_Two days have passed by_.
_It is morning_. CLARA, _wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head_,
_sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief_. MAGGIE, _who is
dusting the plates on the dressers_, _pauses to watch her_.
MAGGIE. I’d sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor have to
set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you.
CLARA. I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine.
MAGGIE. I count ’tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a young
miss such as yourn be.
CLARA. What makes you say that, Maggie?
MAGGIE. Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in the
tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis when
she do come to that age.
CLARA. Why do you think this, Mag?
MAGGIE. O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor the very
worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word did cost she
more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how destructive she be with
her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore to ribbons last night, and
to-day yon handkerchief.
CLARA. These things are soon mended.
[MAGGIE _continues to dust for a few moments_.
MAGGIE. The day you comed here, ’twas a bit of ribbon as you did have
around of your hair.
CLARA. [_After a moment’s hesitation_.] I put it on to keep my hair
neat on the journeying.
MAGGIE. [_Coming nearer_.] I count as you’ve not missed it, have you?
CLARA. Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the hayfield.
MAGGIE. ’Tain’t lost.
CLARA. Where is it then?
MAGGIE. Look here, I could tell you, but I shan’t.
CLARA. If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it.
MAGGIE. ’Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you be,
and to give away ribbons, so ’twould.
[CLARA _takes no notice of her and goes on sewing_.
MAGGIE. [_More insistently_.] ’Twasn’t me as found the ribbon.
CLARA. Who was it then?
MAGGIE. I daresay you’d like for to know, but I’m not going to say
nothing more about it.
[MAGGIE _leans against the table watching_ CLARA _as she sews_.
[EMILY _with both the children now come in_. EMILY _carries a basket of
potatoes_, _and_ JESSIE _a large bowl_.
EMILY. [_Setting down the basket_.] Maggie, you idle, bad girl,
whatever are you doing here when master expects you down in the meadow to
help with the raking?
MAGGIE. I be just a-going off yonder, mistress.
EMILY. I’d thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine young serving
minxes down here—you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but you’ll be a
hundred times worser now.
MAGGIE. I’ll be off and help master. I’ve been and put the meat on to
boil as you said, missis.
[MAGGIE _goes off_.
[CLARA _continues to sew_, _quietly_. JESSIE _has put her bowl down on
the table_, _and now comes to her side_. ROBIN _also comes close to
her_. EMILY _flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously
watches them_.
JESSIE. We don’t care much about our new aunt, Joan.
ROBIN. Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good from
London town in them great boxes.
JESSIE. And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn’t brought
us nothing.
EMILY. Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy
gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you
children.
JESSIE. Will Aunt Clara get married soon?
EMILY. ’Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set out in the house I
have never seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and hearty
having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying in bed till ’tis
noon or later.
JESSIE. ’Tis only one of them as lies in bed.
ROBIN. [_To_ CLARA.] Do you think Aunt has got sommat for us upstairs,
Joan?
CLARA. [_Rising and putting down her work_.] I know she has, Robin.
EMILY. Don’t let me catch you speaking to Master Spring as though you
and he was of the same station, young person.
CLARA. Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch the
gifts that your aunt has brought for you.
[_She goes leisurely towards the staircase door_, _smiling at the
children_.
EMILY. Ah, and you may tell your young madam that ’tis high time as she
was out of bed and abroad. Hear that? [CLARA _goes out_.
JESSIE. I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt.
EMILY. She’s a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the
hands of her, ’tis not a day’s hard work as they have done in her life,
I’ll warrant.
ROBIN. What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do you think?
EMILY. Sommat what you don’t need, I warrant. ’Tis always so. When
folks take it into their heads to give you aught, ’tis very nigh always
sommat which you could do better without.
[EMILY _gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire_, _and fetching
a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays on
the table_.
[CLARA _enters carrying some parcels_. _She brings them to the table_.
_Both the children run to her_.
CLARA. [_Holding out a long parcel to_ EMILY _and speaking to the
children_.] The first is for your mother, children.
EMILY. [_With an angry exclamation_.] Now, you mark my words, ’twill be
sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use ’twill be.
[_She comes near_, _opens the parcel and perceives it to be a length of
rich black silk_.
CLARA. My mistress thought it might be suitable.
EMILY. Suitable? I’ll suitable her. When shall my two hands find time
to sew me a gown out of it, I’d like to know? And if ’twas sewn, when
would my limbs find time to sit down within of it? [_Flinging it down on
the table_.] Suitable? You can tell your mistress from me as she can
keep her gifts to herself if she can’t do better nor this.
JESSIE. [_Stroking the silk_.] O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor a
dove’s feather.
ROBIN. [_Feeling it too_.] ’Tis better nor the new kittens’ fur.
EMILY. Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards you
children.
CLARA. I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with her
aunt’s dear love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin.
JESSIE. [_Seizing the beads with delight_.] I love a string of beads.
[_Putting them on_.] How do they look on me?
EMILY. Off with them this moment. I’ll learn her to give strings of
rubbish to my child.
JESSIE. [_Beginning to cry_.] O do let me wear it just a little while,
just till dinner, Mother.
EMILY. Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do you hear.
JESSIE. [_Taking the necklace off_.] I love the feel of it—might I keep
it in my hand then?
EMILY. [_Seizing it_.] ’Twill be put by with the silk dress. So there.
’Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl like you.
ROBIN. [_Looking up from the pages of his book_.] No one shan’t take my
book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep and cows in
it—and no one shan’t hide it from me.
EMILY. [_Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table_.] Next
time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as she’ll
ask me to come and see her a-doing of it.
JESSIE. [_Coming up to_ CLARA _very tearfully_.] And was there naught
for Dad in the great box?
CLARA. Perhaps there may be.
ROBIN. And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie?
CLARA. I don’t know.
JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him.
ROBIN. And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner.
EMILY. [_Sharply_.] Look you here, young woman. Suppose you was to
take and do something useful with that idle pair of hands as you’ve got.
CLARA. Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something.
EMILY. Us knows what fine promises lead to.
CLARA. But I mean it. Do let me help a little.
EMILY. See them taters?
CLARA. Yes.
EMILY. Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against when I
wants to cook them.
CLARA. [_A little doubtfully_.] Yes—I’ll—I’ll try—
EMILY. Ah, ’tis just as I thought. You’re one of them who would stir
the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with the poker.
CLARA. [_Eagerly_.] No, no—it isn’t that. I’ll gladly do them. Come,
Miss Jessie, you will shew me if I do them wrongly, won’t you?
JESSIE. O yes, I’ll help you because I like you, Joan.
ROBIN. I’ll help too, when I have finished looking at my book.
[EMILY _goes out_. CLARA _sits down by the table and takes up a potato
and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work_. JESSIE _stands by
her watching_.
JESSIE. You mustn’t take no account of Mother when she speaks so sharp.
’Tis only her way.
ROBIN. Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie’s sent off?
CLARA. O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think.
JESSIE. Yes, you don’t do them taters very nice.
ROBIN. That don’t matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine things
about other parts.
JESSIE. Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there he comes with
the vegetables from the garden.
[GEORGE _comes in with a large basket of vegetables_, _which he sets down
in the back kitchen_. _Then he stands at the door_, _silently watching
the group near the table_.
JESSIE. Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the tales out of
what you do sing.
GEORGE. What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs this
time of day?
JESSIE. Mother’s gone upstairs, she won’t know nothing.
ROBIN. Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt have
brought me.
GEORGE. [_Slowly approaching the table_.] That be a brave, fine book of
pictures, Master Robin.
ROBIN. [_Holding up the open book_.] I don’t fancy Aunt Clara much, but
I likes her better nor I did because of this book.
[GEORGE’S _eyes wander from the book to_ CLARA _as she bends over her
work_.
JESSIE. Joan doesn’t know how to do them very nicely, does she George!
GEORGE. ’Tis the first time you’ve been set down to such work, may be,
mistress.
JESSIE. You mustn’t say “mistress” to Joan, you know. Why, Mother would
be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan’s only a servant.
CLARA. [_Looking up_.] Like you, George.
GEORGE. [_Steadily_.] What I was saying is—’Tis the first time as you
have been set afore a bowl of taters like this.
CLARA. You are right, George. It is the first time since—since I was
quite a little child. And I think I’m very clumsy at my work.
GEORGE. No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over their
fingers.
JESSIE. You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, same
as Maggie does.
GEORGE. Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan.
[JOAN _puts aside the knife and basket_, _turns back her sleeves_, _and
then resumes her work_. GEORGE’S _eyes are rivetted on her hands and
arms for a moment_. _Then he turns as though to go away_.
JESSIE. Don’t go away, Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt
Clara now that she’s growed into such a grand lady.
GEORGE. [_Coming back to the table_.] I don’t like nothing about her,
Miss Jessie.
JESSIE. Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride the big
horses to the trough, Georgie?
ROBIN. And from the time when th’ old gander did take a big piece right
out of her arm, Georgie?
GEORGE. [_His eyes on_ CLARA’S _bent head_.] I count her be wonderful
changed, like.
JESSIE. So that you would scarce know her?
GEORGE. So that I should scarce know she.
JESSIE. She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string of coral
beads. But naught for you, Georgie.
GEORGE. I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance like.
CLARA. [_With sudden earnestness_.] O that she has, George.
JESSIE. She didn’t seem to know him by her looks.
CLARA. Looks often speak but poorly for the heart.
ROBIN. [_Who has been watching_ CLARA.] See there, Joan. You’ve been
and cut that big tater right in half. Mother will be cross.
CLARA. O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the same
time.
GEORGE. [_Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself on the
edge of the table_.] Here,—give them all to me. I understand such work,
and ’tis clear that you do not. I’ll finish them off in a few minutes,
and mistress will never be the wiser.
CLARA. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle?
GEORGE. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a mind.
’Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job.
[CLARA _puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework_.
JESSIE. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters.
GEORGE. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day.
JESSIE. You ask him, Joan.
CLARA. Will not you sing one little verse, George?
GEORGE. Nay—strangers from London town would have no liking for the
songs we sing down here among the fields.
CLARA. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me very
well.
JESSIE. What was it called?
CLARA. I cannot remember the name—but there was something of bushes and
of briars in it.
JESSIE. I know which that is. ’Tis a pretty song. Sing it, Georgie.
GEORGE. Nay—sing it yourself, Miss Jessie.
JESSIE. ’Tis like this at the beginning.—[_she sings or repeats_]—
“Through bushes and through briars
I lately took my way,
All for to hear the small birds sing
And the lambs to skip and play.”
CLARA. That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie.
GEORGE. Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie.
JESSIE. I can’t say any more.
CLARA. [_Gently singing or speaking_.]
I overheard my own true love,
Her voice it was so clear.
“Long time I have been waiting for
The coming of my dear.”
GEORGE. [_Heaving a sigh_.] That’s it.
JESSIE. Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it.
CLARA. Shall I go on with the song, George?
GEORGE. As you please.
CLARA.
“Sometimes I am uneasy
And troubled in my mind,
Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love
And tell to him my mind.”
“And if I would go to my love
My love he will say nay
If I show to him my boldness
He’ll ne’er love me again.”
JESSIE. When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear her
a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then?
CLARA. I don’t know, Jessie.
JESSIE. I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all what
she did keep in her mind.
CLARA. Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, that he
never got to the other side for her to tell him.
GEORGE. Yes, that’s how ’twas, I count.
JESSIE. [_Running up to_ ROBIN.] I’m going to look at your book along
of you, Robin.
ROBIN. But I’m the one to turn the leaves, remember. [_The children sit
side by side looking at the picture book_. CLARA _sews_. GEORGE _goes
on with the potatoes_. _As the last one is finished and tossed into the
water_, _he looks at_ CLARA _for the first time_. _A long silence_.
GEORGE. Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time.
CLARA. Tell me how it was then, George.
GEORGE. I did used to put her on the horse’s back, and we would go down
to the water trough in the evening time and—
CLARA. What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George?
GEORGE. Us would walk in the woods aside of one another—And I would lift
she to a high branch in a tree—and pretend for to leave her there.
CLARA. And then?
GEORGE. Her would call upon me pitiful—and I would come back from where
I was hid.
CLARA. And did her crying cease?
GEORGE. She would take and spring as though her was one of they little
wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees.
CLARA. Where would she spring to, George?
GEORGE. I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she.
CLARA. And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, George?
GEORGE. I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long as her
was in the care of me.
CLARA. [_Slowly_, _after a short pause_.] I do not think she can have
forgotten those days, George.
GEORGE. [_Getting up and speaking harshly_.] They’re best forgot. Put
them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and sommat of all
which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and this’n.
[CLARA _turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief to her
eyes_. GEORGE _looks gloomily on the floor_. EMILY _enters_.
EMILY. George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I’d like to
know?
[GEORGE _gets hastily off_. _Both children look up from their book_.
EMILY. [_Looking freezingly at_ CLARA.] ’Tis plain as a turnpike what
you’ve been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, ’tis neck
and crop as you should be thrown from the door.
CLARA. What for, mistress?
EMILY. What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I’ll soon
tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him and
scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen.
GEORGE. This be going a bit too far, missis. I’ll not have things said
like that.
EMILY. Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took from—a
grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more’n what you eats nor
what we get of work from out of your body, you great hulk.
CLARA. [_Springing up angrily_.] O I’ll not hear such things said.
I’ll not.
EMILY. Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your mistress
out of bed—and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the flour on to her
face. ’Tis about all you be fit for.
CLARA. [_Angrily going to the stair door_.] Very well. ’Tis best that
I should go. I might say something you would not like.
GEORGE. [_Advancing towards_ EMILY.] Look you here, mistress. I’ve put
up with it going on for fifteen years. But sometimes ’tis almost more
nor I can bear. If ’twasn’t for Master Thomas I’d have cleared out this
long time ago.
EMILY. Don’t flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man.
GEORGE. We has always been good friends, farmer and me. ’Tis not for
what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold
together. But ’tis this—as he and I do understand one another.
EMILY. We’ll see what master has to say when I tell him how you was
found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy piece
of London trash.
GEORGE. I’m off. I’ve no patience to listen any longer. You called me
roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I was born and on the
road I was picked from my dead mother’s side, and I count as ’tis on the
road as I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I’ll not have road
dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint though I be, there be
things which I do hold brighter nor silver and cleaner nor new opened
leaves, and I’ll not have defilement throwed upon them.
EMILY. [_Seizing the arms of_ JESSIE _and_ ROBIN.] The lad’s raving.
’Tis plain as he’s been getting at the cider. Come you off with me to
the haymaking, Robin and Jess.
ROBIN. May I take my book along of me?
EMILY. [_Flinging the book down violently_.] I’ll book you! What next?
JESSIE. Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. He was only
doing the taters for her.
EMILY. [_As they go out_.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I’ll get her
packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don’t.
[GEORGE _is left alone in the kitchen_. _When all sounds of_ EMILY _and
the children have died away_, _he sighs_. _Then_, _looking furtively
round the room_, _he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket_. _He
spreads it out on one hand and stands looking down on it_, _sadly and
longingly_. _Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it_. _Just
as he is doing this_ THOMAS _comes into the room_.
THOMAS. Why, George, my lad.
GEORGE. [_Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket_.] Yes,
Master Thomas.
THOMAS. [_Looking meaningly at_ GEORGE.] ’Tis a pretty enough young
maid, George.
GEORGE. What did you say, Master?
THOMAS. That one with the bit of blue round the head of her.
GEORGE. Blue?
THOMAS. Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time.
GEORGE. Yes, master.
THOMAS. ’Twasn’t a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but ’twas
a blossom dropped from her gown.
GEORGE. Whose gown, master? I’ll warrant ’twasn’t missus’s.
THOMAS. Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. ’Twasn’t the mistress then.
GEORGE. Ah, I count as it could not have been she.
THOMAS. First love, ’tis best, George.
GEORGE. Ah, upon my word, that ’tis.
THOMAS. But my maid went and got her married to another.
GEORGE. More’s the pity, Master Thomas.
THOMAS. [_Sighing_.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been—with
her and me, like.
GEORGE. Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master?
THOMAS. Soft and sweet as the field lark, George.
GEORGE. Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master Thomas.
THOMAS. Ah, George, don’t you never run into the trap, no matter whether
’tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on. Once in,
never out. There ’tis.
GEORGE. No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. I baint
worth trapping.
THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty baggage
from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had
the fortune.
GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint nothing.
THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George.
GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. [_Steps are
heard in the staircase_.
THOMAS. We’ll off to the meadow then, George.
[GEORGE _and_ THOMAS _go out_.
[JOAN, _dressed as a lady of fashion_, _and followed by_ CLARA, _comes
into the kitchen_.
CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, and
let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more easy and
natural when you are in the air.
JOAN. O I’m very nigh dead with fright when I’m within doors. ’Tis so
hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at table
’tis worst of all.
CLARA. You’ve stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the headache,
and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood.
JOAN. But to-night ’twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have
asked them both to supper again.
CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man?
JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time,
mistress.
CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, and
then I will shew you how it is to be eaten.
JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the
parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, what
have I got to say to him?
CLARA. O, I shouldn’t trouble about that. I’d open my fan and take no
notice if I were you.
JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, mistress.
And with the children, too.
CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting.
Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your way
with the children.
JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with them.
CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, Joan.
Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner here and
there.
JOAN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] ’Tis the here and the there as I finds it
so hard to manage.
JESSIE. [_Running in breathlessly_.] A letter, a letter for Aunt Clara.
[CLARA _involuntarily puts out her hand_.] No, Joan. I was to give it
to Aunt Clara herself. I’ve run all the way.
[JOAN _slowly takes the letter_, _looking confused_.
JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt?
JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don’t want no children worriting round me
now. [_Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to speak
brightly_.] I mean—no, my dear little girl, I’d rather wait to read it
till I’m by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, my pet.
JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much.
JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there’s a sweet little
maid.
JESSIE. I’d sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like.
CLARA. [_Taking_ JESSIE’S _hand and leading her to the door_.] Now,
Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter in quiet, but if you will
come back presently I will have a game with you outside.
JESSIE. [_As she runs off_.] Mother won’t let me talk with you any
more, alone. She says as you’ve made a fool of Georgie and you’ll do the
same by us all.
JOAN. [_When_ JESSIE _has run off_.] There now, how did I do that,
mistress?
CLARA. Better, much better.
JOAN. ’Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of another, with
you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me.
CLARA. [_After a moment’s thought_.] No. It is not quite like that.
But ’tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly feeling in better garments.
JOAN. [_Handing the letter to_ CLARA.] There, mistress, ’tis yours, not
mine.
CLARA. [_Glancing at it_.] Lord Lovel’s writing. [CLARA _opens the
letter and reads it through_.] He will not wait longer for my answer.
And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him.
JOAN. O, mistress, whatever shall we do?
CLARA. We had better own to everything at once. It will save trouble in
the end.
JOAN. Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was closing
upon it, like!
CLARA. Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, if the man
loves you truly.
JOAN. Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is
coming up to see me now. I’d bring him to offer his self, if I was but
left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so.
CLARA. And then, Joan?
JOAN. And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, mistress,
maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn’t think no
worse of me.
[CLARA _gets up and goes to the window_, _where she looks out for a few
minutes in silence_. JOAN _cries softly meanwhile_.
CLARA. [_Turning towards_ JOAN.] As you will, Joan. Very likely ’twill
be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches this place.
JOAN. O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all may
go as well with you as ’tis with me.
CLARA. [_Sadly_.] That is not likely, Joan.
JOAN. What is it stands in the way, mistress?
CLARA. Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and
hurting thing.
JOAN. Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when he
do offer next.
CLARA. I’ll think of what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when the
heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into shelter. [_A
slight pause_.
JOAN. [_Looking through the window_.] Look up quickly, mistress.
There’s Hooper.
CLARA. [_Getting up_.] Then I’ll run away. May all be well with you,
dear Joan. [CLARA _goes out_.
[JOAN _seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan_. MILES
_enters_, _carrying a small box_.
MILES. Already astir, Miss Clara. ’Tis early hours to be sure for one
of our London beauties.
[_He advances towards her_, _and she stretches out her hand without
rising_. _He takes it ceremoniously_.
JOAN. You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper.
[MILES _places a chair in front of_ JOAN, _and sits down on it_.
MILES. [_Untying the parcel_.] I’ve been so bold as to bring you a
little keepsake from my place in town, Missy.
JOAN. How kind you are, Mister Miles.
MILES. You’ll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see it,
Miss Clara.
JOAN. Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper.
MILES. [_Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of bright
artificial flowers_.] There, what do you say to that, Miss? And we can
do you the same in all the leading tints.
JOAN. O, ’tis wonderful modish. I declare I never did see anything to
beat it up in town.
MILES. Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can hold our own
with the best of them in Painswick High Street.
JOAN. I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper.
[_She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from_ MILES,
_pretending to smell it_.
MILES. Well—and what’s the next pleasure, Madam?
[JOAN _drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently_.
MILES. [_Very gently_.] What’s Missy’s next pleasure?
JOAN. I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Miles.
MILES. Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his.
JOAN. O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are.
MILES. Ladies never like the sound of business, so we’ll set that aside
for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place of it.
JOAN. Ah, that’s a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper.
MILES. I loved you from the first, Miss. There’s the true, high born
lady for you, says I to myself. There’s beauty and style, elegance and
refinement.
JOAN. Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper?
MILES. Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara.
JOAN. What about, sir?
MILES. The answer to my question, Missy.
JOAN. And what was that, I wonder?
MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. Will she
oblige her Miles?
JOAN. O that I will. With all my heart.
MILES. [_Standing up_.] I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye
my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and such
trifles.
JOAN. [_Agitatedly_.] O let us not destroy to-day by thoughts of
anything but our dear affection one for t’other.
MILES. Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified in her
speech.
JOAN. ’Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear Miles, promise there
shan’t be nothing but—but love talk between you and me this day. I could
not bear it if we was to speak of, of other things, like.
MILES. [_Getting up and walking about the room_.] As you will—as you
will. Anything to oblige a lady.
[_He stops before the table_, _on which is laid_ EMILY’S _silk dress_,
_and begins to finger it_.
JOAN. What’s that you’re looking at?
MILES. Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, I’ll be
bound.
JOAN. O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with the old
silk.
MILES. No, no, Missy, I’m a man of business habits, and ’tis my duty to
go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He and I have
got to talk things over a bit, you know.
JOAN. Off so soon! O you have saddened me.
MILES. Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, when life
is in front of us, Miss Clara?
[_He raises her hand_, _kisses it_, _and leaves her_. _As he goes out by
the door_ CLARA _enters_.
JOAN. O, Mistress—stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at the meadow!
CLARA. Why, Joan, what has happened?
JOAN. All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer to talk about
the—the wedding and the money.
CLARA. The money?
JOAN. The income which he thinks I have.
CLARA. I’ll run, but all this time I’ve been keeping Master Luke Jenner
quiet in the parlour.
JOAN. O what does he want now?
CLARA. Much the same as the other one wanted.
JOAN. Must I see him?
CLARA. Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. He’s at
boiling point already.
JOAN. Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and keep
Miles Hooper from the farmer.
CLARA. I’ll run my best, never fear. [_She goes out_.
[LUKE JENNER _comes in_, _a bunch of homely flowers in his hand_.
JOAN. [_Seating herself_.] You are early this morning, Mister Jenner.
LUKE. [_Sitting opposite to her_.] I have that to say which would not
bide till sunset, Miss Clara.
JOAN. Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be.
LUKE. ’Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you was
coming down here—“I could do with a rich wife if so be as I could win
her,” I did tell myself.
JOAN. O, Mister Jenner, now did you really?
LUKE. But when I met you in the wood—saw you sitting there, so still and
yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. “That’s the maid for me,” I
says to myself.
JOAN. [_Tearfully_.] O, Mister Jenner!
LUKE. And if it had been beggar’s rags upon her in the place of satin,
I’d have said the same.
JOAN. [_Very much stirred_.] O, Mister Jenner, and did you really think
like that?
LUKE. If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in the deep
ocean, ’twould be the best as could happen. There!
JOAN. [_Faintly_.] O, Mister Jenner, why?
LUKE. Because, very like ’twould shew to you as ’tis yourself I’m after
and not the fortune what you’ve got.
JOAN. Mister Jenner, I’m mighty sorry.
LUKE. Don’t say I’m come too late, Miss Clara.
JOAN. You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, ’tis he and I
who are like to be wed.
LUKE. I might have known I had no chance.
JOAN. [_Rising and trying to hide her emotion_.] I wouldn’t have had it
happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner.
LUKE. [_Laying his bunch of flowers on the table_, _his head bent_, _and
his eyes on the ground_.] ’Twas none of your doing, Miss Clara. You’ve
naught to blame yourself for. ’Tis not your fault as you’re made so—so
beautiful, and yet so homely.
[JOAN _looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately
leaves the room_.
[LUKE _folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them in an
attitude of deepest despondency_. _After a few moments_ CLARA _enters_.
CLARA. O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you?
LUKE. [_Raising his head and pointing to the window_.] There she goes,
through the garden with her lover.
CLARA. I wish that you were in his place.
LUKE. [_Bitterly_.] I’ve no house with golden rails to offer her. Nor
any horse and chaise.
CLARA. But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love.
LUKE. What use is the love which be fastened up in a man’s heart and can
spend itself on naught, I’d like to know. [_He rises as though to go and
take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on the table_.
_Brokenly_.] I brought them for her. But I count as he’ll have given
her something better nor these.
[CLARA _takes the flowers gently from his hand_, _and as she does so_,
EMILY _enters_.
EMILY. What now if you please! First with George and then with Luke.
’Twould be Thomas next if he wasn’t an old sheep of a man as wouldn’t
know if an eye was cast on him or no. But I’ll soon put a stop to all
this. Shame on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine piece of London
vanity, I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so off with you
upstairs.
[_She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls_.