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.
GeorgeandJohn. 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.]
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.Maystands 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 smoothesMay’shair and ties it up for her.Annetcomes 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. [Maygoes 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.
[Danielcomes 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.
[Maycomes 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.
[Danielgoes 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.
[Elizabethwaits 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. [Annetcomes 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.
[Danielcomes 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 toDaniel,who mops his face and goes slowly out and upstairs.AnnetandMayleave the room.The farmer is heard banging at the door of Millie’s bedroom.
[Elizabethmoves about the room setting it in order.Andrewcomes 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.
[Andrewturns eagerly towards the door.The farmer enters withMillieclinging 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.
[DanielandElizabethleave the room.Andrewmoves nearMillieand 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.
MillieAnd 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.
[Millietakes 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.
[Millielooks haughtily atAndrewas she passes him.She goes slowly out of the room.
[Andrewpicks up the flowers and stands holding them,looking disconsolately down upon them.Maycomes 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 seizesAndrew’shand and pulls him out of the room with her.
[Curtain.]
A few minutes later.
Elizabethstands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror on the wall.Danielis mopping his face with a big,bright handkerchief.Annet,dressed for church,is by the table.She sadly takes up the nosegay of flowers whichAndrewbrought forMillie,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.
[AndrewandMaycome 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 whereAnnetis 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.
[Milliecomes 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. [Mayruns 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 nearAnnetwithout 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.
[Mayreturns carrying a glass bowl full of water.
May. Here’s a drink of cold water, Millie. I took it from the spring.
[Millietakes the bowl.At the same moment a loud knocking is heard at the outside door.
Elizabeth. Who’s that, I should like to know?
[Milliesets 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. [ToMay,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.Gilesdisguised 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. [ToAnnet.] 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 toGiles.] 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 toMillie.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 forMay,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?
[Milliegoes toGiles,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.
[Gilesgoes 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,Johnand theOld Mancome up.GeorgeandJohncarry their packets and theOld ManhasGiles’coat and hat over his arm.
Elizabeth. And who are these persons, Giles?
[GeorgeandJohnset down their burdens on the floor and begin to mop their faces.TheOld Manstretches out his fine coat and hat and buckled shoes toGiles.
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. [Gilestakes the things from him.
Giles. Thank you, old master. [He turns toMillie.] Let me go into the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a few moments.
[He goes out.
Elizabeth. [ToGeorge.] 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. [Gilesenters.] 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,theOld Mansinks 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.]
Thomas Spring,a farmer,aged35.
Emily,his wife,the same age.
Clara,his sister,aged21.
Jessie and Robin,the children of Thomas and Emily,aged10and8.
Joan,maid to Clara.
Miles Hooper,a rich draper.
Luke Jenner,a farmer.
Lord Lovel.
George,aged28.
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 ofMilesandLukeuntil 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.
[Georgehalf 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 inLuke’sand they go briskly off in the direction of the village.
Clara,followed byJoan,comes through the wood.Clarais dressed in a long,rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with feathers and ribbons.Joanwears 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 whichClaraseems lost in thought.Joanflicks 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.
[Joanrises 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. [Clarawanders off.
[Joansits 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.
[MilesandLukecome slowly up behind her.MilesnudgesLukewith his elbow,signing to him to remain where he is whilst he steps forward in front ofJoan.
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 atLukewith 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.