Clara. [TakingGeorge’shand.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for the disguise that I put upon myself.
George. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint no cloud upon the sky, Clara?
Clara. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might raise up between you and me.
Thomas. That’s all finished and done with now, my maid. If I’d a hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should.
Emily. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough.
Luke. [Who has been sitting withJoan’shand in his.] Hark you here, mistress. There’s many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day. Baint that a true saying, Joan?
Joan. [Looking up radiantly.] O that it is, dear Luke.
Lord Lovel. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be said.
Emily. And that’s the most sensible thing as has been spoke this long while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, grizzling sort of a muddler. She might have took up with this young man, who has a very respectable appearance.
Lord Lovel. [Coming forward toGeorgeand shaking his hand.] I’m proud to make your acquaintance, sir.
Emily. [Rising angrily.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of this here table. ’Twill be midnight afore the things is cleared away and washed up.
Thomas. What if it be, Emily. ’Tisn’t very often as I gets the chance of minding how ’twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a young man in those days, too, I was.
Emily. And ’tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, Thomas.
Jessie. [Slipping her hand intoThomas’s.] O do let us sit up till midnight, Dad.
Robin. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does.
[Curtain.]
Mrs. Gardner.
William,her son.
John,his farm hand.
Susan,their maid.
Julia,the owner of Luther’s Farm.
Laura,Chris,Nat,Tansie,gipsies.
The garden of the Road Farm.To the right an arbour covered with roses.Mrs. Gardneris seated in it,knitting.Williamis tying up flowers and watering them.
Mrs. Gardner. And you have come to a ripe age when ’tis the plain duty of a man to turn himself towards matrimony, William.
William. ’Tis a bit of quiet that I’m after, Mother.
Mrs. Gardner. Quiet! ’tis a good shaking up as you want, William. Why, you have got as set in your ways as last season’s jelly.
William. Then let me bide so. ’Tis all I ask.
Mrs. Gardner. No, William. I’m got to be an old woman now, and ’tis time that I had someone at my side to help in the house-keeping and to share the work.
William. What’s Susan for, if ’tisn’t to do that?
Mrs. Gardner. Susan? As idle a piece of goods as ever was seen on a summer’s day! No. ’Tisn’t a serving maid that I was thinking of, but someone who should be of more account in the house. ’Tis a daughter that I’m wanting, William, and I’ve picked out the one who is to my taste.
William. Then you’ve done more than I have, Mother.
Mrs. Gardner. ’Tis the young person whom Luther Smith has left his farm and all his money to. I’ve got my eye on her for you, William.
William. Then you’ll please to put your eye somewhere else, Mother, for I’ve seen them, and they don’t suit me.
Mrs. Gardner. Come, this is news, William. Pray where did you meet?
William. ’Twas when I was in church last Sunday. In they came, the two young maids from Luthers, like a couple of gallinie fowls, the way they did step up over the stones and shake the plumes of them this way and that. I don’t hold with fancy tricks. I never could abide them. No foreign wenches for me. And that’s about all.
Mrs. Gardner. ’Tis true they are from town, but none the worse for that, William. You have got sadly rude and cumbersome in your ways, or you wouldn’t feel as you do towards a suitable young person. ’Tis from getting about with John so much, I think.
William. Now look you here, Mother, I’ve got used to my own ways, and when a man’s got set in his own ways, ’tis best to leave him there. I’m past the age for marrying, and you ought to know this better than anyone.
Mrs. Gardner. I know that ’tis a rare lot of foolishness that you do talk, William, seeing as you’re not a year past thirty yet. But if you can’t be got to wed for love of a maid, perhaps you’ll do so for love of a purse, when ’tis fairly filled.
William. There’s always been enough for you and me so far, Mother.
Mrs. Gardner. Ah, but that won’t last for ever. I’m got an old woman, and I can’t do with the dairy nor the poultry as I was used to do. And things have not the same prices to them as ’twas a few years gone by. And last year’s season was the worst that I remember.
William. So ’twas. But so long as there’s a roof over our heads and a loaf of bread and a bit of garden for me to work on, where’s the harm, Mother?
Mrs. Gardner. O you put me out of all patience, William. Where’s the rent to come from if we go on like this? And the clothing, and the food? And John’s wages, and your flower seeds, if it comes to that, for you have got terrible wasteful over the flowers.
William. I wish you’d take it quieter, Mother. Look at you bed of musk, ’tis a grand smell that comes up from it all around.
Mrs. Gardner. No, William. I’ve no eye for musk, nor nose to smell at it either till you’ve spoken the word that I require.
William. Best let things bide as they are, Mother.
Mrs. Gardner. I’ll leave you no rest till you do as I wish, William. I’m got an old woman, and ’tis hard I should be denied in aught that I’ve set my heart upon.
William. Please to set it upon something different, Mother, for I’m not a marrying man, and John he’ll tell you the same thing.
Mrs. Gardner. John! I’m sick of the very name of him. I can’t think how ’tis that you can lower yourself by being so close with a common farm hand, William.
William. Ah, ’twould be a rare hard matter to find the equal to John, Mother. ’Tis of gold all through, and every bit of him, that he is made. You don’t see many like John these days, that’s the truth.
Mrs. Gardner. Well, then, John, won’t be here much longer, for we shan’t have anything to give him if things go on like this.
William. I’d wed forty wives sooner than lose John—and that I would.
Mrs. Gardner. I’m not asking you to wed forty. ’Tis only one.
William. And that one?
Mrs. Gardner. The young person who’s got Luther’s farm. Her name is Julia.
William. [Leaving his flower border and walking up and down thoughtfully.] Would she be the one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown?
Mrs. Gardner. I’m sure I don’t know. I was not at church last Sunday.
William. Or t’other one in green?
Mrs. Gardner. You appear to have used your eyes pretty well, William.
William. O, I can see a smartish bit about me when I choose.
Mrs. Gardner. T’other wench is but the housekeeper.
William. Where did you get that from?
Mrs. Gardner. ’Twas Susan who told me. She got it off someone down in the village.
William. Well, which of the maids would have had the cherry-coloured ribbons to her, Mother?
Mrs. Gardner. I’m sure I don’t know, but if you go up there courting this afternoon, may happen that you’ll find out.
William. This afternoon? O, that’s much too sudden like.
Mrs. Gardner. Not a bit of it. Recollect, your fancy has been set on her since Sunday.
William. Come, Mother, you can’t expect a man to jump into the river all of a sudden like this.
Mrs. Gardner. I expect you to go up there this very day and to commence telling her of your feelings.
William. But I’ve got no feelings that I can tell her of, Mother.
Mrs. Gardner. Then you’ll please to find some, William.
William. ’Tis a thing that in all my life I’ve never done as to go visiting of a strange wench of an afternoon.
Mrs. Gardner. Then ’tis time you did begin.
William. And what’s more, I’ll not do it, neither.
Mrs. Gardner. Then I must tell John that we have no further need of his services, for where the money to pay him is to come from, I don’t know.
[She rolls up her knitting and rises.
William. Stop a moment, Mother—stop a moment. Maybe ’twon’t be so bad when I’ve got more used to the idea. You’ve pitched it upon me so sudden like.
Mrs. Gardner. Rent day has pitched upon me more sudden, William.
William. Look you, Mother, I’ll get and turn it about in my mind a bit. And, maybe, I’ll talk it over with John. I can’t do more, can I now?
Mrs. Gardner. Talk it over with whom you please, William. But remember ’tis this very afternoon that you have to start courting. I’ve laid your best clothes out all ready on your bed.
William. [Sighing heavily.] O then I count there’s no way out of it. But how am I to bring it off? ’Tis that I’d like to know.
Mrs. Gardner. Maybe your man will be able to give you some suitable advice. Such things are beyond me, I’m afraid.
[She gathers up her work things,and with a contemptuous look at her son,she goes slowly out of the garden.
[Williamremains on the path lost in perturbed thought.Suddenly he goes to the gate and calls loudly.
William. John, John!
John. [From afar.] Yes, master.
William. [Calling.] Come you here, John, as quick as you can run.
John. That I will, master.
[Johnhurries into the garden.
William. John, I’m powerful upset.
John. Mistress’s fowls bain’t got among the flowers again, be they, Master William?
William. No, no, John. ’Tisn’t so bad as that. But I’m in a smartish fix, I can tell you.
John. How’s that, master?
William. John, did you ever go a’courting?
John. Well, master, that’s a thing to ask a man!
William. ’Tis a terrible serious matter, John. Did you ever go?
John. Courting?
William. Yes.
John. Why, I count as I have went a score of times, master.
William. A score of times, John! But that was before you were got to the age you are now?
John. Before that, and now, master.
William. And now, John?
John. To be sure, master.
William. Then you know how ’tis done?
John. Ah, that I does, master.
William. Well, John, you’re the man for me.
John. Lord bless us, master, but what have you to do with courting?
William. You may well ask me, John. Why, look you here—until this very morning, you would say I was a quiet and a peaceable man, with the right place for everything and everything in its place.
John. Ah, and that you was, Master William. And a time for all things too, and a decenter, proper gentleman no man ever served—that’s truth.
William. Ah, John—the mistress has set her will to change all this.
John. Now, you’d knock me down with a feather.
William. That she has, John. I’ve got to set out courting—a thing I’ve never thought to do in all my living days.
John. That I’ll be bound you have not, Master William, though a finer gentleman than yourself is not to be found in all the country side.
William. [With shy eagerness.] Is that how I appear to you, John?
John. Ah, and that you does, master. And ’tis the wonder with all for miles around as how you’ve been and kept yourself to yourself like this, so many years.
William. Well, John, it appears that I’m to pass out of my own keeping. My Sunday clothes are all laid out upon the bed.
John. Bless my soul, Master William, and ’tis but Thursday too.
William. Isn’t that a proper day for this sort of business, John?
John. I’ve always been used to Saturday myself, but with a gentleman ’tis different like.
William. Well, John, there’s nothing in this day or that as far as I can see. A bad job is a bad job, no matter what, and the day of it does make but very little difference.
John. You’re right there, master. But if I may be so bold, where is it as you be going off courting this afternoon?
William. Ah—now you and me will have a straight talk one with another—for ’tis to you I look, John, for to pull me out of this fix where the mistress has gone and put me.
John. And that I’ll do, master—with all the will in the world.
William. Well then, John, ’tis to be one of those maids from strange parts who are come to live at old Luther’s, up yonder.
John. Ah, I seed the pair of them in church last Sunday. Fine maids, the both of them, and properly suitable if you was to ask me.
William. ’Tis only the one I’ve got to court, John.
John. And I reckon that’s one too many, Master William.
William. You’re right there, John. ’Tis Mistress Julia I’ve to go at.
John. And which of the pair would that be, Master William?
William. That one with the cherry colour ribbons to her gown, I believe.
John. Ah, t’other was plainer in her dressing, and did keep the head of her bent smartish low on her book, so that a man couldn’t get a fair look upon she.
William. That would be the housekeeper or summat. ’Tis Julia, who has the old man’s money, I’m to court.
John. Well, master, I’ll come along with you a bit of the road, to keep your heart up like.
William. You must do more than that for me, John. You’ve got to learn me how the courting is done before I set off.
John. Why, master, courting baint a thing what wants much learning, that’s the truth.
William. ’Tis all new to me, John. I’m blessed if I know how to commence. Why, the thought of it at once sends me hot all over; and then as cold again.
John. You start and get your clothes on, master. ’Tis half the battle—clothes. What a man cannot bring out of his mouth of a Saturday will fall out easy as anything on the Sunday with his best coat to his back.
William. No, John. The clothes won’t help me in this fix. You must tell me how to start once I get to the farm and am by the door.
John. You might take a nosegay with you, master.
William. I might. And yet, ’tis a pity to cut the blooms for naught.
John. I always takes a nosegay with me, of a Saturday night.
William. Why, John, who is it that you are courting then?
John. ’Tis that wench Susan, since you ask me, master. But not a word of it to th’ old mistress.
William. I’ll not mention it, John.
John. Thank you kindly, master.
William. And now, John, when the nosegay’s all gathered and the flowers bunched, what else should I do?
John. Well, then you gives it her when you gets to the door. And very like she’ll ask you into the parlour, seeing as you be a particular fine looking gentleman.
William. I could not stand that, John. I’ve no tongue to me within a strange house.
John. Well then, maybe as you and she will sit aside of one another in an arbour in the garden, or sommat of the sort.
William. Yes, John. And what next?
John. I’m blessed if I do know, master. You go along and commence.
William. No, John, and that I won’t. Not till I know more about it like.
John. Well, master, I’m fairly puzzled hard to tell you.
William. I have the very thought, John. Do you bring Susan out here. I’ll place myself behind the shrubs, and do you get and court her as well as you know how; and maybe that will learn me something.
John. Susan’s a terrible hard wench to court, Master William.
William. ’Twill make the better lesson, John.
John. ’Tis a stone in place of a heart what Susan’s got.
William. ’Twill very likely be the same with Julia. Go and bring her quickly, John.
[Williamplaces himself behind the arbour.
John. As you will, master—but Susan have been wonderful nasty in her ways with me of late. ’Tis my belief as she have took up with one of they low gipsy lads what have been tenting up yonder, against the wood.
William. Well, ’twill be your business to win her back to you, John. See—am I properly hid, behind the arbour?
John. Grandly hid, master—I’ll go and fetch the wench. [Johnleaves the garden.
[Williamremains hidden behind the arbour.After a few minutesJohnreturns pullingSusanby the hand.
Susan. And what are you about, bringing me into master’s flower garden at this time of the morning? I should like for mistress to look out of one of the windows—you’d get into fine trouble, and me too, John.
John. Susan, my dear, you be a passing fine wench to look upon, and that’s the truth.
Susan. And is it to tell me such foolishness that you’ve brought me all the way out of the kitchen?
John. [Stooping and picking a dandelion.] And to give you this flower, dear Susan.
Susan. [Throwing it down.] A common thing like that! I’ll have none of it.
John. ’Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan. The blue fire do fairly leap from your eyes.
Susan. O you’re enough to anger a saint, John. What have you brought me here for?
John. I thought I’d like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, Susan. And that I did never see a finer.
Susan. You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what Master William’s so powerful set on.
John. Ah—and ’tis true as you have sommat of the look of she when you stands a pawing of the ground as you be now.
Susan. Is it to insult me that you’ve got me away from the kitchen, John?
John. Nay—’tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish wench—and I’ll go along to the church with you any day as you will name, my dear.
Susan. That you won’t, John. I don’t mind taking a nosegay of flowers from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over the garden gate of an evening, but I’m not a-going any further along the road with you. That’s all. [She moves towards the house.
John. Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan—and let me say sommat of all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in my heart for you.
Susan. They may stir within you like an old waspes’ nest for all I care, John.
John. Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they. You can speak honey sweet when it do please you to.
Susan. ’Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, John.
John. I gets enough of that from mistress—I mean—well—I mean—[in a loud,clear voice]—O mistress is a wonderful fine woman and no mistake.
Susan. You won’t say as much when she comes round the corner and catches you a wasting of your time like this, John.
John. Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of the finest rose what blooms, Susan?
Susan. Is that me, John?
John. Who else should it be, Susan?
Susan. Well, John—sometimes I think there’s not much amiss with you.
John. O Susan, them be grand words.
Susan. But then again—I do think as you be getting too much like Master William.
John. And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth.
Susan. Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. And you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John.
John. Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way.
Susan. I’m not so sure as I do, John.
John. Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan.
Susan. And that I’ll not. And what’s more, I’m not a-going to stop here talking foolish with you any longer. I’ve work to do within. [Susangoes off.
[John,mopping his face and speaking regretfully asWilliamsteps from behind the arbour.
John. There, master. That’s courting for you. That’s the sort of thing. And a caddling thing it is too.
William. But ’tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John. And ’tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this afternoon, there—that’s what I’ve come to in my thoughts.
John. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now?
William. See here, John—we’ll cut a nosegay for you to carry—some of the best blooms I’ll spare. And you, who know what courting is, and who have such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once and do the business for me.
John. Master, if ’twas an acre of stone as you’d asked me to plough, I’d sooner do it nor a job like this.
William. John, you’ve been a good friend to me all the years that you have lived on the farm, you’ll not go and fail me now.
John. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William? ’Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of she.
William. Your words are all right, John. ’Tisn’t as though sensible speech was needed. You do know what’s wanted with the maids, whilst I have never been used to them in any way whatever. So let’s say no more about it, but commence gathering the flowers.
John. [Heavily,but resigned.] Since you say so, master. [They begin to gather flowers.
William. What blooms do young maids like the best, John?
John. Put in a sprig of thyme, master.
William. Yes—I can well spare that.
John. And a rose that’s half opened, master.
William. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, John.
John. ’Tain’t likely as you can get through courtship without parting with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you’re called upon to spill.
William. That’s true, John—I’ll gather the rose—
John. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they.
William. Put them into the nosegay, John—And now—no more—’Tis enough waste for one day.
John. ’Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I.
William. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John.
John. ’Tis to be hoped as ’twill be the same with the lady, master.
William. There, off you go, John. And mind, ’tis her with the cherry ribbon to her gown and bonnet.
John. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her head this day, being that ’tis Thursday?
William. An eye like—like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to the face of her like yon rose.
John. That’s enough, Master William. I’ll not pitch upon the wrong maid, never fear. And now I’ll clean myself up a bit at the pump, and set off straight away.
William. [ShakingJohn’shand.] Good luck to you, my man. And if you can bring it off quiet and decent like without me coming in till at the last, why, ’tis a five pound note that you shall have for your trouble.
John. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no mistake about that.
[Curtain.]
A wood.To the right a fallen tree(or a bench).Johncomes from the left,a large bunch of flowers in his hand.
John. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? Well, bless my soul, but ’tis a rare caddling business what master’s put upon I. ’Tis worse nor any job he have set me to in all the years I’ve been along of him, so ’tis. But I’m the one to bring it off slick and straight, and, bless me, if I won’t take and hide myself by yon great bush till I see the wenches a-coming up. That’ll give me time to have a quiet look at the both and pick out she what master’s going a-courting of.
[Johnputs himself behind some thick bushes asJuliaandLauracome forward.Juliais very simply dressed.Her head is bare,and she is carrying her white cotton sunbonnet.Laurawears finer clothes and her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry colour.
Laura. [Stopping by the bench.] We’ll sit down—’Tis a warm day, and I’ve had enough of walking.
[She sinks down on the seat.
Julia. [Looking all round her.] ’Tis beautiful and quiet here. O this is ever so much better than the farm.
Laura. The farm! What’s wrong with that, I should like to know?
Julia. Everything. ’Tis more like a prison than a home to me. Within the house there’s always work crying out to be done—and outside I believe ’tis worse—work—nothing else speaking to me.
Laura. You’re a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there’s many would give their eyes to change with you.
Julia. But out here ’tis all peace, and freedom. There’s naught calling out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and the breezes move them this way, and that. The ground is thick with leaves and blossoms and no one has got to sweep it, and the hard things with great noises to them, like pails and churns, are far away and clean forgot.
Laura. ’Tisn’t much use as you’ll be on the farm.
Julia. I wish I’d never come nigh to it. I was happier far before.
Laura. ’Tis a grand life. You’ll see it as I do one of these days.
Julia. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear the cattle lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and ’tis a heart of lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers in the fields calls me, but ’tis to the dairy I must go, to work. And at noonday, when the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for its coolness, ’tis the kitchen I must be in—or picking green stuff for the market. And so on till night, when the limbs of me can do no more and the spirit in me is like a bird with the wing of it broken.
Laura. You’ll harden to it all by winter time right enough.
Julia. O I’ll never harden to it. ’Tis not that way I am made. Some girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do their task nor ask for anything beyond, but ’tis not so with me.
Laura. How is it then with you?
Julia. [Pointing.] There—see that blue thing yonder flying from one blossom to another. That’s how ’tis with me. Shut me up close in one place, I perish. Let me go free, and I can fly and live.
Laura. You do talk a powerful lot of foolishness that no one could understand.
Julia. O, do not let us talk at all. Let us bide still, and get ourselves refreshed by the sweetness and the wildness of the forest.
Juliaturns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood around her.
Lauraarranges her ribbons and smoothes out her gown.Neither of them speak for a few minutes.
Laura. [Looking up and pointing.] See those strange folk over there? What are they?
Julia. [Looking in the same direction.] I know them. They are gipsies from the hill near to us.
Laura. They should be driven away then. I don’t like such folk roosting around.
Julia. But I do. They are friends to me. Many’s the time I have run out at dusk to speak with them as they sit round their fire.
Laura. Then you didn’t ought to have done so. Let’s get off now, before they come up.
Julia. No, no. Let us talk to them all. [Calling.] Tansie and Chris, come you here and sit down alongside of us. [Chris,Nat,andTansiecome up.
Chris. Good morning to you, mistress. ’Tis a fine brave day, to-day.
Julia. That it is, Chris. There never was so fine a day. And we have come to spend all of it in this forest.
Tansie. Ah, but ’tis warm upon the high road.
Nat. We be come right away from the town, mistress.
Julia. Then sit down, all of you, and we will talk in the cool shade.
Laura. Not here, if you please. I am not used to such company.
Julia. Not here? Very well, my friends, let us go further into the wood and you shall stretch yourselves under the green trees and we will all rest there together.
Laura. Well, what next! You might stop to consider how ’twill look in the parish.
Julia. How what will look?
Laura. How ’twill look for you to be seen going off in such company like this.
Julia. The trees have not eyes, nor have the grass, and flowers. There’s no one to see me but you, and you can turn your head t’other way. Come Tansie, come Chris. [She turns towards the three gipsies.
Tansie. Nat’s in a sorry way, this morning—baint you, Nat?
Nat. Let I be. You do torment anyone till they scarce do know if they has senses to them or no.
Tansie. You’re not one to miss what you never had, Nat.
Chris. Let the lad bide in quiet, will you. ’Tis a powerful little nagging wench as you be.
Julia. Why are you heavy and sad this fine day, Nat?
Tansie. ’Tis love what’s the matter with he, mistress.
Julia. Love? O, that’s not a thing that should bring heaviness or gloom, but lightness to the heart, and song to the lips.
Tansie. Ah, but when there’s been no meeting in the dusk since Sunday, and no message sent!
Chris. Keep that tongue of your’n where it should be, and give over, Tansie. Susan’s not one as would play tricks with her lad.
Julia. Now I have a thirst to hear all about this, Nat, so come off further into the wood, all of you, where we can speak in quiet.
[She holds out her hand toNat.
Laura. Upon my word, but something must be done to bring these goings on to an end.
Julia. Come, Nat—you shall tell me all your trouble. I understand the things of the heart better than Tansie, and I shall know how to give you comfort in your distress—come!
[JuliaandNat,followed byChrisandTansie,move off out of sight.Laurais left sitting on the bench alone.PresentlyJohncomes out carefully from behind the bushes,holding his bunch of flowers.
John. A good day to you, mistress.
Laura. The same to you, master.
John. Folks do call me John.
Laura. Indeed? Good morning, John.
John. A fine brave sun to-day, mistress.
Laura. But pleasant enough here in the shade.
John. Now, begging your pardon, but what you wants over the head of you baint one of these great trees full of flies and insects, but an arbour trailed all about with bloom, such as my master has down at his place yonder.
Laura. Indeed? And who may your master be, John?
John. ’Tis Master William Gardner, what’s the talk of the country for miles around, mistress. And that he be.
Laura. Master William Gardner! What, he of Road Farm?
John. The very same, mistress. And as grand a gentleman as anyone might wish for to see.
Laura. Yes—I seem to have heard something told about him, but I don’t rightly remember what ’twas.
John. You may have heard tell as the finest field of beans this season, that’s his.
Laura. I don’t think ’twas of beans that I did hear.
John. Or that ’twas his spotted hilt what fetched the highest price of any in the market Saturday?
Laura. No, ’twasn’t that neither.
John. Or that folks do come as thick as flies on a summer’s day from all parts of the country for to buy the wheat what he do grow. Ah, and before ’tis cut or like to be, they be a fighting for it, all of them, like a pack of dogs with a bone. So ’tis.
Laura. ’Twasn’t that, I don’t think.
John. Or ’twas that th’ old missis—she as is mother to Master William—her has a tongue what’s sharper nor longer than any vixen’s going. But that’s between you and I, missis.
Laura. Ah—’Twas that I did hear tell of. Now I remember it.
John. But Master William—the tongue what he do keep be smooth as honey, and a lady might do as she likes with him if one got the chance.
Laura. Indeed? He must be a pleasant sort of a gentleman.
John. For he could be led with kindness same as anything else. But try for to drive him, as old Missis do—and very likely ’tis hoofed as you’ll get for your pains.
Laura. I like a man with some spirit to him, myself.
John. Ah, Master William has a rare spirit to him, and that he has. You should hear him when th’ old Missis’s fowls be got into his flower garden. ’Tis sommat as is not likely to be forgot in a hurry. That ’tisn’t.
Laura. You carry a handsome nosegay of blossoms there, John. Are they from your master’s garden?
John. Ah, there’re not amiss. I helped for to raise they too.
Laura. And to whom are you taking them now, John?
John. To the lady what my master’s a-courting of, mistress.
Laura. And whom may that be, John?
John. Why, ’tis yourself, mistress.
Laura. Me, John? Why, I’ve never clapped eyes on Master William Gardner so far as I know of.
John. But he’ve clapped eyes on you, mistress—’twas at Church last Sunday. And ’tis not a bit of food, nor a drop of drink, nor an hour of sleep, as Master William have taken since.
Laura. O, you do surprise me, John?
John. That’s how ’tis with he, mistress. ’Tis many a year as I’ve served Master William—but never have I seen him in the fix where he be in to-day.
Laura. Why—how is it with him then?
John. As it might be with the cattle when the flies do buzz about they, thick in the sunshine. A-lashing this way and that, a-trampling and a-tossing, and never a minute’s rest.
Laura. Well, now—to think of such a thing. Indeed!
John. I’ve seen a horse right up to the neck of him in that old quag ahind of our place—a-snorting and a-clapping with his teeth and a-plunging so as ’twould terrify anyone to harken to it. And that’s how ’tis to-day with Master William up at home, so ’tis.
Laura. And only saw me once—at Church last Sunday, John?
John. Ah—and they old maid flies do sting but once, but ’tis a terrible big bump as they do raise on the flesh of anyone, that ’tis.
Laura. O John—’tis a fine thing to be loved like that.
John. So I should say—ah, ’tisn’t every day that a man like Master William goes a-courting.
Laura. But he hasn’t set out yet, John.
John. You take and hold the nosegay, mistress, and I’ll go straight off and fetch him, so being as you’re agreeable.
Laura. O yes, and that I am, John—You go and fetch him quick. I’ll bide here gladly, waiting till he comes.
John. That’s it. I knowed you for a sensible lady the moment I pitched my eyes on to you. And when master do come up, you take and talk to him nicely and meek-like and lead him on from one thing to t’other: and you’ll find as he’ll go quiet as a sheep after the first set off, spite of the great spirit what’s at the heart of he.
Laura. John, I’ll do all as you say, and more than all. Only, you get along and send him quickly to me. And—yes, you might give him a good hint, John—I’m not averse to his attentions.
John. Ah, and I should think you wasn’t, for ’twould be a hard job to find a nicer gentleman nor Master William.
Laura. That I know it would. Why, John, my heart’s commenced beating ever so fast, it has.
John. Then you may reckon how ’tis with the poor master! Why, ’tis my belief as ’twill be raving madness as’ll be the end of he if sommat don’t come to put a finish to this unrest.
Laura. O John, ’twould never do for such a fine gentleman to go crazy. Do you set off quick and send him along to me, and I’ll take and do my very best for to quiet him, like.
John. [Rising and about to set off.] Ah, ’tis a powerful lot of calming as Master William do require. But you be the one for to give it him. You just bide where you do sit now whilst I goes and fetches him, mistress.
Laura. O that I will, my good, dear John.
[Curtain.]
The same wood.
WilliamandJohncome up.Williamcarries a large market basket containing vegetables.
John. [Looking round and seeing no one.] Bless my soul, but ’twas on the seat as I did leave she.
William. We have kept her waiting a bit too long whilst we were cutting the green stuff. And now ’twill be best to let matters bide over till to-morrow.
John. Why, master ’tis my belief as you be all of a-tremble like.
William. I wish we were well out of this business, John. ’Tis not to my liking in any way.
John. ’Tis a fine looking lady, and that ’tis. You take and court her, Master William.
William. How am I to court the wench when she’s not here?
John. [Pointing.] Look yonder, master, there she comes through them dark trees.
William. You’ve got to bide somewhere nigh me, John. I could not be left alone with a wench who’s a stranger to me.
John. Don’t you get flustered, Master William. See here, I’ll hide me ahind of yon bushes, and if so be as you should want me, why, there I’m close at hand.
William. I’d rather you did stand at my side, John.
[Johnhides himself behind the bushes.Lauracomes slowly up.Williamstands awkwardly before her,saying nothing.Presently he takes off his hat and salutes her clumsily and she bows to him.For some moments they stand embarrassed,looking at one another.
William. [Suddenly bringing out a bunch of carrots from his basket and holding them up.] See these young carrots, mistress.
Laura. Indeed I do, master.
William. ’Tisn’t everywhere that you do see such fine grown ones for the time of year.
Laura. You’re right there, master. We have none of them up at our place.
William. [Holding them towards her.] Then be pleased to accept these, mistress.
Laura. [Taking the carrots.] Thank you kindly, master. [There is another embarrassed silence.Williamlooks distractedly fromLaurato his basket.Then he takes out a bunch of turnips.
William. You couldn’t beat these nowhere, not if you were to try.
Laura. I’m sure you could not, master.
William. They do call this sort the Early Snowball. ’Tis a foolish name for a table root.
Laura. ’Tis a beautiful turnip.
William. [Giving her the bunch.] You may as well have them too.
Laura. O you’re very kind, master.
[There is another long silence.Williamshuffles on his feet—Laurabends admiringly over her gifts.
William. There’s young beans and peas and a spring cabbage too, within the basket. I do grow a little of most everything.
Laura. O shall we sit down and look at the vegetables together?
William. [Visibly relieved.] We might do worse nor that. [They sit down side by side with the basket between them.
Laura. [Lifting the cabbage.] O, this is quite a little picture! See how the leaves do curl backwards—so fresh and green!
William. Ah, and that one has a rare white heart to it, it has.
Laura. I do love the taste of a spring cabbage, when it has a slice of fat bacon along with it.
William. I might have brought a couple of pounds with me if I’d have thought. Mother do keep some rare mellow jowls a-hanging in the pantry.
Laura. [Shyly.] Next time, maybe.
William. [Eagerly.] ’Twouldn’t take ten minutes for me to run back.
Laura. Not now—O no master—not now. Do you bide a little longer here and tell me about—about t’other things in the basket.
William. [Mopping his face with a handkerchief.] Well—there’s the beans—I count that yours haven’t come up very smart this year.
Laura. That they’ve not. The whole place has been let to run dreadful wild.
William. I’d—I’d like to show you how ’tis in my garden, one of these days.
Laura. I’d be very pleased to walk along with you there.
William. [Hurriedly.] Ah—you should see it later on when the—the—the parsnips are a bit forrarder.
Laura. I’d like to see the flower garden now, where this nosegay came from.
William. [Looking round uneasily.] I don’t know what the folks would say if they were to see you and me a-going on the road in broad day—I’m sure I don’t.
Laura. Why, what should they say, Master Gardner?
William. They might get saying—they might say as—as I’d got a-courting, or sommat foolish.
Laura. Well—and would that be untrue?
William. [Looking at her very uncomfortably.] I’m blessed if I do know—I mean—
Laura. This nosegay—and look, those young carrots—and the turnips and beans, why did you bring them for me, master, unless it was that you intended something by it?
William. [Very confused.] That’s so. So ’tis. That’s true. I count you have got hold of the sow by the ear right enough this time. And the less said about it the better. [A slight silence.
Laura. [Looking up shyly inWilliam’sface.] What was it drew you to me first, master?
William. I believe ’twas in Church on Sunday that I chanced to take notice of you, like.
Laura. Yes, but what was it about me that took your fancy in Church on Sunday?
William. I’m blessed if I know, unless ’twas those coloured ribbons that you have got to your bonnet.
Laura. You are partial to the colour?
William. Ah, ’tis well enough.
Laura. See here. [Taking a flower from her dress.] This is of the same colour. I will put it in your coat.
[She fastens it in his coat.Williamlooks very uncomfortable and nervous.
William. Well, bless my soul, but women folk have got some powerful strange tricks to them.
Laura. [Pinning the flower in its place.] There—my gift to you, master.
William. You may call me by my name, if you like, ’tis more suitable, seeing that we might go along to Church together one of these days.
Laura. O William, you have made me very happy—I do feel all mazy like with my gladness.
William. Well, Julia, we might do worse than to—to—name the day.
Laura. Why do you call me Julia?
William. Seeing that I’ve given you leave to call me William ’tis only suitable that I should use your name as well.
Laura. But my name is not Julia.
William. What is it then, I should like to know?
Laura. ’Tis Laura, William.
William. Folks did tell me that you were named Julia.
Laura. No—Laura is my name; but I live with Mistress Julia up at Luther’s Farm, and I help her with the work. House-keeping, dairy, poultry, garden. O there’s nothing I can’t turn my hand to, Master William.
William. [Starts up from the seat in deepest consternation.] John, John—Come you here, I say! Come here.
John. [Emerges from the bushes.] My dearest master!
William. What’s this you’ve been and done, John?
John. Why, master—the one with the cherry ribbons, to her you did say.
William. [Disgustedly.] ’Tis the wrong one.
Laura. What are you two talking about? William, do you mean to say as that man of yours was hid in the bushes all the while?
William. Now, John, you’ve got to get me out of the fix where I’m set.
John. O my dear master, don’t you take on so. ’Tis a little bit of misunderstanding to be sure, but one as can be put right very soon.
William. Then you get to work and set it right, John, for ’tis beyond the power of me to do so. I’ll be blessed if I’ll ever get meddling with this sort of job again.
John. Now don’t you get so heated, master, but leave it all to me. [Turning toLaura.] My good wench, it seems that there has been a little bit of misunderstanding between you and my gentleman here.
Laura. [Angrily.] So that’s what you call it—misunderstanding ’tis a fine long word, but not much of meaning, to it, I’m thinking.
John. Then you do think wrong. Suppose you was to go to market for to buy a nice spring chicken and when you was got half on the way to home you was to see as they had put you up a lean old fowl in place of it, what would you do then?
Laura. I don’t see that chickens or fowls have anything to do with the matter.
John. Then you’re not the smart maid I took you for. ’Tis not you as would be suitable in my master’s home. And what’s more, ’tis not you as my master’s come a-courting of.
Laura. If ’tis not me, who is it then?
[Williamlooks at her sheepishly and then turns away.
John. ’Tis your mistress, since you wants to know.
Laura. [Indignantly.] O, I see it all now—How could I have been so misled!
John. However could poor master have been so mistook, I say.
Laura. [Turning away passionately.] O, I’ve had enough of you and—and your master.
John. Now that’s what I do like for to hear. Because me and master have sommat else to do nor to stand giddle-gaddling in this old wood the rest of the day. Us have got a smartish lot of worry ahead of we, haven’t us, master?
William. You never said a truer word, John.
John. Come along then Master William. You can leave the spring vegetables to she. ’Tis more nor she deserves, seeing as her might have known as ’twas her mistress the both of us was after, all the time.
[Laurathrows herself on the seat and begins to cry silently,but passionately.
William. O John, this courting, ’tis powerful heavy work.
John. [TakingWilliam’sarm.] Come you along with me, master, and I’ll give you a helping hand with it all.
Laura. [Looking up and speaking violently.] I warrant you will, you clown. But let me advise you to look better afore you leap next time, or very likely ’tis in sommat worse than a ditchful of nettles as you’ll find yourself.
John. [Looking back over his shoulders as he goes off withWilliam.] I reckon as you’ve no call to trouble about we, mistress. Us is they what can look after theirselves very well. Suppose you was to wash your face and dry your eyes and set about the boiling of yon spring cabbage. ’Twould be sensibler like nor to bide grizzling after one as is beyond you in his station, so ’twould.
[JohnandWilliamgo out,leavingLauraweeping on the bench,the basket of vegetables by her side.
[Curtain.]