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.
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 asRose,her basket full of market produce,comes slowly forward reading her sheet of paper.She is followed byMarion—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.
[Susancomes 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.
[Susancomes 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.Susangoes slowly towards herGrandmotherand 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.Susanand herGrandmotherremain in their places.The gipsy continues to smoke andSusanabsently 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 thenSusanbegins 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.
[TheGrandmothercontinues to smoke in silence.
Susan. [Softly.] And ’twas then I lost the heart within me to him.
[Jockieruns 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.
[Jockiebegins to play the tune of“Princess Royal”andSusandances.WhilstSusanis dancingLady Millicentand her waiting maid come slowly by and stand watching.Susansuddenly perceives them and throws herself on the ground.Jockiestops 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 toSusanand 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.
[Susanturns away with a movement of despair.TheGrandmotherbegins to smoke again.Lady Millicentfans herself andAlicearranges 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. [Susanturns 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.
[TheGrandmother,Susan,Lady MillicentwithAliceandJockiego 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.
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 bySusan,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 theGrandmothersits down andSusancrouches by her side.Presently they are joined byJockie.The girls sing a verse or two of another song,and during thisLady Millicent,enveloped in a big cloak,goes over to the tree,followed byAlice,also wearing a long cloak and they sit down by the side ofSusan.
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 oldLady 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 Cullencomes 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 danceLord Cullenscans 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 Cullensigns 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 toRose.] 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 momentLady MillicentandAlicecome 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.
[Jockieadvances 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 MillicentandAlice,standing opposite one to another begin to dance—slowly and clumsily,and in evident doubt as to their steps.Lord Cullenwatches 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 towardsLady 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 Millicentremains obstinately silent.
Lord Cullen. [ToAlice.] Perhaps you have a tongue in your head. From whom did you try to learn those steps?
[Aliceturns sulkily away.Jockiecomes 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.
[Jockieleads the way to the tree whereSusanis sitting.She stands up asLord Cullenapproaches,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 toJockieand putting his hand in his pocket.] Here, my boy, is a golden pound for you—and more shall follow later.
[He then takesSusan’shand 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.
[Jockieplaces himself near her and begins to play.Susandances by herself.At the end of her danceLord Cullenleads the applause,and even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it.He then takesSusanby 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 CullenandSusanlook at one another in silence.After a momentSusanturns toLord 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 Cullentakes 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. [ToAlice.] I pray he won’t find out about me.
[The oldGrandmotherhas 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 CullenandSusanstand side by side in front of the dais,and theGrandmotherlights a pipe and smokes it as she watches the dance from below.At the end of the danceLord Cullen,leadingSusan,comes down from the dais and,followed byLady Cullenand her ladies,passes between two lines of girls and so off the stage.The girls follow in procession,and lastly theGrandmotherpreceded byJockie,beating his drum.
[Curtain.]
John Daniel,aged30,a Miller.
Rose-Annahis sister.
Kitty,aged16,his sister.
Robert Pearce,aged26.
Liz,Janeelderly cousins of Robert.
Jeremy,John’s servant—of middle age.
Mary Meadows,aged24,a Herbalist.
Lubin.
Isabel.
The time is Midsummer.
A woodland road outsideMary’scottage.There are rough seats in the porch and in front of the window.Bunches of leaves and herbs hang drying around door and window.Maryis 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]
[Marycomes 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 singingLubincomes 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.
[Isabelhas 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 atMary’sfeet.] 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.
[Isabelcovers her face and is shaken by sobs.Lubinleans 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 whichLubinandIsabelseem lost in their own sad memories.Marygets 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.
[Lubinshades his eyes with one hand.Isabelbows her head on her knees weeping.Marycomes 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.
[Marygiving 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.
[Isabeltakes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet in her bundle.Lubinputs his packet away also.Whilst they are doing this,Marystrolls 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.
[Jeremycomes 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 towardsMary,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.
[Jeremycontinues 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?
[LubinandIsabellean 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 toLubin.] Be you in search of work, young man?
Lubin. I—I count as I’ve nothing particular in view.
Jeremy. [Turning toIsabel.] 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 toLubin] 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 atIsabel.] 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 toLubin.] 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. [ToLubin.] I’ll go if so be as you’ll come along of me too.
[Lubinbends 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?
[Marylooks doubtfully towardsLubinandIsabel.
Isabel. My name—they calls me Isabel.
Jeremy. [Turning toLubin.] 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.
[Marygoes indoors.Isabelslowly rises and takes up her bundle.Lubinremains 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.
The living room at Daniel’s Mill.In the windowRose-Annais seated awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown.Kittyis moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in disorder about the room andJohnstands 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 byJeremy.
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.
[Johngoes out.Kittypeers 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.
[Johncomes into the room,followed byLubinandIsabel.Lubinshuffles off his hat,but holds it between his face and the people in the room.
Jeremy. [Pointing to them and speaking toRose.] 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. [ToIsabel.] 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 toIsabel,and speaking crossly.] I’m sure I don’t know, nor care. I’ve enough to think about as ’tis.
Kitty. [TakingJohn’sarm 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.
[JohnandKittygo slowly out.
Jeremy. [As though to himself.] I sees as how I shall have to keep an eye on master—[turning toLubinand signing to him.] But come, my man, us has no time for romance, ’tis dish washing as lies afore you now.
[Lubinjerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture.Then he seems to remember himself and followsJeremyhumbly from the room.Rosetakes up some ribbons and laces.
Rose. [ToIsabel,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,Isabelcarrying the gown.
The same room.The table is laid for dinner andIsabelis putting flowers upon it.Lubinwearing 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 byLubin.Kittyglances round the room and then stands at the side of the front door.John,giving an arm to each ofRobert’scousins,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 onRobert’sarm.Robertis 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.
[Kittyleads 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,andRobertis left alone withRose.
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?