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diff --git a/old/sxfd10.txt b/old/sxfd10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad20332 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sxfd10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12690 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Six Plays, by Florence Henrietta Darwin +(#1 in our series by Florence Henrietta Darwin) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Six Plays + +Author: Florence Henrietta Darwin + +Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5618] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 23, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, SIX PLAYS *** + + + + +Transcribed from the 1921 W. Heffer & Sons edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +SIX PLAYS BY FLORENCE HENRIETTA DARWIN + + + + +Contents: + The Lovers' Tasks + Bushes and Briars + My man John + Princess Royal + The Seeds of Love + The New Year + + + + +THE LOVERS' TASKS + + + + +CHARACTERS + +FARMER DANIEL, +ELIZABETH, his wife. +MILLIE, her daughter. +ANNET, his niece. +MAY, Annet's sister, aged ten. +GILES, their brother. +ANDREW, a rich young farmer. +GEORGE, JOHN servants to Giles. + +AN OLD MAN. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +The parlour at Camel Farm. + +Time: An afternoon in May. + +ELIZABETH is sewing by the table with ANNET. At the open doorway MAY +is polishing a bright mug. + +ELIZABETH. [Looking up.] There's Uncle, back from the Fair. + +MAY. [Looking out of the door.] O Uncle's got some rare big packets +in his arms, he has. + +ELIZABETH. Put down that mug afore you damage it, May; and, Annet, +do you go and help your uncle in. + +MAY. [Setting down the mug.] O let me go along of her too--[ANNET +rises and goes to the door followed by MAY, who has dropped her +polishing leather upon the ground. + +ELIZABETH. [Picking it up and speaking to herself in exasperation.] +If ever there was a careless little wench, 'tis she. I never did +hold with the bringing up of other folks children and if I'd had my +way, 'tis to the poor-house they'd have went, instead of coming here +where I've enough to do with my own. + +[The FARMER comes in followed by ANNET and MAY carrying large +parcels. + +DANIEL. Well Mother, I count I'm back a smartish bit sooner nor what +you did expect. + +ELIZABETH. I'm not one that can be taken by surprise, Dan. May, lay +that parcel on the table at once, and put away your uncle's hat and +overcoat. + +DAN. Nay, the overcoat's too heavy for the little maid--I'll hang it +up myself. + +[He takes off his coat and goes out into the passage to hang it up. +May runs after him with his hat. + +ANNET. I do want to know what's in all those great packets, Aunt. + +ELIZABETH. I daresay you'll be told all in good season. Here, take +up and get on with that sewing, I dislike to see young people idling +away their time. + +[The FARMER and MAY come back. + +MAY. And now, untie the packets quickly, uncle. + +DANIEL. [Sinking into a big chair.] Not so fast, my little maid, +not so fast--'tis a powerful long distance as I have journeyed this +day, and 'tis wonderful warm for the time of year. + +ELIZABETH. I don't hold with drinking nor with taking bites atween +meals, but as your uncle has come a good distance, and the day is +warm, you make take the key of the pantry, Annet, and draw a glass of +cider for him. + +[She takes the key from her pocket and hands it to ANNET, who goes +out. + +DANIEL. That's it, Mother--that's it. And when I've wetted my mouth +a bit I'll be able the better to tell you all about how 'twas over +there. + +MAY. O I'd dearly like to go to a Fair, I would. You always said +that you'd take me the next time you went, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Ah and so I did, but when I comed to think it over, Fairs +baint the place for little maids, I says to mother here--and no, that +they baint, she answers back. But we'll see how 'tis when you be +growed a bit older, like. Us'll see how 'twill be then, won't us +Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn't encourage the child in her nonsense, if I was +you, Dan. She's old enough to know better than to ask to be taken to +such places. Why in all my days I never set my foot within a fair, +pleasure or business, nor wanted to, either. + +MAY. And never rode on the pretty wood horses, Aunt, all spotted and +with scarlet bridles to them? + +ELIZABETH. Certainly not. I wonder at your asking such a question, +May. But you do say some very unsuitable things for a little child +of your age. + +MAY. And did you get astride of the pretty horses at the Fair, +Uncle? + +DANIEL. Nay, nay,--they horses be set in the pleasure part of the +Fair, and where I goes 'tis all for doing business like. + +[ANNET comes back with the glass of cider. DANIEL takes it from her. + +DANIEL. [Drinking.] You might as well have brought the jug, my +girl. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, 'twill spoil your next meal as it is. + +[The girls sit down at the table, taking up their work. + +DANIEL. [Putting down his glass.] But, bless my soul, yon was a +Fair in a hundred. That her was. + +BOTH GIRLS. O do tell us of all that you did see there, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a cow--well, 'tis a smartish lot of cows as I've +seen in my time, but this one, why, the King haven't got the match to +she in all his great palace, and that's the truth, so 'tis. + +ANNET. O don 't tell us about the cows, Uncle, we want to know about +all the other things. + +MAY. The shows of acting folk, and the wild animals, and the nice +sweets. + +ELIZABETH. They don't want to hear about anything sensible, Dan. +They're like all the maids now, with their thoughts set on pleasuring +and foolishness. + +DANIEL. Ah, the maids was different in our day, wasn't they Mother? + +ELIZABETH. And that they were. Why, when I was your age, Annet, I +should have been ashamed if I couldn't have held my own in any proper +or suitable conversation. + +DANIEL. Ah, you was a rare sensible maid in your day, Mother. Do +you mind when you comed along of me to Kingham sale? "You're never +going to buy an animal with all that white to it, Dan, you says to +me. + +ELIZABETH. Ah--I recollect. + +DANIEL. "'Tis true her has a whitish leg," I says, "but so have I, +and so have you, Mother--and who's to think the worse on we for +that?" Ah, I could always bring you round to look at things quiet +and reasonable in those days--that I could. + +ELIZABETH. And a good thing if there were others of the same pattern +now, I'm thinking. + +DANIEL. So 'twould be--so 'twould be. But times do bring changes in +the forms of the cattle and I count 'tis the same with the womenfolk. +'Tis one thing this year and 'tis t'other in the next. + +MAY. Do tell us more of what you did see at the Fair, Uncle. + +DANIEL. There was a ram. My word! but the four feet of he did cover +a good two yards of ground; just as it might be, standing. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father. + +DANIEL. And the horns upon the head of he did reach out very nigh as +far as might do the sails of one of they old wind-mills. + +MAY. O Uncle, and how was it with the wool of him? + +DANIEL. The wool, my wench, did stand a good three foot from all +around of the animal. You might have set a hen with her eggs on top +of it--and that you might. And now I comes to recollect how 'twas, +you could have set a hen one side of the wool and a turkey t'other. + +MAY. O Uncle, that must have been a beautiful animal! And what was +the tail of it? + +DANIEL. The tail, my little maid? Why 'twas longer nor my arm and +as thick again--'twould have served as a bell rope to the great bell +yonder in Gloucester church--and so 'twould. Ah, 'twas sommat like a +tail, I reckon, yon. + +ELIZABETH. Come, Father, such talk is hardly suited to little girls, +who should know better than to ask so many teasing questions. + +ANNET. 'Tisn't only May, Aunt, I do love to hear what uncle tells, +when he has been out for a day or two. + +ELIZABETH. And did you have company on the way home, Father? + +DANIEL. That I did. 'Twas along of young Andrew as I did come back. + +ELIZABETH. Along of Andrew? Girls, you may now go outside into the +garden for a while. Yes, put aside your work. + +MAY. Can't we stop till the packets are opened? + +ELIZABETH. You heard what I said? Go off into the garden, and stop +there till I send for you. And take uncle's glass and wash it at the +spout as you go. + +ANNET. [Taking the glass.] I'll wash it, Aunt. Come May, you see +aunt doesn't want us any longer. + +MAY. Now they're going to talk secrets together. O I should dearly +love to hear the secrets of grown-up people. [ANNET and MAY go out +together. + +DANIEL. Annet be got a fine big wench, upon my word. Now haven't +her, Mother? + +ELIZABETH. She's got old enough to be put to service, and if I'd +have had my way, 'tis to service she'd have gone this long time +since, and that it is. + +DANIEL. 'Twould be poor work putting one of dead sister's wenches +out to service, so long as us have a roof over the heads of we and +plenty to eat on the table. + +ELIZABETH. Well, you must please yourself about it Father, as you do +most times. But 'tis uncertain work taking up with other folks +children as I told you from the first. See what a lot of trouble you +and me have had along of Giles. + +DANIEL. Giles be safe enough in them foreign parts where I did send +him. You've no need to trouble your head about he, Mother--unless +'tis a letter as he may have got sending to Mill. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, Giles has never sent a letter since the day +he left home. But very often there is no need for letters to keep +remembrance green. 'Tis a plant what thrives best on a soil that is +bare. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother, and what be you a-driving at? I warrant as +Mill have got over them notions as she did have once. And, look you +here, 'twas with young Andrew as I did journey back from the Fair. +And he be a-coming up presently for to get his answer. + +ELIZABETH. All I say is that I hope he may get it then. + +DANIEL. Ah, I reckon as 'tis rare put about as he have been all this +long while, and never a downright "yes" to what he do ask. + +[MAY comes softly in and hides behind the door. + +ELIZABETH. Well, that's not my fault, Father. + +DANIEL. But her'll have to change her note this day, that her'll +have. For I've spoke for she, and 'tis for next month as I've +pitched the wedding day. + +ELIZABETH. And you may pitch, Father. You may lead the mare down to +the pond, but she'll not drink if she hasn't the mind to. You know +what Millie is. 'Tisn't from my side that she gets it either. + +DANIEL. And 'tain't from me. I be all for easy going and each one +to his self like. + +ELIZABETH. Yes, there you are, Father. + +DANIEL. But I reckon as the little maid will hearken to what I says. +Her was always a wonderful good little maid to her dad. And her did +always know, that when her dad did set his foot down, well, there +'twas. 'Twas down. + +ELIZABETH. Well, if you think you can shew her that, Father, 'tis a +fortunate job on all sides. + +[They suddenly see MAY who has been quiet behind the door. + +ELIZABETH. May, what are you a-doing here I should like to know? +Didn't I send you out into the garden along of your sister? + +MAY. Yes, Auntie, but I've comed back. + +ELIZABETH. Then you can be off again, and shut the door this time, +do your hear? + +DANIEL. That's it, my little maid. Run along--and look you, May, +just you tell Cousin Millie as we wants her in here straight away. +And who knows bye and bye whether there won't be sommat in yon great +parcel for a good little wench. + +MAY. O Uncle--I'd like to see it now. + +DANIEL. Nay, nay--this is not a suitable time--Aunt and me has +business what's got to be settled like. Nay--'tis later on as the +packets is to be opened. + +ELIZABETH. Get along off, you tiresome child.--One word might do for +some, but it takes twenty to get you to move.--Run along now, do you +hear me? + +[MAY goes. + +Well, Father, I've done my share with Millie and she don't take a bit +of notice of what I say. So now it's your turn. + +DANIEL. Ah, I count 'tis more man's work, this here, so 'tis. There +be things which belongs to females and there be others which do not. +You get and leave it all to me. I'll bring it off. + +ELIZABETH. All right, Father, just you try your way--I'll have +nothing more to do with it. [MILLIE comes in.] + +MILLIE. Why, Father, you're back early from the Fair. + +DANIEL. That's so, my wench. See that package over yonder? + +MILLIE. O, that I do, Father. + +DANIEL. Yon great one's for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. O Father, what's inside it? + +DANIEL. 'Tis a new, smart bonnet, my wench. + +MILLIE. For me, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah--who else should it be for, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Father, you are good to me. + +DANIEL. And a silk cloak as well. + +MILLIE. A silken cloak, and a bonnet--O Father, 'tis too much for +you to give me all at once, like. + +DANIEL. Young Andrew did help me with the choice, and 'tis all to be +worn on this day month, my girl. + +MILLIE. Why, Father, what's to happen then? + +DANIEL. 'Tis for you to go along to church in, Mill. + +MILLIE. To church, Father? + +DANIEL. Ah, that 'tis--you in the cloak and bonnet, and upon the arm +of young Andrew, my wench. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. But 'tis "yes" as you have got to learn, my wench. And +quickly too. For 'tis this very evening as Andrew be coming for his +answer. And 'tis to be "yes" this time. + +MILLIE. O no, Father. + +DANIEL. You've an hour before you, my wench, in which to get another +word to your tongue. + +MILLIE. I can't learn any word that isn't "no," Father. + +DANIEL. Look at me, my wench. My foot be down. I means what I +says-- + +MILLIE. And I mean what I say, too, Father. And I say, No! + +DANIEL. Millie, I've set down my foot. + +MILLIE. And so have I, Father. + +DANIEL. And 'tis "yes" as you must say to young Andrew when he do +come a-courting of you this night. + +MILLIE. That I'll never say, Father. I don't want cloaks nor +bonnets, nor my heart moved by gifts, or tears brought to my eyes by +fair words. I'll not wed unless I can give my love along with my +hand. And 'tis not to Andrew I can give that, as you know. + +DANIEL. And to whom should a maid give her heart if 'twasn't to +Andrew? A finer lad never trod in a pair of shoes. I'll be blest if +I do know what the wenches be a-coming to. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father, I told you what to expect. + +DANIEL. But 'tis master as I'll be, hark you, Mother, hark you, +Mill. And 'tis "Yes" as you have got to fit your tongue out with my +girl, afore 'tis dark. [Rising.] I be a'going off to the yard, but, +Mother, her'll know what to say to you, her will. + +MILLIE. Dad, do you stop and shew me the inside of my packet. Let +us put Andrew aside and be happy--do! + +DANIEL. Ah, I've got other things as is waiting to be done nor +breaking in a tricksome filly to run atween the shafts. 'Tis fitter +work for females, and so 'tis. + +ELIZABETH. And so I told you, Father, from the start. + +MILLIE. And 'tis "No" that I shall say. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT I.--Scene 2. + + + +It is dusk on the same evening. + +MILLIE is standing by the table folding up the silken cloak. ANNET +sits watching her, on her knees lies a open parcel disclosing a +woollen shawl. In a far corner of the room MAY is seated on a stool +making a daisy chain. + +ANNET. 'Twas very good of Uncle to bring me this nice shawl, Millie. + +MILLIE. You should have had a cloak like mine, Annet, by rights. + +ANNET. I'm not going to get married, Millie. + +MILLIE. [Sitting down with a sudden movement of despondence and +stretching her arms across the table.] O don't you speak to me of +that, Annet. 'Tis more than I can bear to-night. + +ANNET. But, Millie, he's coming for your answer now. You musn't let +him find you looking so. + +MILLIE. My face shall look as my heart feels. And that is all +sorrow, Annet. + +ANNET. Can't you bring yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie? + +MILLIE. No, that I cannot, Annet, I've tried a score of times, I +have--but there it is--I cannot. + +ANNET. Is it that you've not forgotten Giles, then? + +MILLIE. I never shall forget him, Annet. Why, 'tis a five year this +day since father sent him off to foreign parts, and never a moment of +all that time has my heart not remembered him. + +ANNET. I feared 'twas so with you, Millie. + +MILLIE. O I've laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted the +pillow all over so that I've had to turn it t'other side up. + +ANNET. And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor +nothing? + +MILLIE. Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, Annet. +But, O, he's none the worse for that. + +ANNET. Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was it +when you and he did part, one with t'other? + +MILLIE. I did give him my ring, Annet--secret like--when we were +walking in the wood. + +ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it? + +MILLIE. Yes, grandmother's ring, that she left me. And I did say to +him--if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, +Giles--look you at these white stones. + +ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie. + +MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to +him, the stones shall darken. But you'll never see that day. [She +begins to cry. + +ANNET. Don't you give way, Millie, for, look you, 'tis very likely +that Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,-- +well, Andrew he's as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And 'tis +Andrew you have got to wed, you know. + +MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew--I'm sick at the very name of him. + +ANNET. See the fine house you'll live in. Think on the grand +parlour that you'll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you +and naught but Sunday clothes on your back. + +MILLIE. I'd sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me. + +ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. And +Uncle says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good +and all. + +MILLIE. O I cannot see him--I'm wearied to death of Andrew, and +that's the very truth it is. + +ANNET. O Millie--I wonder how 'twould feel to be you for half-an- +hour and to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to +say Yes. + +MILLIE. O I wish 'twas you and not me that he was after, Annet. + +ANNET. 'Tisn't likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever +come courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I'd dearly love to +know how 'twould feel. + +[MILLIE raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in +silence, then her face brightens. + +MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet. + +ANNET. Shall what, Mill? + +MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here--'Tis sick to death I am with +courting, when 'tis from the wrong quarter, and if I'm to wed Andrew +come next month, I'll not be tormented with him before that time,--so +'tis you that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and +I'll slip out to the woods and gather flowers. + +ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill. + +MILLIE. In the dusk he'll never know that 'tisn't me. Being +cousins, we speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us +there's not much that's amiss. + +ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill--why, 'tis a grand young lady +that you look--whilst I - + +MILLIE. [Taking up the silken cloak.] Here--put this over your +gown, Annet. + +ANNET. [Standing up.] I don't mind just trying it on, like. + +MILLIE. [Fastening it.] There--and now the bonnet, with the veil +pulled over the face. + +[She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on ANNET. + +MILLIE. [Standing back and surveying her cousin.] There, Annet, +there May, who is to tell which of us 'tis? + +MAY. [Coming forward.] O I should never know that 'twasn't you, +Cousin Mill. + +MILLIE. And I could well mistake her for myself too, so listen, +Annet. 'Tis you that shall talk with Master Andrew when he comes to- +night. And 'tis you that shall give him my answer. I'll not burn my +lips by speaking the word he asks of me. + +ANNET. O Mill--I cannot--no I cannot. + +MILLIE. Don't let him have it very easily, Annet. Set him a ditch +or two to jump before he gets there. And let the thorns prick him a +bit before he gathers the flower. You know my way with him. + +MAY. And I know it too, Millie--Why, your tongue, 'tis very near as +sharp as when Aunt do speak. + +ANNET. O Millie, take off these things--I cannot do it, that's the +truth. + +MAY. [Looking out through the door.] There's Andrew a-coming over +the mill yard. + +MILLIE. Here, sit down, Annet, with the back of you to the light. + +[She pushes ANNET into a chair beneath the window. + +MAY. Can I get into the cupboard and listen to it, Cousin Mill? + +MILLIE. If you promise to bide quiet and to say naught of it +afterwards. + +MAY. O I promise, I promise--I'll just leave a crack of the door +open for to hear well. + +[MAY gets into the cupboard. MILLIE takes up ANNET'S new shawl and +puts it all over her. + +MILLIE. No one will think that 'tisn't you, in the dusk. + +ANNET. O Millie, what is it that you've got me to do? + +MILLIE. Never you mind, Annet--you shall see what 'tis to have a +grand suitor and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, +where I can think on Giles. + +[She runs out of the door just as ANDREW comes up. ANDREW knocks and +then enters the open door. + +ANDREW. Where's Annet off to in such a hurry? + +ANNET. [Very faintly.] I'm sure I don't know. [ANDREW lays aside +his hat and comes up to the window. He stands before ANNET looking +down on her. She becomes restless under his gaze, and at last signs +to him to sit down. + +ANDREW. [Sitting down on a chair a little way from her.] The Master +said that I might come along to-night, Millie--Otherwise--[ANNET is +still silent. + +Otherwise I shouldn't have dared do so. + +[ANNET sits nervously twisting the ribbons of her cloak. + +The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, might be +changed like. [ANNET is still silent. + +And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely 'twould be +something different as you might say. + +[A long silence. + +Was I wrong in coming, Millie? + +ANNET. [Faintly.] 'Twould have been better had you stayed away +like. + +ANDREW. Then there isn't any change in your feelings towards me, +Millie? + +ANNET. O, there's a sort of a change, Andrew. + +ANDREW. [Slowly.] O Mill, that's good hearing. What sort of a +change is it then? + +ANNET. 'Tis very hard to say, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Look you, Mill, 'tis more than a five year that I've been a- +courting of you faithful. + +ANNET. [Sighing.] Indeed it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And I've never got naught but blows for my pains. + +ANNET. [Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply.] O +I'm so sorry--No--I mean--'Tis your own fault, Andrew. + +ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words from +another, Millie. + +ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to--I mean, 'tis as well +that you should get used to blows, seeing we're to be wed, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Then 'tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news--Why, I do +scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming. + +ANNET. [Very sadly.] Very likely you'll be glad enough to be +dreaming a month from now, poor Andrew. + +ANDREW. [Drawing nearer.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to +me so kind and gentle, and I'll ask you to name the day. + +ANNET. [Shrinking back.] O 'twill be a very long distance from now, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart and +play with it same as a cat does with the mouse. + +ANNET. [Becoming gay and hard in her manner.] Your heart, Andrew? +'Twill go all the better afterwards if 'tis tossed about a bit first. + +ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you'll +wed me. + +ANNET. [Warding him off with her hand.] You shall have my answer in +a new song Andrew, which I have been learning. + +[ANDREW sits down despondently and prepares to listen. + +ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over in your +mind. [She begins to sing: + +Say can you plough me an acre of land +Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme. +Between the sea and the salt sea strand +And you shall be a true lover of mine? + +[A slight pause. ANNET looks questioningly at ANDREW, who turns away +with a heavy sigh. + +ANNET. [Singing.] + +Yes, if you plough it with one ram's horn +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme +And sow it all over with one peppercorn +And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. 'Tis all foolishness. + +ANNET. [Singing.] + +Say can you reap with a sickle of leather +Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme +And tie it all up with a Tom-tit's feather +And you shall be a true lover of mine. + +ANDREW. [Rises up impatiently.] I can stand no more. You've danced +upon my heart till 'tis fairly brittle, and ready to be broke by a +feather. + +ANNET. [Very gently.] O Andrew, I'll mend your heart one day. + +ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already. + +ANNET. [In a harder voice.] But very likely there'll be a crack +left to it always. + +[FARMER DANIEL and ELIZABETH come into the room. + +DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie? + +ANDREW. [Boldly.] 'Tis for a month from now. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that? + +ELIZABETH. I'm not deaf, Father. + +DANIEL. [Shaking ANDREW'S hand.] Ah my boy, I knowed as you'd bring +the little maid to the senses of she. + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself +as though for church. + +DANIEL. 'Tis with the maids as 'tis with the fowls when they be come +out from moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in +their new feathers. + +ELIZABETH. Well, 'tis to be hoped the young people have fixed it up +for good and all this time. + +DANIEL. Come Mill, my wench, you be wonderful quiet. Where's your +tongue? + +ELIZABETH. I think we've all had quite enough of Millie's tongue, +Father. Let her give it a rest if she've a mind. + +DANIEL. I warrant she be gone as shy as a May bettel when 'tis +daylight. But us'll take it as she have fixed it up in her own mind +like. Come, Mother, such a time as this, you won't take no objection +to the drawing of a jug of cider. + +ELIZABETH. And supper just about to be served? I'm surprised at +you, Father. No, I can't hear of cider being drawn so needless like. + +DANIEL. Well, well,--have it your own way--but I always says, and my +father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine drink, +and that's how 'twas in my time. + +ELIZABETH. Millie, do you call your cousins in to supper. + +DANIEL. Ah, and where be the maids gone off to this time of night, +Mother? + +ANDREW. Annet did pass me as I came through the yard, Master + +[MAY, quietly opens the cupboard door and comes out. + +ELIZABETH. So that's where you've been, you deceitful little wench. + +ANDREW. Well, to think of that, Millie. + +ELIZABETH. And how long may you have bid there, I should like to +know? + +DANIEL. Come, come, my little maid, 'tis early days for you to be +getting a lesson in courtship. + +MAY. O there wasn't any courtship, Uncle, and I didn't hear nothing +at all to speak of. + +ELIZABETH. There, run along quick and find your sister. Supper's +late already, and that it is. + +ANNET. I'll go with her. + +[She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the door. + +ELIZABETH. Stop a moment, Millie. What are you thinking of to go +trailing out in the dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. Take +and lay them in the box at once, do you hear? + +DANIEL. That's it, Mill. 'Twouldn't do for to mess them up afore +the day. 'Twas a fair price as I gived for they, and that I can tell +you, my girl. + +[ANNET stops irresolutely. MAY seizes her hand. + +MAY. Come off, come off, "Cousin Millie"; 'tis not damp outside, and +O I'm afeared to cross the rickyard by myself. + +[She pulls ANNET violently by the hand and draws her out of the door. + +ELIZABETH. Off with the cloak this minute, Millie. + +MAY. [Calling back.] She's a-taking of it off, Aunt, she is. + +ELIZABETH. I don't know what's come to the maid. She don't act like +herself to-day. + +DANIEL. Ah, that be asking too much of a maid, to act like herself, +and the wedding day close ahead of she. + +ELIZABETH. I'd be content with a suitable behaviour, Father. I'm +not hard to please. + +DANIEL. Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th' old +mare when her first comes up from grass. + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis all very well for you to talk, Father but 'tis I who +have got to do. + +DANIEL. Come Mother, come Andrew, I be sharp set. And 'tis the feel +of victuals and no words as I wants in my mouth. + +ELIZABETH. Well, Father, I'm not detaining you. There's the door, +and the food has been cooling on the table this great while. + +DANIEL. Come you, Andrew, come you, Mother. Us'll make a bit of a +marriage feast this night. + +[He leads the way and the others follow him out. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +A woodland path. GILES comes forward with his two servants, GEORGE +and JOHN, who are carrying heavy packets. + +GILES. 'Tis powerful warm to-day. We will take a bit of rest before +we go further. + +GEORGE. [Setting down his packet.] That's it, master. 'Tis a rare +weight as I've been carrying across my back since dawn. + +JOHN. [Also setting down his burden.] Ah, I be pleased for to lay +aside yon. 'Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying to and fro +with gold and silver. + +GILES. Our travelling is very nigh finished. There lies the road +which goes to Camel Farm. + +GEORGE. Oh, I count as that must be a rare sort of a place, master. + +JOHN. Seeing as us haven't stopped scarce an hour since us landed +off the sea. + +GEORGE. But have come running all the while same as the fox may run +in th' early morning towards the poultry yard. + +JOHN. Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th' +insides of we. + +GILES. 'Tis very little further that you have got to journey, my +good lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring. + +GEORGE. And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master? + +GILES. 'Tis the place out of all the world to me. + +JOHN. I count 'tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we +be come from brave foreign parts, master. + +GILES. 'Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie +beneath the sun, my lads. + +GEORGE. That's good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be +as fine as the place? + +GILES. O, you'll fare well enough yonder. + +JOHN. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that +was over there neither. + +GILES. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the +grandest roof that ever sheltered a man's head. And you shall sit at +a table spread as you've not seen this many a year. + +GEORGE. That'll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our +legs again. + +JOHN. I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that's the +truth. + +[The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees. +GILES walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at +any delay. From time to time he glances at a ring which he wears, +sighing heavily as he does so. + +[An old man comes up, leaning on his staff. + +OLD MAN. Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen. + +GILES. Good-morning, master. + +OLD MAN. 'Tis a wonderful warm sun to-day. + +GILES. You're right there, master. + +OLD MAN. I warrant as you be journeying towards the same place where +I be going, my lord. + +GILES. And where is that, old master? + +OLD MAN. Towards Camel Farm. + +GILES. You're right. 'Tis there and nowhere else that we are going. + +OLD MAN. Ah, us'll have to go smartish if us is to be there in time. + +GILES. In time for what, my good man? + +OLD MAN. In time for to see the marrying, my lord. + +GILES. The marrying? What's that you're telling me? + +OLD MAN. 'Tis at noon this day that she's to be wed. + +GILES. Who are you speaking of, old man? + +OLD MAN. And where is your lordship journeying this day if 'tis not +to the marrying? + +GILES. Who's getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly? + +OLD MAN. 'Tis th' old farmer's daughter what's to wed come noon- +tide. + +GILES. [Starting.] Millie! O that is heavy news. [Looking at his +hand.] Then 'tis as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the +brightness has all gone from out of the seven stones. That's how +'twould be, she told me once. + +[He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind. + +GEORGE. Us'll see no Camel Farm this day. + +JOHN. And th' inside of I be crying out for victuals. + +OLD MAN. Then you be not of these parts, masters? + +GEORGE. No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master. + +JOHN. Ah, 'tis a fine gentleman, master. But powerful misfortunate +in things of the heart. + +GEORGE. Ah, he'd best have stopped where he was. Camel Farm baint +no place for the like of he to go courting at. + +JOHN. Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold and +marble with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that you +might. + +GEORGE. All painted glass. And each chair with golden legs to him, +and a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of +after a night's drinking, old man. [GILES comes slowly towards them. + +GILES. And who is she to wed, old man? + +OLD MAN. Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, +my lord? + +GILES. Yes. With whom does she go to church to-day? + +OLD MAN. 'Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go. What lives up +Cranham way. + +GILES. Ah, th' old farmer was always wonderful set on him. [A +pause. + +OLD MAN. I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, +master, and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water +there, and the shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me +at night time. + +GILES. What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that the +heart of you be whole and unbroken? + +OLD MAN. Us poor old wretches don't carry no hearts to th' insides +of we. The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and +from the winter's cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind do +moan over the fields, and when the fox do bark. + +GILES. What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter set +against the cruel torment of a disappointed love? + +OLD MAN. I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be +got a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did +carry a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel +of them clean forgot. + +GILES. Then what do you up yonder at the marrying this morning? + +OLD MAN. Oh, I do take me to those places where there be burying or +marriage, for the hearts of folk at these seasons be warmed and +kinder, like. And 'tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food be +thrown out to the poor old dog what waits patient at the door. + +GILES. [Looks intently at him for a moment.] See here, old master. +I would fain strike a bargain with you. And 'tis with a handful of +golden pieces that I will pay your service. + +OLD MAN. Anything to oblige you, my young lord. + +GILES. [To GEORGE.] Take out a handful from the bag of gold. And +you, John, give him some of the silver. + +[GEORGE and JOHN untie their bags and take out gold and silver. They +twist it up in a handkerchief which they give to the old man.] + +OLD MAN. May all the blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, for +'tis plain to see that you be one of the greatest and finest +gentlemen ever born to the land. + +GILES. My good friend, you're wrong there, I was a poor country lad, +but I had the greatest treasure that a man could hold on this earth. +'Twas the love of my cousin Millie. And being poor, I was put from +out the home, and sent to seek my fortune in parts beyond the sea. + +OLD MAN. Now, who'd have thought 'twas so, for the looks of you be +gentle born all over. + +GILES. "Come back with a bushel of gold in one hand and one of +silver in t'other" the old farmer said to me, "and then maybe I'll +let you wed my daughter." + +OLD MAN. And here you be comed back, and there lie the gold and the +silver bags. + +GILES. And yonder is Millie given in marriage to another. + +GEORGE. 'Taint done yet, master. + +JOHN. 'Tisn't too late, by a long way, master. + +GILES. [To OLD MAN.] And so I would crave something of you, old +friend. Lend me your smock, and your big hat and your staff. In +that disguise I will go to the farm and look upon my poor false love +once more. If I find that her heart is already given to another, I +shall not make myself known to her. But if she still holds to her +love for me, then - + +GEORGE. Go in the fine clothes what you have upon you, master. And +even should the maid's heart, be given to another, the sight of so +grand a cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again. + +JOHN. Ah, that's so, it is. You go as you be clothed now, master. +I know what maids be, and 'tis finery and good coats which do work +more on the hearts of they nor anything else in the wide world. + +GILES. No, no, my lads. I will return as I did go from yonder. +Poor, and in mean clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth speak +one word for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite of +everything, my sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from +her. + +OLD MAN. [Taking off his hat.] Here you are master. + +[GILES hands his own hat to GEORGE. He then takes off his coat and +gives it to JOHN. The OLD MAN takes off his smock, GILES puts it on. + +OLD MAN. Pull the hat well down about the face of you, master, so as +the smooth skin of you be hid. + +GILES. [Turning round in his disguise.] How's that, my friends? + +GEORGE. You be a sight too straight in the back, master. + +GILES. [Stooping.] I'll soon better that. + +JOHN. Be you a-going in them fine buckled shoes, master? + +GILES. I had forgot the shoes. When I get near to the house 'tis +barefoot that I will go. + +GEORGE. Then let us be off, master, for the' time be running short. + +JOHN. Ah, that 'tis. I count it be close on noon-day now by the +look of the sun. + +OLD MAN. And heaven be with you, my young gentleman. + +GILES. My good friends, you shall go with me a little further. And +when we have come close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter +of a wood that I know of and await the signal I shall give you. + +GEORGE. And what'll that be, master? + +GILES. I shall blow three times, and loudly from my whistle, here. + +JOHN. And be we to come up to the farm when we hears you? + +GILES. As quickly as you can run. 'Twill be the sign that I need +all of you with me. + +GEORGE and JOHN. That's it, master. Us do understand what 'tis as +we have got to do. + +OLD MAR. Ah, 'tis best to be finished with hearts that beat to the +tune of a maid's tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads with +naught but them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th' inside. +So 'tis. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The parlour at Camel Farm. ELIZABETH, in her best dress, is moving +about the room putting chairs in their places and arranging ornaments +on the dresser, etc. MAY stands at the door with a large bunch of +flowers in her hands. + +ELIZABETH. And what do you want to run about in the garden for when +I've just smoothed your hair and got you all ready to go to church? + +MAY. I've only been helping Annet gather some flowers to put upon +the table. + +ELIZABETH. You should know better then. Didn't I tell you to sit +still in that chair with your hands folded nicely till we were ready +to start. + +MAY. Why, I couldn't be sitting there all the while, now could I, +Aunt? + +ELIZABETH. This'll be the last time as I tie your ribbon, mind. + +[She smoothes MAY's hair and ties it up for her. ANNET comes into +the room with more flowers. + +ELIZABETH. What's your cousin doing now, Annet? + +ANNET. The door of her room is still locked, Aunt. And what she +says is that she do want to bide alone there + +ELIZABETH. In all my days I never did hear tell of such a thing, I +don't know what's coming to the world, I don't. + +MAY. I count that Millie do like to be all to herself whilst she is +a-dressing up grand in her white gown, and the silken cloak and +bonnet. + +ANNET. Millie's not a-dressing of herself up. I heard her crying +pitiful as I was gathering flowers in the garden. + +ELIZABETH. Crying? She'll have something to cry about if she +doesn't look out, when her father comes in, and hears how she's a- +going on. + +MAY. I wonder why Cousin Millie's taking on like this. I shouldn't, +if 'twas me getting married. + +ELIZABETH. Look you, May, you get and run up, and knock at the door +and tell her that 'twill soon be time for us to set off to church and +that she have got to make haste in her dressing. + +MAY. I'll run, Aunt, only 'tis very likely as she'll not listen to +anything that I say. [MAY goes out. + +ELIZABETH. Now Annet, no idling here, if you please. Set the +nosegay in water, and when you've given a look round to see that +everything is in its place, upstairs with you, and on with your +bonnet, do you hear? Uncle won't wish to be kept waiting for you, +remember. + +ANNET. I'm all ready dressed, except for my bonnet, Aunt. 'Tis +Millie that's like to keep Uncle waiting this morning. [She goes +out. + +[DANIEL comes in. + +DANIEL. Well, Mother--well, girls--but, bless my soul, where's +Millie got to? + +ELIZABETH. Millie has not seen fit to shew herself this morning, +Father. She's biding up in her room with the door locked, and +nothing that I've been able to say has been attended to, so perhaps +you'll kindly have your try. + +DANIEL. Bless my soul--where's May? Where's Annet? Send one of the +little maids up to her, and tell her 'tis very nigh time for us to be +off. + +ELIZABETH. I'm fairly tired of sending up to her, Father. You'd +best go yourself. + +[MAY comes into the room. + +MAY. Please Aunt, the door, 'tis still locked, and Millie is crying +ever so sadly within, and she won't open to me, nor speak, nor +nothing. + +ELIZABETH. There, Father,--perhaps you'll believe what I tell you +another time. Millie has got that hardened and wayward, there's no +managing of her, there's not. + +DANIEL. Ah, 'twon't be very long as us'll have the managing of she. +'Twill be young Andrew as'll take she in hand after this day. + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis all very well to talk of young Andrew, but who's a- +going to get her to church with him I'd like to know. + +DANIEL. Why, 'tis me as'll do it, to be sure. + +ELIZABETH. Very well, Father, and we shall all be much obliged to +you. + +[DANIEL goes to the door and shouts up the stairs. + +DANIEL. Well, Millie, my wench. Come you down here. 'Tis time we +did set out. Do you hear me, Mill. 'Tis time we was off. + +[ELIZABETH waits listening. No answer comes. + +DANIEL. Don't you hear what I be saying, Mill? Come you down at +once. [There is no answer. + +DANIEL. Millie, there be Andrew a-waiting for to take you to church. +Come you down this minute. + +ELIZABETH. You'd best take sommat and go and break open the door, +Father. 'Tis the sensiblest thing as you can do, only you'd never +think of anything like that by yourself. + +DANIEL. I likes doing things my own way, Mother. Women-folk, they +be so buzzing. 'Tis like a lot of insects around of anyone on a +summer's day. A-saying this way and that--whilst a man do go at +anything quiet and calm-like. [ANNET comes in. + +ANNET. Please, Uncle, Millie says that she isn't coming down for no +one. + +DANIEL. [Roaring in fury.] What! What's that, my wench--isn't a- +coming down for no one? Hear that, Mother, hear that? I'll have +sommat to say to that, I will. [Going to the door. + +DANIEL. [Roaring up the stairs.] Hark you, Mill, down you comes +this moment else I'll smash the door right in, and that I will. + +[DANIEL comes back into the room, storming violently. + +DANIEL. Ah, 'tis a badly bred up wench is Millie, and her'd have +growed up very different if I'd a-had the bringing up of she. But +spoiled she is and spoiled her've always been, and what could anyone +look for from a filly what's been broke in by women folk! + +ELIZABETH. There, there, Father--there's no need to bluster in this +fashion. Take up the poker and go and break into the door quiet and +decent, like anyone else would do. And girls--off for your bonnets +this moment I tell you. + +[She takes up a poker and hands it to DANIEL, who mops his face and +goes slowly out and upstairs. ANNET and MAY leave the room. The +farmer is heard banging at the door of Millie's bedroom. + +[ELIZABETH moves about the room setting it in order. ANDREW comes in +at the door. He carries a bunch of flowers, which he lays on the +table. + +ANDREW. Good-morning to you, mistress. + +ELIZABETH. Good-morning, Andrew. + +ANDREW. What's going on upstairs? + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis Father at a little bit of carpentering. + +ANDREW. I'm come too soon, I reckon. + +ELIZABETH. We know what young men be upon their wedding morn! I +warrant as the clock can't run too fast for them at such a time. + +ANDREW. You're right there, mistress. But the clock have moved +powerful slow all these last few weeks--for look you here, 'tis a +month this day since I last set eyes on Mill or had a word from her +lips--so 'tis. + +ELIZABETH. You'll have enough words presently. Hark, she's coming +down with Father now. + +[ANDREW turns eagerly towards the door. The farmer enters with +MILLIE clinging to his arm, she wears her ordinary dress. Her hair +is ruffled and in disorder, and she has been crying. + +DANIEL. Andrew, my lad, good morning to you. + +ANDREW. Good morning, master. + +DANIEL. You mustn't mind a bit of an April shower, my boy. 'Tis the +way with all maids on their wedding morn. Isn't that so, Mother? + +ELIZABETH. I wouldn't make such a show of myself if I was you, Mill. +Go upstairs this minute and wash your face and smooth your hair and +put yourself ready for church. + +DANIEL. Nay, she be but just come from upstairs, Mother. Let her +bide quiet a while with young Andrew here; whilst do you come along +with me and get me out my Sunday coat. 'Tis time I was dressed for +church too, I'm thinking. + +ELIZABETH. I don't know what's come to the house this morning, and +that's the truth. Andrew, I'll not have you keep Millie beyond a +five minutes. 'Tis enough of one another as you'll get later on, +like. Father, go you off upstairs for your coat. 'Tis hard work for +me, getting you all to act respectable, that 'tis. + +[DANIEL and ELIZABETH leave the room. ANDREW moves near MILLIE and +holds out both his hands. She draws herself haughtily away. + +ANDREW. Millie--'tis our wedding day. + +MILLIE. And what if it is, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, it cuts me to the heart to see your face all wet +with tears. + +MILLIE. Did you think to see it otherwise, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No smile upon your lips, Millie. + +MILLIE. Have I anything to smile about, Andrew? + +ANDREW. No love coming from your eyes, Mill. + +MILLIE. That you have never seen, Andrew. + +ANDREW. And all changed in the voice of you too. + +MILLIE. What do you mean by that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Listen, Millie--'tis a month since I last spoke with you. +Do you recollect? 'Twas the evening of the great Fair. + +MILLIE And what if it was? + +ANDREW. Millie, you were kinder to me that night than ever you had +been before. I seemed to see such a gentle look in your eyes then. +And when you spoke, 'twas as though--as though--well--'twas one of +they quists a-cooing up in the trees as I was put in mind of. + +MILLIE. Well, there's nothing more to be said about that now, +Andrew. That night's over and done with. + +ANDREW. I've carried the thought of it in my heart all this time, +Millie. + +MILLIE. I never asked you to, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I've brought you a nosegay of flowers, Mill. They be rare +blossoms with grand names what I can't recollect to all of them. + +[MILLIE takes the nosegay, looks at it for an instant, and then lets +it fall. + +MILLIE. I have no liking for flowers this day, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O Millie, and is it so as you and me are going to our +marriage? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew. 'Tis so. I never said it could be different. +I have no heart to give you. My love was given long ago to another. +And that other has forgotten me by now. + +ANDREW. O Millie, you shall forget him too when once you are wed to +me, I promise you. + +MILLIE. 'Tis beyond the power of you or any man to make me do that, +Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, what's the good of we two going on to church one +with t'other? + +MILLIE. There's no good at all, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Millie, I could have sworn that you had begun to care sommat +more than ordinary for me that last time we were together. + +MILLIE. Then you could have sworn wrong. I care nothing for you, +Andrew, no, nothing. But I gave my word I'd go to church with you +and be wed. And--I'll not break my word, I'll not. + +ANDREW. And is this all that you can say to me to-day, Mill? + +MILLIE. Yes, Andrew, 'tis all. And now, 'tis very late, and I have +got to dress myself. + +ELIZABETH. [Calling loudly from above.] Millie, what are you +stopping for? Come you up here and get your gown on, do. + +[MILLIE looks haughtily at ANDREW as she passes him. She goes slowly +out of the room. + +[ANDREW picks up the flowers and stands holding them, looking +disconsolately down upon them. MAY comes in, furtively. + +MAY. All alone, Andrew? Has Millie gone to put her fine gown on? + +ANDREW. Yes, Millie's gone to dress herself. + +MAY. O that's a beautiful nosegay, Andrew. Was it brought for Mill? + +ANDREW. Yes, May, but she won't have it. + +MAY. Millie don't like you very much, Andrew, do she? + +ANDREW. Millie's got quite changed towards me since last time. + +MAY. And when was that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Why, last time was the evening of the Fair, May. + +MAY. When I was hid in the cupboard yonder, Andrew? + +ANDREW. So you were, May. Well, can't you recollect how 'twas that +she spoke to me then? + +MAY. O yes, Andrew, and that I can. 'Twas a quist a-cooing in the +tree one time--and then--she did recollect herself and did sharpen up +her tongue and 'twas another sort of bird what could drive its beak +into the flesh of anyone--so 'twas. + +ANDREW. O May--you say she did recollect herself--what do you mean +by those words? + +MAY. You see, she did give her word that she would speak sharp and +rough to you. + +ANDREW. What are you talking about, May? Do you mean that the +tongue of her was not speaking as the heart of her did feel? + +MAY. I guess 'twas sommat like that, Andrew. + +ANDREW. O May, you have gladdened me powerful by these words. + +MAY. But, O you must not tell of me, Andrew. + +ANDREW. I will never do so, May--only I shall know better how to be +patient, and to keep the spirit of me up next time that she do strike +out against me. + +MAY. I'm not a-talking of Mill, Andrew. + +ANDREW. Who are you talking of then, I'd like to know? + +MAY. 'Twas Annet. + +ANDREW. What was? + +MAY. Annet who was dressed up in the cloak and bonnet of Millie that +night and who did speak with you so gentle and nice. + +ANDREW. Annet! + +ELIZABETH. [Is heard calling.] There, father, come along down and +give your face a wash at the pump. + +MAY. Let's go quick together into the garden, Andrew, and I'll tell +you all about it and how 'twas that Annet acted so. + +[She seizes ANDREW'S hand and pulls him out of the room with her. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT III.--Scene 2. + + + +A few minutes later. + +ELIZABETH stands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror on +the wall. DANIEL is mopping his face with a big, bright +handkerchief. ANNET, dressed for church, is by the table. She sadly +takes up the nosegay of flowers which ANDREW brought for MILLIE, and +moves her hand caressingly over it. + +ELIZABETH. If you think that your neckerchief is put on right 'tis +time you should know different, Father. + +DANIEL. What's wrong with it then, I'd like to know? + +ELIZABETH. 'Tis altogether wrong. 'Tis like the two ears of a +heifer sticking out more than anything else that I can think on. + +DANIEL. Have it your own way, Mother--and fix it as you like. + +[He stands before her and she rearranges it. + +ANNET. These flowers were lying on the ground. + +ELIZABETH. Thrown there in a fine fit of temper, I warrant. + +DANIEL. Her was as quiet as a new born lamb once the door was broke +open and she did see as my word, well, 'twas my word. + +ELIZABETH. We all hear a great deal about your word, Father, but +'twould be better for there to be more do and less say about you. + +DANIEL. [Going over to Annet and looking at her intently.] Why, my +wench--what be you a-dropping tears for this day? + +ANNET. [Drying her eyes.] 'Twas--'twas the scent out of one of the +flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle. + +DANIEL. Well, that's a likely tale it is. Hear that, Mother? 'Tis +with her eyes that this little wench do snuff at a flower. That's +good, bain't it? + +ELIZABETH. I haven't patience with the wenches now-a-days. Lay down +that nosegay at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her room. I +warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now. + +DANIEL. Ah, I warrant as her'll need a smartish bit of time for to +take the creases out of the face of she. + +[ANDREW and MAY come in.] + +DANIEL. Well, Andrew, my lad, 'tis about time as we was on the way +to church I reckon. + +ANDREW. I count as 'tis full early yet, master. + +[He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the room to the +window where ANNET is standing, and trying to control her tears. + +ANDREW. Annet, Millie will have none of my blossoms. I should like +it well if you would carry them in your hand to church this day. + +ANNET. [Looking wonderingly at him.] Me, Andrew? + +ANDREW. Yes, you, Annet. For, look you, they become you well. They +have sommat of the sweetness of you in them. And the touch of them +is soft and gentle. And--I would like you to keep them in your hands +this day, Annet. + +ANNET. O Andrew, I never was given anything like this before. + +ANDREW. [Slowly.] I should like to give you a great deal more, +Annet--only I cannot. And 'tis got too late. + +ELIZABETH. Too late--I should think it was. What's come to the +maid! In my time girls didn't use to spend a quarter of the while +afore the glass as they do now. Suppose you was to holler for her +again, Father. + +DANIEL. Anything to please you, Mother - + +MAY. I hear her coming, Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk. + +[MILLIE comes slowly into the room in her wedding clothes. She holds +herself very upright and looks from one to another quietly and +coldly. + +MAY. Andrew's gived your nosegay to Annet, Millie. + +MILLIE. 'Twould have been a pity to have wasted the fresh blossoms. + +MAY. But they were gathered for you, Mill. + +MILLIE. Annet seems to like them better than I did. + +DANIEL. Well, my wench--you be tricked out as though you was off to +the horse show. Mother, there bain't no one as can beat our wench in +looks anywhere this side of the country. + +ELIZABETH. She's right enough in the clothing of her, but 'twould be +better if her looks did match the garments more. Come, Millie, can't +you appear pleasanter like on your wedding day? + +MILLIE. I'm very thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink of water +before we set out? + +ELIZABETH. And what next, I should like to know? + +MILLIE. 'Tis only a drink of water that I'm asking for. + +DANIEL. Well, that's reasonable, Mother, bain't it? + +ELIZABETH. Run along and get some for your cousin, May. [MAY runs +out of the room. + +DANIEL. Come you here, Andrew, did you ever see a wench to beat ourn +in looks, I say? + +ANDREW. [Who has remained near ANNET without moving.] 'Tis very +fine that Millie's looking. + +DANIEL. Fine, I should think 'twas. You was a fine looking wench, +Mother, the day I took you to church, but 'tis my belief that Millie +have beat you in the appearance of her same as the roan heifer did +beat th' old cow when the both was took along to market. Ah, and did +fetch very near the double of what I gived for the dam. + +[MAY returns carrying a glass bowl full of water. + +MAY. Here's a drink of cold water, Millie. I took it from the +spring. + +[MILLIE takes the bowl. At the same moment a loud knocking is heard +at the outside door. + +ELIZABETH. Who's that, I should like to know? + +[MILLIE sets down the bowl on the table. She listens with a sudden +intent, anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated. + +DANIEL. I'll learn anyone to come meddling with me on a day when +'tis marrying going on. + +[The knocking is again heard. + +MILLIE. [To MAY, who would have opened the door.] No, no. 'Tis I +who will open the door. + +[She raises the latch and flings the door wide open. GILES disguised +as a poor and bent old man, comes painfully into the room. + +ELIZABETH. We don't want no beggars nor roadsters here to-day, if +you please. + +DANIEL. Ah, and that us don't. Us be a wedding party here, and 'tis +for you to get moving on, old man. + +MILLIE. He is poor and old. And he has wandered far, in the heat of +the morning. Look at his sad clothing. + +ANDREW. [To ANNET.] I never heard her put so much gentleness to her +words afore. + +MILLIE. And 'tis my wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted from +here. + +ELIZABETH. I never knowed you so careful of a poor wretch afore, +Millie. 'Tis quite a new set out, this. + +MILLIE. I am in mind of another, who may be wandering, and hungered, +and in poor clothing this day. + +MAY. Give him something quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that we +can start for the wedding. + +MILLIE. [Coming close to GILES.] What is it I can do for you, +master? + +GILES. 'Tis only a drink of water that I ask, mistress. + +MILLIE. [Taking up the glass bowl.] Only a drink of water, master? +Then take, and be comforted. + +[She holds the bowl before him for him to drink. As he takes it, he +drops a ring into the water. He then drinks and hands the bowl back +to MILLIE. For a moment she gazes speechless at the bottom of the +bowl. Then she lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but +for MAY, who takes it from her. + +MILLIE. Master, from whom did you get this? + +GILES. Look well at the stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded +and dim. + +MILLIE. And not more clouded than the heart which is in me, master. +O do you bring me news? + +GILES. Is it not all too late for news, mistress? + +MILLIE. Not if it be the news for which my heart craves, master. + +GILES. And what would that be, mistress? + +[MILLIE goes to GILES, and with both hands slowly pushes back his big +hat and gazes at him. + +MILLIE. O Giles, my true love. You are come just in time. Another +hour and I should have been wed. + +GILES. And so you knew me, Mill? + +MILLIE. O Giles, no change of any sort could hide you from the eyes +of my love. + +GILES. Your love, Millie. And is that still mine? + +MILLIE. It always has been yours, Giles. O I will go with you so +gladly in poor clothing and in hunger all over the face of the earth. + +[She goes to him and clasps his arm; and, standing by his side, faces +all those in the room. + +ELIZABETH. [Angrily.] Please to come to your right senses, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, Andrew, set your foot down as I've set mine. + +ANDREW. Nay, master. There's naught left for me to say. The heart +does shew us better nor all words which way we have to travel. + +MAY. And are you going to marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, who +looks so brave and fine in his wedding clothes, Millie? + +MILLIE. I am going to marry him I have always loved, May--and--O +Andrew, I never bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard +words to you sometimes.--But you'll not remember me always--you will +find gladness too, some day. + +ANDREW. I count as I shall, Millie. + +DANIEL. Come, come, I'll have none of this--my daughter wed to a +beggar off the highway! Mother, 'tis time you had a word here. + +ELIZABETH. No, Father, I'll leave you to manage this affair. 'Tis +you who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and unruly, +and 'tis to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant position. + +MAY. Dear Millie--don't wed my brother Giles. Why, look at his +ragged smock and his bare feet. + +MILLIE. I shall be proud to go bare too, so long as I am by his +side, May. + +[GILES goes to the door and blows his whistle three times and loudly. + +MAY. What's that for, Giles? + +GILES. You shall soon see, little May. + +DANIEL. I'll be hanged if I'll stand any more of this caddling +nonsense. Here, Mill--the trap's come to the door. Into it with +you, I say. + +GILES. I beg you to wait a moment, master. + +DANIEL. Wait!--'Tis a sight too long as we have waited this day. If +all had been as I'd planned, we should have been to church by now. +But womenfolk, there be no depending on they. No, and that there +bain't. + +[GEORGE, JOHN and the OLD MAN come up. GEORGE and JOHN carry their +packets and the OLD MAN has GILES' coat and hat over his arm. + +ELIZABETH. And who are these persons, Giles? + +[GEORGE and JOHN set down their burdens on the floor and begin to mop +their faces. The OLD MAN stretches out his fine coat and hat and +buckled shoes to GILES. + +OLD MAN. Here they be, my lord, and I warrant as you'll feel more +homely like in they, nor what you've got upon you now. [GILES takes +the things from him. + +GILES. Thank you, old master. [He turns to MILLIE.] Let me go into +the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a +few moments. + +[He goes out. + +ELIZABETH. [To GEORGE.] And who may you be, I should like to know? +You appear to be making very free with my parlour. + +GEORGE. We be the servants what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis. + +ELIZABETH. Old Missis, indeed. Father, you shall speak to these +persons. + +DANIEL. Well, my men. I scarce do know whether I be a-standing on +my head or upon my heels, and that's the truth 'tis. + +GEORGE. Ah, and that I can well understand, master, for I'm a +married man myself, and my woman has a tongue to her head very +similar to that of th' old missis yonder--so I know what 'tis. + +ELIZABETH. Put them both out of the door, Father, do you hear me? +'Tis to the cider as they've been getting. That's clear. + +MILLIE. My good friends, what is it that you carry in those bundles +there? + +GEORGE. 'Tis gold in mine. + +JOHN. And silver here. + +ELIZABETH. Depend upon it 'tis two wicked thieves we have got among +us, flying from justice. + +MILLIE. No, no--did not you hear them say, their master is Giles. + +GEORGE. And a better master never trod the earth. + +JOHN. And a finer or a richer gentleman I never want to see. + +ELIZABETH. Do you hear that, Father? O you shocking liars--'tis +stolen goods that you've been and brought to our innocent house this +day. But, Father, do you up and fetch in the constable, do you hear? + +MAY. O I'll run. I shall love to see them going off to gaol. + +MILLIE. Be quiet, May. Can't you all see how 'tis. Giles has done +the cruel hard task set him by Father--and is back again with the +bushel of silver and that of gold to claim my hand. [GILES enters.] +But Giles--I'd have given it to you had you come to me poor and +forlorn and ragged, for my love has never wandered from you in all +this long time. + +ANDREW. No, Giles--and that it has not. Millie has never given me +one kind word nor one gentle look all the years that I've been +courting of her, and that's the truth. And you can call witness to +it if you care. + +GILES. Uncle, Aunt, I've done the task you set me years ago--and now +I claim my reward. I went from this house a poor wretch, with +nothing but the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain me. I +have returned with all that the world can give me of riches and +prosperity. Will you now let me be the husband of your daughter? + +MILLIE. O say ye, Uncle, for look how fine and grand he is in his +coat--and the bags are stuffed full to the brim and 'tis with gold +and silver. + +ELIZABETH. Well--'tis a respectabler end than I thought as you'd +come to, Giles. And different nor what you deserved. + +DANIEL. Come, come, Mother.--The fewer words to this, the better. +Giles, my boy--get you into the trap and take her along to the church +and drive smart. + +ANDREW. Annet--will you come there with me too? + +ANNET. O Andrew--what are you saying? + +DANIEL. Come, come. Where's the wind blowing from now? Here, +Mother, do you listen to this. + +ELIZABETH. I shall be deaf before I've done, but it appears to me +that Annet's not lost any time in making the most of her chances. + +DANIEL. Ah, and she be none the worse for that. 'Tis what we all +likes to do. Where'd I be in the market if I did let my chances blow +by me? Hear that, Andrew? + +ANDREW. I'm a rare lucky man this day, farmer. + +DANIEL. Ah, and 'tis a rare good little wench, Annet--though she +bain't so showy as our'n. A rare good little maid. And now 'tis +time we was all off to church, seeing as this is to be a case of +double harness like. + +MAY. O Annet, you can't be wed in that plain gown. + +ANNET. May, I'm so happy that I feel as though I were clothed all +over with jewels. + +ANDREW. Give me your hand, Annet. + +MAY. [Mockingly.] Millie--don't you want to give a drink of water +to yon poor old man? + +MILLIE. That I will, May? Here--fetch me something that's better +than water for him. + +ELIZABETH. I'll have no cider drinking out of meal times here. + +MILLIE. Then 'twill I have to be when we come back from church. + +OLD MAN. Bless you, my pretty lady, but I be used to waiting. I'll +just sit me down outside in the sun till you be man and wife. + +ELIZABETH. And that'll not be till this day next year if this sort +of thing goes on any longer. + +DANIEL. That's right, Mother. You take and lead the way. 'Tis the +womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. But I knows how to +settle with they--[roaring]--come Mill, come Giles, Andrew, Annet, +May. Come Mother, out of th' house with all of you and to church, I +say. + +[He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out of the +room. When they have gone, the OLD MAN sinks on a bench in the door- +way. + +OLD MAN. I'm done with all the foolishness of life and I can sit me +down and sleep till it be time to eat. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +BUSHES AND BRIARS + + + + +CHARACTERS + +THOMAS SPRING, a farmer, aged 35. +EMILY, his wife, the same age. +CLARA, his sister, aged 21. +JESSIE AND ROBIN, the children of Thomas and Emily, aged 10 and 8. +JOAN, maid to Clara. +MILES HOOPER, a rich draper. +LUKE JENNER, a farmer. +LORD LOVEL. +GEORGE, aged 28. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +A wood. It is a morning in June. + +GEORGE, carrying an empty basket, comes slowly through the wood. On +reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it, placing his basket on the +ground. With his stick he absently moves the grass and leaves that +lie before him, and is so deeply lost in his own thoughts that he +does not hear the approach of MILES and LUKE until they are by his +side. + +MILES. Here's the very man to tell us all we want to know. + +LUKE. Why, if 'tisn't George from Ox Lease. + +[GEORGE half rises. + +MILES. No, sit you down again, my lad, and we'll rest awhile by the +side of you. + +LUKE. That's it, Miles. Nothing couldn't have fallen out better for +us, I'm thinking. + +MILES. You're about right, Luke. Now, George, my man, we should +very much appreciate a few words with you. + +GEORGE. [Taking up his basket.] Morning baint the time for words, +masters. I count as words will keep till the set of sun. 'Tis +otherwise with work. + +MILES. Work, why, George, 'tis clear you are come out but to gather +flowers this morning. + +LUKE. 'Tis the very first time as ever I caught George an idling +away of his time like this. + +GEORGE. 'Tis over to Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch back a +couple of young chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets what +do lay. + +LUKE. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease +afore July was in. + +GEORGE. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. +But mistress, her says, you can't sit a maid from town at table +unless there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in their +feeding, maids from town, so mistress do say. + +MILES. That just brings us to our little matter, George. When is it +that you expect the young lady? + +GEORGE. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom +since yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come on +their own feet from where the morning coach do set them down. + +LUKE. Nay, but there's only one maid what's expected. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara, what's master's sister; and the serving wench of +she. + +MILES. Well, George, 'twas a great day for your master when old +Madam Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the +quality. + +GEORGE. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, +from the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place +where 'twas seeded. + +MILES. No, no, George, you don't know what you're talking about. A +little country wench may bloom into something very modish and +elegant, once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of +velvet and curtains of satin. You'll see. + +GEORGE. 'Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by +curtains, nor yet carpets, master. + +MILES. Take my word for it, George, Ox Lease will have to smarten up +a bit for this young lady. I know the circles she has been moving +in, and 'tis to the best of everything that she has been used. + +GEORGE. [Rising.] That's what mistress do say. And that's why I be +sent along down to Brook with haymaking going on and all. Spring +chicken with sparrow grass be the right feeding for such as they. So +mistress do count. + +MILES. Stop a moment, George. You have perhaps heard the letters +from Miss Clara discussed in the family from time to time. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara did never send but two letters home in all the +while she was gone. The first of them did tell as how th' old lady +was dead and had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. And the +second was to say as how her was coming back to the farm this +morning. + +LUKE. And hark you here, George, was naught mentioned about Miss +Clara's fine suitors in neither of them letters? + +GEORGE. That I cannot say, Master Jenner. + +MILES. Nothing of their swarming thick around her up in London, +George? + +GEORGE. They may be swarming by the thousand for aught as I do know. +They smells gold as honey bees do smell the blossom. Us'll have a +good few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we're many hours +older, so I counts. + +MILES. Well, George, that'll liven up the place a bit, I don't +doubt. + +LUKE. 'Tis a bit of quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do want. +Isn't that so, George, my lad? + +GEORGE. [Preparing to set off.] I'll say good morning to you, +masters. I count I've been and wasted a smartish time already on the +road. We be a bit hard pressed up at the farm this day. + +MILES. But George, my man, we have a good many questions to ask of +you before you set off. + +GEORGE. Them questions will have to bide till another time, I +reckon. I'm got late already, master. + +[He hurries off. + +MILES. Arriving by the morning coach! I shall certainly make my +call to the farm before sunset. What do you say, Jenner? + +LUKE. You're a rich man, Miles, and I am poor. But we have always +been friends. + +MILES. And our fathers before us, Luke. + +LUKE. And the courting of the same maid shall not come between us. + +MILES. [Slowly.] That'll be all right, Luke. + +LUKE. What I do say is, let's start fair. Neck to neck, like. + +MILES. As you please, my good Luke. + +LUKE. Then, do you tell me honest, shall I do in the clothes I'm a- +wearing of now, Miles? + +MILES. [Regarding him critically.] That neckerchief is not quite +the thing, Luke. + +LUKE. 'Tis my Sunday best. + +MILES. Step over to the High Street with me, my lad. I've got +something in the shop that will be the very thing. You shall have it +half price for 'tis only a bit damaged in one of the corners. + +LUKE. I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Miles. + +MILES. That's all right, Luke. + +LUKE. George would look better to my thinking if there was a new +coat to the back of him. + +MILES. Ah, poor beggar, he would, and no mistake. + +LUKE. I warrant as Emily do keep it afore him as how he was took in +from off the road by th' old farmer in his day. + +MILES. I flatter myself that I have a certain way with the ladies. +They come to me confidential like and I tell them what's what, and +how that, this or t'other is worn about town. But with Missis Spring +'tis different. That's a woman I could never get the right side of +no how. + +LUKE. Ah, poor Thomas! There's a man who goes down trod and hen +scratched if you like. + +MILES. 'Tis altogether a very poor place up at Ox Lease, for young +Miss. + +LUKE. [Pulling out his watch.] Time's slipping on. What if we were +to stroll on to the shop and see about my neckerchief, Miles? + +MILES. I'm sure I'm quite agreeable, Luke. 'Twill help to pass away +the morning. + +[He puts his arm in LUKE'S and they go briskly off in the direction +of the village. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 2. + + + +CLARA, followed by JOAN, comes through the wood. CLARA is dressed in +a long, rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with +feathers and ribbons. JOAN wears a cotton bonnet and small shawl. +She carries her mistress's silken bag over her arm. + +CLARA. [Pointing to the fallen tree.] There is the very resting +place for us. We will sit down under the trees for a while. [She +seats herself. + +JOAN. [Dusting the tree with her handkerchief before she sits on +it.] Have we much further to go, mistress? + +CLARA. Only a mile or two, so far as I can remember. + +JOAN. 'Tis rough work for the feet, down in these parts, mistress. + +CLARA. If London roads were paved with diamonds I'd sooner have my +feet treading this rugged way that leads to home. + +JOAN. What sort of a place shall we find it when we gets there, +mistress. + +CLARA. I was but seven when I left them all, Joan. And that is +fourteen years ago to-day. + +JOAN. So many years may bring about some powerful big changes, +mistress. + +CLARA. But I dream that I shall find all just as it was when I went +away. Only that Gran'ma won't be there. + +[There is a short silence during which CLARA seems lost in thought. +JOAN flicks the dust off her shoes with a branch of leaves. + +JOAN. 'Tis the coaches I do miss down in these parts. + +CLARA. I would not have driven one step of the way this morning, +Joan. In my fancy I have been walking up from the village and +through the wood and over the meadows since many a day. I have not +forgotten one turn of the path. + +JOAN. The road has not changed then, mistress? + +CLARA. No. But it does not seem quite so broad or so fine as I +remembered it to be. That is all. + +JOAN. And very likely the house won't seem so fine neither, +mistress, after the grand rooms which you have been used to. + +JOAN. What company shall we see there, mistress? + +CLARA. Well, there's Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily his wife. +Then the two children. + +CLARA. [After a short silence, and as though to herself.] And there +was George. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress + +CLARA. Georgie seemed so big and tall to me in those days. I wonder +how old he really was, when I was seven. + +JOAN. Would that be a younger brother of yours, like, mistress + +CLARA. No, George minded the horses and looked after the cows and +poultry. Sometimes he would drive me into market with him on a +Saturday. And in the evenings I would follow him down to the pool to +see the cattle watered. + +JOAN. I'm mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the +sight nor the sound of those animals. + +CLARA. You'll soon get over that, Joan. + +JOAN. And I don't care for poultry neither, very much. I goes full +of fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about. + +CLARA. [Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm.] There, do you see +this little scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese +when the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a +piece right out of my arm. + +JOAN. [Looking intently on the scar.] I have often seen that there +mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be living +along of the poultry still? + +CLARA. I wish he might be, Joan. + +JOAN. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall go +with our lives in our hands, as you might say. + +CLARA. [As though to herself.] When the days got colder, we would +sit under the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to me. +Some of his songs, I could say off by heart this day. + +JOAN. [Looking nervously upward.] O do look at that nasty little +thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever +put such a thing up in the tree I'd like to know. + +CLARA. [Brushing it gently aside.] That won't hurt you--a tiny +caterpillar. + +JOAN. [After a moment.] What more could the farm hand do, mistress? + +CLARA. He would clasp on his bells and dance in the Morris on +certain days, Joan. + +JOAN. 'Tis to be hoped as there'll be some dancing or something to +liven us all up a bit down here. + +CLARA. Why, Joan, I believe you're tired already of the country. + +JOAN. 'Tis so powerful quiet and heavy like, mistress. + +CLARA. 'Tis full of sounds. Listen to the doves in the trees and +the lambs calling from the meadow. + +JOAN. I'd sooner have the wheels of the coaches and the cries upon +the street, and the door bell a ringing every moment and fine +gentlemen and ladies being shewn up into the parlour. + +CLARA. [Stretching out her arms.] O how glad I am to be free of all +that. And most of all, how glad to be ridded of one person. + +JOAN. His lordship will perhaps follow us down here, mistress. + +CLARA. No, I have forbidden it. I must have a month of quiet, and +he is to wait that time for his answer. + +JOAN. O mistress, you'll never disappoint so fine a gentleman. + +CLARA. You forget that Lord Lovel and I have played together as +children. It is as a brother that I look upon him. + +JOAN. His lordship don't look upon you as a sister, mistress. + +CLARA. [Rising.] That is a pity, Joan. But see, it is getting late +and we must be moving onwards. + +[JOAN rises and smoothes and shakes out her skirt. + +CLARA. Here, loosen my cloak, Joan, and untie the ribbons of my +bonnet. + +JOAN. O mistress, keep the pretty clothes upon you till you have got +to the house. + +CLARA. No, no--such town garments are not suited to the woods and +meadows. I want to feel the country breeze upon my head, and my +limbs must be free from the weight of the cloak. I had these things +upon me during the coach journey. They are filled with road dust and +I dislike them now. + +JOAN. [Unfastening the cloak and untying the bonnet.] They are +fresh and bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning. + +CLARA. [Retying a blue ribbon which she wears in her hair.] I have +taken a dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire them, they +shall be yours. + +JOAN. Mine? The French bonnet and the satin cloak? + +CLARA. To comfort you for the pains of the country, Joan. + +JOAN. O mistress, let us stop a moment longer in this quiet place so +that I may slip them on and see how they become me. + +CLARA. As you will. Listen, that is the cuckoo singing. + +JOAN. [Throwing off her cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing herself +hastily in the bonnet and cloak.] O what must it feel like to be a +grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time. + +CLARA. I am very glad to be without them for a while. How good the +air feels on my head. + +JOAN. There, mistress, how do I look? + +CLARA. Very nicely, Joan. So nicely that if you like, you may keep +them upon you for the remainder of the way. + +JOAN. O mistress, may I really do so? + +CLARA. Yes. And Joan, do you go onwards to the farm by the quickest +path which is through this wood and across the high road. Anyone +will shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander about in +some of the meadows which I remember. But I will join you all in +good time. + +JOAN. Very well, mistress. If I set off in a few moments it will +do, I suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself as I am +now, in the little glass which you carry in your silk bag. + +CLARA. [Going off.] Don't spend too much time looking at what will +be shewn you, Joan. + +JOAN. Never fear, mistress. I'll be there afore you, if I have to +run all the way. [CLARA wanders off. + +[JOAN sits down again on the trunk of the fallen tree. She opens the +silken bag, draws out a small hand glass and looks long and steadily +at her own reflection. Then she glances furtively around and, seeing +that she is quite alone, she takes a small powder box from the bag +and hastily opening it, she gives her face several hurried touches +with the powder puff. + +JOAN. [Surveying the effect in the glass.] Just to take off the +brown of my freckles. Now if any one was to come upon me sitting +here they wouldn't know as I was other than a real, high lady. All +covered with this nice cloak as I be, the French bonnet on my head, +and powder to my face, who's to tell the difference? But O--these +must be hid first. + +[She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the ground. She +hastily rolls them up in a small bundle and stuffs them into the +silken bag. Then she takes up the glass and surveys herself again. + +JOAN. How should I act now if some grand gentleman was to come up +and commence talking to me? Perhaps he might even take me for a lady +of title in these fine clothes, and 'twould be a pity to have to +undeceive him. + +[She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then lowers the +lace veil over her face. + +[MILES and LUKE come slowly up behind her. MILES nudges LUKE with +his elbow, signing to him to remain where he is whilst he steps +forward in front of JOAN. + +MILES. Pardon me, madam, but you appear to have mistook the way. +Allow me to set you on the right path for Ox Lease. + +JOAN. [Letting the mirror fall on her lap and speaking very low.] +How do you know I am going to Ox Lease, sir? + +MILES. You see, madam, I happen to know that a stylish young miss +from town is expected there to-day. + +LUKE. [Coming forward and speaking in a loud whisper.] Now Miles. +I count as you made one of the biggest blunders of the time. Our +young lady be journeying along of her servant wench. This one baint +she. + +MILES. If we have made a small error, madam, allow me to beg your +pardon. + +JOAN. Don't mention it, sir. Everyone is mistaken sometimes. + +LUKE. Well, I'm powerful sorry if we have given any offence, mam. + +JOAN. [Looking up at LUKE with sudden boldness and speaking in a +slow, affected voice.] There's nothing to make so much trouble +about, sir. + +MILES. Can we be of any assistance to you, madam? The wood may +appear rather dense at this point. + +JOAN. That it does. Dense and dark--and the pathway! My goodness, +but my feet have never travelled over such rough ground before. + +Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt that the delicate +texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by our stones and ruts. + +JOAN. [Insensibly pulling her skirts over her thick walking shoes.] +Well, it's vastly different to London streets, where I generally take +exercise--at least when I'm not a-riding in the coach. + +MILES. The country is but a sad place at the best, Miss Clara +Spring. + +JOAN. [Looking round furtively and speaking in a whisper.] O, how +did you guess my--my name? + +LUKE. Come, 'twasn't a hard matter, that. + +MILES. Missey can command my services. + +JOAN. [Rallying, and standing up.] Then gentlemen, do you walk a +bit of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation as we go +along. + +LUKE. [Offering his arm.] You take my arm, Miss Clara--do--. + +MILES. [Also offering his arm.] I shall also give myself the +pleasure of supporting Miss. + +JOAN. [Taking an arm of each.] O thank you, kindly gentlemen. Now +we shall journey very comfortably, I am sure. + +[They all set out walking in the direction of the farm. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm. There are three doors. One opens to +the staircase, one to the garden and a third into the back kitchen. +At a table in the middle of the room EMILY stands ironing some net +window curtains. JESSIE and ROBIN lean against the table watching +her. By the open doorway, looking out on the garden, stands THOMAS, +a mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread in the other. +As he talks, he takes alternate drinks and bites. + +EMILY. [Speaking in a shrill, angry voice.] Now Thomas, suppose you +was to take that there bread a step further away and eat it in the +garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling it all over my clean +floor. + +THOMAS. Don't you be so testy, Emily. The dogs'll lick the crumbs +up as clean as you like presently. + +EMILY. Dogs? I'd like to see the dog as'll shew its nose in here +to-day when I've got it all cleaned up against the coming of fine +young madam. + +THOMAS. [Finishing his bread and looking wistfully at his empty +hand.] The little maid'll take a brush and sweep up her daddy's +crumbs, now, won't her? + +EMILY. I'll give it to any one who goes meddling in my brush +cupboard now that I've just put all in order against the prying and +nozzling of the good-for-nothing baggage what's coming along with +your sister. + +ROBIN. What's baggage, Mother? + +EMILY. [Sharply.] Never you mind. Get and take your elbow off my +ironing sheet. + +JESSIE. [Looking at her father.] I count as you'd like a piece more +bread, Dad? + +THOMAS. Well, I don't say but 'twouldn't come amiss. 'Tis hungry +work in th' hayfield. And us be to go without our dinners this day, +isn't that so, Emily? + +EMILY. [Slamming down her iron on the stand.] If I've told you +once, I've told you twenty times, 'twas but the one pair of hands as +I was gived at birth. Now, what have you got to say against that, +Thomas? + +THOMAS. [Sheepishly.] I'm sure I don't know. + +EMILY. And if so be as I'm to clean and wash and cook, and run, and +wait, and scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other folk +must go without hot cooking at mid-day. + +THOMAS. [Faintly.] 'Twasn't nothing cooked, like. 'Twas a bit of +bread as I did ask for. + +JESSIE. [Getting up.] I'll get it for you, Dad. I know where the +loaf bides and the knife too. I'll cut you, O such a large piece. + +EMILY. [Seizing her roughly by the hand.] You'll do nothing of the +sort. You'll take this here cold iron into Maggie and you'll bring +back one that is hot. How am I to get these curtains finished and +hung and all, by the time the dressed up parrots come sailing in, I'd +like to know. + +[JESSIE runs away with the iron. + +THOMAS. [Setting down his mug and coming to the table.] I'd leave +the windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form the +suitablest shade for they, to my thinking. + +EMILY. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, take your +hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs +shewing all over the clean net what I've washed and dried and ironed, +and been a-messing about with since 'twas light? + +THOMAS. Now that's what I be trying for to say. There's no need for +you to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of +little Clara coming back. Home's home. And 'twon't be neither the +curtains nor the hot dinner as Clara will be thinking of when her +steps into th' old place once more. + +JESSIE. [Running back with the hot iron which she sets down on the +table.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad? + +THOMAS. [Shy and abashed under a withering glance from EMILY who has +taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net.] Her'll +remember, very like, how 'twas when her left--some fourteen year ago. +And her'll have her eyes on Gran'ma's chair, what's empty. + +ROBIN. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what's +for dinner. + +THOMAS. And her'll look up to th' old clock, and different things +what's still in their places. The grand parts where she have been +bred up will be forgot. 'Twill be only home as her'll think on. + +EMILY. I haven't patience to listen to such stuff. + +THOMAS. [After a pause.] I count that 'tisn't likely as a young +woman what's been left riches as Clara have, would choose to make her +home along of such as we for always, like. + +EMILY. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, but +when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank +you, Thomas, I'm not going to do it. + +ROBIN. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother. + +JESSIE. What are spangled plumes, Mother? + +EMILY. [Viciously.] You'll see plenty of them presently. + +ROBIN. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she? + +[A slight pause during which EMILY irons vigorously. + +EMILY. [As she irons.] Some folk have all the honey. It do trickle +from the mouths of them and down to the ground. + +ROBIN. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then? + +EMILY. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts and +the vinegar. + +JESSIE. Like you, Mother--Least, that's what Maggie said this +morning. + +EMILY. What's that? + +JESSIE. That 'twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, +Mother. + +EMILY. I'll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she +can't fetch them out respectful like. [Shouting.] Mag, come you +here this minute--what are you after now, I'd like to know, you ugly, +idle piece of mischief? + +[MAGGIE, wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen. + +MAGGIE. Was you calling, mistress? + +EMILY. What's this you've got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like +to know. + +JESSIE. [Running to MAGGIE and laying her hand on her arm.] Dear +Maggie, 'tis only what you did tell about poor mother's tongue being +in the vinegar jar. + +MAGGIE. O Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. Hark you here, my girl--if 'twasn't hay time you should +bundle up your rags and off with you this minute. But as 'tis +awkward being short of a pair of hands just now, you'll bide a week +or two and then you'll get outside of my door with no more character +to you nor what I took you with. + +THOMAS. Come, come Emily. The girl's a good one for to work, and +that she is. + +EMILY. Be quiet, Thomas. This is my business, and you'll please to +keep your words till they're wanted. + +MAGGIE. O mistress, I didn't mean no harm, I didn't. + +EMILY. I don't want no words nor no tears neither. + +MAGGIE. [Beginning to cry loudly.] I be the only girl as have +stopped with you more nor a month, I be. T'others wouldn't bide a +day, some of them. + +EMILY. Be quiet. Back to your work with you. And when the hay is +all carried, off with you, ungrateful minx, to where you came from. + +JESSIE. O let us keep her always, Mother, she's kind. + +ROBIN. Don't you cry, Mag. I'll marry you when I'm a big man like +Daddy. + +THOMAS. Harken to them, Emily! She's been a good maid to the +children. I'd not part with any one so hasty, if 'twas me. + +EMILY. [Very angrily.] When I want your opinion, Thomas, I'll ask +for it. Suppose you was to go out and see after something which you +do understand. + +THOMAS. O I'll go down to the field fast enough, I can tell you. +'Twas only being hungered as drove me into the hornets' nest, as you +might say. + +EMILY. [Ironing fiercely.] What's that? + +THOMAS. Nothing. I did only say as I was a-going back to the field +when George do come home. + +EMILY. There again. Did you ever know the man to be so slow before. +I warrant as he have gone drinking or mischiefing down at the Spotted +Cow instead of coming straight home with they chicken. + +THOMAS. Nay, nay. George is not the lad to do a thing like that. A +quieter more well bred up lad nor George never trod in shoes. + +EMILY [Glancing at MAGGIE.] What are you tossing your head like that +for, Maggie? Please to recollect as you're a lazy, good-for-nothing +little slut of a maid servant, and not a circus pony all decked out +for the show. + +JESSIE. Maggie's fond of Georgie. And Georgie's kind to Mag. + +MAGGIE. [Fearfully.] O don't, Miss Jessie, for goodness sake. + +EMILY. [Viciously.] I'll soon put an end to anything in that +quarter. + +THOMAS. Now, Emily--take it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara upon us +before us knows where we are. + +EMILY. [Folding the curtains.] I'll settle her too, if she comes +before I'm ready for her. + +ROBIN. [Pointing through the open.] There's George, coming with the +basket. + +[GEORGE comes into the room. He carefully rubs his feet on the mat +as he enters. Then he advances to the table. MAGGIE dries her eyes +with the back of her hand. JESSIE is standing with her arm in +MAGGIE'S. + +EMILY. Well, and where have you been all this while, I'd like to +know? + +GEORGE. To Brook Farm, mam, and home. + +EMILY. You've been up to some mischief on the way, I warrant. + +THOMAS. Come, Emily. + +[GEORGE looks calmly into EMILY'S face. Then his gaze travels +leisurely round the room. + +GEORGE. I was kept waiting while they did pluck and dress the +chicken. + +EMILY. [Lifting the cloth covering the basket, and looking within +it.] I'd best have gone myself. Of all the thick-headed men I ever +did see, you're the thickest. Upon my word you are. + +GEORGE. What's wrong now, mistress? + +EMILY. 'Taint chicken at all what you've been and fetched me. + +GEORGE. I'll be blowed if I do know what 'tis then. + +EMILY. If I'd been given a four arms and legs at birth same as th' +horses, I'd have left a pair of them at home and gone and done the +job myself, I would. And then you should see what I'd have brought +back. + +GEORGE. You can't better what I've got here. From the weight it +might be two fat capons. So it might. + +EMILY. [Seizing the basket roughly.] Here, Mag, off into the pantry +with them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the road ditch would +have done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with these clean curtains +and lay them careful on the bed. I'll put them to the windows later. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, did you meet with any one on the way, like? + +EMILY. You'd best ask no questions if you don't want to be served +with lies, Thomas. + +GEORGE. [Throwing a glance of disdain at EMILY.] Miles Hooper and +Farmer Jenner was taking the air 'long of one another in the wood, +master. + +THOMAS. Miles Hooper and Luke a-taking of the air, and of a weekday +morning! + +GEORGE. That they was, master. And they did stop I - + +EMILY. Ah, now you've got it, Thomas. Now we shall know why George +was upon the road the best part of the day and me kept waiting for +the chicken. + +GEORGE. [Steadily.] Sunday clothes to the back of both of them. +And, when was Miss Clara expected up at home. + +THOMAS. Ah, 'tis a fair commotion all over these parts already, I +warrant. There wasn't nothing else spoke of in market last time, but +how as sister Clara with all her money was to come home. + +JESSIE. [Coming back.] I've laid the curtains on the bed, shall I +gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother? + +EMILY. I'd like to see you! Flowers in the bedroom? I never heard +tell of such senseless goings on. What next, I'd like to know? + +GEORGE. Miss Clara always did fill a mug of clover blooms and set it +aside of her bed when her was a little thing--so high. + +JESSIE. Do you remember our fine aunt, then, Georgie? + +GEORGE. I remembers Miss Clara right enough. + +EMILY. Don't you flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy piece of +town goods will trouble herself to remember you. + +THOMAS. The little maid had a good enough heart to her afore she was +took away from us. + +JESSIE. Do you think our aunt Clara has growed into a coxsy town +lady, George? + +GEORGE. No, I do not, Miss Jessie. + +EMILY. [Beginning to stir about noisily as she sets the kitchen in +order.] Get off with you to the field, Thomas, can't you. I've had +enough to do as 'tis without a great hulking man standing about and +taking up all the room. + +THOMAS. Come, George, us'll clear out down to th' hay field, and +snatch a bite as we do go. + +GEORGE. That's it, master. + +EMILY. [Calling angrily after them.] There's no dinner for no one +to-day, I tell you. + +[THOMAS and GEORGE go out of the back kitchen door. EMILY begins +putting the irons away, folding up the ironing sheet and setting the +chairs back against the wall. + +[JESSIE and ROBIN, from their places at the table, watch her +intently. + +EMILY. [As she moves about.] 'Twouldn't be half the upset if the +wench was coming by herself, but to have a hussy of a serving maid +sticking about in the rooms along of us, is more nor I can stand. + +[She begins violently to sweep up the hearth. + +[Steps are heard outside. + +JESSIE. Hark, what's that, mother? + +EMILY. I'll give it to any one who wants to come in here. + +JESSIE. [Running to the open door.] They're coming up the path. +'Tis our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen either side of she. + +ROBIN. [Running also to the door.] O I want to look on her too. + +EMILY. [Putting the broom in a corner.] 'Tis no end to the +vexation. But she'll have to wait on herself. I've no time to play +the dancing bear. And that I've not. + +[JOAN, between MILES HOOPER and LUKE JENNER, comes up to the open +door. + +MILES. [To Jessie.] See here, my little maid, what'll you give +Mister Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe up to the farm? + +JESSIE. I know who 'tis you've brought. 'Tis my Aunt Clara. + +LUKE. You're a smart little wench, if ever there was one. + +ROBIN. I know who 'tis, too, 'cause of the spangled plumes in the +bonnet of she. Mother said as there'd be some. + +EMILY. [Coming forward.] Well, Clara, if 'twas by the morning coach +as you did come, you're late. If 'twas by th' evening one, you're +too soon by a good few hours. + +MILES. Having come by the morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant +fancy to stroll here through the woodlands, Missis Spring. + +LUKE. Ah, and 'twas lost on the way as we did find her, like a +strayed sheep. + +MILES. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer +safely home. + +EMILY. [Scornfully looking JOAN over from head to foot.] Where's +that serving wench of yours got to, Clara? + +MILES. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent her maid +on by another road. + +EMILY. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have found +something of mischief for her idle hands to do. + +MILES. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat +fatigued by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately +framed, Missis Spring. + +EMILY. [Pointing ungraciously.] There's chairs right in front of +you. + +[MILES and LUKE lead JOAN forward, placing her in an armchair with +every attention. JOAN sinks into it, and, taking a little fan from +the silken bag on her arm, begins to fan herself violently. + +EMILY. [Watching her with fierce contempt.] Maybe as you'd like my +kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine +maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it +concerns her to attend to. + +JOAN. [Faintly.] O no, thank you. The day is rather warm--that's +all. + +EMILY. Warm, I should think it was warm in under of that great white +curtain. + +JESSIE. Aunt Clara, I'm Jessie. + +JOAN. Are you, my dear? + +ROBIN. And I'm Robin. + +MILES. Now, I wager, if you are both good little children, this +pretty lady will give you each a kiss. + +JOAN. [Faintly.] To be sure I will. + +JESSIE. Then you'll have to take off that white thing from your +face. 'Tis like what mother do spread over the currant bushes to +keep the birds from the fruit. + +[JOAN slowly raises her veil, showing her face. + +JESSIE. Shall I give you a kiss, Aunt? + +EMILY. I'd be careful if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies be brittle as +fine china. + +JESSIE. O I'll kiss her very lightly, Mother. + +[She goes up to JOAN and kisses her. ROBIN then reaches up his face +and JOAN kisses him. + +ROBIN. [Rubbing his mouth.] The flour do come from Aunt same as it +does from a new loaf. + +MILES. [To JOAN.] You must pardon these ignorant little country +brats, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. O there's nothing amiss, thank you. + +EMILY. Amiss, who said as there was? When folks what can afford to +lodge at the inn do come down and fasten theirselves on the top of +poor people, they must take things as they do find them and not start +grumbling at the first set off. + +LUKE. There, there, Missis Spring. There wasn't naught said about +grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long distance, and it +behoves us all as she should find summat of a welcome at the end of +her journey, like. + +MILES. [Aside to JOAN.] How strange this country tongue must fall +on your ears, Miss Clara! + +JOAN. I don't understand about half of what they say. + +EMILY. [Overhearing her.] O, you don't, don't you. Well, Clara, I +was always one for plain words, and I say 'tis a pity when folks do +get above the position to which they was bred, and for all the fine +satins and plumes upon you, the body what's covered by them belongs +to Clara Spring, what's sister to Thomas. And all the world knows +what Thomas is--A poor, mean spirited, humble born man with but two +coats to the back of him, and with not a thought to the mind of him +which is not foolishness. And I judge from by what they be in birth, +and not by the bags of gold what have been left them by any old +madams in their dotage. So now you see how I takes it all and you +and me can start fair, like. + +JOAN. [To LUKE.] O Mister--Mister Jenner, I feel so faint. + +MILES. [Taking her fan.] Allow me. [He begins to fan her.] I +assure you she means nothing by it. It's her way. You see, she +knows no better. + +LUKE. I'd fetch out summat for her to eat if I was you, missis. +'Tis famished as the poor young maid must be. + +EMILY. She should have come when 'twas meal time then. I don't hold +with bites nor drinks in between whiles. + +JOAN. O I'm dying for a glass of milk--or water would do as well. + +MILES. My dear young lady--anything to oblige. [Turning to Jessie.] +Come, my little maid, see if you can't make yourself useful in +bringing a tray of refreshment for your auntie. And you [turning to +Robin] trot off and help sister. + +EMILY. Not if I know it. Stop where you are, Jess. Robin, you dare +to move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I'm afeared she must wait +till supper time. + +ROBIN. There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt. + +JESSIE. And a great pie of gooseberries. + +JOAN. [Faintly.] O I couldn't touch a mouthful of food, don't speak +to me about it. + +ROBIN. I likes talking of dinner. After I've done eating of it, I +likes next best to talk about it. + +LUKE. See here, missis. Let's have a glass of summat cool for Miss +Clara. + +EMILY. [Calling angrily.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great +lazy-boned donkey? + +MAGGIE. [Comes in from the back kitchen, her apron held to her +eyes.] Did you call me, mistress? + +EMILY. Get up a bucket of water from the well. Master's sister +wants a drink. + +MAGGIE. [Between sobs.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would +the young lady like it in a jug? + +EMILY. [With exasperation.] There's no end to the worriting that +other folks do make. + +JESSIE. Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother. + +ROBIN. [To JOAN.] Do you know what Maggie's crying for, Aunt Clara? + +JOAN. I'm sure I don't, little boy. + +ROBIN. 'Tis because she's got to go. Mother's sent her off. 'Twas +what she said of mother's tongue. + +EMILY. [Roughly taking hold of ROBIN and JESSIE.] Come you along +with me, you ill-behaved little varmints. 'Tis the back kitchen and +the serving maid as is the properest place for such as you. I'll not +have you bide 'mongst the company no longer. [She goes out with the +children and followed by MAGGIE.] + +[Directly they have left the room JOAN, whose manner has been +nervously shrinking, seems to recover herself and she assumes a +languid, artificial air, badly imitating the ways of a lady of +fashion. + +JOAN. [Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan.] Well, I +never did meet with such goings on before. + +MILES. You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, Miss +Clara. We must not expect to find the same polite ways down here. + +LUKE. Come now, 'tisn't so bad as all that with we. There baint +many what has the tongue of mistress yonder. + +JOAN. I'm quite unused to such people. + +LUKE. And yet, Miss Clara, 'tisn't as though they were exactly +strangers to you like. + +JOAN. They feel as good as strangers to me, any way. + +MILES. Ah, how well I understand that, Miss. 'Tisn't very often as +we lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at +my counters. + +JOAN. I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn't feel so +terrible faint and sinking. + +LUKE. [Going to the back kitchen door.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself +up a bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count. + +JESSIE. [Runs in with a tray on which is a jug of water and a +glass.] I'm bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. Maggie's +crying ever so badly, and Mother's sent her upstairs to wash her face +and put her hair tidy. + +[JESSIE puts the tray on the table near to where JOAN is sitting. +MILES HOOFER busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in +handing it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to JOAN. + +JOAN. [Drinking.] Such a coarse glass! + +MILES. Ah, you must let me send you up one from my place during your +stay here. Who could expect a lady to drink from such a thing as +that? + +JOAN. [Laying aside the glass.] There's a taste of mould in the +water too. + +JESSIE. It's fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, she did. + +JOAN. [Looking disdainfully round on the room.] Such a strange +room. So very common. + +LUKE. Nay, you mustn't judge of the house by this. Don't you +recollect the parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds and the chiney +cupboard? + +JOAN. [Looking round again.] Such an old-fashioned place as this I +never did see. 'Tis a low sort of room too, no carpet on the boards +nor cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant. + +MILES. Ah, we find the mansions in town very different to a country +farm house, don't we Miss? + +JOAN. I should think we did, Mister Hooper. Why, look at that great +old wooden chair by the hearth? Don't it look un-stylish, upon my +word, with no cushions to it nor nothing. + +JESSIE. [Coming quite close to JOAN and looking straight into her +face.] That's great gran'ma's chair, what Dad said you'd be best +pleased for to see. + +[JOAN looks very confused and begins to fan herself hastily. + +JESSIE. And th' old clock's another thing what Dad did say as you'd +look upon. + +JOAN. O the old clock's well enough, to be sure. + +JESSIE. I did want to gather a nosegay of flowers to set in your +bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, she said, no. + +JOAN. [Languidly.] I must say I don't see any flowers blooming here +that I should particular care about having in my apartment. + +JESSIE. And Father said as how you'd like to smell the blossoms in +the garden. And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the clover +blooms when you was a little girl and set them by you where you did +sleep. + +JOAN. [Crossly.] O run away, child, I'm tired to death with all +this chatter. How would you like to be so pestered after such a +travel over the rough country roads as I have had? + +LUKE. Now, my little maid, off you go. Take back the tray to +Mother, and be careful as you don't break the glasses on it. + +JESSIE. [Taking up the tray.] I'm off to play in the hayfield along +of Robin, then. + +[LUKE opens the back kitchen door for her and she goes out. +Meanwhile MILES has taken up the fan and is fanning JOAN, who leans +back in her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look. + +LUKE. [Coming to her side and sitting down.] 'Twill seem more +homelike when Thomas do come up from the field. + +JOAN. [Raising herself and looking at him.] You mustn't trouble +about me, Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable presently. + +[The back door opens and MAGGIE comes hurriedly in. + +MAGGIE. Please, mistress, there be a young person a-coming through +the rick yard. + +JOAN. [Nervously.] A young person? + +MAGGIE. Mistress be at the gooseberries a-gathering of them, and the +children be gone off to th' hay field. + +MILES. 'Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch +the young woman in to you? + +JOAN. My maid, did you say? My maid? + +LUKE. Ah, depend on it, 'tis she. + +MAGGIE. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, +mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white +handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes +and a-calling of the geese and poultry. + +LUKE. That's her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag. + +JOAN. [Agitatedly.] No, no--I mean--I want to see her particular-- +and alone. I'll go to meet her. You--gentlemen--[MAGGIE goes slowly +into the back kitchen. + +MILES. [Placing a chair for JOAN.] Delicate ladies should not +venture out into the heat at this time of day. + +JOAN. [With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going to the +window.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the +garden. I have need of the services of my--my young woman. But when +she has put me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask you to +be good enough to come back and while away an hour for me in this sad +place. + +MILES. [Fervently.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss. + +LUKE. That's right. Us'll wait while you do lay aside your bonnet. + +[MILES and LUKE go out through the garden door. MILES, turning to +bow low before he disappears. JOAN stands as though distraught in +the middle of the room. Through the open door of the back kitchen +the voices of CLARA and MAGGIE are distinctly heard. + +CLARA. Is no one at home then? + +MAGGIE. Ah, go you straight on into the kitchen, you'll find whom +you be searching for in there. I'd take and shew you in myself only +I'm wanted down to th' hayfield now. + +CLARA. Don't put yourself to any trouble about me. I know my way. + +[CLARA comes into the kitchen. She has tied a white handkerchief +over her head, and carries a bunch of wildflowers in her hands. + +CLARA. Still in your cloak and bonnet! Why, I thought by now you +would have unpacked our things and made yourself at home. + +JOAN. [Joining her hands supplicatingly and coming towards CLARA, +speaking almost in a whisper.] O mistress, you'll never guess what +I've been and done. But 'twasn't all my fault at the commencement. + +CLARA. [Looking her over searchingly.] You do look very disturbed, +Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. 'Twas the fine bonnet and cloak, mam. 'Twas they as did it. + +CLARA. Did what? + +JOAN. Put the thought into my head, like. + +CLARA. What thought? + +JOAN. As how 'twould feel to be a real grand lady, like you, +mistress. + +CLARA. What then, Joan? + +JOAN. So I began to pretend all to myself as how that I was one, +mistress. + +CLARA. Come, tell me all. + +JOAN. And whilst I was sat down upon that fallen tree, and sort of +pretending to myself, the two gentlemen came along. + +CLARA. What gentlemen? + +JOAN. Gentlemen as was after courting you, mistress. + +CLARA. Courting me? + +JOAN. Yes, and they commenced speaking so nice and respectful like. + +CLARA. Go on, Joan, don't be afraid. + +JOAN. It did seem to fall in with the game I was a-playing with +myself. And then, before I did know how, 'twas they was both of them +a-taking me for you, mam. + +CLARA. And did you not un-deceive them, Joan? + +JOAN. [Very ashamedly.] No, mam. + +CLARA. You should have told them the truth about yourself at once. + +JOAN. O I know I should have, mistress. But there was something as +held me back when I would have spoke the words. + +CLARA. I wonder what that could have been? + +JOAN. 'Twas them being such very nice and kind gentlemen. And, O +mistress, you'll not understand it, because you've told me many times +as the heart within you have never been touched by love. + +CLARA. [Suddenly sitting down.] And has yours been touched to-day, +Joan, by love? + +JOAN. That it have, mistress. Love have struck at it heavily. + +CLARA. Through which of the gentlemen did it strike, Joan? + +JOAN. Through both. Leastways, 'tis Mister Jenner that my feelings +do go out most quickly to, mistress. But 'tis Mister Hooper who do +court the hardest and who has the greatest riches like. + +CLARA. Well, and what do you want me to do or to say now, Joan? + +JOAN. See here, mistress, I want you to give me a chance. They'll +never stoop to wed me if they knows as I'm but a poor serving maid. + +CLARA. Your dressing up as a fine lady won't make you other than +what you are, Joan. + +JOAN. Once let me get the fish in my net, mistress. + +CLARA. Are you proposing to catch the two, Joan? + +JOAN. I shall take the one as do offer first, mistress. + +CLARA. That'll be Mister Hooper, I should think. + +JOAN. I should go riding in my own chaise, mistress, if 'twas him. + +CLARA. But, Joan, either of these men would have to know the truth +before there could be any marriage. + +JOAN. I knows that full well, mistress. But let one of them just +offer hisself. By that time my heart and his would be so closely +twined together like, 'twould take more nor such a little thing as my +station being low to part us. + +[CLARA sits very still for a few moments, looking straight before +her, lost in thought. JOAN sinks on to a chair by the table as +though suddenly tired out, and she begins to cry gently. + +CLARA. Listen, Joan. I'm one for the straight paths. I like to +walk in open fields and over the bare heath. Only times come when +one is driven to take to the ways which are set with bushes and with +briars. + +JOAN. [Lifting her head and drying her eyes.] O mistress, I feel to +be asking summat as is too heavy for you to give. + +CLARA. But for a certain thing, I could never have lent myself to +this acting game of yours, Joan. + +JOAN. No, mistress? + +CLARA. Only that, to-day, my heart too has gone from my own keeping. + +JOAN. O mistress, you don't mean to say as his lordship have +followed us down already. + +CLARA. [Scornfully.] His lordship! As if I should be stirred by +him! + +JOAN. [Humbly.] Who might it be, mistress, if I may ask? + +CLARA. 'Tis one who would never look upon me with thoughts of love +if I went to him as I am now, Joan. + +JOAN. I can't rightly understand you, mam. + +CLARA. My case is just the same as yours, Joan. You say that your +fine gentlemen would not look upon a serving maid. + +JOAN. I'm certain of it, mistress. + +CLARA. And the man I--I love will never let his heart go out to mine +with the heaviness of all these riches lying between us. + +JOAN. I count that gold do pave the way for most of us, mistress. + +CLARA. So for this once, I will leave the clear high road, Joan. +And you and I will take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God +they do not wound us past healing at the end of our travel. + +JOAN. O mistress, 'twill be a lightsome journey for me. + +CLARA. But the moment that you reach happiness, Joan, remember to +confess. + +JOAN. There won't be nothing to fear then, mistress. + +CLARA. Make him love you for yourself, Joan. O we must each tie the +heart of our true love so tightly to our own that naught shall ever +be able to cut the bonds. + +JOAN. Yes, mistress, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you. + +CLARA. Ah, I am lending myself to all this, because I, too, have +something to win or lose. + +JOAN. Where did you meet him, mistress? + +CLARA. I did not meet him. I stood on the high ground, and he +passed below. His face was raised to the light, and I saw its look. +I think my love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, Joan. +But when he passed beneath me in the meadow, it awoke. + +JOAN. O mistress, what sort of an appearance has the gentleman? + +CLARA. I don't know how to answer you, Joan. + +JOAN. I count as it would take a rare, grand looking man for to put +his lordship into the shadow, like. + +CLARA. You are right there, Joan. But now we must talk of your +affairs. Your fine courtiers will be coming in presently and you +must know how to receive them in a good way. + +JOAN. That's what do hamper me dreadful, my speech and other things. +How would it be if you was to help me a little bit, like? + +CLARA. With all my heart. + +JOAN. How should I act so not to be found out, mistress? + +CLARA. You must speak little, and low. Do not show haste in your +goings and comings. Put great care into your way of eating and +drinking. + +JOAN. O that will be a fearsome hard task. What else? + +CLARA. You must be sisterly with Thomas. + +JOAN. I'd clean forgot him. I don't doubt but what he'll ferret out +the truth in no time. + +CLARA. I don't think so. I was but a little child when I left him. +He will not remember how I looked. And our colouring is alike, Joan. + +JOAN. 'Tis the eating and drinking as do play most heavily upon my +mind, mistress. + +CLARA. Then think of these words as you sit at table. Eat as though +you were not hungry and drink as though there were no such thing as +thirst. Let your hands move about your plate as if they were too +tired to lift the knife and fork. + +[JOAN, darts to the dresser--seizes up a plate with a knife and fork, +places them on the table and sits down before them, pretending to cut +up meat. CLARA watches her smilingly. + +JOAN. [Absently, raising the knife to her mouth.] How's that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Not so, not so, Joan. That might betray you. + +JOAN. What, mistress? + +CLARA. 'Tis the fork which journeys to the mouth, and the knife +stops at home on the plate. + +JOAN. [Dispiritedly.] 'Tis almost more than I did reckon for when I +started. + +CLARA. Well, we mustn't think of that now. We must hold up our +spirits, you and I. + +JOAN. [Getting up and putting away the crockery.] I'd best take off +the bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn't I? + +CLARA. Yes, that you had. We will go upstairs together and I will +help you change into another gown. Come quickly so that we may have +plenty of time. + +[They go towards the staircase door, CLARA leading the way. With her +hand on the latch of the door she gives one look round the kitchen. +Then with a sudden movement she goes up to the wooden armchair at the +hearth and bends her head till her lips touch it, she then runs +upstairs, followed by JOAN. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +After a few moments MILES HOOPER and LUKE JENNER come into the +kitchen. They both look round the room enquiringly. + +LUKE. Ah, she be still up above with that there serving wench what's +come. + +MILES. My good man, you didn't expect our fair miss to have finished +her toilet under an hour, did you? + +LUKE. I don't see what there was to begin on myself, let alone +finish. + +MILES. 'Tis clear you know little of the ways of our town beauties, +Luke. + +LUKE. Still, I mean to have my try with her, Miles Hooper. + +MILES. [Sarcastically.] I'm quite agreeable, Mister Jenner. + +[THOMAS and GEORGE come in. GEORGE carries a bucket of water. + +THOMAS. Where's the little maid got to? George and me be come up +from the field on purpose for to bid her welcome home. + +MILES. Miss is still at her toilet, farmer. + +[JOAN, in a flowered silk gown, comes slowly and carefully into the +room, followed by CLARA, who carries a lace shawl over one arm. She +has put on a large white apron, but wears nothing on her head but the +narrow blue ribbon. During the following scene she stands quietly, +half hidden by the door. + +[JOAN looks nervously round the room, then she draws herself up very +haughtily. MILES comes forward and bows low. + +THOMAS. [Looking JOAN up and down.] Well, bless my soul, who'd have +guessed at the change it do make in a wench? + +JOAN. [Holding out her hand, very coldly.] A good afternoon to you, +sir. + +THOMAS. [Taking her hand slowly.] Upon my word, but you might knock +me over. + +MILES. Miss has grown into a very superb young lady, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Still looking at her.] That may be so, yet 'twasn't as +such I had figured she in the eye of my mind, like. [There is a +moment's silence. + +THOMAS. George, my boy, you and sister Clara used to be up to rare +games one with t'other once on a time. [Turning to JOAN.] There, my +wench, I count you've not forgotten Georgie? + +JOAN. I'm afeared I've not much of a memory. + +THOMAS. Shake hands, my maid, and very like as the memory will come +back to roost same as the fowls do. + +JOAN. [Bowing coldly.] Good afternoon, George. + +MILES. [Aside to Luke.] Now that's what I call a bit of stylish +breeding. + +[GEORGE has made no answer to JOAN's bow. He quietly ignores it, and +takes up his pail of water. As he does so he catches sight of CLARA, +who has been watching the whole scene from the corner where she is +partly concealed. He looks at her for one moment, and then sets the +bucket down again. + +THOMAS. Why, George--I guess as it's took you as it took me, us +didn't think how 'twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up. + +GEORGE. [Quietly.] No, us did not, master. + +[He carries his pail into the back kitchen as EMILY and the children +come in. + +EMILY. What's all this to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know? + +THOMAS. Us did but come up for to--to give a handshake to sister +Clara, like. + +EMILY. Well, now you can go off back to work again. And you-- +[turning to JOAN]--now that you've finished curling of your hair and +dressing of yourself up, you can go and sit down in the best parlour +along with your fancy gentlemen. + +MILES. [Offering his arm to JOAN.] It will be my sweet pleasure to +conduct Missy to the parlour. + +[LUKE offers his arm on the other side, and JOAN moves off with both +the young men. + +JOAN. [As she goes.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a +comfortable couch. I'm dead tired of the country air already. + +ROBIN. [Calling after her.] You'll not go off to sleep afore the +chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt? + +[MILES, LUKE and JOAN having gone out, EMILY begins to bang the +chairs back in their places and to arrange the room, watched by the +two children. CLARA, who has remained half hidden by the door, now +goes quietly upstairs. + +EMILY. [Calling.] Here, George, Mag. + +[GEORGE comes in. + +EMILY. Well, George, 'tisn't much worse nor I expected. + +JESSIE. I don't like Aunt Clara. + +ROBIN. I hates her very much. + +GEORGE. [Slowly.] And I don't seem to fancy her neither. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +Two days have passed by. + +It is morning. CLARA, wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head, +sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief. MAGGIE, who +is dusting the plates on the dressers, pauses to watch her. + +MAGGIE. I'd sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor +have to set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you. + +CLARA. I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine. + +MAGGIE. I count 'tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a +young miss such as yourn be. + +CLARA. What makes you say that, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in the +tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis +when she do come to that age. + +CLARA. Why do you think this, Mag? + +MAGGIE. O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor the +very worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word did +cost she more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how +destructive she be with her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore to +ribbons last night, and to-day yon handkerchief. + +CLARA. These things are soon mended. + +[MAGGIE continues to dust for a few moments. + +MAGGIE. The day you comed here, 'twas a bit of ribbon as you did +have around of your hair. + +CLARA. [After a moment's hesitation.] I put it on to keep my hair +neat on the journeying. + +MAGGIE. [Coming nearer.] I count as you've not missed it, have you? + +CLARA. Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the +hayfield. + +MAGGIE. 'Tain't lost. + +CLARA. Where is it then? + +MAGGIE. Look here, I could tell you, but I shan't. + +CLARA. If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it. + +MAGGIE. 'Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you +be, and to give away ribbons, so 'twould. + +[CLARA takes no notice of her and goes on sewing. + +MAGGIE. [More insistently.] 'Twasn't me as found the ribbon. + +CLARA. Who was it then? + +MAGGIE. I daresay you'd like for to know, but I'm not going to say +nothing more about it. + +[MAGGIE leans against the table watching CLARA as she sews. + +[EMILY with both the children now come in. EMILY carries a basket of +potatoes, and JESSIE a large bowl. + +EMILY. [Setting down the basket.] Maggie, you idle, bad girl, +whatever are you doing here when master expects you down in the +meadow to help with the raking? + +MAGGIE. I be just a-going off yonder, mistress. + +EMILY. I'd thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine young +serving minxes down here--you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but +you'll be a hundred times worser now. + +MAGGIE. I'll be off and help master. I've been and put the meat on +to boil as you said, missis. + +[MAGGIE goes off. + +[CLARA continues to sew, quietly. JESSIE has put her bowl down on +the table, and now comes to her side. ROBIN also comes close to her. +EMILY flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously +watches them. + +JESSIE. We don't care much about our new aunt, Joan. + +ROBIN. Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good +from London town in them great boxes. + +JESSIE. And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn't +brought us nothing. + +EMILY. Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy +gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you +children. + +JESSIE. Will Aunt Clara get married soon? + +EMILY. 'Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set out in the house +I have never seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and +hearty having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying in +bed till 'tis noon or later. + +JESSIE. 'Tis only one of them as lies in bed. + +ROBIN. [To CLARA.] Do you think Aunt has got sommat for us +upstairs, Joan? + +CLARA. [Rising and putting down her work.] I know she has, Robin. + +EMILY. Don't let me catch you speaking to Master Spring as though +you and he was of the same station, young person. + +CLARA. Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch +the gifts that your aunt has brought for you. + +[She goes leisurely towards the staircase door, smiling at the +children. + +EMILY. Ah, and you may tell your young madam that 'tis high time as +she was out of bed and abroad. Hear that? [CLARA goes out. + +JESSIE. I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt. + +EMILY. She's a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the +hands of her, 'tis not a day's hard work as they have done in her +life, I'll warrant. + +ROBIN. What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do you +think? + +EMILY. Sommat what you don't need, I warrant. 'Tis always so. When +folks take it into their heads to give you aught, 'tis very nigh +always sommat which you could do better without. + +[EMILY gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire, and fetching +a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays +on the table. + +[CLARA enters carrying some parcels. She brings them to the table. +Both the children run to her. + +CLARA. [Holding out a long parcel to EMILY and speaking to the +children.] The first is for your mother, children. + +EMILY. [With an angry exclamation.] Now, you mark my words, 'twill +be sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use +'twill be. + +[She comes near, opens the parcel and perceives it to be a length of +rich black silk. + +CLARA. My mistress thought it might be suitable. + +EMILY. Suitable? I'll suitable her. When shall my two hands find +time to sew me a gown out of it, I'd like to know? And if 'twas +sewn, when would my limbs find time to sit down within of it? +[Flinging it down on the table.] Suitable? You can tell your +mistress from me as she can keep her gifts to herself if she can't do +better nor this. + +JESSIE. [Stroking the silk.] O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor +a dove's feather. + +ROBIN. [Feeling it too.] 'Tis better nor the new kittens' fur. + +EMILY. Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards you +children. + +CLARA. I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with +her aunt's dear love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin. + +JESSIE. [Seizing the beads with delight.] I love a string of beads. +[Putting them on.] How do they look on me? + +EMILY. Off with them this moment. I'll learn her to give strings of +rubbish to my child. + +JESSIE. [Beginning to cry.] O do let me wear it just a little +while, just till dinner, Mother. + +EMILY. Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do you hear. + +JESSIE. [Taking the necklace off.] I love the feel of it--might I +keep it in my hand then? + +EMILY. [Seizing it.] 'Twill be put by with the silk dress. So +there. 'Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl like you. + +ROBIN. [Looking up from the pages of his book.] No one shan't take +my book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep and +cows in it--and no one shan't hide it from me. + +EMILY. [Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table.] Next +time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as +she'll ask me to come and see her a-doing of it. + +JESSIE. [Coming up to CLARA very tearfully.] And was there naught +for Dad in the great box? + +CLARA. Perhaps there may be. + +ROBIN. And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie? + +CLARA. I don't know. + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him. + +ROBIN. And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner. + +EMILY. [Sharply.] Look you here, young woman. Suppose you was to +take and do something useful with that idle pair of hands as you've +got. + +CLARA. Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something. + +EMILY. Us knows what fine promises lead to. + +CLARA. But I mean it. Do let me help a little. + +EMILY. See them taters? + +CLARA. Yes. + +EMILY. Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against when I +wants to cook them. + +CLARA. [A little doubtfully.] Yes--I'll--I'll try - + +EMILY. Ah, 'tis just as I thought. You're one of them who would +stir the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with +the poker. + +CLARA. [Eagerly.] No, no--it isn't that. I'll gladly do them. +Come, Miss Jessie, you will shew me if I do them wrongly, won't you? + +JESSIE. O yes, I'll help you because I like you, Joan. + +ROBIN. I'll help too, when I have finished looking at my book. + +[EMILY goes out. CLARA sits down by the table and takes up a potato +and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work. JESSIE stands +by her watching. + +JESSIE. You mustn't take no account of Mother when she speaks so +sharp. 'Tis only her way. + +ROBIN. Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie's sent +off? + +CLARA. O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think. + +JESSIE. Yes, you don't do them taters very nice. + +ROBIN. That don't matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine +things about other parts. + +JESSIE. Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there he comes +with the vegetables from the garden. + +[GEORGE comes in with a large basket of vegetables, which he sets +down in the back kitchen. Then he stands at the door, silently +watching the group near the table. + +JESSIE. Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the tales out +of what you do sing. + +GEORGE. What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs +this time of day? + +JESSIE. Mother's gone upstairs, she won't know nothing. + +ROBIN. Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt +have brought me. + +GEORGE. [Slowly approaching the table.] That be a brave, fine book +of pictures, Master Robin. + +ROBIN. [Holding up the open book.] I don't fancy Aunt Clara much, +but I likes her better nor I did because of this book. + +[GEORGE'S eyes wander from the book to CLARA as she bends over her +work. + +JESSIE. Joan doesn't know how to do them very nicely, does she +George! + +GEORGE. 'Tis the first time you've been set down to such work, may +be, mistress. + +JESSIE. You mustn't say "mistress" to Joan, you know. Why, Mother +would be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan's only a +servant. + +CLARA. [Looking up.] Like you, George. + +GEORGE. [Steadily.] What I was saying is--'Tis the first time as +you have been set afore a bowl of taters like this. + +CLARA. You are right, George. It is the first time since--since I +was quite a little child. And I think I'm very clumsy at my work. + +GEORGE. No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over +their fingers. + +JESSIE. You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, +same as Maggie does. + +GEORGE. Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan. + +[JOAN puts aside the knife and basket, turns back her sleeves, and +then resumes her work. GEORGE'S eyes are rivetted on her hands and +arms for a moment. Then he turns as though to go away. + +JESSIE. Don't go away, Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt +Clara now that she's growed into such a grand lady. + +GEORGE. [Coming back to the table.] I don't like nothing about her, +Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride the +big horses to the trough, Georgie? + +ROBIN. And from the time when th' old gander did take a big piece +right out of her arm, Georgie? + +GEORGE. [His eyes on CLARA'S bent head.] I count her be wonderful +changed, like. + +JESSIE. So that you would scarce know her? + +GEORGE. So that I should scarce know she. + +JESSIE. She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string of +coral beads. But naught for you, Georgie. + +GEORGE. I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance +like. + +CLARA. [With sudden earnestness.] O that she has, George. + +JESSIE. She didn't seem to know him by her looks. + +CLARA. Looks often speak but poorly for the heart. + +ROBIN. [Who has been watching CLARA.] See there, Joan. You've been +and cut that big tater right in half. Mother will be cross. + +CLARA. O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the +same time. + +GEORGE. [Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself on the +edge of the table.] Here,--give them all to me. I understand such +work, and 'tis clear that you do not. I'll finish them off in a few +minutes, and mistress will never be the wiser. + +CLARA. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle? + +GEORGE. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a +mind. 'Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job. + +[CLARA puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework. + +JESSIE. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters. + +GEORGE. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day. + +JESSIE. You ask him, Joan. + +CLARA. Will not you sing one little verse, George? + +GEORGE. Nay--strangers from London town would have no liking for the +songs we sing down here among the fields. + +CLARA. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me +very well. + +JESSIE. What was it called? + +CLARA. I cannot remember the name--but there was something of bushes +and of briars in it. + +JESSIE. I know which that is. 'Tis a pretty song. Sing it, +Georgie. + +GEORGE. Nay--sing it yourself, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. 'Tis like this at the beginning.--[she sings or repeats] - + +"Through bushes and through briars +I lately took my way, +All for to hear the small birds sing +And the lambs to skip and play." + +CLARA. That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie. + +GEORGE. Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie. + +JESSIE. I can't say any more. + +CLARA. [Gently singing or speaking.] + +I overheard my own true love, +Her voice it was so clear. +"Long time I have been waiting for +The coming of my dear." + +GEORGE. [Heaving a sigh.] That's it. + +JESSIE. Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it. + +CLARA. Shall I go on with the song, George? + +GEORGE. As you please. + +CLARA. + +"Sometimes I am uneasy +And troubled in my mind, +Sometimes I think I'll go to my love +And tell to him my mind." + +"And if I would go to my love +My love he will say nay +If I show to him my boldness +He'll ne'er love me again." + +JESSIE. When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear her +a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then? + +CLARA. I don't know, Jessie. + +JESSIE. I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all +what she did keep in her mind. + +CLARA. Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, that +he never got to the other side for her to tell him. + +GEORGE. Yes, that's how 'twas, I count. + +JESSIE. [Running up to ROBIN.] I'm going to look at your book along +of you, Robin. + +ROBIN. But I'm the one to turn the leaves, remember. [The children +sit side by side looking at the picture book. CLARA sews. GEORGE +goes on with the potatoes. As the last one is finished and tossed +into the water, he looks at CLARA for the first time. A long +silence. + +GEORGE. Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time. + +CLARA. Tell me how it was then, George. + +GEORGE. I did used to put her on the horse's back, and we would go +down to the water trough in the evening time and - + +CLARA. What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George? + +GEORGE. Us would walk in the woods aside of one another--And I would +lift she to a high branch in a tree--and pretend for to leave her +there. + +CLARA. And then? + +GEORGE. Her would call upon me pitiful--and I would come back from +where I was hid. + +CLARA. And did her crying cease? + +GEORGE. She would take and spring as though her was one of they +little wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees. + +CLARA. Where would she spring to, George? + +GEORGE. I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she. + +CLARA. And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, +George? + +GEORGE. I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long as +her was in the care of me. + +CLARA. [Slowly, after a short pause.] I do not think she can have +forgotten those days, George. + +GEORGE. [Getting up and speaking harshly.] They're best forgot. +Put them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and sommat of +all which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and this'n. + +[CLARA turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief to +her eyes. GEORGE looks gloomily on the floor. EMILY enters. + +EMILY. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I'd like +to know? + +[GEORGE gets hastily off. Both children look up from their book. + +EMILY. [Looking freezingly at CLARA.] 'Tis plain as a turnpike what +you've been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, 'tis +neck and crop as you should be thrown from the door. + +CLARA. What for, mistress? + +EMILY. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I'll soon +tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him +and scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen. + +GEORGE. This be going a bit too far, missis. I'll not have things +said like that. + +EMILY. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took +from--a grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more'n what +you eats nor what we get of work from out of your body, you great +hulk. + +CLARA. [Springing up angrily.] O I'll not hear such things said. +I'll not. + +EMILY. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your +mistress out of bed--and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the +flour on to her face. 'Tis about all you be fit for. + +CLARA. [Angrily going to the stair door.] Very well. 'Tis best +that I should go. I might say something you would not like. + +GEORGE. [Advancing towards EMILY.] Look you here, mistress. I've +put up with it going on for fifteen years. But sometimes 'tis almost +more nor I can bear. If 'twasn't for Master Thomas I'd have cleared +out this long time ago. + +EMILY. Don't flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man. + +GEORGE. We has always been good friends, farmer and me. 'Tis not +for what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold +together. But 'tis this--as he and I do understand one another. + +EMILY. We'll see what master has to say when I tell him how you was +found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy +piece of London trash. + +GEORGE. I'm off. I've no patience to listen any longer. You called +me roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I was born and +on the road I was picked from my dead mother's side, and I count as +'tis on the road as I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I'll +not have road dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint +though I be, there be things which I do hold brighter nor silver and +cleaner nor new opened leaves, and I'll not have defilement throwed +upon them. + +EMILY. [Seizing the arms of JESSIE and ROBIN.] The lad's raving. +'Tis plain as he's been getting at the cider. Come you off with me +to the haymaking, Robin and Jess. + +ROBIN. May I take my book along of me? + +EMILY. [Flinging the book down violently.] I'll book you! What +next? + +JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. He was +only doing the taters for her. + +EMILY. [As they go out.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I'll get +her packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don't. + +[GEORGE is left alone in the kitchen. When all sounds of EMILY and +the children have died away, he sighs. Then, looking furtively round +the room, he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket. He spreads +it out on one hand and stands looking down on it, sadly and +longingly. Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it. Just +as he is doing this THOMAS comes into the room. + +THOMAS. Why, George, my lad. + +GEORGE. [Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket.] Yes, +Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Looking meaningly at GEORGE.] 'Tis a pretty enough young +maid, George. + +GEORGE. What did you say, Master? + +THOMAS. That one with the bit of blue round the head of her. + +GEORGE. Blue? + +THOMAS. Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time. + +GEORGE. Yes, master. + +THOMAS. 'Twasn't a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but +'twas a blossom dropped from her gown. + +GEORGE. Whose gown, master? I'll warrant 'twasn't missus's. + +THOMAS. Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. 'Twasn't the mistress +then. + +GEORGE. Ah, I count as it could not have been she. + +THOMAS. First love, 'tis best, George. + +GEORGE. Ah, upon my word, that 'tis. + +THOMAS. But my maid went and got her married to another. + +GEORGE. More's the pity, Master Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Sighing.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been-- +with her and me, like. + +GEORGE. Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master? + +THOMAS. Soft and sweet as the field lark, George. + +GEORGE. Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master +Thomas. + +THOMAS. Ah, George, don't you never run into the trap, no matter +whether 'tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on. +Once in, never out. There 'tis. + +GEORGE. No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. I baint +worth trapping. + +THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty +baggage from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so +be it her had the fortune. + +GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint +nothing. + +THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George. + +GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. [Steps +are heard in the staircase. + +THOMAS. We'll off to the meadow then, George. + +[GEORGE and THOMAS go out. + +[JOAN, dressed as a lady of fashion, and followed by CLARA, comes +into the kitchen. + +CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, +and let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more +easy and natural when you are in the air. + +JOAN. O I'm very nigh dead with fright when I'm within doors. 'Tis +so hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at +table 'tis worst of all. + +CLARA. You've stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the +headache, and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood. + +JOAN. But to-night 'twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have +asked them both to supper again. + +CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man? + +JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time, +mistress. + +CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, +and then I will shew you how it is to be eaten. + +JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the +parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, +what have I got to say to him? + +CLARA. O, I shouldn't trouble about that. I'd open my fan and take +no notice if I were you. + +JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, +mistress. And with the children, too. + +CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. +Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your +way with the children. + +JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with +them. + +CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, +Joan. Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner +here and there. + +JOAN. [With a heavy sigh.] 'Tis the here and the there as I finds +it so hard to manage. + +JESSIE. [Running in breathlessly.] A letter, a letter for Aunt +Clara. [CLARA involuntarily puts out her hand.] No, Joan. I was to +give it to Aunt Clara herself. I've run all the way. + +[JOAN slowly takes the letter, looking confused. + +JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt? + +JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don't want no children worriting +round me now. [Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to +speak brightly.] I mean--no, my dear little girl, I'd rather wait to +read it till I'm by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, +my pet. + +JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much. + +JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there's a sweet little +maid. + +JESSIE. I'd sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like. + +CLARA. [Taking JESSIE'S hand and leading her to the door.] Now, +Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter in quiet, but if you will +come back presently I will have a game with you outside. + +JESSIE. [As she runs off.] Mother won't let me talk with you any +more, alone. She says as you've made a fool of Georgie and you'll do +the same by us all. + +JOAN. [When JESSIE has run off.] There now, how did I do that, +mistress? + +CLARA. Better, much better. + +JOAN. 'Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of another, +with you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me. + +CLARA. [After a moment's thought.] No. It is not quite like that. +But 'tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly feeling in better +garments. + +JOAN. [Handing the letter to CLARA.] There, mistress, 'tis yours, +not mine. + +CLARA. [Glancing at it.] Lord Lovel's writing. [CLARA opens the +letter and reads it through.] He will not wait longer for my answer. +And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him. + +JOAN. O, mistress, whatever shall we do? + +CLARA. We had better own to everything at once. It will save +trouble in the end. + +JOAN. Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was +closing upon it, like! + +CLARA. Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, if the +man loves you truly. + +JOAN. Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is +coming up to see me now. I'd bring him to offer his self, if I was +but left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so. + +CLARA. And then, Joan? + +JOAN. And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, +mistress, maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn't +think no worse of me. + +[CLARA gets up and goes to the window, where she looks out for a few +minutes in silence. JOAN cries softly meanwhile. + +CLARA. [Turning towards JOAN.] As you will, Joan. Very likely +'twill be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches this place. + +JOAN. O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all +may go as well with you as 'tis with me. + +CLARA. [Sadly.] That is not likely, Joan. + +JOAN. What is it stands in the way, mistress? + +CLARA. Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and +hurting thing. + +JOAN. Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when +he do offer next. + +CLARA. I'll think of what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when +the heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into +shelter. [A slight pause. + +JOAN. [Looking through the window.] Look up quickly, mistress. +There's Hooper. + +CLARA. [Getting up.] Then I'll run away. May all be well with you, +dear Joan. [CLARA goes out. + +[JOAN seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan. MILES +enters, carrying a small box. + +MILES. Already astir, Miss Clara. 'Tis early hours to be sure for +one of our London beauties. + +[He advances towards her, and she stretches out her hand without +rising. He takes it ceremoniously. + +JOAN. You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper. + +[MILES places a chair in front of JOAN, and sits down on it. + +MILES. [Untying the parcel.] I've been so bold as to bring you a +little keepsake from my place in town, Missy. + +JOAN. How kind you are, Mister Miles. + +MILES. You'll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see +it, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. [Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of bright +artificial flowers.] There, what do you say to that, Miss? And we +can do you the same in all the leading tints. + +JOAN. O, 'tis wonderful modish. I declare I never did see anything +to beat it up in town. + +MILES. Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can hold our +own with the best of them in Painswick High Street. + +JOAN. I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper. + +[She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from MILES, +pretending to smell it. + +MILES. Well--and what's the next pleasure, Madam? + +[JOAN drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently. + +MILES. [Very gently.] What's Missy's next pleasure? + +JOAN. I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Miles. + +MILES. Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his. + +JOAN. O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are. + +MILES. Ladies never like the sound of business, so we'll set that +aside for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place of it. + +JOAN. Ah, that's a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. I loved you from the first, Miss. There's the true, high +born lady for you, says I to myself. There's beauty and style, +elegance and refinement. + +JOAN. Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. What about, sir? + +MILES. The answer to my question, Missy. + +JOAN. And what was that, I wonder? + +MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. Will she +oblige her Miles? + +JOAN. O that I will. With all my heart. + +MILES. [Standing up.] I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye +my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and +such trifles. + +JOAN. [Agitatedly.] O let us not destroy to-day by thoughts of +anything but our dear affection one for t'other. + +MILES. Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified in +her speech. + +JOAN. 'Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear Miles, promise +there shan't be nothing but--but love talk between you and me this +day. I could not bear it if we was to speak of, of other things, +like. + +MILES. [Getting up and walking about the room.] As you will--as you +will. Anything to oblige a lady. + +[He stops before the table, on which is laid EMILY'S silk dress, and +begins to finger it. + +JOAN. What's that you're looking at? + +MILES. Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, +I'll be bound. + +JOAN. O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with the +old silk. + +MILES. No, no, Missy, I'm a man of business habits, and 'tis my duty +to go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He and +I have got to talk things over a bit, you know. + +JOAN. Off so soon! O you have saddened me. + +MILES. Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, when +life is in front of us, Miss Clara? + +[He raises her hand, kisses it, and leaves her. As he goes out by +the door CLARA enters. + +JOAN. O, Mistress--stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at the +meadow! + +CLARA. Why, Joan, what has happened? + +JOAN. All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer to talk +about the--the wedding and the money. + +CLARA. The money? + +JOAN. The income which he thinks I have. + +CLARA. I'll run, but all this time I've been keeping Master Luke +Jenner quiet in the parlour. + +JOAN. O what does he want now? + +CLARA. Much the same as the other one wanted. + +JOAN. Must I see him? + +CLARA. Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. He's at +boiling point already. + +JOAN. Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and +keep Miles Hooper from the farmer. + +CLARA. I'll run my best, never fear. [She goes out. + +[LUKE JENNER comes in, a bunch of homely flowers in his hand. + +JOAN. [Seating herself.] You are early this morning, Mister Jenner. + +LUKE. [Sitting opposite to her.] I have that to say which would not +bide till sunset, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be. + +LUKE. 'Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you +was coming down here--"I could do with a rich wife if so be as I +could win her," I did tell myself. + +JOAN. O, Mister Jenner, now did you really? + +LUKE. But when I met you in the wood--saw you sitting there, so +still and yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. "That's the maid +for me," I says to myself. + +JOAN. [Tearfully.] O, Mister Jenner! + +LUKE. And if it had been beggar's rags upon her in the place of +satin, I'd have said the same. + +JOAN. [Very much stirred.] O, Mister Jenner, and did you really +think like that? + +LUKE. If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in the +deep ocean, 'twould be the best as could happen. There! + +JOAN. [Faintly.] O, Mister Jenner, why? + +LUKE. Because, very like 'twould shew to you as 'tis yourself I'm +after and not the fortune what you've got. + +JOAN. Mister Jenner, I'm mighty sorry. + +LUKE. Don't say I'm come too late, Miss Clara. + +JOAN. You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, 'tis he and +I who are like to be wed. + +LUKE. I might have known I had no chance. + +JOAN. [Rising and trying to hide her emotion.] I wouldn't have had +it happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner. + +LUKE. [Laying his bunch of flowers on the table, his head bent, and +his eyes on the ground.] 'Twas none of your doing, Miss Clara. +You've naught to blame yourself for. 'Tis not your fault as you're +made so--so beautiful, and yet so homely. + +[JOAN looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately +leaves the room. + +[LUKE folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them in an +attitude of deepest despondency. After a few moments CLARA enters. + +CLARA. O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you? + +LUKE. [Raising his head and pointing to the window.] There she +goes, through the garden with her lover. + +CLARA. I wish that you were in his place. + +LUKE. [Bitterly.] I've no house with golden rails to offer her. +Nor any horse and chaise. + +CLARA. But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love. + +LUKE. What use is the love which be fastened up in a man's heart and +can spend itself on naught, I'd like to know. [He rises as though to +go and take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on the +table. Brokenly.] I brought them for her. But I count as he'll +have given her something better nor these. + +[CLARA takes the flowers gently from his hand, and as she does so, +EMILY enters. + +EMILY. What now if you please! First with George and then with +Luke. 'Twould be Thomas next if he wasn't an old sheep of a man as +wouldn't know if an eye was cast on him or no. But I'll soon put a +stop to all this. Shame on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine +piece of London vanity, I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so +off with you upstairs. + +[She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls. + + + +ACT IV.--Scene 1. + + + +The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers. A long table is +spread with silver, china and food. CLARA is setting mugs to each +place. MAGGIE comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of +salad. + +MAGGIE. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes to +enjoy themselves among the vegetables. + +CLARA. [Placing the last mug.] There--Now all is ready for them. + +MAGGIE. [Bending over a place at the end of the table.] Come you +and look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in +through the window. + +CLARA. [Goes to MAGGIE'S side and bends down over the table.] O +what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold on him, and his legs are +like feathers. + +MAGGIE. [Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting it fly +through the window.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say. + +CLARA. A stranger, Maggie? + +MAGGIE. You mind my words, 'tis a stranger as'll sit where yon was +stuck, afore the eating be finished. + +CLARA. I don't believe in such signs, myself. + +MAGGIE. I never knowed it not come true. + +[THOMAS comes in. He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased, +yet nervous. + +THOMAS. Well, maids. Upon my word 'tis a spread. Never saw so many +different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this house. + +MAGGIE. 'Tis in honour of Miss Clara's going to be married like, +master. + +THOMAS. So 'tis, so 'tis. Well--A single rose upon the bush. Bound +to be plucked, you know. Couldn't be left to fade in the sun, eh, +girls? + +CLARA. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going on, +master? Mistress has not told us yet. + +THOMAS. [Nervously.] Mistress haven't told you--haven't she? Well- +-well--at such a time we must all--all rejoice one with t'other, +like. No difference made t'wixt master and man. Nor t'wixt maid and +missus. Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my +wenches. Up against George--How's that? + +CLARA. That will do very well for us, Master. + +MAGGIE. I don't expect as missus will let we bide there long. + +THOMAS. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and at the +asking in marriage of my only sister like, 'tis me as shall say what +shall sit down with who. And there's an end of it. That's all. + +MAGGIE. I hear them a coming in, master. + +[EMILY, holding the hands of JESSIE and ROBIN, comes into the room. +Her eyes fall on THOMAS who is standing between CLARA and MAGGIE, +looking suddenly sheepish and nervous. + +EMILY. [In a voice of suppressed anger.] Thomas! O, if I catch any +more of these goings on in my kitchen. + +[JOAN, very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of MILES HOOPER, +follows EMILY into the room. + +EMILY. I'll not have the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. +If folk can't come to the time when they're asked, they baint worth +waiting for, so sit you down, all of you. + +[She sits down at the head of the table, a child on either side of +her. JOAN languidly sinks into a chair and MILES puts himself at her +right. A place at her left remains empty. THOMAS sits opposite. +Three places at the end of the table are left vacant. As they sit +down, GEORGE, wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief, comes in. + +EMILY. [Beginning to help a dish.] You need not think you're to be +helped first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, like. +The poor little children have been kept waiting a sad time for their +supper, first because you was such a while a having your head curled +and puffed out, and then 'twas Luke Jenner as didn't come. + +[CLARA sits down at a place at the end of the table. GEORGE and +MAGGIE still remain standing. + +EMILY. [Perceiving CLARA'S movement.] Well, I never did see +anything so forward. Who told you to sit yourself down along of your +betters, if you please, madam serving maid? + +[GEORGE comes involuntarily forward and stands behind CLARA'S chair. +CLARA does not move. + +EMILY. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you hear? +[Turning to MILES.] To see the way the young person acts one might +think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare and high. +But you'll not take any fool in, not you, for all that you like to +play the fine lady. Us can see through your game very clear, can't +us, Mr. Hooper? + +MILES. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the +privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could be +mistook by any of the games played by this young person. + +[CLARA looks him gravely in the face without moving. + +EMILY. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes! + +THOMAS. [Nervously.] Nay, nay, 'twas my doing, Emily. I did tell +the wenches as they might sit their-selves along of we, just for th' +occasion like. + +EMILY. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling +about like a lord in my kitchen? + +THOMAS. [Faintly.] Come, Emily, I'm the master. + +EMILY. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London +impudence? + +GEORGE. [Comes forward.] Master Luke be coming up the garden, +mistress. + +[LUKE JENNER enters. He goes straight up to JOAN and holds out his +hand to her, and then to MILES. + +LUKE. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, +my lad, 'tis rare--rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day. + +EMILY. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you've been and kept us waiting more +nor half an hour. Can't you sit yourself down and give other folk a +chance of eating their victuals quiet? There's naught to make all +this giddle-gaddle about as I can see. + +LUKE. [Sitting down in the empty place by JOAN'S side.] Beg pardon, +mistress, I know I'm a bit late. But the victuals as are waited for +do have a better flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from +the pot like. + +THOMAS. That's true 'tis. And 'tis hunger as do make the best +sauce. + +[GEORGE and MAGGIE quietly seat themselves on either side of CLARA. +EMILY is too busy dispensing the food to take any notice. GEORGE +hands plates and dishes to CLARA, and silently cares for her comfort +throughout the meal. + +THOMAS. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn't think to lose my little +sister afore she'd stopped a three days in the place. That I did +not. But I don't grudge her to a fine prospering young man like +friend Hooper, no, I don't. + +EMILY. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See if you +can't make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. [Turning +to LUKE.] We have two serving maids and a man, Mister Jenner, but +they're to be allowed to act the quality to-day, so we've got to wait +upon ourselves. + +LUKE. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, +mistress. That's my saying at home. + +THOMAS. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me +'tis otherwise. I've got another pair of hands in the place as do +for me as well, nor better than my own. + +EMILY. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you'd be without mine. + +THOMAS. I wasn't thinking of yourn, Emily. 'Tis George's hands as I +was speaking of. + +EMILY. [Contemptuously.] George! You'll all find out your mistake +one day, Thomas. + +MILES. [To JOAN, who has been nervously handling her knife and fork +and watching CLARA'S movements furtively.] My sweet Miss is not +shewing any appetite. + +JOAN. I'm--I'm not used to country fare. + +EMILY. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara +can't feed 'cause she's not used to country fare! What next, I'd +like to know! + +ROBIN. [Who has been watching JOAN.] Why does Aunt sometimes put +her knife in her mouth, Mother? + +MILES. My good boy, 'tis plain you've never mixed among the quality +or you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of +acting. This summer 'tis the stylish thing to put on a countryfied +mode at table. + +JESSIE. Joan don't eat like that, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. Joan's only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to +distinguish between such people and fine ladles like your aunt. + +JOAN. [Forcing herself to be more animated.] Give me some fruit, +Miles--I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. 'Tis far too warm. + +MILES. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of my +Missy's voice. + +THOMAS. Ah, 'tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. +There was a day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like. + +EMILY. [Sharply.] I don't seem to remember that day, Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Sheepishly, his look falling.] Ah--'twas afore--afore our +courting time, Emily. + +LUKE. [Energetically.] Prime weather for the hay, farmer. I count +as this dry will last until the whole of it be carried. [A knock is +heard at the door. + +THOMAS. Now who'll that be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the +path, Mother? + +EMILY. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking out +of the window the same time, Thomas? + +THOMAS. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who 'tis. + +[JOAN looks anxiously across the table at CLARA. Then she drops her +spoon and fork and takes up her fan, using it violently whilst GEORGE +slowly gets up and opens the door. LORD LOVEL is seen standing on +the threshold. + +LORD LOVEL. [To GEORGE.] Kindly tell me, my man, is this the farm +they call Ox Lease? + +GEORGE. Ah, that's right enough. + +LORD LOVEL. I'm sorry to break in upon a party like this, but I want +to see Miss Clara Spring if she is here. + +THOMAS. [Standing up.] You've come at the very moment, master. +This be a giving in marriage supper. And 'tis Miss Clara, what's +only sister to me, as is to be wed. + +LORD LOVEL. Impossible, my good sir! + +THOMAS. Ah, that's it. Miles Hooper, he's the happy man. If you be +come by Painswick High Street you'll have seen his name up over the +shop door. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara--Miles Hooper--No, I can't believe it. + +THOMAS. [Pointing towards JOAN and MILES.] There they be--the both +of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. You're right welcome, +master, to sit down along of we as one of the family on this +occasion. + +LORD LOVEL. [Looking at JOAN who has suddenly dropped her fan and is +leaning back with a look of supplication towards CLARA.] I must have +come to the wrong place--that's not the Miss Clara Spring I know. + +MILES. [Bending over JOAN.] My sweet Missy has no acquaintance with +this gentleman, I am sure. + +[LORD LOVEL suddenly turns round and perceives CLARA seated by MAGGIE +at the table. He quickly goes towards her, holding out his hand. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. [Looking at her +cap and apron.] Why have you dressed yourself like this? + +THOMAS. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. +The young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the +Spotted Cow on his way up. + +JOAN. [Very faintly, looking at CLARA.] O do you stand by me now. + +CLARA. [Lays her hand on LORD LOVEL's arm.] Come with me, my lord. +I think I can explain everything if you will only step outside with +me. Come--[She leads him swiftly through the door which GEORGE shuts +behind them.] + +[JOAN leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint. + +THOMAS. Well, now--but that's a smartish wench, getting him out so +quiet, like. George, you'd best step after them to see as the young +man don't annoy her in any way. + +EMILY. That young person can take good care of herself. Sit you +down, Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you can. + +JESSIE. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother? + +EMILY. 'Cause he was in that state when a man don't know his right +leg from his left arm. + +GEORGE. [Who has remained standing.] Look you here, Master Thomas-- +see here mistress. 'Tis time as there was an end of this cursed play +acting, or whatever 'tis called. + +EMILY. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I'd +like for you to know. + +GEORGE. O yes there have been, mistress. And 'tis time it was +finished. [Pointing to JOAN.] You just take and ask that young +person what she do mean by tricking herself out in Miss Clara's gowns +and what not, and by having herself called by Miss Clara's own name. + +MILES. [Taking JOAN'S hand in his.] My sweet Miss must pay no +attention to the common fellow. I dare him to speak like that of my +little lady bride. + +GEORGE. A jay bird in peacock's feathers, that's what 'tis. And +she's took you all in, the every one of you. + +JESSIE. O George, isn't she really our aunt from London? + +GEORGE. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie. + +THOMAS. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore. + +EMILY. 'Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon. + +LUKE. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow in +all the years I've known of him. George baint made to that shape. + +ROBIN. Then who is Aunt Clara, George? + +GEORGE. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, and +none other. + +THOMAS. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish. + +GEORGE. I can't help that, master. Foolish deeds do call for +foolish words, may be. + +MILES. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [He pours out +water for JOAN and bends affectionately over her.] Put the drunken +fellow outside and let's have an end of this. + +GEORGE. [Advancing.] Yes, us'll have an end to it very shortly. +But I be going to put a straight question to the maid first, and 'tis +a straight answer as her'll have to give me in reply. + +MILES. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude +manners. + +GEORGE. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, +and then I'll go when you will. + +MILES. Well, my man, what's that? + +GEORGE. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at +baptism, Mister Hooper. + +MILES. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such +a question. Thomas, you'll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, +or something. + +GEORGE. [Angrily.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all night. + +[JOAN suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands, her +form shaken by violent weeping. The door opens and CLARA enters +followed by LORD LOVEL. She has taken off her cap and apron. + +JOAN. [Raising her head and stretching out her hands to CLARA.] O +speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help. + +CLARA. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to +forgive us both for taking you in like this. + +THOMAS. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing. + +EMILY. I'm not going to believe a word the young person says. + +LORD LOVEL. She has told you but the truth, my good friends. + +EMILY. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I'd like +to know? + +CLARA. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his +name. + +EMILY. If you think I'm going to be took in with such nonsense, the +more fool you, I says. + +LORD LOVEL. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis +Spring. She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their own, +agreed to change parts for a few days. + +THOMAS. [Turning to JOAN.] Is this really so, my maid? + +[JOAN bows her head, her handkerchief still covering her face. + +THOMAS. [To CLARA.] Who ever would have thought on such a thing? + +CLARA. 'Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up, +Joan, and do not cry so pitifully. + +JOAN. [Looking up at MILES.] You'll never go and change towards me +now that we're most as good as wed, will you, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. [Rising and speaking with cold deliberation.] Ladies and +gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening. + +THOMAS. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, it +seems. But things'll settle back to their right places if you gives +them a chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat. + +EMILY. Don't be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what's been stung +by a wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet's nest. + +MILES. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place for me. I +have been sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest. + +JOAN. O Mister Hooper, 'twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for +the best, I did. + +MILES. [Going to the door.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time +you want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select +your partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a suitable +one to toy with, let me tell you. + +ROBIN. Aren't you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper? + +MILES. I am not, Master Robin. + +JESSIE. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but you +couldn't very well, could he, Mother? + +[MILES, covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the +right and left, goes out. JOAN leans back almost fainting in her +chair. + +LUKE. [Taking her hand.] This is the finest hearing in all the +world for me, Miss--Miss Joan. + +JOAN. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me. + +LUKE. And that I'd never do, though I'm blest if I know why you did +it. + +CLARA. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were +things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by +changing places, one with the other. + +THOMAS. [To CLARA.] Well, my maid, I'm blessed if I do know what +you was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving wench. + +CLARA. [Turning a little towards GEORGE.] I thought to find +something which was mine when I was a little child, but which I lost. + +JESSIE. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. 'Twas +he as brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off. + +ROBIN. Yes. And 'twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt +Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield. + +JESSIE. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt all +the time. + +ROBIN. I believe it too. + +THOMAS. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like? + +GEORGE. 'Twas not one, but many things. And if you wants a clear +proof [Turning to CLARA]--put back the laces of your sleeve, Miss +Clara. + +CLARA. What for, George? + +GEORGE. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did +pull up your sleeves. 'Twas then I held the proof. Not that 'twas +needed for me, like. + +[CLARA pushes up both her sleeves, and holds out her arms towards +GEORGE. + +GEORGE. [Pointing to the scar.] There 'tis--there's where th' old +gander have left his mark. + +THE CHILDREN. [Getting up.] Where, where! O do let us see! + +[They run round to where CLARA stands and look eagerly at the mark on +her arm which she shews to them. + +THOMAS. George, my lad, you baint th' only one as can play fox. + +EMILY. Don't you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a +more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when +'twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him. + +THOMAS. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint +th' only fox. How now, my lad? + +GEORGE. I don't see what you be driving at, master. + +THOMAS. [Slyly.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George? + +CLARA. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me. + +GEORGE. [Stepping forward till he is by CLARA'S side.] No, and that +I will not do. 'Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I'll +keep it. + +CLARA. [To GEORGE.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I +can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember the days when you +used to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting +me over the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by +their thorns? + +GEORGE. Hark you here, Clara. This once I'll speak. I never had +but one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through +the woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I learnt she +the note of every bird. And when th' evening was come, us would +watch together till th' old mother badger did get from out of her +hole, and start hunting in the long grasses. + +CLARA. [Taking GEORGE'S hand.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for +the disguise that I put upon myself. + +GEORGE. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint +no cloud upon the sky, Clara? + +CLARA. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might +raise up between you and me. + +THOMAS. That's all finished and done with now, my maid. If I'd a +hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should. + +EMILY. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough. + +LUKE. [Who has been sitting with JOAN'S hand in his.] Hark you +here, mistress. There's many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny +day. Baint that a true saying, Joan? + +JOAN. [Looking up radiantly.] O that it is, dear Luke. + +LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be +said. + +EMILY. And that's the most sensible thing as has been spoke this +long while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, +grizzling sort of a muddler. She might have took up with this young +man, who has a very respectable appearance. + +LORD LOVEL. [Coming forward to GEORGE and shaking his hand.] I'm +proud to make your acquaintance, sir. + +EMILY. [Rising angrily.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us +might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of this +here table. 'Twill be midnight afore the things is cleared away and +washed up. + +THOMAS. What if it be, Emily. 'Tisn't very often as I gets the +chance of minding how 'twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a young +man in those days, too, I was. + +EMILY. And 'tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, Thomas. + +JESSIE. [Slipping her hand into THOMAS'S.] O do let us sit up till +midnight, Dad. + +ROBIN. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +MY MAN JOHN + + + + +CHARACTERS + +MRS. GARDNER. +WILLIAM, her son. +JOHN, his farm hand. +SUSAN, their maid. +JULIA, the owner of Luther's Farm. +LAURA, CHRIS, NAT, TANSIE, gipsies. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +The garden of the Road Farm. To the right an arbour covered with +roses. MRS. GARDNER is seated in it, knitting. WILLIAM is tying up +flowers and watering them. + +MRS. GARDNER. And you have come to a ripe age when 'tis the plain +duty of a man to turn himself towards matrimony, William. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis a bit of quiet that I'm after, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Quiet! 'tis a good shaking up as you want, William. +Why, you have got as set in your ways as last season's jelly. + +WILLIAM. Then let me bide so. 'Tis all I ask. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I'm got to be an old woman now, and 'tis +time that I had someone at my side to help in the house-keeping and +to share the work. + +WILLIAM. What's Susan for, if 'tisn't to do that? + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan? As idle a piece of goods as ever was seen on a +summer's day! No. 'Tisn't a serving maid that I was thinking of, +but someone who should be of more account in the house. 'Tis a +daughter that I'm wanting, William, and I've picked out the one who +is to my taste. + +WILLIAM. Then you've done more than I have, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis the young person whom Luther Smith has left his +farm and all his money to. I've got my eye on her for you, William. + +WILLIAM. Then you'll please to put your eye somewhere else, Mother, +for I've seen them, and they don't suit me. + +MRS. GARDNER. Come, this is news, William. Pray where did you meet? + +WILLIAM. 'Twas when I was in church last Sunday. In they came, the +two young maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie fowls, the +way they did step up over the stones and shake the plumes of them +this way and that. I don't hold with fancy tricks. I never could +abide them. No foreign wenches for me. And that's about all. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis true they are from town, but none the worse for +that, William. You have got sadly rude and cumbersome in your ways, +or you wouldn't feel as you do towards a suitable young person. 'Tis +from getting about with John so much, I think. + +WILLIAM. Now look you here, Mother, I've got used to my own ways, +and when a man's got set in his own ways, 'tis best to leave him +there. I'm past the age for marrying, and you ought to know this +better than anyone. + +MRS. GARDNER. I know that 'tis a rare lot of foolishness that you do +talk, William, seeing as you're not a year past thirty yet. But if +you can't be got to wed for love of a maid, perhaps you'll do so for +love of a purse, when 'tis fairly filled. + +WILLIAM. There's always been enough for you and me so far, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Ah, but that won't last for ever. I'm got an old +woman, and I can't do with the dairy nor the poultry as I was used to +do. And things have not the same prices to them as 'twas a few years +gone by. And last year's season was the worst that I remember. + +WILLIAM. So 'twas. But so long as there's a roof over our heads and +a loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to work on, where's the +harm, Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. O you put me out of all patience, William. Where's +the rent to come from if we go on like this? And the clothing, and +the food? And John's wages, and your flower seeds, if it comes to +that, for you have got terrible wasteful over the flowers. + +WILLIAM. I wish you'd take it quieter, Mother. Look at you bed of +musk, 'tis a grand smell that comes up from it all around. + +MRS. GARDNER. No, William. I've no eye for musk, nor nose to smell +at it either till you've spoken the word that I require. + +WILLIAM. Best let things bide as they are, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. I'll leave you no rest till you do as I wish, William. +I'm got an old woman, and 'tis hard I should be denied in aught that +I've set my heart upon. + +WILLIAM. Please to set it upon something different, Mother, for I'm +not a marrying man, and John he'll tell you the same thing. + +MRS. GARDNER. John! I'm sick of the very name of him. I can't +think how 'tis that you can lower yourself by being so close with a +common farm hand, William. + +WILLIAM. Ah, 'twould be a rare hard matter to find the equal to +John, Mother. 'Tis of gold all through, and every bit of him, that +he is made. You don't see many like John these days, that's the +truth. + +MRS. GARDNER. Well, then, John, won't be here much longer, for we +shan't have anything to give him if things go on like this. + +WILLIAM. I'd wed forty wives sooner than lose John--and that I +would. + +MRS. GARDNER. I'm not asking you to wed forty. 'Tis only one. + +WILLIAM. And that one? + +MRS. GARDNER. The young person who's got Luther's farm. Her name is +Julia. + +WILLIAM. [Leaving his flower border and walking up and down +thoughtfully.] Would she be the one with the cherry colour ribbons +to her gown? + +MRS. GARDNER. I'm sure I don't know. I was not at church last +Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Or t'other one in green? + +MRS. GARDNER. You appear to have used your eyes pretty well, +William. + +WILLIAM. O, I can see a smartish bit about me when I choose. + +MRS. GARDNER. T'other wench is but the housekeeper. + +WILLIAM. Where did you get that from? + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Twas Susan who told me. She got it off someone down +in the village. + +WILLIAM. Well, which of the maids would have had the cherry-coloured +ribbons to her, Mother? + +MRS. GARDNER. I'm sure I don't know, but if you go up there courting +this afternoon, may happen that you'll find out. + +WILLIAM. This afternoon? O, that's much too sudden like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Not a bit of it. Recollect, your fancy has been set +on her since Sunday. + +WILLIAM. Come, Mother, you can't expect a man to jump into the river +all of a sudden like this. + +MRS. GARDNER. I expect you to go up there this very day and to +commence telling her of your feelings. + +WILLIAM. But I've got no feelings that I can tell her of, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you'll please to find some, William. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis a thing that in all my life I've never done as to go +visiting of a strange wench of an afternoon. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then 'tis time you did begin. + +WILLIAM. And what's more, I'll not do it, neither. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then I must tell John that we have no further need of +his services, for where the money to pay him is to come from, I don't +know. + +[She rolls up her knitting and rises. + +WILLIAM. Stop a moment, Mother--stop a moment. Maybe 'twon't be so +bad when I've got more used to the idea. You've pitched it upon me +so sudden like. + +MRS. GARDNER. Rent day has pitched upon me more sudden, William. + +WILLIAM. Look you, Mother, I'll get and turn it about in my mind a +bit. And, maybe, I'll talk it over with John. I can't do more, can +I now? + +MRS. GARDNER. Talk it over with whom you please, William. But +remember 'tis this very afternoon that you have to start courting. +I've laid your best clothes out all ready on your bed. + +WILLIAM. [Sighing heavily.] O then I count there's no way out of +it. But how am I to bring it off? 'Tis that I'd like to know. + +MRS. GARDNER. Maybe your man will be able to give you some suitable +advice. Such things are beyond me, I'm afraid. + +[She gathers up her work things, and with a contemptuous look at her +son, she goes slowly out of the garden. + +[WILLIAM remains on the path lost in perturbed thought. Suddenly he +goes to the gate and calls loudly. + +WILLIAM. John, John! + +JOHN. [From afar.] Yes, master. + +WILLIAM. [Calling.] Come you here, John, as quick as you can run. + +JOHN. That I will, master. + +[JOHN hurries into the garden. + +WILLIAM. John, I'm powerful upset. + +JOHN. Mistress's fowls bain't got among the flowers again, be they, +Master William? + +WILLIAM. No, no, John. 'Tisn't so bad as that. But I'm in a +smartish fix, I can tell you. + +JOHN. How's that, master? + +WILLIAM. John, did you ever go a'courting? + +JOHN. Well, master, that's a thing to ask a man! + +WILLIAM. 'Tis a terrible serious matter, John. Did you ever go? + +JOHN. Courting? + +WILLIAM. Yes. + +JOHN. Why, I count as I have went a score of times, master. + +WILLIAM. A score of times, John! But that was before you were got +to the age you are now? + +JOHN. Before that, and now, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John? + +JOHN. To be sure, master. + +WILLIAM. Then you know how 'tis done? + +JOHN. Ah, that I does, master. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, you're the man for me. + +JOHN. Lord bless us, master, but what have you to do with courting? + +WILLIAM. You may well ask me, John. Why, look you here--until this +very morning, you would say I was a quiet and a peaceable man, with +the right place for everything and everything in its place. + +JOHN. Ah, and that you was, Master William. And a time for all +things too, and a decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served-- +that's truth. + +WILLIAM. Ah, John--the mistress has set her will to change all this. + +JOHN. Now, you'd knock me down with a feather. + +WILLIAM. That she has, John. I've got to set out courting--a thing +I've never thought to do in all my living days. + +JOHN. That I'll be bound you have not, Master William, though a +finer gentleman than yourself is not to be found in all the country +side. + +WILLIAM. [With shy eagerness.] Is that how I appear to you, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that you does, master. And 'tis the wonder with all +for miles around as how you've been and kept yourself to yourself +like this, so many years. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, it appears that I'm to pass out of my own +keeping. My Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, Master William, and 'tis but Thursday too. + +WILLIAM. Isn't that a proper day for this sort of business, John? + +JOHN. I've always been used to Saturday myself, but with a gentleman +'tis different like. + +WILLIAM. Well, John, there's nothing in this day or that as far as I +can see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and the day of it +does make but very little difference. + +JOHN. You're right there, master. But if I may be so bold, where is +it as you be going off courting this afternoon? + +WILLIAM. Ah--now you and me will have a straight talk one with +another--for 'tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of this fix +where the mistress has gone and put me. + +JOHN. And that I'll do, master--with all the will in the world. + +WILLIAM. Well then, John, 'tis to be one of those maids from strange +parts who are come to live at old Luther's, up yonder. + +JOHN. Ah, I seed the pair of them in church last Sunday. Fine +maids, the both of them, and properly suitable if you was to ask me. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis only the one I've got to court, John. + +JOHN. And I reckon that's one too many, Master William. + +WILLIAM. You're right there, John. 'Tis Mistress Julia I've to go +at. + +JOHN. And which of the pair would that be, Master William? + +WILLIAM. That one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown, I +believe. + +JOHN. Ah, t'other was plainer in her dressing, and did keep the head +of her bent smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn't get a +fair look upon she. + +WILLIAM. That would be the housekeeper or summat. 'Tis Julia, who +has the old man's money, I'm to court. + +JOHN. Well, master, I'll come along with you a bit of the road, to +keep your heart up like. + +WILLIAM. You must do more than that for me, John. You've got to +learn me how the courting is done before I set off. + +JOHN. Why, master, courting baint a thing what wants much learning, +that's the truth. + +WILLIAM. 'Tis all new to me, John. I'm blessed if I know how to +commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends me hot all over; and +then as cold again. + +JOHN. You start and get your clothes on, master. 'Tis half the +battle--clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his mouth of a +Saturday will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday with his best +coat to his back. + +WILLIAM. No, John. The clothes won't help me in this fix. You must +tell me how to start once I get to the farm and am by the door. + +JOHN. You might take a nosegay with you, master. + +WILLIAM. I might. And yet, 'tis a pity to cut the blooms for +naught. + +JOHN. I always takes a nosegay with me, of a Saturday night. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, who is it that you are courting then? + +JOHN. 'Tis that wench Susan, since you ask me, master. But not a +word of it to th' old mistress. + +WILLIAM. I'll not mention it, John. + +JOHN. Thank you kindly, master. + +WILLIAM. And now, John, when the nosegay's all gathered and the +flowers bunched, what else should I do? + +JOHN. Well, then you gives it her when you gets to the door. And +very like she'll ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be a +particular fine looking gentleman. + +WILLIAM. I could not stand that, John. I've no tongue to me within +a strange house. + +JOHN. Well then, maybe as you and she will sit aside of one another +in an arbour in the garden, or sommat of the sort. + +WILLIAM. Yes, John. And what next? + +JOHN. I'm blessed if I do know, master. You go along and commence. + +WILLIAM. No, John, and that I won't. Not till I know more about it +like. + +JOHN. Well, master, I'm fairly puzzled hard to tell you. + +WILLIAM. I have the very thought, John. Do you bring Susan out +here. I'll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you get and court +her as well as you know how; and maybe that will learn me something. + +JOHN. Susan's a terrible hard wench to court, Master William. + +WILLIAM. 'Twill make the better lesson, John. + +JOHN. 'Tis a stone in place of a heart what Susan's got. + +WILLIAM. 'Twill very likely be the same with Julia. Go and bring +her quickly, John. + +[WILLIAM places himself behind the arbour. + +JOHN. As you will, master--but Susan have been wonderful nasty in +her ways with me of late. 'Tis my belief as she have took up with +one of they low gipsy lads what have been tenting up yonder, against +the wood. + +WILLIAM. Well, 'twill be your business to win her back to you, John. +See--am I properly hid, behind the arbour? + +JOHN. Grandly hid, master--I'll go and fetch the wench. [JOHN +leaves the garden. + +[WILLIAM remains hidden behind the arbour. After a few minutes JOHN +returns pulling SUSAN by the hand. + +SUSAN. And what are you about, bringing me into master's flower +garden at this time of the morning? I should like for mistress to +look out of one of the windows--you'd get into fine trouble, and me +too, John. + +JOHN. Susan, my dear, you be a passing fine wench to look upon, and +that's the truth. + +SUSAN. And is it to tell me such foolishness that you've brought me +all the way out of the kitchen? + +JOHN. [Stooping and picking a dandelion.] And to give you this +flower, dear Susan. + +SUSAN. [Throwing it down.] A common thing like that! I'll have +none of it. + +JOHN. 'Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan. The blue +fire do fairly leap from your eyes. + +SUSAN. O you're enough to anger a saint, John. What have you +brought me here for? + +JOHN. I thought I'd like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, +Susan. And that I did never see a finer. + +SUSAN. You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what +Master William's so powerful set on. + +JOHN. Ah--and 'tis true as you have sommat of the look of she when +you stands a pawing of the ground as you be now. + +SUSAN. Is it to insult me that you've got me away from the kitchen, +John? + +JOHN. Nay--'tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish wench--and +I'll go along to the church with you any day as you will name, my +dear. + +SUSAN. That you won't, John. I don't mind taking a nosegay of +flowers from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over +the garden gate of an evening, but I'm not a-going any further along +the road with you. That's all. [She moves towards the house. + +JOHN. Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan--and let me say sommat +of all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in +my heart for you. + +SUSAN. They may stir within you like an old waspes' nest for all I +care, John. + +JOHN. Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they. You +can speak honey sweet when it do please you to. + +SUSAN. 'Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, John. + +JOHN. I gets enough of that from mistress--I mean--well--I mean--[in +a loud, clear voice] --O mistress is a wonderful fine woman and no +mistake. + +SUSAN. You won't say as much when she comes round the corner and +catches you a wasting of your time like this, John. + +JOHN. Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of +the finest rose what blooms, Susan? + +SUSAN. Is that me, John? + +JOHN. Who else should it be, Susan? + +SUSAN. Well, John--sometimes I think there's not much amiss with +you. + +JOHN. O Susan, them be grand words. + +SUSAN. But then again--I do think as you be getting too much like +Master William. + +JOHN. And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth. + +SUSAN. Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. +And you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John. + +JOHN. Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way. + +SUSAN. I'm not so sure as I do, John. + +JOHN. Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan. + +SUSAN. And that I'll not. And what's more, I'm not a-going to stop +here talking foolish with you any longer. I've work to do within. +[SUSAN goes off. + +[JOHN, mopping his face and speaking regretfully as WILLIAM steps +from behind the arbour. + +JOHN. There, master. That's courting for you. That's the sort of +thing. And a caddling thing it is too. + +WILLIAM. But 'tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John. +And 'tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this +afternoon, there--that's what I've come to in my thoughts. + +JOHN. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now? + +WILLIAM. See here, John--we'll cut a nosegay for you to carry--some +of the best blooms I'll spare. And you, who know what courting is, +and who have such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once +and do the business for me. + +JOHN. Master, if 'twas an acre of stone as you'd asked me to plough, +I'd sooner do it nor a job like this. + +WILLIAM. John, you've been a good friend to me all the years that +you have lived on the farm, you'll not go and fail me now. + +JOHN. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William? +'Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of +she. + +WILLIAM. Your words are all right, John. 'Tisn't as though sensible +speech was needed. You do know what's wanted with the maids, whilst +I have never been used to them in any way whatever. So let's say no +more about it, but commence gathering the flowers. + +JOHN. [Heavily, but resigned.] Since you say so, master. [They +begin to gather flowers. + +WILLIAM. What blooms do young maids like the best, John? + +JOHN. Put in a sprig of thyme, master. + +WILLIAM. Yes--I can well spare that. + +JOHN. And a rose that's half opened, master. + +WILLIAM. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, +John. + +JOHN. 'Tain't likely as you can get through courtship without +parting with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you're called +upon to spill. + +WILLIAM. That's true, John--I'll gather the rose - + +JOHN. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave +flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out +of they. + +WILLIAM. Put them into the nosegay, John--And now--no more--'Tis +enough waste for one day. + +JOHN. 'Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I. + +WILLIAM. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John. + +JOHN. 'Tis to be hoped as 'twill be the same with the lady, master. + +WILLIAM. There, off you go, John. And mind, 'tis her with the +cherry ribbon to her gown and bonnet. + +JOHN. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her head +this day, being that 'tis Thursday? + +WILLIAM. An eye like--like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to +the face of her like yon rose. + +JOHN. That's enough, Master William. I'll not pitch upon the wrong +maid, never fear. And now I'll clean myself up a bit at the pump, +and set off straight away. + +WILLIAM. [Shaking JOHN's hand.] Good luck to you, my man. And if +you can bring it off quiet and decent like without me coming in till +at the last, why, 'tis a five pound note that you shall have for your +trouble. + +JOHN. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no +mistake about that. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +A wood. To the right a fallen tree (or a bench). JOHN comes from +the left, a large bunch of flowers in his hand. + +JOHN. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? Well, +bless my soul, but 'tis a rare caddling business what master's put +upon I. 'Tis worse nor any job he have set me to in all the years +I've been along of him, so 'tis. But I'm the one to bring it off +slick and straight, and, bless me, if I won't take and hide myself by +yon great bush till I see the wenches a-coming up. That'll give me +time to have a quiet look at the both and pick out she what master's +going a-courting of. + +[JOHN puts himself behind some thick bushes as JULIA and LAURA come +forward. JULIA is very simply dressed. Her head is bare, and she is +carrying her white cotton sunbonnet. LAURA wears finer clothes and +her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry colour. + +LAURA. [Stopping by the bench.] We'll sit down--'Tis a warm day, +and I've had enough of walking. + +[She sinks down on the seat. + +JULIA. [Looking all round her.] 'Tis beautiful and quiet here. O +this is ever so much better than the farm. + +LAURA. The farm! What's wrong with that, I should like to know? + +JULIA. Everything. 'Tis more like a prison than a home to me. +Within the house there's always work crying out to be done--and +outside I believe 'tis worse--work--nothing else speaking to me. + +LAURA. You're a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there's many would give +their eyes to change with you. + +JULIA. But out here 'tis all peace, and freedom. There's naught +calling out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and the +breezes move them this way, and that. The ground is thick with +leaves and blossoms and no one has got to sweep it, and the hard +things with great noises to them, like pails and churns, are far away +and clean forgot. + +LAURA. 'Tisn't much use as you'll be on the farm. + +JULIA. I wish I'd never come nigh to it. I was happier far before. + +LAURA. 'Tis a grand life. You'll see it as I do one of these days. + +JULIA. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear the +cattle lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and 'tis a +heart of lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers in +the fields calls me, but 'tis to the dairy I must go, to work. And +at noonday, when the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for its +coolness, 'tis the kitchen I must be in--or picking green stuff for +the market. And so on till night, when the limbs of me can do no +more and the spirit in me is like a bird with the wing of it broken. + +LAURA. You'll harden to it all by winter time right enough. + +JULIA. O I'll never harden to it. 'Tis not that way I am made. +Some girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do +their task nor ask for anything beyond, but 'tis not so with me. + +LAURA. How is it then with you? + +JULIA. [Pointing.] There--see that blue thing yonder flying from +one blossom to another. That's how 'tis with me. Shut me up close +in one place, I perish. Let me go free, and I can fly and live. + +LAURA. You do talk a powerful lot of foolishness that no one could +understand. + +JULIA. O, do not let us talk at all. Let us bide still, and get +ourselves refreshed by the sweetness and the wildness of the forest. + +JULIA turns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood +around her. + +LAURA arranges her ribbons and smoothes out her gown. Neither of +them speak for a few minutes. + +LAURA. [Looking up and pointing.] See those strange folk over +there? What are they? + +JULIA. [Looking in the same direction.] I know them. They are +gipsies from the hill near to us. + +LAURA. They should be driven away then. I don't like such folk +roosting around. + +JULIA. But I do. They are friends to me. Many's the time I have +run out at dusk to speak with them as they sit round their fire. + +LAURA. Then you didn't ought to have done so. Let's get off now, +before they come up. + +JULIA. No, no. Let us talk to them all. [Calling.] Tansie and +Chris, come you here and sit down alongside of us. [CHRIS, NAT, and +TANSIE come up. + +CHRIS. Good morning to you, mistress. 'Tis a fine brave day, to- +day. + +JULIA. That it is, Chris. There never was so fine a day. And we +have come to spend all of it in this forest. + +TANSIE. Ah, but 'tis warm upon the high road. + +NAT. We be come right away from the town, mistress. + +JULIA. Then sit down, all of you, and we will talk in the cool +shade. + +LAURA. Not here, if you please. I am not used to such company. + +JULIA. Not here? Very well, my friends, let us go further into the +wood and you shall stretch yourselves under the green trees and we +will all rest there together. + +LAURA. Well, what next! You might stop to consider how 'twill look +in the parish. + +JULIA. How what will look? + +LAURA. How 'twill look for you to be seen going off in such company +like this. + +JULIA. The trees have not eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. +There's no one to see me but you, and you can turn your head t'other +way. Come Tansie, come + +Chris. [She turns towards the three gipsies. + +TANSIE. Nat's in a sorry way, this morning--baint you, Nat? + +NAT. Let I be. You do torment anyone till they scarce do know if +they has senses to them or no. + +TANSIE. You're not one to miss what you never had, Nat. + +CHRIS. Let the lad bide in quiet, will you. 'Tis a powerful little +nagging wench as you be. + +JULIA. Why are you heavy and sad this fine day, Nat? + +TANSIE. 'Tis love what's the matter with he, mistress. + +JULIA. Love? O, that's not a thing that should bring heaviness or +gloom, but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips. + +TANSIE. Ah, but when there's been no meeting in the dusk since +Sunday, and no message sent! + +CHRIS. Keep that tongue of your'n where it should be, and give over, +Tansie. Susan's not one as would play tricks with her lad. + +JULIA. Now I have a thirst to hear all about this, Nat, so come off +further into the wood, all of you, where we can speak in quiet. + +[She holds out her hand to NAT. + +LAURA. Upon my word, but something must be done to bring these +goings on to an end. + +JULIA. Come, Nat--you shall tell me all your trouble. I understand +the things of the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know how to +give you comfort in your distress--come + +[JULIA and NAT, followed by CHRIS and TANSIE, move off out of sight. +LAURA is left sitting on the bench alone. Presently JOHN comes out +carefully from behind the bushes, holding his bunch of flowers. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +LAURA. The same to you, master. + +JOHN. Folks do call me John. + +LAURA. Indeed? Good morning, John. + +JOHN. A fine brave sun to-day, mistress. + +LAURA. But pleasant enough here in the shade. + +JOHN. Now, begging your pardon, but what you wants over the head of +you baint one of these great trees full of flies and insects, but an +arbour trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at +his place yonder. + +LAURA. Indeed? And who may your master be, John? + +JOHN. 'Tis Master William Gardner, what's the talk of the country +for miles around, mistress. And that he be. + +LAURA. Master William Gardner! What, he of Road Farm? + +JOHN. The very same, mistress. And as grand a gentleman as anyone +might wish for to see. + +LAURA. Yes--I seem to have heard something told about him, but I +don't rightly remember what 'twas. + +JOHN. You may have heard tell as the finest field of beans this +season, that's his. + +LAURA. I don't think 'twas of beans that I did hear. + +JOHN. Or that 'twas his spotted hilt what fetched the highest price +of any in the market Saturday? + +LAURA. No, 'twasn't that neither. + +JOHN. Or that folks do come as thick as flies on a summer's day from +all parts of the country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. Ah, +and before 'tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for it, all of +them, like a pack of dogs with a bone. So 'tis. + +LAURA. 'Twasn't that, I don't think. + +JOHN. Or 'twas that th' old missis--she as is mother to Master +William--her has a tongue what's sharper nor longer than any vixen's +going. But that's between you and I, missis. + +LAURA. Ah--'Twas that I did hear tell of. Now I remember it. + +JOHN. But Master William--the tongue what he do keep be smooth as +honey, and a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the +chance. + +LAURA. Indeed? He must be a pleasant sort of a gentleman. + +JOHN. For he could be led with kindness same as anything else. But +try for to drive him, as old Missis do--and very likely 'tis hoofed +as you'll get for your pains. + +LAURA. I like a man with some spirit to him, myself. + +JOHN. Ah, Master William has a rare spirit to him, and that he has. +You should hear him when th' old Missis's fowls be got into his +flower garden. 'Tis sommat as is not likely to be forgot in a hurry. +That 'tisn't. + +LAURA. You carry a handsome nosegay of blossoms there, John. Are +they from your master's garden? + +JOHN. Ah, there're not amiss. I helped for to raise they too. + +LAURA. And to whom are you taking them now, John? + +JOHN. To the lady what my master's a-courting of, mistress. + +LAURA. And whom may that be, John? + +JOHN. Why, 'tis yourself, mistress. + +LAURA. Me, John? Why, I've never clapped eyes on Master William +Gardner so far as I know of. + +JOHN. But he've clapped eyes on you, mistress--'twas at Church last +Sunday. And 'tis not a bit of food, nor a drop of drink, nor an hour +of sleep, as Master William have taken since. + +LAURA. O, you do surprise me, John? + +JOHN. That's how 'tis with he, mistress. 'Tis many a year as I've +served Master William--but never have I seen him in the fix where he +be in to-day. + +LAURA. Why--how is it with him then? + +JOHN. As it might be with the cattle when the flies do buzz about +they, thick in the sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a- +trampling and a-tossing, and never a minute's rest. + +LAURA. Well, now--to think of such a thing. Indeed! + +JOHN. I've seen a horse right up to the neck of him in that old quag +ahind of our place--a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth and a- +plunging so as 'twould terrify anyone to harken to it. And that's +how 'tis to-day with Master William up at home, so 'tis. + +LAURA. And only saw me once--at Church last Sunday, John? + +JOHN. Ah--and they old maid flies do sting but once, but 'tis a +terrible big bump as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that 'tis. + +LAURA. O John--'tis a fine thing to be loved like that. + +JOHN. So I should say--ah, 'tisn't every day that a man like Master +William goes a-courting. + +LAURA. But he hasn't set out yet, John. + +JOHN. You take and hold the nosegay, mistress, and I'll go straight +off and fetch him, so being as you're agreeable. + +LAURA. O yes, and that I am, John--You go and fetch him quick. I'll +bide here gladly, waiting till he comes. + +JOHN. That's it. I knowed you for a sensible lady the moment I +pitched my eyes on to you. And when master do come up, you take and +talk to him nicely and meek-like and lead him on from one thing to +t'other: and you'll find as he'll go quiet as a sheep after the +first set off, spite of the great spirit what's at the heart of he. + +LAURA. John, I'll do all as you say, and more than all. Only, you +get along and send him quickly to me. And--yes, you might give him a +good hint, John--I'm not averse to his attentions. + +JOHN. Ah, and I should think you wasn't, for 'twould be a hard job +to find a nicer gentleman nor Master William. + +LAURA. That I know it would. Why, John, my heart's commenced +beating ever so fast, it has. + +JOHN. Then you may reckon how 'tis with the poor master! Why, 'tis +my belief as 'twill be raving madness as'll be the end of he if +sommat don't come to put a finish to this unrest. + +LAURA. O John, 'twould never do for such a fine gentleman to go +crazy. Do you set off quick and send him along to me, and I'll take +and do my very best for to quiet him, like. + +JOHN. [Rising and about to set off.] Ah, 'tis a powerful lot of +calming as Master William do require. But you be the one for to give +it him. You just bide where you do sit now whilst I goes and fetches +him, mistress. + +LAURA. O that I will, my good, dear John. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +The same wood. + +WILLIAM and JOHN come up. WILLIAM carries a large market basket +containing vegetables. + +JOHN. [Looking round and seeing no one.] Bless my soul, but 'twas +on the seat as I did leave she. + +WILLIAM. We have kept her waiting a bit too long whilst we were +cutting the green stuff. And now 'twill be best to let matters bide +over till to-morrow. + +JOHN. Why, master 'tis my belief as you be all of a-tremble like. + +WILLIAM. I wish we were well out of this business, John. 'Tis not +to my liking in any way. + +JOHN. 'Tis a fine looking lady, and that 'tis. You take and court +her, Master William. + +WILLIAM. How am I to court the wench when she's not here? + +JOHN. [Pointing.] Look yonder, master, there she comes through them +dark trees. + +WILLIAM. You've got to bide somewhere nigh me, John. I could not be +left alone with a wench who's a stranger to me. + +JOHN. Don't you get flustered, Master William. See here, I'll hide +me ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should want me, why, +there I'm close at hand. + +WILLIAM. I'd rather you did stand at my side, John. + +[JOHN hides himself behind the bushes. LAURA comes slowly up. +WILLIAM stands awkwardly before her, saying nothing. Presently he +takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily and she bows to him. For +some moments they stand embarrassed, looking at one another. + +WILLIAM. [Suddenly bringing out a bunch of carrots from his basket +and holding them up.] See these young carrots, mistress. + +LAURA. Indeed I do, master. + +WILLIAM. 'Tisn't everywhere that you do see such fine grown ones for +the time of year. + +LAURA. You're right there, master. We have none of them up at our +place. + +WILLIAM. [Holding them towards her.] Then be pleased to accept +these, mistress. + +LAURA. [Taking the carrots.] Thank you kindly, master. [There is +another embarrassed silence. WILLIAM looks distractedly from LAURA +to his basket. Then he takes out a bunch of turnips. + +WILLIAM. You couldn't beat these nowhere, not if you were to try. + +LAURA. I'm sure you could not, master. + +WILLIAM. They do call this sort the Early Snowball. 'Tis a foolish +name for a table root. + +LAURA. 'Tis a beautiful turnip. + +WILLIAM. [Giving her the bunch.] You may as well have them too. + +LAURA. O you're very kind, master. + +[There is another long silence. WILLIAM shuffles on his feet--LAURA +bends admiringly over her gifts. + +WILLIAM. There's young beans and peas and a spring cabbage too, +within the basket. I do grow a little of most everything. + +LAURA. O shall we sit down and look at the vegetables together? + +WILLIAM. [Visibly relieved.] We might do worse nor that. [They sit +down side by side with the basket between them. + +LAURA. [Lifting the cabbage.] O, this is quite a little picture! +See how the leaves do curl backwards--so fresh and green! + +WILLIAM. Ah, and that one has a rare white heart to it, it has. + +LAURA. I do love the taste of a spring cabbage, when it has a slice +of fat bacon along with it. + +WILLIAM. I might have brought a couple of pounds with me if I'd have +thought. Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging in the +pantry. + +LAURA. [Shyly.] Next time, maybe. + +WILLIAM. [Eagerly.] 'Twouldn't take ten minutes for me to run back. + +LAURA. Not now--O no master--not now. Do you bide a little longer +here and tell me about--about t'other things in the basket. + +WILLIAM. [Mopping his face with a handkerchief.] Well--there's the +beans--I count that yours haven't come up very smart this year. + +LAURA. That they've not. The whole place has been let to run +dreadful wild. + +WILLIAM. I'd--I'd like to show you how 'tis in my garden, one of +these days. + +LAURA. I'd be very pleased to walk along with you there. + +WILLIAM. [Hurriedly.] Ah--you should see it later on when the--the- +-the parsnips are a bit forrarder. + +LAURA. I'd like to see the flower garden now, where this nosegay +came from. + +WILLIAM. [Looking round uneasily.] I don't know what the folks +would say if they were to see you and me a-going on the road in broad +day--I'm sure I don't. + +LAURA. Why, what should they say, Master Gardner? + +WILLIAM. They might get saying--they might say as--as I'd got a- +courting, or sommat foolish. + +LAURA. Well--and would that be untrue? + +WILLIAM. [Looking at her very uncomfortably.] I'm blessed if I do +know--I mean - + +LAURA. This nosegay--and look, those young carrots--and the turnips +and beans, why did you bring them for me, master, unless it was that +you intended something by it? + +WILLIAM. [Very confused.] That's so. So 'tis. That's true. I +count you have got hold of the sow by the ear right enough this time. +And the less said about it the better. [A slight silence. + +LAURA. [Looking up shyly in WILLIAM's face.] What was it drew you +to me first, master? + +WILLIAM. I believe 'twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced to take +notice of you, like. + +LAURA. Yes, but what was it about me that took your fancy in Church +on Sunday? + +WILLIAM. I'm blessed if I know, unless 'twas those coloured ribbons +that you have got to your bonnet. + +LAURA. You are partial to the colour? + +WILLIAM. Ah, 'tis well enough. + +LAURA. See here. [Taking a flower from her dress.] This is of the +same colour. I will put it in your coat. + +[She fastens it in his coat. WILLIAM looks very uncomfortable and +nervous. + +WILLIAM. Well, bless my soul, but women folk have got some powerful +strange tricks to them. + +LAURA. [Pinning the flower in its place.] There--my gift to you, +master. + +WILLIAM. You may call me by my name, if you like, 'tis more +suitable, seeing that we might go along to Church together one of +these days. + +LAURA. O William, you have made me very happy--I do feel all mazy +like with my gladness. + +WILLIAM. Well, Julia, we might do worse than to--to--name the day. + +LAURA. Why do you call me Julia? + +WILLIAM. Seeing that I've given you leave to call me William 'tis +only suitable that I should use your name as well. + +LAURA. But my name is not Julia. + +WILLIAM. What is it then, I should like to know? + +LAURA. 'Tis Laura, William. + +WILLIAM. Folks did tell me that you were named Julia. + +LAURA. No--Laura is my name; but I live with Mistress Julia up at +Luther's Farm, and I help her with the work. House-keeping, dairy, +poultry, garden. O there's nothing I can't turn my hand to, Master +William. + +WILLIAM. [Starts up from the seat in deepest consternation.] John, +John--Come you here, I say! Come here. + +JOHN. [Emerges from the bushes.] My dearest master! + +WILLIAM. What's this you've been and done, John? + +JOHN. Why, master--the one with the cherry ribbons, to her you did +say. + +WILLIAM. [Disgustedly.] 'Tis the wrong one. + +LAURA. What are you two talking about? William, do you mean to say +as that man of yours was hid in the bushes all the while? + +WILLIAM. Now, John, you've got to get me out of the fix where I'm +set. + +JOHN. O my dear master, don't you take on so. 'Tis a little bit of +misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right very soon. + +WILLIAM. Then you get to work and set it right, John, for 'tis +beyond the power of me to do so. I'll be blessed if I'll ever get +meddling with this sort of job again. + +JOHN. Now don't you get so heated, master, but leave it all to me. +[Turning to LAURA.] My good wench, it seems that there has been a +little bit of misunderstanding between you and my gentleman here. + +LAURA. [Angrily.] So that's what you call it--misunderstanding 'tis +a fine long word, but not much of meaning, to it, I'm thinking. + +JOHN. Then you do think wrong. Suppose you was to go to market for +to buy a nice spring chicken and when you was got half on the way to +home you was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl in place +of it, what would you do then? + +LAURA. I don't see that chickens or fowls have anything to do with +the matter. + +JOHN. Then you're not the smart maid I took you for. 'Tis not you +as would be suitable in my master's home. And what's more, 'tis not +you as my master's come a-courting of. + +LAURA. If 'tis not me, who is it then? + +[WILLIAM looks at her sheepishly and then turns away. + +JOHN. 'Tis your mistress, since you wants to know. + +LAURA. [Indignantly.] O, I see it all now--How could I have been so +misled! + +JOHN. However could poor master have been so mistook, I say. + +LAURA. [Turning away passionately.] O, I've had enough of you and-- +and your master. + +JOHN. Now that's what I do like for to hear. Because me and master +have sommat else to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in this old wood +the rest of the day. Us have got a smartish lot of worry ahead of +we, haven't us, master? + +WILLIAM. You never said a truer word, John. + +JOHN. Come along then Master William. You can leave the spring +vegetables to she. 'Tis more nor she deserves, seeing as her might +have known as 'twas her mistress the both of us was after, all the +time. + +[LAURA throws herself on the seat and begins to cry silently, but +passionately. + +WILLIAM. O John, this courting, 'tis powerful heavy work. + +JOHN. [Taking WILLIAM'S arm.] Come you along with me, master, and +I'll give you a helping hand with it all. + +LAURA. [Looking up and speaking violently.] I warrant you will, you +clown. But let me advise you to look better afore you leap next +time, or very likely 'tis in sommat worse than a ditchful of nettles +as you'll find yourself. + +JOHN. [Looking back over his shoulders as he goes off with WILLIAM.] +I reckon as you've no call to trouble about we, mistress. Us is they +what can look after theirselves very well. Suppose you was to wash +your face and dry your eyes and set about the boiling of yon spring +cabbage. 'Twould be sensibler like nor to bide grizzling after one +as is beyond you in his station, so 'twould. + +[JOHN and WILLIAM go out, leaving LAURA weeping on the bench, the +basket of vegetables by her side. + +[Curtain.] + + + +ACT II.--Scene 3. + + + +JULIA is sitting at the foot of a tree in the wood. CHRIS, NAT and +TANSIE are seated near her on the ground. + +JULIA. I wish this day might last for always. + +CHRIS. Why, when to-morrow's come, 'twill be the same. + +JULIA. That it will not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow's work. + +TANSIE. One day 'tis much the same as t'other with me. + +NAT. 'Tis what we gets to eat as do make the change. + +TANSIE. I should have thought as how a grand young mistress like +yourself might have had the days to your own liking. + +JULIA. Ah, and so I did once. But that was before Uncle died and +left me the farm. Now, 'tis all different with the days. + +CHRIS. How was it with you afore then, mistress? + +JULIA. Much the same as 'tis with that bird flying yonder. I did so +as I listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was up, then I +did sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when 'twas dark, why, then +I did roam. There was naught to hold me back from my fancy. + +TANSIE. And how is it now with you, mistress? + +JULIA. 'Tis all said in one word. + +CHRIS. What's that? + +JULIA. 'Tis "work." + +NAT. Work? + +CHRIS. Work? + +TANSIE. Work! And yet 'tis a fine young lady as you do look in your +muslin gown with silky ribbons to it and all. + +JULIA. I'm a farmer, Tansie. And for a farmer 'tis work of one +sort, or t'other from when the sun is up till the candle has burned +itself short. If 'tisn't working with my own hands, 'tis driving of +the hands of another. + +CHRIS. I've heard tell as a farmer do spin gold all the day same as +one of they great spiders as go putting out silk from their mouths. + +JULIA. And what is gold to me, Chris, who have no one but myself to +spend it on + +CHRIS. Folks do say as the laying up of gold be one of the finest +things in the world. + +JULIA. It will never bring happiness to me, Chris. + +CHRIS. Come, mistress, 'tis a fine thing to have a great stone roof +above the head of you. + +JULIA. I'd sooner get my shelter from the green leaves. + +NAT. And a grand thing to have your victuals spread afore you each +time 'stead of having to go lean very often. + +JULIA. O, a handful of berries and a drink of fresh water is enough +for me. + +TANSIE. And beautiful it must be to stretch the limbs of you upon +feathers when night do come down, with a fine white sheet drawn up +over your head. + +JULIA. O, I could rest more sweetly on the grass and moss yonder. + +NAT. I did never sleep within four walls but once, and then 'twas in +gaol. + +JULIA. O Nat, you were never in gaol, were you? + +NAT. 'Twas that they mistook I for another. And when the morning +did come, they did let I go again. + +CHRIS. I count 'twas a smartish long night, that! + +NAT. 'Twas enough for to shew me how it do feel when anyone has got +to bide sleeping with the walls all around of he. + +JULIA. And the ceiling above, Nat. And locked door. And other folk +lying breathing in the house, hard by. All dark and close. + +CHRIS. And where us may lie, the air do run swift over we. We has +the smell of the earth and the leaves on us as we do sleep. There +baint no darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through up +yonder. + +TANSIE. And no sound of other folk breathing but the crying of th' +owls and the foxes' bark. + +JULIA. Ah, that must be a grand sound, the barking of a fox. I +never did hear one. Never. + +CHRIS. Ah, 'tis a powerful thin sound, that--but one to raise the +hair on a man's head and to clam the flesh of he, at dead of night. + +NAT. You come and bide along of we one evening, and you shall +hearken to the fox, and badger too, if you've the mind. + +JULIA. O that would please me more than anything in the world. + +TANSIE. And when 'twas got a little lighter, so that the bushes +could be seen, and the fields, I'd shew you where the partridge has +her nest beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten them +too. + +CHRIS. And I'll take and lead you to a place what I do know of, +where the water flows clear as a diamond over the stones. And if you +bides there waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come along-- +and there's a dinner such as the Queen might not get every day of the +week. + +JULIA. O Chris, who is there to say I must bide in one place when +all in me is thirsting to be in t'other! + +CHRIS. I'm sure I don't know. + +NAT. I should move about where I did like, if 'twas me. + +TANSIE. A fine young lady like you can do as she pleases. + +JULIA. Well then, it pleases me to bide with you in the free air. + +CHRIS. Our life, 'tis a poor life, and wandering. 'Tis food one +day, and may be going without the next. 'Tis the sun upon the faces +of us one hour--and then the rain. But 'tis in freedom that us +walks, and we be the masters of our own limbs. + +JULIA. Will you be good to me if I journey with you? + +CHRIS. Ah, 'tis not likely as I'll ever fail you, mistress. + +JULIA. Do not call me mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia. + +CHRIS. 'Tis a well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as clear +water upon the tongue. + +JULIA. Tansie, how will it be for me to go with you? + +TANSIE. 'Twill be well enough with the spirit of you I don't doubt, +but how'll it be with the fine clothes what you have on? + +NAT. [Suddenly looking up.] Why, there's Susan coming. + +JULIA. [Looking in the same direction.] So that is Susan? + +TANSIE. I count as her has had a smartish job to get away from th' +old missis so early in the day. + +CHRIS. 'Tis a rare old she cat, and handy with the claw's of her, +Susan's missis. + +[SUSAN comes shyly forward. + +NAT. Come you here, Susan, and sit along of we. + +JULIA. Yes, sit down with us in this cool shade, Susan. You look +warm from running. + +SUSAN. O, I didn't know you was here, Mistress Julia. + +JULIA. Well, Susan, and so you live at Road Farm. Are you happy +there? + +SUSAN. I should be if 'twern't for mistress. + +JULIA. No mistress could speak harshly to you, Susan--you are so +young and pretty. + +SUSAN. Ah, but mistress takes no account of aught but the work you +does, and the tongue of her be wonderful lashing. + +JULIA. Then how comes it that you have got away to the forest so +early on a week day? + +SUSAN. 'Tis that mistress be powerful took up with sommat else this +afternoon, and so I was able to run out for a while and her didn't +notice me. + +TANSIE. Why Su, what's going on up at the farm so particular to-day? + +SUSAN. 'Tis courting. + +ALL. Courting? + +SUSAN. Yes. That 'tis. 'Tis our Master William what's dressed up +in his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting with a basket of green +stuff on his arm big enough to fill the market, very nigh. + +CHRIS. Well, well, who'd have thought he had it in him? + +NAT. He's a gentleman what's not cut out for courting, to my mind. + +SUSAN. Indeed he isn't, Nat. And however the mistress got him +dressed and set off on that business, I don't know. + +JULIA. But you have not told us who the lady is, Susan. + +SUSAN. [Suddenly very embarrassed.] I--I--don't think as I do +rightly know who 'tis, mistress. + +CHRIS. Why, look you, Susan, you'll have to take and hide yourself +if you don't want for them to know as you be got along of we. + +SUSAN. What's that, Chris? + +CHRIS. [Pointing.] See there, that man of Master Gardner's be a- +coming along towards us fast. Look yonder - + +SUSAN. O whatever shall I do? 'Tis John, and surely he will tell of +me when he gets back. + +SAT. Come you off with me afore he do perceive you, Susan. I'll +take you where you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the world if +you'll but come along of me. + +JULIA. That's it. Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. And do you +go along too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in the +stillness of the wood for a while. + +[SUSAN, TANSIE and NAT go out. + +CHRIS. Be I to leave you too, Julia? + +JULIA. [Slowly.] Only for a little moment, Chris; then you can come +for me again. I would like to stay with myself in quiet for a while. +New thoughts have come into my mind and I cannot rightly understand +what they do say to me, unless I hearken to them alone. + +CHRIS. Then I'll leave you, Julia. For things be stirring powerful +in my mind too, and I'd give sommat for to come to an understanding +with they. Ah, that I would. + +[They look at one another in silence for a moment, then CHRIS slowly +follows the others, leaving JULIA alone. JULIA sits alone in the +wood. Presently she begins to sing. + +JULIA. [Singing.] + +I sowed the seeds of love, +It was all in the Spring; +In April, in May, and in June likewise +When small birds they do sing. + +[JOHN with a large basket on his arm comes up to her. + +JOHN. A good day to you, mistress. + +JULIA. Good afternoon. + +JOHN. Now I count as you would like to know who 'tis that's made so +bold in speaking to you, Mistress. + +JULIA. Why, you're Master Gardner's farm hand, if I'm not mistaken. + +JOHN. Ah, that's right enough. And there be jobs as I wish Master +William would get and do for hisself instead of putting them on I. + +JULIA. Well, and how far may you be going this afternoon? + +JOHN. I baint going no further than where I be a-standing now, +mistress. + +JULIA. It would appear that your business was with me, then? + +JOHN. Ah, you've hit the right nail, mistress. 'Tis with you. 'Tis +a straight offer as my master have sent me out for to make. + +JULIA. Now I wonder what sort of an offer that might be! + +JOHN. 'Tis master's hand in marriage, and a couple of pigs jowls, +home-cured, within this here basket. + +JULIA. O my good man, you're making game of me. + +JOHN. And that I baint, mistress. 'Twas in the church as Master +William seed you first. And 'tis very nigh sick unto death with love +as he have been since then. + +JULIA. Is he too sick to come and plead his cause himself, John? + +JOHN. Ah, and that he be. Do go moulting about the place with his +victuals left upon the dish--a sighing and a grizzling so that any +maid what's got a heart to th' inside of she would be moved in pity, +did she catch ear of it, and would lift he out of the torment. + +JULIA. Well, John, I've not seen or heard any of this sad to-do, so +I can't be moved in pity. + +JOHN. An, do you look within this basket at the jowls what Master +William have sent you. Maybe as they'll go to your heart straighter +nor what any words might. + +[JOHN sits down on the bench by JULIA and opens the basket. JULIA +looks in. + +JULIA. I have no liking for pigs' meat myself. + +JOHN. Master's pig meat be different to any in the county, mistress. +"Tell her," says Master William, "'tis a rare fine bit of mellow jowl +as I be a sending she." + +JULIA. O John, I'm a very poor judge of such things. + +JOHN. And look you here. I never seed a bit of Master William's +home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this day. No, +that I have not, mistress. + +JULIA. [Shutting the basket.] Well--I have no use for such a gift, +John, so it may be returned again to the family. I am sorry you had +the trouble of bringing it so far. + +JOHN. You may not be partial to pig meat, mistress, but you'll send +back the key of Master William's heart same as you have done the +jowls. + +JULIA. I have no use for the key of Master William's heart either, +John. And you may tell him so, from me. + +JOHN. Why, mistress. You don't know what you be a talking of. A +man like my master have never had to take a No in place of Yes in all +the born days of him. + +JULIA. [Rising.] Then he'll have to take it now, John. And I'm +thinking 'tis time you set off home again with your load. + +JOHN. Well, mistress, I don't particular care to go afore you have +given me a good word or sommat as'll hearten up poor Master William +in his love sickness. + +JULIA. Truly, John, I don't know what you would have me say. + +JOHN. I warrant there be no lack of words to the inside of you, if +so be as you'd open you mouth a bit wider. 'Tis not silence as a +maid is troubled with in general. + +JULIA. O, I have plenty of words ready, John, should you care to +hear them. + +JOHN. Then out with them, Mistress Julia, and tell the master as how +you'll take the offer what he have made you. + +JULIA. I've never seen your master, John, but I know quite enough +about him to say I'll never wed with him. Please to make that very +clear when you get back. + +JOHN. 'Tis plain as you doesn't know what you be a talking of. And +'tis a wonder as how such foolishness can came from the mouth of a +sensible looking maid like yourself. + +JULIA. I shall not marry Master William Gardner. + +JOHN. I reckon as you'll be glad enough to eat up every one of them +words the day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more splendid +gentleman nor he never fetched his breath. + +JULIA. I'll never wed a farmer, John. + +JOHN. And then, look at the gift what Master William's been and sent +you. 'Tisn't to everyone as master do part with his pig meat. That +'tisn't. + +JULIA. [Rising.] Well, you can tell your master I'm not one that +can be courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. And that I'll not +wed until I can give my heart along with my hand. + +JOHN. I'd like to know where you would find a better one nor master +for to give your heart to, mistress? + +JULIA. May be I have not far to search. + +JOHN. [Taking up the basket.] You're a rare tricksy maid as ever I +did see. Tricksy and tossy too. + +JULIA. There--that's enough, John. Suppose you set off home and +tell your master he can hang up his meat again in the larder, for all +that it concerns me. + +JOHN. I'll be blowed if I do say anything of the sort, mistress. I +shall get and tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought +to the matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, 'tis very like +as a dish of trotters may prove acceptabler. + +JULIA. Say what you like, John. Only let me bide quiet in this good +forest now. I want to be with my thoughts. + +JOHN. [Preparing to go and speaking aloud to himself.] Her's a +wonderful contrary bird to be sure. And bain't a shy one neither, +what gets timid and flustered and is easily netted. My word, but me +and master has a job before us for to catch she. + +JULIA. I hear you, and 'tis very rudely that you talk. There's an +old saying that I never could see the meaning of before, but now I +think 'tis clear, "Like master, like man," they say. I'll have none +of Master William, and you can tell him so. + +[JOHN goes out angrily. JULIA sits down again on the bench and +begins to sing. + +JULIA. [Singing.] + +My gardener stood by +And told me to take great care, +For in the middle of a red rose-bud +There grows a sharp thorn there. + +[LAURA comes slowly forward, carrying the basket of vegetables on one +arm. She holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying. + +JULIA. Why, Laura, what has made you cry so sadly? + +LAURA. O, Julia, 'twas a rare red rose as I held in my hand, and a +rare cruel thorn that came from it and did prick me. + +JULIA. And a rare basket of green stuff that you have been getting. + +LAURA. [Sinking down on the seat, and weeping violently.] His dear +gift to me! + +JULIA. [Looking into the basket.] O a wonderful fine gift, to be +sure. Young carrots and spring cabbage. I've had a gift offered +too--but mine was jowls. + +LAURA. Jowls. O, and did you not take them? + +JULIA. No, I sent them back to the giver, with the dry heart which +was along with them in the same basket. + +LAURA. O Julia, how could you be so hard and cruel? + +JULIA. Come, wouldn't you have done the same? + +LAURA. [Sobbing vehemently.] That I should not, Julia. + +JULIA. Perhaps you've seen the gentleman then? + +LAURA. I have. And O, Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. I never +saw one that was his like. + +JULIA. The rare red rose with its thorn, Laura. + +LAURA. He did lay the heart of him before me--thinking my name was +Julia. + +JULIA. And did he lay the vegetables too? + +LAURA. 'Twas all the doing of a great fool, that man of his. + +JULIA. And you--did you give him what he asked of you--before he +knew that your name was not Julia? + +LAURA. O, I did--that I did. [A short silence. + +JULIA. And could you forget the prick of the thorn, did you hold the +rose again, Laura? + +LAURA. O that I could. For me there'd be naught but the rose, were +it laid once more in my hand. But 'tis not likely to be put there, +since 'tis you he favours. + +JULIA. But I don't favour him. + +LAURA. You'll favour him powerful well when you see him, Julia. + +JULIA. I've given my heart already, but 'tis not to him. + +LAURA. You've given your heart? + +JULIA. Yes, Chris has all of it, Laura. There is nothing left for +anyone else in the world. + +LAURA. O Julia, think of your position. + +JULIA. That I will not do. I am going to think of yours. + +LAURA. [Beginning to cry.] I'm no better in my station than a +serving maid, like Susan. + +JULIA. [Pointing.] There she comes [calling] Susan, Susan! + +[SUSAN comes up. During the next sentences LAURA takes one bunch of +vegetables after another from the basket, smoothing each in turn with +a fond caressing movement. + +SUSAN. Did you call, mistress? + +JULIA. Yes, Susan. That I did. + +SUSAN. Can I help you in any way, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, and that you can. You have got to run quickly back to +the farm. + +SUSAN. Be it got terrible late, mistress? + +JULIA. 'Tis not only that. You have got to find your master and +tell him to expect a visit from me in less than an hour's time from +now. Do you understand? + +SUSAN. O, yes, mistress, and that I do--to tell master as you be +coming along after he as fast as you can run. + +JULIA. Well--I should not have put it in that way, but 'tis near +enough may be. So off, and make haste, Susan. + +SUSAN. Please, mistress, I could make the words have a more loving +sound to them if you do wish it. + +JULIA. My goodness, Susan, what are you thinking of? Say naught, +but that I'm coming. Run away now, and run quickly. [SUSAN goes +off. + +LAURA. [Looking up, a bunch of carrots in her hands.] What are you +going to do now, Julia? + +JULIA. You shall see, when you have done playing with those carrots. + +LAURA. He pulled them, every one, with his own hands, Julia. + +JULIA. My love has gathered something better for me than a carrot. +See, a spray of elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the +wind. + +[She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress, and shews it to +LAURA. + +LAURA. The roots that lie warm in the earth do seem more homely like +to me. + +JULIA. Well--each one has their own way in love--and mine lies +through the dark woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. And +'tis your road that we will take this afternoon--so come along +quickly with me, Laura, for the sun has already begun to change its +light. + +[LAURA replaces the vegetables in her basket and rises from the seat +as the curtain falls. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The Garden of Road Farm as in Act I. + +MRS. GARDNER is knitting in the Arbour. WILLIAM strolls about +gloomily, his hands in his pockets. + +MRS. GARDNER. And serve you right, William, for sending the man when +you should have gone yourself. + +WILLIAM. John has a tongue that is better used to this sort of +business than mine. + +MRS. GARDNER. Nonsense, when was one of our family ever known to +fail in the tongue? + +WILLIAM. If she that was asked first had only been the right one, +all would have been over and done with now. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis John that you have got to thank for the blunder. + +WILLIAM. [Sighing.] That was a rare fine maid, and no mistake. + +MRS. GARDNER. And a rare brazen hussy, from all that has reached my +ears. + +WILLIAM. Well--I've done with courting--now and for all time, that I +have. And you may roast me alive if I'll ever go nigh to a maid +again. + +MRS. GARDNER. That you shall, William--and quickly too. There's no +time like the present, and your Sunday clothes are upon you still. + +WILLIAM. I was just going up to change, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. Then you'll please to remain as you are. You may take +what gift you like along with you this time, so long as it's none of +my home-cured meat. + +WILLIAM. I'm blessed if I do stir out again this day. Why, look at +the seedlings crying for water, and the nets to lay over the fruit +and sommat of everything wanting to be done all around of me. I'll +not stir. + +[JOHN comes towards them. + +MRS. GARDNER. Here's John. Suppose he were to make himself useful +in the garden for once instead of meddling in things that are none of +his business. + +JOHN. I'll be blowed if 'tis any more courting as I'll do, neither +for Master William nor on my own account. + +WILLIAM. Why, John, 'twasn't your fault that the lady wouldn't take +me, you did your best with her, I know. + +JOHN. An that I did, Master William, but a more contrary coxsy sort +of a maid I never did see. "I baint one as fancies pig meat," her +did say. And the nose of she did curl away up till it could go no +higher. That's not the wench for me, I says to myself. + +MRS. GARDNER. Is the jowl hung up in its right place again, John? + +JOHN. That 'tis, mistress. I put it back myself, and a good job for +that 'taint went out of the family and off to the mouths of +strangers, so says I. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you tend to Master William's garden John, instead +of talking. We've had enough of your tongue for one day. + +JOHN. Why, be Master William goin' out for to court again, this +afternoon? + +WILLIAM. No, John--No, I've had enough of that for my life time. + +JOHN. So have I, master, and more nor enough. I don't care +particular if I never set eyes on a maid again. + +WILLIAM. [Pointing to a plot of ground.] That's where I pulled the +young carrots this morning. + +JOHN. Ah, and so you did, master. + +WILLIAM. And there's from where I took the Early Snowballs. + +JOHN. And a great pity as you did. There be none too many of that +sort here. + +WILLIAM. She had a wonderful soft look in her eyes as she did handle +them and the spring cabbage, John. + +JOHN. Ah, and a wonderful hard tongue when her knowed 'twasn't for +she as they was pulled. + +WILLIAM. Was t'other maid anything of the same pattern, John? + +JOHN. Upon my word, if t'other wasn't the worst of the two, for she +did put a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she did give I, and +the words did fall from she like so many bricks on my head. + +WILLIAM. Pity the first was not the right maid. + +JOHN. Ah, a maid what can treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon did +baint the sort for to mistress it over we, I'm thinking. + +MRS. GARDNER. See here, John--suppose you were to let your tongue +bide still in its home awhile, and start doing something with your +hands. + +JOHN. That's right enough, mistress. What's wanted, Master William? + +WILLIAM. I'm blessed if I can recollect, John. This courting +business lies heavy on me, and I don't seem able to get above it, +like. + +JOHN. I'd let it alone, master, if I was you. They be all alike, +the maids. And 'twouldn't be amiss if we was to serve they as we +serves the snails when they gets to the young plants. + +[SUSAN comes hurriedly into the garden. + +SUSAN. Please master, please mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. What do you mean, Susan, by coming into the garden +without your cap? Go and put it on at once. + +SUSAN. The wind must have lifted it from me, mistress, for I was +running ever so fast. + +MRS. GARDNER. Do you expect me to believe that, Susan--and not a +breath stirring the flowers or trees, or anything? + +SUSAN. 'Twas the lady I met as--as--as I was coming across the field +from feeding the fowls. + +MRS. GARDNER. What lady, Susan? + +SUSAN. Her from Luther's, mistress. + +JOHN. And what of she; out with it, wench. + +SUSAN. She did tell I to say as she be coming along as fast as she +may after Master William. + +WILLIAM. [As though to himself with an accent of despair.] No. No. + +JOHN. There, master, didn't I tell you so? + +WILLIAM. [Very nervously.] What did you tell me, John? + +JOHN. That, let her abide and her'd find the senses of she +presently. + +WILLIAM. O I'm blessed if I do know what to do. + +[JOHN takes his master's arm and draws him aside. + +JOHN. You pluck up your heart, my dearest master, and court she +hard. And in less nor a six months 'tis along to church as you'll be +a-driving she. + +WILLIAM. But John, 'tis t'other with the cherry ribbons that has +taken all my fancy. + +JOHN. No, no, Master William. You take and court the mistress. You +take and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from she. +T'other wench is but the serving maid. + +SUSAN. The lady's coming along ever so quickly, master. + +[MRS. GARDNER, rising and folding up her knitting. + +MRS. GARDNER. You'll please to come indoors with me, William, and +I'll brush you down and make you look more presentable than you +appear just now. Susan, you'll get a cap to you head at once, do you +hear me! And John, take and water master's seedlings. Any one can +stand with their mouths open and their eyes as big as gooseberries if +they've a mind. 'Tis not particular sharp to do so. Come, William. + +WILLIAM. I'd like a word or two with John first, Mother. + +MRS. GARDNER. You come along with me this moment, William. 'Tis a +too many words by far that you've had with John already, and much +good they've done to you. Come you in with me. + +WILLIAM. O I'm blessed if I do know whether 'tis on my head or on my +feet that I'm standing. + +[WILLIAM follows his mother slowly and gloomily into the house. + +JOHN. Well--if ever there was a poor, tormented animal 'tis the +master. + +SUSAN. Ah, mistress should have been born a drover by rights. 'Tis +a grand nagging one as her'd have made, and sommat what no beast +would ever have got the better of. + +JOHN. I wouldn't stand in Master William's shoes, not if you was to +put me knee deep in gold. + +SUSAN. Nor I. + +JOHN. Ah, this courting business, 'tis a rare caddling muddle when +'tis all done and said. + +SUSAN. 'Tis according as some folks do find it, Master John. + +JOHN. 'Tis a smartish lot as you'll get of it come Sunday night, my +wench. You wait and see. + +SUSAN. That shews how little you do know. 'Twill be better nor ever +with me then. + +JOHN. 'Twill be alone by yourself as you'll go walking, Su. + +SUSAN. We'll see about that when the time comes, John. + +JOHN. All I says is that I baint a-going walking with you. + +SUSAN. I never walk with two, John. + +JOHN. You'll have to learn to go in your own company. + +SUSAN. I shall go by the side of my husband by then, very likely. + +JOHN. Your husband? What tales be you a-giving out now? + +SUSAN. 'Tis to Nat as I'm to be wed come Saturday. + +JOHN. Get along with you, Susan, and put a cap to your head. +Mistress will be coming out presently, and then you know how 'twill +be if her catches you so. Get along in with you. + +SUSAN. Now you don't believe what I'm telling you--but it's true, O +it's true. + +JOHN. Look here--There's company at the gate, and you a-standing +there like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in and make +yourself a decenter appearance and then go and tell the mistress as +they be comed. + +SUSAN. [Preparing to go indoors and speaking over her shoulder.] +'Tis in the parson's gown as you should be clothed, Master John. Ah, +'tis a wonderful wordy preacher as you would make, to be sure. And +'tis a rare crop as one might raise with the seed as do fall from +your mouth. + +[She goes indoors. JULIA comes leisurely into the garden. + +JULIA. Well, John, and how are you feeling now? + +JOHN. Nicely, thank you, mistress. See yon arbour? + +JULIA. And that I do, John. + +JOHN. Well, you may go and sit within it till the master has leisure +to come and speak with you. + +JULIA. Thank you, John, but I would sooner stop and watch you tend +the flowers. + +JOHN. 'Tis all one to me whether you does or you does not. + +JULIA. Now, John, you are angry with me still. + +JOHN. I likes a wench as do know the mind of she, and not one as can +blow hot one moment and cold the next. + +JULIA. There was never a moment when I did not know my own mind, +John. And that's the truth. + +JOHN. Well, us won't say no more about that. 'Taint fit as there +should be ill feeling nor quarrelling 'twixt me and you. + +JULIA. You're right, John. And there was something that I had it in +my mind to ask you. + +JOHN. You can say your fill. There baint no one but me in the +garden. + +JULIA. John, you told me that since Sunday your master has been sick +with love. + +JOHN. That's right enough, mistress. I count as we shall bury he if +sommat don't come to his relief. + +JULIA. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if 'tis for +love of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening. + +JOHN. You'd best go and ask it of his self, mistress. 'Tis a +smartish lot of work as I've got to attend to here. + +JULIA. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you. + +JOHN. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a- +buzzin round a man's head. + +JULIA. Now, John--you must tell me which of the two it is. Is it +Laura whom your master loves, or Julia? + +JOHN. 'Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me. + +JULIA. No, John, you're not looking straight at me. You are looking +down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine. + +JOHN. [Looking up crossly.] I've got my work to think of. I'm not +one to stand cackling with a maid. + +JULIA. Could you swear me it is Julia? + +JOHN. 'Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide over, so as I +can get the watering finished. + +JULIA. [Seizes the watering can.] Now, John, you have got to speak +the truth to me. + +JOHN. Give up yon can, I tell you. O you do act wonderful unseemly +for a young lady. + +JULIA. [Withholding the can.] Not till I have the truth from you. + +JOHN. [Angrily.] Well then, is it likely that my master would set +his fancy on such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, Master William do +know better nor to do such a thing, I can tell you. + +JULIA. Then 'tis for Laura that he is love-sick, John. + +JOHN. Give I the watering can. + +JULIA. [Giving him the can.] Here it is, dear John. O I had a +fancy all the time that 'twas to Laura your master had lost his +heart. And now I see I made no mistake. + +JOHN. I shouldn't have spoke as I did if you hadn't a buzzed around +I till I was drove very nigh crazy. Master William, he'll never +forgive me this. + +JULIA. That he will, I'm sure, when he has listened to what I have +got to say to him. + +JOHN. You do set a powerful store on what your tongue might say, but +I'd take and bide quiet at home if I was you and not come hunting of +a nice reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very garden. + +JULIA. O John, you're a sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge me +very unkindly. But I'll not bear malice if you will just run in and +tell your master that I want a word with him. + +JOHN. A word? Why not say fifty? When was a maid ever satisfied +with one word I'd like to know? + +JULIA. Well--I shan't say more than six, very likely, so fetch him +to me now, John, and I'll wait here in the garden. [JOHN looks at +her with exasperated contempt. Then he slowly walks away towards the +house. JULIA goes in the opposite direction to the garden gate. + +JULIA. [Calling.] Chris! [CHRIS comes in. + +JULIA. [Pointing.] O Chris, look at this fine garden--and yon +arbour--see the fine house, with lace curtains to the windows of it. + +CHRIS. [Sullenly.] Ah--I sees it all very well. + +JULIA. And all this could be mine for the stretching out of a hand. + +CHRIS. Then stretch it. + +JULIA. 'Twould be like putting a wild bird into a gilded cage, to +set me here in this place. No, I must go free with you, Chris--and +we will wander where our spirits lead us--over all the world if we +have a mind to do so. + +CHRIS. Please God you'll not grieve at your choice. + +JULIA. That I never shall. Now call to Laura. Is she in the lane +outside? + +CHRIS. There, she be come to the gate now. + +[LAURA comes in, followed by NAT and TANSIE. + +JULIA. [Pointing to a place on the ground.] Laura, see, here is the +place from which your young carrots were pulled. + +LAURA. O look at the flowers, Julia--Lillies, pinks and red roses. + +JULIA. 'Tis a fine red rose that shall be gathered for you +presently, Laura. [JOHN comes up. + +JOHN. The master's very nigh ready now, mistress. + +[SUSAN follows him. + +SUSAN. The mistress says, please to be seated till she do come. + +JOHN. [To CHRIS and NAT.] Now, my men, we don't want the likes of +you in here. You had best get off afore Master William catches sight +of you. + +JULIA. No, John. These are my friends, and I wish them to hear all +that I have to say to your master. + +JOHN. Ah, 'tis in the grave as poor Master William will be landed +soon if you don't have a care. + +LAURA. [Anxiously.] O is he so delicate as that, John? + +JOHN. Ah--and that he be. And these here love matters and courtings +and foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don't give him but a +week longer if things do go on as they be now. + +[WILLIAM and MRS. GARDNER come in. WILLIAM looks nervously round +him. MRS. GARDNER perceives the gipsies, and SUSAN talking to NAT. + +MRS. GARDNER. Susan, get you to your place in the kitchen, as quick +as you can. John, put yon roadsters through the gate, if you please. +[Turning to JULIA.] Now young Miss? + +JULIA. A very good evening to you, mistress. And let me make Chris +known to you for he and I are to be wed to-morrow. + +[She takes CHRIS by the hand and leads him forward. + +MRS. GARDNER. What's this? William, do you understand what the +young person is telling us? + +JULIA. [Taking LAURA with her other hand.] And here is Laura to +whom I have given all my land and all my money. She is the mistress +of Luther's now. + +JOHN. [Aside to WILLIAM.] Now master, hearken to that. Can't you +lift your spirits a bit. + +JULIA. [To MRS. GARDNER.] And I beg you to accept her as a +daughter. She will make a better farmer's wife than ever I shall. + +JOHN. [In a loud whisper.] Start courting, master. + +WILLIAM. O I dare not quite so sudden, John. + +MRS. GARDNER. [Sitting down.] It will take a few moments for me to +understand this situation. + +JULIA. There is no need for any hurry. We have all the evening +before us. + +JOHN. [Hastily gathers a rosebud and puts it into WILLIAM'S hand.] +Give her a blossom, master. 'Tis an easy start off. + +WILLIAM. [Coming forward shyly with the flower.] Would you fancy a +rosebud, mistress? + +LAURA. O that I would, master. + +WILLIAM. Should you care to see--to see where the young celery is +planted out? + +LAURA. O, I'd dearly love to see the spot. + +WILLIAM. I'll take you along to it then. [He gives her his arm, +very awkwardly, and they move away. + +MRS. GARDNER. [Sitting down.] Well--things have changed since I was +young. + +JOHN. [Looking viciously at NAT and SUSAN.] Ah, I counts they have, +mistress, and 'tis all for the worse. + +SUSAN. [Comes forward timidly.] And me and Nat are to be married +too, mistress. + +MRS. GARDNER. I should have given you notice anyhow to-night, Susan, +so perhaps it's just as well you have made sure of some sort of a +roof to your head. + +NAT. 'Twill be but the roof of th' old cart, mistress; but I warrant +as her'll sleep bravely under it, won't you, Su. + +SUSAN. That I shall, dear Nat. + +TANSIE. Well, Master John, have you a fancy to come tenting along of +we. + +JOHN. Upon my word, but I don't know how 'tis with the young people +nowadays, they be so bold. + +JULIA. [Who has been standing apart, her hand in that of CHRIS.] +New days, new ways, John. + +JOHN. Bless my soul, but 'tis hard to keep up with all these goings +on, and no mistake. + +JULIA. No need for you to try, John. If you are too old to run with +us you must abide still and watch us as we go. + +CHRIS. But there, you needn't look downhearted, master, for I knows +someone as'll give you a rare warm welcome if so be as you should +change your mind and take your chance in the open, same as we. + +TANSIE. You shall pay for that, Chris. + +JOHN. [Stiffly.] I hope as I've a properer sense of my duty nor +many others what I could name. + +MRS. GARDNER. Those are the first suitable words that have been +spoken in my hearing this afternoon. + +[WILLIAM, with LAURA on his arm, returns. LAURA carries a small +cucumber very lovingly. + +LAURA. Julia, look! The first one of the season! O, isn't it a +picture! + +JULIA. O Laura, 'tis a fine wedding gift to be sure. + +WILLIAM. [Stepping up to JOHN.] John, my man, here's a five pound +note to your pocket. I'd never have won this lady here if it hadn't +been for you. + +JOHN. [Taking the note.] Don't name it, dear master. 'Tis a long +courtship what has no ending to it, so I always says. + +MRS. GARDNER. 'Tis one upset after another, but suppose you were to +make yourself useful for once, Susan, and bring out the tray with the +cake and glasses on it. + +JOHN. Ah, that's it, and I'll go along of she and help draw the +cider. Courtship be powerful drying work. + +LAURA. [Looking into WILLIAM'S eyes.] O William, 'twas those Early +Snowballs that did first stir up my heart. + +WILLIAM. 'Twas John who thought of them. Why, John has more +sensible thoughts to the mind of him than any other man in the world- +-and when the cider is brought, 'tis to John's health we will all +drink. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +PRINCESS ROYAL + + + + +CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY + +ROSE, MARION, village girls. +LADY MILLICENT. +ALICE, her maid. +LEAH, an old gipsy. +SUSAN, otherwise Princess Royal, her grand-daughter. +JOCKIE, a little swine herd. +LADY CULLEN. +Her ladies in waiting (or one lady only). +LORD CULLEN, her only son. +As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in this Play. + +The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by girls. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +A village green. Some girls with market baskets come on to it, each +one carrying a leaflet which she is earnestly reading. + +Gradually all the girls approach from different sides reading +leaflets. + +Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is sitting-- +she lights a pipe and begins to smoke as ROSE, her basket full of +market produce, comes slowly forward reading her sheet of paper. She +is followed by MARION--also reading. + +ROSE. Well, 'tis like to be a fine set out, this May Day. + +MARION. I can make naught of it myself. + +ROSE. Why, 'tis Lord Cullen putting it about as how he be back from +the war and thinking of getting himself wed, like. + +MARION. I understands that much, I do. + +ROSE. Only he can't find the maid what he's lost his heart to. + +MARION. [Reading.] The wench what his lordship did see a-dancing +all by herself in the forest when he was hid one day all among the +brambles, a-rabbiting or sommat. + +ROSE. And when my lord would have spoke with her, the maid did turn +and fled away quick as a weasel. + +MARION. And his lordship off to the fighting when 'twas next morn. + +ROSE. So now, each maid of us in the village and all around be to +dance upon the green come May Day so that my lord may see who 'twas +that pleased his fancy. + +[SUSAN comes up and stands quietly listening. She is bare foot and +her skirt is ragged, she wears a shawl over her shoulders and her +hair is rough and untidy. On her arm she carries a basket containing +a few vegetables and other marketings. + +MARION. And when he do pitch upon the one, 'tis her as he will wed. + +ROSE. 'Twill be a thing to sharpen the claws of th' old countess +worse nor ever--that marriage. + +MARION. Ah, I reckon as her be mortal angered with all the giddle- +gaddle this business have set up among the folk. + +ROSE. [Regretfully.] I've never danced among the trees myself. + +MARION. [Sadly.] Nor I, neither, Rose. + +ROSE. I'd dearly like to be a countess, Marion. + +MARION. His lordship might think I was the maid. I'm spry upon my +feet you know. + +[SUSAN comes still nearer. + +MARION. [Turning to her and speaking rudely.] Well, Princess Rags, +'tisn't likely as 'twas you a-dancing one of your Morris dances in +the wood that day! + +ROSE. [Mockingly.] 'Tisn't likely as his lordship would set his +thoughts on a wench what could caper about like a Morris man upon the +high road. So there. + +SUSAN. [Indifferently.] I never danced upon the high road, I dances +only where 'tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon me. No mortal eyes. + +MARION. [Impudently.] Get along with you, Princess Royal. Go off +to th' old gipsy Gran'ma yonder. We don't want the likes of you +along of us. + +ROSE. Go off and dance to your own animals, Miss Goatherd. All of +us be a-going to practise our steps against May Day. Come along +girls. + +[She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange +themselves for a Country Dance. SUSAN goes slowly towards her +GRANDMOTHER and sits on the ground by her side, looking sadly and +wistfully at the dancers. At the end of the dance, the girls pick up +their baskets and go off in different directions across the green. +SUSAN and her GRANDMOTHER remain in their places. The gipsy +continues to smoke and SUSAN absently turns over the things in her +basket. + +SUSAN. They mock me in the name they have fixed to me--Princess +Royal. + +GRANDMOTHER. Let them mock. I'll bring the words back to them like +scorpions upon their tongues. + +[There is a little silence and then SUSAN begins to sing as though to +herself. + +SUSAN. [Singing.] + +"As I walked out one May morning, +So early in the Spring; +I placed my back against the old garden gate, +And I heard my true love sing." {1} + +GRANDMOTHER. [At the end of the singing.] It might be the blackcap +a-warbling all among of the branches. So it might. + +SUSAN. Ah, 'twas I that was a-dancing in the shade of the woods that +day. + +GRANDMOTHER. He'll never look on the likes of you--that's sure +enough, my little wench. + +SUSAN. I wish he was a goat-herd like myself--O that I do. + +GRANDMOTHER. Then there wouldn't be no use in your wedding yourself +with him as I can see. + +SUSAN. 'Tis himself, not his riches that I want. + +GRANDMOTHER. You be speaking foolishness. What do you know of him-- +what do us blind worms know about the stars above we? + +SUSAN. I see'd him pass by upon his horse one day. All there was of +him did shine like the sun upon the water--I was very near dazed by +the brightness. So I was. + +[The GRANDMOTHER continues to smoke in silence. + +SUSAN. [Softly.] And 'twas then I lost the heart within me to him. + +[JOCKIE runs up beating his tabor. + +SUSAN. [Springing up.] Come, Jockie, I have a mind to dance a step +or two. [Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.] Tears be for +them as have idle times and not for poor wenches what mind cattle and +goats. Come, play me my own music, Jock. And play it as I do like +it best. + +[JOCKIE begins to play the tune of "Princess Royal" and SUSAN dances. +Whilst SUSAN is dancing LADY MILLICENT and her waiting maid come +slowly by and stand watching. SUSAN suddenly perceives them and +throws herself on the ground. JOCKIE stops playing. + +LADY MILLICENT. [Fanning herself.] A wondrous bold dance, upon my +word--could it have been that which captivated my lord, Alice? + +ALICE. O no, mistress. His lordship has no fancy for boldness in a +maid. + +LADY MILLICENT. Immodest too. A Morris dance. The girl should hide +her face in shame. + +ALICE. And there she is, looking at your ladyship with her gipsy +eyes, bold as a brass farthing. + +SUSAN. [Starting up and speaking passionately.] I'll not be taunted +for my dancing--I likes to dance wild, and leap with my body when my +spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies and move in +the air same as the birds do move when 'tis mating time. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, 'tis so with she. She baint no tame mouse what +creeps from its hole along of t'others and who do go shuffle shuffle, +in and out of the ring, mild as milk and naught in the innards of +they but the squeak. + +SUSAN. [Defiantly.] 'Twas my dance gained his lordship's praise--so +there, fine madam. + +LADY MILLICENT. Your dance? Who are you then? + +ALICE. A gipsy wench, mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for one +of they great farms. + +GRANDMOTHER. Have a care for that tongue of yours, madam waiting +maid. For I know how to lay sommat upon it what you won't fancy. + +LADY MILLICENT. [Coming up to SUSAN and laying her hand on her arm.] +Now tell me your name, my girl. + +SUSAN. They call me Princess Royal. + +LADY MILLICENT. O that must be in jest. Why, you are clothed in +rags, poor thing. + +SUSAN. [Shaking herself free.] I'd sooner wear my own rags nor the +laces which you have got upon you. + +LADY MILLICENT. Now why do you say such a thing? + +SUSAN. 'Twas in these rags as I danced in the wood that day, and +'tis by these rags as my lord will know me once more. + +LADY MILLICENT. Listen, I will cover you in silk and laces, Princess +Royal. + +ALICE. Susan is the maid's name. + +SUSAN. I don't want none of your laces or silks. + +LADY MILLICENT. And feed you with poultry and cream and sweetmeats. + +SUSAN. I want naught but my crust of bread. + +LADY MILLICENT. I'll fill your hands with gold pieces. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Sue? + +SUSAN. [Doggedly.] I hear her well enough, Gran. + +LADY MILLICENT. If you'll teach me your dance against May Day. +Then, I'll clothe myself much after your fashion and dance upon the +green with the rest. + +SUSAN. I'll not learn you my dance. Not for all the gold in the +world. You shan't go and take the only thing I have away from me. + +LADY MILLICENT. [Angrily.] Neither shall a little gipsy wretch like +you take my love from me. We were as good as promised to each other +at our christening. + +ALICE. Don't put yourself out for the baggage, madam. His lordship +would never look on her. + +GRANDMOTHER. Gold, did you say, mistress? + +LADY MILLICENT. Gold? O yes--an apron full of gold, and silver too. + +GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Susan? + +SUSAN. [Doggedly.] I'll not do it for a King's ransom. + +GRANDMOTHER. You will. You'll do it for the sake of poor old Gran, +what's been father and mother to you--and what's gone hungered and +thirsty so that you might have bread and drink. + +SUSAN. [Distractedly.] O I can never give him up. + +GRANDMOTHER. He'll never be yourn to give--Dance till your legs is +off and he'll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when 'tis all +finished. + +ALICE. Whilst my lady belongs to his lordship's own class, 'tis but +suitable as she should be the one to wed with him--knowing the +foreign tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. +There's a lady anyone would be proud to take before the Court in +London. + +[SUSAN turns away with a movement of despair. The GRANDMOTHER begins +to smoke again. LADY MILLICENT fans herself and ALICE arranges her +own shawl. + +GRANDMOTHER. I could do with a little pig up at our place if I'd the +silver to take into the market for to buy him with. [A silence. + +GRANDMOTHER. And I could do with a pair of good shoes to my poor old +feet come winter time when 'tis snowing. [Another silence. + +GRANDMOTHER. And 'twould be good not to go to bed with the pain of +hunger within my lean old body--so 'twould. [SUSAN turns round +suddenly. + +SUSAN. I'll do it, Gran. I'll do it for your sake. 'Tis very +likely true what you do say, all of you. I'd but dance my feet off +for naught. When he came to look into my gipsy eyes, 'twould all be +over and done with. + +LADY MILLICENT. Sensible girl. + +ALICE. 'Tis time she should see which way her bread was spread. + +SUSAN. Come, Jockie, come ladies--come Gran--we'll be off to the +quiet of our own place where I can learn her ladyship the steps and +capers. + +GRANDMOTHER. [Rising and pointing to an advancing figure.] You'd +best make haste. The mice be a-running from their holes once more-- +t'wouldn't do for they to know aught about this. + +SUSAN. Let us go quickly then. + +[The GRANDMOTHER, SUSAN, LADY MILLICENT with ALICE and JOCKIE go out +as a crowd of village girls come on to the green, and laughing and +talking together, arrange themselves to practise a Country Dance. + +End of Act I. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on the green. +A dais has been put up at one end of it. + +MARION. How slow the time do pass, this May Day. + +ROSE. Let's while it away with a song or two. + +[They all join in singing. At the end of the song the gipsy comes +slowly and painfully across the green, casting black looks to right +and to left. She is followed by SUSAN, who appears weighed down by +sadness. + +ROSE. Good afternoon, Princess Royal Rags. Are we to see you +cutting capers before his lordship this afternoon? + +MARION. Get along and hide your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. +I'd be ashamed to go without shoes if 'twas me. + +SUSAN. O leave me alone--you be worse nor a nest of waspes--that you +be. + +GRANDMOTHER. [Turning fiercely round.] Us'll smoke them out of +their holes one day--see if us do not. + +[They pass over to the tree where the GRANDMOTHER sits down and SUSAN +crouches by her side. Presently they are joined by JOCKIE. The +girls sing a verse or two of another song, and during this LADY +MILLICENT, enveloped in a big cloak, goes over to the tree, followed +by ALICE, also wearing a long cloak and they sit down by the side of +SUSAN. + +MARION. [Pointing.] Who are those yonder, Rose? + +ROSE. I'm sure I don't know, Marion--strangers, may be. + +MARION. O my heart goes wild this afternoon. + +ROSE. Mine too. Look, there they come. + +[The Music begins to play and old LADY CULLEN, followed by her lady +companions, comes slowly towards the dais, on which she seats +herself. + +LADY CULLEN. Dear me, what a gathering to be sure. + +HER LADY. Indeed it is an unusual sight. + +LADY CULLEN. And O what a sad infatuation on the part of my poor +boy. + +HER LADY. The war has been known to turn many a brain. + +LADY CULLEN. And yet my son holds his own with the brightest +intelligences of the day. + +HER LADY. Only one little spot of his lordship's brain seems to be +affected. + +LADY CULLEN. Just so. But here he comes, poor misguided youth. + +[LORD CULLEN comes slowly over the green, looking to right and to +left. He mounts the dais and sits down by his mother, and the music +plays for a country dance. "The Twenty Ninth of May." The girls +arrange themselves, and during the dance LORD CULLEN scans each face +very eagerly. The dance ends and the girls pass in single file +before the dais. + +LORD CULLEN. No, no--that was not the music of it, that was not the +dance--not a face among them resembles the image I carry in my heart. + +LADY CULLEN. [Aside.] Thank goodness. May that face never be seen +again. + +[A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and danced. + +LORD CULLEN. [At the end of it.] Worse and worse. Could I have +dreamed both the music and the dance and the dancer? + +LADY CULLEN. [Soothingly.] I am sure this was the case, my dear +son. + +LORD CULLEN. [Rallying.] I heard her voice singing in the forest +before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest voice and song I +ever heard. [Looking around.] Can any of these maid, sing to me, I +wonder? + +MARION. [Steps forward.] I only know one song, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN signs to her to sing, and she stands before the dais and +sings a verse of "Bedlam." + +LORD CULLEN. [Impatiently.] No, no--that is not in the least what I +remember. [Turning to ROSE.] You try now. + +ROSE. I don't sing, my lord--but--[Indicating another girl in the +group] she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful lot of songs. + +[A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of "The Lark in +the Morn." + +LORD CULLEN. Not that. Mine was a song to stir the depths of a +man's heart and bring tears up from the fountains of it. + +[He leans back in deep dejection--and at this moment LADY MILLICENT +and ALICE come forward. + +LORD CULLEN. [Eagerly.] I seem to know that russet skirt--those +bare, small feet. [Standing up quickly.] Mother, look at that maid +with the red kerchief on her head. + +LADY CULLEN. Some sort of a gipsy dress, to all appearance. + +LORD CULLEN. [Doubtfully.] The skirt she wore was torn and ragged-- +that day in the forest. She had no gold rings to her ears, nor +silken scarf upon her head--But this might be her dress for holidays. + +[JOCKIE advances and begins to play the tune of "Princess Royal." + +LORD CULLEN. [Eagerly.] That is the right music--O is it possible +my quest is ended! + +[LADY MILLICENT and ALICE, standing opposite one to another begin to +dance--slowly and clumsily, and in evident doubt as to their steps. +LORD CULLEN watches them for a moment and then claps his hands +angrily as a sign for the music to stop. The dancers pause. + +LORD CULLEN. This is a sad mimicry of my beautiful love. But there +lies something behind the masquerade which I shall probe. + +[He leaves the dais and goes straight towards LADY MILLICENT, who +turns from him in confusion. + +LORD CULLEN. From whom did you take the manner and the colour of +your garments, my maid? + +[LADY MILLICENT remains obstinately silent. + +LORD CULLEN. [To ALICE.] Perhaps you have a tongue in your head. +From whom did you try to learn those steps? + +[ALICE turns sulkily away. JOCKIE comes forward. + +JOCKIE. I'll tell your lordship all about it, and I'll take your +lordship straight to the right wench, that I will, if so be as your +lordship will give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what goes +empty and hungered most of the year round. + +LORD CULLEN. A handful of gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly. + +[JOCKIE leads the way to the tree where SUSAN is sitting. She stands +up as LORD CULLEN approaches, and for a moment they gaze at one +another in silence. + +GRANDMOTHER. You might curtsey to the gentleman, Susan. + +LORD CULLEN. No--there's no need of that, from her to me. [Turning +to JOCKIE and putting his hand in his pocket.] Here, my boy, is a +golden pound for you--and more shall follow later. + +[He then takes SUSAN'S hand and leads her to the foot of the dais. + +LORD CULLEN. Will you dance for me again, Susan? + +SEVERAL OF THE GIRLS. [Mockingly.] Princess Royal is her name. + +MARION. [Rudely.] Or Princess Rags. + +SUSAN. 'Tis all took out of my hands now, I can but do as your +lordship says. Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely too. + +[JOCKIE places himself near her and begins to play. SUSAN dances by +herself. At the end of her dance LORD CULLEN leads the applause, and +even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it. He then takes SUSAN +by the hand and mounts the dais with her and presents her to his +mother. + +LADY CULLEN. [Aside, to her companion.] I wonder if the young +person understands that my poor boy is a little touched in the brain? + +LORD CULLEN. Here is your daughter, mother. + +[LADY CULLEN and SUSAN look at one another in silence. After a +moment SUSAN turns to LORD CULLEN. + +SUSAN. I'm a poor ragged thing to be daughter to the likes of she. +But the heart within of me is grander nor that of any queen, because +of the love that it holds for you, my lord. + +[LORD CULLEN takes her hand and leads her to the front of the dais. + +LORD CULLEN. We will be married to-morrow, my princess. And all +these good people shall dance at our wedding. + +MARION. [Springing up.] And we'll do a bit of dancing now as well. +Come, Jockie, give us the tune of "Haste to the Wedding." + +ROSE. That's it. Come girls - + +LADY MILLICENT. [To ALICE.] I pray he won't find out about me. + +[The old GRANDMOTHER has come slowly towards the middle of the green. + +GRANDMOTHER. Ah, and my little wench will know how to pay back some +of the vipers tongues which slandered her, when she sits on her +velvet chair as a countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck +and the rubies a-crowning of her head. Her'll not forget the snakes +what did lie in the grass. Her'll have her heel upon they, so that +their heads be put low and there shan't go no more venom from their +great jaws to harm she, my pretty lamb--my little turtle. + +[The music begins to play and all those on the green form themselves +for the dance. LORD CULLEN and SUSAN stand side by side in front of +the dais, and the GRANDMOTHER lights a pipe and smokes it as she +watches the dance from below. At the end of the dance LORD CULLEN, +leading SUSAN, comes down from the dais and, followed by LADY CULLEN +and her ladies, passes between two lines of girls and so off the +stage. The girls follow in procession, and lastly the GRANDMOTHER +preceded by JOCKIE, beating his drum. + +[Curtain.] + + + + +THE SEEDS OF LOVE + + + + +CHARACTERS + +JOHN DANIEL, aged 30, a Miller. +ROSE-ANNA his sister. +KITTY, aged 16, his sister. +ROBERT PEARCE, aged 26. +LIZ, JANE elderly cousins of Robert. +JEREMY, John's servant--of middle age. +MARY MEADOWS, aged 24, a Herbalist. +LUBIN. +ISABEL. + +The time is Midsummer. + + + +ACT I + + + +A woodland road outside MARY'S cottage. There are rough seats in the +porch and in front of the window. Bunches of leaves and herbs hang +drying around door and window. MARY is heard singing within. + +MARY. [Singing.] + +I sowed the seeds of Love, +And I sowed them in the Spring. +I gathered them up in the morning so soon. +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing, +While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {2} + +[MARY comes out of the cottage, a bundle of enchanter's nightshade in +her arms. She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes +indoors. + +MARY. [Singing.] + +The violet I did not like, +Because it bloomed so soon; +The lily and the pink I really over think, +So I vowed I would wait till June, +So I vowed I would wait till June. + +[During the singing LUBIN comes slowly and heavily along the road. +He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his +shoulder. In front of the cottage he pauses, looks round doubtfully, +and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath the +window. + +MARY. [Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing.] + +"For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot, +Give it time, it will rise up again." + +LUBIN. [Looking up gloomily.] And that it won't, mistress. + +MARY. [Suddenly perceiving him and coming out.] O you are fair +spent from journeying. Can I do anything for you, master? + +LUBIN. [Gazing at her fixedly.] You speak kindly for a stranger, +but 'tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me. + +MARY. [Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the +house.] See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There's +medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir. + +LUBIN. There's not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth +that could cure the sickness I have within me. + +MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master. + +LUBIN. So 'tis. 'Tis love. + +MARY. Love? + +LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when +riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to +another. + +[ISABEL has been slowly approaching, she wears a cotton handkerchief +over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her +arm. Her movements are languid and sad. + +MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love. + +ISABEL. [Coming forward and speaking earnestly.] O tell me of them +quickly, mistress. + +MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint? + +ISABEL. [Sinking down on the grass at MARY'S feet.] So bruised and +wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well +have been a hundred miles or more. + +LUBIN. Framilode? 'Tis there you come from? + +ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. +Do you know the place, master? + +LUBIN. [In deep gloom.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too. + +MARY. [Leaning forward and clasping her hands.] Him as is there to- +day, or him who was? + +LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year +ago. + +[ISABEL covers her face and is shaken by sobs. LUBIN leans his elbow +on his knee, shading his eyes with his hand. + +MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be +given us for that. + +ISABEL. [Looking up.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. 'Tis +like when a quist do sing, as you speaks. + +MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. 'Twill be strange if I +do not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you. + +LUBIN. 'Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred. + +MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder? + +LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I--we courted and was +like to marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She +would not take a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what +you do see me now--just a day labourer. + +ISABEL. Mine, 'tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man +and me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a +powerful rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. +'Twas he that 'ticed my lover off to foreign parts. + +LUBIN. [With a heavy sigh.] These things are almost more than I can +bear. + +ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then 'twas seldom +like. Then 'twas never. And then there comed a day--[She is +interrupted by her weeping. + +MARY. Try to get out your story--you can let the tears run +afterwards if you have a mind. + +ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. +He brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine +stuff with money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just +about to wed. + +LUBIN. Did he name the maid? + +ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel's mill up yonder. + +LUBIN. Rose-Anna--She with whom I was to have gone to church. + +MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose. + +ISABEL. O 'twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the +riverside, him and me. + +LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday +afternoon. + +[A pause during which LUBIN and ISABEL seem lost in their own sad +memories. MARY gets up softly and goes within the cottage. + +ISABEL. And when I heared as 'twas to-morrow they were to wed, +though 'twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up +and got me upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn +and day just for one look upon his face again. + +LUBIN. 'Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt +myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so +cruel false into mine. + +ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him 'twould do no good-- +poor wench of a serving maid like me. + +LUBIN. [Looking down at himself.] She'd spurn me from the door were +I to stand there knocking--in the coat I have upon me now. No--let +her go her way and wed her fancy man. + +[LUBIN shades his eyes with one hand. ISABEL bows her head on her +knees weeping. MARY comes out of the house carrying two glass bowls +of water. + +MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh +water from the spring will revive you from your travelling. + +LUBIN. [Looking up.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, +mistress. + +ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die. + +[MARY giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink +slowly. + +MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by for another. +A man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but 'tis the scarlet +rose as takes his fancy come to-morrow. + +ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress? + +MARY. [Slowly.] After many years. + +LUBIN. And could you wed you to another? + +MARY. [Still more slowly.] Give the grass that has been trampled +underfoot a bit of time, 'twill rise again. There's healing all +around of us for every ill, did we but know it. + +LUBIN. I'd give sommat to know where 'tis then. + +MARY. There isn't a herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to +them that are in pain. + +ISABEL. Give me a bloom that'll put me to sleep for always, +mistress. + +MARY. There's evil plants as well, but 'tisn't a many. There's hen +bane which do kill the fowls and fishes if they eat the seed of it. +And there's water hemlock which lays dumbness upon man. + +LUBIN. I've heard them tell of that, I have. + +MARY. And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the +feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon +the door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house. + +LUBIN. And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon the +heart, mistress + +ISABEL. [Speaking in anguish.] Aught that can turn our faithless +lovers back again to we? + +MARY. That I have. See these small packages--you that love Robert, +take you this--and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your hand. + +[She puts a small paper packet into the hands of each. + +LUBIN. [Looking uncertainly at his packet.] What'll this do for me, +I'd like to know? + +MARY. 'Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, +and another seed as well. You put it in her glass of water--and the +love comes back to you afore next sun-rise. + +ISABEL. And will it be the same with I? + +MARY. You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. To- +morrow at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall +do what you will with it. + +ISABEL. O I can't believe in this. 'Tis too good to be true, and +that it be--A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little +wretch like me! + +LUBIN. [Slowly.] 'Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like +us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was when +I did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as one of +theirselves. But now! Why, they'd take and hound me away from the +door. + +ISABEL. And me too. + +MARY. [Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from the +bunch drying.] That'll bring luck, may be. + +[ISABEL takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet +in her bundle. LUBIN puts his packet away also. Whilst they are +doing this, MARY strolls a little way on the road. + +MARY. [Returning.] The man from Daniels be coming along. + +LUBIN. [Hastily.] What, old Andrews? + +MARY. No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have +the patience to keep in with him. + +LUBIN. How's that? + +MARY. So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer at the +cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, and +that's why master do put up with him. + +[JEREMY comes heavily towards them, a straw in his mouth. His hat is +pushed to the back of his head. His expression is still and +impassive. He comes straight towards MARY, then halts. + +MARY. Come, Jeremy, I reckon 'tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram +you be come here this morning? + +JEREMY. [Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and +pointing to them.] Who be they? + +MARY. Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest. + +[JEREMY continues to look them all over in silence. + +MARY. How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Powerful bad. + +MARY. O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened? + +[LUBIN and ISABEL lean forward, listening eagerly. + +JEREMY. 'Tis a pretty caddle, that's all. + +MARY. The mistress isn't took ill? or Miss Kitty? + +JEREMY. I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn't be none of +this here marrying to-morrow. + +MARY. What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry? + +JEREMY. One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on. + +MARY. 'Tis three you've got up there. + +JEREMY. There you're mistook. Th' idle wench and the lad be both +away--off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of +they. I be left with all upon me like, and 'tis too much. + +MARY. What shall you do, Jerry? + +JEREMY. I'll be blowed if I'm agoin' to do anything. There. + +MARY. But you'll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set +the table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses +and all, Jerry--seeing as you're the only one. + +JEREMY. I'll not. I'm not one as steps beyond my own work, and +master do know it too. + +MARY. Then how are they going to manage? + +JEREMY. I'm out to find them as'll manage for them. [Turning +sharply to LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young man? + +LUBIN. I--I count as I've nothing particular in view. + +JEREMY. [Turning to ISABEL.] And you, wench? + +ISABEL. [Faintly.] I've gone from the place where I was servant. + +JEREMY. Then you'll come along of me--the both of you. + +ISABEL. [Shrinking.] O no--I couldn't go among--among strangers. + +JEREMY. I never takes no count of a female's vapours. You'll come +along of me. You'll curl the mistress's hair and lace her gown and +keep her tongue quiet--and you [turning to LUBIN] my man, will set +the tables and wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town +this dinner-time. + +LUBIN. [Angrily.] I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and +I'll not start now. + +JEREMY. You will. I'm not agoin' a half mile further this warm +morning. Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you. + +MARY. [Looking fixedly at ISABEL.] This is a chance for you, my +dear. You'll not find a better. + +JEREMY. Better? I count as you'll not better this'n. Good money +for your pains--victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can +drink on a summer's day. I count you'll not better that. + +LUBIN. [As though to himself.] I could not go. + +JEREMY. Some cattle want a lot of driving. + +ISABEL. [Timidly to LUBIN.] If I go, could not you try and come +along with me, master? + +LUBIN. You'll never have the heart to go through with it. + +JEREMY. 'Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. Don't you +go and put fancies into the head of her. + +ISABEL. [To LUBIN.] I'll go if so be as you'll come along of me +too. + +[LUBIN bends his head and remains thinking deeply. + +JEREMY. 'Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches--I'll get +me a drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you'll be ready time +I've finished. + +MARY. I'll see that you're not kept waiting, Jeremy. + +JEREMY. [Turning back after he has started.] What be they called, +Mary? + +[MARY looks doubtfully towards LUBIN and ISABEL. + +ISABEL. My name--they calls me Isabel. + +JEREMY. [Turning to LUBIN.] And yourn? + +LUBIN. [In confusion.] I don't rightly recollect. + +JEREMY. [Impassively.] 'Tis of no account, us'll call you William +like the last one. + +ISABEL. O, and couldn't I be called like the last one too? + +JEREMY. Then us'll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and +doubtless you'll not prove much worser. + +[He goes away. + +MARY. This is your chance. A good chance too - + +LUBIN. They'll know the both of us. Love isn't never quite so dead +but what a sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring +some breath to it again. + +ISABEL. You're right there, master--sommat'll stir in the hearts of +them when they sees we--and 'tis from the door as us'll be chased for +masking on them like this. + +MARY. But not before the seeds of love have done their work. Come, +Isabel; come, Lubin--I will so dress you that you shall not be +recognised. + +[MARY goes indoors. ISABEL slowly rises and takes up her bundle. +LUBIN remains seated, looking gloomily before him. + +ISABEL. Come, think what 'twill feel to be along of our dear loves +and look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of their voices +once again. + +LUBIN. That's what I am a-thinking of. 'Twill be hot iron drove +right into the heart all the while. Ah, that's about it. + +ISABEL. I'll gladly bear the pain. + +LUBIN. [After a pause.] Then so will I. We'll go. + +[He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows +her into the cottage. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +The living room at Daniel's Mill. In the window ROSE-ANNA is seated +awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown. KITTY is +moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in +disorder about the room and JOHN stands with his back to the grate +gravely surveying them. + +ROSE. [Petulantly.] Whatever shall we do, John! Me not dressed, +everything no how, and them expected in less nor a half hour's time + +KITTY. There! I've finished a-dusting the chairs. Now I'll set +them in their places. + +ROSE. No one is thinking of me! Who's going to help me on with my +gown and curl my hair like Robert was used to seeing me wear it at +Aunt's? + +KITTY. Did you have it different down at Bristol, Rose? + +ROSE. Of course I did. 'Twouldn't do to be countrified in the town. + +JOHN. Your hair's well enough like that. 'Tisn't of hair as +anyone'll be thinking when they comes in, but of victuals. And how +we're a-going to get the table and all fixed up in so short a time do +fairly puzzle me. + +KITTY. I'll do the table. + +ROSE. No. You've got to help me with my gown. O that was a good- +for-nothing baggage, leaving us in the lurch! + +JOHN. Well, I've done my best to get us out of the fix. + +ROSE. And what would that be, pray? + +KITTY. Why John, you've done nothing but stand with your back to the +grate this last hour. + +JOHN. I've sent off Jerry. + +ROSE. [Scornfully.] Much good that'll do. + +KITTY. We know just how far Jerry will have gone. + +JOHN. I told him not to shew hisself unless he could bring a couple +of servants back along with him. + +ROSE. [Angrily.] You're more foolish than I took you to be, John. +Get you off at once and fetch Jerry from his cider at the Red Bull. +He's not much of a hand about the house, but he's better than no one. + +JOHN. [Sighing heavily.] Jeremy's not the man to start his drinking +so early in the day. + +ROSE. I've caught him at the cask soon after dawn. + +KITTY. And so have I, John. How you put up with his independent +ways I don't know. + +JOHN. Ah, 'tisn't everyone as has such a powerful strong head as +Jerry's. He's one that can be trusted to take his fill, and none the +worse with him afterwards. + +[A knock at the door, which is pushed open by JEREMY. + +JEREMY. [From the doorway.] Well, Master John--well, mistress? + +ROSE. [Sharply.] Master was just starting out for to fetch you +home, Jerry. + +JEREMY. [Ignoring her.] Well, master, I've brought a couple back +along of me. + +ROSE. Ducklings or chickens? + +JEREMY. I've gotten them too. + +KITTY. Do you mean that you've found some servants for us, Jerry? + +JEREMY. Two outside. Female and male. + +JOHN. Didn't I tell you so! There's naught that Jerry cannot do. +You'll have a drink for this, my man + +ROSE. You may take my word he's had that already, John. + +JEREMY. I have, mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the poultry +in my basket. Down at the Bull. + +ROSE. What sort of a maid is it? + +JEREMY. Ah, 'tis for you to tell me that, mistress, when you've had +her along of you a bit. + +ROSE. And the man? + +JEREMY. Much the same as any other male. + +ROSE. [Impatiently.] Do you step outside, John, and have a look at +them, and if they're suitable bring them in and we'll set them about +their work. + +[JOHN goes out. KITTY peers through the window. + +JEREMY. I reckon I can go off and feed the hilts now. 'Tis the +time. + +ROSE. Feed the hilts! Indeed you can't do no such thing. O I'm mad +with vexation that nothing is well ordered or suitably prepared for +Mr. Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol town. Whatever will +they say to such a house when they do see it? + +JEREMY. I'm sure I don't know. + +KITTY. [From the window.] I see the new servants. John is bringing +them up the walk. The man's face is hid by his broad hat, but the +girl looks neat enough in her cotton gown and sun-bonnet. + +[JOHN comes into the room, followed by LUBIN and ISABEL. LUBIN +shuffles off his hat, but holds it between his face and the people in +the room. + +JEREMY. [Pointing to them and speaking to ROSE.] There you are, +mistress--man-servant and maid. + +ROSE. What do we know about them? Folk picked up by Jerry at the +Red Bull. + +JEREMY. No, from the roadside. + +ROSE. Worser far. + +JOHN. No, no, Rose. These young persons were spoken for by Mary +Meadows. And 'tis rare fortunate for we to obtain their services at +short notice like this. + +ROSE. [To ISABEL.] What are you called, my girl? + +ISABEL. [Faintly.] Isabel is my name, but I'd sooner you called me +Lucy. + +ROSE. And that I will. My tongue is used to Lucy. The other is a +flighty, fanciful name for a servant. + +KITTY. And what is the man called, John? + +LUBIN. [Harshly.] I am called William. + +KITTY. William and Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this morning. + +ROSE. O do not let us waste any more time! Jerry, do you take the +man and shew him his work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come to me +and help me with my gown and my hair dressing. We have not a minute +to lose. + +KITTY. They may be upon us any time now. I'll go out and gather the +flowers for the parlour, since you don't want me any more within, +Rose. + +JOHN. And I'll get and finish Jeremy's work in the yard. 'Tis +upside down and round about and no how to-day. But we'll come out of +it some time afore next year I reckon. + +JEREMY. Don't you ever go for to get married, master. There could +never come a worser caddle into a man's days nor matrimony, I count. + +[JOHN, on his way to the door, pauses--as though momentarily lost in +thought. + +JOHN. Was Mary Meadows asked to drop in at any time to-day, Rose? + +ROSE. [Who is taking up her gown and ribbons to show to ISABEL, and +speaking crossly.] I'm sure I don't know, nor care. I've enough to +think about as 'tis. + +KITTY. [Taking JOHN's arm playfully.] You're terribly took up with +Mary Meadows, John. + +JOHN. There isn't many like her, Kitty. She do rear herself above +t'others as--as a good wheat stalk from out the rubbish. + +[JOHN and KITTY go slowly out. + +JEREMY. [As though to himself.] I sees as how I shall have to keep +an eye on master--[turning to LUBIN and signing to him.] But come, +my man, us has no time for romance, 'tis dish washing as lies afore +you now. + +[LUBIN jerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture. Then +he seems to remember himself and follows JEREMY humbly from the room. +ROSE takes up some ribbons and laces. + +ROSE. [To ISABEL, who is standing near.] Now, Lucy, we must look +sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from Bristol town will soon be +here. I have not met with the cousins yet, but I've been told as +they're very fine ladies--They stood in place of parents to my +Robert, you know. 'Tis unfortunate we should be in such a sad muddle +the day they come. + +ISABEL. When I have helped you into your gown, mistress, I shall +soon have the dinner spread and all in order. I be used to such +work, and I'm considered spry upon my feet. + +ROSE. 'Tis more serious that you should be able to curl my hair in +the way that Mr. Robert likes. + +ISABEL. [Sadly.] I don't doubt but that I shall be able to do that +too, mistress. + +ROSE. Very well. Take the gown and come with me up to my room. + +[They go out together, ISABEL carrying the gown. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +The same room. The table is laid for dinner and ISABEL is putting +flowers upon it. LUBIN wearing his hat, enters with large jugs of +cider, which he sets upon a side table. + +ISABEL. [Looking up from her work.] Shall us ever have the heart to +go on with it, Master Lubin? + +LUBIN. [Bitterly.] Do not you "Master" me, Isabel. I'm only a +common servant in the house where once I was lover and almost +brother. + +ISABEL. [Coming up to him.] O do not take it so hard, Lubin--Us can +do naught at this pass but trust what the young woman did tell me. + +LUBIN. [Gloomily.] The sight of Rose has stirred up my love so +powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back from my +eyes. + +ISABEL. [Pressing her eyes with her apron.] What'll it be for me +when Robert comes in? + +LUBIN. We'll have to help one another, Isabel, in the plight where +we stand. + +ISABEL. That's it. And perchance as them seeds'll do the rest. + +[They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is heard +outside. + +KITTY. [Runs in.] They've come. All of them. And do you know that +Robert's cousins are no fine ladies at all, as he said, but just two +common old women dressed grand-like. + +ISABEL. That will be a sad shock to poor mistress. + +KITTY. O, she is too much taken up with Mister Robert to notice yet. +But quick! They are all sharp set from the drive. Fetch in the +dishes, William and Lucy. + +ISABEL. All shall be ready in a moment, Miss Kitty. + +[She goes hurriedly out followed by LUBIN. KITTY glances round the +room and then stands at the side of the front door. JOHN, giving an +arm to each of ROBERT'S cousins, enters. The cousins are dressed in +coloured flowered dresses, and wear bonnets that are heavy with +bright plumes. They look cumbered and ill at ease in their clothes, +and carry their sunshades and gloves awkwardly. + +LIZ. [Looking round her.] Very comfortable, I'm sure. But I count +as that there old-fashioned grate do take a rare bit of elbow grease. + +JANE. Very pleasant indeed. But I didn't reckon as the room would +be quite the shape as 'tis. + +LIZ. Come to that, I didn't expect the house to look as it do. + +JANE. Very ancient in appearance, I'm sure. + +JOHN. Ah, the house has done well enough for me and my father and +grandfather afore me. + +[ROSE, very grandly dressed, comes in hanging on ROBERT'S arm. +ROBERT is clothed in the fashion of the town. + +ROSE. Please to remove your bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please to remove +yours, Miss Jane. + +JOHN. [Heartily.] Ah, that's so--'Twill be more homely like for +eating. + +ROSE. There's a glass upon the wall. + +LIZ. I prefer to remain as I be. + +JANE. Sister and me have our caps packed up in the tin box. + +KITTY. [Bringing the tin box from the doorway.] Shall I take you +upstairs to change? Dinner's not quite ready yet. + +LIZ. That will suit us best, I'm sure. Come, sister. + +[KITTY leads the way out, followed by both sisters. + +JOHN. I'll just step outside and see that Jerry's tending to the +horse. + +[He hurries out, and ROBERT is left alone with ROSE. + +ROSE. [Coming towards him and holding out her hands.] O, Robert, is +it the same between us as it was last time? + +ROBERT. [Looking at her critically.] You've got your hair different +or something. + +ROSE. [Putting her hand to her head.] The new maid. A stupid +country wench. + +ROBERT. You've got my meaning wrong. 'Tis that I've never seen you +look so well before. + +ROSE. O dear Robert! + +ROBERT. You've got my fancy more than ever, Rose. + +ROSE. O, I'm so happy to be going off with you to-morrow, and I love +it down at Bristol. Robert, I'm tired and sick of country life. + +ROBERT. We'll make a grand fine lady of you there, Rose. + +ROSE. [A little sharply.] Am I not one in looks already, Robert? + +ROBERT. You're what I do dote upon. I can't say no more. + +[LUBIN and ISABEL enter carrying dishes, which they set upon the +table. ROBERT and ROSE turn their backs to them and look out into +the garden. The staircase door is opened, and LIZ, JANE and KITTY +come into the room. LIZ and JANE are wearing gaudy caps trimmed with +violet and green ribbons. + +ROSE. We'll sit down, now. John won't be a moment before he's here. + +[She sits down at one end of the table and signs to ROBERT to place +himself next to her. The sisters and KITTY seat themselves. JOHN +comes hurriedly in. + +JOHN. That's right. Everyone in their places? But no cover laid +for Mary? + +ROSE. [Carelessly.] We can soon have one put, should she take it +into her head to drop in. + +JOHN. That's it. Now ladies, now Robert--'tis thirsty work a- +driving upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We'll lead off with a +drink of home-made cider. The eating'll come sweeter afterwards. + +ROBERT. That's it, Miller. + +[LUBIN and ISABEL come forward and take the cider mugs from each +place to the side table, where LUBIN fills them from a large jug. In +the mugs of ROSE-ANNA and ROBERT, ISABEL shakes the contents of the +little packets. Whilst they are doing this the following talk is +carried on at the table. + +LIZ [Taking up a spoon.] Real plated, sister. + +JANE. Upon my word, so 'tis. + +ROSE. And not so bright as I should wish to see it neither. I've +had a sad trouble with my maids of late. + +LIZ. Sister and I don't keep none of them, thank goodness. + +JANE. We does our work with our own hands. We'd be ashamed if 'twas +otherwise. + +ROBERT. [Scowling at them.] I've been and engaged a house-full of +servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what 'tis to live like a lady +once she enters our family. + +JOHN. Servants be like green fly on the bush. They do but spoil th' +home and everything they do touch. All save one. + +KITTY. And that one's Jerry, I suppose. + +JOHN. You're right there, Kitty, that you are. A harder head was +never given to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders. + +[LUBIN and ISABEL here put round the mugs of cider, and everyone +drinks thirstily. ISABEL stands behind the chairs of ROSE and ROBERT +and LUBIN at JOHN'S side. + +ROBERT. [Setting down his mug.] There's a drink what can't be got +in foreign parts. + +ROSE. [Looking fondly at him.] Let the maid fill your mug again, my +dear one. + +ROBERT. [Carelessly handing it to ISABEL.] I don't mind if I do +have another swill. + +[ISABEL fills the mug and puts it by his side. + +LIZ. As good as any I ever tasted. + +JANE. Couldn't better it at the King's Head up our way. + +JOHN. Good drink--plenty of it. Now we'll start upon the meat I +reckon. + +[He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve, and LUBIN hands +round plates. During this ROBERT'S gaze restlessly wanders about the +room, finally fixing itself on ISABEL, who presently goes out to the +back kitchen with plates. + +ROBERT. The new serving maid you've got there, Rose, should wear a +cap and not her bonnet. + +ROSE. How sharp you are to notice anything. + +ROBERT. A very pretty looking wench, from what I can see. + +ROSE. [Speaking more to the cousins than to ROBERT.] O she's but a +rough and untrained girl got in all of a hurry. Not at all the sort +I've been used to in this house, I can tell you. + +[ISABEL comes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table. + +LIZ. [To JANE.] A mellower piece of pig meat I never did taste, +sister. + +JANE. I'm sorry I went and took the poultry. + +KITTY. John will carve you some ham if you'd like to try it, Miss +Jane. + +JANE. I'm sure I'm much obliged. + +[JEREMY comes in.] + +JEREMY. [Coming to the back of JANE'S chair.] Don't you get mixing +of your meats is what I says. Commence with ham and finish with he. +That's what do suit the inside of a delicate female. + +JANE. [Looking up admiringly.] Now that's just what old Uncle he +did used to say. + +JEREMY. Old uncle did know what he was a-talking about then. + +LIZ. [Warming and looking less awkward and ill at ease.] 'Twas the +gout what kept Uncle so low in his eating, 'twas not th' inclination +of him. + +JEREMY. Ah 'twouldn't be the gout nor any other disease as would +keep me from a platter of good food. + +JOHN. Nor from your mug of drink neither, Jerry. + +[JEREMY laughs and moves off to the side table. + +LIZ. A very pleasant sort of man. + +JANE. I do like anyone what's homely. + +JOHN. [Calling out heartily.] Do you listen to that, Jerry! The +ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I don't know what +else. + +JEREMY. The mugs want filling once more. + +[He stolidly goes round the table refilling the mugs. ROSE'S gaze +wanders about her. + +ROSE. [To ROBERT.] That's not a bad looking figure of a man - + +ROBERT. Who? + +ROSE. Well--the new farm hand. + +ROBERT. A sulky looking brute. I'd not let him wear his hat to +table if I was master here. + +ROSE. He puts me in mind of--well--there, I can't recollect who +'tis. [A knock is heard at the door. + +ROSE. [Sharply to ISABEL.] Go and see who 'tis, Lucy. + +[ISABEL opens the door, and MARY MEADOWS stands on the threshold, a +large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers in her hand. + +JOHN. [Rising up in great pleasure.] You're late, Mary. But you're +welcome as the--as the very sunshine. + +ROSE. Set another place, Lucy. + +MARY. Not for me, Rose. I did not come here to eat or drink, but to +bring you these few blossoms and my love. + +ROSE. [Rises from the table and takes the nosegay.] I'm sure you're +very kind, Mary--Suppose we were all to move into the parlour now we +have finished dinner, and then we could enjoy a bit of conversation. + +LIZ. Very pleasant, I'm sure. + +JANE. I see no objection. + +KITTY. [Running round to look at the flowers.] And Mary shall tell +us how to make charms out of the flowers--and the meanings of the +blossoms and all the strange things she knows about them. + +JOHN. [Taking a flower from the bunch and putting it into his coat.] +Yes, and how to brew tea as'll curl up anyone's tongue within the +mouth for a year--and fancy drinks for sheep with foot rot, and +powders against the murrain and any other nonsense that you do +please. + +MARY. Now, John, I'll not have you damage my business like this. + +LIZ. Maybe as the young person's got sommat what'll be handy with +your complaint, sister. + +JANE. Or for when you be took with th' air in your head so bad, +Jane. + +ROSE. Yes, I reckon that Mary has a charm for every ill beneath the +sun. Let's go off to the parlour along of her. You're not coming +with us, John, are you? + +JOHN. I'd not miss the telling of these things for anything in the +world, foolishness though they be. + +ROSE. Come along then--all of you. + +[They all go out. JEREMY holds the door open for them. As she +passes through it LIZ says, looking at him. + +LIZ. We shall hope for your company, too. + +JANE. To be sure, mister. + +JEREMY. [Haughtily.] I bain't one for parlours, nor charms, ma'am. +I be here for another purpose. + +[They leave the room. + +JEREMY. [Having watched the party out, moves towards the cider jug.] +Now, my man, now, my wench--us'll see what can be done with the +victuals and drink they've been and left. 'Tis a fair heavy feed and +drink as I do need. Sommat as'll lift me up through all the trials +of this here foolish matrimony and stuff. + +[He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain falls. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The next morning. ROBERT'S cousins are standing by the fire-place of +the same room. + +LIZ. 'Tis powerful unhomely here, Jane. + +JANE. And that 'tis. I wish as Robert had never brought us along of +him. + +LIZ. She's a stuck-up jay of a thing what he's about to wed if ever +I seed one. + +JANE. That her be. He'll live to wish hisself dead and buried one +day. + +LIZ. There bain't but one sensible tongue in the whole place to my +mind. + +JANE. Ah, he's a man to anyone's liking, sister. + +LIZ. 'Tis homelike as he do make I to feel among all these +strangers. + +JANE. Here he comes. + +[JEREMY with a yoke and two pails stands at the doorway. + +LIZ. Now do you come in, mister, and have a bit of talk along of we. + +JANE. Set down them pails and do as sister says, Mister Jeremy. + +[JEREMY looks them all over and then slowly and deliberately sets +down his pails. + +LIZ. That's right, sister and me was feeling terribly lonesome here +this morning. + +JANE. And we was wishing as we'd never left home to come among all +these stranger folk. + +LIZ. Not that we feels you to be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JANE. You be a plain homely man such as me and sister be accustomed +to. + +JEREMY. Anything more? + +LIZ. I suppose you've put by a tidy bit--seeing as you be of a +certain age. + +JANE. Although your looks favour you well, don't they, sister? + +LIZ. To be sure they do. + +JANE. And I reckon as you could set up a home of your own any day, +mister. + +JEREMY. [Pointing through the window.] See that there roof against +the mill? + +LIZ. Indeed I do. + +JEREMY. That's where I do live. + +[Both sisters move quickly to the window. + +JANE. A very comfortable looking home indeed. + +LIZ. I likes the looks of it better nor this great old house. + +JANE. [Archly.] Now I daresay there's but one thing wanted over +there, Mister Jeremy. + +JEREMY. What's that? + +JANE. A good wife to do and manage for you. + +JEREMY. I never was done for nor managed by a female yet, and blowed +if I will be now. + +LIZ. [Shaking her finger at him.] Sister an' me knows what comes of +such words, don't us, sister? 'Tis an old saying in our family as +one wedding do make a many. + +JEREMY. Give me a woman's tongue for foolishness. I've heared a +saying too in my family, which be--get a female on to your hearth and +'tis Bedlam straight away. + +JANE. Now, sister, did you ever hear the like of that? + +LIZ. Us'll have to change his mind for him, Jane. + +JEREMY. I reckon 'twould take a rare lot of doing to change that, +mistress. + +JANE. Bain't you a-goin' to get yourself ready for church soon? + +JEREMY. Dashed if I ever heard tell of such foolishness. Who's to +mind the place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling out? + +LIZ. There's the man William. + +JEREMY. I bain't a-goin' to leave the place to a stranger. + +JANE. Why, sister, us'll feel lost and lonesome without mister, +shan't us, Liz? + +LIZ. That us will. What if us stayed at home and helped to mind the +house along of he? + +JANE. [Slowly.] And did not put our new gowns upon the backs of we +after all the money spent? + +JEREMY. Ah, there you be. 'Tis the same with all females. +Creatures of vanity--even if they be got a bit long in the tooth. +'Tis all the same. + +[JANE and LIZ draw themselves up, bridling, but LIZ relaxes. + +LIZ. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know. + +[JOHN enters.] + +JOHN. Jerry, and I've been seeking you everywhere. Come you off to +the yard. 'Tis as much as we shall do to be ready afore church time. +I never knew you to idle in the house afore. + +JEREMY. [Taking up his pails, sarcastically.] 'Twas the females as +tempted I, master, but 'twon't occur again, so there. [He hurries +off, followed by JOHN. + +LIZ. [With dignity.] Us'll go upstairs and dress, sister. + +JANE. 'Tis time we did so. All them new-fashioned things be awkward +in the fastenings. + +[They go upstairs. + +[ROBERT and ROSE come in from the garden. ROBERT carries a little +card-board box in his hand, which he places on the table. ROSE sits +down listlessly on a chair leaning her arms on the table. + +ROBERT. [Undoing the box.] This is the bouquet what I promised to +bring from town. + +ROSE. [Her gaze wandering outside.] Well, we might as well look at +it afore I go to dress. + +[ROBERT uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white +flowers surrounded by a lace frill. + +ROSE. [Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face.] +Why, they are false ones. + +ROBERT. [Contemptuously.] My good girl, who ever went to church +with orange blossom that was real, I'd like to know? + +ROSE. [Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table.] I'm sure I +don't care. I reckon that one thing's about as good as another to be +married with. + +ROBERT. [Going to the window and looking out.] Ah--I daresay 'tis +so. + +ROSE. I feel tired of my wedding day already--that I do. + +ROBERT. There's a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what +a man's hardly used to, so it seems to me. + +ROSE. [Wildly.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we +die. + +ROBERT. Now--if 'twas with the right - + +ROSE. Right what, Robert? + +ROBERT. [Confused.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, Rose. +Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to dress yourself. We +might as well get it all over and finished with. + +ROSE. [Rising slowly.] Perhaps 'twould be best. I'll go to my +room, and you might call the girl Lucy and send her up to help me +with my things. + +ROBERT. Won't you take the bouquet along of you? + +ROSE. No--let it bide there. I can have it later. + +[She goes slowly from the room. + +[Left to himself, ROBERT strolls to the open door and looks gloomily +out on the garden. Suddenly his face brightens. + +ROBERT. Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment. + +LUCY. [From outside.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths, +master. + +ROBERT. Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress +wants you, Lucy. + +LUCY. [Coming to the door.] Mistress wants me, did you say? + +ROBERT. Yes, you've got to go and dress her for the church. But you +can spare me a minute or two first. + +ISABEL. [Going quickly across the room to the staircase door.] +Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master. 'Tis late already. + +ROBERT. [Catches her hand and pulls her back.] I've never had a +good look at your face yet, my girl--you act uncommon coy, and that +you do. + +ISABEL. [Turning her head away and speaking angrily.] Let go of my +hand, I tell you. I don't want no nonsense of that sort. + +ROBERT. Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and +there's sommat about the appearance of you - + +ISABEL. Let go of me, master. Suppose as anyone should look through +the window. + +ROBERT. Let them look. I'd give a good bit for all the world to see +us now. + +ISABEL. O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert? + +ROBERT. What I say. 'Tis with you as I'd be going along to church +this morning. Not her what's above. + +ISABEL. But I wouldn't go with you--No, not for all the gold in the +world. + +ROBERT. Ah, you've changed since yesterday. When I caught your eye +at dinner, 'twas gentle as a dove's--and your hand, when it gave me +my mug of cider did seem--well did seem to put a caress upon me like. + +ISABEL. O there lies a world of time twixt yesterday and to-day, +Master Robert. + +ROBERT. So it do seem. For to-day 'tis all thorns and thistles with +you--But I'm a-goin' to have my look at your pretty face and my kiss +of it too. + +ISABEL. I shall scream out loud if you touches me--that I shall. + +ROBERT. [Pulling her to him.] Us'll see about that. + +[He tries to get a sight of her face, but she twists and turns. +Finally he seizes both her hands and covers them with kisses as KITTY +enters. + +KITTY. O whatever's going on! Rose, Rose, John--come you in here +quickly, do. [To LUCY.] O you bad, wicked girl. I knew you +couldn't be a very nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy. + +[ISABEL, released by ROBERT, goes over to the window arranging her +disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears. ROBERT watches +her sullenly. + +KITTY. [Goes to the staircase door and calls loudly.] Rose, Rose-- +come you down as quick as you can run. + +ROSE. [Coming down.] What's all this, I'd like to know? + +KITTY. It's Lucy, behaving dreadful--O you must send her straight +away from the house, Rose. + +ROSE. What has she done, then? + +KITTY. Going on with Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing. + +ISABEL. O no, mistress, twasn't so, I do swear to you. + +ROBERT. [Brutally.] Yes 'twas. The maid so put me powerful in mind +of someone who--who - + +ROSE. [Coldly.] I understand you, Robert. Well, 'tis lucky that +all this didn't come off an hour or so later. + +KITTY. [Tearfully.] O Rose, what do you mean? + +ROSE. I mean that what's not broken don't need no mending. Robert +can go to church with someone else to-day, he can. And no harm done. + +[She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins pulling it to +pieces and throwing it all about the room. + +KITTY. O Rose, Rose, don't take it so hard. 'Twasn't Robert's +fault. 'Twas the girl off the road what led him on. I know it. +Tell her to get out of the house. I'll dress you--I'll do the work. +Only be just and sensible again; dear Rose. + +ROSE. Let the girl bide. It makes no difference to me. There'll be +no marrying for me to-day. + +[JOHN comes in at the door. + +KITTY. [Running to him.] O John, John--do you quiet down Rose and +tell her to get upstairs and dress. She's a-saying that she won't +marry Robert because of his goings on with the new servant--But, O, +you'll talk her into reason again, won't you, dear John? + +JOHN. Come, come, what's all this cackle about, Rose? + +ROSE. I'm breaking off with Robert, that's all, John. + +JOHN. Robert, can't you take and explain a bit what 'tis. + +ROBERT. [Sullenly.] A little bit of play 'twixt me and the wench +there, and that's about all, I reckon. + +JOHN. Now that's an unsensible sort of thing to get doing on your +marriage day, to my thinking. + +KITTY. 'Twasn't Robert's fault, I know. 'Twas the maid off the road +who started it. + +[Here ISABEL sinks down on a chair by the window, leaning her arms on +the table and bowing her head, in tears. + +JOHN. [Going to the door.] Jeremy--Jeremy--come you in here a +minute. + +[Instead of JEREMY, LUBIN comes in. + +JOHN. 'Twas Jeremy I did call--not you. + +LUBIN. He's gone off the place for a few minutes. + +JOHN. [Vexedly.] Ah, 'tis early for the Red Bull. + +LUBIN. Can I--can I do anything for you, master? + +JOHN. Not unless you can account for the sort of serving wench off +the roadside what Jerry has put upon us. + +LUBIN. What is there to account for in her, master? + +ROSE. [Passionately.] O I don't particular mind about what's +happened. Let her kiss with Robert if she has the mind. 'Tis always +the man who commences. + +JOHN. 'Tis not. There are some wenches who don't know how to leave +anyone alone. Worser than cattle flies, that sort. + +ISABEL. [Going across the room to LUBIN'S side.] O you shame me by +them words, I bain't that sort of maid--you'll answer for me-- +William? + +[LUBIN silently takes her hand. + +ROSE. [Her eyes fixed on LUBIN.] I'll tell you what, John; I'll +tell you, Kitty. I wish I'd held me to my first lover and I wish +'twas with Lubin that I was a-going to the church to-day. + +ROBERT. [Sullenly.] Then I'll say sommat, Rose. I wish 'twas with +Isabel that I was getting wed. + +JOHN. Now, now--'Tis like two children a quarrelling over their +playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed, Rose- +Anna--And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be at the door afore +you're ready if you don't quicken yourselves up a bit. Kitty, you go +and help your sister. + +ROSE. [With a jealous glance at Isabel.] No, I'll have Lucy with +me. + +JOHN. That's it, you keep her out of mischief + +KITTY. I've got my own dress to put on. + +JOHN. And Robert, you and me will have a drink after all this +caddle. 'Tis dry work getting ready for marriage so it appears. + +ROBERT. 'Tis fiery dry to my thinking. + +ROSE. [Crossing the room and going up to LUBIN.] I have no flowers +to take to church with me, William; go you to the waterside, I have a +mind to carry some of the blue things what grow there. + +KITTY. Forget-me-nots, you mean! + +ROSE. Forget-me-nots, I mean. And none but you to gather them for +me, William. Because--because--well, you do put me in thoughts of +someone that I once held and now have lost. That's all. + +[Curtain. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 2. + + + +The same room half an hour later. ISABEL is picking up the scattered +orange blossom which she ties together and lays on the window sill. +LUBIN comes in with a large bunch of river forget-me-nots. + +LUBIN. I didn't think to find you here, Isabel. + +ISABEL. O but that is a beautiful blue flower. I will take the +bunch upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it. + +LUBIN. [Putting it on the table.] No--do you bide a moment here +with me. + +[ISABEL looks helplessly at LUBIN who takes her hands slowly in his. + +LUBIN. What are we going to do? + +ISABEL. I wish as we had never touched the seeds. + +LUBIN. O cursed seeds of love--Far better to have left all as 'twas +yesterday in the morning. + +ISABEL. He has followed me like my shadow, courting and courting me +hard and all the time, Lubin. + +LUBIN. She sought me out in the yard at day-break, and what I'd have +given twenty years of life for yester eve I could have thrown into +the stream this morning. + +ISABEL [Sadly.] So 'tis with my feelings. + +LUBIN. She has altered powerful, to my fancy, in these years. + +ISABEL. And Robert be differenter too from what I do remember. [A +long silence. + +LUBIN. Have you thought as it might be in us two these changes have +come about, Isabel? + +ISABEL. I was just the maid as ever I was until - + +LUBIN. And so was I unchanged, until I started travelling up on the +same road as you, Isabel. + +[For a few minutes they look gravely into one another's eyes. + +LUBIN. [Taking ISABEL'S hands.] So that's how 'tis with you and me. + +ISABEL. O Lubin--a poor serving maid like I am. + +LUBIN. I'll have no one else in the whole world. + +ISABEL. What could I have seen in him, times gone by? + +LUBIN. And was it ever true that I did sit through a long Sunday her +hand in mine? [Another silence. + +ISABEL. But how's us ever to get out of the caddle where we be? + +LUBIN. [Gaily.] We'll just run away off to the Fair as t'other +servants did. + +ISABEL. And leave them in their hate for one another? No--'twould +be too cruel. Us'll run to the young mistress what knows all about +them herbs. I count as there be seeds or sommat which could set the +hearts of them two back in the right places again. Come - + +LUBIN. Have it your own way then. But 'twill have to be done very +quickly if 'tis done at all. + +ISABEL. Us'll fly over the ground like. + +[She puts her hand impetuously in LUBIN'S and they go out together. +As they do so, ISABEL'S bonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded +on the floor. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 3. + + + +A few minutes later. LIZ and JANE wearing gay sprigged dresses and +feathered bonnets, come to the room. They carry fans and +handkerchiefs in their hands. It is seen that their gowns are not +fastened at the back. + +LIZ. Such a house I never heard tell of. Ring, ring at the bell and +no one to come nigh. + +JANE. Being unused to bells, sister, maybe as us did pull them wrong +or sommat. + +LIZ. I wish we'd had the gowns made different. + +JANE. To do up in the front--sensible like. + +[They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall, absorbed in +their dress, they do not notice that JEREMY has come in and is +watching them sarcastically. + +JEREMY. Being as grey as th' old badger don't keep a female back +from vanity. + +LIZ. O dear, Master Jeremy, what a turn you did give me, to be sure. + +JANE. We can't find no one in this house to attend upon we. + +JEREMY. I count as you can not. Bain't no one here. + +LIZ. We rang for the wench a many time. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you might ring. + +JANE. We want someone as'll fasten them niggly hooks to our gowns. + +JEREMY. Ah, and you may want. + +LIZ. Our sight bain't clear enough to do one for t'other, the +eyelets be made so small. + +JEREMY. Count as you'll have to go unfastened then. + +JANE. O now you be a laughing at us. Call the wench down, or we +shall never be ready in time. + +JEREMY. Man and maid be both gone off. Same as t'others, us'll have +to do without service + +LIZ. Gone off! + +JANE. Runned clean away? + +JEREMY. That's about it. + +JANE. Well now, sister, us'll have to ask the little Miss to help +we. + +JEREMY. I've harnessed the mare a many time. Don't see why I +shouldn't get the both of you fixed into the shafts like. + +LIZ and JANE. [Fanning themselves coyly.] O Master Jeremy - + +JEREMY. Come now. Let's have a try. I count as no one have a +steadier hand nor me this side of the river, nor a finer eye for +seeing as everything be in its place. I'll settle the both of you +afore I gets out the horse and trap. Turn round. + +[The sisters turn awkwardly, and with very self-conscious airs begin +to flutter their fans. JEREMY quickly hooks each gown in succession. +As he finishes the fastening of JANE'S dress ROSE, followed by KITTY, +comes into the room. She is wearing her bridal gown and veil. + +ROSE. [Pausing.] What's this, Jeremy? + +JEREMY. The servants be runned away same as t'others--that's all, +mistress. + +ROSE. Run away? + +JEREMY. So I do reckon. Bain't anywhere about the place. + +ROSE. [Flinging herself down on a chair by the table, in front of +the bunch of forget-me-nots.] Let them be found. Let them be +brought back at once. + +KITTY. For my part I'm glad they've gone off. The girl was a wild, +bad thing. I saw how she went on with Robert. + +ROSE. [Brokenly to JEREMY.] You found them. Bring them back, +Jerry. + +KITTY. No--wait till you and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. +Then 'twon't matter quite so much. + +ROSE. I'll never wed me to Robert, I'll only wed me to him who +gathered these blue flowers here. + +KITTY. Good heavens, Rose, 'twas the man William. + +[KITTY looks in consternation from ROSE to the cousins and then to +JEREMY, who remains impassive and uninterested, sucking a straw. +ROSE clasps her hands round the forget-me-nots and sits gazing at +them, desolately unhappy. ROBERT enters. He is very grandly dressed +for the wedding, but as he comes into the room he sees ISABEL'S +cotton bonnet on the floor. He stoops, picks it up and laying it +reverently on the table, sinks into a chair opposite ROSE and raising +one of its ribbons, kisses this with passion. + +ROBERT. There--I'd not change this for a thousand sacks of gold--I +swear I'd not. + +KITTY. Now Robert--get up, the two of you. Are you bewitched or +sommat--O Jerry, stir them, can't you. + +LIZ. Robert, 'tisn't hardly suitable--with the young miss so sweetly +pretty in her white gown. + +JANE. And wedding veil and all. And sister and me hooked up into +our new sprigs, ready for the ceremony. + +JEREMY. [Looking at them with cold contempt.] Let them bide. The +mush'll swim out of they same as 'twill swim off the cider vat. Just +let the young fools bide. + +KITTY. O this'll never do. Jerry forgetting of his manners and all. +[Calling at the garden door.] John, John, come you here quickly, +there's shocking goings on. [JOHN, in best clothes comes in. + +JOHN. What's the rattle now, Kitty? I declare I might be turning +round on top of my own mill wheel such times as these. + +KITTY. Rose says she won't wed Robert, and Robert's gone off his +head all along of that naughty servant maid. + +[JOHN stands contemplating ROSE and ROBERT. ROSE seems lost to the +outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots, whilst +ROBERT, in sullen gloom, keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet. + +JOHN. Come, Rose, 'tis time you commenced to act a bit different. +[ROSE does not answer. + +JOHN. Come, Robert, if you play false to my sister at the last +moment, you know with whom you'll have to reckon like. [ROBERT pays +no heed to him. + +JOHN. [To JEREMY.] Can you do naught to work upon them a bit, +Jerry? + +JEREMY. I'd have a jug of cider in, master. 'Twill settle them all. +Folks do get 'sterical and vapourish face to face with matrimony. +Put some drink afore of them, and see how 'twill act. + +LIZ. O what a wise thought, Master Jerry. + +JANE. Most suitable, I call it. + +[Here MARY MEADOWS comes in, JOHN turns eagerly to her. + +JOHN. O Mary--have you come to help us in the fix where we are? [He +signs to ROSE and ROBERT. + +MARY. What has happened, John? + +JEREMY. I'll tell you in a couple of words, mistress. + +LIZ. No--do you fetch the cider, dear Mister Jeremy. + +JOHN. 'Tis more than I can do with, Mary. Rose is set against +Robert, and Robert is set against Rose. Rose--well I'm fairly +ashamed to mention it--Rose has lost her senses and would wed the +servant William--and Robert is a-courting of the maid. + +JEREMY. Ah, let each fool follow their own liking, says I. + +LIZ. And sister and me all dressed in our new gowns for the church. + +JANE. And Jerry had to do the hooking for we, both of the servants +having runned away. + +MARY. Well, now I'm here I'll lend a hand. I'll help with the +dinner time you're at church. You shall not need to trouble about +anything, Mr. John. + +JOHN. O once I do get them to the church and the ring fixed and all +I shan't trouble about nothing, Mary. But 'tis how to move them from +where they be! That's the puzzle. + +ROSE. I'll never move till the hand that gathered these flowers be +here to raise me. + +ROBERT. I'll sit here to the end of the world sooner nor go along to +be wed with Miss over there. + +MARY. 'Tis midsummer heat have turned their brains. But I know a +cooling draught that will heal them of their sickness. Jeremy, do +you step into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh violet +leaves, one blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary. + +JEREMY. [Sighing.] What next? + +JOHN. Get gone at once, Jerry. + +[JEREMY goes to the door--as he does so LIZ and JANE start up and +follow him. + +LIZ. Sister and me will come along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy. + +JANE. And that us will, if our new gowns bain't hooked too tight for +we to bend. + +[They follow JEREMY to the garden. KITTY silently leaves the room +also. ROSE and ROBERT remain lost in their sorrowful reflections. +JOHN and MARY look at them for a moment and then turn to one another. + +JOHN. Mary, I never thought to see such a thing as this. + +MARY. You take my word for it, John, the storm will soon be blown +away. + +JOHN. I don't know how I should stand up against the worry of it +all, wasn't it for you, Mary. + +[A short silence. + +JOHN. [Taking MARY'S hand.] 'Twill be a bit lonesome for me here, +when they've gone off, Mary. + +MARY. You'll have Kitty to do for you then. + +JOHN. Kitty be going to live along of them at Bristol too, after a +while. + +MARY. [Looking round the room.] Then I count as it might feel a bit +desolate like in this great house alone. + +JOHN. [Taking MARY'S hand.] I cannot face it, Mary. I've loved you +many years, you know. + +MARY. I know you have, dear John. + +JOHN. Can't you forget he what was false to you, days gone by, and +take me as your husband now? + +MARY. [Doubtfully.] I don't hardly know. + +JOHN. You used to sing sommat--the grass that was trampled under +foot, give it time, it will rise up again. + +MARY. [Drying her eyes.] Ah, it has risen, dear John--and I count +it have covered the wound of those past days--my heart do tell me so, +this minute. + +JOHN. [Holding both her hands.] Then 'tis one long midsummer afore +you and me, Mary. + +MARY. That's how 'twill be, dear John. + +[JEREMY, followed by the cousins, enters. He holds a bunch of leaves +towards MARY. + +JEREMY. There you be, mistress. Fools' drink for fools. A mug of +good cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker. + +[MARY takes the bunch, and still holding JOHN'S hand, leads him to +the kitchen. JEREMY watches the pair sarcastically. + +JEREMY. 'Tis all finished with the master, then. + +[The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their faces with +handkerchiefs. + +LIZ. Dear me, 'tis warm. + +JANE. I hope my face don't show mottled, sister? + +JEREMY. I was saying as how 'twas all finished with the master. + +[MARY, followed by JOHN, comes forward carrying two glasses. She +gives one to ROSE and the other to ROBERT. + +MARY. Now do you take a good draught of this, the both of you. With +violet leaves the fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease +lightens every trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to +anyone with its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest. + +[She leaves the table and stands far back in the room by JOHN'S side. +ROSE slowly lifts her glass and begins to drink. ROBERT does the +same. They are watched with anxiety by all in the room. When they +have emptied their glasses ROSE dries her tears and pushes the +flowers a little way from her. ROBERT shakes himself and moves the +cotton bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor. Meanwhile +KITTY has come quietly to the garden door and stands there watching +the scene intently. + +LIZ. Bain't we going to get a drink too? + +JANE. Seems as though master have been and forgot we. + +JEREMY. [Starting up and going to the kitchen.] If I've been and +forgot you two old women, I've remembered myself. Be blowed if I can +get through any more of this foolishness without a wet of my mouth. + +[He goes out. + +ROSE. [Speaking faintly.] Does it show upon my face, the crying, +Robert? + +ROBERT. [Looking at her.] No, no, Rose, your eyes be brighter nor +ever they were. + +ROSE. [Pushing the forget-me-nots yet further away.] Those flowers +are dying. My fancy ones were best. + +KITTY. [Coming forward with the orange blossoms.] Here they are, +dear Rose. + +ROSE. [Taking them.] O how beautiful they do look. I declare I can +smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert. + +ROBERT. All the orange blossom in the world bain't so sweet as one +kiss from your lips, Rose. + +ROSE. Now is that truly so? + +ROBERT. Ah, 'tis heavy work a-waiting for the coach, Rose. + +JOHN. [Coming forward and taking MARY'S hand.] And yours won't be +the only marriage Rose-Anna. Did you never think that me and Mary +might - + +KITTY. [Running forward.] But I did--O so many times, John. +[JEREMY enters with LUBIN and ISABEL. + +JEREMY. Servants be comed back. Man was to the Red Bull, I count. +Female a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn. + +ROSE. [Coldly.] I don't care whether they be here or not. Set them +to work, Jerry, whilst we are to church. + +LIZ. That's it, Master Jeremy. I was never so put out in my life, +as when sister did keep on ringing and the wench was not there to +help us on with our gowns. + +[ROSE and ROBERT get up and go towards the door. They pause before +LUBIN and ISABEL. + +ROSE. The man puts me in mind of someone whom I knew before, called +Lubin. I thought I had a fancy for him once--but 'twasn't really so. + +ROBERT. And the girl do favour a little servant wench from +Framilode. + +ROSE. [Jealously.] You never went a-courting with a servant wench, +now did you, my heart's dearest? + +ROBERT. Never in all my days, Rose. 'Twas but the fanciful thoughts +of a boy towards she, that I had. + +ROSE. [Putting her arm in ROBERT'S.] Well, we have nothing to do +with anything more of it now, dear Robert. + +ROBERT. You're about right, my true love, we'll get us off to the +church. + +JEREMY. Ah, coach have been waiting a smartish while, I reckon. +'Tis on master as expense'll fall. + +[ROSE and ROBERT with cold glances at LUBIN and ISABEL, pass out of +the door. + +JOHN. [Giving his arm to MARY.] Now, Mary--now, Kitty. [They pass +out. + +LIZ. Now, Jeremy, sister and me bain't going off all alone. + +JEREMY. [Offering an arm to each.] No further than the church door, +I say. I've better things to do nor a-giving of my arm to females be +they never so full of wiles. And you two do beat many what bain't +near so long in the tusk, ah, that you does. + +[JEREMY goes out with the sisters. + +LUBIN. [To ISABEL.] And shall we go off into the meadows, Isabel, +seeing that we are quite forgot? + +ISABEL. No--'tis through these faithless ones as us have learnt to +understand the hearts within of we. Let's bide and get the marriage +dinner ready for them first. + +[She stretches both her hands towards LUBIN, who takes them +reverently in his as the Curtain falls. + + + + +THE NEW YEAR + + + + +CHARACTERS + +STEVE BROWNING, a Blacksmith, also Parish Clerk. +GEORGE DAVIS, a Carpenter. +HARRY MOSS, a young Tramp. +MAY BROWNING. +JANE BROWNING. +DORRY BROWNING, aged twelve. +ANNIE SIMS. +ROSE SIMS. +VASHTI REED. + + + +ACT I.--Scene 1. + + + +A country roadside. It is late afternoon and already dusk. + +MAY BROWNING with HARRY MOSS come slowly forward. Close to a stile +which is a little off the road, MAY stops. + +MAY. There, you don't need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. +You get on quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and +the snow, too. + +HARRY. I don't care much about leaving you like this on the +roadside, May. And that's the truth, 'tis. + +MAY. Don't you take no more thought for I, Harry. 'Tis a good boy +as you've been to I since the day when we fell in together. But now +there bain't no more need for you to hold back your steps, going slow +and heavy when you might run spry and light. For 'tis home as I be +comed to now, I be. You go your way. + +HARRY. I see naught of any house afore us or behind. 'Tis very +likely dusk as is upon us, or may happen 'tis the fog getting up from +the river. + +MAY. [Coughing.] Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a +field path, bain't there? + +HARRY. [Taking a few steps to the right and peering through the +gloom.] Ah, and that there be. + +MAY. And at t'other end of it a house what's got a garden fence all +round. + +HARRY. Ah--and 'tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light +shining from out the windows of it, too, though 'tis shining dim-like +in the mist. + +MAY. 'Tis that yonder's my home, Harry. There's the door where I +must stand and knock. + +[For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with +weeping. + +HARRY. I wouldn't take on so, if 'twas me. + +MAY. And did you say as how there was a light in the window? 'Twill +be but fire light then, for th' old woman she never would bring out +the lamp afore 'twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, +what'd lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it +should go wasted. + +HARRY. There, 'tis shining better now--or maybe as the fog have +shifted. + +MAY. 'Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry. + +HARRY. Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I'll go +along of you a bit further. 'Twill not be much out of my way. +Nothing to take no count of. + +MAY. No, no, Harry. I bain't going to cross that field, nor yet +stand at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is +it like as I'd let them see me coming over the meadow and going +through the gate in this? [Holding up a ragged shawl.] In these? +[Pointing to her broken shoes.] And--as I be to-day. + +[Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of +anguished coughing. + +HARRY. There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, +like. Don't you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you'll +be wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn't +know that you be coming back. + +MAY. [Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough.] +Harry, you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. +'Tis all live coals within I here, so 'tis. + +HARRY. You get along home, and maybe as them'll find summat better +nor water from the ditch to give you. + +MAY. No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall and +cover me, or I won't never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. +Give I to drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in quiet till +all of the light be gone. + +HARRY. [Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her.] Where be +I to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground? + +MAY. [Pointing.] Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you +there, 'tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water +from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch. + +[HARRY goes off with the can. MAY watches him, drawing her shawl +again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing. + +[HARRY returns and holds out the can. + +MAY. 'Tis not very quick as you've been, Harry Moss. Here--give it +to I fast. Give! + +[HARRY puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands, which +shake feverishly, and she drinks with sharp avidity. + +MAY. 'Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and +have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. +Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it. +Drink of it, too, Harry. + +HARRY. 'Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat as'll lie more +warm and comfortable to th' inside like. I bain't one for much +water, and that's the truth, 'tis. [He empties the water on the +ground. + +MAY. Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be +gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, +where the lamps do shine and 'tis bright and warm in the places where +they sells the drink. + +HARRY. Once I sets off running by myself, I'll get there fast +enough, May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I +don't care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like. + +MAY. Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, +which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too. + +HARRY. [Sitting down by her side.] 'Tis a fine thing to have a home +what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the +limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside. How +was it as you ever came away from it, like? + +MAY. Ah, and that's what I be asking of myself most of the time, +Harry! For, 'tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut +the door behind me and went out. + +[A slight pause. + +MAY. Away from them all, upon the road--so 'twas. + +HARRY. And never see'd no more of them, nor sent to say how 'twas +with you, nor nothing? + +MAY. Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And +'twas finished. + +[A long pause, during which the darkness has gathered. + +HARRY. Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May? + +MAY. [Bitterly.] Ah now, whatever did! + +HARRY. 'Tweren't as though you might have been a young wench, +flighty like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the +streets of it. For, look you here, 'tis an old woman as you be now, +May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don't doubt. + +MAY. An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you 'tis so, I +count. But a twelve year gone by, O, 'twas a fine enough looking +maid as I was then--Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the +free ways of the road and the lights of the fair--And for the sun to +rise in one place where I was, and for I to be in t'other when her +should set. + +HARRY. I'd keep my breath for when 'twas wanted, if 'twas me. + +MAY. Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as +they'll be likely to know I again up at home? + +HARRY. How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that 'tis but +a ten days or less as I've been along of you on the road? And seeing +that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you +neither? + +MAY. Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I'll +tell you how 'twas in the days gone by? + +HARRY. 'Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. The night be +coming upon we wonderful fast. + +MAY. The hair, 'twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, +Harry. 'Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so 'twas. + +HARRY. Well, 'tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, +that it be. + +MAY. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. +'Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was +then, Harry. + +HARRY. 'Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May. + +MAY. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long +while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, +Harry, and that I can. Victuals to th' inside of I and a bit of +clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I +up. Why, there, Harry, you won't know as 'tis me when I've been to +home a day or two--or may be as 'twill take a week. + +HARRY. I count 'twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set +up as you once was, May. + +MAY. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by +the hair, which is different to what 'twas, or by the form of me, +which be got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don't come +never no change. So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do +appear to you. + +HARRY. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May. + +MAY. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they. + +HARRY. Them be set open wonderful wide and 'tis as though a heat +comed out from they. 'Tis not anyone as might care much for to look +into the eyes what you've got. + +MAY. [With despondence.] Maybe then, as them'll not know as 'tis +me, Harry Moss. + +HARRY. I count as they'll be hard put to, and that's the truth. + +MAY. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and +the breath of me so short, but 'twon't be long, I count, afore they +sees who 'tis. Though all be changed to th' eye like, there'll be +summat in me as'll tell they. And 'tis not a thing of shape, nor of +colour as'll speak for I--But 'tis summat what do come straight out +of the hearts of we and do say better words for we nor what the looks +nor tongues of us might tell. You mind me, Harry, there's that which +will come out of me as'll bring they to know who 'tis. + +HARRY. Ah, I reckon as you'll not let them bide till they does. + +MAY. And when they do know, and when they sees who 'tis, I count as +they'll be good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as +Steve, he was a hard one, and th' old woman what's his mother, hard +too--And that it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I +sees thing different now. + +HARRY. Ah, 'tis one thing to see by candle and another by day. + +MAY. For 'twas wild as I was in the time gone by. Wild after +pleasuring and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at the +countenance of I, and a-turning back for to look again. But, hark +you here, 'tis powerful changed as I be now. + +HARRY. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman into an +old one. + +MAY. I'm finished with the road journeying and standing about in the +streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking places-- +Men what don't want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to +follow if 'twasn't only a bit of eyelid as I'd lift on them, times +that is gone. + +HARRY. Ah, 'twould take a lot of looking to see you as you was. + +MAY. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to bide +quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and the +door shut. + +HARRY. I reckon as you be. + +MAY. And I'm thinking as they'll be rare pleased for to have I in +the house again. 'Twill be another pair of hands to the work like. +And when I was young, 'twas not on work as I was set much. + +HARRY. Ah, I did guess as much. + +MAY. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, 'tis a strong +arm as them'll have working for they; Steve, th' old woman what's his +mother, and little Dorry, too. + +HARRY. Dorry? I han't heard tell of she. + +MAY. That's my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling +on the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. +Bless the innocent heart of her! + +HARRY. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can't think! You must +have been drove to it like, wasn't you? + +MAY. 'Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. 'Twas very likely +the blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was +tied up to Steve, 'twas as if they had got I shut in a box. 'Twas +the bridle on my head and the bit in the mouth of I; and to be held +in where once I had gone free. [A short pause. + +MAY. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to be +calling I from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries +tossing in the wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where +they'd been stuck all summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I +powerful, so that one morning when the sun was up and the breeze +running, I comed out into the air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. +And 'twas done--so 'twas. + +HARRY. And didn't they never try for to stop you, nor for to bring +you back, May? + +MAY. No, Harry, they did not. + +HARRY. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the +door shut ahind of you? + +MAY. Ah--where! To the east, to the south, every part. 'Twas +morning with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them +as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into the +countenance of I. Then 'twas the best as they could give as I might +take; and 'twas for no lodging as I did want when dark did come +falling. + +HARRY. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, +May. + +MAY. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat +of the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a +grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat +upon, maybe. So 'twas with I. + +[She bows her head on her knees, and for a moment is shaken with +sudden grief. + +HARRY. Don't you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to +the end of your journeying this day, and that you be. + +MAY. [Raising her head.] Ah, 'tis so, 'tis so. And 'tis rare glad +as them'll be to see I once again. Steve, he's a hard man, but a +good one--And I'll tell you this, Harry Moss, he'll never take up +with no woman what's not me--and that he won't--I never knowed him +much as look on one, times past; and 'twill be the same as ever now, +I reckon. And little Dorry, 'twill be fine for her to get her mammy +back, I warrant--so 'twill. + +[A slight pause. + +MAY. Th' old woman--well--I shan't take it amiss if her should be +dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, +and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his +station and that. God rest the bones of she, for I count her'll have +been lying in the churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain't +one to bear malice, and if so be as her's above ground, 'tis a rare +poor old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her'll be +this day--so 'tis. + +HARRY. Look you here--the snow's begun to fall and 'tis night. Get +up and go in to them all yonder. 'Tis thick dark now and there be no +one on the road to see you as you do go. + +MAY. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me +be powerful weak. + +HARRY. [Lifting her up.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, +May. + +MAY. [Standing up.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I +bide alone. + +HARRY. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to +the door. + +MAY. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide +here a while in the quiet of my thoughts. 'Tis of little Dorry, and +of how pleased her'll be to see her mammy once again, as I be +thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han't got no home to go to, nor +fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you +quick. + +HARRY. There's summat in me what doesn't care about leaving you so, +May. + +MAY. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, +when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, +come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I'll be able to give +you summat to keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, 'tis empty- +handed as I be. + +HARRY. I don't want nothing from you, May, I don't. + +MAY. [Fumbling in her shawl.] There, Harry--'tis comed back to my +mind now. [She takes out part of a loaf of bread.] Take you this +bread. And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I +be to home with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close +against me; and plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. +There, Harry, take and eat. + +[She holds the bread to him + +HARRY. [Taking the bread.] I count 'twill all be well with you now, +May? + +MAY. I warrant as 'twill, for I be right to home. But go you +towards the town, Harry, for 'tis late. And God go with you, my +dear, now and all time. + +HARRY. I'll set off running then. For the night, 'tis upon us, May, +and the snow, 'tis thick in the air. + +[MAY turns to the stile and leans on it heavily, gazing across the +field. HARRY sets off quickly down the road. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 1. + + + +The living room in the Brownings' cottage. The room is divided by a +curtain which screens the fireside end from the draught of the +principal door. + +To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs. Chairs are +grouped round the hearth, and there is a table at which JANE BROWNING +is ironing a dress by the light of one candle. DORRY leans against +the table, watching her. + +JANE. [Putting aside the iron.] There, you take and lay it on the +bed upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I'm not a-going to +iron it twice. + +[She lays the dress carefully across DORRY'S arms. + +DORRY. Don't the lace look nice, Gran'ma? + +JANE. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come +straight down again. + +DORRY. Couldn't I put it on once, Gran'ma, just to see how it do +look on me? + +JANE. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! +You go and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear? + +DORRY. [Leaving the room by the door to the right.] I'd like to put +it on just once, I would. + +[JANE BROWNING blows out the candle and puts away the iron and +ironing cloth. She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as +DORRY comes back. + +DORRY. Dad's cleaning of himself ever so--I heard the water +splashing something dreadful as I went by his door. + +JANE. 'Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing as he be +about, I reckon. + +DORRY. [Sitting down on a stool.] I'd like to go along, too, and +see the dancing up at the schools to-night, I would. + +JANE. And what next, I should like to know! + +DORRY. And wear my new frock what's ironed, and the beads what Miss +Sims gived me. + +JANE. [Looking out at the window.] I'm thinking as we shall get +some snow by and bye. 'Tis come over so dark all of a sudden. + +DORRY. Couldn't I go along of they, Gran'ma, and wear my new frock, +and the beads, too? I never see'd them dance th' old year out yet, I +haven't. + +JANE. Get along with you, Dorry. 'Tis many a year afore you'll be +of an age for such foolishness. And that's what I calls it, this +messing about with dancing and music and I don't know what. + +DORRY. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she's let to go, she is. + +JANE. You bain't Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what's +to-morrow isn't enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I don't know +what is. + +DORRY. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran'ma, I do. Shall you put on +your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to +church? + +JANE. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you +knows how. + +DORRY. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims to the +dance, I shall. Dad's got that kind to me since last night--he gived +me a sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn't asked. And +won't it be nice when Miss Sims comes here to live, and when you has +someone to help you in the work, Gran'ma? + +JANE. Well--'tis to be hoped as 'twill be all right this time. + +DORRY. This time, Gran'ma! Why, wasn't it all right when Dad was +married afore, then? + +JANE. [Getting the lamp from a shelf.] I don't light up as a rule +till 'tis six o'clock, but I count it's a bit of snow coming as have +darkened the air like. + +DORRY. Gran'ma, isn't Miss Sims nice-looking, don't you think? I'd +like to wear my hair like hers and have earrings a-hanging from me +and a-shaking when I moves my head, I would. + +JANE. [Setting the lamp on the table.] Here, fetch me the matches, +do. + +DORRY. [Bringing the matches.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss +Sims, Gran'ma? + +JANE. I'm one as goes by other things nor looks--For like as not +'tis fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them--give me +a plain face and a heart what's pure, I says, and 'tis not far out as +you'll be. + +DORRY. Was my mammy's heart pure, Gran'ma? [A moment's silence. +JANE lights the lamp. DORRY leans at the table, watching her. + +DORRY. Was my mammy's--[A loud knock on the outside door. + +JANE. Who's that come bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there's +a good child. + +DORRY. It'll be Gran'ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at +the door loud with her stick. + +[DORRY runs to the window and looks out. + +DORRY. 'Tis her, and the snow white all upon her. + +[DORRY goes to the door to open it. + +JANE. [To herself.] Of all the meddlesome old women--why can't her +bide till her's wanted. + +[DORRY opens the door wide, and VASHTI Comes slowly in to the room, +leaning on a big staff. + +JANE. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the hill to- +day? 'Twould have been better had you bid at home, with the dark +coming on and the snow. + +DORRY. [Who has closed the door.] Sit down, Granny--there, close +against the fire, do. + +[VASHTI stands in the middle of the room, looking from one to +another. + +DORRY. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do. + +VASHTI. 'Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. And down to +the pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where 'tis fog, +And there be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the wind. +And no where may the bones of me rest this day. + +JANE. If 'tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you'd best +have stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave +sensible, and maybe as I'll get you summat warm to drink presently. + +DORRY. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we. + +[VASHTI sits stiffly down by the hearth, leaning on her stick. JANE +resumes her place, and DORRY puts her little stool between them. + +VASHTI. And in the night when I was laid down, against the +windowpane it fled a three times. A three time it fled and did beat +the pane as though 'twould get in. And I up and did open the window. +And the air it ran past I, and 'twas black, with naught upon it but +the smell of a shroud. So I knowed. + +DORRY. What did you know, Granny? + +VASHTI. [Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire, speaking +as though to herself.] Summat lost--summat lost, and what was trying +to get safe away. + +DORRY. Safe away? From what, Granny? + +VASHTI. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, what +holds in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I holds +here, and the knife to it be as long again by twice. + +DORRY. O, Granny, I'll be a-feared to go across the garden after +dark, I shall. + +JANE. What do you want to go and put that there into the child's +head for? I'd like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff. + +VASHTI. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand in +the mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And when the +door was closed, 'twas as if one did come running round the house and +did beat upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to open it, but +the place outside was full of emptiness, and 'twas they old carrion +crows what did talk to I out of the storm. + +JANE. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don't you speak of summat +what's got some sense to it? Come, don't you know as Steve, his +wedding day, 'tis to-morrow as ever is. + +DORRY. 'Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad's marriage. + +VASHTI. [Suddenly.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, then? + +DORRY. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don't you see how 'tis cleaned +and the new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget +'gainst the door where the old one always tripped me up? + +VASHTI. I see naught but what 'tis more like a burial here. So +'tis. And 'tis a burial as I've carried in my heart as I comed down +from the hills. + +DORRY. [Looking out of the window.] Granny, you'll be forced to +bide the night along of we, 'cause the snow be falling thick, and +'twill be likely as not as you'll lose your way if you start for to +go home again when 'tis snowing. + +JANE. Th' old thing may as well bide the night now she be come. +Hark you, Vashti, 'twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if +you bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever wants. + +VASHTI. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane +Browning? + +DORRY. Why, Granny, 'tis Dad's wedding day to-morrow, and 'tis a +white frock with lace to it as I'm going to wear, and beads what Miss +Sims gived me, and the shoes what was new except for being worn to +church three times. Shall I fetch them all and show to you, Granny? + +JANE. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely 'twill give +her thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in one +of her nasty moods to-day when you can't get a word what isn't +foolishness out of her. [DORRY runs upstairs. + +VASHTI. [Leaning forward.] Was her telling of a marriage? + +JANE. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, only you +don't trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of +yourself in the night. 'Tis our Steve what's going to marry Annie +Sims to-morrow. + +VASHTI. Steve Browning? + +JANE. I haven't patience with th' old gipsy! Yes--Steve. And 'tis +a twelvemonth or more as you'd knowed of it. + +VASHTI. Our Steve, what's husband to my May? + +JANE. 'Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that 'tis. +May, what went out trolloping along the roads 'stead of she biding at +home to mind the house and child! 'Tis how you did breed she up, +Vashti Reed, what led her to act as her did. And if you'd have bred +her different, 'twould have been all the same; for what's in the +blood is bound to out and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it +in the room, 'tain't no flower as you must look for. + +VASHTI. 'Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. But in the +blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through +the door again. God bless the head an feet of she! + +JANE. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb like +she, was bound for to meet her doom. And 'twas in the river up +London way where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same +petticoat to it as I've seed on May a score of times. Don't you +recollect how 'twas parson as brought the news to we? + +VASHTI. 'Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come +from the mouths of they, neither. + +JANE. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was gone +out. 'Twas not much as he did say, being a man what hasn't many +words to his tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat what +do hang up yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the sleeve of +it. Leastways, he didn't speak the words, but I seed what he was +after, and I took and sewed a bit on, and he's wore it ever since +till yesterday--And that's eleven year ago it be--so there. + +VASHTI. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And I seems to +feel the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain't +shrouded, nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of she-- +you take my words--and there shall come a day when the latch shall +rise and her be standing among us and a-calling on her child and +husband what's forgotten she. + +JANE. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such +things to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn't wonder if +he was to put you out of the door and into the snow--and 'tis most +unfitting for to talk so afore the child. + +VASHTI. [Calling out loudly.] Come back to I, May--you come back to +I--there bain't no one what thinks on the name of you, or what wants +you but your old mother. You come back to I! + +JANE. I'll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! 'Tain't +nothing to be proud on as you've got, and 'twould be better if you +was to be less free in your hollering. Look, here's Dorry coming. + +[DORRY comes into the kitchen; she is wearing her new white frock. + +DORRY. See, Granny, I've been and put it on for to show you better. +See the lace? Isn't it nice? And the beads, too. I didn't stop for +to put on my shoes, nor my new stockings. Nor my hat, what's got a +great long feather all round of it. + +JANE. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you'll crease and tumble that +frock so as it's not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go +to put it on for? + +DORRY. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as she +should come out of her trouble. Gran's always got some trouble in +her mind, han't you, Granny? + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by, my child. + +JANE. I'll give it you if you starts off again. + +VASHTI. A twelve year gone by - + +DORRY. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny? + +VASHTI. 'Tis more'n eleven years since her wented out of the door, +my child--your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the door! And +likely as not 'twill be feet first as her shall be brought in again. + +DORRY. Granny, was my poor mammy, what's dead, nice looking like +Miss Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow? + +VASHTI. 'Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all +the green of it as was your mammy, my dear. + +DORRY. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, +like Miss Sims, Granny? + +JANE. 'Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and pleasuring +what was her undoing, as 'twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if +you don't take care. 'Tis she as you favours, and none of your +father's people, more's the pity, and 'tis more thoughtful and +serious as you'll have to grow if you don't want to come to harm. +You take and go right up, and off with that frock, do you hear me? + +DORRY. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I'd got it on, +I did. + +JANE. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, 'tis all as you +do think on, and 'tis plain to see what's got working in the inside +of you, Dorry. 'Tis the drop of bad blood as you has got from she +what bore you. But I might as well speak to that door for all you +cares. Only, hark you here, you'll be sorry one of these days as you +han't minded me better. And then 'twill be too late. + +[STEVE comes down the stairs, pushes open the door and enters. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, what's up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, +what be you a-crying for? + +DORRY. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad--now that I've +got my frock on and all.--O, I wants to be let to go. + +STEVE. Well, Mother--what do you say? 'Twouldn't hurt for she to +look in about half an hour, and Annie and me we could bring her back +betimes. + +DORRY. O, Dad, I wants to go if 'twas only for a minute. + +STEVE. There, there--you shall go and we'll say no more about it. + +JANE. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, +Steve. + +STEVE. Well, Mother, 'tain't every day as a man's married, that +'tain't. + +VASHTI. And so you're to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells +me as you're to be wed. + +STEVE. That's right enough, Gran. + +VASHTI. [Rising.] And there be no resting in me to-day, Steve. +There be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body and that will +not let me bide.--And 'tis steps as I hears on the roadside and in +the fields--and 'tis a bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be +moving, and peering about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for +to do away with the thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of +death--So 'tis. + +JANE. Now she's off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and +I'll give you summat as'll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in +your chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water boiling. + +[She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it. + +DORRY. [From the window.] Here's Miss Sims coming up the path, and +Rosie too. O, they're wrapped up all over 'cause 'tis snowing. I'll +open, I'll open. + +[She runs to the door and unlatches it. ANNIE and ROSE SIMS come in, +shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their cloaks, which STEVE +takes from them and hangs on the door. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 2. + + + +ANNIE. [As STEVE takes off her cloak.] 'Tis going to be a dreadful +night. The snow's coming down something cruel. + +ROSE. There won't be many to the dance if it keeps on like this, +will there? + +STEVE. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before +we sets out again. + +DORRY. Miss Sims, Miss Sims--Miss Rosie--I'm going along with you to +the dance, Dad says as I may. + +JANE. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, and +he so strict, I don't know. + +ANNIE. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry--I shouldn't hardly +know 'twas you. [Turning to VASHTI REED.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, +my eyes was very near blinded when I first got in out of the dark, +and I didn't see as you was there. + +ROSE. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold +weather? + +VASHTI. [Peering into their faces as they stand near her.] What be +you a-telling I of? + +ANNIE. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed? + +VASHTI. How be I? + +ROSE. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now 'tis come over such +nasty weather? + +VASHTI. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out in the +rain and all the wind, and driv' there too by them as was laid like +snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she +when her should have gotten to a time of weakness. + +JANE. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down in +the warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the +clothes which you have upon you. [Moving about and putting tea +things on the table.] I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for +th' old woman, with a drop of summat strong to it as will keep her +from using of her tongue so free till morning time. + +ANNIE. [Sitting down.] Poor old woman, 'tis a sad thing when folks +do come to such a pass as she. + +ROSE. And han't got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But +she's better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the +hedge as we was coming across the meadow. "Why," I says to Annie, +"it must be bad to have no home to bide in such a night as this!" +Isn't that so, Mrs. Browning? + +STEVE. Ah, you're right there, you're right. + +ROSE. I wouldn't much care to be upon the road to-night, would you, +Steve? + +VASHTI. And at that hour when th' old year be passing out, and dark +on all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead which be +in they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to +each, as the corpses do go by. There's many a night as I have stood +and have looked into they when them did draw near to I, but never the +face I did seek. + +[Here JANE, who has been making a cup of tea, and who has poured +something in it from a bottle, advances to VASHTI. + +JANE. Here, Vashti Reed, here's a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take +and drink it up and very likely 'twill warm th' inside of you, for +I'll lay as you haven't seen a mouthful of naught this day. + +STEVE. Ah, that's it, that's it. When folks do go leer 'tis a +powerful lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads of +they. + +[VASHTI takes the cup and slowly drinks. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran'ma, at what Miss +Sims have got on! + +VASHTI. [Putting down her cup and leaning forward.] Which of you be +clothed for marriage? + +JANE. Get along of you, Gran, 'tis for the dance up at the school as +they be come. + +VASHTI. Come you here--her what's to wed our Steve. Come you here +and let I look at you. My eyes bain't so quick as they was once. +Many tears have clouded they. But come you here. + +DORRY. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice +things. + +ANNIE. [Steps in front of VASHTI.] Here I be, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Be you the one what's going to wed our Steve come New Year. + +ANNIE. That's it, Mrs. Reed, that's it. + +VASHTI. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage +or for burial? + +STEVE. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don't you take +no account of she. 'Tis worry and that as have caused the mind of +she to wander a bit, but she don't mean nothing by it. + +ANNIE. All right, Steve. She don't trouble me at all. [To VASHTI.] +'Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed. + +VASHTI. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? Han't he got +one already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do Steve +want for with a new one then? + +STEVE. Come on, girls. I can't stand no more of this. Let's off, +and call in to George's as we do go by. + +ROSE. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said as +how 'twouldn't be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve. + +STEVE. That's right, then we'll bide a bit longer till George do +call for we, only 'tis more nor I can stand when th' old lady gets +her tongue moving. + +DORRY. Why, look, Gran's fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that Gran's +dropped off and can't say none of her foolish things any more, do +stand so as Dad and Gran'ma can see the frock which you've got for +the dance. + +ANNIE. O, Dorry, you're a little torment, that's the truth. + +[She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she has +on. + +ROSE. Well, Steve? + +STEVE. Well, Rosie. + +ROSE. Haven't you got nothing as you can say, Steve? + +STEVE. What be I to say, Rose? + +ROSE. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course. + +STEVE. O, 'tis all right, I suppose. + +ROSE. All right! And is that about all as you've seen? Why, bless +you, Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to +know! + +STEVE. Well, there bain't nothing wrong, be there? + +ROSE. Of course there isn't. But I never did see such a man as you, +Steve. Why, I don't believe as you'd know whether Annie haves a pair +of eyes to her face or not, nor if they be the same colour one to +t'other. + +STEVE. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I've +picked out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I +is to be made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me +this night, I reckon. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder +what I should feel if 'twas me that was going to be married! + +ROSE. You get and ask Annie how 'tis with her, Dorry. I could tell +a fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the +candles that's burned right down to the very end of them, I could. + +ANNIE. Don't you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. +She's that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce +do know what she's a-saying of. But suppose you was just to ask her +what she's got wrapped so careful in that there paper in her hand. + +DORRY. O, Rosie, whatever is it? + +STEVE. What's that you've got hold on now, Rosie? + +ANNIE. Come, show them all, Rose. + +[ROSE slowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse +carnation and a fern. + +ROSE. There 'tis, then. + +DORRY. O my, Rosie--isn't it beautiful. Be you going to wear it to +the dance? + +ROSE. No, Dorry, 'tisn't for me. + +ANNIE. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, who is it for, Rosie--who is it for? + +ROSE. No--I'm not a-going to tell none of you. + +[She wraps it up carefully again. + +ANNIE. I'll tell then, for you. + +ROSE. No, you shan't, Annie--that you shan't! + +ANNIE. That I shall, then--come you here, Dorry--I'll whisper it to +your ear. [Whispers it to DORRY. + +DORRY. [Excitedly.] I know who 'tis--I know--'tis for Mr. Davis-- +for Mr. Davis! Think of that, Dad--the flower 'tis for George Davis. + +ROSE. O, Annie, how you could! + +STEVE. George - + +VASHTI. [Suddenly roused.] Who named George? There was but one man +as was called by that name--and he courted my girl till her was faint +and weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day when he was +come - + +DORRY. There's Gran gone off on her tales again. + +[JANE crosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head of VASHTI, +who relapses again into sleep. + +STEVE. [Sitting down by ROSE.] What's this, Rose? I han't heard +tell of this afore. Be there aught a-going on with you and George, +then? + +ROSE. No, Steve, there isn't nothing in it much, except that George +and me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like--and a two or +three time before. + +STEVE. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give to +George, then? + +ROSE. Well--'tis for George as I've saved it out of some what the +gardener up at Squire's gived me. + +STEVE. [As though to himself.] 'Tis a powerful many years since +George he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon a +maid, I didn't since - + +ROSE. Well, Steve, I'm sure there's no need for you to be upset over +it. 'Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he +doesn't. + +STEVE. Who said as I was upset, Rose? + +ROSE. Look at the long face what you've pulled. Annie, if 'twas me, +I shouldn't much care about marrying a man with such a look to him. + +ANNIE. What's up, Steve? What's come over you like, all of a +minute? + +STEVE. 'Tis naught, Annie, naught. 'Twas summat of past times what +comed into the thoughts of me. But 'tis naught. And, Rose, if so be +as 'twas you as George is after, I'd wish him to have luck, with all +my heart, I would, for George and me--well, we too has always stuck +close one to t'other, as you knows. + +JANE. Ah--that you has, George and you--you and George. + +ANNIE. Hark--there's someone coming up now. + +DORRY. O, let me open the door--let me open it! + +[She runs across the room and lifts the latch. GEORGE stands in the +doorway shaking the snow from him. Then he comes into the room. + +DORRY. I'm going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven't I got a +nice frock on? + +STEVE. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night? + +GEORGE. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss +Sims, good evening--Yes, Steve, I'll off with my coat, for 'tis +pretty well sprinkled with snow, like. + +[STEVE helps GEORGE to take off his overcoat. + +ROSE. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis. + +JANE. And that's a thing which han't no luck to it, if 'tis said +afore the proper time, Rosie. + +ROSE. Well, but 'tis New Year's Eve, isn't it? + +GEORGE. Ah, so 'tis--and a terrible nasty storm as ever I knowed! +'Twas comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, as I was a-crossing +of the meadow. And there lay some poor thing sheltering below the +hedge, with a bit of sacking throwed over her. I count 'tis very +near buried alive as anyone would be as slept out in such a night. + +STEVE. I reckon 'twould be so--so 'twould. But come you in and give +yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of +cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing. + +JANE. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when 'tis free +as you'll get them up at the school? + +STEVE. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I'll fetch it +right away. + +JANE. No, you don't. I'll have no one meddling in the pantry save +it's myself. Dorry, give me that there jug. + +DORRY. [Taking a jug from the dresser.] Here 'tis, Gran'ma, shall I +light the candle? + +JANE. So long as you'll hold the matches careful. + +ANNIE. Well--'tis to be hoped as the weather'll change afore +morning. + +ROSE. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride. + +GEORGE. That us shall, but it don't look much as though we should +get it. + +[JANE BROWNING and DORRY go out of the room. + +STEVE. Sit you down, George, along of we. 'Tis right pleased as I +be for to see you here to-night. + +GEORGE. Well, Steve, I bain't one for a lot of words but I be +powerful glad to see you look as you does, and 'tis all joy as I +wishes you and her what's to be your wife, to-morrow. + +ANNIE. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, +and a girl can't do no more, can she? + +ROSE. And so you're going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. 'Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has +broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got +together and I among they. + +ROSE. O, come, Mr. Davis! + +GEORGE. 'Tis with me as though t'were all hoof and horn as I was +made of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality +folks and such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his +self in parts when the ground be thick on them. + +ANNIE. Very likely 'tis a-shewing of them into their places of a +Sunday and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along +with the service, like, as has made Steve so easy. + +ROSIE. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, +too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the +Squire's for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don't know +what. + +GEORGE. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don't much agree with I, Miss +Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the +maids do pad about in boots what you can't hear, and do speak as +though 'twere church and parson at his sermon, I can't think of +naught but how 'twill feel for to be out in the open again. Why, +bless you, I do scarce fetch my breath in one of they places from +fear as there should be too much sound to it, and the noise of my own +hammer do very near scare I into fits. + +ROSE. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it? + +[MRS. BROWNING and DORRY come back and the cider is put upon the +table, DORRY and ANNIE getting glasses from the dresser. + +GEORGE. [Drinking.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss Sims. +And many years of happiness to you both. + +STEVE. Thank you kindly, George. + +ANNIE. Thank you, Mr. Davis. + +DORRY. Hasn't Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. +Davis? + +GEORGE. Well, I'm blessed if I'd taken no notice of it, Dorry. + +DORRY. Why, you're worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look +at Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she's got wrapped up in +that there paper in her hand. + +ROSE. O, Dorry, you little tease, you! + +DORRY. You just ask her, Mr. Davis. + +ROSE. [Undoing the parcel.] There, 'tis nothing to make such a +commotion of! Just a flower--see, Mr. Davis? I knowed as it was one +what you was partial to, and so I just brought it along with me. + +GEORGE. That there bain't for I, be it? + +ROSE. Indeed 'tis--if so as you'll accept of it. + +GEORGE. O, 'tis best saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be +most gone from it, if I was to wear it now. + +DORRY. No, no, Mr. Davis, 'tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put +it on him, Rosie, put it on him. + +ROSE. [Tossing the flower across the table to GEORGE.] He can put +it on hisself well enough, Dorry. + +GEORGE. [After a moment's hesitation.] I don't know so well about +that. + +ANNIE. Go on, Rosie--pin it into his coat. Come, 'tis getting late. + +DORRY. O, pin it in quick, Rosie--come along--and then we can start +to the dancing. + +ROSE. Shall I, Mr. Davis? + +[GEORGE gets up and crosses the room; ROSE takes the flower and DORRY +hands her a pin. She slowly pins the flower in his coat. + +STEVE. [Stretching out his hand to ANNIE.] You be so quiet like to- +night, Annie. There isn't nothing wrong, is there, my dear? + +ANNIE. 'Tis only I'm that full of gladness, Steve, as I don't seem +to find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most +days. + +STEVE. And that's how 'tis with I, too, Annie. 'Tis as though I was +out in the meadows, like--And as though 'twere Sunday, and such a +stillness all around that I might think 'twas only me as was upon the +earth. But then summat stirs in me sudden and I knows that you be +there, too, and 'tis my love for you what has put me right away from +the rest of them. + +ANNIE. Steve, you've had a poor, rough time, I know, but I'll do my +best for to smooth it like for you, I will. + +STEVE. See here, Annie--I be comed out of the rain and into the sun +once more. + +DORRY. [Leading GEORGE forward.] See how fine Mr. Davis do look-- +see, isn't he grand? O, Miss Sims, see how nice the flower do look +what Rosie has pinned in his coat! See, Gran'ma. + +JANE. I've enough to do putting away all these glasses which have +been messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed +this night, seeing as 'tis late already and you none of you gone off +yet. + +DORRY. O, let us be off, let us be off--and what am I to put over my +dress, Gran'ma, so as the snow shan't get to it? + +JANE. If you go careful and don't drop it in the snow may be as I'll +wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what's hanging behind the +door. + +ROSE. Give me my cloak, Steve--O, how I do love a bit of dancing, +don't you, Mr. Davis? + +GEORGE. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they great +drag horses, Miss Rose. + +ROSE. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don't believe half what you do say, +no more does Annie. + +ANNIE. If Mr. Davis don't know how to dance right, you're the one to +learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and I'll +look after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. Good-night, +Mrs. Reed. + +DORRY. Why, Granny's sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know. + +JANE. And about time, too. 'Tis to be hoped as we shan't have no +more trouble with her till morning. + +DORRY. [Her eyes raised to the door latch.] Just look, why the +latch is up. + +ANNIE. Whoever's that, I wonder? + +ROSE. 'Tis very likely someone with a horse what's lost a shoe, +Steve. + +JANE. I guess as 'tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis. + +STEVE. I bain't a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, not if +'twas the King hisself what stood at the door. + +GEORGE. If 'tis a corpse, I guess her'll have to wait till the +dancing's finished, then. + +[VASHTI groans in her sleep and turns over in the chair, her face to +the fire. + +STEVE. [Going to the door and speaking loudly.] Who's there? + +GEORGE. Us'll soon see. + +[GEORGE unbolts the door and opens it, first a little way, and then +wide. MAY is seen standing in the doorway. Her shawl is drawn over +head and the lower part of her face. + +GEORGE. Here's someone what's missed their way, I count. + +ROSE. Why, 'tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do +believe. + +ANNIE Whatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night! + +JANE. [Advancing firmly.] 'Tis one of they dirty roadsters what +there's too many of all about the country. Here, I'll learn you to +come to folks' houses this time of night, disturbing of a wedding +party. You take and get gone. We don't want such as you in here, we +don't. + +[MAY looks fixedly into JANE'S face. + +GEORGE. I count 'tis very nigh starved by the cold as she be. + +STEVE. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone. + +JANE. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that'll learn the +likes of she to come round begging at folks' houses what's +respectable. + +GEORGE. 'Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her this night. + +STEVE. And that 'tis, George, and what's more, I bain't a-going for +to do it. 'Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog was to +come to me for shelter I'd not be one to put him from the door. + +JANE. 'Tain't to be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my +kitchen when 'tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve. + +STEVE. To-morrow, 'tis my day, Mother, and I'll have the choosing of +my guests, like. [Turning to MAY.] Come you in out of the cold. +This night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, may be, in years +to come, 'twill please you to think back upon the eve afore my +wedding. + +[STEVE stands back, holding the door wide open. MAY, from the +threshold, has been looking first on one face and then on another. +Suddenly her eyes fall on ANNIE, who has moved to STEVE'S side, +laying her hand on his arm, and with a sudden defiance, she draws +herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 3. + + + +The same room, two hours later. VASHTI REED seems to be sleeping as +before by the fireside. On the settle MAY is huddled, her head bent, +the shawl drawn over her face. JANE BROWNING moves about, putting +away work things, cups and plates, seeing that the window is closed, +winding the clock, etc. There is a tap at the outer door and JANE +opens it. STEVE, ANNIE and DORRY enter. + +JANE. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to +let you all in and not able to get away to my bed? + +DORRY. O, Gran'ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, +I could. We comed away early 'cause Miss Sims, she said as the +dancing gived her the headache, but the New Year han't been danced in +yet, it han't. + +JANE. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that's what you've got to +do--and quickly. + +DORRY. All right, Gran'ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, Dad. +O, why, there's Granny! But her's tight asleep so I shan't say +nothing to her. O, I do wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and +music playing every night, I do! + +[DORRY goes towards the staircase door. + +JANE. [Calling after her.] I'm a-coming along directly. Be careful +with the candle, Dorry. + +[JANE opens the door and DORRY goes upstairs. STEVE and ANNIE come +towards the fireplace. + +STEVE. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing? + +JANE. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what's been +and got herself full of the drink, and that's what's the matter with +she. See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of +her; and not a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her +the drop of tea a while back. + +STEVE. Well, well--she won't do us no harm where she do bide. Leave +her in the warm till 'tis daylight, then let her go her way. + +JANE. She and Gran' be about right company one for t'other, I'm +thinking. + +STEVE. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to +bed, Mother. + +JANE. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home? + +ANNIE. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back--'tis but a +step--and I don't like for you to come out into the snow again. + +STEVE. I'm coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. +I'll be back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes. + +JANE. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I +han't left nothing out as might get took away, for 'tis poor work +leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like. + +[JANE lights a candle and goes upstairs. STEVE takes ANNIE'S hand +and they go together towards the outer door. As they pass to the +other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room, MAY +suddenly rears herself up on the settle, throwing back her shawl, and +she leans forward, listening intently. + +STEVE. To-morrow night, Annie! + +ANNIE. There'll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve. + +STEVE. You'll bide here, Annie, and 'tis more gladness than I can +rightly think on, that 'tis. + +ANNIE. Steve! + +STEVE. Well, Annie. + +ANNIE. There's summat what's been clouding you a bit this night. +You didn't know as how I'd seen it, but 'twas so. + +STEVE. Why, Annie, I didn't think as how you'd take notice as I was +different from ordinary. + +ANNIE. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the +looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what's hurted. Steve, I +couldn't abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on +and all. So I told you as I'd the headache. + +STEVE. O Annie, 'twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I +couldn't seem to get them pushed aside, like. + +ANNIE. How'd it be if you was to tell me, Steve. + +STEVE. I don't much care for to, Annie. But 'twas thoughts what +comed out of the time gone by, as may be I'd been a bit too hard +with--with her as was Dorry's mother. + +ANNIE. O, I'm sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble +at, Steve. + +STEVE. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might +go the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me +being so much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn't bear +for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of +me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I +could not stand it if 'twas as I should lose you. + +ANNIE. There's nothing in the world as could make you lose me, +Steve. For, look you here, I don't think as there's a woman on the +earth what's got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of +quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me is to be wed +and to live aside of one another till death do part us. + +STEVE. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake. + +ANNIE. And what you feels about the days gone by don't count, Steve, +'cause they bain't true of you. You was always a kind husband, and +from what I've hear-ed folks say, she was one as wasn't never suited +to neither you nor yours. + +STEVE. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks one +way or t'other can't do she no good. Only 'tis upon me as I could +take you to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had been +kinder to she, the time her was here. + +ANNIE. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you're regular done up, and +that's what 'tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this afore. + +STEVE. All right, my dear, don't you mind what I've been saying. +Very like 'tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But 'tis a good +thought, bain't it, Annie, that come to-morrow at this time, there +won't be no more need for us to part? + +ANNIE. [As he opens the door.] O, 'tis dark outside! + +[They both leave the cottage. MAY throws back her shawl as though +stifled. She gets up and first stands bending over VASHTI. Seeing +that she is still sleeping heavily, she goes to the door, opens it +gently and looks out. After a moment she closes it and walks about +the kitchen, examining everything with a fierce curiosity. She takes +up the shawl DORRY has been wearing, looks at it hesitatingly, and +then clasps it passionately to her face. Hearing steps outside she +flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle, where +she sits huddled in the corner, having wrapped herself again in her +shawl, only her eyes looking out unquietly from it. STEVE re-enters. +He bolts the door, then goes up to the table in front of the fire to +put out the lamp. + +STEVE. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you up a bit +this cold night? + +[MAY looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head. + +STEVE. All right. You can just bide where you be on the settle. +'Tis warmer within nor upon the road to-night, and I'll come and let +you out when 'tis morning. + +[MAY raises both her hands in an attitude of supplication. + +STEVE. [Pausing, with his hand on the burner of the lamp.] Be there +summat as you wants what I can give to you? + +[MAY looks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper. + +MAY. Let I bide quiet in the dark, 'tis all I wants now. [STEVE +puts out the lamp. + +STEVE. [As though to himself, as he goes towards the door upstairs.] +Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams. + +[Curtain. + + + +ACT II.--Scene 4. + + + +The fire is almost out. A square of moonlight falls on the floor +from the window. VASHTI still sleeps in the chimney corner. MAY is +rocking herself to and fro on the settle. + +MAY. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams- +-your dreams--Ah, where is it as they have gone, I'd like for to +know. The dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath the hedge. +Dreams! + +[She gets up, feels down the wall in a familiar way for the bellows-- +blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently. Then she draws +forward a chair and sits down before it. + +MAY. [Muttering to herself.] 'Tis my own hearth when 'tis all said +and done. + +[She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself, looking +sharply at VASHTI REED now and then. + +[Presently VASHTI'S eyes open, resting, at first unseeingly, and then +with recognition, on MAY'S face. + +VASHTI. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as you would. + +MAY. How did you know 'twas me, then? + +VASHTI. 'Cause I knowed. There 'tis. + +MAY. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming of +myself by this here fire. + +VASHTI. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don't see nothing of +it, then. + +MAY. Ah, I be got into an ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve-- +Steve, he looked in the face of I and didn't so much as think who +'twas. "Get off to the drunken sleep of you and to your dreams." +'Twas that what he did say to I. + +VASHTI. Your old mother do know better nor Steve. Ah, 'tweren't in +no shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face of +you, but stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the +water what layed on the roads, and on the dry where there be high +places, and in the grass of the meadows. That's how 'twas as I did +see you, May. + +MAY. And I would like to know how 'twas as Steve saw I. + +VASHTI. Ah, and there was they as did buzz around as thick as waspes +in summer time and as said, "She be under ground and rotting now-- +that her be." And they seed in I but a poor old woman what was +sleeping in the chimney corner, with no hearing to I. "Rotting +yourself," I says, and I rears up sudden, "She be there as a great +tree and all the leaves of it full out--and you--snakes in the grass, +snakes in the grass, all of you! There 'tis. + +MAY. [Mockingly.] "It's a good thought, bain't it, Annie, that to- +morrow this time there won't be no need for us to part?" And in the +days when I was a young woman and all the bloom of I upon me, +'twouldn't have been once as he'd have looked on such as her. + +VASHTI. And 'tis full of bloom and rare fine and handsome as you +appear now, May, leastways to my old eyes. And when you goes up to +Steve and shows yourself, I take it the door'll be shut in the face +of the mealy one what they've all been so took up with this long +while. I count that 'twill and no mistake. So 'tis. + +MAY. [Fiercely.] Hark you here, Mother, and 'tis to be wed to- +morrow as they be! Wed--the both of them, the both of them! And me +in my flesh, and wife to Steve! "Can I cover you up with a bit of +old sack or summat?" Old sack! When there be a coverlet with +feathers to it stretched over where he do lie upstairs. "I'll let +you out when 'tis morning." Ah, you will, will you, Steve Browning? +Us'll see how 'twill be when 'tis morning--Us'll see, just won't us +then! + +VASHTI. Ah, 'tis in her place as th' old woman will be set come +morning--And that her'll be--I count as 'tis long enough as her have +mistressed it over the house. [Shaking her fist towards the +ceiling.] You old she fox, you may gather the pads of you in under +of you now, and crouch you down t'other side of the fire like any +other old woman of your years--for my May's comed back, and her'll +show you your place what you've not known where 'twas in all the days +of your old wicked life. So 'tis. + +MAY. Her han't changed a hair of her, th' old stoat! Soon as I +heard the note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though 'twas +chattering in the cold as I had been but a moment afore. "One of +they dirty roadsters--I'll learn you to come disturbing of a wedding +party, I will." [Shaking her fist towards the ceiling.] No, you +bain't changed, you hardened old sinner--but the words out of the +cruel old mouth of you don't hurt I any more--not they. I be passed +out of the power of such as you. I knowed I'd have to face you when +I comed back, but I knowed, too, as I should brush you out of the way +of me, like I would brush one of they old maid flies. + +VASHTI. Ah, and so I telled she many a time. "You bide till my May +be comed home," I says. "She be already put safe to bed and 'tis in +the churchyard where her do take her rest," says she. Ah, what a +great liar that is, th' old woman what's Steve's mother! And the +lies they do grow right out of she tall as rushes, and the wind do +blow they to the left and to the right. So 'tis. + +MAY. Ah, she han't any more power for to hurt I in the ugly old body +of her. I be got beyond she. There be but one or two things as can +touch I now--But one or two. And I be struck to the heart, I be, +struck to the heart. + +[She bends forwards, rocking herself to and fro and weeping. + +MAY. [As though speaking to herself.] Back and fro, back and fro-- +On the dark of the earth and where 'twas light. When 'twas cold and +no sound but the steps of I on the road, and the fox's bark; when +'twas hot and the white dust smouldered in the mouth of I, and things +flying did plague I with the wings of they--But 'twas always the same +thought as I had--"Some day I shall come back to Steve," I did tell +me. And then again--"Some day I shall get and hold Dorry in my +arms." And now I be comed. And Steve--and Steve--Ah, I be struck +deep to the heart, 'tis so. Struck deep! + +VASHTI. You get upstairs to Steve, May. Get you up there and take +the place what's yours. + +MAY. My place, my place! Where's that I want to know! 'Tis another +what's got into the nest now, to lie snug and warm within. And 'tis +for I to spread the wings of me and to go out into the storm again. +So 'tis. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve, May, and let him but look on the form of +you and on the bloom, and us'll see what he will do with t'other +hussy then. Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got fattened +up and licked over by th' old woman till 'tis queens as they fancies +theirselves, you shall tell they summat about what they be, come +morning. And your poor old mother, her'll speak, too, what hasn't +been let sound her tongue these years gone by. Ah, hern shall know +what us do think of they, hern shall squat upon the floor and hear +the truth. + +MAY. He thought as I was sleeping; but I looked out on her and seed +the way his eyes was cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had cast your +eyes on me like that but once, in days gone by--maybe, maybe I'd not +have gone out and shut the door behind I. + +VASHTI. Get you to Steve and let him see you with the candle lit. +Her bain't no match for he, the young weasel! 'Tis you as has the +blood of me and my people what was grand folk in times gone by, 'tis +you, May, as is the mate for he, above all them white-jowled things +what has honey at the mouth of they, but the heart running over with +poison--Ah, and what throws you the bone and keeps the meat for their +own bellies. What sets the skin afore you and laps the cream +theirselves. Vipers, all of them, and she-cats. There 'tis. + +MAY. Sit you down, Mother, and keep the tongue of you quiet. We +don't want for to waken they. + +VASHTI. [Sitting down heavily.] But we've got to waken Steve for he +to know as how you be comed home again. + +MAY. And where's the good of that, when there bain't so much as a +board nor a rag, but what's been stole from I? + +VASHTI. You go and say to him as 'tis his wife what have come back +to her place. And put th' old woman against the chimney there, and +let her see you a-cutting of the bread and of the meat, and a-setting +out of the food so as that they who be at the table can loose the +garments of them when the eating 'tis finished, if they has a mind +to, 'stead of drawing they together so not to feel 'tis leer. Ah, +'tis time you be comed, May, 'tis time. + +MAY. [Bitterly.] I'm thinking 'tis time! + +VASHTI. 'Tis the lies of they be growed big as wheat stalks and the +hardness of their hearts be worse nor death. But 'tis to judgment as +they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the hand of God +shall catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the earth. "Ah, +and do you mind how 'twas you served old Vashti, what never did harm +to no one all the life of her," I shall call out to th' old woman in +that hour when her shall be burning in the lake. And her shall beg +for a drop of water to lay upon the withered tongue of she, and it +shall be denied, for other hands nor ours be at work, and 'tis the +wicked as shall perish--yes, so 'tis. + +MAY. [Who has been bending forward, looking steadily into the fire.] +Stop that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going to set on I, too, May, now that you be comed +home. 'Tis poor work for an old woman like I. + +MAY. [As though to herself.] And as I was laid beneath the hedge-- +"'Tis cold as my limbs is, now," I says, "but I shall be warm this +night." And the pangs what was in the body of me did fairly quail I- +-"'Tis my fill of victuals as I shall soon put within," thinks I. +And they was laid a bit. The bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but +"I shan't feel lonesome no longer than this hour," I telled me. For +to my thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till I should be +comed back. And Dorry, too. There 'tis. [A long silence. + +MAY. I'd have been content to bide with the door shut--so long as it +was shut with they two and me inside the room--th' old woman--well, I +count I shouldn't have took many thought for she--she could have +bided in her place if she'd had a mind--I'd have set me down, when +once my clothes was decent and clean, and put my hands to the work +and made a tidy wife for Steve, as good nor better than that there +dressed-up thing out yonder--And bred Dorry up the right way, too, I +would. But 'tis done with now, so 'tis. + +VASHTI. [As though to herself.] And when 'tis morning and she gets +her down--"There, 'tis my girl as is mistress here, I'll say to her-- +and 'tis my girl as shall sit cup end of the table--and you get you +to the fire corner and bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, +spite that you do slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you." + +MAY. And I could set she back in her place, too, that tricked-up, +flashy thing over the way. I've but to climb the stairs and clap my +hand on Steve--"Get you from your dreams," I have got but to say, +"the woman what's yourn be comed home. Her have tasted the cup of +death, very near, and her have been a-thirst and an hungered. But +her has carried summat for you in her heart all the way what you +wouldn't find in the heart of t'other, no, not if you was to cut it +open and search it through." And the right belongs to I to shut the +door on t'other hussey, holding Steve to I till death divides we. + +VASHTI. Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as I did +pass by. "And may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon +you," I says to them, "for 'tis a poor old woman as I be what has +lost her child; and what's that to you if so be as the shoes on her +feet be broken or no? 'Tis naked as the toes of you shall go, that +hour when the days of this world shall be rolled by. Ah, 'tis naked +and set on the lake of burning fire as the hoofs of you shall run!" + +MAY. I could up and screech so that the house should ring with the +sound of me, "I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these many +years. What's this that you've got doing with another?" I could +take hold on him and make him look into the eyes of I, yes, and th' +old woman, too. "See here, your 'dirty roadster,' look well on to +her." "Why, 'tis May." But the eyes of him would then be cast so +that I should see no more than a house what has dead within, and the +blind pulled down. And I, what was thinking as there might be a +light in the window! + +VASHTI. "And you may holler," I says to them, "you may holler till +you be heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won't take no +account of you." And the lies of them which have turned into ropes +of hempen shall come up and strangle they. But me and my child shall +pass by all fatted up and clothed, and with the last flick, afore the +eyelids of they drop, they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the +teeth of them shall they repent them of their sins. Too late, too +late! There 'tis. + +MAY. Too late! There 'tis, I be comed home too late. + +[She rises and takes up her shawl, wrapping it about her shoulders, +and muttering. + +MAY. But I know a dark place full of water--'Tis Simon's pool they +calls it--And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and be +in quiet. + +VASHTI. Be you a-going up to Steve now? + +MAY. No, I bain't. 'Tis out from here that I be going. And back on +to the road. + +VASHTI. May, my pretty May, you're never going for to leave I, +what's such a poor old woman and wronged cruel. You step aloft and +rouse up Steve. He'll never have you go upon the roads again once he +do know as you've comed back. + +MAY. Steve! What's it to Steve whether the like of I do go or bide? +What be there in I for to quell the love of she which Steve's got in +him? Dead leaves for new. Ditch water for the clear spring. + +VASHTI. Give him to drink of it, May. + +MAY. [Looking upwards to the ceiling.] No, Steve. Hark you here. +I bain't a-going to do it. I bain't going to knock over the spoonful +of sweet what you be carrying to your mouth. You take and eat of it +in quiet and get you filled with the honey. 'Tain't my way to snatch +from no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed. +There, 'tis finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done. And, +don't you fear, Steve, as ever I'll trouble you no more. + +VASHTI. [Rising.] I be a-going to fetch him down, and that's what +I'm a-going for to do. + +MAY. [Pushing her back into her chair.] Harken you, Steve, he's +never got to know as I've been here. + +VASHTI. I tell you, May, I'll screech till he do come! + +MAY. [Sitting down by VASHTI and laying her hand on her.] I'll put +summat in your mouth as'll stop you if you start screeching, mother. +Why, hark you here. 'Tis enough of this old place as I've had this +night, and 'tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th' old woman-- +there's naught much changed in she--And Steve--well, Steve be +wonderful hard in the soul of him. "Can I get you an old sack," says +he--and never so much as seed 'twas I--Ah--'tis more than enough to +turn the stomach in anyone--that it is. [A slight pause. + +MAY. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside for long. +The four walls of this here room have very near done for me now, so +they have. And 'tis the air blowing free upon the road as I craves-- +Ah, and the wind which hollers, so that the cries of we be less nor +they of lambs new born. + +VASHTI. God bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door 'tis the +mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed. + +MAY. So 'tis. And if I stopped 'twould be the same, her'd be +between us always, the pretty cage bird--For look you here on I, +Mother, and here--[pointing to her feet]--and here--and here--See +what's been done to I what's knocked about in the world along the +roads, and then think if I be such a one as might hold the love of +Steve. + +VASHTI. [Beginning to whine desolately.] O, do not you go for to +leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead +all the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around of +I as might be the venomous beasts in the grass. Stop with I, my +pretty child--Stop along of your old mother, for the days of I be few +and numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land. + +MAY. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another +time. I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th' old woman won't +never know as I've been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth shut, +maybe I'll drop in at our own place on the hill one of these days and +bide comfortable along of you, only now--I'm off, do you hear? + +VASHTI. I can't abide for you to go. 'Tis more nor I can stand. +Why, if you goes, May, 'tis t'other wench and th' old woman what'll +get mistressing it here again in your place. [Rising up.] No--you +shan't go. I'll holler till I've waked them every one--you shan't! +My only child, my pretty May! Ah, 'tis not likely as you shall slip +off again. 'Tis not. + +MAY. Look you here, Mother--bide still, I say. [Looking round the +room distractedly.] See here--'tis rare dry as I be. You bide quiet +and us'll have a drink together, that us will. Look, th' old woman's +forgot to put away the bottle, us'll wet our mouths nice and quiet, +mother--she won't hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See! + +[MAY gets up and crosses the room; she takes the bottle off the shelf +where she has just perceived it, and also two glasses; she fills one +and hands it to her mother. + +VASHTI. [Stretching out her hand.] 'Tis rare dry and parched as I +be, now I comes to think on it, May. + +MAY. That's right--drink your fill, Mother. + +VASHTI. 'Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again, +May. + +MAY. Ah, 'tis my own drink and all, come to that. + +VASHTI. So 'tis. And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water. +I seed her spoon it in the pot, and 'twas not above a half spoon as +her did put in for I, th' old badger. My eye was on she, though, and +her'll have it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the +trumpet sound and all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking +on at her as is brought to judgment. How will it be then, you old +sinner, says I. + +MAY. [Re-filling the glass.] Take and drink this little drop more, +mother. + +[VASHTI drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half +closed eyes. + +MAY. [Putting away the bottle and glasses.] Her'll sleep very like, +now. And when her wakes, I take it 'twill appear as though she'd +been and dreamt summat. + +VASHTI. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. I +would not have you be on the roads. + +MAY. [Sitting down beside her.] O, the roads be fine on nights when +the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the +mouth of you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes +quick on through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and +'tis a large town and there be folk moving this way and that and the +music playing, and great fowls and horses what's got clocks to the +inside of they, a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a- +riding on them--And the booths with red sugar and white, all lit and +animals that's wild a-roaring and a-biting in the tents--And girls +what's dancing, standing there in satin gowns all over gold and +silver--And you walks to and fro in it all and 'tis good to be there +and free--And 'tis better to be in such places and to come and to go +where you have a mind than to be cooped in here, with th' old woman +and all--'Tis a fine life as you lives on the roads--and 'tis a +better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother. + +VASHTI. [Who has gradually been falling into sleep.] I count 'tis +so. 'Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count I'll go along +of you, come morning. + +MAY. That's it, Mother, that's it. Us'll take a bit of sleep afore +we sets off, won't us? And when morning comes, us'll open the door +and go out. + +VASHTI. That's it, when 'tis day. + +[Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep. + +[MAY watches her for some moments. Then she gets up softly and wraps +her shawl round her. The window shews signs of a gray light outside, +MAY goes quietly towards the outer door. As she reaches it, DORRY +comes into the room from the staircase. + +DORRY. [Going up to VASHTI.] Granny, 'tis the New Year! I'm come +down to see to the fire and to get breakfast for Dad and Gran'ma. +Why, Granny, you're sleeping still. And where's that poor tramp gone +off to? [She looks round the room and then sees MAY by the door. + +DORRY. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road afore 'tis +got light? + +MAY. [In a hoarse whisper.] And that I be. 'Tis very nigh to +daybreak, so 'tis. + +DORRY. Stop a moment. [Calling up the stairs.] Daddy, the tramp +woman, she's moving off already. + +STEVE. [From upstairs.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along +of she. I don't care that anyone should go an-hungered this day. + +DORRY. [Turning to MAY.] There--you bide a minute whilst I cuts the +loaf. My Dad's going to get married this day, and he don't care that +anyone should go hungry. + +[MAY comes slowly back into the room and stands watching DORRY, who +fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table. Then she +pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in. + +DORRY. The snow's very nigh gone, and 'tis like as not as the sun +may come out presently. Here's a piece of bread to take along of +you. There, it's a good big piece, take and eat it. + +[MAY hesitates an instant, then she stretches out her hand and takes +the bread and puts it beneath her shawl. + +MAY. And so there's going to be a wedding here to-day? + +DORRY. 'Tis my Dad as is to be married. + +MAY. 'Tis poor work, is twice marrying. + +DORRY. My Dad's ever so pleased, I han't seen him so pleased as I +can remember. I han't. + +MAY. Then maybe the second choosing be the best. + +DORRY. Yes, 'tis--Gran'ma says as 'tis--and Dad, he be ever so fond +of Miss Sims--and I be, too. + +MAY. Then you've no call to wish as her who's gone should come back +to you, like? + +DORRY. What's that you're saying? + +MAY. You don't never want as your mammy what you've lost should be +amongst you as afore? + +DORRY. I never knowed my mammy. Gran'ma says she had got summat bad +in her blood. And Granny's got the same. But Miss Sims, she's ever +so nice to Dad and me, and I'm real pleased as she's coming to stop +along of us always after that they're married, like. + +MAY. And th' old woman what's your gran'ma, Dorry? + +DORRY. However did you know as I was called "Dorry"? + +MAY. I heard them call you so last night. + +DORRY. And whatever do you want to know about Gran'ma? + +MAY. What have her got to say 'bout the--the--wench what's going to +marry your dad? + +DORRY. O, Gran'ma, she thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, and she +says as how poor Dad, what's been served so bad, will find out soon +what 'tis to have a real decent wife, what'll help with the work and +all, and what won't lower him by her ways, nor nothing. + +MAY. Look you here--'tis growing day. I must be getting off and on +to the road. + +DORRY. [Moving to the door.] I'll unbolt the door, then. O, 'tis +fine and daylight now. + +MAY. [Turning back at the doorway and looking at the room.] I +suppose you wouldn't like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry? + +DORRY. No, I shouldn't. Gran'ma, she don't let me go nigh road +people as a rule. She's a-feared as I should take summat from them, +I suppose. + +MAY. [Hoarsely, her hand on the door.] Then just say as you wishes +me well, Dorry. + +DORRY. I'll wish you a good New Year, then, and Gran'ma said as I +was to watch as you cleared off the place. [MAY goes out softly and +quickly. DORRY watches her until she is out of sight, and then she +shuts the door. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 1. + + + +The same room. It is nearly mid-day, and the room is full of +sunshine. JANE BROWNING, in her best dress, is fastening DORRY'S +frock, close to the window. + +DORRY. Dad's been a rare long time a-cleaning of his self up, Gran. + +JANE. Will you bide still! However's this frock to get fastened and +you moving this way and that like some live eel--and just see what a +mark you've made on the elbow last night, putting your arm down +somewhere where you didn't ought to--I might just as well have never +washed the thing. + +DORRY. Granny's sound asleep still--she'll have to be waked time we +goes along to the church. + +JANE. That her shan't be. Her shall just bide and sleep the drink +out of her, her shall. Do you think as I didn't find out who 'twas +what had got at the bottle as Dad left on the dresser last night. + +DORRY. Poor Gran, she do take a drop now and then. + +JANE. Shame on th' old gipsy. Her shall be left to bide till she +have slept off some of the nonsense which is in her. + +DORRY. Granny do say a lot of funny things sometimes, don't she, +now? + +JANE. You get and put on your hat and button your gloves, and let +the old gipsy be. We can send her off home when 'tis afternoon, and +us back from church. Now, where did I lay that bonnet? Here 'tis. + +[She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall. +STEVE comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves, carrying his coat. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat. + +STEVE. And when's a man to look pleased if 'tis not on his wedding +morn, Dorry? + +DORRY. The tramp what was here did say as how 'twas poor work twice +marrying, but you don't find it be so, Dad, do you now? + +STEVE. And that I don't, my little wench. 'Tis as nigh heaven as I +be like to touch--and that's how 'tis with me. + +JANE. [Taking STEVE'S coat from him.] Ah, 'tis a different set out +altogether this time. That 'tis. 'Tis a-marrying into your own +rank, like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies. + +DORRY. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran? + +JANE. [Beginning to brush STEVE'S coat.] Ah, much in the same +pattern as th' old woman what's drunk asleep against the fireside. +Here, button up them gloves, 'tis time we was off. + +DORRY. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I +grows up I'd like to look as she do, so I would. + +STEVE. [To JANE.] There, Mother, that'll do. I'd best put him on +now. + +JANE. [Holding out the coat for him.] Well, and you be got yourself +up rare smart, Steve. + +STEVE. 'Tis rare smart as I be feeling, Mother. I'm all a kind of a +dazzle within of me, same as 'tis with the sun upon the snow out +yonder. + +JANE. Why, look you, there's George a-coming up the path already. + +DORRY. He's wearing of the flower what Rosie gived him last night. + +STEVE. [Opening the door.] Good morning, George. A first class New +Year to you. You're welcome, if ever a man was. + +JANE. You bide where you do stand, George, till your feet is dry. +My floor was fresh wiped over this morning. + +GEORGE. [Standing on the door mat.] All right, Mrs. Browning. +Don't you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. How be you to-day, Steve? + +JANE. Dorry, come you upstairs along with me and get your coat put +on, so as your frock bain't crushed. + +DORRY. O, I wish I could go so that my nice frock was seen and no +coat. + +[They go upstairs. GEORGE rubs his feet on the mat and comes into +the room, walking up and down once or twice restlessly and in evident +distress of mind. + +STEVE. [Who has lit a pipe and is smoking.] Why, George, be you out +of sorts this morning? You don't look up to much, and that's the +truth. + +GEORGE. [Stopping before STEVE.] Hark you, Steve. 'Tis on my mind +to ask summat of you. Did you have much speech with the poor thing +what you took in from the snow last night? + +STEVE. No, George, and that I didn't. Her was mostly in a kind of +drunken sleep all the time, and naught to be got out from she. +Mother, her tried. But 'twas like trying to get water from the pump +yonder, when 'tis froze. + +GEORGE. Your mother's a poor one at melting ice, Steve, and 'tis +what we all knows. + +STEVE. Ah, 'twasn't much as we could do for the likes of she--what +was a regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of them. And if it hadn't +been so as 'twas my wedding eve, this one shouldn't have set foot +inside of the house. But 'tis a season when a man's took a bit soft +and foolish, like, the night afore his marriage. Bain't that so, +George? + +GEORGE. And when was it, Steve, as she went off from here? + +STEVE. That I couldn't rightly say, George, but I counts 'twas just +upon daybreak. And 'twas Dorry what seed her off the place and gived +her a piece of bread to take along of her. + +GEORGE. And do you think as she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve? + +STEVE. I'm blest if I do know, George. I never gived another +thought to she. What's up? + +GEORGE. They was getting the body of her from out of Simon's Pool as +I did come by. That's all. + +STEVE. From Simon's Pool, George? + +GEORGE. I count her must have went across the plank afore 'twas +fairly daylight. And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and her-- +her--as you did say. + +STEVE. In liquor. + +GEORGE. I reckon as her missed her footing, like. + +STEVE. Well, upon my word, George, who'd have thought on such a +thing! + +GEORGE. I count as her had been in the water and below the ice a +smartish while afore they catched sight of she. + +STEVE. Well, 'tis a cold finish to a hot life. + +GEORGE. They took and laid her on the grass, Steve, as I comed by. + +STEVE. If it had been me, I'd have turned the head of me t'other +side. + +GEORGE. There was summat in the fashion her was laid, Steve, as +drawed I near for to get a sight of the face of she. + +STEVE. Well, I shouldn't have much cared for that, George. + +GEORGE. Steve--did you get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing +last night? + +STEVE. No, nor wanted for to, neither. + +GEORGE. There was naught to make you think of - + +STEVE. Of what, George? + +GEORGE. There--Steve, I can't get it out, I can't. + +STEVE. Then let it bide in. + +GEORGE. 'Twas the way her was laid, and the long arms of she, and +the hands which was clapped one on t'other, as it might be in church. + +STEVE. [Looking through the window.] You shut up, George. Here's +Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. Don't you get saying +another word about yon poor wretch nor the end of her. I wouldn't +have my Annie upset for all the world to-day. 'Tis a thing as must +not be spoke of afore they, nor Dorry neither, do you hear? + +[He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the latch. + +GEORGE. Hold back, Steve, a minute. There's summat more as I've got +to say. + +STEVE. You take and shut your mouth up, old George, afore I opens +the door to the girls. + +GEORGE. 'Tis bound for to come from me afore you goes along to +church, Steve. + +STEVE. I warrant 'twill keep till us do come home again, George. + +[He throws the door wide open with a joyous movement. ANNIE and ROSE +in white dresses stand outside. + +STEVE. Well, Annie, this is a rare surprise, and that's the truth. +[ANNIE and ROSE come into the room. + +ROSE. Father, he's outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, and all the +rest. We said as 'twould be pleasanter if we was all to go up +together along to the church. + +STEVE. So 'twould be--so 'twould be--'Twas a grand thought of yourn, +Rosie. + +ANNIE. Steve - + +STEVE. [Taking her hand.] Annie, I'm fair beside myself this day. + +ANNIE. O, Steve, there was never a day in my life like this one. +[DORRY and JANE come down. + +DORRY. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice! Gran'ma, don't Miss Sims +look nice? And Rosie, too. O, they have nice gowns and hats on, +haven't they, Dad? + +STEVE. I don't see no gowns nor hats, and that's the truth. But I +sees summat what's like--what's like a meadow of grass in springtime +afore the sun's got on to it. + +DORRY. Why, Dad, 'tis white, not green, as Miss Sims is wearing. + +STEVE. 'Tis in the eyes of her as I finds my meadow. + +DORRY. O, let me see, Dad, let me look, too! + +ROSE. [Going up to GEORGE, who has been standing aloof and moody in +the background.] Come, Mr. Davis, we must have a look, too. + +JANE. 'Get along, get along. We han't time for such foolishness. +It be close on twelve already. + +ANNIE. O, let me be, all of you! I declare, I don't know which way +to look, I don't. + +STEVE. I'll show you, Annie, then. + +ROSE. [To GEORGE.] Well, Mr. Davis, you don't seem over bright this +morning. + +STEVE. 'Tis with the nerves as he be took! + +DORRY. Look at what he's wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie. + +ROSE. 'Tis kept beautiful and fresh. + +STEVE. Come on, come on, all of you. 'Tis time we was at the +church. + +ROSE. Hark to him! He's in a rare hurry for to get out of the house +to-day. + +GEORGE. Bain't the old lady a-coming? + +JANE. That she bain't, the old drinking gipsy--'tis at the spirits +as her got in the night--and put away very near the best part of a +bottle. Now she's best left to sleep it off, she be. + +STEVE. Come on, George. Come, Dorry. + +DORRY. O, isn't it a pity as Granny will get at the drink, Mr. +Davis? And isn't Miss Sims nice in her white dress? And don't Dad +look smiling and pleased? I never did know Dad smile like this +afore. + +GEORGE. [Heavily.] Come on, Dorry--you take hold of me. You and +me, we'll keep nigh one to t'other this day, won't us? + +ROSE. [Calling from outside.] Come on, Mr. Davis. + +[They all go out. + + + +ACT III.--Scene 2. + + + +Nearly an hour later. The cottage room is full of sunlight. + +VASHTI REED is awake and gazing vacantly about her from the same +chair by the fire. Someone knocks repeatedly at the door from +outside. + +VASHTI. And 'tis no bit of rest as I gets for my bones, but they +must come and hustle I and call I from the dreams which was soft. +[The knocking is heard again. + +VASHTI. And I up and says to they, "Ah, and you would hustle a poor +old woman what's never harmed so much as a hair out of the ugly heads +of you. You would hunt and drive of her till she be very nigh done +to death. But there shall come a day when you shall be laid down and +a-taking of your bit of rest, and the thing what you knows of shall +get up upon you and smite you till you do go screeching from the +house, and fleeing to the uttermost part of the land--whilst me and +mine - + +[The door opens and HARRY MOSS enters. + +HARRY. Beg pardon, old Missis, but I couldn't make no one hear me. + +VASHTI. Seeing as them be sick of the abomination which was inside +of they. [Perceiving HARRY.] Well, and what be you as is comed into +this room? + +HARRY. 'Tis Moss as I be called, old Missis. And as I was a-going +by this place, I thought as I'd look in a moment, just for to ask how +'twas with May. + +VASHTI. They be all gone out from the house. All of them. They be +in clothes what do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps of white +among they. Them be set out in the best as they has, and in grand +things of many colours. There 'tis. + +HARRY. And be you th' old lady what's Steve's mother? + +VASHTI. I be not, sir. 'Tis mother to May as I be. May, what's +comed back, and what'll set t'other old vixen in her place soon as +they get home. + +HARRY. Then May, she be gone out, too, have her? + +VASHTI. [Looking round vaguely.] Ah, I counts as her be gone to +church along of t'other. + +HARRY. To church, Missis? + +VASHTI. There's marrying being done down here to-day. + +HARRY. Marrying, be there? Well, but I was 'most feared as how it +might have been t'other thing. + +VASHTI. Ah, that there be--marrying. But there bain't no more +victuals got into the house as I knows of. Th' old woman's seen to +that. + +HARRY. And be May gone out, too, along of them to see the marrying? + +VASHTI. Ah, I counts as her be. But her's a-coming back in a little +while, and you may sit down and bide till she does. + +HARRY. I'd sooner be about and on my way, Missis, if 'tis all the +same to you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get and tell May when +she do come home, that 'tis particular glad I be for to know as her +bain't took worse, nor nothing. And should I happen in these parts +again, 'tis very likely as I'll take a look in on she some day. + +VASHTI. Ah, her'll have got t'other old baggage set in the right +place by then. + +HARRY. [Looking round him.] Well, I be rare pleased to think of May +so comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible low. + +VASHTI. T'other'll be broughted lower. + +HARRY. Look you here, old Missis, 'tis a stomach full of naught as I +carries. If so be as you has a crust to spare - + +VASHTI. [Pointing to a door.] There be a plate of meat inside of +that cupboard. You take and fill your belly with it. + +HARRY. Thank you kindly, Missis, but I counts I han't the time for +heavy feeding this morning. + +VASHTI. 'Twould serve she right, th' old sinner, for the place to be +licked up clean, against the time when her was come'd back, so +'twould. + +HARRY. Well, Missis, you can tell May 'tis a brave New Year as I do +wish she. + +VASHTI. [Listening to bells which are heard suddenly ringing.] +There, there they be! Harken to them! 'Tis with bells as they be +coming out. Bells what's ringing. I count 'tis fine as May do look +now in her marriage gown. Harken, 'tis the bells a-shaking of the +window pane. I be an old woman, but the hearing of me bain't +spoiled. + +HARRY. I warrant it bain't, Missis. Why, they're ringing wonderful +smart. 'Tis enough, upon my word, for to fetch down every stone of +the old place. + +VASHTI. Get you out upon the garden path and tell I if you sees them +a-coming. + +HARRY. That's it, old Missis, and so I will. + +[He goes outside the house. + +VASHTI. [Sitting upright and looking with fixed vacancy before her.] +And when they was all laid low and the heads of them bowed. "You +would, would you," I says, for they was lifting the ends of their +ugly mouths at I. And I passed among they and them did quail and +crouch, being with fear. And me and mine did reach the place what +was on the top. "See now yourselves," I says, "if so be that you do +not go in blindness and in dark." 'Twas May what stood there aside +of I. And "Look you," I says, "over the bended necks of you my child +shall pass. For you be done to death by the lies which growed within +you and waxed till the bodies of you was fed with them and the poison +did gush out from your lips." But my little child stood in the +light, and the hands of her was about the stars. + +HARRY. [Coming in.] Look, they be all a-coming over the meadow, old +Missis. But May han't comed with they--May han't come too. + +[The wedding party enters the room as the curtain falls.] + + +Footnotes: + +{1} "As I walked Out." From Folk Songs from Essex collected by R. +Vaughan Williams. The whole, or two verses can be sung. + +{2} "The Seeds of Love," "Folk Songs from Somerset," edited by Cecil +J. 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