Robert. You’re what I do dote upon. I can’t say no more.
[LubinandIsabelenter carrying dishes,which they set upon the table.RobertandRoseturn their backs to them and look out into the garden.The staircase door is opened,andLiz,JaneandKittycome into the room.LizandJaneare 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 toRobertto place himself next to her.The sisters andKittyseat themselves.Johncomes 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.
[LubinandIsabelcome forward and take the cider mugs from each place to the side table,whereLubinfills them from a large jug.In the mugs ofRose-AnnaandRobert,Isabelshakes 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.
[LubinandIsabelhere put round the mugs of cider,and everyone drinks thirstily.Isabelstands behind the chairs ofRoseandRobertandLubinatJohn’sside.
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 toIsabel.] I don’t mind if I do have another swill.
[Isabelfills 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,andLubinhands round plates.During thisRobert’sgaze restlessly wanders about the room,finally fixing itself onIsabel,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 toRobert.] 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.
[Isabelcomes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table.
Liz. [ToJane.] 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.
[Jeremycomes in.]
Jeremy. [Coming to the back ofJane’schair.] 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.
[Jeremylaughs 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’sgaze wanders about her.
Rose. [ToRobert.] 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 toIsabel.] Go and see who ’tis, Lucy.
[Isabelopens the door,andMary Meadowsstands 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.Jeremyholds the door open for them.As she passes through itLizsays,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.
The next morning.Robert’scousins 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.
[Jeremywith 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.
[Jeremylooks 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.
[JaneandLizdraw themselves up,bridling,butLizrelaxes.
Liz. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know.
[Johnenters.]
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 byJohn.
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.
[RobertandRosecome in from the garden.Robertcarries a little card-board box in his hand,which he places on the table.Rosesits 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.
[Robertuncovers 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,Robertstrolls 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 asKittyenters.
Kitty. O whatever’s going on! Rose, Rose, John—come you in here quickly, do. [ToLucy.] O you bad, wicked girl. I knew you couldn’t be a very nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy.
[Isabel,released byRobert,goes over to the window arranging her disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears.Robertwatches 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.
[Johncomes 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.
[HereIsabelsinks 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 ofJeremy,Lubincomes 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 toLubin’sside.] O you shame me by them words, I bain’t that sort of maid—you’ll answer for me—William?
[Lubinsilently takes her hand.
Rose. [Her eyes fixed onLubin.] 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 toLubin.] 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.
The same room half an hour later.Isabelis picking up the scattered orange blossom which she ties together and lays on the window sill.Lubincomes 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.
[Isabellooks helplessly atLubinwho 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. [TakingIsabel’shands.] 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 inLubin’sand they go out together.As they do so,Isabel’sbonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded on the floor.
A few minutes later.LizandJanewearing 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 thatJeremyhas 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.
LizandJane. [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.Jeremyquickly hooks each gown in succession.As he finishes the fastening ofJane’sdressRose,followed byKitty,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 toJeremy.] 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.
[Kittylooks in consternation fromRoseto the cousins and then toJeremy,who remains impassive and uninterested,sucking a straw.Roseclasps her hands round the forget-me-nots and sits gazing at them,desolately unhappy.Robertenters.He is very grandly dressed for the wedding,but as he comes into the room he seesIsabel’scotton bonnet on the floor.He stoops,picks it up and laying it reverently on the table,sinks into a chair oppositeRoseand 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.
[Johnstands contemplatingRoseandRobert.Roseseems lost to the outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots,whilstRobert,in sullen gloom,keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet.
John. Come, Rose, ’tis time you commenced to act a bit different. [Rosedoes 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. [Robertpays no heed to him.
John. [ToJeremy.] 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.
[HereMary Meadowscomes in,Johnturns eagerly to her.
John. O Mary—have you come to help us in the fix where we are? [He signs toRoseandRobert.
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.
[Jeremygoes to the door—as he does soLizandJanestart 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 followJeremyto the garden.Kittysilently leaves the room also.RoseandRobertremain lost in their sorrowful reflections.JohnandMarylook 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. [TakingMary’shand.] ’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. [TakingMary’shand.] 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 towardsMary.
Jeremy. There you be, mistress. Fools’ drink for fools. A mug of good cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker.
[Marytakes the bunch,and still holdingJohn’shand,leads him to the kitchen.Jeremywatches 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 byJohn,comes forward carrying two glasses.She gives one toRoseand the other toRobert.
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 byJohn’sside.Roseslowly lifts her glass and begins to drink.Robertdoes the same.They are watched with anxiety by all in the room.When they have emptied their glassesRosedries her tears and pushes the flowers a little way from her.Robertshakes himself and moves the cotton bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor.MeanwhileKittyhas 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 takingMary’shand.] 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. [Jeremyenters withLubinandIsabel.
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.
[RoseandRobertget up and go towards the door.They pause beforeLubinandIsabel.
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 inRobert’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.
[RoseandRobertwith cold glances atLubinandIsabel,pass out of the door.
John. [Giving his arm toMary.] 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.
[Jeremygoes out with the sisters.
Lubin. [ToIsabel.] 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 towardsLubin,who takes them reverently in his as the Curtain falls.
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.
A country roadside.It is late afternoon and already dusk.May BrowningwithHarry Mosscome slowly forward.Close to a stile which is a little off the road,Maystops.
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.
[Harrygoes off with the can.Maywatches him,drawing her shawl again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing.
[Harryreturns and holds out the can.
May. ’Tis not very quick as you’ve been, Harry Moss. Here—give it to I fast. Give!
[Harryputs 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.