right. Us’ll wait while you do lay aside your bonnet. + +[MILES _and_ LUKE _go out through the garden door_. MILES, _turning to +bow low before he disappears_. JOAN _stands as though distraught in the +middle of the room_. _Through the open door of the back kitchen the +voices of_ CLARA _and_ MAGGIE _are distinctly heard_. + +CLARA. Is no one at home then? + +MAGGIE. Ah, go you straight on into the kitchen, you’ll find whom you be +searching for in there. I’d take and shew you in myself only I’m wanted +down to th’ hayfield now. + +CLARA. Don’t put yourself to any trouble about me. I know my way. + +[CLARA _comes into the kitchen_. _She has tied a white handkerchief over +her head_, _and carries a bunch of wildflowers in her hands_. + +CLARA. Still in your cloak and bonnet! Why, I thought by now you would +have unpacked our things and made yourself at home. + +JOAN. [_Joining her hands supplicatingly and coming towards_ CLARA, +_speaking almost in a whisper_.] O mistress, you’ll never guess what +I’ve been and done. But ’twasn’t all my fault at the commencement. + +CLARA. [_Looking her over searchingly_.] You do look very disturbed, +Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. ’Twas the fine bonnet and cloak, mam. ’Twas they as did it. + +CLARA. Did what? + +JOAN. Put the thought into my head, like. + +CLARA. What thought? + +JOAN. As how ’twould feel to be a real grand lady, like you, mistress. + +CLARA. What then, Joan? + +JOAN. So I began to pretend all to myself as how that I was one, +mistress. + +CLARA. Come, tell me all. + +JOAN. And whilst I was sat down upon that fallen tree, and sort of +pretending to myself, the two gentlemen came along. + +CLARA. What gentlemen? + +JOAN. Gentlemen as was after courting you, mistress. + +CLARA. Courting me? + +JOAN. Yes, and they commenced speaking so nice and respectful like. + +CLARA. Go on, Joan, don’t be afraid. + +JOAN. It did seem to fall in with the game I was a-playing with myself. +And then, before I did know how, ’twas they was both of them a-taking me +for you, mam. + +CLARA. And did you not un-deceive them, Joan? + +JOAN. [_Very ashamedly_.] No, mam. + +CLARA. You should have told them the truth about yourself at once. + +JOAN. O I know I should have, mistress. But there was something as held +me back when I would have spoke the words. + +CLARA. I wonder what that could have been? + +JOAN. ’Twas them being such very nice and kind gentlemen. And, O +mistress, you’ll not understand it, because you’ve told me many times as +the heart within you have never been touched by love. + +CLARA. [_Suddenly sitting down_.] And has yours been touched to-day, +Joan, by love? + +JOAN. That it have, mistress. Love have struck at it heavily. + +CLARA. Through which of the gentlemen did it strike, Joan? + +JOAN. Through both. Leastways, ’tis Mister Jenner that my feelings do +go out most quickly to, mistress. But ’tis Mister Hooper who do court +the hardest and who has the greatest riches like. + +CLARA. Well, and what do you want me to do or to say now, Joan? + +JOAN. See here, mistress, I want you to give me a chance. They’ll never +stoop to wed me if they knows as I’m but a poor serving maid. + +CLARA. Your dressing up as a fine lady won’t make you other than what +you are, Joan. + +JOAN. Once let me get the fish in my net, mistress. + +CLARA. Are you proposing to catch the two, Joan? + +JOAN. I shall take the one as do offer first, mistress. + +CLARA. That’ll be Mister Hooper, I should think. + +JOAN. I should go riding in my own chaise, mistress, if ’twas him. + +CLARA. But, Joan, either of these men would have to know the truth +before there could be any marriage. + +JOAN. I knows that full well, mistress. But let one of them just offer +hisself. By that time my heart and his would be so closely twined +together like, ’twould take more nor such a little thing as my station +being low to part us. + +[CLARA _sits very still for a few moments_, _looking straight before +her_, _lost in thought_. JOAN _sinks on to a chair by the table as +though suddenly tired out_, _and she begins to cry gently_. + +CLARA. Listen, Joan. I’m one for the straight paths. I like to walk in +open fields and over the bare heath. Only times come when one is driven +to take to the ways which are set with bushes and with briars. + +JOAN. [_Lifting her head and drying her eyes_.] O mistress, I feel to +be asking summat as is too heavy for you to give. + +CLARA. But for a certain thing, I could never have lent myself to this +acting game of yours, Joan. + +JOAN. No, mistress? + +CLARA. Only that, to-day, my heart too has gone from my own keeping. + +JOAN. O mistress, you don’t mean to say as his lordship have followed us +down already. + +CLARA. [_Scornfully_.] His lordship! As if I should be stirred by him! + +JOAN. [_Humbly_.] Who might it be, mistress, if I may ask? + +CLARA. ’Tis one who would never look upon me with thoughts of love if I +went to him as I am now, Joan. + +JOAN. I can’t rightly understand you, mam. + +CLARA. My case is just the same as yours, Joan. You say that your fine +gentlemen would not look upon a serving maid. + +JOAN. I’m certain of it, mistress. + +CLARA. And the man I—I love will never let his heart go out to mine with +the heaviness of all these riches lying between us. + +JOAN. I count that gold do pave the way for most of us, mistress. + +CLARA. So for this once, I will leave the clear high road, Joan. And +you and I will take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God they do not +wound us past healing at the end of our travel. + +JOAN. O mistress, ’twill be a lightsome journey for me. + +CLARA. But the moment that you reach happiness, Joan, remember to +confess. + +JOAN. There won’t be nothing to fear then, mistress. + +CLARA. Make him love you for yourself, Joan. O we must each tie the +heart of our true love so tightly to our own that naught shall ever be +able to cut the bonds. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress, and I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you. + +CLARA. Ah, I am lending myself to all this, because I, too, have +something to win or lose. + +JOAN. Where did you meet him, mistress? + +CLARA. I did not meet him. I stood on the high ground, and he passed +below. His face was raised to the light, and I saw its look. I think my +love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, Joan. But when he +passed beneath me in the meadow, it awoke. + +JOAN. O mistress, what sort of an appearance has the gentleman? + +CLARA. I don’t know how to answer you, Joan. + +JOAN. I count as it would take a rare, grand looking man for to put his +lordship into the shadow, like. + +CLARA. You are right there, Joan. But now we must talk of your affairs. +Your fine courtiers will be coming in presently and you must know how to +receive them in a good way. + +JOAN. That’s what do hamper me dreadful, my speech and other things. +How would it be if you was to help me a little bit, like? + +CLARA. With all my heart. + +JOAN. How should I act so not to be found out, mistress? + +CLARA. You must speak little, and low. Do not show haste in your goings +and comings. Put great care into your way of eating and drinking. + +JOAN. O that will be a fearsome hard task. What else? + +CLARA. You must be sisterly with Thomas. + +JOAN. I’d clean forgot him. I don’t doubt but what he’ll ferret out the +truth in no time. + +CLARA. I don’t think so. I was but a little child when I left him. He +will not remember how I looked. And our colouring is alike, Joan. + +JOAN. ’Tis the eating and drinking as do play most heavily upon my mind, +mistress. + +CLARA. Then think of these words as you sit at table. Eat as though you +were not hungry and drink as though there were no such thing as thirst. +Let your hands move about your plate as if they were too tired to lift +the knife and fork. + +[JOAN, _darts to the dresser_—_seizes up a plate with a knife and fork_, +_places them on the table and sits down before them_, _pretending to cut +up meat_. CLARA _watches her smilingly_. + +JOAN. [_Absently_, _raising the knife to her mouth_.] How’s that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Not so, not so, Joan. That might betray you. + +JOAN. What, mistress? + +CLARA. ’Tis the fork which journeys to the mouth, and the knife stops at +home on the plate. + +JOAN. [_Dispiritedly_.] ’Tis almost more than I did reckon for when I +started. + +CLARA. Well, we mustn’t think of that now. We must hold up our spirits, +you and I. + +JOAN. [_Getting up and putting away the crockery_.] I’d best take off +the bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn’t I? + +CLARA. Yes, that you had. We will go upstairs together and I will help +you change into another gown. Come quickly so that we may have plenty of +time. + +[_They go towards the staircase door_, CLARA _leading the way_. _With +her hand on the latch of the door she gives one look round the kitchen_. +_Then with a sudden movement she goes up to the wooden armchair at the +hearth and bends her head till her lips touch it_, _she then runs +upstairs_, _followed by_ JOAN. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + +_After a few moments_ MILES HOOPER _and_ LUKE JENNER _come into the +kitchen_. _They both look round the room enquiringly_. + +LUKE. Ah, she be still up above with that there serving wench what’s +come. + +MILES. My good man, you didn’t expect our fair miss to have finished her +toilet under an hour, did you? + +LUKE. I don’t see what there was to begin on myself, let alone finish. + +MILES. ’Tis clear you know little of the ways of our town beauties, +Luke. + +LUKE. Still, I mean to have my try with her, Miles Hooper. + +MILES. [_Sarcastically_.] I’m quite agreeable, Mister Jenner. + +[THOMAS _and_ GEORGE _come in_. GEORGE _carries a bucket of water_. + +THOMAS. Where’s the little maid got to? George and me be come up from +the field on purpose for to bid her welcome home. + +MILES. Miss is still at her toilet, farmer. + +[JOAN, _in a flowered silk gown_, _comes slowly and carefully into the +room_, _followed by_ CLARA, _who carries a lace shawl over one arm_. +_She has put on a large white apron_, _but wears nothing on her head but +the narrow blue ribbon_. _During the following scene she stands +quietly_, _half hidden by the door_. + +[JOAN _looks nervously round the room_, _then she draws herself up very +haughtily_. MILES _comes forward and bows low_. + +THOMAS. [_Looking_ JOAN _up and down_.] Well, bless my soul, who’d have +guessed at the change it do make in a wench? + +JOAN. [_Holding out her hand_, _very coldly_.] A good afternoon to you, +sir. + +THOMAS. [_Taking her hand slowly_.] Upon my word, but you might knock +me over. + +MILES. Miss has grown into a very superb young lady, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Still looking at her_.] That may be so, yet ’twasn’t as such +I had figured she in the eye of my mind, like. [_There is a moment’s +silence_. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, you and sister Clara used to be up to rare games +one with t’other once on a time. [_Turning to_ JOAN.] There, my wench, +I count you’ve not forgotten Georgie? + +JOAN. I’m afeared I’ve not much of a memory. + +THOMAS. Shake hands, my maid, and very like as the memory will come back +to roost same as the fowls do. + +JOAN. [_Bowing coldly_.] Good afternoon, George. + +MILES. [_Aside to Luke_.] Now that’s what I call a bit of stylish +breeding. + +[GEORGE _has made no answer to_ JOAN’S _bow_. _He quietly ignores it_, +_and takes up his pail of water_. _As he does so he catches sight of_ +CLARA, _who has been watching the whole scene from the corner where she +is partly concealed_. _He looks at her for one moment_, _and then sets +the bucket down again_. + +THOMAS. Why, George—I guess as it’s took you as it took me, us didn’t +think how ’twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up. + +GEORGE. [_Quietly_.] No, us did not, master. + +[_He carries his pail into the back kitchen as_ EMILY _and the children +come in_. + +EMILY. What’s all this to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know? + +THOMAS. Us did but come up for to—to give a handshake to sister Clara, +like. + +EMILY. Well, now you can go off back to work again. And you—[_turning +to_ JOAN]—now that you’ve finished curling of your hair and dressing of +yourself up, you can go and sit down in the best parlour along with your +fancy gentlemen. + +MILES. [_Offering his arm to_ JOAN.] It will be my sweet pleasure to +conduct Missy to the parlour. + +[LUKE _offers his arm on the other side_, _and_ JOAN _moves off with both +the young men_. + +JOAN. [_As she goes_.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a comfortable +couch. I’m dead tired of the country air already. + +ROBIN. [_Calling after her_.] You’ll not go off to sleep afore the +chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt? + +[MILES, LUKE _and_ JOAN _having gone out_, EMILY _begins to bang the +chairs back in their places and to arrange the room_, _watched by the two +children_. CLARA, _who has remained half hidden by the door_, _now goes +quietly upstairs_. + +EMILY. [_Calling_.] Here, George, Mag. + +[GEORGE _comes in_. + +EMILY. Well, George, ’tisn’t much worse nor I expected. + +JESSIE. I don’t like Aunt Clara. + +ROBIN. I hates her very much. + +GEORGE. [_Slowly_.] And I don’t seem to fancy her neither. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_Two days have passed by_. + +_It is morning_. CLARA, _wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head_, +_sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief_. MAGGIE, _who is +dusting the plates on the dressers_, _pauses to watch her_. + +MAGGIE. I’d sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor have to +set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you. + +CLARA. I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine. + +MAGGIE. I count ’tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a young +miss such as yourn be. + +CLARA. What makes you say that, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in the +tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis when +she do come to that age. + +CLARA. Why do you think this, Mag? + +MAGGIE. O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor the very +worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word did cost she +more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how destructive she be with +her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore to ribbons last night, and +to-day yon handkerchief. + +CLARA. These things are soon mended. + +[MAGGIE _continues to dust for a few moments_. + +MAGGIE. The day you comed here, ’twas a bit of ribbon as you did have +around of your hair. + +CLARA. [_After a moment’s hesitation_.] I put it on to keep my hair +neat on the journeying. + +MAGGIE. [_Coming nearer_.] I count as you’ve not missed it, have you? + +CLARA. Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the hayfield. + +MAGGIE. ’Tain’t lost. + +CLARA. Where is it then? + +MAGGIE. Look here, I could tell you, but I shan’t. + +CLARA. If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it. + +MAGGIE. ’Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you be, +and to give away ribbons, so ’twould. + +[CLARA _takes no notice of her and goes on sewing_. + +MAGGIE. [_More insistently_.] ’Twasn’t me as found the ribbon. + +CLARA. Who was it then? + +MAGGIE. I daresay you’d like for to know, but I’m not going to say +nothing more about it. + +[MAGGIE _leans against the table watching_ CLARA _as she sews_. + +[EMILY _with both the children now come in_. EMILY _carries a basket of +potatoes_, _and_ JESSIE _a large bowl_. + +EMILY. [_Setting down the basket_.] Maggie, you idle, bad girl, +whatever are you doing here when master expects you down in the meadow to +help with the raking? + +MAGGIE. I be just a-going off yonder, mistress. + +EMILY. I’d thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine young serving +minxes down here—you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but you’ll be a +hundred times worser now. + +MAGGIE. I’ll be off and help master. I’ve been and put the meat on to +boil as you said, missis. + +[MAGGIE _goes off_. + +[CLARA _continues to sew_, _quietly_. JESSIE _has put her bowl down on +the table_, _and now comes to her side_. ROBIN _also comes close to +her_. EMILY _flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously +watches them_. + +JESSIE. We don’t care much about our new aunt, Joan. + +ROBIN. Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good from +London town in them great boxes. + +JESSIE. And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn’t brought +us nothing. + +EMILY. Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy +gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you +children. + +JESSIE. Will Aunt Clara get married soon? + +EMILY. ’Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set out in the house I +have never seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and hearty +having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying in bed till ’tis +noon or later. + +JESSIE. ’Tis only one of them as lies in bed. + +ROBIN. [_To_ CLARA.] Do you think Aunt has got sommat for us upstairs, +Joan? + +CLARA. [_Rising and putting down her work_.] I know she has, Robin. + +EMILY. Don’t let me catch you speaking to Master Spring as though you +and he was of the same station, young person. + +CLARA. Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch the +gifts that your aunt has brought for you. + +[_She goes leisurely towards the staircase door_, _smiling at the +children_. + +EMILY. Ah, and you may tell your young madam that ’tis high time as she +was out of bed and abroad. Hear that? [CLARA _goes out_. + +JESSIE. I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt. + +EMILY. She’s a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the +hands of her, ’tis not a day’s hard work as they have done in her life, +I’ll warrant. + +ROBIN. What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do you think? + +EMILY. Sommat what you don’t need, I warrant. ’Tis always so. When +folks take it into their heads to give you aught, ’tis very nigh always +sommat which you could do better without. + +[EMILY _gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire_, _and fetching +a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays on +the table_. + +[CLARA _enters carrying some parcels_. _She brings them to the table_. +_Both the children run to her_. + +CLARA. [_Holding out a long parcel to_ EMILY _and speaking to the +children_.] The first is for your mother, children. + +EMILY. [_With an angry exclamation_.] Now, you mark my words, ’twill be +sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use ’twill be. + +[_She comes near_, _opens the parcel and perceives it to be a length of +rich black silk_. + +CLARA. My mistress thought it might be suitable. + +EMILY. Suitable? I’ll suitable her. When shall my two hands find time +to sew me a gown out of it, I’d like to know? And if ’twas sewn, when +would my limbs find time to sit down within of it? [_Flinging it down on +the table_.] Suitable? You can tell your mistress from me as she can +keep her gifts to herself if she can’t do better nor this. + +JESSIE. [_Stroking the silk_.] O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor a +dove’s feather. + +ROBIN. [_Feeling it too_.] ’Tis better nor the new kittens’ fur. + +EMILY. Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards you +children. + +CLARA. I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with her +aunt’s dear love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin. + +JESSIE. [_Seizing the beads with delight_.] I love a string of beads. +[_Putting them on_.] How do they look on me? + +EMILY. Off with them this moment. I’ll learn her to give strings of +rubbish to my child. + +JESSIE. [_Beginning to cry_.] O do let me wear it just a little while, +just till dinner, Mother. + +EMILY. Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do you hear. + +JESSIE. [_Taking the necklace off_.] I love the feel of it—might I keep +it in my hand then? + +EMILY. [_Seizing it_.] ’Twill be put by with the silk dress. So there. +’Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl like you. + +ROBIN. [_Looking up from the pages of his book_.] No one shan’t take my +book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep and cows in +it—and no one shan’t hide it from me. + +EMILY. [_Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table_.] Next +time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as she’ll +ask me to come and see her a-doing of it. + +JESSIE. [_Coming up to_ CLARA _very tearfully_.] And was there naught +for Dad in the great box? + +CLARA. Perhaps there may be. + +ROBIN. And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie? + +CLARA. I don’t know. + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him. + +ROBIN. And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner. + +EMILY. [_Sharply_.] Look you here, young woman. Suppose you was to +take and do something useful with that idle pair of hands as you’ve got. + +CLARA. Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something. + +EMILY. Us knows what fine promises lead to. + +CLARA. But I mean it. Do let me help a little. + +EMILY. See them taters? + +CLARA. Yes. + +EMILY. Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against when I +wants to cook them. + +CLARA. [_A little doubtfully_.] Yes—I’ll—I’ll try— + +EMILY. Ah, ’tis just as I thought. You’re one of them who would stir +the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with the poker. + +CLARA. [_Eagerly_.] No, no—it isn’t that. I’ll gladly do them. Come, +Miss Jessie, you will shew me if I do them wrongly, won’t you? + +JESSIE. O yes, I’ll help you because I like you, Joan. + +ROBIN. I’ll help too, when I have finished looking at my book. + +[EMILY _goes out_. CLARA _sits down by the table and takes up a potato +and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work_. JESSIE _stands by +her watching_. + +JESSIE. You mustn’t take no account of Mother when she speaks so sharp. +’Tis only her way. + +ROBIN. Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie’s sent off? + +CLARA. O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think. + +JESSIE. Yes, you don’t do them taters very nice. + +ROBIN. That don’t matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine things +about other parts. + +JESSIE. Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there he comes with +the vegetables from the garden. + +[GEORGE _comes in with a large basket of vegetables_, _which he sets down +in the back kitchen_. _Then he stands at the door_, _silently watching +the group near the table_. + +JESSIE. Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the tales out of +what you do sing. + +GEORGE. What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs this +time of day? + +JESSIE. Mother’s gone upstairs, she won’t know nothing. + +ROBIN. Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt have +brought me. + +GEORGE. [_Slowly approaching the table_.] That be a brave, fine book of +pictures, Master Robin. + +ROBIN. [_Holding up the open book_.] I don’t fancy Aunt Clara much, but +I likes her better nor I did because of this book. + +[GEORGE’S _eyes wander from the book to_ CLARA _as she bends over her +work_. + +JESSIE. Joan doesn’t know how to do them very nicely, does she George! + +GEORGE. ’Tis the first time you’ve been set down to such work, may be, +mistress. + +JESSIE. You mustn’t say “mistress” to Joan, you know. Why, Mother would +be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan’s only a servant. + +CLARA. [_Looking up_.] Like you, George. + +GEORGE. [_Steadily_.] What I was saying is—’Tis the first time as you +have been set afore a bowl of taters like this. + +CLARA. You are right, George. It is the first time since—since I was +quite a little child. And I think I’m very clumsy at my work. + +GEORGE. No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over their +fingers. + +JESSIE. You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, same +as Maggie does. + +GEORGE. Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan. + +[JOAN _puts aside the knife and basket_, _turns back her sleeves_, _and +then resumes her work_. GEORGE’S _eyes are rivetted on her hands and +arms for a moment_. _Then he turns as though to go away_. + +JESSIE. Don’t go away, Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt +Clara now that she’s growed into such a grand lady. + +GEORGE. [_Coming back to the table_.] I don’t like nothing about her, +Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride the big +horses to the trough, Georgie? + +ROBIN. And from the time when th’ old gander did take a big piece right +out of her arm, Georgie? + +GEORGE. [_His eyes on_ CLARA’S _bent head_.] I count her be wonderful +changed, like. + +JESSIE. So that you would scarce know her? + +GEORGE. So that I should scarce know she. + +JESSIE. She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string of coral +beads. But naught for you, Georgie. + +GEORGE. I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance like. + +CLARA. [_With sudden earnestness_.] O that she has, George. + +JESSIE. She didn’t seem to know him by her looks. + +CLARA. Looks often speak but poorly for the heart. + +ROBIN. [_Who has been watching_ CLARA.] See there, Joan. You’ve been +and cut that big tater right in half. Mother will be cross. + +CLARA. O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the same +time. + +GEORGE. [_Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself on the +edge of the table_.] Here,—give them all to me. I understand such work, +and ’tis clear that you do not. I’ll finish them off in a few minutes, +and mistress will never be the wiser. + +CLARA. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle? + +GEORGE. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a mind. +’Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job. + +[CLARA _puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework_. + +JESSIE. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters. + +GEORGE. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day. + +JESSIE. You ask him, Joan. + +CLARA. Will not you sing one little verse, George? + +GEORGE. Nay—strangers from London town would have no liking for the +songs we sing down here among the fields. + +CLARA. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me very +well. + +JESSIE. What was it called? + +CLARA. I cannot remember the name—but there was something of bushes and +of briars in it. + +JESSIE. I know which that is. ’Tis a pretty song. Sing it, Georgie. + +GEORGE. Nay—sing it yourself, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. ’Tis like this at the beginning.—[_she sings or repeats_]— + + “Through bushes and through briars + I lately took my way, + All for to hear the small birds sing + And the lambs to skip and play.” + +CLARA. That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie. + +GEORGE. Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. I can’t say any more. + +CLARA. [_Gently singing or speaking_.] + + I overheard my own true love, + Her voice it was so clear. + “Long time I have been waiting for + The coming of my dear.” + +GEORGE. [_Heaving a sigh_.] That’s it. + +JESSIE. Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it. + +CLARA. Shall I go on with the song, George? + +GEORGE. As you please. + +CLARA. + + “Sometimes I am uneasy + And troubled in my mind, + Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love + And tell to him my mind.” + + “And if I would go to my love + My love he will say nay + If I show to him my boldness + He’ll ne’er love me again.” + +JESSIE. When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear her +a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then? + +CLARA. I don’t know, Jessie. + +JESSIE. I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all what +she did keep in her mind. + +CLARA. Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, that he +never got to the other side for her to tell him. + +GEORGE. Yes, that’s how ’twas, I count. + +JESSIE. [_Running up to_ ROBIN.] I’m going to look at your book along +of you, Robin. + +ROBIN. But I’m the one to turn the leaves, remember. [_The children sit +side by side looking at the picture book_. CLARA _sews_. GEORGE _goes +on with the potatoes_. _As the last one is finished and tossed into the +water_, _he looks at_ CLARA _for the first time_. _A long silence_. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time. + +CLARA. Tell me how it was then, George. + +GEORGE. I did used to put her on the horse’s back, and we would go down +to the water trough in the evening time and— + +CLARA. What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George? + +GEORGE. Us would walk in the woods aside of one another—And I would lift +she to a high branch in a tree—and pretend for to leave her there. + +CLARA. And then? + +GEORGE. Her would call upon me pitiful—and I would come back from where +I was hid. + +CLARA. And did her crying cease? + +GEORGE. She would take and spring as though her was one of they little +wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees. + +CLARA. Where would she spring to, George? + +GEORGE. I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she. + +CLARA. And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, George? + +GEORGE. I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long as her +was in the care of me. + +CLARA. [_Slowly_, _after a short pause_.] I do not think she can have +forgotten those days, George. + +GEORGE. [_Getting up and speaking harshly_.] They’re best forgot. Put +them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and sommat of all +which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and this’n. + +[CLARA _turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief to her +eyes_. GEORGE _looks gloomily on the floor_. EMILY _enters_. + +EMILY. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I’d like to +know? + +[GEORGE _gets hastily off_. _Both children look up from their book_. + +EMILY. [_Looking freezingly at_ CLARA.] ’Tis plain as a turnpike what +you’ve been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, ’tis neck +and crop as you should be thrown from the door. + +CLARA. What for, mistress? + +EMILY. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I’ll soon +tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him and +scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen. + +GEORGE. This be going a bit too far, missis. I’ll not have things said +like that. + +EMILY. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took from—a +grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more’n what you eats nor +what we get of work from out of your body, you great hulk. + +CLARA. [_Springing up angrily_.] O I’ll not hear such things said. +I’ll not. + +EMILY. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your mistress +out of bed—and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the flour on to her +face. ’Tis about all you be fit for. + +CLARA. [_Angrily going to the stair door_.] Very well. ’Tis best that +I should go. I might say something you would not like. + +GEORGE. [_Advancing towards_ EMILY.] Look you here, mistress. I’ve put +up with it going on for fifteen years. But sometimes ’tis almost more +nor I can bear. If ’twasn’t for Master Thomas I’d have cleared out this +long time ago. + +EMILY. Don’t flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man. + +GEORGE. We has always been good friends, farmer and me. ’Tis not for +what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold +together. But ’tis this—as he and I do understand one another. + +EMILY. We’ll see what master has to say when I tell him how you was +found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy piece +of London trash. + +GEORGE. I’m off. I’ve no patience to listen any longer. You called me +roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I was born and on the +road I was picked from my dead mother’s side, and I count as ’tis on the +road as I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I’ll not have road +dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint though I be, there be +things which I do hold brighter nor silver and cleaner nor new opened +leaves, and I’ll not have defilement throwed upon them. + +EMILY. [_Seizing the arms of_ JESSIE _and_ ROBIN.] The lad’s raving. +’Tis plain as he’s been getting at the cider. Come you off with me to +the haymaking, Robin and Jess. + +ROBIN. May I take my book along of me? + +EMILY. [_Flinging the book down violently_.] I’ll book you! What next? + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. He was only +doing the taters for her. + +EMILY. [_As they go out_.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I’ll get her +packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don’t. + +[GEORGE _is left alone in the kitchen_. _When all sounds of_ EMILY _and +the children have died away_, _he sighs_. _Then_, _looking furtively +round the room_, _he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket_. _He +spreads it out on one hand and stands looking down on it_, _sadly and +longingly_. _Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it_. _Just +as he is doing this_ THOMAS _comes into the room_. + +THOMAS. Why, George, my lad. + +GEORGE. [_Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket_.] Yes, +Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Looking meaningly at_ GEORGE.] ’Tis a pretty enough young +maid, George. + +GEORGE. What did you say, Master? + +THOMAS. That one with the bit of blue round the head of her. + +GEORGE. Blue? + +THOMAS. Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time. + +GEORGE. Yes, master. + +THOMAS. ’Twasn’t a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but ’twas +a blossom dropped from her gown. + +GEORGE. Whose gown, master? I’ll warrant ’twasn’t missus’s. + +THOMAS. Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. ’Twasn’t the mistress then. + +GEORGE. Ah, I count as it could not have been she. + +THOMAS. First love, ’tis best, George. + +GEORGE. Ah, upon my word, that ’tis. + +THOMAS. But my maid went and got her married to another. + +GEORGE. More’s the pity, Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Sighing_.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been—with +her and me, like. + +GEORGE. Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master? + +THOMAS. Soft and sweet as the field lark, George. + +GEORGE. Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. Ah, George, don’t you never run into the trap, no matter whether +’tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on. Once in, +never out. There ’tis. + +GEORGE. No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. I baint +worth trapping. + +THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty baggage +from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had +the fortune. + +GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint nothing. + +THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George. + +GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. [_Steps are +heard in the staircase_. + +THOMAS. We’ll off to the meadow then, George. + +[GEORGE _and_ THOMAS _go out_. + +[JOAN, _dressed as a lady of fashion_, _and followed by_ CLARA, _comes +into the kitchen_. + +CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, and +let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more easy and +natural when you are in the air. + +JOAN. O I’m very nigh dead with fright when I’m within doors. ’Tis so +hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at table +’tis worst of all. + +CLARA. You’ve stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the headache, +and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood. + +JOAN. But to-night ’twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have +asked them both to supper again. + +CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man? + +JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time, +mistress. + +CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, and +then I will shew you how it is to be eaten. + +JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the +parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, what +have I got to say to him? + +CLARA. O, I shouldn’t trouble about that. I’d open my fan and take no +notice if I were you. + +JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, mistress. +And with the children, too. + +CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. +Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your way +with the children. + +JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with them. + +CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, Joan. +Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner here and +there. + +JOAN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] ’Tis the here and the there as I finds it +so hard to manage. + +JESSIE. [_Running in breathlessly_.] A letter, a letter for Aunt Clara. +[CLARA _involuntarily puts out her hand_.] No, Joan. I was to give it +to Aunt Clara herself. I’ve run all the way. + +[JOAN _slowly takes the letter_, _looking confused_. + +JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt? + +JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don’t want no children worriting round me +now. [_Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to speak +brightly_.] I mean—no, my dear little girl, I’d rather wait to read it +till I’m by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, my pet. + +JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much. + +JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there’s a sweet little +maid. + +JESSIE. I’d sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like. + +CLARA. [_Taking_ JESSIE’S _hand and leading her to the door_.] Now, +Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter in quiet, but if you will +come back presently I will have a game with you outside. + +JESSIE. [_As she runs off_.] Mother won’t let me talk with you any +more, alone. She says as you’ve made a fool of Georgie and you’ll do the +same by us all. + +JOAN. [_When_ JESSIE _has run off_.] There now, how did I do that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Better, much better. + +JOAN. ’Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of another, with +you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me. + +CLARA. [_After a moment’s thought_.] No. It is not quite like that. +But ’tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly feeling in better garments. + +JOAN. [_Handing the letter to_ CLARA.] There, mistress, ’tis yours, not +mine. + +CLARA. [_Glancing at it_.] Lord Lovel’s writing. [CLARA _opens the +letter and reads it through_.] He will not wait longer for my answer. +And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him. + +JOAN. O, mistress, whatever shall we do? + +CLARA. We had better own to everything at once. It will save trouble in +the end. + +JOAN. Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was closing +upon it, like! + +CLARA. Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, if the man +loves you truly. + +JOAN. Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is +coming up to see me now. I’d bring him to offer his self, if I was but +left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so. + +CLARA. And then, Joan? + +JOAN. And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, mistress, +maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn’t think no +worse of me. + +[CLARA _gets up and goes to the window_, _where she looks out for a few +minutes in silence_. JOAN _cries softly meanwhile_. + +CLARA. [_Turning towards_ JOAN.] As you will, Joan. Very likely ’twill +be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches this place. + +JOAN. O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all may +go as well with you as ’tis with me. + +CLARA. [_Sadly_.] That is not likely, Joan. + +JOAN. What is it stands in the way, mistress? + +CLARA. Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and +hurting thing. + +JOAN. Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when he +do offer next. + +CLARA. I’ll think of what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when the +heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into shelter. [_A +slight pause_. + +JOAN. [_Looking through the window_.] Look up quickly, mistress. +There’s Hooper. + +CLARA. [_Getting up_.] Then I’ll run away. May all be well with you, +dear Joan. [CLARA _goes out_. + +[JOAN _seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan_. MILES +_enters_, _carrying a small box_. + +MILES. Already astir, Miss Clara. ’Tis early hours to be sure for one +of our London beauties. + +[_He advances towards her_, _and she stretches out her hand without +rising_. _He takes it ceremoniously_. + +JOAN. You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper. + +[MILES _places a chair in front of_ JOAN, _and sits down on it_. + +MILES. [_Untying the parcel_.] I’ve been so bold as to bring you a +little keepsake from my place in town, Missy. + +JOAN. How kind you are, Mister Miles. + +MILES. You’ll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see it, +Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. [_Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of bright +artificial flowers_.] There, what do you say to that, Miss? And we can +do you the same in all the leading tints. + +JOAN. O, ’tis wonderful modish. I declare I never did see anything to +beat it up in town. + +MILES. Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can hold our own +with the best of them in Painswick High Street. + +JOAN. I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper. + +[_She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from_ MILES, +_pretending to smell it_. + +MILES. Well—and what’s the next pleasure, Madam? + +[JOAN _drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently_. + +MILES. [_Very gently_.] What’s Missy’s next pleasure? + +JOAN. I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Miles. + +MILES. Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his. + +JOAN. O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are. + +MILES. Ladies never like the sound of business, so we’ll set that aside +for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place of it. + +JOAN. Ah, that’s a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. I loved you from the first, Miss. There’s the true, high born +lady for you, says I to myself. There’s beauty and style, elegance and +refinement. + +JOAN. Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. What about, sir? + +MILES. The answer to my question, Missy. + +JOAN. And what was that, I wonder? + +MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. Will she +oblige her Miles? + +JOAN. O that I will. With all my heart. + +MILES. [_Standing up_.] I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye +my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and such +trifles. + +JOAN. [_Agitatedly_.] O let us not destroy to-day by thoughts of +anything but our dear affection one for t’other. + +MILES. Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified in her +speech. + +JOAN. ’Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear Miles, promise there +shan’t be nothing but—but love talk between you and me this day. I could +not bear it if we was to speak of, of other things, like. + +MILES. [_Getting up and walking about the room_.] As you will—as you +will. Anything to oblige a lady. + +[_He stops before the table_, _on which is laid_ EMILY’S _silk dress_, +_and begins to finger it_. + +JOAN. What’s that you’re looking at? + +MILES. Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, I’ll be +bound. + +JOAN. O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with the old +silk. + +MILES. No, no, Missy, I’m a man of business habits, and ’tis my duty to +go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He and I have +got to talk things over a bit, you know. + +JOAN. Off so soon! O you have saddened me. + +MILES. Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, when life +is in front of us, Miss Clara? + +[_He raises her hand_, _kisses it_, _and leaves her_. _As he goes out by +the door_ CLARA _enters_. + +JOAN. O, Mistress—stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at the meadow! + +CLARA. Why, Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer to talk about +the—the wedding and the money. + +CLARA. The money? + +JOAN. The income which he thinks I have. + +CLARA. I’ll run, but all this time I’ve been keeping Master Luke Jenner +quiet in the parlour. + +JOAN. O what does he want now? + +CLARA. Much the same as the other one wanted. + +JOAN. Must I see him? + +CLARA. Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. He’s at +boiling point already. + +JOAN. Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and keep +Miles Hooper from the farmer. + +CLARA. I’ll run my best, never fear. [_She goes out_. + +[LUKE JENNER _comes in_, _a bunch of homely flowers in his hand_. + +JOAN. [_Seating herself_.] You are early this morning, Mister Jenner. + +LUKE. [_Sitting opposite to her_.] I have that to say which would not +bide till sunset, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be. + +LUKE. ’Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you was +coming down here—“I could do with a rich wife if so be as I could win +her,” I did tell myself. + +JOAN. O, Mister Jenner, now did you really? + +LUKE. But when I met you in the wood—saw you sitting there, so still and +yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. “That’s the maid for me,” I +says to myself. + +JOAN. [_Tearfully_.] O, Mister Jenner! + +LUKE. And if it had been beggar’s rags upon her in the place of satin, +I’d have said the same. + +JOAN. [_Very much stirred_.] O, Mister Jenner, and did you really think +like that? + +LUKE. If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in the deep +ocean, ’twould be the best as could happen. There! + +JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O, Mister Jenner, why? + +LUKE. Because, very like ’twould shew to you as ’tis yourself I’m after +and not the fortune what you’ve got. + +JOAN. Mister Jenner, I’m mighty sorry. + +LUKE. Don’t say I’m come too late, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, ’tis he and I +who are like to be wed. + +LUKE. I might have known I had no chance. + +JOAN. [_Rising and trying to hide her emotion_.] I wouldn’t have had it +happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner. + +LUKE. [_Laying his bunch of flowers on the table_, _his head bent_, _and +his eyes on the ground_.] ’Twas none of your doing, Miss Clara. You’ve +naught to blame yourself for. ’Tis not your fault as you’re made so—so +beautiful, and yet so homely. + +[JOAN _looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately +leaves the room_. + +[LUKE _folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them in an +attitude of deepest despondency_. _After a few moments_ CLARA _enters_. + +CLARA. O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you? + +LUKE. [_Raising his head and pointing to the window_.] There she goes, +through the garden with her lover. + +CLARA. I wish that you were in his place. + +LUKE. [_Bitterly_.] I’ve no house with golden rails to offer her. Nor +any horse and chaise. + +CLARA. But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love. + +LUKE. What use is the love which be fastened up in a man’s heart and can +spend itself on naught, I’d like to know. [_He rises as though to go and +take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on the table_. +_Brokenly_.] I brought them for her. But I count as he’ll have given +her something better nor these. + +[CLARA _takes the flowers gently from his hand_, _and as she does so_, +EMILY _enters_. + +EMILY. What now if you please! First with George and then with Luke. +’Twould be Thomas next if he wasn’t an old sheep of a man as wouldn’t +know if an eye was cast on him or no. But I’ll soon put a stop to all +this. Shame on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine piece of London +vanity, I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so off with you +upstairs. + +[_She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls_. + + + +ACT IV.—Scene 1. + + +_The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers_. _A long table is +spread with silver_, _china and food_. CLARA _is setting mugs to each +place_. MAGGIE _comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of +salad_. + +MAGGIE. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes to enjoy +themselves among the vegetables. + +CLARA. [_Placing the last mug_.] There—Now all is ready for them. + +MAGGIE. [_Bending over a place at the end of the table_.] Come you and +look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in through the +window. + +CLARA. [_Goes to_ MAGGIE’S _side and bends down over the table_.] O +what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold on him, and his legs are like +feathers. + +MAGGIE. [_Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting it fly +through the window_.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say. + +CLARA. A stranger, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. You mind my words, ’tis a stranger as’ll sit where yon was +stuck, afore the eating be finished. + +CLARA. I don’t believe in such signs, myself. + +MAGGIE. I never knowed it not come true. + +[THOMAS _comes in_. _He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased_, +_yet nervous_. + +THOMAS. Well, maids. Upon my word ’tis a spread. Never saw so many +different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this house. + +MAGGIE. ’Tis in honour of Miss Clara’s going to be married like, master. + +THOMAS. So ’tis, so ’tis. Well—A single rose upon the bush. Bound to +be plucked, you know. Couldn’t be left to fade in the sun, eh, girls? + +CLARA. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going on, +master? Mistress has not told us yet. + +THOMAS. [_Nervously_.] Mistress haven’t told you—haven’t she? +Well—well—at such a time we must all—all rejoice one with t’other, like. +No difference made t’wixt master and man. Nor t’wixt maid and missus. +Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my wenches. Up +against George—How’s that? + +CLARA. That will do very well for us, Master. + +MAGGIE. I don’t expect as missus will let we bide there long. + +THOMAS. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and at the +asking in marriage of my only sister like, ’tis me as shall say what +shall sit down with who. And there’s an end of it. That’s all. + +MAGGIE. I hear them a coming in, master. + +[EMILY, _holding the hands of_ JESSIE _and_ ROBIN, _comes into the room_. +_Her eyes fall on_ THOMAS _who is standing between_ CLARA _and_ MAGGIE, +_looking suddenly sheepish and nervous_. + +EMILY. [_In a voice of suppressed anger_.] Thomas! O, if I catch any +more of these goings on in my kitchen. + +[JOAN, _very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of_ MILES HOOPER, +_follows_ EMILY _into the room_. + +EMILY. I’ll not have the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. If +folk can’t come to the time when they’re asked, they baint worth waiting +for, so sit you down, all of you. + +[_She sits down at the head of the table_, _a child on either side of +her_. JOAN _languidly sinks into a chair and_ MILES _puts himself at her +right_. _A place at her left remains empty_. THOMAS _sits opposite_. +_Three places at the end of the table are left vacant_. _As they sit +down_, GEORGE, _wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief_, _comes in_. + +EMILY. [_Beginning to help a dish_.] You need not think you’re to be +helped first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, like. The +poor little children have been kept waiting a sad time for their supper, +first because you was such a while a having your head curled and puffed +out, and then ’twas Luke Jenner as didn’t come. + +[CLARA _sits down at a place at the end of the table_. GEORGE _and_ +MAGGIE _still remain standing_. + +EMILY. [_Perceiving_ CLARA’S _movement_.] Well, I never did see +anything so forward. Who told you to sit yourself down along of your +betters, if you please, madam serving maid? + +[GEORGE _comes involuntarily forward and stands behind_ CLARA’S _chair_. +CLARA _does not move_. + +EMILY. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you hear? +[_Turning to_ MILES.] To see the way the young person acts one might +think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare and high. But +you’ll not take any fool in, not you, for all that you like to play the +fine lady. Us can see through your game very clear, can’t us, Mr. +Hooper? + +MILES. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the +privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could be +mistook by any of the games played by this young person. + +[CLARA _looks him gravely in the face without moving_. + +EMILY. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes! + +THOMAS. [_Nervously_.] Nay, nay, ’twas my doing, Emily. I did tell the +wenches as they might sit their-selves along of we, just for th’ occasion +like. + +EMILY. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling about +like a lord in my kitchen? + +THOMAS. [_Faintly_.] Come, Emily, I’m the master. + +EMILY. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London impudence? + +GEORGE. [_Comes forward_.] Master Luke be coming up the garden, +mistress. + +[LUKE JENNER _enters_. _He goes straight up to_ JOAN _and holds out his +hand to her_, _and then to_ MILES. + +LUKE. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, my +lad, ’tis rare—rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day. + +EMILY. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you’ve been and kept us waiting more nor +half an hour. Can’t you sit yourself down and give other folk a chance +of eating their victuals quiet? There’s naught to make all this +giddle-gaddle about as I can see. + +LUKE. [_Sitting down in the empty place by_ JOAN’S _side_.] Beg pardon, +mistress, I know I’m a bit late. But the victuals as are waited for do +have a better flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from the +pot like. + +THOMAS. That’s true ’tis. And ’tis hunger as do make the best sauce. + +[GEORGE _and_ MAGGIE _quietly seat themselves on either side of_ CLARA. +EMILY _is too busy dispensing the food to take any notice_. GEORGE +_hands plates and dishes to_ CLARA, _and silently cares for her comfort +throughout the meal_. + +THOMAS. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn’t think to lose my little +sister afore she’d stopped a three days in the place. That I did not. +But I don’t grudge her to a fine prospering young man like friend Hooper, +no, I don’t. + +EMILY. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See if you can’t +make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. [_Turning to_ +LUKE.] We have two serving maids and a man, Mister Jenner, but they’re +to be allowed to act the quality to-day, so we’ve got to wait upon +ourselves. + +LUKE. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, mistress. +That’s my saying at home. + +THOMAS. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me +’tis otherwise. I’ve got another pair of hands in the place as do for me +as well, nor better than my own. + +EMILY. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you’d be without mine. + +THOMAS. I wasn’t thinking of yourn, Emily. ’Tis George’s hands as I was +speaking of. + +EMILY. [_Contemptuously_.] George! You’ll all find out your mistake +one day, Thomas. + +MILES. [_To_ JOAN, _who has been nervously handling her knife and fork +and watching_ CLARA’S _movements furtively_.] My sweet Miss is not +shewing any appetite. + +JOAN. I’m—I’m not used to country fare. + +EMILY. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara can’t +feed ’cause she’s not used to country fare! What next, I’d like to know! + +ROBIN. [_Who has been watching_ JOAN.] Why does Aunt sometimes put her +knife in her mouth, Mother? + +MILES. My good boy, ’tis plain you’ve never mixed among the quality or +you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of acting. +This summer ’tis the stylish thing to put on a countryfied mode at table. + +JESSIE. Joan don’t eat like that, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. Joan’s only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to +distinguish between such people and fine ladles like your aunt. + +JOAN. [_Forcing herself to be more animated_.] Give me some fruit, +Miles—I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. ’Tis far too warm. + +MILES. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of my +Missy’s voice. + +THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. There +was a day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like. + +EMILY. [_Sharply_.] I don’t seem to remember that day, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [_Sheepishly_, _his look falling_.] Ah—’twas afore—afore our +courting time, Emily. + +LUKE. [_Energetically_.] Prime weather for the hay, farmer. I count as +this dry will last until the whole of it be carried. [_A knock is heard +at the door_. + +THOMAS. Now who’ll that be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the path, +Mother? + +EMILY. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking out of +the window the same time, Thomas? + +THOMAS. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who ’tis. + +[JOAN _looks anxiously across the table at_ CLARA. _Then she drops her +spoon and fork and takes up her fan_, _using it violently whilst_ GEORGE +_slowly gets up and opens the door_. LORD LOVEL _is seen standing on the +threshold_. + +LORD LOVEL. [_To_ GEORGE.] Kindly tell me, my man, is this the farm +they call Ox Lease? + +GEORGE. Ah, that’s right enough. + +LORD LOVEL. I’m sorry to break in upon a party like this, but I want to +see Miss Clara Spring if she is here. + +THOMAS. [_Standing up_.] You’ve come at the very moment, master. This +be a giving in marriage supper. And ’tis Miss Clara, what’s only sister +to me, as is to be wed. + +LORD LOVEL. Impossible, my good sir! + +THOMAS. Ah, that’s it. Miles Hooper, he’s the happy man. If you be +come by Painswick High Street you’ll have seen his name up over the shop +door. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara—Miles Hooper—No, I can’t believe it. + +THOMAS. [_Pointing towards_ JOAN _and_ MILES.] There they be—the both +of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. You’re right welcome, master, +to sit down along of we as one of the family on this occasion. + +LORD LOVEL. [_Looking at_ JOAN _who has suddenly dropped her fan and is +leaning back with a look of supplication towards_ CLARA.] I must have +come to the wrong place—that’s not the Miss Clara Spring I know. + +MILES. [_Bending over_ JOAN.] My sweet Missy has no acquaintance with +this gentleman, I am sure. + +[LORD LOVEL _suddenly turns round and perceives_ CLARA _seated by_ MAGGIE +_at the table_. _He quickly goes towards her_, _holding out his hand_. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. [_Looking at her cap +and apron_.] Why have you dressed yourself like this? + +THOMAS. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. The +young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the Spotted Cow +on his way up. + +JOAN. [_Very faintly_, _looking at_ CLARA.] O do you stand by me now. + +CLARA. [_Lays her hand on_ LORD LOVEL’S _arm_.] Come with me, my lord. +I think I can explain everything if you will only step outside with me. +Come—[_She leads him swiftly through the door which_ GEORGE _shuts behind +them_.] + +[JOAN _leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint_. + +THOMAS. Well, now—but that’s a smartish wench, getting him out so quiet, +like. George, you’d best step after them to see as the young man don’t +annoy her in any way. + +EMILY. That young person can take good care of herself. Sit you down, +Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you can. + +JESSIE. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother? + +EMILY. ’Cause he was in that state when a man don’t know his right leg +from his left arm. + +GEORGE. [_Who has remained standing_.] Look you here, Master Thomas—see +here mistress. ’Tis time as there was an end of this cursed play acting, +or whatever ’tis called. + +EMILY. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I’d like +for you to know. + +GEORGE. O yes there have been, mistress. And ’tis time it was finished. +[_Pointing to_ JOAN.] You just take and ask that young person what she +do mean by tricking herself out in Miss Clara’s gowns and what not, and +by having herself called by Miss Clara’s own name. + +MILES. [_Taking_ JOAN’S _hand in his_.] My sweet Miss must pay no +attention to the common fellow. I dare him to speak like that of my +little lady bride. + +GEORGE. A jay bird in peacock’s feathers, that’s what ’tis. And she’s +took you all in, the every one of you. + +JESSIE. O George, isn’t she really our aunt from London? + +GEORGE. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie. + +THOMAS. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore. + +EMILY. ’Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon. + +LUKE. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow in all +the years I’ve known of him. George baint made to that shape. + +ROBIN. Then who is Aunt Clara, George? + +GEORGE. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, and +none other. + +THOMAS. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish. + +GEORGE. I can’t help that, master. Foolish deeds do call for foolish +words, may be. + +MILES. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [_He pours out +water for_ JOAN _and bends affectionately over her_.] Put the drunken +fellow outside and let’s have an end of this. + +GEORGE. [_Advancing_.] Yes, us’ll have an end to it very shortly. But +I be going to put a straight question to the maid first, and ’tis a +straight answer as her’ll have to give me in reply. + +MILES. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude +manners. + +GEORGE. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, and +then I’ll go when you will. + +MILES. Well, my man, what’s that? + +GEORGE. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at baptism, +Mister Hooper. + +MILES. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such a +question. Thomas, you’ll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, or +something. + +GEORGE. [_Angrily_.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all night. + +[JOAN _suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands_, _her form +shaken by violent weeping_. _The door opens and_ CLARA _enters followed +by_ LORD LOVEL. _She has taken off her cap and apron_. + +JOAN. [_Raising her head and stretching out her hands to_ CLARA.] O +speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help. + +CLARA. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to forgive us +both for taking you in like this. + +THOMAS. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing. + +EMILY. I’m not going to believe a word the young person says. + +LORD LOVEL. She has told you but the truth, my good friends. + +EMILY. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I’d like to +know? + +CLARA. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his name. + +EMILY. If you think I’m going to be took in with such nonsense, the more +fool you, I says. + +LORD LOVEL. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis Spring. +She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their own, agreed to +change parts for a few days. + +THOMAS. [_Turning to_ JOAN.] Is this really so, my maid? + +[JOAN _bows her head_, _her handkerchief still covering her face_. + +THOMAS. [_To_ CLARA.] Who ever would have thought on such a thing? + +CLARA. ’Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up, +Joan, and do not cry so pitifully. + +JOAN. [_Looking up at_ MILES.] You’ll never go and change towards me +now that we’re most as good as wed, will you, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. [_Rising and speaking with cold deliberation_.] Ladies and +gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening. + +THOMAS. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, it seems. +But things’ll settle back to their right places if you gives them a +chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat. + +EMILY. Don’t be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what’s been stung by a +wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet’s nest. + +MILES. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place for me. I have +been sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest. + +JOAN. O Mister Hooper, ’twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for the +best, I did. + +MILES. [_Going to the door_.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time you +want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select your +partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a suitable one to toy +with, let me tell you. + +ROBIN. Aren’t you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. I am not, Master Robin. + +JESSIE. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but you +couldn’t very well, could he, Mother? + +[MILES, _covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the right +and left_, _goes out_. JOAN _leans back almost fainting in her chair_. + +LUKE. [_Taking her hand_.] This is the finest hearing in all the world +for me, Miss—Miss Joan. + +JOAN. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me. + +LUKE. And that I’d never do, though I’m blest if I know why you did it. + +CLARA. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were +things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by +changing places, one with the other. + +THOMAS. [_To_ CLARA.] Well, my maid, I’m blessed if I do know what you +was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving wench. + +CLARA. [_Turning a little towards_ GEORGE.] I thought to find something +which was mine when I was a little child, but which I lost. + +JESSIE. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. ’Twas he as +brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off. + +ROBIN. Yes. And ’twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt +Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield. + +JESSIE. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt all the +time. + +ROBIN. I believe it too. + +THOMAS. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like? + +GEORGE. ’Twas not one, but many things. And if you wants a clear proof +[_Turning to_ CLARA]—put back the laces of your sleeve, Miss Clara. + +CLARA. What for, George? + +GEORGE. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did pull +up your sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. Not that ’twas needed for +me, like. + +[CLARA _pushes up both her sleeves_, _and holds out her arms towards_ +GEORGE. + +GEORGE. [_Pointing to the scar_.] There ’tis—there’s where th’ old +gander have left his mark. + +THE CHILDREN. [_Getting up_.] Where, where! O do let us see! + +[_They run round to where_ CLARA _stands and look eagerly at the mark on +her arm which she shews to them_. + +THOMAS. George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can play fox. + +EMILY. Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a +more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when +’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him. + +THOMAS. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint th’ +only fox. How now, my lad? + +GEORGE. I don’t see what you be driving at, master. + +THOMAS. [_Slyly_.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George? + +CLARA. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me. + +GEORGE. [_Stepping forward till he is by_ CLARA’S _side_.] No, and that +I will not do. ’Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I’ll keep +it. + +CLARA. [_To_ GEORGE.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I +can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember the days when you used +to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting me over +the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by their thorns? + +GEORGE. Hark you here, Clara. This once I’ll speak. I never had but +one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through the +woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I learnt she the note +of every bird. And when th’ evening was come, us would watch together +till th’ old mother badger did get from out of her hole, and start +hunting in the long grasses. + +CLARA. [_Taking_ GEORGE’S _hand_.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for +the disguise that I put upon myself. + +GEORGE. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint no +cloud upon the sky, Clara? + +CLARA. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might raise +up between you and me. + +THOMAS. That’s all finished and done with now, my maid. If I’d a +hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should. + +EMILY. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough. + +LUKE. [_Who has been sitting with_ JOAN’S _hand in his_.] Hark you +here, mistress. There’s many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day. +Baint that a true saying, Joan? + +JOAN. [_Looking up radiantly_.] O that it is, dear Luke. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be said. + +EMILY. And that’s the most sensible thing as has been spoke this long +while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, grizzling sort +of a muddler. She might have took up with this young man, who has a very +respectable appearance. + +LORD LOVEL. [_Coming forward to_ GEORGE _and shaking his hand_.] I’m +proud to make your acquaintance, sir. + +EMILY. [_Rising angrily_.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us +might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of this here +table. ’Twill be midnight afore the things is cleared away and washed +up. + +THOMAS. What if it be, Emily. ’Tisn’t very often as I gets the chance +of minding how ’twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a young man in those +days, too, I was. + +EMILY. And ’tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, Thomas. + +JESSIE. [_Slipping her hand into_ THOMAS’S.] O do let us sit up till +midnight, Dad. + +ROBIN. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +MY MAN JOHN + + +CHARACTERS + + +MRS. GARDNER. + +WILLIAM, _her son_. + +JOHN, _his farm hand_. + +SUSAN, _their maid_. + +JULIA, _the owner of Luther’s Farm_. + +LAURA, CHRIS, NAT, TANSIE, _gipsies_. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + +_The garden of the Road Farm_. _To the right an arbour covered with +roses_. MRS. GARDNER _is seated in it_, _knitting_. WILLIAM _is tying +up flowers and watering them_. + +MRS. GARDNER. And you have come to a ripe age when ’tis the plain duty +of a man to turn himself towards matrimony, William. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis a bit of quiet that I’m after, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Quiet! ’tis a good shaking up as you want, William. Why, +you have got as set in your ways as last season’s jelly. + +WILLIAM. Then let me bide so. ’Tis all I ask. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I’m got to be an old woman now, and ’tis +time that I had someone at my side to help in the house-keeping and to +share the work. + +WILLIAM. What’s Susan for, if ’tisn’t to do that? + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan? As idle a piece of goods as ever was seen on a +summer’s day! No. ’Tisn’t a serving maid that I was thinking of, but +someone who should be of more account in the house. ’Tis a daughter that +I’m wanting, William, and I’ve picked out the one who is to my taste. + +WILLIAM. Then you’ve done more than I have, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis the young person whom Luther Smith has left his farm +and all his money to. I’ve got my eye on her for you, William. + +WILLIAM. Then you’ll please to put your eye somewhere else, Mother, for +I’ve seen them, and they don’t suit me. + +MRS. GARDNER. Come, this is news, William. Pray where did you meet? + +WILLIAM. ’Twas when I was in church last Sunday. In they came, the two +young maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie fowls, the way they +did step up over the stones and shake the plumes of them this way and +that. I don’t hold with fancy tricks. I never could abide them. No +foreign wenches for me. And that’s about all. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis true they are from town, but none the worse for that, +William. You have got sadly rude and cumbersome in your ways, or you +wouldn’t feel as you do towards a suitable young person. ’Tis from +getting about with John so much, I think. + +WILLIAM. Now look you here, Mother, I’ve got used to my own ways, and +when a man’s got set in his own ways, ’tis best to leave him there. I’m +past the age for marrying, and you ought to know this better than anyone. + +MRS. GARDNER. I know that ’tis a rare lot of foolishness that you do +talk, William, seeing as you’re not a year past thirty yet. But if you +can’t be got to wed for love of a maid, perhaps you’ll do so for love of +a purse, when ’tis fairly filled. + +WILLIAM. There’s always been enough for you and me so far, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Ah, but that won’t last for ever. I’m got an old woman, +and I can’t do with the dairy nor the poultry as I was used to do. And +things have not the same prices to them as ’twas a few years gone by. +And last year’s season was the worst that I remember. + +WILLIAM. So ’twas. But so long as there’s a roof over our heads and a +loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to work on, where’s the harm, +Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. O you put me out of all patience, William. Where’s the +rent to come from if we go on like this? And the clothing, and the food? +And John’s wages, and your flower seeds, if it comes to that, for you +have got terrible wasteful over the flowers. + +WILLIAM. I wish you’d take it quieter, Mother. Look at you bed of musk, +’tis a grand smell that comes up from it all around. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I’ve no eye for musk, nor nose to smell at +it either till you’ve spoken the word that I require. + +WILLIAM. Best let things bide as they are, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. I’ll leave you no rest till you do as I wish, William. +I’m got an old woman, and ’tis hard I should be denied in aught that I’ve +set my heart upon. + +WILLIAM. Please to set it upon something different, Mother, for I’m not +a marrying man, and John he’ll tell you the same thing. + +MRS. GARDNER. John! I’m sick of the very name of him. I can’t think +how ’tis that you can lower yourself by being so close with a common farm +hand, William. + +WILLIAM. Ah, ’twould be a rare hard matter to find the equal to John, +Mother. ’Tis of gold all through, and every bit of him, that he is made. +You don’t see many like John these days, that’s the truth. + +MRS. GARDNER. Well, then, John, won’t be here much longer, for we shan’t +have anything to give him if things go on like this. + +WILLIAM. I’d wed forty wives sooner than lose John—and that I would. + +MRS. GARDNER. I’m not asking you to wed forty. ’Tis only one. + +WILLIAM. And that one? + +MRS. GARDNER. The young person who’s got Luther’s farm. Her name is +Julia. + +WILLIAM. [_Leaving his flower border and walking up and down +thoughtfully_.] Would she be the one with the cherry colour ribbons to +her gown? + +MRS. GARDNER. I’m sure I don’t know. I was not at church last Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Or t’other one in green? + +MRS. GARDNER. You appear to have used your eyes pretty well, William. + +WILLIAM. O, I can see a smartish bit about me when I choose. + +MRS. GARDNER. T’other wench is but the housekeeper. + +WILLIAM. Where did you get that from? + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Twas Susan who told me. She got it off someone down in +the village. + +WILLIAM. Well, which of the maids would have had the cherry-coloured +ribbons to her, Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. I’m sure I don’t know, but if you go up there courting +this afternoon, may happen that you’ll find out. + +WILLIAM. This afternoon? O, that’s much too sudden like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Not a bit of it. Recollect, your fancy has been set on +her since Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Come, Mother, you can’t expect a man to jump into the river all +of a sudden like this. + +MRS. GARDNER. I expect you to go up there this very day and to commence +telling her of your feelings. + +WILLIAM. But I’ve got no feelings that I can tell her of, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to find some, William. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis a thing that in all my life I’ve never done as to go +visiting of a strange wench of an afternoon. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then ’tis time you did begin. + +WILLIAM. And what’s more, I’ll not do it, neither. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then I must tell John that we have no further need of his +services, for where the money to pay him is to come from, I don’t know. + +[_She rolls up her knitting and rises_. + +WILLIAM. Stop a moment, Mother—stop a moment. Maybe ’twon’t be so bad +when I’ve got more used to the idea. You’ve pitched it upon me so sudden +like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Rent day has pitched upon me more sudden, William. + +WILLIAM. Look you, Mother, I’ll get and turn it about in my mind a bit. +And, maybe, I’ll talk it over with John. I can’t do more, can I now? + +MRS. GARDNER. Talk it over with whom you please, William. But remember +’tis this very afternoon that you have to start courting. I’ve laid your +best clothes out all ready on your bed. + +WILLIAM. [_Sighing heavily_.] O then I count there’s no way out of it. +But how am I to bring it off? ’Tis that I’d like to know. + +MRS. GARDNER. Maybe your man will be able to give you some suitable +advice. Such things are beyond me, I’m afraid. + +[_She gathers up her work things_, _and with a contemptuous look at her +son_, _she goes slowly out of the garden_. + +[WILLIAM _remains on the path lost in perturbed thought_. _Suddenly he +goes to the gate and calls loudly_. + +WILLIAM. John, John! + +JOHN. [_From afar_.] Yes, master. + +WILLIAM. [_Calling_.] Come you here, John, as quick as you can run. + +JOHN. That I will, master. + +[JOHN _hurries into the garden_. + +WILLIAM. John, I’m powerful upset. + +JOHN. Mistress’s fowls bain’t got among the flowers again, be they, +Master William? + +WILLIAM. No, no, John. ’Tisn’t so bad as that. But I’m in a smartish +fix, I can tell you. + +JOHN. How’s that, master? + +WILLIAM. John, did you ever go a’courting? + +JOHN. Well, master, that’s a thing to ask a man! + +WILLIAM. ’Tis a terrible serious matter, John. Did you ever go? + +JOHN. Courting? + +WILLIAM. Yes. + +JOHN. Why, I count as I have went a score of times, master. + +WILLIAM. A score of times, John! But that was before you were got to +the age you are now? + +JOHN. Before that, and now, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John? + +JOHN. To be sure, master. + +WILLIAM. Then you know how ’tis done? + +JOHN. Ah, that I does, master. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, you’re the man for me. + +JOHN. Lord bless us, master, but what have you to do with courting? + +WILLIAM. You may well ask me, John. Why, look you here—until this very +morning, you would say I was a quiet and a peaceable man, with the right +place for everything and everything in its place. + +JOHN. Ah, and that you was, Master William. And a time for all things +too, and a decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served—that’s truth. + +WILLIAM. Ah, John—the mistress has set her will to change all this. + +JOHN. Now, you’d knock me down with a feather. + +WILLIAM. That she has, John. I’ve got to set out courting—a thing I’ve +never thought to do in all my living days. + +JOHN. That I’ll be bound you have not, Master William, though a finer +gentleman than yourself is not to be found in all the country side. + +WILLIAM. [_With shy eagerness_.] Is that how I appear to you, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that you does, master. And ’tis the wonder with all for +miles around as how you’ve been and kept yourself to yourself like this, +so many years. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, it appears that I’m to pass out of my own keeping. +My Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, Master William, and ’tis but Thursday too. + +WILLIAM. Isn’t that a proper day for this sort of business, John? + +JOHN. I’ve always been used to Saturday myself, but with a gentleman +’tis different like. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, there’s nothing in this day or that as far as I can +see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and the day of it does make +but very little difference. + +JOHN. You’re right there, master. But if I may be so bold, where is it +as you be going off courting this afternoon? + +WILLIAM. Ah—now you and me will have a straight talk one with +another—for ’tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of this fix +where the mistress has gone and put me. + +JOHN. And that I’ll do, master—with all the will in the world. + +WILLIAM. Well then, John, ’tis to be one of those maids from strange +parts who are come to live at old Luther’s, up yonder. + +JOHN. Ah, I seed the pair of them in church last Sunday. Fine maids, +the both of them, and properly suitable if you was to ask me. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis only the one I’ve got to court, John. + +JOHN. And I reckon that’s one too many, Master William. + +WILLIAM. You’re right there, John. ’Tis Mistress Julia I’ve to go at. + +JOHN. And which of the pair would that be, Master William? + +WILLIAM. That one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown, I believe. + +JOHN. Ah, t’other was plainer in her dressing, and did keep the head of +her bent smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn’t get a fair look +upon she. + +WILLIAM. That would be the housekeeper or summat. ’Tis Julia, who has +the old man’s money, I’m to court. + +JOHN. Well, master, I’ll come along with you a bit of the road, to keep +your heart up like. + +WILLIAM. You must do more than that for me, John. You’ve got to learn +me how the courting is done before I set off. + +JOHN. Why, master, courting baint a thing what wants much learning, +that’s the truth. + +WILLIAM. ’Tis all new to me, John. I’m blessed if I know how to +commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends me hot all over; and then +as cold again. + +JOHN. You start and get your clothes on, master. ’Tis half the +battle—clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his mouth of a Saturday +will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday with his best coat to his +back. + +WILLIAM. No, John. The clothes won’t help me in this fix. You must +tell me how to start once I get to the farm and am by the door. + +JOHN. You might take a nosegay with you, master. + +WILLIAM. I might. And yet, ’tis a pity to cut the blooms for naught. + +JOHN. I always takes a nosegay with me, of a Saturday night. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, who is it that you are courting then? + +JOHN. ’Tis that wench Susan, since you ask me, master. But not a word +of it to th’ old mistress. + +WILLIAM. I’ll not mention it, John. + +JOHN. Thank you kindly, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John, when the nosegay’s all gathered and the flowers +bunched, what else should I do? + +JOHN. Well, then you gives it her when you gets to the door. And very +like she’ll ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be a particular fine +looking gentleman. + +WILLIAM. I could not stand that, John. I’ve no tongue to me within a +strange house. + +JOHN. Well then, maybe as you and she will sit aside of one another in +an arbour in the garden, or sommat of the sort. + +WILLIAM. Yes, John. And what next? + +JOHN. I’m blessed if I do know, master. You go along and commence. + +WILLIAM. No, John, and that I won’t. Not till I know more about it +like. + +JOHN. Well, master, I’m fairly puzzled hard to tell you. + +WILLIAM. I have the very thought, John. Do you bring Susan out here. +I’ll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you get and court her as well +as you know how; and maybe that will learn me something. + +JOHN. Susan’s a terrible hard wench to court, Master William. + +WILLIAM. ’Twill make the better lesson, John. + +JOHN. ’Tis a stone in place of a heart what Susan’s got. + +WILLIAM. ’Twill very likely be the same with Julia. Go and bring her +quickly, John. + +[WILLIAM _places himself behind the arbour_. + +JOHN. As you will, master—but Susan have been wonderful nasty in her +ways with me of late. ’Tis my belief as she have took up with one of +they low gipsy lads what have been tenting up yonder, against the wood. + +WILLIAM. Well, ’twill be your business to win her back to you, John. +See—am I properly hid, behind the arbour? + +JOHN. Grandly hid, master—I’ll go and fetch the wench. [JOHN _leaves +the garden_. + +[WILLIAM _remains hidden behind the arbour_. _After a few minutes_ JOHN +_returns pulling_ SUSAN _by the hand_. + +SUSAN. And what are you about, bringing me into master’s flower garden +at this time of the morning? I should like for mistress to look out of +one of the windows—you’d get into fine trouble, and me too, John. + +JOHN. Susan, my dear, you be a passing fine wench to look upon, and +that’s the truth. + +SUSAN. And is it to tell me such foolishness that you’ve brought me all +the way out of the kitchen? + +JOHN. [_Stooping and picking a dandelion_.] And to give you this +flower, dear Susan. + +SUSAN. [_Throwing it down_.] A common thing like that! I’ll have none +of it. + +JOHN. ’Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan. The blue fire do +fairly leap from your eyes. + +SUSAN. O you’re enough to anger a saint, John. What have you brought me +here for? + +JOHN. I thought I’d like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, +Susan. And that I did never see a finer. + +SUSAN. You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what Master +William’s so powerful set on. + +JOHN. Ah—and ’tis true as you have sommat of the look of she when you +stands a pawing of the ground as you be now. + +SUSAN. Is it to insult me that you’ve got me away from the kitchen, +John? + +JOHN. Nay—’tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish wench—and I’ll go +along to the church with you any day as you will name, my dear. + +SUSAN. That you won’t, John. I don’t mind taking a nosegay of flowers +from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over the garden +gate of an evening, but I’m not a-going any further along the road with +you. That’s all. [_She moves towards the house_. + +JOHN. Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan—and let me say sommat of +all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in my +heart for you. + +SUSAN. They may stir within you like an old waspes’ nest for all I care, +John. + +JOHN. Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they. You can +speak honey sweet when it do please you to. + +SUSAN. ’Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, John. + +JOHN. I gets enough of that from mistress—I mean—well—I mean—[_in a +loud_, _clear voice_]—O mistress is a wonderful fine woman and no +mistake. + +SUSAN. You won’t say as much when she comes round the corner and catches +you a wasting of your time like this, John. + +JOHN. Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of the +finest rose what blooms, Susan? + +SUSAN. Is that me, John? + +JOHN. Who else should it be, Susan? + +SUSAN. Well, John—sometimes I think there’s not much amiss with you. + +JOHN. O Susan, them be grand words. + +SUSAN. But then again—I do think as you be getting too much like Master +William. + +JOHN. And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth. + +SUSAN. Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. And +you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John. + +JOHN. Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way. + +SUSAN. I’m not so sure as I do, John. + +JOHN. Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan. + +SUSAN. And that I’ll not. And what’s more, I’m not a-going to stop here +talking foolish with you any longer. I’ve work to do within. [SUSAN +_goes off_. + +[JOHN, _mopping his face and speaking regretfully as_ WILLIAM _steps from +behind the arbour_. + +JOHN. There, master. That’s courting for you. That’s the sort of +thing. And a caddling thing it is too. + +WILLIAM. But ’tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John. And +’tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this afternoon, +there—that’s what I’ve come to in my thoughts. + +JOHN. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now? + +WILLIAM. See here, John—we’ll cut a nosegay for you to carry—some of the +best blooms I’ll spare. And you, who know what courting is, and who have +such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once and do the business +for me. + +JOHN. Master, if ’twas an acre of stone as you’d asked me to plough, I’d +sooner do it nor a job like this. + +WILLIAM. John, you’ve been a good friend to me all the years that you +have lived on the farm, you’ll not go and fail me now. + +JOHN. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William? +’Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of she. + +WILLIAM. Your words are all right, John. ’Tisn’t as though sensible +speech was needed. You do know what’s wanted with the maids, whilst I +have never been used to them in any way whatever. So let’s say no more +about it, but commence gathering the flowers. + +JOHN. [_Heavily_, _but resigned_.] Since you say so, master. [_They +begin to gather flowers_. + +WILLIAM. What blooms do young maids like the best, John? + +JOHN. Put in a sprig of thyme, master. + +WILLIAM. Yes—I can well spare that. + +JOHN. And a rose that’s half opened, master. + +WILLIAM. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, +John. + +JOHN. ’Tain’t likely as you can get through courtship without parting +with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you’re called upon to +spill. + +WILLIAM. That’s true, John—I’ll gather the rose— + +JOHN. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave flowers, +the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they. + +WILLIAM. Put them into the nosegay, John—And now—no more—’Tis enough +waste for one day. + +JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I. + +WILLIAM. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John. + +JOHN. ’Tis to be hoped as ’twill be the same with the lady, master. + +WILLIAM. There, off you go, John. And mind, ’tis her with the cherry +ribbon to her gown and bonnet. + +JOHN. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her head +this day, being that ’tis Thursday? + +WILLIAM. An eye like—like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to the +face of her like yon rose. + +JOHN. That’s enough, Master William. I’ll not pitch upon the wrong +maid, never fear. And now I’ll clean myself up a bit at the pump, and +set off straight away. + +WILLIAM. [_Shaking_ JOHN’S _hand_.] Good luck to you, my man. And if +you can bring it off quiet and decent like without me coming in till at +the last, why, ’tis a five pound note that you shall have for your +trouble. + +JOHN. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no mistake +about that. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_A wood_. _To the right a fallen tree_ (_or a bench_). JOHN _comes from +the left_, _a large bunch of flowers in his hand_. + +JOHN. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? Well, bless my +soul, but ’tis a rare caddling business what master’s put upon I. ’Tis +worse nor any job he have set me to in all the years I’ve been along of +him, so ’tis. But I’m the one to bring it off slick and straight, and, +bless me, if I won’t take and hide myself by yon great bush till I see +the wenches a-coming up. That’ll give me time to have a quiet look at +the both and pick out she what master’s going a-courting of. + +[JOHN _puts himself behind some thick bushes as_ JULIA _and_ LAURA _come +forward_. JULIA _is very simply dressed_. _Her head is bare_, _and she +is carrying her white cotton sunbonnet_. LAURA _wears finer clothes and +her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry colour_. + +LAURA. [_Stopping by the bench_.] We’ll sit down—’Tis a warm day, and +I’ve had enough of walking. + +[_She sinks down on the seat_. + +JULIA. [_Looking all round her_.] ’Tis beautiful and quiet here. O +this is ever so much better than the farm. + +LAURA. The farm! What’s wrong with that, I should like to know? + +JULIA. Everything. ’Tis more like a prison than a home to me. Within +the house there’s always work crying out to be done—and outside I believe +’tis worse—work—nothing else speaking to me. + +LAURA. You’re a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there’s many would give their +eyes to change with you. + +JULIA. But out here ’tis all peace, and freedom. There’s naught calling +out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and the breezes move them +this way, and that. The ground is thick with leaves and blossoms and no +one has got to sweep it, and the hard things with great noises to them, +like pails and churns, are far away and clean forgot. + +LAURA. ’Tisn’t much use as you’ll be on the farm. + +JULIA. I wish I’d never come nigh to it. I was happier far before. + +LAURA. ’Tis a grand life. You’ll see it as I do one of these days. + +JULIA. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear the cattle +lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and ’tis a heart of +lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers in the fields +calls me, but ’tis to the dairy I must go, to work. And at noonday, when +the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for its coolness, ’tis the +kitchen I must be in—or picking green stuff for the market. And so on +till night, when the limbs of me can do no more and the spirit in me is +like a bird with the wing of it broken. + +LAURA. You’ll harden to it all by winter time right enough. + +JULIA. O I’ll never harden to it. ’Tis not that way I am made. Some +girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do their +task nor ask for anything beyond, but ’tis not so with me. + +LAURA. How is it then with you? + +JULIA. [_Pointing_.] There—see that blue thing yonder flying from one +blossom to another. That’s how ’tis with me. Shut me up close in one +place, I perish. Let me go free, and I can fly and live. + +LAURA. You do talk a powerful lot of foolishness that no one could +understand. + +JULIA. O, do not let us talk at all. Let us bide still, and get +ourselves refreshed by the sweetness and the wildness of the forest. + +JULIA _turns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood +around her_. + +LAURA _arranges her ribbons and smoothes out her gown_. _Neither of them +speak for a few minutes_. + +LAURA. [_Looking up and pointing_.] See those strange folk over there? +What are they? + +JULIA. [_Looking in the same direction_.] I know them. They are +gipsies from the hill near to us. + +LAURA. They should be driven away then. I don’t like such folk roosting +around. + +JULIA. But I do. They are friends to me. Many’s the time I have run +out at dusk to speak with them as they sit round their fire. + +LAURA. Then you didn’t ought to have done so. Let’s get off now, before +they come up. + +JULIA. No, no. Let us talk to them all. [_Calling_.] Tansie and +Chris, come you here and sit down alongside of us. [CHRIS, NAT, _and_ +TANSIE _come up_. + +CHRIS. Good morning to you, mistress. ’Tis a fine brave day, to-day. + +JULIA. That it is, Chris. There never was so fine a day. And we have +come to spend all of it in this forest. + +TANSIE. Ah, but ’tis warm upon the high road. + +NAT. We be come right away from the town, mistress. + +JULIA. Then sit down, all of you, and we will talk in the cool shade. + +LAURA. Not here, if you please. I am not used to such company. + +JULIA. Not here? Very well, my friends, let us go further into the wood +and you shall stretch yourselves under the green trees and we will all +rest there together. + +LAURA. Well, what next! You might stop to consider how ’twill look in +the parish. + +JULIA. How what will look? + +LAURA. How ’twill look for you to be seen going off in such company like +this. + +JULIA. The trees have not eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. +There’s no one to see me but you, and you can turn your head t’other way. +Come Tansie, come Chris. [_She turns towards the three gipsies_. + +TANSIE. Nat’s in a sorry way, this morning—baint you, Nat? + +NAT. Let I be. You do torment anyone till they scarce do know if they +has senses to them or no. + +TANSIE. You’re not one to miss what you never had, Nat. + +CHRIS. Let the lad bide in quiet, will you. ’Tis a powerful little +nagging wench as you be. + +JULIA. Why are you heavy and sad this fine day, Nat? + +TANSIE. ’Tis love what’s the matter with he, mistress. + +JULIA. Love? O, that’s not a thing that should bring heaviness or +gloom, but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips. + +TANSIE. Ah, but when there’s been no meeting in the dusk since Sunday, +and no message sent! + +CHRIS. Keep that tongue of your’n where it should be, and give over, +Tansie. Susan’s not one as would play tricks with her lad. + +JULIA. Now I have a thirst to hear all about this, Nat, so come off +further into the wood, all of you, where we can speak in quiet. + +[_She holds out her hand to_ NAT. + +LAURA. Upon my word, but something must be done to bring these goings on +to an end. + +JULIA. Come, Nat—you shall tell me all your trouble. I understand the +things of the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know how to give you +comfort in your distress—come! + +[JULIA _and_ NAT, _followed by_ CHRIS _and_ TANSIE, _move off out of +sight_. LAURA _is left sitting on the bench alone_. _Presently_ JOHN +_comes out carefully from behind the bushes_, _holding his bunch of +flowers_. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +LAURA. The same to you, master. + +JOHN. Folks do call me John. + +LAURA. Indeed? Good morning, John. + +JOHN. A fine brave sun to-day, mistress. + +LAURA. But pleasant enough here in the shade. + +JOHN. Now, begging your pardon, but what you wants over the head of you +baint one of these great trees full of flies and insects, but an arbour +trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at his place +yonder. + +LAURA. Indeed? And who may your master be, John? + +JOHN. ’Tis Master William Gardner, what’s the talk of the country for +miles around, mistress. And that he be. + +LAURA. Master William Gardner! What, he of Road Farm? + +JOHN. The very same, mistress. And as grand a gentleman as anyone might +wish for to see. + +LAURA. Yes—I seem to have heard something told about him, but I don’t +rightly remember what ’twas. + +JOHN. You may have heard tell as the finest field of beans this season, +that’s his. + +LAURA. I don’t think ’twas of beans that I did hear. + +JOHN. Or that ’twas his spotted hilt what fetched the highest price of +any in the market Saturday? + +LAURA. No, ’twasn’t that neither. + +JOHN. Or that folks do come as thick as flies on a summer’s day from all +parts of the country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. Ah, and +before ’tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for it, all of them, +like a pack of dogs with a bone. So ’tis. + +LAURA. ’Twasn’t that, I don’t think. + +JOHN. Or ’twas that th’ old missis—she as is mother to Master +William—her has a tongue what’s sharper nor longer than any vixen’s +going. But that’s between you and I, missis. + +LAURA. Ah—’Twas that I did hear tell of. Now I remember it. + +JOHN. But Master William—the tongue what he do keep be smooth as honey, +and a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the chance. + +LAURA. Indeed? He must be a pleasant sort of a gentleman. + +JOHN. For he could be led with kindness same as anything else. But try +for to drive him, as old Missis do—and very likely ’tis hoofed as you’ll +get for your pains. + +LAURA. I like a man with some spirit to him, myself. + +JOHN. Ah, Master William has a rare spirit to him, and that he has. You +should hear him when th’ old Missis’s fowls be got into his flower +garden. ’Tis sommat as is not likely to be forgot in a hurry. That +’tisn’t. + +LAURA. You carry a handsome nosegay of blossoms there, John. Are they +from your master’s garden? + +JOHN. Ah, there’re not amiss. I helped for to raise they too. + +LAURA. And to whom are you taking them now, John? + +JOHN. To the lady what my master’s a-courting of, mistress. + +LAURA. And whom may that be, John? + +JOHN. Why, ’tis yourself, mistress. + +LAURA. Me, John? Why, I’ve never clapped eyes on Master William Gardner +so far as I know of. + +JOHN. But he’ve clapped eyes on you, mistress—’twas at Church last +Sunday. And ’tis not a bit of food, nor a drop of drink, nor an hour of +sleep, as Master William have taken since. + +LAURA. O, you do surprise me, John? + +JOHN. That’s how ’tis with he, mistress. ’Tis many a year as I’ve +served Master William—but never have I seen him in the fix where he be in +to-day. + +LAURA. Why—how is it with him then? + +JOHN. As it might be with the cattle when the flies do buzz about they, +thick in the sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a-trampling and +a-tossing, and never a minute’s rest. + +LAURA. Well, now—to think of such a thing. Indeed! + +JOHN. I’ve seen a horse right up to the neck of him in that old quag +ahind of our place—a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth and +a-plunging so as ’twould terrify anyone to harken to it. And that’s how +’tis to-day with Master William up at home, so ’tis. + +LAURA. And only saw me once—at Church last Sunday, John? + +JOHN. Ah—and they old maid flies do sting but once, but ’tis a terrible +big bump as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that ’tis. + +LAURA. O John—’tis a fine thing to be loved like that. + +JOHN. So I should say—ah, ’tisn’t every day that a man like Master +William goes a-courting. + +LAURA. But he hasn’t set out yet, John. + +JOHN. You take and hold the nosegay, mistress, and I’ll go straight off +and fetch him, so being as you’re agreeable. + +LAURA. O yes, and that I am, John—You go and fetch him quick. I’ll bide +here gladly, waiting till he comes. + +JOHN. That’s it. I knowed you for a sensible lady the moment I pitched +my eyes on to you. And when master do come up, you take and talk to him +nicely and meek-like and lead him on from one thing to t’other: and +you’ll find as he’ll go quiet as a sheep after the first set off, spite +of the great spirit what’s at the heart of he. + +LAURA. John, I’ll do all as you say, and more than all. Only, you get +along and send him quickly to me. And—yes, you might give him a good +hint, John—I’m not averse to his attentions. + +JOHN. Ah, and I should think you wasn’t, for ’twould be a hard job to +find a nicer gentleman nor Master William. + +LAURA. That I know it would. Why, John, my heart’s commenced beating +ever so fast, it has. + +JOHN. Then you may reckon how ’tis with the poor master! Why, ’tis my +belief as ’twill be raving madness as’ll be the end of he if sommat don’t +come to put a finish to this unrest. + +LAURA. O John, ’twould never do for such a fine gentleman to go crazy. +Do you set off quick and send him along to me, and I’ll take and do my +very best for to quiet him, like. + +JOHN. [_Rising and about to set off_.] Ah, ’tis a powerful lot of +calming as Master William do require. But you be the one for to give it +him. You just bide where you do sit now whilst I goes and fetches him, +mistress. + +LAURA. O that I will, my good, dear John. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + + _The same wood_. + +WILLIAM _and_ JOHN _come up_. WILLIAM _carries a large market basket +containing vegetables_. + +JOHN. [_Looking round and seeing no one_.] Bless my soul, but ’twas on +the seat as I did leave she. + +WILLIAM. We have kept her waiting a bit too long whilst we were cutting +the green stuff. And now ’twill be best to let matters bide over till +to-morrow. + +JOHN. Why, master ’tis my belief as you be all of a-tremble like. + +WILLIAM. I wish we were well out of this business, John. ’Tis not to my +liking in any way. + +JOHN. ’Tis a fine looking lady, and that ’tis. You take and court her, +Master William. + +WILLIAM. How am I to court the wench when she’s not here? + +JOHN. [_Pointing_.] Look yonder, master, there she comes through them +dark trees. + +WILLIAM. You’ve got to bide somewhere nigh me, John. I could not be +left alone with a wench who’s a stranger to me. + +JOHN. Don’t you get flustered, Master William. See here, I’ll hide me +ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should want me, why, there I’m +close at hand. + +WILLIAM. I’d rather you did stand at my side, John. + +[JOHN _hides himself behind the bushes_. LAURA _comes slowly up_. +WILLIAM _stands awkwardly before her_, _saying nothing_. _Presently he +takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily and she bows to him_. _For +some moments they stand embarrassed_, _looking at one another_. + +WILLIAM. [_Suddenly bringing out a bunch of carrots from his basket and +holding them up_.] See these young carrots, mistress. + +LAURA. Indeed I do, master. + +WILLIAM. ’Tisn’t everywhere that you do see such fine grown ones for the +time of year. + +LAURA. You’re right there, master. We have none of them up at our +place. + +WILLIAM. [_Holding them towards her_.] Then be pleased to accept these, +mistress. + +LAURA. [_Taking the carrots_.] Thank you kindly, master. [_There is +another embarrassed silence_. WILLIAM _looks distractedly from_ LAURA +_to his basket_. _Then he takes out a bunch of turnips_. + +WILLIAM. You couldn’t beat these nowhere, not if you were to try. + +LAURA. I’m sure you could not, master. + +WILLIAM. They do call this sort the Early Snowball. ’Tis a foolish name +for a table root. + +LAURA. ’Tis a beautiful turnip. + +WILLIAM. [_Giving her the bunch_.] You may as well have them too. + +LAURA. O you’re very kind, master. + +[_There is another long silence_. WILLIAM _shuffles on his feet_—LAURA +_bends admiringly over her gifts_. + +WILLIAM. There’s young beans and peas and a spring cabbage too, within +the basket. I do grow a little of most everything. + +LAURA. O shall we sit down and look at the vegetables together? + +WILLIAM. [_Visibly relieved_.] We might do worse nor that. [_They sit +down side by side with the basket between them_. + +LAURA. [_Lifting the cabbage_.] O, this is quite a little picture! See +how the leaves do curl backwards—so fresh and green! + +WILLIAM. Ah, and that one has a rare white heart to it, it has. + +LAURA. I do love the taste of a spring cabbage, when it has a slice of +fat bacon along with it. + +WILLIAM. I might have brought a couple of pounds with me if I’d have +thought. Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging in the pantry. + +LAURA. [_Shyly_.] Next time, maybe. + +WILLIAM. [_Eagerly_.] ’Twouldn’t take ten minutes for me to run back. + +LAURA. Not now—O no master—not now. Do you bide a little longer here +and tell me about—about t’other things in the basket. + +WILLIAM. [_Mopping his face with a handkerchief_.] Well—there’s the +beans—I count that yours haven’t come up very smart this year. + +LAURA. That they’ve not. The whole place has been let to run dreadful +wild. + +WILLIAM. I’d—I’d like to show you how ’tis in my garden, one of these +days. + +LAURA. I’d be very pleased to walk along with you there. + +WILLIAM. [_Hurriedly_.] Ah—you should see it later on when the—the—the +parsnips are a bit forrarder. + +LAURA. I’d like to see the flower garden now, where this nosegay came +from. + +WILLIAM. [_Looking round uneasily_.] I don’t know what the folks would +say if they were to see you and me a-going on the road in broad day—I’m +sure I don’t. + +LAURA. Why, what should they say, Master Gardner? + +WILLIAM. They might get saying—they might say as—as I’d got a-courting, +or sommat foolish. + +LAURA. Well—and would that be untrue? + +WILLIAM. [_Looking at her very uncomfortably_.] I’m blessed if I do +know—I mean— + +LAURA. This nosegay—and look, those young carrots—and the turnips and +beans, why did you bring them for me, master, unless it was that you +intended something by it? + +WILLIAM. [_Very confused_.] That’s so. So ’tis. That’s true. I count +you have got hold of the sow by the ear right enough this time. And the +less said about it the better. [_A slight silence_. + +LAURA. [_Looking up shyly in_ WILLIAM’S face.] What was it drew you to +me first, master? + +WILLIAM. I believe ’twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced to take +notice of you, like. + +LAURA. Yes, but what was it about me that took your fancy in Church on +Sunday? + +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I know, unless ’twas those coloured ribbons that +you have got to your bonnet. + +LAURA. You are partial to the colour? + +WILLIAM. Ah, ’tis well enough. + +LAURA. See here. [_Taking a flower from her dress_.] This is of the +same colour. I will put it in your coat. + +[_She fastens it in his coat_. WILLIAM _looks very uncomfortable and +nervous_. + +WILLIAM. Well, bless my soul, but women folk have got some powerful +strange tricks to them. + +LAURA. [_Pinning the flower in its place_.] There—my gift to you, +master. + +WILLIAM. You may call me by my name, if you like, ’tis more suitable, +seeing that we might go along to Church together one of these days. + +LAURA. O William, you have made me very happy—I do feel all mazy like +with my gladness. + +WILLIAM. Well, Julia, we might do worse than to—to—name the day. + +LAURA. Why do you call me Julia? + +WILLIAM. Seeing that I’ve given you leave to call me William ’tis only +suitable that I should use your name as well. + +LAURA. But my name is not Julia. + +WILLIAM. What is it then, I should like to know? + +LAURA. ’Tis Laura, William. + +WILLIAM. Folks did tell me that you were named Julia. + +LAURA. No—Laura is my name; but I live with Mistress Julia up at +Luther’s Farm, and I help her with the work. House-keeping, dairy, +poultry, garden. O there’s nothing I can’t turn my hand to, Master +William. + +WILLIAM. [_Starts up from the seat in deepest consternation_.] John, +John—Come you here, I say! Come here. + +JOHN. [_Emerges from the bushes_.] My dearest master! + +WILLIAM. What’s this you’ve been and done, John? + +JOHN. Why, master—the one with the cherry ribbons, to her you did say. + +WILLIAM. [_Disgustedly_.] ’Tis the wrong one. + +LAURA. What are you two talking about? William, do you mean to say as +that man of yours was hid in the bushes all the while? + +WILLIAM. Now, John, you’ve got to get me out of the fix where I’m set. + +JOHN. O my dear master, don’t you take on so. ’Tis a little bit of +misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right very soon. + +WILLIAM. Then you get to work and set it right, John, for ’tis beyond +the power of me to do so. I’ll be blessed if I’ll ever get meddling with +this sort of job again. + +JOHN. Now don’t you get so heated, master, but leave it all to me. +[_Turning to_ LAURA.] My good wench, it seems that there has been a +little bit of misunderstanding between you and my gentleman here. + +LAURA. [_Angrily_.] So that’s what you call it—misunderstanding ’tis a +fine long word, but not much of meaning, to it, I’m thinking. + +JOHN. Then you do think wrong. Suppose you was to go to market for to +buy a nice spring chicken and when you was got half on the way to home +you was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl in place of it, +what would you do then? + +LAURA. I don’t see that chickens or fowls have anything to do with the +matter. + +JOHN. Then you’re not the smart maid I took you for. ’Tis not you as +would be suitable in my master’s home. And what’s more, ’tis not you as +my master’s come a-courting of. + +LAURA. If ’tis not me, who is it then? + +[WILLIAM _looks at her sheepishly and then turns away_. + +JOHN. ’Tis your mistress, since you wants to know. + +LAURA. [_Indignantly_.] O, I see it all now—How could I have been so +misled! + +JOHN. However could poor master have been so mistook, I say. + +LAURA. [_Turning away passionately_.] O, I’ve had enough of you and—and +your master. + +JOHN. Now that’s what I do like for to hear. Because me and master have +sommat else to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in this old wood the rest +of the day. Us have got a smartish lot of worry ahead of we, haven’t us, +master? + +WILLIAM. You never said a truer word, John. + +JOHN. Come along then Master William. You can leave the spring +vegetables to she. ’Tis more nor she deserves, seeing as her might have +known as ’twas her mistress the both of us was after, all the time. + +[LAURA _throws herself on the seat and begins to cry silently_, _but +passionately_. + +WILLIAM. O John, this courting, ’tis powerful heavy work. + +JOHN. [_Taking_ WILLIAM’S _arm_.] Come you along with me, master, and +I’ll give you a helping hand with it all. + +LAURA. [_Looking up and speaking violently_.] I warrant you will, you +clown. But let me advise you to look better afore you leap next time, or +very likely ’tis in sommat worse than a ditchful of nettles as you’ll +find yourself. + +JOHN. [_Looking back over his shoulders as he goes off with_ WILLIAM.] +I reckon as you’ve no call to trouble about we, mistress. Us is they +what can look after theirselves very well. Suppose you was to wash your +face and dry your eyes and set about the boiling of yon spring cabbage. +’Twould be sensibler like nor to bide grizzling after one as is beyond +you in his station, so ’twould. + +[JOHN _and_ WILLIAM _go out_, _leaving_ LAURA _weeping on the bench_, +_the basket of vegetables by her side_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + +ACT II.—Scene 3. + + +JULIA _is sitting at the foot of a tree in the wood_. CHRIS, NAT _and_ +TANSIE _are seated near her on the ground_. + +JULIA. I wish this day might last for always. + +CHRIS. Why, when to-morrow’s come, ’twill be the same. + +JULIA. That it will not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow’s work. + +TANSIE. One day ’tis much the same as t’other with me. + +NAT. ’Tis what we gets to eat as do make the change. + +TANSIE. I should have thought as how a grand young mistress like +yourself might have had the days to your own liking. + +JULIA. Ah, and so I did once. But that was before Uncle died and left +me the farm. Now, ’tis all different with the days. + +CHRIS. How was it with you afore then, mistress? + +JULIA. Much the same as ’tis with that bird flying yonder. I did so as +I listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was up, then I did +sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when ’twas dark, why, then I did +roam. There was naught to hold me back from my fancy. + +TANSIE. And how is it _now_ with you, mistress? + +JULIA. ’Tis all said in one word. + +CHRIS. What’s that? + +JULIA. ’Tis “work.” + +NAT. Work? + +CHRIS. Work? + +TANSIE. Work! And yet ’tis a fine young lady as you do look in your +muslin gown with silky ribbons to it and all. + +JULIA. I’m a farmer, Tansie. And for a farmer ’tis work of one sort, or +t’other from when the sun is up till the candle has burned itself short. +If ’tisn’t working with my own hands, ’tis driving of the hands of +another. + +CHRIS. I’ve heard tell as a farmer do spin gold all the day same as one +of they great spiders as go putting out silk from their mouths. + +JULIA. And what is gold to me, Chris, who have no one but myself to +spend it on? + +CHRIS. Folks do say as the laying up of gold be one of the finest things +in the world. + +JULIA. It will never bring happiness to me, Chris. + +CHRIS. Come, mistress, ’tis a fine thing to have a great stone roof +above the head of you. + +JULIA. I’d sooner get my shelter from the green leaves. + +NAT. And a grand thing to have your victuals spread afore you each time +’stead of having to go lean very often. + +JULIA. O, a handful of berries and a drink of fresh water is enough for +me. + +TANSIE. And beautiful it must be to stretch the limbs of you upon +feathers when night do come down, with a fine white sheet drawn up over +your head. + +JULIA. O, I could rest more sweetly on the grass and moss yonder. + +NAT. I did never sleep within four walls but once, and then ’twas in +gaol. + +JULIA. O Nat, you were never in gaol, were you? + +NAT. ’Twas that they mistook I for another. And when the morning did +come, they did let I go again. + +CHRIS. I count ’twas a smartish long night, that! + +NAT. ’Twas enough for to shew me how it do feel when anyone has got to +bide sleeping with the walls all around of he. + +JULIA. And the ceiling above, Nat. And locked door. And other folk +lying breathing in the house, hard by. All dark and close. + +CHRIS. And where us may lie, the air do run swift over we. We has the +smell of the earth and the leaves on us as we do sleep. There baint no +darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through up yonder. + +TANSIE. And no sound of other folk breathing but the crying of th’ owls +and the foxes’ bark. + +JULIA. Ah, that must be a grand sound, the barking of a fox. I never +did hear one. Never. + +CHRIS. Ah, ’tis a powerful thin sound, that—but one to raise the hair on +a man’s head and to clam the flesh of he, at dead of night. + +NAT. You come and bide along of we one evening, and you shall hearken to +the fox, and badger too, if you’ve the mind. + +JULIA. O that would please me more than anything in the world. + +TANSIE. And when ’twas got a little lighter, so that the bushes could be +seen, and the fields, I’d shew you where the partridge has her nest +beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten them too. + +CHRIS. And I’ll take and lead you to a place what I do know of, where +the water flows clear as a diamond over the stones. And if you bides +there waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come along—and there’s +a dinner such as the Queen might not get every day of the week. + +JULIA. O Chris, who is there to say I must bide in one place when all in +me is thirsting to be in t’other! + +CHRIS. I’m sure I don’t know. + +NAT. I should move about where I did like, if ’twas me. + +TANSIE. A fine young lady like you can do as she pleases. + +JULIA. Well then, it pleases me to bide with you in the free air. + +CHRIS. Our life, ’tis a poor life, and wandering. ’Tis food one day, +and may be going without the next. ’Tis the sun upon the faces of us one +hour—and then the rain. But ’tis in freedom that us walks, and we be the +masters of our own limbs. + +JULIA. Will you be good to me if I journey with you? + +CHRIS. Ah, ’tis not likely as I’ll ever fail you, mistress. + +JULIA. Do not call me mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia. + +CHRIS. ’Tis a well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as clear water +upon the tongue. + +JULIA. Tansie, how will it be for me to go with you? + +TANSIE. ’Twill be well enough with the spirit of you I don’t doubt, but +how’ll it be with the fine clothes what you have on? + +NAT. [_Suddenly looking up_.] Why, there’s Susan coming. + +JULIA. [_Looking in the same direction_.] So that is Susan? + +TANSIE. I count as her has had a smartish job to get away from th’ old +missis so early in the day. + +CHRIS. ’Tis a rare old she cat, and handy with the claw’s of her, +Susan’s missis. + +[SUSAN _comes shyly forward_. + +NAT. Come you here, Susan, and sit along of we. + +JULIA. Yes, sit down with us in this cool shade, Susan. You look warm +from running. + +SUSAN. O, I didn’t know you was here, Mistress Julia. + +JULIA. Well, Susan, and so you live at Road Farm. Are you happy there? + +SUSAN. I should be if ’twern’t for mistress. + +JULIA. No mistress could speak harshly to you, Susan—you are so young +and pretty. + +SUSAN. Ah, but mistress takes no account of aught but the work you does, +and the tongue of her be wonderful lashing. + +JULIA. Then how comes it that you have got away to the forest so early +on a week day? + +SUSAN. ’Tis that mistress be powerful took up with sommat else this +afternoon, and so I was able to run out for a while and her didn’t notice +me. + +TANSIE. Why Su, what’s going on up at the farm so particular to-day? + +SUSAN. ’Tis courting. + +ALL. Courting? + +SUSAN. Yes. That ’tis. ’Tis our Master William what’s dressed up in +his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting with a basket of green stuff on +his arm big enough to fill the market, very nigh. + +CHRIS. Well, well, who’d have thought he had it in him? + +NAT. He’s a gentleman what’s not cut out for courting, to my mind. + +SUSAN. Indeed he isn’t, Nat. And however the mistress got him dressed +and set off on that business, I don’t know. + +JULIA. But you have not told us who the lady is, Susan. + +SUSAN. [_Suddenly very embarrassed_.] I—I—don’t think as I do rightly +know who ’tis, mistress. + +CHRIS. Why, look you, Susan, you’ll have to take and hide yourself if +you don’t want for them to know as you be got along of we. + +SUSAN. What’s that, Chris? + +CHRIS. [_Pointing_.] See there, that man of Master Gardner’s be +a-coming along towards us fast. Look yonder— + +SUSAN. O whatever shall I do? ’Tis John, and surely he will tell of me +when he gets back. + +NAT. Come you off with me afore he do perceive you, Susan. I’ll take +you where you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the world if you’ll +but come along of me. + +JULIA. That’s it. Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. And do you go +along too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in the stillness of +the wood for a while. + +[SUSAN, TANSIE _and_ NAT _go out_. + +CHRIS. Be I to leave you too, Julia? + +JULIA. [_Slowly_.] Only for a little moment, Chris; then you can come +for me again. I would like to stay with myself in quiet for a while. +New thoughts have come into my mind and I cannot rightly understand what +they do say to me, unless I hearken to them alone. + +CHRIS. Then I’ll leave you, Julia. For things be stirring powerful in +my mind too, and I’d give sommat for to come to an understanding with +they. Ah, that I would. + +[_They look at one another in silence for a moment_, _then_ CHRIS _slowly +follows the others_, _leaving_ JULIA _alone_. JULIA _sits alone in the +wood_. _Presently she begins to sing_. + +JULIA. [_Singing_.] + + I sowed the seeds of love, + It was all in the Spring; + In April, in May, and in June likewise + When small birds they do sing. + +[JOHN _with a large basket on his arm comes up to her_. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +JULIA. Good afternoon. + +JOHN. Now I count as you would like to know who ’tis that’s made so bold +in speaking to you, Mistress. + +JULIA. Why, you’re Master Gardner’s farm hand, if I’m not mistaken. + +JOHN. Ah, that’s right enough. And there be jobs as I wish Master +William would get and do for hisself instead of putting them on I. + +JULIA. Well, and how far may you be going this afternoon? + +JOHN. I baint going no further than where I be a-standing now, mistress. + +JULIA. It would appear that your business was with me, then? + +JOHN. Ah, you’ve hit the right nail, mistress. ’Tis with you. ’Tis a +straight offer as my master have sent me out for to make. + +JULIA. Now I wonder what sort of an offer that might be! + +JOHN. ’Tis master’s hand in marriage, and a couple of pigs jowls, +home-cured, within this here basket. + +JULIA. O my good man, you’re making game of me. + +JOHN. And that I baint, mistress. ’Twas in the church as Master William +seed you first. And ’tis very nigh sick unto death with love as he have +been since then. + +JULIA. Is he too sick to come and plead his cause himself, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that he be. Do go moulting about the place with his +victuals left upon the dish—a sighing and a grizzling so that any maid +what’s got a heart to th’ inside of she would be moved in pity, did she +catch ear of it, and would lift he out of the torment. + +JULIA. Well, John, I’ve not seen or heard any of this sad to-do, so I +can’t be moved in pity. + +JOHN. Ah, do you look within this basket at the jowls what Master +William have sent you. Maybe as they’ll go to your heart straighter nor +what any words might. + +[JOHN _sits down on the bench by_ JULIA _and opens the basket_. JULIA +_looks in_. + +JULIA. I have no liking for pigs’ meat myself. + +JOHN. Master’s pig meat be different to any in the county, mistress. +“Tell her,” says Master William, “’tis a rare fine bit of mellow jowl as +I be a sending she.” + +JULIA. O John, I’m a very poor judge of such things. + +JOHN. And look you here. I never seed a bit of Master William’s +home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this day. No, that +I have not, mistress. + +JULIA. [_Shutting the basket_.] Well—I have no use for such a gift, +John, so it may be returned again to the family. I am sorry you had the +trouble of bringing it so far. + +JOHN. You may not be partial to pig meat, mistress, but you’ll send back +the key of Master William’s heart same as you have done the jowls. + +JULIA. I have no use for the key of Master William’s heart either, John. +And you may tell him so, from me. + +JOHN. Why, mistress. You don’t know what you be a talking of. A man +like my master have never had to take a No in place of Yes in all the +born days of him. + +JULIA. [_Rising_.] Then he’ll have to take it now, John. And I’m +thinking ’tis time you set off home again with your load. + +JOHN. Well, mistress, I don’t particular care to go afore you have given +me a good word or sommat as’ll hearten up poor Master William in his love +sickness. + +JULIA. Truly, John, I don’t know what you would have me say. + +JOHN. I warrant there be no lack of words to the inside of you, if so be +as you’d open you mouth a bit wider. ’Tis not silence as a maid is +troubled with in general. + +JULIA. O, I have plenty of words ready, John, should you care to hear +them. + +JOHN. Then out with them, Mistress Julia, and tell the master as how +you’ll take the offer what he have made you. + +JULIA. I’ve never seen your master, John, but I know quite enough about +him to say I’ll never wed with him. Please to make that very clear when +you get back. + +JOHN. ’Tis plain as you doesn’t know what you be a talking of. And ’tis +a wonder as how such foolishness can came from the mouth of a sensible +looking maid like yourself. + +JULIA. I shall not marry Master William Gardner. + +JOHN. I reckon as you’ll be glad enough to eat up every one of them +words the day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more splendid +gentleman nor he never fetched his breath. + +JULIA. I’ll never wed a farmer, John. + +JOHN. And then, look at the gift what Master William’s been and sent +you. ’Tisn’t to everyone as master do part with his pig meat. That +’tisn’t. + +JULIA. [_Rising_.] Well, you can tell your master I’m not one that can +be courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. And that I’ll not wed until +I can give my heart along with my hand. + +JOHN. I’d like to know where you would find a better one nor master for +to give your heart to, mistress? + +JULIA. May be I have not far to search. + +JOHN. [_Taking up the basket_.] You’re a rare tricksy maid as ever I +did see. Tricksy and tossy too. + +JULIA. There—that’s enough, John. Suppose you set off home and tell +your master he can hang up his meat again in the larder, for all that it +concerns me. + +JOHN. I’ll be blowed if I do say anything of the sort, mistress. I +shall get and tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought to +the matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, ’tis very like as a +dish of trotters may prove acceptabler. + +JULIA. Say what you like, John. Only let me bide quiet in this good +forest now. I want to be with my thoughts. + +JOHN. [_Preparing to go and speaking aloud to himself_.] Her’s a +wonderful contrary bird to be sure. And bain’t a shy one neither, what +gets timid and flustered and is easily netted. My word, but me and +master has a job before us for to catch she. + +JULIA. I hear you, and ’tis very rudely that you talk. There’s an old +saying that I never could see the meaning of before, but now I think ’tis +clear, “Like master, like man,” they say. I’ll have none of Master +William, and you can tell him so. + +[JOHN _goes out angrily_. JULIA _sits down again on the bench and begins +to sing_. + +JULIA. [_Singing_.] + + My gardener stood by + And told me to take great care, + For in the middle of a red rose-bud + There grows a sharp thorn there. + +[LAURA _comes slowly forward_, _carrying the basket of vegetables on one +arm_. _She holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying_. + +JULIA. Why, Laura, what has made you cry so sadly? + +LAURA. O, Julia, ’twas a rare red rose as I held in my hand, and a rare +cruel thorn that came from it and did prick me. + +JULIA. And a rare basket of green stuff that you have been getting. + +LAURA. [_Sinking down on the seat_, _and weeping violently_.] His dear +gift to me! + +JULIA. [_Looking into the basket_.] O a wonderful fine gift, to be +sure. Young carrots and spring cabbage. I’ve had a gift offered too—but +mine was jowls. + +LAURA. Jowls. O, and did you not take them? + +JULIA. No, I sent them back to the giver, with the dry heart which was +along with them in the same basket. + +LAURA. O Julia, how could you be so hard and cruel? + +JULIA. Come, wouldn’t you have done the same? + +LAURA. [_Sobbing vehemently_.] That I should not, Julia. + +JULIA. Perhaps you’ve seen the gentleman then? + +LAURA. I have. And O, Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. I never saw +one that was his like. + +JULIA. The rare red rose with its thorn, Laura. + +LAURA. He did lay the heart of him before me—thinking my name was Julia. + +JULIA. And did he lay the vegetables too? + +LAURA. ’Twas all the doing of a great fool, that man of his. + +JULIA. And you—did you give him what he asked of you—before he knew that +your name was not Julia? + +LAURA. O, I did—that I did. [_A short silence_. + +JULIA. And could you forget the prick of the thorn, did you hold the +rose again, Laura? + +LAURA. O that I could. For me there’d be naught but the rose, were it +laid once more in my hand. But ’tis not likely to be put there, since +’tis you he favours. + +JULIA. But I don’t favour him. + +LAURA. You’ll favour him powerful well when you see him, Julia. + +JULIA. I’ve given my heart already, but ’tis not to him. + +LAURA. You’ve given your heart? + +JULIA. Yes, Chris has all of it, Laura. There is nothing left for +anyone else in the world. + +LAURA. O Julia, think of your position. + +JULIA. That I will not do. I am going to think of yours. + +LAURA. [_Beginning to cry_.] I’m no better in my station than a serving +maid, like Susan. + +JULIA. [_Pointing_.] There she comes [_calling_] Susan, Susan! + +[SUSAN _comes up_. _During the next sentences_ LAURA _takes one bunch of +vegetables after another from the basket_, _smoothing each in turn with a +fond caressing movement_. + +SUSAN. Did you call, mistress? + +JULIA. Yes, Susan. That I did. + +SUSAN. Can I help you in any way, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, and that you can. You have got to run quickly back to the +farm. + +SUSAN. Be it got terrible late, mistress? + +JULIA. ’Tis not only that. You have got to find your master and tell +him to expect a visit from me in less than an hour’s time from now. Do +you understand? + +SUSAN. O, yes, mistress, and that I do—to tell master as you be coming +along after he as fast as you can run. + +JULIA. Well—I should not have put it in that way, but ’tis near enough +may be. So off, and make haste, Susan. + +SUSAN. Please, mistress, I could make the words have a more loving sound +to them if you do wish it. + +JULIA. My goodness, Susan, what are you thinking of? Say naught, but +that I’m coming. Run away now, and run quickly. [SUSAN _goes off_. + +LAURA. [_Looking up_, _a bunch of carrots in her hands_.] What are you +going to do now, Julia? + +JULIA. You shall see, when you have done playing with those carrots. + +LAURA. He pulled them, every one, with his own hands, Julia. + +JULIA. My love has gathered something better for me than a carrot. See, +a spray of elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the wind. + +[_She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress_, _and shews it to_ +LAURA. + +LAURA. The roots that lie warm in the earth do seem more homely like to +me. + +JULIA. Well—each one has their own way in love—and mine lies through the +dark woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. And ’tis your road +that we will take this afternoon—so come along quickly with me, Laura, +for the sun has already begun to change its light. + +[LAURA _replaces the vegetables in her basket and rises from the seat as +the curtain falls_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + + _The Garden of Road Farm as in Act I_. + +MRS. GARDNER _is knitting in the Arbour_. WILLIAM _strolls about +gloomily_, _his hands in his pockets_. + +MRS. GARDNER. And serve you right, William, for sending the man when you +should have gone yourself. + +WILLIAM. John has a tongue that is better used to this sort of business +than mine. + +MRS. GARDNER. Nonsense, when was one of our family ever known to fail in +the tongue? + +WILLIAM. If she that was asked first had only been the right one, all +would have been over and done with now. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis John that you have got to thank for the blunder. + +WILLIAM. [_Sighing_.] That was a rare fine maid, and no mistake. + +MRS. GARDNER. And a rare brazen hussy, from all that has reached my +ears. + +WILLIAM. Well—I’ve done with courting—now and for all time, that I have. +And you may roast me alive if I’ll ever go nigh to a maid again. + +MRS. GARDNER. That you shall, William—and quickly too. There’s no time +like the present, and your Sunday clothes are upon you still. + +WILLIAM. I was just going up to change, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to remain as you are. You may take +what gift you like along with you this time, so long as it’s none of my +home-cured meat. + +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I do stir out again this day. Why, look at the +seedlings crying for water, and the nets to lay over the fruit and sommat +of everything wanting to be done all around of me. I’ll not stir. + +[JOHN _comes towards them_. + +MRS. GARDNER. Here’s John. Suppose he were to make himself useful in +the garden for once instead of meddling in things that are none of his +business. + +JOHN. I’ll be blowed if ’tis any more courting as I’ll do, neither for +Master William nor on my own account. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, ’twasn’t your fault that the lady wouldn’t take me, +you did your best with her, I know. + +JOHN. An that I did, Master William, but a more contrary coxsy sort of a +maid I never did see. “I baint one as fancies pig meat,” her did say. +And the nose of she did curl away up till it could go no higher. That’s +not the wench for me, I says to myself. + +MRS. GARDNER. Is the jowl hung up in its right place again, John? + +JOHN. That ’tis, mistress. I put it back myself, and a good job for +that ’taint went out of the family and off to the mouths of strangers, so +says I. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you tend to Master William’s garden John, instead of +talking. We’ve had enough of your tongue for one day. + +JOHN. Why, be Master William goin’ out for to court again, this +afternoon? + +WILLIAM. No, John—No, I’ve had enough of that for my life time. + +JOHN. So have I, master, and more nor enough. I don’t care particular +if I never set eyes on a maid again. + +WILLIAM. [_Pointing to a plot of ground_.] That’s where I pulled the +young carrots this morning. + +JOHN. Ah, and so you did, master. + +WILLIAM. And there’s from where I took the Early Snowballs. + +JOHN. And a great pity as you did. There be none too many of that sort +here. + +WILLIAM. She had a wonderful soft look in her eyes as she did handle +them and the spring cabbage, John. + +JOHN. Ah, and a wonderful hard tongue when her knowed ’twasn’t for she +as they was pulled. + +WILLIAM. Was t’other maid anything of the same pattern, John? + +JOHN. Upon my word, if t’other wasn’t the worst of the two, for she did +put a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she did give I, and the +words did fall from she like so many bricks on my head. + +WILLIAM. Pity the first was not the right maid. + +JOHN. Ah, a maid what can treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon did baint +the sort for to mistress it over we, I’m thinking. + +MRS. GARDNER. See here, John—suppose you were to let your tongue bide +still in its home awhile, and start doing something with your hands. + +JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. What’s wanted, Master William? + +WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I can recollect, John. This courting business +lies heavy on me, and I don’t seem able to get above it, like. + +JOHN. I’d let it alone, master, if I was you. They be all alike, the +maids. And ’twouldn’t be amiss if we was to serve they as we serves the +snails when they gets to the young plants. + +[SUSAN _comes hurriedly into the garden_. + +SUSAN. Please master, please mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. What do you mean, Susan, by coming into the garden without +your cap? Go and put it on at once. + +SUSAN. The wind must have lifted it from me, mistress, for I was running +ever so fast. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you expect me to believe that, Susan—and not a breath +stirring the flowers or trees, or anything? + +SUSAN. ’Twas the lady I met as—as—as I was coming across the field from +feeding the fowls. + +MRS. GARDNER. What lady, Susan? + +SUSAN. Her from Luther’s, mistress. + +JOHN. And what of she; out with it, wench. + +SUSAN. She did tell I to say as she be coming along as fast as she may +after Master William. + +WILLIAM. [_As though to himself with an accent of despair_.] No. No. + +JOHN. There, master, didn’t I tell you so? + +WILLIAM. [_Very nervously_.] What did you tell me, John? + +JOHN. That, let her abide and her’d find the senses of she presently. + +WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know what to do. + +[JOHN _takes his master’s arm and draws him aside_. + +JOHN. You pluck up your heart, my dearest master, and court she hard. +And in less nor a six months ’tis along to church as you’ll be a-driving +she. + +WILLIAM. But John, ’tis t’other with the cherry ribbons that has taken +all my fancy. + +JOHN. No, no, Master William. You take and court the mistress. You +take and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from she. +T’other wench is but the serving maid. + +SUSAN. The lady’s coming along ever so quickly, master. + +[MRS. GARDNER, _rising and folding up her knitting_. + +MRS. GARDNER. You’ll please to come indoors with me, William, and I’ll +brush you down and make you look more presentable than you appear just +now. Susan, you’ll get a cap to you head at once, do you hear me! And +John, take and water master’s seedlings. Any one can stand with their +mouths open and their eyes as big as gooseberries if they’ve a mind. +’Tis not particular sharp to do so. Come, William. + +WILLIAM. I’d like a word or two with John first, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. You come along with me this moment, William. ’Tis a too +many words by far that you’ve had with John already, and much good +they’ve done to you. Come you in with me. + +WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know whether ’tis on my head or on my +feet that I’m standing. + +[WILLIAM _follows his mother slowly and gloomily into the house_. + +JOHN. Well—if ever there was a poor, tormented animal ’tis the master. + +SUSAN. Ah, mistress should have been born a drover by rights. ’Tis a +grand nagging one as her’d have made, and sommat what no beast would ever +have got the better of. + +JOHN. I wouldn’t stand in Master William’s shoes, not if you was to put +me knee deep in gold. + +SUSAN. Nor I. + +JOHN. Ah, this courting business, ’tis a rare caddling muddle when ’tis +all done and said. + +SUSAN. ’Tis according as some folks do find it, Master John. + +JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot as you’ll get of it come Sunday night, my +wench. You wait and see. + +SUSAN. That shews how little you do know. ’Twill be better nor ever +with me then. + +JOHN. ’Twill be alone by yourself as you’ll go walking, Su. + +SUSAN. We’ll see about that when the time comes, John. + +JOHN. All I says is that I baint a-going walking with you. + +SUSAN. I never walk with two, John. + +JOHN. You’ll have to learn to go in your own company. + +SUSAN. I shall go by the side of my husband by then, very likely. + +JOHN. Your husband? What tales be you a-giving out now? + +SUSAN. ’Tis to Nat as I’m to be wed come Saturday. + +JOHN. Get along with you, Susan, and put a cap to your head. Mistress +will be coming out presently, and then you know how ’twill be if her +catches you so. Get along in with you. + +SUSAN. Now you don’t believe what I’m telling you—but it’s true, O it’s +true. + +JOHN. Look here—There’s company at the gate, and you a-standing there +like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in and make yourself a +decenter appearance and then go and tell the mistress as they be comed. + +SUSAN. [_Preparing to go indoors and speaking over her shoulder_.] ’Tis +in the parson’s gown as you should be clothed, Master John. Ah, ’tis a +wonderful wordy preacher as you would make, to be sure. And ’tis a rare +crop as one might raise with the seed as do fall from your mouth. + +[_She goes indoors_. JULIA _comes leisurely into the garden_. + +JULIA. Well, John, and how are you feeling now? + +JOHN. Nicely, thank you, mistress. See yon arbour? + +JULIA. And that I do, John. + +JOHN. Well, you may go and sit within it till the master has leisure to +come and speak with you. + +JULIA. Thank you, John, but I would sooner stop and watch you tend the +flowers. + +JOHN. ’Tis all one to me whether you does or you does not. + +JULIA. Now, John, you are angry with me still. + +JOHN. I likes a wench as do know the mind of she, and not one as can +blow hot one moment and cold the next. + +JULIA. There was never a moment when I did not know my own mind, John. +And that’s the truth. + +JOHN. Well, us won’t say no more about that. ’Taint fit as there should +be ill feeling nor quarrelling ’twixt me and you. + +JULIA. You’re right, John. And there was something that I had it in my +mind to ask you. + +JOHN. You can say your fill. There baint no one but me in the garden. + +JULIA. John, you told me that since Sunday your master has been sick +with love. + +JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. I count as we shall bury he if +sommat don’t come to his relief. + +JULIA. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if ’tis for love +of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening. + +JOHN. You’d best go and ask it of his self, mistress. ’Tis a smartish +lot of work as I’ve got to attend to here. + +JULIA. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you. + +JOHN. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a-buzzin +round a man’s head. + +JULIA. Now, John—you must tell me which of the two it is. Is it Laura +whom your master loves, or Julia? + +JOHN. ’Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me. + +JULIA. No, John, you’re not looking straight at me. You are looking +down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine. + +JOHN. [_Looking up crossly_.] I’ve got my work to think of. I’m not +one to stand cackling with a maid. + +JULIA. Could you swear me it is Julia? + +JOHN. ’Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide over, so as I can +get the watering finished. + +JULIA. [_Seizes the watering can_.] Now, John, you have got to speak +the truth to me. + +JOHN. Give up yon can, I tell you. O you do act wonderful unseemly for +a young lady. + +JULIA. [_Withholding the can_.] Not till I have the truth from you. + +JOHN. [_Angrily_.] Well then, is it likely that my master would set his +fancy on such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, Master William do know better +nor to do such a thing, I can tell you. + +JULIA. Then ’tis for Laura that he is love-sick, John. + +JOHN. Give I the watering can. + +JULIA. [_Giving him the can_.] Here it is, dear John. O I had a fancy +all the time that ’twas to Laura your master had lost his heart. And now +I see I made no mistake. + +JOHN. I shouldn’t have spoke as I did if you hadn’t a buzzed around I +till I was drove very nigh crazy. Master William, he’ll never forgive me +this. + +JULIA. That he will, I’m sure, when he has listened to what I have got +to say to him. + +JOHN. You do set a powerful store on what your tongue might say, but I’d +take and bide quiet at home if I was you and not come hunting of a nice +reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very garden. + +JULIA. O John, you’re a sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge me very +unkindly. But I’ll not bear malice if you will just run in and tell your +master that I want a word with him. + +JOHN. A word? Why not say fifty? When was a maid ever satisfied with +one word I’d like to know? + +JULIA. Well—I shan’t say more than six, very likely, so fetch him to me +now, John, and I’ll wait here in the garden. [JOHN _looks at her with +exasperated contempt_. _Then he slowly walks away towards the house_. +JULIA _goes in the opposite direction to the garden gate_. + +JULIA. [_Calling_.] Chris! [CHRIS _comes in_. + +JULIA. [_Pointing_.] O Chris, look at this fine garden—and yon +arbour—see the fine house, with lace curtains to the windows of it. + +CHRIS. [_Sullenly_.] Ah—I sees it all very well. + +JULIA. And all this could be mine for the stretching out of a hand. + +CHRIS. Then stretch it. + +JULIA. ’Twould be like putting a wild bird into a gilded cage, to set me +here in this place. No, I must go free with you, Chris—and we will +wander where our spirits lead us—over all the world if we have a mind to +do so. + +CHRIS. Please God you’ll not grieve at your choice. + +JULIA. That I never shall. Now call to Laura. Is she in the lane +outside? + +CHRIS. There, she be come to the gate now. + +[LAURA _comes in_, _followed by_ NAT _and_ TANSIE. + +JULIA. [_Pointing to a place on the ground_.] Laura, see, here is the +place from which your young carrots were pulled. + +LAURA. O look at the flowers, Julia—Lillies, pinks and red roses. + +JULIA. ’Tis a fine red rose that shall be gathered for you presently, +Laura. [JOHN _comes up_. + +JOHN. The master’s very nigh ready now, mistress. + +[SUSAN _follows him_. + +SUSAN. The mistress says, please to be seated till she do come. + +JOHN. [_To_ CHRIS _and_ NAT.] Now, my men, we don’t want the likes of +you in here. You had best get off afore Master William catches sight of +you. + +JULIA. No, John. These are my friends, and I wish them to hear all that +I have to say to your master. + +JOHN. Ah, ’tis in the grave as poor Master William will be landed soon +if you don’t have a care. + +LAURA. [_Anxiously_.] O is he so delicate as that, John? + +JOHN. Ah—and that he be. And these here love matters and courtings and +foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don’t give him but a week +longer if things do go on as they be now. + +[WILLIAM _and_ MRS. GARDNER _come in_. WILLIAM _looks nervously round +him_. MRS. GARDNER _perceives the gipsies_, _and_ SUSAN _talking to_ +NAT. + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan, get you to your place in the kitchen, as quick as +you can. John, put yon roadsters through the gate, if you please. +[_Turning to_ JULIA.] Now young Miss? + +JULIA. A very good evening to you, mistress. And let me make Chris +known to you for he and I are to be wed to-morrow. + +[_She takes_ CHRIS _by the hand and leads him forward_. + +MRS. GARDNER. What’s this? William, do you understand what the young +person is telling us? + +JULIA. [_Taking_ LAURA _with her other hand_.] And here is Laura to +whom I have given all my land and all my money. She is the mistress of +Luther’s now. + +JOHN. [_Aside to_ WILLIAM.] Now master, hearken to that. Can’t you +lift your spirits a bit. + +JULIA. [_To_ MRS. GARDNER.] And I beg you to accept her as a daughter. +She will make a better farmer’s wife than ever I shall. + +JOHN. [_In a loud whisper_.] Start courting, master. + +WILLIAM. O I dare not quite so sudden, John. + +MRS. GARDNER. [_Sitting down_.] It will take a few moments for me to +understand this situation. + +JULIA. There is no need for any hurry. We have all the evening before +us. + +JOHN. [_Hastily gathers a rosebud and puts it into_ WILLIAM’S _hand_.] +Give her a blossom, master. ’Tis an easy start off. + +WILLIAM. [_Coming forward shyly with the flower_.] Would you fancy a +rosebud, mistress? + +LAURA. O that I would, master. + +WILLIAM. Should you care to see—to see where the young celery is planted +out? + +LAURA. O, I’d dearly love to see the spot. + +WILLIAM. I’ll take you along to it then. [_He gives her his arm_, _very +awkwardly_, _and they move away_. + +MRS. GARDNER. [_Sitting down_.] Well—things have changed since I was +young. + +JOHN. [_Looking viciously at_ NAT _and_ SUSAN.] Ah, I counts they have, +mistress, and ’tis all for the worse. + +SUSAN. [_Comes forward timidly_.] And me and Nat are to be married too, +mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. I should have given you notice anyhow to-night, Susan, so +perhaps it’s just as well you have made sure of some sort of a roof to +your head. + +NAT. ’Twill be but the roof of th’ old cart, mistress; but I warrant as +her’ll sleep bravely under it, won’t you, Su. + +SUSAN. That I shall, dear Nat. + +TANSIE. Well, Master John, have you a fancy to come tenting along of we. + +JOHN. Upon my word, but I don’t know how ’tis with the young people +nowadays, they be so bold. + +JULIA. [_Who has been standing apart_, _her hand in that of_ CHRIS.] +New days, new ways, John. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, but ’tis hard to keep up with all these goings on, +and no mistake. + +JULIA. No need for you to try, John. If you are too old to run with us +you must abide still and watch us as we go. + +CHRIS. But there, you needn’t look downhearted, master, for I knows +someone as’ll give you a rare warm welcome if so be as you should change +your mind and take your chance in the open, same as we. + +TANSIE. You shall pay for that, Chris. + +JOHN. [_Stiffly_.] I hope as I’ve a properer sense of my duty nor many +others what I could name. + +MRS. GARDNER. Those are the first suitable words that have been spoken +in my hearing this afternoon. + +[WILLIAM, _with_ LAURA _on his arm_, _returns_. LAURA _carries a small +cucumber very lovingly_. + +LAURA. Julia, look! The first one of the season! O, isn’t it a +picture! + +JULIA. O Laura, ’tis a fine wedding gift to be sure. + +WILLIAM. [_Stepping up to_ JOHN.] John, my man, here’s a five pound +note to your pocket. I’d never have won this lady here if it hadn’t been +for you. + +JOHN. [_Taking the note_.] Don’t name it, dear master. ’Tis a long +courtship what has no ending to it, so I always says. + +MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis one upset after another, but suppose you were to make +yourself useful for once, Susan, and bring out the tray with the cake and +glasses on it. + +JOHN. Ah, that’s it, and I’ll go along of she and help draw the cider. +Courtship be powerful drying work. + +LAURA. [_Looking into_ WILLIAM’S _eyes_.] O William, ’twas those Early +Snowballs that did first stir up my heart. + +WILLIAM. ’Twas John who thought of them. Why, John has more sensible +thoughts to the mind of him than any other man in the world—and when the +cider is brought, ’tis to John’s health we will all drink. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +PRINCESS ROYAL + + +CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY + + +ROSE, MARION, _village girls_. + +LADY MILLICENT. + +ALICE, _her maid_. + +LEAH, _an old gipsy_. + +SUSAN, _otherwise Princess Royal_, _her grand-daughter_. + +JOCKIE, _a little swine herd_. + +LADY CULLEN. + +_Her ladies in waiting_ (_or one lady only_). + +LORD CULLEN, _her only son_. + + * * * * * + +_As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in this Play_. + +_The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by girls_. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + +_A village green_. _Some girls with market baskets come on to it_, _each +one carrying a leaflet which she is earnestly reading_. + +_Gradually all the girls approach from different sides reading leaflets_. + +_Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is sitting—she +lights a pipe and begins to smoke as_ ROSE, _her basket full of market +produce_, _comes slowly forward reading her sheet of paper_. _She is +followed by_ MARION—_also reading_. + +ROSE. Well, ’tis like to be a fine set out, this May Day. + +MARION. I can make naught of it myself. + +ROSE. Why, ’tis Lord Cullen putting it about as how he be back from the +war and thinking of getting himself wed, like. + +MARION. I understands that much, I do. + +ROSE. Only he can’t find the maid what he’s lost his heart to. + +MARION. [_Reading_.] The wench what his lordship did see a-dancing all +by herself in the forest when he was hid one day all among the brambles, +a-rabbiting or sommat. + +ROSE. And when my lord would have spoke with her, the maid did turn and +fled away quick as a weasel. + +MARION. And his lordship off to the fighting when ’twas next morn. + +ROSE. So now, each maid of us in the village and all around be to dance +upon the green come May Day so that my lord may see who ’twas that +pleased his fancy. + +[SUSAN _comes up and stands quietly listening_. _She is bare foot and +her skirt is ragged_, _she wears a shawl over her shoulders and her hair +is rough and untidy_. _On her arm she carries a basket containing a few +vegetables and other marketings_. + +MARION. And when he do pitch upon the one, ’tis her as he will wed. + +ROSE. ’Twill be a thing to sharpen the claws of th’ old countess worse +nor ever—that marriage. + +MARION. Ah, I reckon as her be mortal angered with all the giddle-gaddle +this business have set up among the folk. + +ROSE. [_Regretfully_.] I’ve never danced among the trees myself. + +MARION. [_Sadly_.] Nor I, neither, Rose. + +ROSE. I’d dearly like to be a countess, Marion. + +MARION. His lordship might think I was the maid. I’m spry upon my feet +you know. + +[SUSAN _comes still nearer_. + +MARION. [_Turning to her and speaking rudely_.] Well, Princess Rags, +’tisn’t likely as ’twas you a-dancing one of your Morris dances in the +wood that day! + +ROSE. [_Mockingly_.] ’Tisn’t likely as his lordship would set his +thoughts on a wench what could caper about like a Morris man upon the +high road. So there. + +SUSAN. [_Indifferently_.] I never danced upon the high road, I dances +only where ’tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon me. No mortal eyes. + +MARION. [_Impudently_.] Get along with you, Princess Royal. Go off to +th’ old gipsy Gran’ma yonder. We don’t want the likes of you along of +us. + +ROSE. Go off and dance to your own animals, Miss Goatherd. All of us be +a-going to practise our steps against May Day. Come along girls. + +[_She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange themselves +for a Country Dance_. SUSAN _goes slowly towards her_ GRANDMOTHER _and +sits on the ground by her side_, _looking sadly and wistfully at the +dancers_. _At the end of the dance_, _the girls pick up their baskets +and go off in different directions across the green_. SUSAN _and her_ +GRANDMOTHER _remain in their places_. _The gipsy continues to smoke and_ +SUSAN _absently turns over the things in her basket_. + +SUSAN. They mock me in the name they have fixed to me—Princess Royal. + +GRANDMOTHER. Let them mock. I’ll bring the words back to them like +scorpions upon their tongues. + +[_There is a little silence and then_ SUSAN _begins to sing as though to +herself_. + +SUSAN. [_Singing_.] + + “As I walked out one May morning, + So early in the Spring; + I placed my back against the old garden gate, + And I heard my true love sing.” {1} + +GRANDMOTHER. [_At the end of the singing_.] It might be the blackcap +a-warbling all among of the branches. So it might. + +SUSAN. Ah, ’twas I that was a-dancing in the shade of the woods that +day. + +GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never look on the likes of you—that’s sure enough, my +little wench. + +SUSAN. I wish he was a goat-herd like myself—O that I do. + +GRANDMOTHER. Then there wouldn’t be no use in your wedding yourself with +him as I can see. + +SUSAN. ’Tis himself, not his riches that I want. + +GRANDMOTHER. You be speaking foolishness. What do you know of him—what +do us blind worms know about the stars above we? + +SUSAN. I see’d him pass by upon his horse one day. All there was of him +did shine like the sun upon the water—I was very near dazed by the +brightness. So I was. + +[_The_ GRANDMOTHER _continues to smoke in silence_. + +SUSAN. [_Softly_.] And ’twas then I lost the heart within me to him. + +[JOCKIE _runs up beating his tabor_. + +SUSAN. [_Springing up_.] Come, Jockie, I have a mind to dance a step or +two. [_Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands_.] Tears be for them +as have idle times and not for poor wenches what mind cattle and goats. +Come, play me my own music, Jock. And play it as I do like it best. + +[JOCKIE _begins to play the tune of_ “_Princess Royal_” _and_ SUSAN +_dances_. _Whilst_ SUSAN _is dancing_ LADY MILLICENT _and her waiting +maid come slowly by and stand watching_. SUSAN _suddenly perceives them +and throws herself on the ground_. JOCKIE _stops playing_. + +LADY MILLICENT. [_Fanning herself_.] A wondrous bold dance, upon my +word—could it have been that which captivated my lord, Alice? + +ALICE. O no, mistress. His lordship has no fancy for boldness in a +maid. + +LADY MILLICENT. Immodest too. A Morris dance. The girl should hide her +face in shame. + +ALICE. And there she is, looking at your ladyship with her gipsy eyes, +bold as a brass farthing. + +SUSAN. [_Starting up and speaking passionately_.] I’ll not be taunted +for my dancing—I likes to dance wild, and leap with my body when my +spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies and move in the +air same as the birds do move when ’tis mating time. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, ’tis so with she. She baint no tame mouse what creeps +from its hole along of t’others and who do go shuffle shuffle, in and out +of the ring, mild as milk and naught in the innards of they but the +squeak. + +SUSAN. [_Defiantly_.] ’Twas my dance gained his lordship’s praise—so +there, fine madam. + +LADY MILLICENT. Your dance? Who are you then? + +ALICE. A gipsy wench, mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for one of +they great farms. + +GRANDMOTHER. Have a care for that tongue of yours, madam waiting maid. +For I know how to lay sommat upon it what you won’t fancy. + +LADY MILLICENT. [_Coming up to_ SUSAN _and laying her hand on her arm_.] +Now tell me your name, my girl. + +SUSAN. They call me Princess Royal. + +LADY MILLICENT. O that must be in jest. Why, you are clothed in rags, +poor thing. + +SUSAN. [_Shaking herself free_.] I’d sooner wear my own rags nor the +laces which you have got upon you. + +LADY MILLICENT. Now why do you say such a thing? + +SUSAN. ’Twas in these rags as I danced in the wood that day, and ’tis by +these rags as my lord will know me once more. + +LADY MILLICENT. Listen, I will cover you in silk and laces, Princess +Royal. + +ALICE. Susan is the maid’s name. + +SUSAN. I don’t want none of your laces or silks. + +LADY MILLICENT. And feed you with poultry and cream and sweetmeats. + +SUSAN. I want naught but my crust of bread. + +LADY MILLICENT. I’ll fill your hands with gold pieces. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Sue? + +SUSAN. [_Doggedly_.] I hear her well enough, Gran. + +LADY MILLICENT. If you’ll teach me your dance against May Day. Then, +I’ll clothe myself much after your fashion and dance upon the green with +the rest. + +SUSAN. I’ll not learn you my dance. Not for all the gold in the world. +You shan’t go and take the only thing I have away from me. + +LADY MILLICENT. [_Angrily_.] Neither shall a little gipsy wretch like +you take my love from me. We were as good as promised to each other at +our christening. + +ALICE. Don’t put yourself out for the baggage, madam. His lordship +would never look on her. + +GRANDMOTHER. Gold, did you say, mistress? + +LADY MILLICENT. Gold? O yes—an apron full of gold, and silver too. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Susan? + +SUSAN. [_Doggedly_.] I’ll not do it for a King’s ransom. + +GRANDMOTHER. You will. You’ll do it for the sake of poor old Gran, +what’s been father and mother to you—and what’s gone hungered and thirsty +so that you might have bread and drink. + +SUSAN. [_Distractedly_.] O I can never give him up. + +GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never be yourn to give—Dance till your legs is off +and he’ll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when ’tis all finished. + +ALICE. Whilst my lady belongs to his lordship’s own class, ’tis but +suitable as she should be the one to wed with him—knowing the foreign +tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. There’s a +lady anyone would be proud to take before the Court in London. + +[SUSAN _turns away with a movement of despair_. _The_ GRANDMOTHER +_begins to smoke again_. LADY MILLICENT _fans herself and_ ALICE +_arranges her own shawl_. + +GRANDMOTHER. I could do with a little pig up at our place if I’d the +silver to take into the market for to buy him with. [_A silence_. + +GRANDMOTHER. And I could do with a pair of good shoes to my poor old +feet come winter time when ’tis snowing. [_Another silence_. + +GRANDMOTHER. And ’twould be good not to go to bed with the pain of +hunger within my lean old body—so ’twould. [SUSAN _turns round +suddenly_. + +SUSAN. I’ll do it, Gran. I’ll do it for your sake. ’Tis very likely +true what you do say, all of you. I’d but dance my feet off for naught. +When he came to look into my gipsy eyes, ’twould all be over and done +with. + +LADY MILLICENT. Sensible girl. + +ALICE. ’Tis time she should see which way her bread was spread. + +SUSAN. Come, Jockie, come ladies—come Gran—we’ll be off to the quiet of +our own place where I can learn her ladyship the steps and capers. + +GRANDMOTHER. [_Rising and pointing to an advancing figure_.] You’d best +make haste. The mice be a-running from their holes once more—t’wouldn’t +do for they to know aught about this. + +SUSAN. Let us go quickly then. + +[_The_ GRANDMOTHER, SUSAN, LADY MILLICENT _with_ ALICE _and_ JOCKIE _go +out as a crowd of village girls come on to the green_, _and laughing and +talking together_, _arrange themselves to practise a Country Dance_. + + _End of Act I_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on the green_. _A +dais has been put up at one end of it_. + +MARION. How slow the time do pass, this May Day. + +ROSE. Let’s while it away with a song or two. + +[_They all join in singing_. _At the end of the song the gipsy comes +slowly and painfully across the green_, _casting black looks to right and +to left_. _She is followed by_ SUSAN, _who appears weighed down by +sadness_. + +ROSE. Good afternoon, Princess Royal Rags. Are we to see you cutting +capers before his lordship this afternoon? + +MARION. Get along and hide your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. I’d +be ashamed to go without shoes if ’twas me. + +SUSAN. O leave me alone—you be worse nor a nest of waspes—that you be. + +GRANDMOTHER. [_Turning fiercely round_.] Us’ll smoke them out of their +holes one day—see if us do not. + +[_They pass over to the tree where the_ GRANDMOTHER _sits down and_ SUSAN +_crouches by her side_. _Presently they are joined by_ JOCKIE. _The +girls sing a verse or two of another song_, _and during this_ LADY +MILLICENT, _enveloped in a big cloak_, _goes over to the tree_, _followed +by_ ALICE, _also wearing a long cloak and they sit down by the side of_ +SUSAN. + +MARION. [_Pointing_.] Who are those yonder, Rose? + +ROSE. I’m sure I don’t know, Marion—strangers, may be. + +MARION. O my heart goes wild this afternoon. + +ROSE. Mine too. Look, there they come. + +[_The Music begins to play and old_ LADY CULLEN, _followed by her lady +companions_, _comes slowly towards the dais_, _on which she seats +herself_. + +LADY CULLEN. Dear me, what a gathering to be sure. + +HER LADY. Indeed it is an unusual sight. + +LADY CULLEN. And O what a sad infatuation on the part of my poor boy. + +HER LADY. The war has been known to turn many a brain. + +LADY CULLEN. And yet my son holds his own with the brightest +intelligences of the day. + +HER LADY. Only one little spot of his lordship’s brain seems to be +affected. + +LADY CULLEN. Just so. But here he comes, poor misguided youth. + +[LORD CULLEN _comes slowly over the green_, _looking to right and to +left_. _He mounts the dais and sits down by his mother_, _and the music +plays for a country dance_. “_The Twenty Ninth of May_.” _The girls +arrange themselves_, _and during the dance_ LORD CULLEN _scans each face +very eagerly_. _The dance ends and the girls pass in single file before +the dais_. + +LORD CULLEN. No, no—that was not the music of it, that was not the +dance—not a face among them resembles the image I carry in my heart. + +LADY CULLEN. [_Aside_.] Thank goodness. May that face never be seen +again. + +[_A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and danced_. + +LORD CULLEN. [_At the end of it_.] Worse and worse. Could I have +dreamed both the music and the dance and the dancer? + +LADY CULLEN. [_Soothingly_.] I am sure this was the case, my dear son. + +LORD CULLEN. [_Rallying_.] I heard her voice singing in the forest +before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest voice and song I +ever heard. [_Looking around_.] Can any of these maid, sing to me, I +wonder? + +MARION. [_Steps forward_.] I only know one song, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN _signs to her to sing_, _and she stands before the dais and +sings a verse of_ “_Bedlam_.” + +LORD CULLEN. [_Impatiently_.] No, no—that is not in the least what I +remember. [_Turning to_ ROSE.] You try now. + +ROSE. I don’t sing, my lord—but—[_Indicating another girl in the group_] +she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful lot of songs. + +[_A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of_ “_The Lark in +the Morn_.” + +LORD CULLEN. Not that. Mine was a song to stir the depths of a man’s +heart and bring tears up from the fountains of it. + +[_He leans back in deep dejection—and at this moment_ LADY MILLICENT +_and_ ALICE _come forward_. + +LORD CULLEN. [_Eagerly_.] I seem to know that russet skirt—those bare, +small feet. [_Standing up quickly_.] Mother, look at that maid with the +red kerchief on her head. + +LADY CULLEN. Some sort of a gipsy dress, to all appearance. + +LORD CULLEN. [_Doubtfully_.] The skirt she wore was torn and +ragged—that day in the forest. She had no gold rings to her ears, nor +silken scarf upon her head—But this might be her dress for holidays. + +[JOCKIE _advances and begins to play the tune of_ “_Princess Royal_.” + +LORD CULLEN. [_Eagerly_.] That is the right music—O is it possible my +quest is ended! + +[LADY MILLICENT _and_ ALICE, _standing opposite one to another begin to +dance—slowly and clumsily_, _and in evident doubt as to their steps_. +LORD CULLEN _watches them for a moment and then claps his hands angrily +as a sign for the music to stop_. _The dancers pause_. + +LORD CULLEN. This is a sad mimicry of my beautiful love. But there lies +something behind the masquerade which I shall probe. + +[_He leaves the dais and goes straight towards_ LADY MILLICENT, _who +turns from him in confusion_. + +LORD CULLEN. From whom did you take the manner and the colour of your +garments, my maid? + +[LADY MILLICENT _remains obstinately silent_. + +LORD CULLEN. [_To_ ALICE.] Perhaps you have a tongue in your head. +From whom did you try to learn those steps? + +[ALICE _turns sulkily away_. JOCKIE _comes forward_. + +JOCKIE. I’ll tell your lordship all about it, and I’ll take your +lordship straight to the right wench, that I will, if so be as your +lordship will give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what goes empty +and hungered most of the year round. + +LORD CULLEN. A handful of gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly. + +[JOCKIE _leads the way to the tree where_ SUSAN _is sitting_. _She +stands up as_ LORD CULLEN _approaches_, _and for a moment they gaze at +one another in silence_. + +GRANDMOTHER. You might curtsey to the gentleman, Susan. + +LORD CULLEN. No—there’s no need of that, from her to me. [_Turning to_ +JOCKIE _and putting his hand in his pocket_.] Here, my boy, is a golden +pound for you—and more shall follow later. + +[_He then takes_ SUSAN’S _hand and leads her to the foot of the dais_. + +LORD CULLEN. Will you dance for me again, Susan? + +SEVERAL OF THE GIRLS. [_Mockingly_.] Princess Royal is her name. + +MARION. [_Rudely_.] Or Princess Rags. + +SUSAN. ’Tis all took out of my hands now, I can but do as your lordship +says. Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely too. + +[JOCKIE _places himself near her and begins to play_. SUSAN _dances by +herself_. _At the end of her dance_ LORD CULLEN _leads the applause_, +_and even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it_. _He then takes_ +SUSAN _by the hand and mounts the dais with her and presents her to his +mother_. + +LADY CULLEN. [_Aside_, _to her companion_.] I wonder if the young +person understands that my poor boy is a little touched in the brain? + +LORD CULLEN. Here is your daughter, mother. + +[LADY CULLEN _and_ SUSAN _look at one another in silence_. _After a +moment_ SUSAN _turns to_ LORD CULLEN. + +SUSAN. I’m a poor ragged thing to be daughter to the likes of she. But +the heart within of me is grander nor that of any queen, because of the +love that it holds for you, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN _takes her hand and leads her to the front of the dais_. + +LORD CULLEN. We will be married to-morrow, my princess. And all these +good people shall dance at our wedding. + +MARION. [_Springing up_.] And we’ll do a bit of dancing now as well. +Come, Jockie, give us the tune of “Haste to the Wedding.” + +ROSE. That’s it. Come girls— + +LADY MILLICENT. [_To_ ALICE.] I pray he won’t find out about me. + +[_The old_ GRANDMOTHER _has come slowly towards the middle of the green_. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, and my little wench will know how to pay back some of +the vipers tongues which slandered her, when she sits on her velvet chair +as a countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck and the rubies +a-crowning of her head. Her’ll not forget the snakes what did lie in the +grass. Her’ll have her heel upon they, so that their heads be put low +and there shan’t go no more venom from their great jaws to harm she, my +pretty lamb—my little turtle. + +[_The music begins to play and all those on the green form themselves for +the dance_. LORD CULLEN _and_ SUSAN _stand side by side in front of the +dais_, _and the_ GRANDMOTHER _lights a pipe and smokes it as she watches +the dance from below_. _At the end of the dance_ LORD CULLEN, _leading_ +SUSAN, _comes down from the dais and_, _followed by_ LADY CULLEN _and her +ladies_, _passes between two lines of girls and so off the stage_. _The +girls follow in procession_, _and lastly the_ GRANDMOTHER _preceded by_ +JOCKIE, _beating his drum_. + + [_Curtain_.] + + + + +THE SEEDS OF LOVE + + +CHARACTERS + + +JOHN DANIEL, _aged_ 30, _a Miller_. + +ROSE-ANNA _his sister_. + +KITTY, _aged_ 16, _his sister_. + +ROBERT PEARCE, _aged_ 26. + +LIZ, JANE _elderly cousins of Robert_. + +JEREMY, _John’s servant—of middle age_. + +MARY MEADOWS, _aged_ 24, _a Herbalist_. + +LUBIN. + +ISABEL. + + _The time is Midsummer_. + + + +ACT I + + +_A woodland road outside_ MARY’S _cottage_. _There are rough seats in +the porch and in front of the window_. _Bunches of leaves and herbs hang +drying around door and window_. MARY _is heard singing within_. + +MARY. [_Singing_.] + + I sowed the seeds of Love, + And I sowed them in the Spring. + I gathered them up in the morning so soon. + While the sweet birds so sweetly sing, + While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {2} + +[MARY _comes out of the cottage_, _a bundle of enchanter’s nightshade in +her arms_. _She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes indoors_. + +MARY. [_Singing_.] + + The violet I did not like, + Because it bloomed so soon; + The lily and the pink I really over think, + So I vowed I would wait till June, + So I vowed I would wait till June. + +[_During the singing_ LUBIN _comes slowly and heavily along the road_. +_He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his +shoulder_. _In front of the cottage he pauses_, _looks round +doubtfully_, _and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath +the window_. + +MARY. [_Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing_.] + + “For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot, + Give it time, it will rise up again.” + +LUBIN. [_Looking up gloomily_.] And that it won’t, mistress. + +MARY. [_Suddenly perceiving him and coming out_.] O you are fair spent +from journeying. Can I do anything for you, master? + +LUBIN. [_Gazing at her fixedly_.] You speak kindly for a stranger, but +’tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me. + +MARY. [_Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the house_.] +See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There’s medicine for +every sort of sickness there, sir. + +LUBIN. There’s not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that +could cure the sickness I have within me. + +MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master. + +LUBIN. So ’tis. ’Tis love. + +MARY. Love? + +LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when +riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to another. + +[ISABEL _has been slowly approaching_, _she wears a cotton handkerchief +over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm_. +_Her movements are languid and sad_. + +MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love. + +ISABEL. [_Coming forward and speaking earnestly_.] O tell me of them +quickly, mistress. + +MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint? + +ISABEL. [_Sinking down on the grass at_ MARY’S _feet_.] So bruised and +wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well have +been a hundred miles or more. + +LUBIN. Framilode? ’Tis there you come from? + +ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. Do +you know the place, master? + +LUBIN. [_In deep gloom_.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too. + +MARY. [_Leaning forward and clasping her hands_.] Him as is there +to-day, or him who was? + +LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year +ago. + +[ISABEL _covers her face and is shaken by sobs_. LUBIN _leans his elbow +on his knee_, _shading his eyes with his hand_. + +MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be given +us for that. + +ISABEL. [_Looking up_.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. ’Tis +like when a quist do sing, as you speaks. + +MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. ’Twill be strange if I do +not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you. + +LUBIN. ’Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred. + +MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder? + +LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I—we courted and was like to +marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She would not take +a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what you do see me +now—just a day labourer. + +ISABEL. Mine, ’tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man and +me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a powerful +rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. ’Twas he that +’ticed my lover off to foreign parts. + +LUBIN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] These things are almost more than I can +bear. + +ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then ’twas seldom +like. Then ’twas never. And then there comed a day—[_She is interrupted +by her weeping_. + +MARY. Try to get out your story—you can let the tears run afterwards if +you have a mind. + +ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. He +brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff with +money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about to wed. + +LUBIN. Did he name the maid? + +ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel’s mill up yonder. + +LUBIN. Rose-Anna—She with whom I was to have gone to church. + +MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose. + +ISABEL. O ’twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the +riverside, him and me. + +LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday +afternoon. + +[_A pause during which_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _seem lost in their own sad +memories_. MARY _gets up softly and goes within the cottage_. + +ISABEL. And when I heared as ’twas to-morrow they were to wed, though +’twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me +upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day just for +one look upon his face again. + +LUBIN. ’Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt +myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so +cruel false into mine. + +ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him ’twould do no good—poor +wench of a serving maid like me. + +LUBIN. [_Looking down at himself_.] She’d spurn me from the door were I +to stand there knocking—in the coat I have upon me now. No—let her go +her way and wed her fancy man. + +[LUBIN _shades his eyes with one hand_. ISABEL _bows her head on her +knees weeping_. MARY _comes out of the house carrying two glass bowls of +water_. + +MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh +water from the spring will revive you from your travelling. + +LUBIN. [_Looking up_.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, +mistress. + +ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die. + +[MARY _giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink slowly_. + +MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by for another. A +man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but ’tis the scarlet rose +as takes his fancy come to-morrow. + +ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress? + +MARY. [_Slowly_.] After many years. + +LUBIN. And could you wed you to another? + +MARY. [_Still more slowly_.] Give the grass that has been trampled +underfoot a bit of time, ’twill rise again. There’s healing all around +of us for every ill, did we but know it. + +LUBIN. I’d give sommat to know where ’tis then. + +MARY. There isn’t a herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to them +that are in pain. + +ISABEL. Give me a bloom that’ll put me to sleep for always, mistress. + +MARY. There’s evil plants as well, but ’tisn’t a many. There’s hen bane +which do kill the fowls and fishes if they eat the seed of it. And +there’s water hemlock which lays dumbness upon man. + +LUBIN. I’ve heard them tell of that, I have. + +MARY. And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the +feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon the +door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house. + +LUBIN. And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon the +heart, mistress? + +ISABEL. [_Speaking in anguish_.] Aught that can turn our faithless +lovers back again to we? + +MARY. That I have. See these small packages—you that love Robert, take +you this—and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your hand. + +[_She puts a small paper packet into the hands of each_. + +LUBIN. [_Looking uncertainly at his packet_.] What’ll this do for me, +I’d like to know? + +MARY. ’Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, and +another seed as well. You put it in her glass of water—and the love +comes back to you afore next sun-rise. + +ISABEL. And will it be the same with I? + +MARY. You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. To-morrow +at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall do what +you will with it. + +ISABEL. O I can’t believe in this. ’Tis too good to be true, and that +it be—A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little wretch like me! + +LUBIN. [_Slowly_.] ’Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like +us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was when I +did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as one of +theirselves. But now! Why, they’d take and hound me away from the door. + +ISABEL. And me too. + +MARY. [_Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from the bunch +drying_.] That’ll bring luck, may be. + +[ISABEL _takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet in +her bundle_. LUBIN _puts his packet away also_. _Whilst they are doing +this_, MARY _strolls a little way on the road_. + +MARY. [_Returning_.] The man from Daniels be coming along. + +LUBIN. [_Hastily_.] What, old Andrews? + +MARY. No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have the +patience to keep in with him. + +LUBIN. How’s that? + +MARY. So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer at the +cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, and that’s +why master do put up with him. + +[JEREMY _comes heavily towards them_, _a straw in his mouth_. _His hat +is pushed to the back of his head_. _His expression is still and +impassive_. _He comes straight towards_ MARY, _then halts_. + +MARY. Come, Jeremy, I reckon ’tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram you be +come here this morning? + +JEREMY. [_Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and pointing +to them_.] Who be they? + +MARY. Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest. + +[JEREMY _continues to look them all over in silence_. + +MARY. How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Powerful bad. + +MARY. O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened? + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _lean forward_, _listening eagerly_. + +JEREMY. ’Tis a pretty caddle, that’s all. + +MARY. The mistress isn’t took ill? or Miss Kitty? + +JEREMY. I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn’t be none of this +here marrying to-morrow. + +MARY. What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry? + +JEREMY. One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on. + +MARY. ’Tis three you’ve got up there. + +JEREMY. There you’re mistook. Th’ idle wench and the lad be both +away—off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of they. I +be left with all upon me like, and ’tis too much. + +MARY. What shall you do, Jerry? + +JEREMY. I’ll be blowed if I’m agoin’ to do anything. There. + +MARY. But you’ll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set the +table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses and +all, Jerry—seeing as you’re the only one. + +JEREMY. I’ll not. I’m not one as steps beyond my own work, and master +do know it too. + +MARY. Then how are they going to manage? + +JEREMY. I’m out to find them as’ll manage for them. [_Turning sharply +to_ LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young man? + +LUBIN. I—I count as I’ve nothing particular in view. + +JEREMY. [_Turning to_ ISABEL.] And you, wench? + +ISABEL. [_Faintly_.] I’ve gone from the place where I was servant. + +JEREMY. Then you’ll come along of me—the both of you. + +ISABEL. [_Shrinking_.] O no—I couldn’t go among—among strangers. + +JEREMY. I never takes no count of a female’s vapours. You’ll come along +of me. You’ll curl the mistress’s hair and lace her gown and keep her +tongue quiet—and you [_turning to_ LUBIN] my man, will set the tables and +wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town this dinner-time. + +LUBIN. [_Angrily_.] I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and +I’ll not start now. + +JEREMY. You will. I’m not agoin’ a half mile further this warm morning. +Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you. + +MARY. [_Looking fixedly at_ ISABEL.] This is a chance for you, my dear. +You’ll not find a better. + +JEREMY. Better? I count as you’ll not better this’n. Good money for +your pains—victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can drink on +a summer’s day. I count you’ll not better that. + +LUBIN. [_As though to himself_.] I could not go. + +JEREMY. Some cattle want a lot of driving. + +ISABEL. [_Timidly to_ LUBIN.] If I go, could not you try and come along +with me, master? + +LUBIN. You’ll never have the heart to go through with it. + +JEREMY. ’Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. Don’t you go +and put fancies into the head of her. + +ISABEL. [_To_ LUBIN.] I’ll go if so be as you’ll come along of me too. + +[LUBIN _bends his head and remains thinking deeply_. + +JEREMY. ’Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches—I’ll get me a +drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you’ll be ready time I’ve +finished. + +MARY. I’ll see that you’re not kept waiting, Jeremy. + +JEREMY. [_Turning back after he has started_.] What be they called, +Mary? + +[MARY _looks doubtfully towards_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. + +ISABEL. My name—they calls me Isabel. + +JEREMY. [_Turning to_ LUBIN.] And yourn? + +LUBIN. [_In confusion_.] I don’t rightly recollect. + +JEREMY. [_Impassively_.] ’Tis of no account, us’ll call you William +like the last one. + +ISABEL. O, and couldn’t I be called like the last one too? + +JEREMY. Then us’ll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and +doubtless you’ll not prove much worser. + +[_He goes away_. + +MARY. This is your chance. A good chance too— + +LUBIN. They’ll know the both of us. Love isn’t never quite so dead but +what a sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring some +breath to it again. + +ISABEL. You’re right there, master—sommat’ll stir in the hearts of them +when they sees we—and ’tis from the door as us’ll be chased for masking +on them like this. + +MARY. But not before the seeds of love have done their work. Come, +Isabel; come, Lubin—I will so dress you that you shall not be recognised. + +[MARY _goes indoors_. ISABEL _slowly rises and takes up her bundle_. +LUBIN _remains seated_, _looking gloomily before him_. + +ISABEL. Come, think what ’twill feel to be along of our dear loves and +look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of their voices once +again. + +LUBIN. That’s what I am a-thinking of. ’Twill be hot iron drove right +into the heart all the while. Ah, that’s about it. + +ISABEL. I’ll gladly bear the pain. + +LUBIN. [_After a pause_.] Then so will I. We’ll go. + +[_He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows her +into the cottage_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_The living room at Daniel’s Mill_. _In the window_ ROSE-ANNA _is seated +awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown_. KITTY _is +moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in disorder +about the room and_ JOHN _stands with his back to the grate gravely +surveying them_. + +ROSE. [_Petulantly_.] Whatever shall we do, John! Me not dressed, +everything no how, and them expected in less nor a half hour’s time? + +KITTY. There! I’ve finished a-dusting the chairs. Now I’ll set them in +their places. + +ROSE. No one is thinking of me! Who’s going to help me on with my gown +and curl my hair like Robert was used to seeing me wear it at Aunt’s? + +KITTY. Did you have it different down at Bristol, Rose? + +ROSE. Of course I did. ’Twouldn’t do to be countrified in the town. + +JOHN. Your hair’s well enough like that. ’Tisn’t of hair as anyone’ll +be thinking when they comes in, but of victuals. And how we’re a-going +to get the table and all fixed up in so short a time do fairly puzzle me. + +KITTY. I’ll do the table. + +ROSE. No. You’ve got to help me with my gown. O that was a +good-for-nothing baggage, leaving us in the lurch! + +JOHN. Well, I’ve done my best to get us out of the fix. + +ROSE. And what would that be, pray? + +KITTY. Why John, you’ve done nothing but stand with your back to the +grate this last hour. + +JOHN. I’ve sent off Jerry. + +ROSE. [_Scornfully_.] Much good that’ll do. + +KITTY. We know just how far Jerry will have gone. + +JOHN. I told him not to shew hisself unless he could bring a couple of +servants back along with him. + +ROSE. [_Angrily_.] You’re more foolish than I took you to be, John. +Get you off at once and fetch Jerry from his cider at the Red Bull. He’s +not much of a hand about the house, but he’s better than no one. + +JOHN. [_Sighing heavily_.] Jeremy’s not the man to start his drinking +so early in the day. + +ROSE. I’ve caught him at the cask soon after dawn. + +KITTY. And so have I, John. How you put up with his independent ways I +don’t know. + +JOHN. Ah, ’tisn’t everyone as has such a powerful strong head as +Jerry’s. He’s one that can be trusted to take his fill, and none the +worse with him afterwards. + +[_A knock at the door_, _which is pushed open by_ JEREMY. + +JEREMY. [_From the doorway_.] Well, Master John—well, mistress? + +ROSE. [_Sharply_.] Master was just starting out for to fetch you home, +Jerry. + +JEREMY. [_Ignoring her_.] Well, master, I’ve brought a couple back +along of me. + +ROSE. Ducklings or chickens? + +JEREMY. I’ve gotten them too. + +KITTY. Do you mean that you’ve found some servants for us, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Two outside. Female and male. + +JOHN. Didn’t I tell you so! There’s naught that Jerry cannot do. +You’ll have a drink for this, my man + +ROSE. You may take my word he’s had that already, John. + +JEREMY. I have, mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the poultry in +my basket. Down at the Bull. + +ROSE. What sort of a maid is it? + +JEREMY. Ah, ’tis for you to tell me that, mistress, when you’ve had her +along of you a bit. + +ROSE. And the man? + +JEREMY. Much the same as any other male. + +ROSE. [_Impatiently_.] Do you step outside, John, and have a look at +them, and if they’re suitable bring them in and we’ll set them about +their work. + +[JOHN _goes out_. KITTY _peers through the window_. + +JEREMY. I reckon I can go off and feed the hilts now. ’Tis the time. + +ROSE. Feed the hilts! Indeed you can’t do no such thing. O I’m mad +with vexation that nothing is well ordered or suitably prepared for Mr. +Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol town. Whatever will they say to +such a house when they do see it? + +JEREMY. I’m sure I don’t know. + +KITTY. [_From the window_.] I see the new servants. John is bringing +them up the walk. The man’s face is hid by his broad hat, but the girl +looks neat enough in her cotton gown and sun-bonnet. + +[JOHN _comes into the room_, _followed by_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. LUBIN +_shuffles off his hat_, _but holds it between his face and the people in +the room_. + +JEREMY. [_Pointing to them and speaking to_ ROSE.] There you are, +mistress—man-servant and maid. + +ROSE. What do we know about them? Folk picked up by Jerry at the Red +Bull. + +JEREMY. No, from the roadside. + +ROSE. Worser far. + +JOHN. No, no, Rose. These young persons were spoken for by Mary +Meadows. And ’tis rare fortunate for we to obtain their services at +short notice like this. + +ROSE. [_To_ ISABEL.] What are you called, my girl? + +ISABEL. [_Faintly_.] Isabel is my name, but I’d sooner you called me +Lucy. + +ROSE. And that I will. My tongue is used to Lucy. The other is a +flighty, fanciful name for a servant. + +KITTY. And what is the man called, John? + +LUBIN. [_Harshly_.] I am called William. + +KITTY. William and Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this morning. + +ROSE. O do not let us waste any more time! Jerry, do you take the man +and shew him his work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come to me and help +me with my gown and my hair dressing. We have not a minute to lose. + +KITTY. They may be upon us any time now. I’ll go out and gather the +flowers for the parlour, since you don’t want me any more within, Rose. + +JOHN. And I’ll get and finish Jeremy’s work in the yard. ’Tis upside +down and round about and no how to-day. But we’ll come out of it some +time afore next year I reckon. + +JEREMY. Don’t you ever go for to get married, master. There could never +come a worser caddle into a man’s days nor matrimony, I count. + +[JOHN, _on his way to the door_, _pauses—as though momentarily lost in +thought_. + +JOHN. Was Mary Meadows asked to drop in at any time to-day, Rose? + +ROSE. [_Who is taking up her gown and ribbons to show to_ ISABEL, _and +speaking crossly_.] I’m sure I don’t know, nor care. I’ve enough to +think about as ’tis. + +KITTY. [_Taking_ JOHN’S _arm playfully_.] You’re terribly took up with +Mary Meadows, John. + +JOHN. There isn’t many like her, Kitty. She do rear herself above +t’others as—as a good wheat stalk from out the rubbish. + +[JOHN _and_ KITTY _go slowly out_. + +JEREMY. [_As though to himself_.] I sees as how I shall have to keep an +eye on master—[_turning to_ LUBIN _and signing to him_.] But come, my +man, us has no time for romance, ’tis dish washing as lies afore you now. + +[LUBIN _jerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture_. _Then +he seems to remember himself and follows_ JEREMY _humbly from the room_. +ROSE _takes up some ribbons and laces_. + +ROSE. [_To_ ISABEL, _who is standing near_.] Now, Lucy, we must look +sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from Bristol town will soon be here. +I have not met with the cousins yet, but I’ve been told as they’re very +fine ladies—They stood in place of parents to my Robert, you know. ’Tis +unfortunate we should be in such a sad muddle the day they come. + +ISABEL. When I have helped you into your gown, mistress, I shall soon +have the dinner spread and all in order. I be used to such work, and I’m +considered spry upon my feet. + +ROSE. ’Tis more serious that you should be able to curl my hair in the +way that Mr. Robert likes. + +ISABEL. [_Sadly_.] I don’t doubt but that I shall be able to do that +too, mistress. + +ROSE. Very well. Take the gown and come with me up to my room. + +[_They go out together_, ISABEL _carrying the gown_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + +_The same room_. _The table is laid for dinner and_ ISABEL _is putting +flowers upon it_. LUBIN _wearing his hat_, _enters with large jugs of +cider_, _which he sets upon a side table_. + +ISABEL. [_Looking up from her work_.] Shall us ever have the heart to +go on with it, Master Lubin? + +LUBIN. [_Bitterly_.] Do not you “Master” me, Isabel. I’m only a common +servant in the house where once I was lover and almost brother. + +ISABEL. [_Coming up to him_.] O do not take it so hard, Lubin—Us can do +naught at this pass but trust what the young woman did tell me. + +LUBIN. [_Gloomily_.] The sight of Rose has stirred up my love so +powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back from my eyes. + +ISABEL. [_Pressing her eyes with her apron_.] What’ll it be for me when +Robert comes in? + +LUBIN. We’ll have to help one another, Isabel, in the plight where we +stand. + +ISABEL. That’s it. And perchance as them seeds’ll do the rest. + +[_They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is heard outside_. + +KITTY. [_Runs in_.] They’ve come. All of them. And do you know that +Robert’s cousins are no fine ladies at all, as he said, but just two +common old women dressed grand-like. + +ISABEL. That will be a sad shock to poor mistress. + +KITTY. O, she is too much taken up with Mister Robert to notice yet. +But quick! They are all sharp set from the drive. Fetch in the dishes, +William and Lucy. + +ISABEL. All shall be ready in a moment, Miss Kitty. + +[_She goes hurriedly out followed by_ LUBIN. KITTY _glances round the +room and then stands at the side of the front door_. JOHN, _giving an +arm to each of_ ROBERT’S _cousins_, _enters_. _The cousins are dressed +in coloured flowered dresses_, _and wear bonnets that are heavy with +bright plumes_. _They look cumbered and ill at ease in their clothes_, +_and carry their sunshades and gloves awkwardly_. + +LIZ. [_Looking round her_.] Very comfortable, I’m sure. But I count as +that there old-fashioned grate do take a rare bit of elbow grease. + +JANE. Very pleasant indeed. But I didn’t reckon as the room would be +quite the shape as ’tis. + +LIZ. Come to that, I didn’t expect the house to look as it do. + +JANE. Very ancient in appearance, I’m sure. + +JOHN. Ah, the house has done well enough for me and my father and +grandfather afore me. + +[ROSE, _very grandly dressed_, _comes in hanging on_ ROBERT’S _arm_. +ROBERT _is clothed in the fashion of the town_. + +ROSE. Please to remove your bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please to remove yours, +Miss Jane. + +JOHN. [_Heartily_.] Ah, that’s so—’Twill be more homely like for +eating. + +ROSE. There’s a glass upon the wall. + +LIZ. I prefer to remain as I be. + +JANE. Sister and me have our caps packed up in the tin box. + +KITTY. [_Bringing the tin box from the doorway_.] Shall I take you +upstairs to change? Dinner’s not quite ready yet. + +LIZ. That will suit us best, I’m sure. Come, sister. + +[KITTY _leads the way out_, _followed by both sisters_. + +JOHN. I’ll just step outside and see that Jerry’s tending to the horse. + +[_He hurries out_, _and_ ROBERT _is left alone with_ ROSE. + +ROSE. [_Coming towards him and holding out her hands_.] O, Robert, is +it the same between us as it was last time? + +ROBERT. [_Looking at her critically_.] You’ve got your hair different +or something. + +ROSE. [_Putting her hand to her head_.] The new maid. A stupid country +wench. + +ROBERT. You’ve got my meaning wrong. ’Tis that I’ve never seen you look +so well before. + +ROSE. O dear Robert! + +ROBERT. You’ve got my fancy more than ever, Rose. + +ROSE. O, I’m so happy to be going off with you to-morrow, and I love it +down at Bristol. Robert, I’m tired and sick of country life. + +ROBERT. We’ll make a grand fine lady of you there, Rose. + +ROSE. [_A little sharply_.] Am I not one in looks already, Robert? + +ROBERT. You’re what I do dote upon. I can’t say no more. + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _enter carrying dishes_, _which they set upon the +table_. ROBERT _and_ ROSE _turn their backs to them and look out into +the garden_. _The staircase door is opened_, _and_ LIZ, JANE _and_ KITTY +_come into the room_. LIZ _and_ JANE _are wearing gaudy caps trimmed +with violet and green ribbons_. + +ROSE. We’ll sit down, now. John won’t be a moment before he’s here. + +[_She sits down at one end of the table and signs to_ ROBERT _to place +himself next to her_. _The sisters and_ KITTY _seat themselves_. JOHN +_comes hurriedly in_. + +JOHN. That’s right. Everyone in their places? But no cover laid for +Mary? + +ROSE. [_Carelessly_.] We can soon have one put, should she take it into +her head to drop in. + +JOHN. That’s it. Now ladies, now Robert—’tis thirsty work a-driving +upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We’ll lead off with a drink of +home-made cider. The eating’ll come sweeter afterwards. + +ROBERT. That’s it, Miller. + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _come forward and take the cider mugs from each place +to the side table_, _where_ LUBIN _fills them from a large jug_. _In the +mugs of_ ROSE-ANNA _and_ ROBERT, ISABEL _shakes the contents of the +little packets_. _Whilst they are doing this the following talk is +carried on at the table_. + +LIZ [_Taking up a spoon_.] Real plated, sister. + +JANE. Upon my word, so ’tis. + +ROSE. And not so bright as I should wish to see it neither. I’ve had a +sad trouble with my maids of late. + +LIZ. Sister and I don’t keep none of them, thank goodness. + +JANE. We does our work with our own hands. We’d be ashamed if ’twas +otherwise. + +ROBERT. [_Scowling at them_.] I’ve been and engaged a house-full of +servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what ’tis to live like a lady +once she enters our family. + +JOHN. Servants be like green fly on the bush. They do but spoil th’ +home and everything they do touch. All save one. + +KITTY. And that one’s Jerry, I suppose. + +JOHN. You’re right there, Kitty, that you are. A harder head was never +given to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders. + +[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _here put round the mugs of cider_, _and everyone +drinks thirstily_. ISABEL _stands behind the chairs of_ ROSE _and_ +ROBERT _and_ LUBIN _at_ JOHN’S _side_. + +ROBERT. [_Setting down his mug_.] There’s a drink what can’t be got in +foreign parts. + +ROSE. [_Looking fondly at him_.] Let the maid fill your mug again, my +dear one. + +ROBERT. [_Carelessly handing it to_ ISABEL.] I don’t mind if I do have +another swill. + +[ISABEL _fills the mug and puts it by his side_. + +LIZ. As good as any I ever tasted. + +JANE. Couldn’t better it at the King’s Head up our way. + +JOHN. Good drink—plenty of it. Now we’ll start upon the meat I reckon. + +[_He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve_, _and_ LUBIN _hands +round plates_. _During this_ ROBERT’S _gaze restlessly wanders about the +room_, _finally fixing itself on_ ISABEL, _who presently goes out to the +back kitchen with plates_. + +ROBERT. The new serving maid you’ve got there, Rose, should wear a cap +and not her bonnet. + +ROSE. How sharp you are to notice anything. + +ROBERT. A very pretty looking wench, from what I can see. + +ROSE. [_Speaking more to the cousins than to_ ROBERT.] O she’s but a +rough and untrained girl got in all of a hurry. Not at all the sort I’ve +been used to in this house, I can tell you. + +[ISABEL _comes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table_. + +LIZ. [_To_ JANE.] A mellower piece of pig meat I never did taste, +sister. + +JANE. I’m sorry I went and took the poultry. + +KITTY. John will carve you some ham if you’d like to try it, Miss Jane. + +JANE. I’m sure I’m much obliged. + +[JEREMY _comes in_.] + +JEREMY. [_Coming to the back of_ JANE’S _chair_.] Don’t you get mixing +of your meats is what I says. Commence with ham and finish with he. +That’s what do suit the inside of a delicate female. + +JANE. [_Looking up admiringly_.] Now that’s just what old Uncle he did +used to say. + +JEREMY. Old uncle did know what he was a-talking about then. + +LIZ. [_Warming and looking less awkward and ill at ease_.] ’Twas the +gout what kept Uncle so low in his eating, ’twas not th’ inclination of +him. + +JEREMY. Ah ’twouldn’t be the gout nor any other disease as would keep me +from a platter of good food. + +JOHN. Nor from your mug of drink neither, Jerry. + +[JEREMY _laughs and moves off to the side table_. + +LIZ. A very pleasant sort of man. + +JANE. I do like anyone what’s homely. + +JOHN. [_Calling out heartily_.] Do you listen to that, Jerry! The +ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I don’t know what else. + +JEREMY. The mugs want filling once more. + +[_He stolidly goes round the table refilling the mugs_. ROSE’S _gaze +wanders about her_. + +ROSE. [_To_ ROBERT.] That’s not a bad looking figure of a man— + +ROBERT. Who? + +ROSE. Well—the new farm hand. + +ROBERT. A sulky looking brute. I’d not let him wear his hat to table if +I was master here. + +ROSE. He puts me in mind of—well—there, I can’t recollect who ’tis. [_A +knock is heard at the door_. + +ROSE. [_Sharply to_ ISABEL.] Go and see who ’tis, Lucy. + +[ISABEL _opens the door_, _and_ MARY MEADOWS _stands on the threshold_, +_a large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers in her hand_. + +JOHN. [_Rising up in great pleasure_.] You’re late, Mary. But you’re +welcome as the—as the very sunshine. + +ROSE. Set another place, Lucy. + +MARY. Not for me, Rose. I did not come here to eat or drink, but to +bring you these few blossoms and my love. + +ROSE. [_Rises from the table and takes the nosegay_.] I’m sure you’re +very kind, Mary—Suppose we were all to move into the parlour now we have +finished dinner, and then we could enjoy a bit of conversation. + +LIZ. Very pleasant, I’m sure. + +JANE. I see no objection. + +KITTY. [_Running round to look at the flowers_.] And Mary shall tell us +how to make charms out of the flowers—and the meanings of the blossoms +and all the strange things she knows about them. + +JOHN. [_Taking a flower from the bunch and putting it into his coat_.] +Yes, and how to brew tea as’ll curl up anyone’s tongue within the mouth +for a year—and fancy drinks for sheep with foot rot, and powders against +the murrain and any other nonsense that you do please. + +MARY. Now, John, I’ll not have you damage my business like this. + +LIZ. Maybe as the young person’s got sommat what’ll be handy with your +complaint, sister. + +JANE. Or for when you be took with th’ air in your head so bad, Jane. + +ROSE. Yes, I reckon that Mary has a charm for every ill beneath the sun. +Let’s go off to the parlour along of her. You’re not coming with us, +John, are you? + +JOHN. I’d not miss the telling of these things for anything in the +world, foolishness though they be. + +ROSE. Come along then—all of you. + +[_They all go out_. JEREMY _holds the door open for them_. _As she +passes through it_ LIZ _says_, _looking at him_. + +LIZ. We shall hope for your company, too. + +JANE. To be sure, mister. + +JEREMY. [_Haughtily_.] I bain’t one for parlours, nor charms, ma’am. I +be here for another purpose. + +[_They leave the room_. + +JEREMY. [_Having watched the party out_, _moves towards the cider jug_.] +Now, my man, now, my wench—us’ll see what can be done with the victuals +and drink they’ve been and left. ’Tis a fair heavy feed and drink as I +do need. Sommat as’ll lift me up through all the trials of this here +foolish matrimony and stuff. + +[_He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain falls_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_The next morning_. ROBERT’S _cousins are standing by the fire-place of +the same room_. + +LIZ. ’Tis powerful unhomely here, Jane. + +JANE. And that ’tis. I wish as Robert had never brought us along of +him. + +LIZ. She’s a stuck-up jay of a thing what he’s about to wed if ever I +seed one. + +JANE. That her be. He’ll live to wish hisself dead and buried one day. + +LIZ. There bain’t but one sensible tongue in the whole place to my mind. + +JANE. Ah, he’s a man to anyone’s liking, sister. + +LIZ. ’Tis homelike as he do make I to feel among all these strangers. + +JANE. Here he comes. + +[JEREMY _with a yoke and two pails stands at the doorway_. + +LIZ. Now do you come in, mister, and have a bit of talk along of we. + +JANE. Set down them pails and do as sister says, Mister Jeremy. + +[JEREMY _looks them all over and then slowly and deliberately sets down +his pails_. + +LIZ. That’s right, sister and me was feeling terribly lonesome here this +morning. + +JANE. And we was wishing as we’d never left home to come among all these +stranger folk. + +LIZ. Not that we feels you to be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JANE. You be a plain homely man such as me and sister be accustomed to. + +JEREMY. Anything more? + +LIZ. I suppose you’ve put by a tidy bit—seeing as you be of a certain +age. + +JANE. Although your looks favour you well, don’t they, sister? + +LIZ. To be sure they do. + +JANE. And I reckon as you could set up a home of your own any day, +mister. + +JEREMY. [_Pointing through the window_.] See that there roof against +the mill? + +LIZ. Indeed I do. + +JEREMY. That’s where I do live. + +[_Both sisters move quickly to the window_. + +JANE. A very comfortable looking home indeed. + +LIZ. I likes the looks of it better nor this great old house. + +JANE. [_Archly_.] Now I daresay there’s but one thing wanted over +there, Mister Jeremy. + +JEREMY. What’s that? + +JANE. A good wife to do and manage for you. + +JEREMY. I never was done for nor managed by a female yet, and blowed if +I will be now. + +LIZ. [_Shaking her finger at him_.] Sister an’ me knows what comes of +such words, don’t us, sister? ’Tis an old saying in our family as one +wedding do make a many. + +JEREMY. Give me a woman’s tongue for foolishness. I’ve heared a saying +too in my family, which be—get a female on to your hearth and ’tis Bedlam +straight away. + +JANE. Now, sister, did you ever hear the like of that? + +LIZ. Us’ll have to change his mind for him, Jane. + +JEREMY. I reckon ’twould take a rare lot of doing to change that, +mistress. + +JANE. Bain’t you a-goin’ to get yourself ready for church soon? + +JEREMY. Dashed if I ever heard tell of such foolishness. Who’s to mind +the place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling out? + +LIZ. There’s the man William. + +JEREMY. I bain’t a-goin’ to leave the place to a stranger. + +JANE. Why, sister, us’ll feel lost and lonesome without mister, shan’t +us, Liz? + +LIZ. That us will. What if us stayed at home and helped to mind the +house along of he? + +JANE. [_Slowly_.] And did not put our new gowns upon the backs of we +after all the money spent? + +JEREMY. Ah, there you be. ’Tis the same with all females. Creatures of +vanity—even if they be got a bit long in the tooth. ’Tis all the same. + +[JANE _and_ LIZ _draw themselves up_, _bridling_, _but_ LIZ _relaxes_. + +LIZ. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know. + +[JOHN _enters_.] + +JOHN. Jerry, and I’ve been seeking you everywhere. Come you off to the +yard. ’Tis as much as we shall do to be ready afore church time. I +never knew you to idle in the house afore. + +JEREMY. [_Taking up his pails_, _sarcastically_.] ’Twas the females as +tempted I, master, but ’twon’t occur again, so there. [_He hurries off_, +_followed by_ JOHN. + +LIZ. [_With dignity_.] Us’ll go upstairs and dress, sister. + +JANE. ’Tis time we did so. All them new-fashioned things be awkward in +the fastenings. + +[_They go upstairs_. + +[ROBERT _and_ ROSE _come in from the garden_. ROBERT _carries a little +card-board box in his hand_, _which he places on the table_. ROSE _sits +down listlessly on a chair leaning her arms on the table_. + +ROBERT. [_Undoing the box_.] This is the bouquet what I promised to +bring from town. + +ROSE. [_Her gaze wandering outside_.] Well, we might as well look at it +afore I go to dress. + +[ROBERT _uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white flowers +surrounded by a lace frill_. + +ROSE. [_Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face_.] +Why, they are false ones. + +ROBERT. [_Contemptuously_.] My good girl, who ever went to church with +orange blossom that was real, I’d like to know? + +ROSE. [_Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table_.] I’m sure I don’t +care. I reckon that one thing’s about as good as another to be married +with. + +ROBERT. [_Going to the window and looking out_.] Ah—I daresay ’tis so. + +ROSE. I feel tired of my wedding day already—that I do. + +ROBERT. There’s a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what a +man’s hardly used to, so it seems to me. + +ROSE. [_Wildly_.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we +die. + +ROBERT. Now—if ’twas with the right— + +ROSE. Right what, Robert? + +ROBERT. [_Confused_.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, Rose. +Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to dress yourself. We +might as well get it all over and finished with. + +ROSE. [_Rising slowly_.] Perhaps ’twould be best. I’ll go to my room, +and you might call the girl Lucy and send her up to help me with my +things. + +ROBERT. Won’t you take the bouquet along of you? + +ROSE. No—let it bide there. I can have it later. + +[_She goes slowly from the room_. + +[_Left to himself_, ROBERT _strolls to the open door and looks gloomily +out on the garden_. _Suddenly his face brightens_. + +ROBERT. Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment. + +LUCY. [_From outside_.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths, +master. + +ROBERT. Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress wants +you, Lucy. + +LUCY. [_Coming to the door_.] Mistress wants me, did you say? + +ROBERT. Yes, you’ve got to go and dress her for the church. But you can +spare me a minute or two first. + +ISABEL. [_Going quickly across the room to the staircase door_.] +Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master. ’Tis late already. + +ROBERT. [_Catches her hand and pulls her back_.] I’ve never had a good +look at your face yet, my girl—you act uncommon coy, and that you do. + +ISABEL. [_Turning her head away and speaking angrily_.] Let go of my +hand, I tell you. I don’t want no nonsense of that sort. + +ROBERT. Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and +there’s sommat about the appearance of you— + +ISABEL. Let go of me, master. Suppose as anyone should look through the +window. + +ROBERT. Let them look. I’d give a good bit for all the world to see us +now. + +ISABEL. O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert? + +ROBERT. What I say. ’Tis with you as I’d be going along to church this +morning. Not her what’s above. + +ISABEL. But I wouldn’t go with you—No, not for all the gold in the +world. + +ROBERT. Ah, you’ve changed since yesterday. When I caught your eye at +dinner, ’twas gentle as a dove’s—and your hand, when it gave me my mug of +cider did seem—well did seem to put a caress upon me like. + +ISABEL. O there lies a world of time twixt yesterday and to-day, Master +Robert. + +ROBERT. So it do seem. For to-day ’tis all thorns and thistles with +you—But I’m a-goin’ to have my look at your pretty face and my kiss of it +too. + +ISABEL. I shall scream out loud if you touches me—that I shall. + +ROBERT. [_Pulling her to him_.] Us’ll see about that. + +[_He tries to get a sight of her face_, _but she twists and turns_. +_Finally he seizes both her hands and covers them with kisses as_ KITTY +_enters_. + +KITTY. O whatever’s going on! Rose, Rose, John—come you in here +quickly, do. [_To_ LUCY.] O you bad, wicked girl. I knew you couldn’t +be a very nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy. + +[ISABEL, _released by_ ROBERT, _goes over to the window arranging her +disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears_. ROBERT _watches her +sullenly_. + +KITTY. [_Goes to the staircase door and calls loudly_.] Rose, Rose—come +you down as quick as you can run. + +ROSE. [_Coming down_.] What’s all this, I’d like to know? + +KITTY. It’s Lucy, behaving dreadful—O you must send her straight away +from the house, Rose. + +ROSE. What has she done, then? + +KITTY. Going on with Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing. + +ISABEL. O no, mistress, twasn’t so, I do swear to you. + +ROBERT. [_Brutally_.] Yes ’twas. The maid so put me powerful in mind +of someone who—who— + +ROSE. [_Coldly_.] I understand you, Robert. Well, ’tis lucky that all +this didn’t come off an hour or so later. + +KITTY. [_Tearfully_.] O Rose, what do you mean? + +ROSE. I mean that what’s not broken don’t need no mending. Robert can +go to church with someone else to-day, he can. And no harm done. + +[_She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins pulling it to +pieces and throwing it all about the room_. + +KITTY. O Rose, Rose, don’t take it so hard. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault. +’Twas the girl off the road what led him on. I know it. Tell her to get +out of the house. I’ll dress you—I’ll do the work. Only be just and +sensible again; dear Rose. + +ROSE. Let the girl bide. It makes no difference to me. There’ll be no +marrying for me to-day. + +[JOHN _comes in at the door_. + +KITTY. [_Running to him_.] O John, John—do you quiet down Rose and tell +her to get upstairs and dress. She’s a-saying that she won’t marry +Robert because of his goings on with the new servant—But, O, you’ll talk +her into reason again, won’t you, dear John? + +JOHN. Come, come, what’s all this cackle about, Rose? + +ROSE. I’m breaking off with Robert, that’s all, John. + +JOHN. Robert, can’t you take and explain a bit what ’tis. + +ROBERT. [_Sullenly_.] A little bit of play ’twixt me and the wench +there, and that’s about all, I reckon. + +JOHN. Now that’s an unsensible sort of thing to get doing on your +marriage day, to my thinking. + +KITTY. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault, I know. ’Twas the maid off the road who +started it. + +[_Here_ ISABEL _sinks down on a chair by the window_, _leaning her arms +on the table and bowing her head_, _in tears_. + +JOHN. [_Going to the door_.] Jeremy—Jeremy—come you in here a minute. + +[_Instead of_ JEREMY, LUBIN _comes in_. + +JOHN. ’Twas Jeremy I did call—not you. + +LUBIN. He’s gone off the place for a few minutes. + +JOHN. [_Vexedly_.] Ah, ’tis early for the Red Bull. + +LUBIN. Can I—can I do anything for you, master? + +JOHN. Not unless you can account for the sort of serving wench off the +roadside what Jerry has put upon us. + +LUBIN. What is there to account for in her, master? + +ROSE. [_Passionately_.] O I don’t particular mind about what’s +happened. Let her kiss with Robert if she has the mind. ’Tis always the +man who commences. + +JOHN. ’Tis not. There are some wenches who don’t know how to leave +anyone alone. Worser than cattle flies, that sort. + +ISABEL. [_Going across the room to_ LUBIN’S _side_.] O you shame me by +them words, I bain’t that sort of maid—you’ll answer for me—William? + +[LUBIN _silently takes her hand_. + +ROSE. [_Her eyes fixed on_ LUBIN.] I’ll tell you what, John; I’ll tell +you, Kitty. I wish I’d held me to my first lover and I wish ’twas with +Lubin that I was a-going to the church to-day. + +ROBERT. [_Sullenly_.] Then I’ll say sommat, Rose. I wish ’twas with +Isabel that I was getting wed. + +JOHN. Now, now—’Tis like two children a quarrelling over their +playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed, +Rose-Anna—And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be at the door afore +you’re ready if you don’t quicken yourselves up a bit. Kitty, you go and +help your sister. + +ROSE. [_With a jealous glance at Isabel_.] No, I’ll have Lucy with me. + +JOHN. That’s it, you keep her out of mischief + +KITTY. I’ve got my own dress to put on. + +JOHN. And Robert, you and me will have a drink after all this caddle. +’Tis dry work getting ready for marriage so it appears. + +ROBERT. ’Tis fiery dry to my thinking. + +ROSE. [_Crossing the room and going up to_ LUBIN.] I have no flowers to +take to church with me, William; go you to the waterside, I have a mind +to carry some of the blue things what grow there. + +KITTY. Forget-me-nots, you mean! + +ROSE. Forget-me-nots, I mean. And none but you to gather them for me, +William. Because—because—well, you do put me in thoughts of someone that +I once held and now have lost. That’s all. + +[_Curtain_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 2. + + +_The same room half an hour later_. ISABEL _is picking up the scattered +orange blossom which she ties together and lays on the window sill_. +LUBIN _comes in with a large bunch of river forget-me-nots_. + +LUBIN. I didn’t think to find you here, Isabel. + +ISABEL. O but that is a beautiful blue flower. I will take the bunch +upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it. + +LUBIN. [_Putting it on the table_.] No—do you bide a moment here with +me. + +[ISABEL _looks helplessly at_ LUBIN _who takes her hands slowly in his_. + +LUBIN. What are we going to do? + +ISABEL. I wish as we had never touched the seeds. + +LUBIN. O cursed seeds of love—Far better to have left all as ’twas +yesterday in the morning. + +ISABEL. He has followed me like my shadow, courting and courting me hard +and all the time, Lubin. + +LUBIN. She sought me out in the yard at day-break, and what I’d have +given twenty years of life for yester eve I could have thrown into the +stream this morning. + +ISABEL [_Sadly_.] So ’tis with my feelings. + +LUBIN. She has altered powerful, to my fancy, in these years. + +ISABEL. And Robert be differenter too from what I do remember. [_A long +silence_. + +LUBIN. Have you thought as it might be in us two these changes have come +about, Isabel? + +ISABEL. I was just the maid as ever I was until— + +LUBIN. And so was I unchanged, until I started travelling up on the same +road as you, Isabel. + +[_For a few minutes they look gravely into one another’s eyes_. + +LUBIN. [_Taking_ ISABEL’S _hands_.] So that’s how ’tis with you and me. + +ISABEL. O Lubin—a poor serving maid like I am. + +LUBIN. I’ll have no one else in the whole world. + +ISABEL. What could I have seen in him, times gone by? + +LUBIN. And was it ever true that I did sit through a long Sunday her +hand in mine? [_Another silence_. + +ISABEL. But how’s us ever to get out of the caddle where we be? + +LUBIN. [_Gaily_.] We’ll just run away off to the Fair as t’other +servants did. + +ISABEL. And leave them in their hate for one another? No—’twould be too +cruel. Us’ll run to the young mistress what knows all about them herbs. +I count as there be seeds or sommat which could set the hearts of them +two back in the right places again. Come— + +LUBIN. Have it your own way then. But ’twill have to be done very +quickly if ’tis done at all. + +ISABEL. Us’ll fly over the ground like. + +[_She puts her hand impetuously in_ LUBIN’S _and they go out together_. +_As they do so_, ISABEL’S _bonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded +on the floor_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 3. + + +_A few minutes later_. LIZ _and_ JANE _wearing gay sprigged dresses and +feathered bonnets_, _come to the room_. _They carry fans and +handkerchiefs in their hands_. _It is seen that their gowns are not +fastened at the back_. + +LIZ. Such a house I never heard tell of. Ring, ring at the bell and no +one to come nigh. + +JANE. Being unused to bells, sister, maybe as us did pull them wrong or +sommat. + +LIZ. I wish we’d had the gowns made different. + +JANE. To do up in the front—sensible like. + +[_They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall_, _absorbed in +their dress_, _they do not notice that_ JEREMY _has come in and is +watching them sarcastically_. + +JEREMY. Being as grey as th’ old badger don’t keep a female back from +vanity. + +LIZ. O dear, Master Jeremy, what a turn you did give me, to be sure. + +JANE. We can’t find no one in this house to attend upon we. + +JEREMY. I count as you can not. Bain’t no one here. + +LIZ. We rang for the wench a many time. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you might ring. + +JANE. We want someone as’ll fasten them niggly hooks to our gowns. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you may want. + +LIZ. Our sight bain’t clear enough to do one for t’other, the eyelets be +made so small. + +JEREMY. Count as you’ll have to go unfastened then. + +JANE. O now you be a laughing at us. Call the wench down, or we shall +never be ready in time. + +JEREMY. Man and maid be both gone off. Same as t’others, us’ll have to +do without service. + +LIZ. Gone off! + +JANE. Runned clean away? + +JEREMY. That’s about it. + +JANE. Well now, sister, us’ll have to ask the little Miss to help we. + +JEREMY. I’ve harnessed the mare a many time. Don’t see why I shouldn’t +get the both of you fixed into the shafts like. + +LIZ and JANE. [_Fanning themselves coyly_.] O Master Jeremy— + +JEREMY. Come now. Let’s have a try. I count as no one have a steadier +hand nor me this side of the river, nor a finer eye for seeing as +everything be in its place. I’ll settle the both of you afore I gets out +the horse and trap. Turn round. + +[_The sisters turn awkwardly_, _and with very self-conscious airs begin +to flutter their fans_. JEREMY _quickly hooks each gown in succession_. +_As he finishes the fastening of_ JANE’S _dress_ ROSE, _followed by_ +KITTY, _comes into the room_. _She is wearing her bridal gown and veil_. + +ROSE. [_Pausing_.] What’s this, Jeremy? + +JEREMY. The servants be runned away same as t’others—that’s all, +mistress. + +ROSE. Run away? + +JEREMY. So I do reckon. Bain’t anywhere about the place. + +ROSE. [_Flinging herself down on a chair by the table_, _in front of the +bunch of forget-me-nots_.] Let them be found. Let them be brought back +at once. + +KITTY. For my part I’m glad they’ve gone off. The girl was a wild, bad +thing. I saw how she went on with Robert. + +ROSE. [_Brokenly to_ JEREMY.] You found them. Bring them back, Jerry. + +KITTY. No—wait till you and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. Then +’twon’t matter quite so much. + +ROSE. I’ll never wed me to Robert, I’ll only wed me to him who gathered +these blue flowers here. + +KITTY. Good heavens, Rose, ’twas the man William. + +[KITTY _looks in consternation from_ ROSE _to the cousins and then to_ +JEREMY, _who remains impassive and uninterested_, _sucking a straw_. +ROSE _clasps her hands round the forget-me-nots and sits gazing at them_, +_desolately unhappy_. ROBERT _enters_. _He is very grandly dressed for +the wedding_, _but as he comes into the room he sees_ ISABEL’S _cotton +bonnet on the floor_. _He stoops_, _picks it up and laying it reverently +on the table_, _sinks into a chair opposite_ ROSE _and raising one of its +ribbons_, _kisses this with passion_. + +ROBERT. There—I’d not change this for a thousand sacks of gold—I swear +I’d not. + +KITTY. Now Robert—get up, the two of you. Are you bewitched or sommat—O +Jerry, stir them, can’t you. + +LIZ. Robert, ’tisn’t hardly suitable—with the young miss so sweetly +pretty in her white gown. + +JANE. And wedding veil and all. And sister and me hooked up into our +new sprigs, ready for the ceremony. + +JEREMY. [_Looking at them with cold contempt_.] Let them bide. The +mush’ll swim out of they same as ’twill swim off the cider vat. Just let +the young fools bide. + +KITTY. O this’ll never do. Jerry forgetting of his manners and all. +[_Calling at the garden door_.] John, John, come you here quickly, +there’s shocking goings on. [JOHN, _in best clothes comes in_. + +JOHN. What’s the rattle now, Kitty? I declare I might be turning round +on top of my own mill wheel such times as these. + +KITTY. Rose says she won’t wed Robert, and Robert’s gone off his head +all along of that naughty servant maid. + +[JOHN _stands contemplating_ ROSE _and_ ROBERT. ROSE _seems lost to the +outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots_, _whilst_ +ROBERT, _in sullen gloom_, _keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet_. + +JOHN. Come, Rose, ’tis time you commenced to act a bit different. [ROSE +_does not answer_. + +JOHN. Come, Robert, if you play false to my sister at the last moment, +you know with whom you’ll have to reckon like. [ROBERT _pays no heed to +him_. + +JOHN. [_To_ JEREMY.] Can you do naught to work upon them a bit, Jerry? + +JEREMY. I’d have a jug of cider in, master. ’Twill settle them all. +Folks do get ’sterical and vapourish face to face with matrimony. Put +some drink afore of them, and see how ’twill act. + +LIZ. O what a wise thought, Master Jerry. + +JANE. Most suitable, I call it. + +[_Here_ MARY MEADOWS _comes in_, JOHN _turns eagerly to her_. + +JOHN. O Mary—have you come to help us in the fix where we are? [_He +signs to_ ROSE _and_ ROBERT. + +MARY. What has happened, John? + +JEREMY. I’ll tell you in a couple of words, mistress. + +LIZ. No—do you fetch the cider, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JOHN. ’Tis more than I can do with, Mary. Rose is set against Robert, +and Robert is set against Rose. Rose—well I’m fairly ashamed to mention +it—Rose has lost her senses and would wed the servant William—and Robert +is a-courting of the maid. + +JEREMY. Ah, let each fool follow their own liking, says I. + +LIZ. And sister and me all dressed in our new gowns for the church. + +JANE. And Jerry had to do the hooking for we, both of the servants +having runned away. + +MARY. Well, now I’m here I’ll lend a hand. I’ll help with the dinner +time you’re at church. You shall not need to trouble about anything, Mr. +John. + +JOHN. O once I do get them to the church and the ring fixed and all I +shan’t trouble about nothing, Mary. But ’tis how to move them from where +they be! That’s the puzzle. + +ROSE. I’ll never move till the hand that gathered these flowers be here +to raise me. + +ROBERT. I’ll sit here to the end of the world sooner nor go along to be +wed with Miss over there. + +MARY. ’Tis midsummer heat have turned their brains. But I know a +cooling draught that will heal them of their sickness. Jeremy, do you +step into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh violet leaves, one +blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary. + +JEREMY. [_Sighing_.] What next? + +JOHN. Get gone at once, Jerry. + +[JEREMY _goes to the door_—_as he does so_ LIZ _and_ JANE _start up and +follow him_. + +LIZ. Sister and me will come along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy. + +JANE. And that us will, if our new gowns bain’t hooked too tight for we +to bend. + +[_They follow_ JEREMY _to the garden_. KITTY _silently leaves the room +also_. ROSE _and_ ROBERT _remain lost in their sorrowful reflections_. +JOHN _and_ MARY _look at them for a moment and then turn to one another_. + +JOHN. Mary, I never thought to see such a thing as this. + +MARY. You take my word for it, John, the storm will soon be blown away. + +JOHN. I don’t know how I should stand up against the worry of it all, +wasn’t it for you, Mary. + +[_A short silence_. + +JOHN. [_Taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] ’Twill be a bit lonesome for me here, +when they’ve gone off, Mary. + +MARY. You’ll have Kitty to do for you then. + +JOHN. Kitty be going to live along of them at Bristol too, after a +while. + +MARY. [_Looking round the room_.] Then I count as it might feel a bit +desolate like in this great house alone. + +JOHN. [_Taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] I cannot face it, Mary. I’ve loved you +many years, you know. + +MARY. I know you have, dear John. + +JOHN. Can’t you forget he what was false to you, days gone by, and take +me as your husband now? + +MARY. [_Doubtfully_.] I don’t hardly know. + +JOHN. You used to sing sommat—the grass that was trampled under foot, +give it time, it will rise up again. + +MARY. [_Drying her eyes_.] Ah, it has risen, dear John—and I count it +have covered the wound of those past days—my heart do tell me so, this +minute. + +JOHN. [_Holding both her hands_.] Then ’tis one long midsummer afore +you and me, Mary. + +MARY. That’s how ’twill be, dear John. + +[JEREMY, _followed by the cousins_, _enters_. _He holds a bunch of +leaves towards_ MARY. + +JEREMY. There you be, mistress. Fools’ drink for fools. A mug of good +cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker. + +[MARY _takes the bunch_, _and still holding_ JOHN’S _hand_, _leads him to +the kitchen_. JEREMY _watches the pair sarcastically_. + +JEREMY. ’Tis all finished with the master, then. + +[_The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their faces with +handkerchiefs_. + +LIZ. Dear me, ’tis warm. + +JANE. I hope my face don’t show mottled, sister? + +JEREMY. I was saying as how ’twas all finished with the master. + +[MARY, _followed by_ JOHN, _comes forward carrying two glasses_. _She +gives one to_ ROSE _and the other to_ ROBERT. + +MARY. Now do you take a good draught of this, the both of you. With +violet leaves the fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease lightens +every trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to anyone with +its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest. + +[_She leaves the table and stands far back in the room by_ JOHN’S _side_. +ROSE _slowly lifts her glass and begins to drink_. ROBERT _does the +same_. _They are watched with anxiety by all in the room_. _When they +have emptied their glasses_ ROSE _dries her tears and pushes the flowers +a little way from her_. ROBERT _shakes himself and moves the cotton +bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor_. _Meanwhile_ KITTY _has +come quietly to the garden door and stands there watching the scene +intently_. + +LIZ. Bain’t we going to get a drink too? + +JANE. Seems as though master have been and forgot we. + +JEREMY. [_Starting up and going to the kitchen_.] If I’ve been and +forgot you two old women, I’ve remembered myself. Be blowed if I can get +through any more of this foolishness without a wet of my mouth. + +[_He goes out_. + +ROSE. [_Speaking faintly_.] Does it show upon my face, the crying, +Robert? + +ROBERT. [_Looking at her_.] No, no, Rose, your eyes be brighter nor +ever they were. + +ROSE. [_Pushing the forget-me-nots yet further away_.] Those flowers +are dying. My fancy ones were best. + +KITTY. [_Coming forward with the orange blossoms_.] Here they are, dear +Rose. + +ROSE. [_Taking them_.] O how beautiful they do look. I declare I can +smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert. + +ROBERT. All the orange blossom in the world bain’t so sweet as one kiss +from your lips, Rose. + +ROSE. Now is that truly so? + +ROBERT. Ah, ’tis heavy work a-waiting for the coach, Rose. + +JOHN. [_Coming forward and taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] And yours won’t be +the only marriage Rose-Anna. Did you never think that me and Mary might— + +KITTY. [_Running forward_.] But I did—O so many times, John. [JEREMY +_enters with_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. + +JEREMY. Servants be comed back. Man was to the Red Bull, I count. +Female a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn. + +ROSE. [_Coldly_.] I don’t care whether they be here or not. Set them +to work, Jerry, whilst we are to church. + +LIZ. That’s it, Master Jeremy. I was never so put out in my life, as +when sister did keep on ringing and the wench was not there to help us on +with our gowns. + +[ROSE _and_ ROBERT _get up and go towards the door_. _They pause before_ +LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. + +ROSE. The man puts me in mind of someone whom I knew before, called +Lubin. I thought I had a fancy for him once—but ’twasn’t really so. + +ROBERT. And the girl do favour a little servant wench from Framilode. + +ROSE. [_Jealously_.] You never went a-courting with a servant wench, +now did you, my heart’s dearest? + +ROBERT. Never in all my days, Rose. ’Twas but the fanciful thoughts of +a boy towards she, that I had. + +ROSE. [_Putting her arm in_ ROBERT’S.] Well, we have nothing to do with +anything more of it now, dear Robert. + +ROBERT. You’re about right, my true love, we’ll get us off to the +church. + +JEREMY. Ah, coach have been waiting a smartish while, I reckon. ’Tis on +master as expense’ll fall. + +[ROSE _and_ ROBERT _with cold glances at_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL, _pass out +of the door_. + +JOHN. [_Giving his arm to_ MARY.] Now, Mary—now, Kitty. [_They pass +out_. + +LIZ. Now, Jeremy, sister and me bain’t going off all alone. + +JEREMY. [_Offering an arm to each_.] No further than the church door, I +say. I’ve better things to do nor a-giving of my arm to females be they +never so full of wiles. And you two do beat many what bain’t near so +long in the tusk, ah, that you does. + +[JEREMY _goes out with the sisters_. + +LUBIN. [_To_ ISABEL.] And shall we go off into the meadows, Isabel, +seeing that we are quite forgot? + +ISABEL. No—’tis through these faithless ones as us have learnt to +understand the hearts within of we. Let’s bide and get the marriage +dinner ready for them first. + +[_She stretches both her hands towards_ LUBIN, _who takes them reverently +in his as the Curtain falls_. + + + + +THE NEW YEAR + + +CHARACTERS + + +STEVE BROWNING, _a Blacksmith_, _also Parish Clerk_. + +GEORGE DAVIS, _a Carpenter_. + +HARRY MOSS, _a young Tramp_. + +MAY BROWNING. + +JANE BROWNING. + +DORRY BROWNING, _aged twelve_. + +ANNIE SIMS. + +ROSE SIMS. + +VASHTI REED. + + + +ACT I.—Scene 1. + + +_A country roadside_. _It is late afternoon and already dusk_. MAY +BROWNING _with_ HARRY MOSS _come slowly forward_. _Close to a stile +which is a little off the road_, MAY _stops_. + +MAY. There, you don’t need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. You +get on quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and the snow, +too. + +HARRY. I don’t care much about leaving you like this on the roadside, +May. And that’s the truth, ’tis. + +MAY. Don’t you take no more thought for I, Harry. ’Tis a good boy as +you’ve been to I since the day when we fell in together. But now there +bain’t no more need for you to hold back your steps, going slow and heavy +when you might run spry and light. For ’tis home as I be comed to now, I +be. You go your way. + +HARRY. I see naught of any house afore us or behind. ’Tis very likely +dusk as is upon us, or may happen ’tis the fog getting up from the river. + +MAY. [_Coughing_.] Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a field +path, bain’t there? + +HARRY. [_Taking a few steps to the right and peering through the +gloom_.] Ah, and that there be. + +MAY. And at t’other end of it a house what’s got a garden fence all +round. + +HARRY. Ah—and ’tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light +shining from out the windows of it, too, though ’tis shining dim-like in +the mist. + +MAY. ’Tis that yonder’s my home, Harry. There’s the door where I must +stand and knock. + +[_For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with +weeping_. + +HARRY. I wouldn’t take on so, if ’twas me. + +MAY. And did you say as how there was a light in the window? ’Twill be +but fire light then, for th’ old woman she never would bring out the lamp +afore ’twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, what’d lick up a +drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it should go wasted. + +HARRY. There, ’tis shining better now—or maybe as the fog have shifted. + +MAY. ’Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry. + +HARRY. Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I’ll go +along of you a bit further. ’Twill not be much out of my way. Nothing +to take no count of. + +MAY. No, no, Harry. I bain’t going to cross that field, nor yet stand +at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is it like as +I’d let them see me coming over the meadow and going through the gate in +this? [_Holding up a ragged shawl_.] In these? [_Pointing to her +broken shoes_.] And—as I be to-day. + +[_Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of +anguished coughing_. + +HARRY. There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, like. +Don’t you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you’ll be wanting +all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn’t know that you +be coming back. + +MAY. [_Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough_.] Harry, +you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. ’Tis all +live coals within I here, so ’tis. + +HARRY. You get along home, and maybe as them’ll find summat better nor +water from the ditch to give you. + +MAY. No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall and cover +me, or I won’t never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. Give I to +drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in quiet till all of the +light be gone. + +HARRY. [_Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her_.] Where be I +to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground? + +MAY. [_Pointing_.] Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you +there, ’tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water +from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch. + +[HARRY _goes off with the can_. MAY _watches him_, _drawing her shawl +again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing_. + +[HARRY _returns and holds out the can_. + +MAY. ’Tis not very quick as you’ve been, Harry Moss. Here—give it to I +fast. Give! + +[HARRY _puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands_, _which +shake feverishly_, _and she drinks with sharp avidity_. + +MAY. ’Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and +have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. +Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it. +Drink of it, too, Harry. + +HARRY. ’Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat as’ll lie more warm +and comfortable to th’ inside like. I bain’t one for much water, and +that’s the truth, ’tis. [_He empties the water on the ground_. + +MAY. Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be +gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, +where the lamps do shine and ’tis bright and warm in the places where +they sells the drink. + +HARRY. Once I sets off running by myself, I’ll get there fast enough, +May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I don’t care +much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like. + +MAY. Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, +which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too. + +HARRY. [_Sitting down by her side_.] ’Tis a fine thing to have a home +what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the limbs +of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside. How was it as +you ever came away from it, like? + +MAY. Ah, and that’s what I be asking of myself most of the time, Harry! +For, ’tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut the door +behind me and went out. + +[_A slight pause_. + +MAY. Away from them all, upon the road—so ’twas. + +HARRY. And never see’d no more of them, nor sent to say how ’twas with +you, nor nothing? + +MAY. Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And +’twas finished. + +[_A long pause_, _during which the darkness has gathered_. + +HARRY. Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May? + +MAY. [_Bitterly_.] Ah now, whatever did! + +HARRY. ’Tweren’t as though you might have been a young wench, flighty +like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the streets of +it. For, look you here, ’tis an old woman as you be now, May, and has +been a twenty year or more, I don’t doubt. + +MAY. An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you ’tis so, I +count. But a twelve year gone by, O, ’twas a fine enough looking maid as +I was then—Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the free ways of +the road and the lights of the fair—And for the sun to rise in one place +where I was, and for I to be in t’other when her should set. + +HARRY. I’d keep my breath for when ’twas wanted, if ’twas me. + +MAY. Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as +they’ll be likely to know I again up at home? + +HARRY. How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that ’tis but a +ten days or less as I’ve been along of you on the road? And seeing that +when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you neither? + +MAY. Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I’ll tell +you how ’twas in the days gone by? + +HARRY. ’Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. The night be +coming upon we wonderful fast. + +MAY. The hair, ’twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, Harry. +’Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so ’twas. + +HARRY. Well, ’tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, that +it be. + +MAY. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. +’Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, +Harry. + +HARRY. ’Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May. + +MAY. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long while, +but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that +I can. Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of clothing to my bones, +with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I up. Why, there, Harry, +you won’t know as ’tis me when I’ve been to home a day or two—or may be +as ’twill take a week. + +HARRY. I count ’twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as +you once was, May. + +MAY. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by the +hair, which is different to what ’twas, or by the form of me, which be +got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don’t come never no change. +So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do appear to you. + +HARRY. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May. + +MAY. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they. + +HARRY. Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed +out from they. ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look into the +eyes what you’ve got. + +MAY. [_With despondence_.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as ’tis me, +Harry Moss. + +HARRY. I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth. + +MAY. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and the +breath of me so short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, afore they sees who +’tis. Though all be changed to th’ eye like, there’ll be summat in me +as’ll tell they. And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll +speak for I—But ’tis summat what do come straight out of the hearts of we +and do say better words for we nor what the looks nor tongues of us might +tell. You mind me, Harry, there’s that which will come out of me as’ll +bring they to know who ’tis. + +HARRY. Ah, I reckon as you’ll not let them bide till they does. + +MAY. And when they do know, and when they sees who ’tis, I count as +they’ll be good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as Steve, +he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s his mother, hard too—And that +it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I sees thing +different now. + +HARRY. Ah, ’tis one thing to see by candle and another by day. + +MAY. For ’twas wild as I was in the time gone by. Wild after pleasuring +and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at the countenance of I, and +a-turning back for to look again. But, hark you here, ’tis powerful +changed as I be now. + +HARRY. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman into an old +one. + +MAY. I’m finished with the road journeying and standing about in the +streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking places—Men +what don’t want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to follow +if ’twasn’t only a bit of eyelid as I’d lift on them, times that is gone. + +HARRY. Ah, ’twould take a lot of looking to see you as you was. + +MAY. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to bide +quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and the +door shut. + +HARRY. I reckon as you be. + +MAY. And I’m thinking as they’ll be rare pleased for to have I in the +house again. ’Twill be another pair of hands to the work like. And when +I was young, ’twas not on work as I was set much. + +HARRY. Ah, I did guess as much. + +MAY. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, ’tis a strong arm +as them’ll have working for they; Steve, th’ old woman what’s his mother, +and little Dorry, too. + +HARRY. Dorry? I han’t heard tell of she. + +MAY. That’s my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling on +the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. Bless +the innocent heart of her! + +HARRY. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can’t think! You must +have been drove to it like, wasn’t you? + +MAY. ’Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. ’Twas very likely the +blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was tied up to +Steve, ’twas as if they had got I shut in a box. ’Twas the bridle on my +head and the bit in the mouth of I; and to be held in where once I had +gone free. [_A short pause_. + +MAY. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to be calling I +from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries tossing in the +wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where they’d been stuck all +summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I powerful, so that one +morning when the sun was up and the breeze running, I comed out into the +air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. And ’twas done—so ’twas. + +HARRY. And didn’t they never try for to stop you, nor for to bring you +back, May? + +MAY. No, Harry, they did not. + +HARRY. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the +door shut ahind of you? + +MAY. Ah—where! To the east, to the south, every part. ’Twas morning +with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them as went along +of I on the road, did cast but one look into the countenance of I. Then +’twas the best as they could give as I might take; and ’twas for no +lodging as I did want when dark did come falling. + +HARRY. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, May. + +MAY. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of +the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a grand +flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, +maybe. So ’twas with I. + +[_She bows her head on her knees_, _and for a moment is shaken with +sudden grief_. + +HARRY. Don’t you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to the +end of your journeying this day, and that you be. + +MAY. [_Raising her head_.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so. And ’tis rare glad as +them’ll be to see I once again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good +one—And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman +what’s not me—and that he won’t—I never knowed him much as look on one, +times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. And little +Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, I warrant—so ’twill. + +[_A slight pause_. + +MAY. Th’ old woman—well—I shan’t take it amiss if her should be dead, +like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, and her +did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his station and that. +God rest the bones of she, for I count her’ll have been lying in the +churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, and +if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no +poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day—so ’tis. + +HARRY. Look you here—the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis night. Get up +and go in to them all yonder. ’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on +the road to see you as you do go. + +MAY. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be +powerful weak. + +HARRY. [_Lifting her up_.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, +May. + +MAY. [_Standing up_.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I +bide alone. + +HARRY. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to the +door. + +MAY. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide here a +while in the quiet of my thoughts. ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how +pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be thinking. But +you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home to go to, nor fireside, nor +victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you quick. + +HARRY. There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May. + +MAY. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when +the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you +up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to +keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis empty-handed as I be. + +HARRY. I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t. + +MAY. [_Fumbling in her shawl_.] There, Harry—’tis comed back to my mind +now. [_She takes out part of a loaf of bread_.] Take you this bread. +And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home +with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and +plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. There, Harry, take +and eat. + +[_She holds the bread to him._ + +HARRY. [_Taking the bread_.] I count ’twill all be well with you now, +May? + +MAY. I warrant as ’twill, for I be right to home. But go you towards +the town, Harry, for ’tis late. And God go with you, my dear, now and +all time. + +HARRY. I’ll set off running then. For the night, ’tis upon us, May, and +the snow, ’tis thick in the air. + +[MAY _turns to the stile and leans on it heavily_, _gazing across the +field_. HARRY _sets off quickly down the road_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 1. + + +_The living room in the Brownings’ cottage_. _The room is divided by a +curtain which screens the fireside end from the draught of the principal +door_. + +_To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs_. _Chairs are +grouped round the hearth_, _and there is a table at which_ JANE BROWNING +_is ironing a dress by the light of one candle_. DORRY _leans against +the table_, _watching her_. + +JANE. [_Putting aside the iron_.] There, you take and lay it on the bed +upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I’m not a-going to iron it +twice. + +[_She lays the dress carefully across_ DORRY’S _arms_. + +DORRY. Don’t the lace look nice, Gran’ma? + +JANE. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come straight +down again. + +DORRY. Couldn’t I put it on once, Gran’ma, just to see how it do look on +me? + +JANE. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! You go +and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear? + +DORRY. [_Leaving the room by the door to the right_.] I’d like to put +it on just once, I would. + +[JANE BROWNING _blows out the candle and puts away the iron and ironing +cloth_. _She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as_ DORRY _comes +back_. + +DORRY. Dad’s cleaning of himself ever so—I heard the water splashing +something dreadful as I went by his door. + +JANE. ’Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing as he be +about, I reckon. + +DORRY. [_Sitting down on a stool_.] I’d like to go along, too, and see +the dancing up at the schools to-night, I would. + +JANE. And what next, I should like to know! + +DORRY. And wear my new frock what’s ironed, and the beads what Miss Sims +gived me. + +JANE. [_Looking out at the window_.] I’m thinking as we shall get some +snow by and bye. ’Tis come over so dark all of a sudden. + +DORRY. Couldn’t I go along of they, Gran’ma, and wear my new frock, and +the beads, too? I never see’d them dance th’ old year out yet, I +haven’t. + +JANE. Get along with you, Dorry. ’Tis many a year afore you’ll be of an +age for such foolishness. And that’s what I calls it, this messing about +with dancing and music and I don’t know what. + +DORRY. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she’s let to go, she is. + +JANE. You bain’t Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what’s +to-morrow isn’t enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I don’t know what +is. + +DORRY. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran’ma, I do. Shall you put on +your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to church? + +JANE. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you knows +how. + +DORRY. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims to the +dance, I shall. Dad’s got that kind to me since last night—he gived me a +sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn’t asked. And won’t it be +nice when Miss Sims comes here to live, and when you has someone to help +you in the work, Gran’ma? + +JANE. Well—’tis to be hoped as ’twill be all right this time. + +DORRY. This time, Gran’ma! Why, wasn’t it all right when Dad was +married afore, then? + +JANE. [_Getting the lamp from a shelf_.] I don’t light up as a rule +till ’tis six o’clock, but I count it’s a bit of snow coming as have +darkened the air like. + +DORRY. Gran’ma, isn’t Miss Sims nice-looking, don’t you think? I’d like +to wear my hair like hers and have earrings a-hanging from me and +a-shaking when I moves my head, I would. + +JANE. [_Setting the lamp on the table_.] Here, fetch me the matches, +do. + +DORRY. [_Bringing the matches_.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss +Sims, Gran’ma? + +JANE. I’m one as goes by other things nor looks—For like as not ’tis +fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them—give me a plain +face and a heart what’s pure, I says, and ’tis not far out as you’ll be. + +DORRY. Was my mammy’s heart pure, Gran’ma? [_A moment’s silence_. JANE +_lights the lamp_. DORRY _leans at the table_, _watching her_. + +DORRY. Was my mammy’s—[_A loud knock on the outside door_. + +JANE. Who’s that come bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there’s a +good child. + +DORRY. It’ll be Gran’ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at the +door loud with her stick. + +[DORRY _runs to the window and looks out_. + +DORRY. ’Tis her, and the snow white all upon her. + +[DORRY _goes to the door to open it_. + +JANE. [_To herself_.] Of all the meddlesome old women—why can’t her +bide till her’s wanted. + +[DORRY _opens the door wide_, _and_ VASHTI _Comes slowly in to the room_, +_leaning on a big staff_. + +JANE. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the hill to-day? +’Twould have been better had you bid at home, with the dark coming on and +the snow. + +DORRY. [_Who has closed the door_.] Sit down, Granny—there, close +against the fire, do. + +[VASHTI _stands in the middle of the room_, _looking from one to +another_. + +DORRY. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do. + +VASHTI. ’Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. And down to the +pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where ’tis fog, And there +be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the wind. And no where may +the bones of me rest this day. + +JANE. If ’tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you’d best have +stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave sensible, and +maybe as I’ll get you summat warm to drink presently. + +DORRY. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we. + +[VASHTI _sits stiffly down by the hearth_, _leaning on her stick_. JANE +_resumes her place_, _and_ DORRY _puts her little stool between them_. + +VASHTI. And in the night when I was laid down, against the windowpane it +fled a three times. A three time it fled and did beat the pane as though +’twould get in. And I up and did open the window. And the air it ran +past I, and ’twas black, with naught upon it but the smell of a shroud. +So I knowed. + +DORRY. What did you know, Granny? + +VASHTI. [_Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire_, _speaking +as though to herself_.] Summat lost—summat lost, and what was trying to +get safe away. + +DORRY. Safe away? From what, Granny? + +VASHTI. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, what holds +in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I holds here, and +the knife to it be as long again by twice. + +DORRY. O, Granny, I’ll be a-feared to go across the garden after dark, I +shall. + +JANE. What do you want to go and put that there into the child’s head +for? I’d like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff. + +VASHTI. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand in the +mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And when the door +was closed, ’twas as if one did come running round the house and did beat +upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to open it, but the place +outside was full of emptiness, and ’twas they old carrion crows what did +talk to I out of the storm. + +JANE. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don’t you speak of summat +what’s got some sense to it? Come, don’t you know as Steve, his wedding +day, ’tis to-morrow as ever is. + +DORRY. ’Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad’s marriage. + +VASHTI. [_Suddenly_.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, then? + +DORRY. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don’t you see how ’tis cleaned and +the new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget ’gainst the +door where the old one always tripped me up? + +VASHTI. I see naught but what ’tis more like a burial here. So ’tis. +And ’tis a burial as I’ve carried in my heart as I comed down from the +hills. + +DORRY. [_Looking out of the window_.] Granny, you’ll be forced to bide +the night along of we, ’cause the snow be falling thick, and ’twill be +likely as not as you’ll lose your way if you start for to go home again +when ’tis snowing. + +JANE. Th’ old thing may as well bide the night now she be come. Hark +you, Vashti, ’twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if you +bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever wants. + +VASHTI. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane +Browning? + +DORRY. Why, Granny, ’tis Dad’s wedding day to-morrow, and ’tis a white +frock with lace to it as I’m going to wear, and beads what Miss Sims +gived me, and the shoes what was new except for being worn to church +three times. Shall I fetch them all and show to you, Granny? + +JANE. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely ’twill give her +thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in one of her +nasty moods to-day when you can’t get a word what isn’t foolishness out +of her. [DORRY _runs upstairs_. + +VASHTI. [_Leaning forward_.] Was her telling of a marriage? + +JANE. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, only you don’t +trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of yourself in the +night. ’Tis our Steve what’s going to marry Annie Sims to-morrow. + +VASHTI. Steve Browning? + +JANE. I haven’t patience with th’ old gipsy! Yes—Steve. And ’tis a +twelvemonth or more as you’d knowed of it. + +VASHTI. Our Steve, what’s husband to my May? + +JANE. ’Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that ’tis. May, +what went out trolloping along the roads ’stead of she biding at home to +mind the house and child! ’Tis how you did breed she up, Vashti Reed, +what led her to act as her did. And if you’d have bred her different, +’twould have been all the same; for what’s in the blood is bound to out +and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it in the room, ’tain’t no +flower as you must look for. + +VASHTI. ’Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. But in the +blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through the +door again. God bless the head an feet of she! + +JANE. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb like she, +was bound for to meet her doom. And ’twas in the river up London way +where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same petticoat to it +as I’ve seed on May a score of times. Don’t you recollect how ’twas +parson as brought the news to we? + +VASHTI. ’Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come from +the mouths of they, neither. + +JANE. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was gone out. +’Twas not much as he did say, being a man what hasn’t many words to his +tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat what do hang up +yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the sleeve of it. Leastways, +he didn’t speak the words, but I seed what he was after, and I took and +sewed a bit on, and he’s wore it ever since till yesterday—And that’s +eleven year ago it be—so there. + +VASHTI. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And I seems to feel +the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain’t shrouded, +nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of she—you take my +words—and there shall come a day when the latch shall rise and her be +standing among us and a-calling on her child and husband what’s forgotten +she. + +JANE. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such things +to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn’t wonder if he was to +put you out of the door and into the snow—and ’tis most unfitting for to +talk so afore the child. + +VASHTI. [_Calling out loudly_.] Come back to I, May—you come back to +I—there bain’t no one what thinks on the name of you, or what wants you +but your old mother. You come back to I! + +JANE. I’ll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! ’Tain’t +nothing to be proud on as you’ve got, and ’twould be better if you was to +be less free in your hollering. Look, here’s Dorry coming. + +[DORRY _comes into the kitchen_; _she is wearing her new white frock_. + +DORRY. See, Granny, I’ve been and put it on for to show you better. See +the lace? Isn’t it nice? And the beads, too. I didn’t stop for to put +on my shoes, nor my new stockings. Nor my hat, what’s got a great long +feather all round of it. + +JANE. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you’ll crease and tumble that frock +so as it’s not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go to put it +on for? + +DORRY. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as she should +come out of her trouble. Gran’s always got some trouble in her mind, +han’t you, Granny? + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by, my child. + +JANE. I’ll give it you if you starts off again. + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by— + +DORRY. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny? + +VASHTI. ’Tis more’n eleven years since her wented out of the door, my +child—your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the door! And likely as +not ’twill be feet first as her shall be brought in again. + +DORRY. Granny, was my poor mammy, what’s dead, nice looking like Miss +Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow? + +VASHTI. ’Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all the +green of it as was your mammy, my dear. + +DORRY. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, like +Miss Sims, Granny? + +JANE. ’Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and pleasuring what +was her undoing, as ’twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if you +don’t take care. ’Tis she as you favours, and none of your father’s +people, more’s the pity, and ’tis more thoughtful and serious as you’ll +have to grow if you don’t want to come to harm. You take and go right +up, and off with that frock, do you hear me? + +DORRY. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I’d got it on, I +did. + +JANE. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, ’tis all as you do +think on, and ’tis plain to see what’s got working in the inside of you, +Dorry. ’Tis the drop of bad blood as you has got from she what bore you. +But I might as well speak to that door for all you cares. Only, hark you +here, you’ll be sorry one of these days as you han’t minded me better. +And then ’twill be too late. + +[STEVE _comes down the stairs_, _pushes open the door and enters_. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, what’s up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, what +be you a-crying for? + +DORRY. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad—now that I’ve got my +frock on and all.—O, I wants to be let to go. + +STEVE. Well, Mother—what do you say? ’Twouldn’t hurt for she to look in +about half an hour, and Annie and me we could bring her back betimes. + +DORRY. O, Dad, I wants to go if ’twas only for a minute. + +STEVE. There, there—you shall go and we’ll say no more about it. + +JANE. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, +Steve. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, ’tain’t every day as a man’s married, that ’tain’t. + +VASHTI. And so you’re to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells me as +you’re to be wed. + +STEVE. That’s right enough, Gran. + +VASHTI. [_Rising_.] And there be no resting in me to-day, Steve. There +be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body and that will not let me +bide.—And ’tis steps as I hears on the roadside and in the fields—and +’tis a bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be moving, and peering +about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for to do away with the +thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of death—So ’tis. + +JANE. Now she’s off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and I’ll +give you summat as’ll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in your +chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water boiling. + +[_She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it_. + +DORRY. [_From the window_.] Here’s Miss Sims coming up the path, and +Rosie too. O, they’re wrapped up all over ’cause ’tis snowing. I’ll +open, I’ll open. + +[_She runs to the door and unlatches it_. ANNIE _and_ ROSE SIMS _come +in_, _shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their cloaks_, _which_ +STEVE _takes from them and hangs on the door_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 2. + + +ANNIE. [_As_ STEVE _takes off her cloak_.] ’Tis going to be a dreadful +night. The snow’s coming down something cruel. + +ROSE. There won’t be many to the dance if it keeps on like this, will +there? + +STEVE. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before we +sets out again. + +DORRY. Miss Sims, Miss Sims—Miss Rosie—I’m going along with you to the +dance, Dad says as I may. + +JANE. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, and he +so strict, I don’t know. + +ANNIE. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry—I shouldn’t hardly know +’twas you. [_Turning to_ VASHTI REED.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, my eyes +was very near blinded when I first got in out of the dark, and I didn’t +see as you was there. + +ROSE. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold weather? + +VASHTI. [_Peering into their faces as they stand near her_.] What be +you a-telling I of? + +ANNIE. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed? + +VASHTI. How be I? + +ROSE. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now ’tis come over such nasty +weather? + +VASHTI. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out in the +rain and all the wind, and driv’ there too by them as was laid like +snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she +when her should have gotten to a time of weakness. + +JANE. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down in the +warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the clothes which +you have upon you. [_Moving about and putting tea things on the table_.] +I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for th’ old woman, with a drop +of summat strong to it as will keep her from using of her tongue so free +till morning time. + +ANNIE. [_Sitting down_.] Poor old woman, ’tis a sad thing when folks do +come to such a pass as she. + +ROSE. And han’t got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But she’s +better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the hedge as +we was coming across the meadow. “Why,” I says to Annie, “it must be bad +to have no home to bide in such a night as this!” Isn’t that so, Mrs. +Browning? + +STEVE. Ah, you’re right there, you’re right. + +ROSE. I wouldn’t much care to be upon the road to-night, would you, +Steve? + +VASHTI. And at that hour when th’ old year be passing out, and dark on +all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead which be in +they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to each, as +the corpses do go by. There’s many a night as I have stood and have +looked into they when them did draw near to I, but never the face I did +seek. + +[_Here_ JANE, _who has been making a cup of tea_, _and who has poured +something in it from a bottle_, _advances to_ VASHTI. + +JANE. Here, Vashti Reed, here’s a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take and +drink it up and very likely ’twill warm th’ inside of you, for I’ll lay +as you haven’t seen a mouthful of naught this day. + +STEVE. Ah, that’s it, that’s it. When folks do go leer ’tis a powerful +lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads of they. + +[VASHTI _takes the cup and slowly drinks_. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran’ma, at what Miss Sims +have got on! + +VASHTI. [_Putting down her cup and leaning forward_.] Which of you be +clothed for marriage? + +JANE. Get along of you, Gran, ’tis for the dance up at the school as +they be come. + +VASHTI. Come you here—her what’s to wed our Steve. Come you here and +let I look at you. My eyes bain’t so quick as they was once. Many tears +have clouded they. But come you here. + +DORRY. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice +things. + +ANNIE. [_Steps in front of_ VASHTI.] Here I be, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Be you the one what’s going to wed our Steve come New Year. + +ANNIE. That’s it, Mrs. Reed, that’s it. + +VASHTI. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage or +for burial? + +STEVE. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don’t you take no +account of she. ’Tis worry and that as have caused the mind of she to +wander a bit, but she don’t mean nothing by it. + +ANNIE. All right, Steve. She don’t trouble me at all. [_To_ VASHTI.] +’Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? Han’t he got one +already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do Steve want +for with a new one then? + +STEVE. Come on, girls. I can’t stand no more of this. Let’s off, and +call in to George’s as we do go by. + +ROSE. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said as how +’twouldn’t be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve. + +STEVE. That’s right, then we’ll bide a bit longer till George do call +for we, only ’tis more nor I can stand when th’ old lady gets her tongue +moving. + +DORRY. Why, look, Gran’s fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that Gran’s +dropped off and can’t say none of her foolish things any more, do stand +so as Dad and Gran’ma can see the frock which you’ve got for the dance. + +ANNIE. O, Dorry, you’re a little torment, that’s the truth. + +[_She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she has +on_. + +ROSE. Well, Steve? + +STEVE. Well, Rosie. + +ROSE. Haven’t you got nothing as you can say, Steve? + +STEVE. What be I to say, Rose? + +ROSE. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course. + +STEVE. O, ’tis all right, I suppose. + +ROSE. All right! And is that about all as you’ve seen? Why, bless you, +Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to know! + +STEVE. Well, there bain’t nothing wrong, be there? + +ROSE. Of course there isn’t. But I never did see such a man as you, +Steve. Why, I don’t believe as you’d know whether Annie haves a pair of +eyes to her face or not, nor if they be the same colour one to t’other. + +STEVE. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I’ve picked +out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I is to be +made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me this night, I +reckon. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder what I +should feel if ’twas me that was going to be married! + +ROSE. You get and ask Annie how ’tis with her, Dorry. I could tell a +fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the +candles that’s burned right down to the very end of them, I could. + +ANNIE. Don’t you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. +She’s that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce do +know what she’s a-saying of. But suppose you was just to ask her what +she’s got wrapped so careful in that there paper in her hand. + +DORRY. O, Rosie, whatever is it? + +STEVE. What’s that you’ve got hold on now, Rosie? + +ANNIE. Come, show them all, Rose. + +[ROSE _slowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse carnation +and a fern_. + +ROSE. There ’tis, then. + +DORRY. O my, Rosie—isn’t it beautiful. Be you going to wear it to the +dance? + +ROSE. No, Dorry, ’tisn’t for me. + +ANNIE. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, who is it for, Rosie—who is it for? + +ROSE. No—I’m not a-going to tell none of you. + +[_She wraps it up carefully again_. + +ANNIE. I’ll tell then, for you. + +ROSE. No, you shan’t, Annie—that you shan’t! + +ANNIE. That I shall, then—come you here, Dorry—I’ll whisper it to your +ear. [_Whispers it to_ DORRY. + +DORRY. [_Excitedly_.] I know who ’tis—I know—’tis for Mr. Davis—for Mr. +Davis! Think of that, Dad—the flower ’tis for George Davis. + +ROSE. O, Annie, how you could! + +STEVE. George— + +VASHTI. [_Suddenly roused_.] Who named George? There was but one man +as was called by that name—and he courted my girl till her was faint and +weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day when he was come— + +DORRY. There’s Gran gone off on her tales again. + +[JANE _crosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head of_ VASHTI, _who +relapses again into sleep_. + +STEVE. [_Sitting down by_ ROSE.] What’s this, Rose? I han’t heard tell +of this afore. Be there aught a-going on with you and George, then? + +ROSE. No, Steve, there isn’t nothing in it much, except that George and +me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like—and a two or three time +before. + +STEVE. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give to +George, then? + +ROSE. Well—’tis for George as I’ve saved it out of some what the +gardener up at Squire’s gived me. + +STEVE. [_As though to himself_.] ’Tis a powerful many years since +George he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon a +maid, I didn’t since— + +ROSE. Well, Steve, I’m sure there’s no need for you to be upset over it. +’Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he doesn’t. + +STEVE. Who said as I was upset, Rose? + +ROSE. Look at the long face what you’ve pulled. Annie, if ’twas me, I +shouldn’t much care about marrying a man with such a look to him. + +ANNIE. What’s up, Steve? What’s come over you like, all of a minute? + +STEVE. ’Tis naught, Annie, naught. ’Twas summat of past times what +comed into the thoughts of me. But ’tis naught. And, Rose, if so be as +’twas you as George is after, I’d wish him to have luck, with all my +heart, I would, for George and me—well, we too has always stuck close one +to t’other, as you knows. + +JANE. Ah—that you has, George and you—you and George. + +ANNIE. Hark—there’s someone coming up now. + +DORRY. O, let me open the door—let me open it! + +[_She runs across the room and lifts the latch_. GEORGE _stands in the +doorway shaking the snow from him_. _Then he comes into the room_. + +DORRY. I’m going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven’t I got a nice +frock on? + +STEVE. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night? + +GEORGE. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss Sims, +good evening—Yes, Steve, I’ll off with my coat, for ’tis pretty well +sprinkled with snow, like. + +[STEVE _helps_ GEORGE _to take off his overcoat_. + +ROSE. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis. + +JANE. And that’s a thing which han’t no luck to it, if ’tis said afore +the proper time, Rosie. + +ROSE. Well, but ’tis New Year’s Eve, isn’t it? + +GEORGE. Ah, so ’tis—and a terrible nasty storm as ever I knowed! ’Twas +comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, as I was a-crossing of the +meadow. And there lay some poor thing sheltering below the hedge, with a +bit of sacking throwed over her. I count ’tis very near buried alive as +anyone would be as slept out in such a night. + +STEVE. I reckon ’twould be so—so ’twould. But come you in and give +yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of +cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing. + +JANE. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when ’tis free as +you’ll get them up at the school? + +STEVE. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I’ll fetch it right +away. + +JANE. No, you don’t. I’ll have no one meddling in the pantry save it’s +myself. Dorry, give me that there jug. + +DORRY. [_Taking a jug from the dresser_.] Here ’tis, Gran’ma, shall I +light the candle? + +JANE. So long as you’ll hold the matches careful. + +ANNIE. Well—’tis to be hoped as the weather’ll change afore morning. + +ROSE. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride. + +GEORGE. That us shall, but it don’t look much as though we should get +it. + +[JANE BROWNING _and_ DORRY _go out of the room_. + +STEVE. Sit you down, George, along of we. ’Tis right pleased as I be +for to see you here to-night. + +GEORGE. Well, Steve, I bain’t one for a lot of words but I be powerful +glad to see you look as you does, and ’tis all joy as I wishes you and +her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow. + +ANNIE. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, and a +girl can’t do no more, can she? + +ROSE. And so you’re going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. ’Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has +broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got +together and I among they. + +ROSE. O, come, Mr. Davis! + +GEORGE. ’Tis with me as though t’were all hoof and horn as I was made +of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality folks and +such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his self in parts +when the ground be thick on them. + +ANNIE. Very likely ’tis a-shewing of them into their places of a Sunday +and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along with the +service, like, as has made Steve so easy. + +ROSIE. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, +too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s +for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know what. + +GEORGE. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don’t much agree with I, Miss +Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the maids +do pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and do speak as though ’twere +church and parson at his sermon, I can’t think of naught but how ’twill +feel for to be out in the open again. Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch +my breath in one of they places from fear as there should be too much +sound to it, and the noise of my own hammer do very near scare I into +fits. + +ROSE. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it? + +[MRS. BROWNING _and_ DORRY _come back and the cider is put upon the +table_, DORRY _and_ ANNIE _getting glasses from the dresser_. + +GEORGE. [_Drinking_.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss Sims. +And many years of happiness to you both. + +STEVE. Thank you kindly, George. + +ANNIE. Thank you, Mr. Davis. + +DORRY. Hasn’t Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. +Davis? + +GEORGE. Well, I’m blessed if I’d taken no notice of it, Dorry. + +DORRY. Why, you’re worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look at +Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she’s got wrapped up in that +there paper in her hand. + +ROSE. O, Dorry, you little tease, you! + +DORRY. You just ask her, Mr. Davis. + +ROSE. [_Undoing the parcel_.] There, ’tis nothing to make such a +commotion of! Just a flower—see, Mr. Davis? I knowed as it was one what +you was partial to, and so I just brought it along with me. + +GEORGE. That there bain’t for I, be it? + +ROSE. Indeed ’tis—if so as you’ll accept of it. + +GEORGE. O, ’tis best saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be +most gone from it, if I was to wear it now. + +DORRY. No, no, Mr. Davis, ’tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put it +on him, Rosie, put it on him. + +ROSE. [_Tossing the flower across the table to_ GEORGE.] He can put it +on hisself well enough, Dorry. + +GEORGE. [_After a moment’s hesitation_.] I don’t know so well about +that. + +ANNIE. Go on, Rosie—pin it into his coat. Come, ’tis getting late. + +DORRY. O, pin it in quick, Rosie—come along—and then we can start to the +dancing. + +ROSE. Shall I, Mr. Davis? + +[GEORGE _gets up and crosses the room_; ROSE _takes the flower and_ DORRY +_hands her a pin_. _She slowly pins the flower in his coat_. + +STEVE. [_Stretching out his hand to_ ANNIE.] You be so quiet like +to-night, Annie. There isn’t nothing wrong, is there, my dear? + +ANNIE. ’Tis only I’m that full of gladness, Steve, as I don’t seem to +find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most days. + +STEVE. And that’s how ’tis with I, too, Annie. ’Tis as though I was out +in the meadows, like—And as though ’twere Sunday, and such a stillness +all around that I might think ’twas only me as was upon the earth. But +then summat stirs in me sudden and I knows that you be there, too, and +’tis my love for you what has put me right away from the rest of them. + +ANNIE. Steve, you’ve had a poor, rough time, I know, but I’ll do my best +for to smooth it like for you, I will. + +STEVE. See here, Annie—I be comed out of the rain and into the sun once +more. + +DORRY. [_Leading_ GEORGE _forward_.] See how fine Mr. Davis do +look—see, isn’t he grand? O, Miss Sims, see how nice the flower do look +what Rosie has pinned in his coat! See, Gran’ma. + +JANE. I’ve enough to do putting away all these glasses which have been +messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed this +night, seeing as ’tis late already and you none of you gone off yet. + +DORRY. O, let us be off, let us be off—and what am I to put over my +dress, Gran’ma, so as the snow shan’t get to it? + +JANE. If you go careful and don’t drop it in the snow may be as I’ll +wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what’s hanging behind the door. + +ROSE. Give me my cloak, Steve—O, how I do love a bit of dancing, don’t +you, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they great +drag horses, Miss Rose. + +ROSE. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don’t believe half what you do say, no +more does Annie. + +ANNIE. If Mr. Davis don’t know how to dance right, you’re the one to +learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and I’ll look +after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. Good-night, Mrs. Reed. + +DORRY. Why, Granny’s sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know. + +JANE. And about time, too. ’Tis to be hoped as we shan’t have no more +trouble with her till morning. + +DORRY. [_Her eyes raised to the door latch_.] Just look, why the latch +is up. + +ANNIE. Whoever’s that, I wonder? + +ROSE. ’Tis very likely someone with a horse what’s lost a shoe, Steve. + +JANE. I guess as ’tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis. + +STEVE. I bain’t a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, not if +’twas the King hisself what stood at the door. + +GEORGE. If ’tis a corpse, I guess her’ll have to wait till the dancing’s +finished, then. + +[VASHTI _groans in her sleep and turns over in the chair_, _her face to +the fire_. + +STEVE. [_Going to the door and speaking loudly_.] Who’s there? + +GEORGE. Us’ll soon see. + +[GEORGE _unbolts the door and opens it_, _first a little way_, _and then +wide_. MAY _is seen standing in the doorway_. _Her shawl is drawn over +head and the lower part of her face_. + +GEORGE. Here’s someone what’s missed their way, I count. + +ROSE. Why, ’tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do +believe. + +ANNIE Whatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night! + +JANE. [_Advancing firmly_.] ’Tis one of they dirty roadsters what +there’s too many of all about the country. Here, I’ll learn you to come +to folks’ houses this time of night, disturbing of a wedding party. You +take and get gone. We don’t want such as you in here, we don’t. + +[MAY _looks fixedly into_ JANE’S _face_. + +GEORGE. I count ’tis very nigh starved by the cold as she be. + +STEVE. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone. + +JANE. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that’ll learn the likes +of she to come round begging at folks’ houses what’s respectable. + +GEORGE. ’Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her this night. + +STEVE. And that ’tis, George, and what’s more, I bain’t a-going for to +do it. ’Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog was to come to +me for shelter I’d not be one to put him from the door. + +JANE. ’Tain’t to be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my +kitchen when ’tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve. + +STEVE. To-morrow, ’tis my day, Mother, and I’ll have the choosing of my +guests, like. [_Turning to_ MAY.] Come you in out of the cold. This +night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, may be, in years to come, +’twill please you to think back upon the eve afore my wedding. + +[STEVE _stands back_, _holding the door wide open_. MAY, _from the +threshold_, _has been looking first on one face and then on another_. +_Suddenly her eyes fall on_ ANNIE, _who has moved to_ STEVE’S _side_, +_laying her hand on his arm_, _and with a sudden defiance_, _she draws +herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 3. + + +_The same room_, _two hours later_. VASHTI REED _seems to be sleeping as +before by the fireside_. _On the settle_ MAY _is huddled_, _her head +bent_, _the shawl drawn over her face_. JANE BROWNING _moves about_, +_putting away work things_, _cups and plates_, _seeing that the window is +closed_, _winding the clock_, _etc._ _There is a tap at the outer door +and_ JANE _opens it_. STEVE, ANNIE _and_ DORRY _enter_. + +JANE. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to let +you all in and not able to get away to my bed? + +DORRY. O, Gran’ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, I +could. We comed away early ’cause Miss Sims, she said as the dancing +gived her the headache, but the New Year han’t been danced in yet, it +han’t. + +JANE. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that’s what you’ve got to +do—and quickly. + +DORRY. All right, Gran’ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, Dad. O, +why, there’s Granny! But her’s tight asleep so I shan’t say nothing to +her. O, I do wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and music playing +every night, I do! + +[DORRY _goes towards the staircase door_. + +JANE. [_Calling after her_.] I’m a-coming along directly. Be careful +with the candle, Dorry. + +[JANE _opens the door and_ DORRY _goes upstairs_. STEVE _and_ ANNIE +_come towards the fireplace_. + +STEVE. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing? + +JANE. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what’s been and +got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s the matter with she. +See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of her; and not +a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her the drop of tea a +while back. + +STEVE. Well, well—she won’t do us no harm where she do bide. Leave her +in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way. + +JANE. She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, I’m +thinking. + +STEVE. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, +Mother. + +JANE. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home? + +ANNIE. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back—’tis but a step—and +I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again. + +STEVE. I’m coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. I’ll be +back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes. + +JANE. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t +left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the +kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like. + +[JANE _lights a candle and goes upstairs_. STEVE _takes_ ANNIE’S _hand +and they go together towards the outer door_. _As they pass to the other +side of the curtain which is drawn across the room_, MAY _suddenly rears +herself up on the settle_, _throwing back her shawl_, _and she leans +forward_, _listening intently_. + +STEVE. To-morrow night, Annie! + +ANNIE. There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve. + +STEVE. You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can +rightly think on, that ’tis. + +ANNIE. Steve! + +STEVE. Well, Annie. + +ANNIE. There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit this night. You +didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas so. + +STEVE. Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was +different from ordinary. + +ANNIE. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the +looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. Steve, I +couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on and +all. So I told you as I’d the headache. + +STEVE. O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t +seem to get them pushed aside, like. + +ANNIE. How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve. + +STEVE. I don’t much care for to, Annie. But ’twas thoughts what comed +out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard with—with her +as was Dorry’s mother. + +ANNIE. O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, +Steve. + +STEVE. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might go +the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being so +much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t bear for it to +happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of me always +stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I could not stand +it if ’twas as I should lose you. + +ANNIE. There’s nothing in the world as could make you lose me, Steve. +For, look you here, I don’t think as there’s a woman on the earth what’s +got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of quiet, Steve, and of +gladness, because that you and me is to be wed and to live aside of one +another till death do part us. + +STEVE. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake. + +ANNIE. And what you feels about the days gone by don’t count, Steve, +’cause they bain’t true of you. You was always a kind husband, and from +what I’ve hear-ed folks say, she was one as wasn’t never suited to +neither you nor yours. + +STEVE. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks one way or +t’other can’t do she no good. Only ’tis upon me as I could take you +to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had been kinder to she, +the time her was here. + +ANNIE. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you’re regular done up, and that’s +what ’tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this afore. + +STEVE. All right, my dear, don’t you mind what I’ve been saying. Very +like ’tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But ’tis a good thought, +bain’t it, Annie, that come to-morrow at this time, there won’t be no +more need for us to part? + +ANNIE. [_As he opens the door_.] O, ’tis dark outside! + +[_They both leave the cottage_. MAY _throws back her shawl as though +stifled_. _She gets up and first stands bending over_ VASHTI. _Seeing +that she is still sleeping heavily_, _she goes to the door_, _opens it +gently and looks out_. _After a moment she closes it and walks about the +kitchen_, _examining everything with a fierce curiosity_. _She takes up +the shawl_ DORRY _has been wearing_, _looks at it hesitatingly_, _and +then clasps it passionately to her face_. _Hearing steps outside she +flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle_, _where she +sits huddled in the corner_, _having wrapped herself again in her shawl_, +_only her eyes looking out unquietly from it_. STEVE _re-enters_. _He +bolts the door_, _then goes up to the table in front of the fire to put +out the lamp_. + +STEVE. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you up a bit +this cold night? + +[MAY _looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head_. + +STEVE. All right. You can just bide where you be on the settle. ’Tis +warmer within nor upon the road to-night, and I’ll come and let you out +when ’tis morning. + +[MAY _raises both her hands in an attitude of supplication_. + +STEVE. [_Pausing_, _with his hand on the burner of the lamp_.] Be there +summat as you wants what I can give to you? + +[MAY _looks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper_. + +MAY. Let I bide quiet in the dark, ’tis all I wants now. [STEVE _puts +out the lamp_. + +STEVE. [_As though to himself_, _as he goes towards the door upstairs_.] +Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams. + +[_Curtain_. + + + +ACT II.—Scene 4. + + +_The fire is almost out_. _A square of moonlight falls on the floor from +the window_. VASHTI _still sleeps in the chimney corner_. MAY _is +rocking herself to and fro on the settle_. + +MAY. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams—your +dreams—Ah, where is it as they have gone, I’d like for to know. The +dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath the hedge. Dreams! + +[_She gets up_, _feels down the wall in a familiar way for the +bellows—blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently_. _Then she +draws forward a chair and sits down before it_. + +MAY. [_Muttering to herself_.] ’Tis my own hearth when ’tis all said +and done. + +[_She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself_, _looking +sharply at_ VASHTI REED _now and then_. + +[_Presently_ VASHTI’S _eyes open_, _resting_, _at first unseeingly_, _and +then with recognition_, _on_ MAY’S _face_. + +VASHTI. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as you would. + +MAY. How did you know ’twas me, then? + +VASHTI. ’Cause I knowed. There ’tis. + +MAY. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming of +myself by this here fire. + +VASHTI. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don’t see nothing of it, +then. + +MAY. Ah, I be got into an ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve—Steve, +he looked in the face of I and didn’t so much as think who ’twas. “Get +off to the drunken sleep of you and to your dreams.” ’Twas that what he +did say to I. + +VASHTI. Your old mother do know better nor Steve. Ah, ’tweren’t in no +shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face of you, but +stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the water what layed +on the roads, and on the dry where there be high places, and in the grass +of the meadows. That’s how ’twas as I did see you, May. + +MAY. And I would like to know how ’twas as Steve saw I. + +VASHTI. Ah, and there was they as did buzz around as thick as waspes in +summer time and as said, “She be under ground and rotting now—that her +be.” And they seed in I but a poor old woman what was sleeping in the +chimney corner, with no hearing to I. “Rotting yourself,” I says, and I +rears up sudden, “She be there as a great tree and all the leaves of it +full out—and you—snakes in the grass, snakes in the grass, all of you!” +There ’tis. + +MAY. [_Mockingly_.] “It’s a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, that +to-morrow this time there won’t be no need for us to part?” And in the +days when I was a young woman and all the bloom of I upon me, ’twouldn’t +have been once as he’d have looked on such as her. + +VASHTI. And ’tis full of bloom and rare fine and handsome as you appear +now, May, leastways to my old eyes. And when you goes up to Steve and +shows yourself, I take it the door’ll be shut in the face of the mealy +one what they’ve all been so took up with this long while. I count that +’twill and no mistake. So ’tis. + +MAY. [_Fiercely_.] Hark you here, Mother, and ’tis to be wed to-morrow +as they be! Wed—the both of them, the both of them! And me in my flesh, +and wife to Steve! “Can I cover you up with a bit of old sack or +summat?” Old sack! When there be a coverlet with feathers to it +stretched over where he do lie upstairs. “I’ll let you out when ’tis +morning.” Ah, you will, will you, Steve Browning? Us’ll see how ’twill +be when ’tis morning—Us’ll see, just won’t us then! + +VASHTI. Ah, ’tis in her place as th’ old woman will be set come +morning—And that her’ll be—I count as ’tis long enough as her have +mistressed it over the house. [_Shaking her fist towards the ceiling_.] +You old she fox, you may gather the pads of you in under of you now, and +crouch you down t’other side of the fire like any other old woman of your +years—for my May’s comed back, and her’ll show you your place what you’ve +not known where ’twas in all the days of your old wicked life. So ’tis. + +MAY. Her han’t changed a hair of her, th’ old stoat! Soon as I heard +the note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though ’twas chattering in the +cold as I had been but a moment afore. “One of they dirty roadsters—I’ll +learn you to come disturbing of a wedding party, I will.” [_Shaking her +fist towards the ceiling_.] No, you bain’t changed, you hardened old +sinner—but the words out of the cruel old mouth of you don’t hurt I any +more—not they. I be passed out of the power of such as you. I knowed +I’d have to face you when I comed back, but I knowed, too, as I should +brush you out of the way of me, like I would brush one of they old maid +flies. + +VASHTI. Ah, and so I telled she many a time. “You bide till my May be +comed home,” I says. “She be already put safe to bed and ’tis in the +churchyard where her do take her rest,” says she. Ah, what a great liar +that is, th’ old woman what’s Steve’s mother! And the lies they do grow +right out of she tall as rushes, and the wind do blow they to the left +and to the right. So ’tis. + +MAY. Ah, she han’t any more power for to hurt I in the ugly old body of +her. I be got beyond she. There be but one or two things as can touch I +now—But one or two. And I be struck to the heart, I be, struck to the +heart. + +[_She bends forwards_, _rocking herself to and fro and weeping_. + +MAY. [_As though speaking to herself_.] Back and fro, back and fro—On +the dark of the earth and where ’twas light. When ’twas cold and no +sound but the steps of I on the road, and the fox’s bark; when ’twas hot +and the white dust smouldered in the mouth of I, and things flying did +plague I with the wings of they—But ’twas always the same thought as I +had—“Some day I shall come back to Steve,” I did tell me. And then +again—“Some day I shall get and hold Dorry in my arms.” And now I be +comed. And Steve—and Steve—Ah, I be struck deep to the heart, ’tis so. +Struck deep! + +VASHTI. You get upstairs to Steve, May. Get you up there and take the +place what’s yours. + +MAY. My place, my place! Where’s that I want to know! ’Tis another +what’s got into the nest now, to lie snug and warm within. And ’tis for +I to spread the wings of me and to go out into the storm again. So ’tis. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve, May, and let him but look on the form of you +and on the bloom, and us’ll see what he will do with t’other hussy then. +Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got fattened up and licked +over by th’ old woman till ’tis queens as they fancies theirselves, you +shall tell they summat about what they be, come morning. And your poor +old mother, her’ll speak, too, what hasn’t been let sound her tongue +these years gone by. Ah, hern shall know what us do think of they, hern +shall squat upon the floor and hear the truth. + +MAY. He thought as I was sleeping; but I looked out on her and seed the +way his eyes was cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had cast your eyes on +me like that but once, in days gone by—maybe, maybe I’d not have gone out +and shut the door behind I. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve and let him see you with the candle lit. Her +bain’t no match for he, the young weasel! ’Tis you as has the blood of +me and my people what was grand folk in times gone by, ’tis you, May, as +is the mate for he, above all them white-jowled things what has honey at +the mouth of they, but the heart running over with poison—Ah, and what +throws you the bone and keeps the meat for their own bellies. What sets +the skin afore you and laps the cream theirselves. Vipers, all of them, +and she-cats. There ’tis. + +MAY. Sit you down, Mother, and keep the tongue of you quiet. We don’t +want for to waken they. + +VASHTI. [_Sitting down heavily_.] But we’ve got to waken Steve for he +to know as how you be comed home again. + +MAY. And where’s the good of that, when there bain’t so much as a board +nor a rag, but what’s been stole from I? + +VASHTI. You go and say to him as ’tis his wife what have come back to +her place. And put th’ old woman against the chimney there, and let her +see you a-cutting of the bread and of the meat, and a-setting out of the +food so as that they who be at the table can loose the garments of them +when the eating ’tis finished, if they has a mind to, ’stead of drawing +they together so not to feel ’tis leer. Ah, ’tis time you be comed, May, +’tis time. + +MAY. [_Bitterly_.] I’m thinking ’tis time! + +VASHTI. ’Tis the lies of they be growed big as wheat stalks and the +hardness of their hearts be worse nor death. But ’tis to judgment as +they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the hand of God shall +catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the earth. “Ah, and do +you mind how ’twas you served old Vashti, what never did harm to no one +all the life of her,” I shall call out to th’ old woman in that hour when +her shall be burning in the lake. And her shall beg for a drop of water +to lay upon the withered tongue of she, and it shall be denied, for other +hands nor ours be at work, and ’tis the wicked as shall perish—yes, so +’tis. + +MAY. [_Who has been bending forward_, _looking steadily into the fire_.] +Stop that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going to set on I, too, May, now that you be comed +home. ’Tis poor work for an old woman like I. + +MAY. [_As though to herself_.] And as I was laid beneath the +hedge—“’Tis cold as my limbs is, now,” I says, “but I shall be warm this +night.” And the pangs what was in the body of me did fairly quail +I—“’Tis my fill of victuals as I shall soon put within,” thinks I. And +they was laid a bit. The bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but “I +shan’t feel lonesome no longer than this hour,” I telled me. For to my +thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till I should be comed back. +And Dorry, too. There ’tis. [_A long silence_. + +MAY. I’d have been content to bide with the door shut—so long as it was +shut with they two and me inside the room—th’ old woman—well, I count I +shouldn’t have took many thought for she—she could have bided in her +place if she’d had a mind—I’d have set me down, when once my clothes was +decent and clean, and put my hands to the work and made a tidy wife for +Steve, as good nor better than that there dressed-up thing out yonder—And +bred Dorry up the right way, too, I would. But ’tis done with now, so +’tis. + +VASHTI. [_As though to herself_.] And when ’tis morning and she gets +her down—“There, ’tis my girl as is mistress here, I’ll say to her—and +’tis my girl as shall sit cup end of the table—and you get you to the +fire corner and bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, spite that +you do slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you.” + +MAY. And I could set she back in her place, too, that tricked-up, flashy +thing over the way. I’ve but to climb the stairs and clap my hand on +Steve—“Get you from your dreams,” I have got but to say, “the woman +what’s yourn be comed home. Her have tasted the cup of death, very near, +and her have been a-thirst and an hungered. But her has carried summat +for you in her heart all the way what you wouldn’t find in the heart of +t’other, no, not if you was to cut it open and search it through.” And +the right belongs to I to shut the door on t’other hussey, holding Steve +to I till death divides we. + +VASHTI. Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as I did pass +by. “And may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon you,” I says +to them, “for ’tis a poor old woman as I be what has lost her child; and +what’s that to you if so be as the shoes on her feet be broken or no? +’Tis naked as the toes of you shall go, that hour when the days of this +world shall be rolled by. Ah, ’tis naked and set on the lake of burning +fire as the hoofs of you shall run!” + +MAY. I could up and screech so that the house should ring with the sound +of me, “I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these many years. What’s +this that you’ve got doing with another?” I could take hold on him and +make him look into the eyes of I, yes, and th’ old woman, too. “See +here, your ‘dirty roadster,’ look well on to her.” “Why, ’tis May.” But +the eyes of him would then be cast so that I should see no more than a +house what has dead within, and the blind pulled down. And I, what was +thinking as there might be a light in the window! + +VASHTI. “And you may holler,” I says to them, “you may holler till you +be heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won’t take no account +of you.” And the lies of them which have turned into ropes of hempen +shall come up and strangle they. But me and my child shall pass by all +fatted up and clothed, and with the last flick, afore the eyelids of they +drop, they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the teeth of them shall +they repent them of their sins. Too late, too late! There ’tis. + +MAY. Too late! There ’tis, I be comed home too late. + +[_She rises and takes up her shawl_, _wrapping it about her shoulders_, +_and muttering_. + +MAY. But I know a dark place full of water—’Tis Simon’s pool they calls +it—And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and be in quiet. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going up to Steve now? + +MAY. No, I bain’t. ’Tis out from here that I be going. And back on to +the road. + +VASHTI. May, my pretty May, you’re never going for to leave I, what’s +such a poor old woman and wronged cruel. You step aloft and rouse up +Steve. He’ll never have you go upon the roads again once he do know as +you’ve comed back. + +MAY. Steve! What’s it to Steve whether the like of I do go or bide? +What be there in I for to quell the love of she which Steve’s got in him? +Dead leaves for new. Ditch water for the clear spring. + +VASHTI. Give him to drink of it, May. + +MAY. [_Looking upwards to the ceiling_.] No, Steve. Hark you here. I +bain’t a-going to do it. I bain’t going to knock over the spoonful of +sweet what you be carrying to your mouth. You take and eat of it in +quiet and get you filled with the honey. ’Tain’t my way to snatch from +no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed. There, ’tis +finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done. And, don’t you fear, +Steve, as ever I’ll trouble you no more. + +VASHTI. [_Rising_.] I be a-going to fetch him down, and that’s what I’m +a-going for to do. + +MAY. [_Pushing her back into her chair_.] Harken you, Steve, he’s never +got to know as I’ve been here. + +VASHTI. I tell you, May, I’ll screech till he do come! + +MAY. [_Sitting down by_ VASHTI _and laying her hand on her_.] I’ll put +summat in your mouth as’ll stop you if you start screeching, mother. +Why, hark you here. ’Tis enough of this old place as I’ve had this +night, and ’tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th’ old woman—there’s +naught much changed in she—And Steve—well, Steve be wonderful hard in the +soul of him. “Can I get you an old sack,” says he—and never so much as +seed ’twas I—Ah—’tis more than enough to turn the stomach in anyone—that +it is. [_A slight pause_. + +MAY. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside for long. The +four walls of this here room have very near done for me now, so they +have. And ’tis the air blowing free upon the road as I craves—Ah, and +the wind which hollers, so that the cries of we be less nor they of lambs +new born. + +VASHTI. God bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door ’tis the +mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed. + +MAY. So ’tis. And if I stopped ’twould be the same, her’d be between us +always, the pretty cage bird—For look you here on I, Mother, and +here—[_pointing to her feet_]—and here—and here—See what’s been done to I +what’s knocked about in the world along the roads, and then think if I be +such a one as might hold the love of Steve. + +VASHTI. [_Beginning to whine desolately_.] O, do not you go for to +leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead all +the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around of I as +might be the venomous beasts in the grass. Stop with I, my pretty +child—Stop along of your old mother, for the days of I be few and +numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land. + +MAY. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another time. +I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th’ old woman won’t never know +as I’ve been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth shut, maybe I’ll drop in +at our own place on the hill one of these days and bide comfortable along +of you, only now—I’m off, do you hear? + +VASHTI. I can’t abide for you to go. ’Tis more nor I can stand. Why, +if you goes, May, ’tis t’other wench and th’ old woman what’ll get +mistressing it here again in your place. [_Rising up_.] No—you shan’t +go. I’ll holler till I’ve waked them every one—you shan’t! My only +child, my pretty May! Ah, ’tis not likely as you shall slip off again. +’Tis not. + +MAY. Look you here, Mother—bide still, I say. [_Looking round the room +distractedly_.] See here—’tis rare dry as I be. You bide quiet and +us’ll have a drink together, that us will. Look, th’ old woman’s forgot +to put away the bottle, us’ll wet our mouths nice and quiet, mother—she +won’t hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See! + +[MAY _gets up and crosses the room_; _she takes the bottle off the shelf +where she has just perceived it_, _and also two glasses_; _she fills one +and hands it to her mother_. + +VASHTI. [_Stretching out her hand_.] ’Tis rare dry and parched as I be, +now I comes to think on it, May. + +MAY. That’s right—drink your fill, Mother. + +VASHTI. ’Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again, May. + +MAY. Ah, ’tis my own drink and all, come to that. + +VASHTI. So ’tis. And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water. I +seed her spoon it in the pot, and ’twas not above a half spoon as her did +put in for I, th’ old badger. My eye was on she, though, and her’ll have +it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the trumpet sound and +all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking on at her as is brought +to judgment. How will it be then, you old sinner, says I. + +MAY. [_Re-filling the glass_.] Take and drink this little drop more, +mother. + +[VASHTI _drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half closed +eyes_. + +MAY. [_Putting away the bottle and glasses_.] Her’ll sleep very like, +now. And when her wakes, I take it ’twill appear as though she’d been +and dreamt summat. + +VASHTI. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. I would +not have you be on the roads. + +MAY. [_Sitting down beside her_.] O, the roads be fine on nights when +the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the mouth of +you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes quick on +through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and ’tis a large +town and there be folk moving this way and that and the music playing, +and great fowls and horses what’s got clocks to the inside of they, +a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a-riding on them—And the +booths with red sugar and white, all lit and animals that’s wild +a-roaring and a-biting in the tents—And girls what’s dancing, standing +there in satin gowns all over gold and silver—And you walks to and fro in +it all and ’tis good to be there and free—And ’tis better to be in such +places and to come and to go where you have a mind than to be cooped in +here, with th’ old woman and all—’Tis a fine life as you lives on the +roads—and ’tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother. + +VASHTI. [_Who has gradually been falling into sleep_.] I count ’tis so. +’Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count I’ll go along of you, +come morning. + +MAY. That’s it, Mother, that’s it. Us’ll take a bit of sleep afore we +sets off, won’t us? And when morning comes, us’ll open the door and go +out. + +VASHTI. That’s it, when ’tis day. + +[_Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep_. + +[MAY _watches her for some moments_. _Then she gets up softly and wraps +her shawl round her_. _The window shews signs of a gray light outside_, +MAY _goes quietly towards the outer door_. _As she reaches it_, DORRY +_comes into the room from the staircase_. + +DORRY. [_Going up to_ VASHTI.] Granny, ’tis the New Year! I’m come +down to see to the fire and to get breakfast for Dad and Gran’ma. Why, +Granny, you’re sleeping still. And where’s that poor tramp gone off to? +[_She looks round the room and then sees_ MAY _by the door_. + +DORRY. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road afore ’tis got +light? + +MAY. [_In a hoarse whisper_.] And that I be. ’Tis very nigh to +daybreak, so ’tis. + +DORRY. Stop a moment. [_Calling up the stairs_.] Daddy, the tramp +woman, she’s moving off already. + +STEVE. [_From upstairs_.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along of +she. I don’t care that anyone should go an-hungered this day. + +DORRY. [_Turning to_ MAY.] There—you bide a minute whilst I cuts the +loaf. My Dad’s going to get married this day, and he don’t care that +anyone should go hungry. + +[MAY _comes slowly back into the room and stands watching_ DORRY, _who +fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table_. _Then she +pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in_. + +DORRY. The snow’s very nigh gone, and ’tis like as not as the sun may +come out presently. Here’s a piece of bread to take along of you. +There, it’s a good big piece, take and eat it. + +[MAY _hesitates an instant_, _then she stretches out her hand and takes +the bread and puts it beneath her shawl_. + +MAY. And so there’s going to be a wedding here to-day? + +DORRY. ’Tis my Dad as is to be married. + +MAY. ’Tis poor work, is twice marrying. + +DORRY. My Dad’s ever so pleased, I han’t seen him so pleased as I can +remember. I han’t. + +MAY. Then maybe the second choosing be the best. + +DORRY. Yes, ’tis—Gran’ma says as ’tis—and Dad, he be ever so fond of +Miss Sims—and I be, too. + +MAY. Then you’ve no call to wish as her who’s gone should come back to +you, like? + +DORRY. What’s that you’re saying? + +MAY. You don’t never want as your mammy what you’ve lost should be +amongst you as afore? + +DORRY. I never knowed my mammy. Gran’ma says she had got summat bad in +her blood. And Granny’s got the same. But Miss Sims, she’s ever so nice +to Dad and me, and I’m real pleased as she’s coming to stop along of us +always after that they’re married, like. + +MAY. And th’ old woman what’s your gran’ma, Dorry? + +DORRY. However did you know as I was called “Dorry”? + +MAY. I heard them call you so last night. + +DORRY. And whatever do you want to know about Gran’ma? + +MAY. What have her got to say ’bout the—the—wench what’s going to marry +your dad? + +DORRY. O, Gran’ma, she thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, and she says +as how poor Dad, what’s been served so bad, will find out soon what ’tis +to have a real decent wife, what’ll help with the work and all, and what +won’t lower him by her ways, nor nothing. + +MAY. Look you here—’tis growing day. I must be getting off and on to +the road. + +DORRY. [_Moving to the door_.] I’ll unbolt the door, then. O, ’tis +fine and daylight now. + +MAY. [_Turning back at the doorway and looking at the room_.] I suppose +you wouldn’t like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry? + +DORRY. No, I shouldn’t. Gran’ma, she don’t let me go nigh road people +as a rule. She’s a-feared as I should take summat from them, I suppose. + +MAY. [_Hoarsely_, _her hand on the door_.] Then just say as you wishes +me well, Dorry. + +DORRY. I’ll wish you a good New Year, then, and Gran’ma said as I was to +watch as you cleared off the place. [MAY _goes out softly and quickly_. +DORRY _watches her until she is out of sight_, _and then she shuts the +door_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 1. + + +_The same room_. _It is nearly mid-day_, _and the room is full of +sunshine_. JANE BROWNING, _in her best dress_, _is fastening_ DORRY’S +_frock_, _close to the window_. + +DORRY. Dad’s been a rare long time a-cleaning of his self up, Gran. + +JANE. Will you bide still! However’s this frock to get fastened and you +moving this way and that like some live eel—and just see what a mark +you’ve made on the elbow last night, putting your arm down somewhere +where you didn’t ought to—I might just as well have never washed the +thing. + +DORRY. Granny’s sound asleep still—she’ll have to be waked time we goes +along to the church. + +JANE. That her shan’t be. Her shall just bide and sleep the drink out +of her, her shall. Do you think as I didn’t find out who ’twas what had +got at the bottle as Dad left on the dresser last night. + +DORRY. Poor Gran, she do take a drop now and then. + +JANE. Shame on th’ old gipsy. Her shall be left to bide till she have +slept off some of the nonsense which is in her. + +DORRY. Granny do say a lot of funny things sometimes, don’t she, now? + +JANE. You get and put on your hat and button your gloves, and let the +old gipsy be. We can send her off home when ’tis afternoon, and us back +from church. Now, where did I lay that bonnet? Here ’tis. + +[_She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall_. +STEVE _comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves_, _carrying his coat_. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat. + +STEVE. And when’s a man to look pleased if ’tis not on his wedding morn, +Dorry? + +DORRY. The tramp what was here did say as how ’twas poor work twice +marrying, but you don’t find it be so, Dad, do you now? + +STEVE. And that I don’t, my little wench. ’Tis as nigh heaven as I be +like to touch—and that’s how ’tis with me. + +JANE. [_Taking_ STEVE’S _coat from him_.] Ah, ’tis a different set out +altogether this time. That ’tis. ’Tis a-marrying into your own rank, +like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies. + +DORRY. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran? + +JANE. [_Beginning to brush_ STEVE’S _coat_.] Ah, much in the same +pattern as th’ old woman what’s drunk asleep against the fireside. Here, +button up them gloves, ’tis time we was off. + +DORRY. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I +grows up I’d like to look as she do, so I would. + +STEVE. [_To_ JANE.] There, Mother, that’ll do. I’d best put him on +now. + +JANE. [_Holding out the coat for him_.] Well, and you be got yourself +up rare smart, Steve. + +STEVE. ’Tis rare smart as I be feeling, Mother. I’m all a kind of a +dazzle within of me, same as ’tis with the sun upon the snow out yonder. + +JANE. Why, look you, there’s George a-coming up the path already. + +DORRY. He’s wearing of the flower what Rosie gived him last night. + +STEVE. [_Opening the door_.] Good morning, George. A first class New +Year to you. You’re welcome, if ever a man was. + +JANE. You bide where you do stand, George, till your feet is dry. My +floor was fresh wiped over this morning. + +GEORGE. [_Standing on the door mat_.] All right, Mrs. Browning. Don’t +you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. How be you to-day, Steve? + +JANE. Dorry, come you upstairs along with me and get your coat put on, +so as your frock bain’t crushed. + +DORRY. O, I wish I could go so that my nice frock was seen and no coat. + +[_They go upstairs_. GEORGE _rubs his feet on the mat and comes into the +room_, _walking up and down once or twice restlessly and in evident +distress of mind_. + +STEVE. [_Who has lit a pipe and is smoking_.] Why, George, be you out +of sorts this morning? You don’t look up to much, and that’s the truth. + +GEORGE. [_Stopping before_ STEVE.] Hark you, Steve. ’Tis on my mind to +ask summat of you. Did you have much speech with the poor thing what you +took in from the snow last night? + +STEVE. No, George, and that I didn’t. Her was mostly in a kind of +drunken sleep all the time, and naught to be got out from she. Mother, +her tried. But ’twas like trying to get water from the pump yonder, when +’tis froze. + +GEORGE. Your mother’s a poor one at melting ice, Steve, and ’tis what we +all knows. + +STEVE. Ah, ’twasn’t much as we could do for the likes of she—what was a +regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of them. And if it hadn’t been so as +’twas my wedding eve, this one shouldn’t have set foot inside of the +house. But ’tis a season when a man’s took a bit soft and foolish, like, +the night afore his marriage. Bain’t that so, George? + +GEORGE. And when was it, Steve, as she went off from here? + +STEVE. That I couldn’t rightly say, George, but I counts ’twas just upon +daybreak. And ’twas Dorry what seed her off the place and gived her a +piece of bread to take along of her. + +GEORGE. And do you think as she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve? + +STEVE. I’m blest if I do know, George. I never gived another thought to +she. What’s up? + +GEORGE. They was getting the body of her from out of Simon’s Pool as I +did come by. That’s all. + +STEVE. From Simon’s Pool, George? + +GEORGE. I count her must have went across the plank afore ’twas fairly +daylight. And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and her—her—as you +did say. + +STEVE. In liquor. + +GEORGE. I reckon as her missed her footing, like. + +STEVE. Well, upon my word, George, who’d have thought on such a thing! + +GEORGE. I count as her had been in the water and below the ice a +smartish while afore they catched sight of she. + +STEVE. Well, ’tis a cold finish to a hot life. + +GEORGE. They took and laid her on the grass, Steve, as I comed by. + +STEVE. If it had been me, I’d have turned the head of me t’other side. + +GEORGE. There was summat in the fashion her was laid, Steve, as drawed I +near for to get a sight of the face of she. + +STEVE. Well, I shouldn’t have much cared for that, George. + +GEORGE. Steve—did you get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing last +night? + +STEVE. No, nor wanted for to, neither. + +GEORGE. There was naught to make you think of— + +STEVE. Of what, George? + +GEORGE. There—Steve, I can’t get it out, I can’t. + +STEVE. Then let it bide in. + +GEORGE. ’Twas the way her was laid, and the long arms of she, and the +hands which was clapped one on t’other, as it might be in church. + +STEVE. [_Looking through the window_.] You shut up, George. Here’s +Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. Don’t you get saying another +word about yon poor wretch nor the end of her. I wouldn’t have my Annie +upset for all the world to-day. ’Tis a thing as must not be spoke of +afore they, nor Dorry neither, do you hear? + +[_He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the latch_. + +GEORGE. Hold back, Steve, a minute. There’s summat more as I’ve got to +say. + +STEVE. You take and shut your mouth up, old George, afore I opens the +door to the girls. + +GEORGE. ’Tis bound for to come from me afore you goes along to church, +Steve. + +STEVE. I warrant ’twill keep till us do come home again, George. + +[_He throws the door wide open with a joyous movement_. ANNIE _and_ ROSE +_in white dresses stand outside_. + +STEVE. Well, Annie, this is a rare surprise, and that’s the truth. +[ANNIE _and_ ROSE _come into the room_. + +ROSE. Father, he’s outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, and all the +rest. We said as ’twould be pleasanter if we was all to go up together +along to the church. + +STEVE. So ’twould be—so ’twould be—’Twas a grand thought of yourn, +Rosie. + +ANNIE. Steve— + +STEVE. [_Taking her hand_.] Annie, I’m fair beside myself this day. + +ANNIE. O, Steve, there was never a day in my life like this one. [DORRY +_and_ JANE _come down_. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice! Gran’ma, don’t Miss Sims look +nice? And Rosie, too. O, they have nice gowns and hats on, haven’t +they, Dad? + +STEVE. I don’t see no gowns nor hats, and that’s the truth. But I sees +summat what’s like—what’s like a meadow of grass in springtime afore the +sun’s got on to it. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, ’tis white, not green, as Miss Sims is wearing. + +STEVE. ’Tis in the eyes of her as I finds my meadow. + +DORRY. O, let me see, Dad, let me look, too! + +ROSE. [_Going up to_ GEORGE, _who has been standing aloof and moody in +the background_.] Come, Mr. Davis, we must have a look, too. + +JANE. ’Get along, get along. We han’t time for such foolishness. It be +close on twelve already. + +ANNIE. O, let me be, all of you! I declare, I don’t know which way to +look, I don’t. + +STEVE. I’ll show you, Annie, then. + +ROSE. [_To_ GEORGE.] Well, Mr. Davis, you don’t seem over bright this +morning. + +STEVE. ’Tis with the nerves as he be took! + +DORRY. Look at what he’s wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie. + +ROSE. ’Tis kept beautiful and fresh. + +STEVE. Come on, come on, all of you. ’Tis time we was at the church. + +ROSE. Hark to him! He’s in a rare hurry for to get out of the house +to-day. + +GEORGE. Bain’t the old lady a-coming? + +JANE. That she bain’t, the old drinking gipsy—’tis at the spirits as her +got in the night—and put away very near the best part of a bottle. Now +she’s best left to sleep it off, she be. + +STEVE. Come on, George. Come, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, isn’t it a pity as Granny will get at the drink, Mr. Davis? +And isn’t Miss Sims nice in her white dress? And don’t Dad look smiling +and pleased? I never did know Dad smile like this afore. + +GEORGE. [_Heavily_.] Come on, Dorry—you take hold of me. You and me, +we’ll keep nigh one to t’other this day, won’t us? + +ROSE. [_Calling from outside_.] Come on, Mr. Davis. + +[_They all go out_. + + + +ACT III.—Scene 2. + + +_Nearly an hour later_. _The cottage room is full of sunlight_. + +VASHTI REED _is awake and gazing vacantly about her from the same chair +by the fire_. _Someone knocks repeatedly at the door from outside_. + +VASHTI. And ’tis no bit of rest as I gets for my bones, but they must +come and hustle I and call I from the dreams which was soft. [_The +knocking is heard again_. + +VASHTI. And I up and says to they, “Ah, and you would hustle a poor old +woman what’s never harmed so much as a hair out of the ugly heads of you. +You would hunt and drive of her till she be very nigh done to death. But +there shall come a day when you shall be laid down and a-taking of your +bit of rest, and the thing what you knows of shall get up upon you and +smite you till you do go screeching from the house, and fleeing to the +uttermost part of the land—whilst me and mine—” + +[_The door opens and_ HARRY MOSS _enters_. + +HARRY. Beg pardon, old Missis, but I couldn’t make no one hear me. + +VASHTI. Seeing as them be sick of the abomination which was inside of +they. [_Perceiving_ HARRY.] Well, and what be you as is comed into this +room? + +HARRY. ’Tis Moss as I be called, old Missis. And as I was a-going by +this place, I thought as I’d look in a moment, just for to ask how ’twas +with May. + +VASHTI. They be all gone out from the house. All of them. They be in +clothes what do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps of white among +they. Them be set out in the best as they has, and in grand things of +many colours. There ’tis. + +HARRY. And be you th’ old lady what’s Steve’s mother? + +VASHTI. I be not, sir. ’Tis mother to May as I be. May, what’s comed +back, and what’ll set t’other old vixen in her place soon as they get +home. + +HARRY. Then May, she be gone out, too, have her? + +VASHTI. [_Looking round vaguely_.] Ah, I counts as her be gone to +church along of t’other. + +HARRY. To church, Missis? + +VASHTI. There’s marrying being done down here to-day. + +HARRY. Marrying, be there? Well, but I was ’most feared as how it might +have been t’other thing. + +VASHTI. Ah, that there be—marrying. But there bain’t no more victuals +got into the house as I knows of. Th’ old woman’s seen to that. + +HARRY. And be May gone out, too, along of them to see the marrying? + +VASHTI. Ah, I counts as her be. But her’s a-coming back in a little +while, and you may sit down and bide till she does. + +HARRY. I’d sooner be about and on my way, Missis, if ’tis all the same +to you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get and tell May when she do +come home, that ’tis particular glad I be for to know as her bain’t took +worse, nor nothing. And should I happen in these parts again, ’tis very +likely as I’ll take a look in on she some day. + +VASHTI. Ah, her’ll have got t’other old baggage set in the right place +by then. + +HARRY. [_Looking round him_.] Well, I be rare pleased to think of May +so comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible low. + +VASHTI. T’other’ll be broughted lower. + +HARRY. Look you here, old Missis, ’tis a stomach full of naught as I +carries. If so be as you has a crust to spare— + +VASHTI. [_Pointing to a door_.] There be a plate of meat inside of that +cupboard. You take and fill your belly with it. + +HARRY. Thank you kindly, Missis, but I counts I han’t the time for heavy +feeding this morning. + +VASHTI. ’Twould serve she right, th’ old sinner, for the place to be +licked up clean, against the time when her was come’d back, so ’twould. + +HARRY. Well, Missis, you can tell May ’tis a brave New Year as I do wish +she. + +VASHTI. [_Listening to bells which are heard suddenly ringing_.] There, +there they be! Harken to them! ’Tis with bells as they be coming out. +Bells what’s ringing. I count ’tis fine as May do look now in her +marriage gown. Harken, ’tis the bells a-shaking of the window pane. I +be an old woman, but the hearing of me bain’t spoiled. + +HARRY. I warrant it bain’t, Missis. Why, they’re ringing wonderful +smart. ’Tis enough, upon my word, for to fetch down every stone of the +old place. + +VASHTI. Get you out upon the garden path and tell I if you sees them +a-coming. + +HARRY. That’s it, old Missis, and so I will. + +[_He goes outside the house_. + +VASHTI. [_Sitting upright and looking with fixed vacancy before her_.] +And when they was all laid low and the heads of them bowed. “You would, +would you,” I says, for they was lifting the ends of their ugly mouths at +I. And I passed among they and them did quail and crouch, being with +fear. And me and mine did reach the place what was on the top. “See now +yourselves,” I says, “if so be that you do not go in blindness and in +dark.” ’Twas May what stood there aside of I. And “Look you,” I says, +“over the bended necks of you my child shall pass. For you be done to +death by the lies which growed within you and waxed till the bodies of +you was fed with them and the poison did gush out from your lips.” But +my little child stood in the light, and the hands of her was about the +stars. + +HARRY. [_Coming in_.] Look, they be all a-coming over the meadow, old +Missis. But May han’t comed with they—May han’t come too. + + [_The wedding party enters the room as the curtain falls_.] + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{1} “_As I walked Out_.” _From Folk Songs from Essex collected by R. +Vaughan Williams_. _The whole_, _or two verses can be sung_. + +{2} “The Seeds of Love,” “Folk Songs from Somerset,” edited by Cecil J. +Sharp and Charles L. Marsden. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX PLAYS*** + + +******* This file should be named 5618-0.txt or 5618-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/6/1/5618 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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