_The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers_. _A long table is
spread with silver_, _china and food_. CLARA _is setting mugs to each
place_. MAGGIE _comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of
salad_.
MAGGIE. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes to enjoy
themselves among the vegetables.
CLARA. [_Placing the last mug_.] There—Now all is ready for them.
MAGGIE. [_Bending over a place at the end of the table_.] Come you and
look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in through the
window.
CLARA. [_Goes to_ MAGGIE’S _side and bends down over the table_.] O
what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold on him, and his legs are like
feathers.
MAGGIE. [_Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting it fly
through the window_.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say.
CLARA. A stranger, Maggie?
MAGGIE. You mind my words, ’tis a stranger as’ll sit where yon was
stuck, afore the eating be finished.
CLARA. I don’t believe in such signs, myself.
MAGGIE. I never knowed it not come true.
[THOMAS _comes in_. _He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased_,
_yet nervous_.
THOMAS. Well, maids. Upon my word ’tis a spread. Never saw so many
different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this house.
MAGGIE. ’Tis in honour of Miss Clara’s going to be married like, master.
THOMAS. So ’tis, so ’tis. Well—A single rose upon the bush. Bound to
be plucked, you know. Couldn’t be left to fade in the sun, eh, girls?
CLARA. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going on,
master? Mistress has not told us yet.
THOMAS. [_Nervously_.] Mistress haven’t told you—haven’t she?
Well—well—at such a time we must all—all rejoice one with t’other, like.
No difference made t’wixt master and man. Nor t’wixt maid and missus.
Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my wenches. Up
against George—How’s that?
CLARA. That will do very well for us, Master.
MAGGIE. I don’t expect as missus will let we bide there long.
THOMAS. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and at the
asking in marriage of my only sister like, ’tis me as shall say what
shall sit down with who. And there’s an end of it. That’s all.
MAGGIE. I hear them a coming in, master.
[EMILY, _holding the hands of_ JESSIE _and_ ROBIN, _comes into the room_.
_Her eyes fall on_ THOMAS _who is standing between_ CLARA _and_ MAGGIE,
_looking suddenly sheepish and nervous_.
EMILY. [_In a voice of suppressed anger_.] Thomas! O, if I catch any
more of these goings on in my kitchen.
[JOAN, _very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of_ MILES HOOPER,
_follows_ EMILY _into the room_.
EMILY. I’ll not have the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. If
folk can’t come to the time when they’re asked, they baint worth waiting
for, so sit you down, all of you.
[_She sits down at the head of the table_, _a child on either side of
her_. JOAN _languidly sinks into a chair and_ MILES _puts himself at her
right_. _A place at her left remains empty_. THOMAS _sits opposite_.
_Three places at the end of the table are left vacant_. _As they sit
down_, GEORGE, _wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief_, _comes in_.
EMILY. [_Beginning to help a dish_.] You need not think you’re to be
helped first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, like. The
poor little children have been kept waiting a sad time for their supper,
first because you was such a while a having your head curled and puffed
out, and then ’twas Luke Jenner as didn’t come.
[CLARA _sits down at a place at the end of the table_. GEORGE _and_
MAGGIE _still remain standing_.
EMILY. [_Perceiving_ CLARA’S _movement_.] Well, I never did see
anything so forward. Who told you to sit yourself down along of your
betters, if you please, madam serving maid?
[GEORGE _comes involuntarily forward and stands behind_ CLARA’S _chair_.
CLARA _does not move_.
EMILY. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you hear?
[_Turning to_ MILES.] To see the way the young person acts one might
think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare and high. But
you’ll not take any fool in, not you, for all that you like to play the
fine lady. Us can see through your game very clear, can’t us, Mr.
Hooper?
MILES. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the
privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could be
mistook by any of the games played by this young person.
[CLARA _looks him gravely in the face without moving_.
EMILY. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes!
THOMAS. [_Nervously_.] Nay, nay, ’twas my doing, Emily. I did tell the
wenches as they might sit their-selves along of we, just for th’ occasion
like.
EMILY. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling about
like a lord in my kitchen?
THOMAS. [_Faintly_.] Come, Emily, I’m the master.
EMILY. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London impudence?
GEORGE. [_Comes forward_.] Master Luke be coming up the garden,
mistress.
[LUKE JENNER _enters_. _He goes straight up to_ JOAN _and holds out his
hand to her_, _and then to_ MILES.
LUKE. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, my
lad, ’tis rare—rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day.
EMILY. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you’ve been and kept us waiting more nor
half an hour. Can’t you sit yourself down and give other folk a chance
of eating their victuals quiet? There’s naught to make all this
giddle-gaddle about as I can see.
LUKE. [_Sitting down in the empty place by_ JOAN’S _side_.] Beg pardon,
mistress, I know I’m a bit late. But the victuals as are waited for do
have a better flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from the
pot like.
THOMAS. That’s true ’tis. And ’tis hunger as do make the best sauce.
[GEORGE _and_ MAGGIE _quietly seat themselves on either side of_ CLARA.
EMILY _is too busy dispensing the food to take any notice_. GEORGE
_hands plates and dishes to_ CLARA, _and silently cares for her comfort
throughout the meal_.
THOMAS. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn’t think to lose my little
sister afore she’d stopped a three days in the place. That I did not.
But I don’t grudge her to a fine prospering young man like friend Hooper,
no, I don’t.
EMILY. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See if you can’t
make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. [_Turning to_
LUKE.] We have two serving maids and a man, Mister Jenner, but they’re
to be allowed to act the quality to-day, so we’ve got to wait upon
ourselves.
LUKE. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, mistress.
That’s my saying at home.
THOMAS. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me
’tis otherwise. I’ve got another pair of hands in the place as do for me
as well, nor better than my own.
EMILY. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you’d be without mine.
THOMAS. I wasn’t thinking of yourn, Emily. ’Tis George’s hands as I was
speaking of.
EMILY. [_Contemptuously_.] George! You’ll all find out your mistake
one day, Thomas.
MILES. [_To_ JOAN, _who has been nervously handling her knife and fork
and watching_ CLARA’S _movements furtively_.] My sweet Miss is not
shewing any appetite.
JOAN. I’m—I’m not used to country fare.
EMILY. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara can’t
feed ’cause she’s not used to country fare! What next, I’d like to know!
ROBIN. [_Who has been watching_ JOAN.] Why does Aunt sometimes put her
knife in her mouth, Mother?
MILES. My good boy, ’tis plain you’ve never mixed among the quality or
you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of acting.
This summer ’tis the stylish thing to put on a countryfied mode at table.
JESSIE. Joan don’t eat like that, Mister Hooper.
MILES. Joan’s only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to
distinguish between such people and fine ladles like your aunt.
JOAN. [_Forcing herself to be more animated_.] Give me some fruit,
Miles—I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. ’Tis far too warm.
MILES. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of my
Missy’s voice.
THOMAS. Ah, ’tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. There
was a day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like.
EMILY. [_Sharply_.] I don’t seem to remember that day, Thomas.
THOMAS. [_Sheepishly_, _his look falling_.] Ah—’twas afore—afore our
courting time, Emily.
LUKE. [_Energetically_.] Prime weather for the hay, farmer. I count as
this dry will last until the whole of it be carried. [_A knock is heard
at the door_.
THOMAS. Now who’ll that be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the path,
Mother?
EMILY. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking out of
the window the same time, Thomas?
THOMAS. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who ’tis.
[JOAN _looks anxiously across the table at_ CLARA. _Then she drops her
spoon and fork and takes up her fan_, _using it violently whilst_ GEORGE
_slowly gets up and opens the door_. LORD LOVEL _is seen standing on the
threshold_.
LORD LOVEL. [_To_ GEORGE.] Kindly tell me, my man, is this the farm
they call Ox Lease?
GEORGE. Ah, that’s right enough.
LORD LOVEL. I’m sorry to break in upon a party like this, but I want to
see Miss Clara Spring if she is here.
THOMAS. [_Standing up_.] You’ve come at the very moment, master. This
be a giving in marriage supper. And ’tis Miss Clara, what’s only sister
to me, as is to be wed.
LORD LOVEL. Impossible, my good sir!
THOMAS. Ah, that’s it. Miles Hooper, he’s the happy man. If you be
come by Painswick High Street you’ll have seen his name up over the shop
door.
LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara—Miles Hooper—No, I can’t believe it.
THOMAS. [_Pointing towards_ JOAN _and_ MILES.] There they be—the both
of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. You’re right welcome, master,
to sit down along of we as one of the family on this occasion.
LORD LOVEL. [_Looking at_ JOAN _who has suddenly dropped her fan and is
leaning back with a look of supplication towards_ CLARA.] I must have
come to the wrong place—that’s not the Miss Clara Spring I know.
MILES. [_Bending over_ JOAN.] My sweet Missy has no acquaintance with
this gentleman, I am sure.
[LORD LOVEL _suddenly turns round and perceives_ CLARA _seated by_ MAGGIE
_at the table_. _He quickly goes towards her_, _holding out his hand_.
LORD LOVEL. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. [_Looking at her cap
and apron_.] Why have you dressed yourself like this?
THOMAS. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. The
young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the Spotted Cow
on his way up.
JOAN. [_Very faintly_, _looking at_ CLARA.] O do you stand by me now.
CLARA. [_Lays her hand on_ LORD LOVEL’S _arm_.] Come with me, my lord.
I think I can explain everything if you will only step outside with me.
Come—[_She leads him swiftly through the door which_ GEORGE _shuts behind
them_.]
[JOAN _leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint_.
THOMAS. Well, now—but that’s a smartish wench, getting him out so quiet,
like. George, you’d best step after them to see as the young man don’t
annoy her in any way.
EMILY. That young person can take good care of herself. Sit you down,
Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you can.
JESSIE. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother?
EMILY. ’Cause he was in that state when a man don’t know his right leg
from his left arm.
GEORGE. [_Who has remained standing_.] Look you here, Master Thomas—see
here mistress. ’Tis time as there was an end of this cursed play acting,
or whatever ’tis called.
EMILY. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I’d like
for you to know.
GEORGE. O yes there have been, mistress. And ’tis time it was finished.
[_Pointing to_ JOAN.] You just take and ask that young person what she
do mean by tricking herself out in Miss Clara’s gowns and what not, and
by having herself called by Miss Clara’s own name.
MILES. [_Taking_ JOAN’S _hand in his_.] My sweet Miss must pay no
attention to the common fellow. I dare him to speak like that of my
little lady bride.
GEORGE. A jay bird in peacock’s feathers, that’s what ’tis. And she’s
took you all in, the every one of you.
JESSIE. O George, isn’t she really our aunt from London?
GEORGE. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie.
THOMAS. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore.
EMILY. ’Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon.
LUKE. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow in all
the years I’ve known of him. George baint made to that shape.
ROBIN. Then who is Aunt Clara, George?
GEORGE. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, and
none other.
THOMAS. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish.
GEORGE. I can’t help that, master. Foolish deeds do call for foolish
words, may be.
MILES. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [_He pours out
water for_ JOAN _and bends affectionately over her_.] Put the drunken
fellow outside and let’s have an end of this.
GEORGE. [_Advancing_.] Yes, us’ll have an end to it very shortly. But
I be going to put a straight question to the maid first, and ’tis a
straight answer as her’ll have to give me in reply.
MILES. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude
manners.
GEORGE. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, and
then I’ll go when you will.
MILES. Well, my man, what’s that?
GEORGE. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at baptism,
Mister Hooper.
MILES. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such a
question. Thomas, you’ll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, or
something.
GEORGE. [_Angrily_.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all night.
[JOAN _suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands_, _her form
shaken by violent weeping_. _The door opens and_ CLARA _enters followed
by_ LORD LOVEL. _She has taken off her cap and apron_.
JOAN. [_Raising her head and stretching out her hands to_ CLARA.] O
speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help.
CLARA. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to forgive us
both for taking you in like this.
THOMAS. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing.
EMILY. I’m not going to believe a word the young person says.
LORD LOVEL. She has told you but the truth, my good friends.
EMILY. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I’d like to
know?
CLARA. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his name.
EMILY. If you think I’m going to be took in with such nonsense, the more
fool you, I says.
LORD LOVEL. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis Spring.
She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their own, agreed to
change parts for a few days.
THOMAS. [_Turning to_ JOAN.] Is this really so, my maid?
[JOAN _bows her head_, _her handkerchief still covering her face_.
THOMAS. [_To_ CLARA.] Who ever would have thought on such a thing?
CLARA. ’Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up,
Joan, and do not cry so pitifully.
JOAN. [_Looking up at_ MILES.] You’ll never go and change towards me
now that we’re most as good as wed, will you, Mister Hooper?
MILES. [_Rising and speaking with cold deliberation_.] Ladies and
gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening.
THOMAS. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, it seems.
But things’ll settle back to their right places if you gives them a
chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat.
EMILY. Don’t be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what’s been stung by a
wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet’s nest.
MILES. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place for me. I have
been sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest.
JOAN. O Mister Hooper, ’twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for the
best, I did.
MILES. [_Going to the door_.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time you
want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select your
partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a suitable one to toy
with, let me tell you.
ROBIN. Aren’t you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper?
MILES. I am not, Master Robin.
JESSIE. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but you
couldn’t very well, could he, Mother?
[MILES, _covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the right
and left_, _goes out_. JOAN _leans back almost fainting in her chair_.
LUKE. [_Taking her hand_.] This is the finest hearing in all the world
for me, Miss—Miss Joan.
JOAN. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me.
LUKE. And that I’d never do, though I’m blest if I know why you did it.
CLARA. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were
things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by
changing places, one with the other.
THOMAS. [_To_ CLARA.] Well, my maid, I’m blessed if I do know what you
was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving wench.
CLARA. [_Turning a little towards_ GEORGE.] I thought to find something
which was mine when I was a little child, but which I lost.
JESSIE. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. ’Twas he as
brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off.
ROBIN. Yes. And ’twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt
Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield.
JESSIE. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt all the
time.
ROBIN. I believe it too.
THOMAS. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like?
GEORGE. ’Twas not one, but many things. And if you wants a clear proof
[_Turning to_ CLARA]—put back the laces of your sleeve, Miss Clara.
CLARA. What for, George?
GEORGE. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did pull
up your sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. Not that ’twas needed for
me, like.
[CLARA _pushes up both her sleeves_, _and holds out her arms towards_
GEORGE.
GEORGE. [_Pointing to the scar_.] There ’tis—there’s where th’ old
gander have left his mark.
THE CHILDREN. [_Getting up_.] Where, where! O do let us see!
[_They run round to where_ CLARA _stands and look eagerly at the mark on
her arm which she shews to them_.
THOMAS. George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can play fox.
EMILY. Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a
more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when
’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him.
THOMAS. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint th’
only fox. How now, my lad?
GEORGE. I don’t see what you be driving at, master.
THOMAS. [_Slyly_.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George?
CLARA. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me.
GEORGE. [_Stepping forward till he is by_ CLARA’S _side_.] No, and that
I will not do. ’Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I’ll keep
it.
CLARA. [_To_ GEORGE.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I
can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember the days when you used
to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting me over
the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by their thorns?
GEORGE. Hark you here, Clara. This once I’ll speak. I never had but
one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through the
woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I learnt she the note
of every bird. And when th’ evening was come, us would watch together
till th’ old mother badger did get from out of her hole, and start
hunting in the long grasses.
CLARA. [_Taking_ GEORGE’S _hand_.] 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 with_ JOAN’S _hand 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 to_ GEORGE _and 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 into_ THOMAS’S.] O do let us sit up till
midnight, Dad.
ROBIN. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does.
[_Curtain_.]
MY MAN JOHN
CHARACTERS
MRS. GARDNER.
WILLIAM, _her son_.
JOHN, _his farm hand_.
SUSAN, _their maid_.
JULIA, _the owner of Luther’s Farm_.
LAURA, CHRIS, NAT, TANSIE, _gipsies_.
ACT I.—Scene 1.
_The garden of the Road Farm_. _To the right an arbour covered with
roses_. MRS. GARDNER _is seated in it_, _knitting_. WILLIAM _is 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_.
[WILLIAM _remains 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.
[JOHN _hurries 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.
[WILLIAM _places 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. [JOHN _leaves
the garden_.
[WILLIAM _remains hidden behind the arbour_. _After a few minutes_ JOHN
_returns pulling_ SUSAN _by 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. [SUSAN
_goes off_.
[JOHN, _mopping his face and speaking regretfully as_ WILLIAM _steps 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. [_Shaking_ JOHN’S _hand_.] 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_.]
ACT II.—Scene 1.
_A wood_. _To the right a fallen tree_ (_or a bench_). JOHN _comes 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.
[JOHN _puts himself behind some thick bushes as_ JULIA _and_ LAURA _come
forward_. JULIA _is very simply dressed_. _Her head is bare_, _and she
is carrying her white cotton sunbonnet_. LAURA _wears 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.
JULIA _turns away and gives herself up to the enjoyment of the wood
around her_.
LAURA _arranges 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, _and_
TANSIE _come 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 to_ NAT.
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!
[JULIA _and_ NAT, _followed by_ CHRIS _and_ TANSIE, _move off out of
sight_. LAURA _is left sitting on the bench alone_. _Presently_ JOHN
_comes 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_.]
ACT II.—Scene 2.
_The same wood_.
WILLIAM _and_ JOHN _come up_. WILLIAM _carries 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.
[JOHN _hides himself behind the bushes_. LAURA _comes slowly up_.
WILLIAM _stands 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_. WILLIAM _looks distractedly from_ LAURA
_to 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_. WILLIAM _shuffles on his feet_—LAURA
_bends 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 in_ WILLIAM’S face.] 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_. WILLIAM _looks 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 to_ LAURA.] 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?
[WILLIAM _looks 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.
[LAURA _throws herself on the seat and begins to cry silently_, _but
passionately_.
WILLIAM. O John, this courting, ’tis powerful heavy work.
JOHN. [_Taking_ WILLIAM’S _arm_.] 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 with_ WILLIAM.]
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.
[JOHN _and_ WILLIAM _go out_, _leaving_ LAURA _weeping on the bench_,
_the basket of vegetables by her side_.
[_Curtain_.]
ACT II.—Scene 3.
JULIA _is sitting at the foot of a tree in the wood_. CHRIS, NAT _and_
TANSIE _are seated near her on the ground_.
JULIA. I wish this day might last for always.
CHRIS. Why, when to-morrow’s come, ’twill be the same.
JULIA. That it will not. To-day is a holiday. To-morrow’s work.
TANSIE. One day ’tis much the same as t’other with me.
NAT. ’Tis what we gets to eat as do make the change.
TANSIE. I should have thought as how a grand young mistress like
yourself might have had the days to your own liking.
JULIA. Ah, and so I did once. But that was before Uncle died and left
me the farm. Now, ’tis all different with the days.
CHRIS. How was it with you afore then, mistress?
JULIA. Much the same as ’tis with that bird flying yonder. I did so as
I listed. If I had a mind to sleep when the sun was up, then I did
sleep. And if my limbs would not rest when ’twas dark, why, then I did
roam. There was naught to hold me back from my fancy.
TANSIE. And how is it _now_ with you, mistress?
JULIA. ’Tis all said in one word.
CHRIS. What’s that?
JULIA. ’Tis “work.”
NAT. Work?
CHRIS. Work?
TANSIE. Work! And yet ’tis a fine young lady as you do look in your
muslin gown with silky ribbons to it and all.
JULIA. I’m a farmer, Tansie. And for a farmer ’tis work of one sort, or
t’other from when the sun is up till the candle has burned itself short.
If ’tisn’t working with my own hands, ’tis driving of the hands of
another.
CHRIS. I’ve heard tell as a farmer do spin gold all the day same as one
of they great spiders as go putting out silk from their mouths.
JULIA. And what is gold to me, Chris, who have no one but myself to
spend it on?
CHRIS. Folks do say as the laying up of gold be one of the finest things
in the world.
JULIA. It will never bring happiness to me, Chris.
CHRIS. Come, mistress, ’tis a fine thing to have a great stone roof
above the head of you.
JULIA. I’d sooner get my shelter from the green leaves.
NAT. And a grand thing to have your victuals spread afore you each time
’stead of having to go lean very often.
JULIA. O, a handful of berries and a drink of fresh water is enough for
me.
TANSIE. And beautiful it must be to stretch the limbs of you upon
feathers when night do come down, with a fine white sheet drawn up over
your head.
JULIA. O, I could rest more sweetly on the grass and moss yonder.
NAT. I did never sleep within four walls but once, and then ’twas in
gaol.
JULIA. O Nat, you were never in gaol, were you?
NAT. ’Twas that they mistook I for another. And when the morning did
come, they did let I go again.
CHRIS. I count ’twas a smartish long night, that!
NAT. ’Twas enough for to shew me how it do feel when anyone has got to
bide sleeping with the walls all around of he.
JULIA. And the ceiling above, Nat. And locked door. And other folk
lying breathing in the house, hard by. All dark and close.
CHRIS. And where us may lie, the air do run swift over we. We has the
smell of the earth and the leaves on us as we do sleep. There baint no
darkness for we, for the stars do blink all night through up yonder.
TANSIE. And no sound of other folk breathing but the crying of th’ owls
and the foxes’ bark.
JULIA. Ah, that must be a grand sound, the barking of a fox. I never
did hear one. Never.
CHRIS. Ah, ’tis a powerful thin sound, that—but one to raise the hair on
a man’s head and to clam the flesh of he, at dead of night.
NAT. You come and bide along of we one evening, and you shall hearken to
the fox, and badger too, if you’ve the mind.
JULIA. O that would please me more than anything in the world.
TANSIE. And when ’twas got a little lighter, so that the bushes could be
seen, and the fields, I’d shew you where the partridge has her nest
beneath the hedge; where we have gotten eggs, and eaten them too.
CHRIS. And I’ll take and lead you to a place what I do know of, where
the water flows clear as a diamond over the stones. And if you bides
there waiting quiet you may take the fish as they come along—and there’s
a dinner such as the Queen might not get every day of the week.
JULIA. O Chris, who is there to say I must bide in one place when all in
me is thirsting to be in t’other!
CHRIS. I’m sure I don’t know.
NAT. I should move about where I did like, if ’twas me.
TANSIE. A fine young lady like you can do as she pleases.
JULIA. Well then, it pleases me to bide with you in the free air.
CHRIS. Our life, ’tis a poor life, and wandering. ’Tis food one day,
and may be going without the next. ’Tis the sun upon the faces of us one
hour—and then the rain. But ’tis in freedom that us walks, and we be the
masters of our own limbs.
JULIA. Will you be good to me if I journey with you?
CHRIS. Ah, ’tis not likely as I’ll ever fail you, mistress.
JULIA. Do not call me mistress any longer, Chris, my name is Julia.
CHRIS. ’Tis a well-sounding name, and one as runs easy as clear water
upon the tongue.
JULIA. Tansie, how will it be for me to go with you?
TANSIE. ’Twill be well enough with the spirit of you I don’t doubt, but
how’ll it be with the fine clothes what you have on?
NAT. [_Suddenly looking up_.] Why, there’s Susan coming.
JULIA. [_Looking in the same direction_.] So that is Susan?
TANSIE. I count as her has had a smartish job to get away from th’ old
missis so early in the day.
CHRIS. ’Tis a rare old she cat, and handy with the claw’s of her,
Susan’s missis.
[SUSAN _comes shyly forward_.
NAT. Come you here, Susan, and sit along of we.
JULIA. Yes, sit down with us in this cool shade, Susan. You look warm
from running.
SUSAN. O, I didn’t know you was here, Mistress Julia.
JULIA. Well, Susan, and so you live at Road Farm. Are you happy there?
SUSAN. I should be if ’twern’t for mistress.
JULIA. No mistress could speak harshly to you, Susan—you are so young
and pretty.
SUSAN. Ah, but mistress takes no account of aught but the work you does,
and the tongue of her be wonderful lashing.
JULIA. Then how comes it that you have got away to the forest so early
on a week day?
SUSAN. ’Tis that mistress be powerful took up with sommat else this
afternoon, and so I was able to run out for a while and her didn’t notice
me.
TANSIE. Why Su, what’s going on up at the farm so particular to-day?
SUSAN. ’Tis courting.
ALL. Courting?
SUSAN. Yes. That ’tis. ’Tis our Master William what’s dressed up in
his Sunday clothes and gone a-courting with a basket of green stuff on
his arm big enough to fill the market, very nigh.
CHRIS. Well, well, who’d have thought he had it in him?
NAT. He’s a gentleman what’s not cut out for courting, to my mind.
SUSAN. Indeed he isn’t, Nat. And however the mistress got him dressed
and set off on that business, I don’t know.
JULIA. But you have not told us who the lady is, Susan.
SUSAN. [_Suddenly very embarrassed_.] I—I—don’t think as I do rightly
know who ’tis, mistress.
CHRIS. Why, look you, Susan, you’ll have to take and hide yourself if
you don’t want for them to know as you be got along of we.
SUSAN. What’s that, Chris?
CHRIS. [_Pointing_.] See there, that man of Master Gardner’s be
a-coming along towards us fast. Look yonder—
SUSAN. O whatever shall I do? ’Tis John, and surely he will tell of me
when he gets back.
NAT. Come you off with me afore he do perceive you, Susan. I’ll take
you where you shall bide hid from all the Johns in the world if you’ll
but come along of me.
JULIA. That’s it. Take her off, Nat; take her, Tansie. And do you go
along too, Chris, for I have a fancy to bide alone in the stillness of
the wood for a while.
[SUSAN, TANSIE _and_ NAT _go out_.
CHRIS. Be I to leave you too, Julia?
JULIA. [_Slowly_.] Only for a little moment, Chris; then you can come
for me again. I would like to stay with myself in quiet for a while.
New thoughts have come into my mind and I cannot rightly understand what
they do say to me, unless I hearken to them alone.
CHRIS. Then I’ll leave you, Julia. For things be stirring powerful in
my mind too, and I’d give sommat for to come to an understanding with
they. Ah, that I would.
[_They look at one another in silence for a moment_, _then_ CHRIS _slowly
follows the others_, _leaving_ JULIA _alone_. JULIA _sits alone in the
wood_. _Presently she begins to sing_.
JULIA. [_Singing_.]
I sowed the seeds of love,
It was all in the Spring;
In April, in May, and in June likewise
When small birds they do sing.
[JOHN _with a large basket on his arm comes up to her_.
JOHN. A good day to you, mistress.
JULIA. Good afternoon.
JOHN. Now I count as you would like to know who ’tis that’s made so bold
in speaking to you, Mistress.
JULIA. Why, you’re Master Gardner’s farm hand, if I’m not mistaken.
JOHN. Ah, that’s right enough. And there be jobs as I wish Master
William would get and do for hisself instead of putting them on I.
JULIA. Well, and how far may you be going this afternoon?
JOHN. I baint going no further than where I be a-standing now, mistress.
JULIA. It would appear that your business was with me, then?
JOHN. Ah, you’ve hit the right nail, mistress. ’Tis with you. ’Tis a
straight offer as my master have sent me out for to make.
JULIA. Now I wonder what sort of an offer that might be!
JOHN. ’Tis master’s hand in marriage, and a couple of pigs jowls,
home-cured, within this here basket.
JULIA. O my good man, you’re making game of me.
JOHN. And that I baint, mistress. ’Twas in the church as Master William
seed you first. And ’tis very nigh sick unto death with love as he have
been since then.
JULIA. Is he too sick to come and plead his cause himself, John?
JOHN. Ah, and that he be. Do go moulting about the place with his
victuals left upon the dish—a sighing and a grizzling so that any maid
what’s got a heart to th’ inside of she would be moved in pity, did she
catch ear of it, and would lift he out of the torment.
JULIA. Well, John, I’ve not seen or heard any of this sad to-do, so I
can’t be moved in pity.
JOHN. Ah, do you look within this basket at the jowls what Master
William have sent you. Maybe as they’ll go to your heart straighter nor
what any words might.
[JOHN _sits down on the bench by_ JULIA _and opens the basket_. JULIA
_looks in_.
JULIA. I have no liking for pigs’ meat myself.
JOHN. Master’s pig meat be different to any in the county, mistress.
“Tell her,” says Master William, “’tis a rare fine bit of mellow jowl as
I be a sending she.”
JULIA. O John, I’m a very poor judge of such things.
JOHN. And look you here. I never seed a bit of Master William’s
home-cured sent out beyond the family to no one till this day. No, that
I have not, mistress.
JULIA. [_Shutting the basket_.] Well—I have no use for such a gift,
John, so it may be returned again to the family. I am sorry you had the
trouble of bringing it so far.
JOHN. You may not be partial to pig meat, mistress, but you’ll send back
the key of Master William’s heart same as you have done the jowls.
JULIA. I have no use for the key of Master William’s heart either, John.
And you may tell him so, from me.
JOHN. Why, mistress. You don’t know what you be a talking of. A man
like my master have never had to take a No in place of Yes in all the
born days of him.
JULIA. [_Rising_.] Then he’ll have to take it now, John. And I’m
thinking ’tis time you set off home again with your load.
JOHN. Well, mistress, I don’t particular care to go afore you have given
me a good word or sommat as’ll hearten up poor Master William in his love
sickness.
JULIA. Truly, John, I don’t know what you would have me say.
JOHN. I warrant there be no lack of words to the inside of you, if so be
as you’d open you mouth a bit wider. ’Tis not silence as a maid is
troubled with in general.
JULIA. O, I have plenty of words ready, John, should you care to hear
them.
JOHN. Then out with them, Mistress Julia, and tell the master as how
you’ll take the offer what he have made you.
JULIA. I’ve never seen your master, John, but I know quite enough about
him to say I’ll never wed with him. Please to make that very clear when
you get back.
JOHN. ’Tis plain as you doesn’t know what you be a talking of. And ’tis
a wonder as how such foolishness can came from the mouth of a sensible
looking maid like yourself.
JULIA. I shall not marry Master William Gardner.
JOHN. I reckon as you’ll be glad enough to eat up every one of them
words the day you claps eyes on Master William, for a more splendid
gentleman nor he never fetched his breath.
JULIA. I’ll never wed a farmer, John.
JOHN. And then, look at the gift what Master William’s been and sent
you. ’Tisn’t to everyone as master do part with his pig meat. That
’tisn’t.
JULIA. [_Rising_.] Well, you can tell your master I’m not one that can
be courted with a jowl, mellow or otherwise. And that I’ll not wed until
I can give my heart along with my hand.
JOHN. I’d like to know where you would find a better one nor master for
to give your heart to, mistress?
JULIA. May be I have not far to search.
JOHN. [_Taking up the basket_.] You’re a rare tricksy maid as ever I
did see. Tricksy and tossy too.
JULIA. There—that’s enough, John. Suppose you set off home and tell
your master he can hang up his meat again in the larder, for all that it
concerns me.
JOHN. I’ll be blowed if I do say anything of the sort, mistress. I
shall get and tell Master William as you be giving a bit of thought to
the matter, and that jowls not being to your fancy, ’tis very like as a
dish of trotters may prove acceptabler.
JULIA. Say what you like, John. Only let me bide quiet in this good
forest now. I want to be with my thoughts.
JOHN. [_Preparing to go and speaking aloud to himself_.] Her’s a
wonderful contrary bird to be sure. And bain’t a shy one neither, what
gets timid and flustered and is easily netted. My word, but me and
master has a job before us for to catch she.
JULIA. I hear you, and ’tis very rudely that you talk. There’s an old
saying that I never could see the meaning of before, but now I think ’tis
clear, “Like master, like man,” they say. I’ll have none of Master
William, and you can tell him so.
[JOHN _goes out angrily_. JULIA _sits down again on the bench and begins
to sing_.
JULIA. [_Singing_.]
My gardener stood by
And told me to take great care,
For in the middle of a red rose-bud
There grows a sharp thorn there.
[LAURA _comes slowly forward_, _carrying the basket of vegetables on one
arm_. _She holds a handkerchief to her face and is crying_.
JULIA. Why, Laura, what has made you cry so sadly?
LAURA. O, Julia, ’twas a rare red rose as I held in my hand, and a rare
cruel thorn that came from it and did prick me.
JULIA. And a rare basket of green stuff that you have been getting.
LAURA. [_Sinking down on the seat_, _and weeping violently_.] His dear
gift to me!
JULIA. [_Looking into the basket_.] O a wonderful fine gift, to be
sure. Young carrots and spring cabbage. I’ve had a gift offered too—but
mine was jowls.
LAURA. Jowls. O, and did you not take them?
JULIA. No, I sent them back to the giver, with the dry heart which was
along with them in the same basket.
LAURA. O Julia, how could you be so hard and cruel?
JULIA. Come, wouldn’t you have done the same?
LAURA. [_Sobbing vehemently_.] That I should not, Julia.
JULIA. Perhaps you’ve seen the gentleman then?
LAURA. I have. And O, Julia, he is a beautiful gentleman. I never saw
one that was his like.
JULIA. The rare red rose with its thorn, Laura.
LAURA. He did lay the heart of him before me—thinking my name was Julia.
JULIA. And did he lay the vegetables too?
LAURA. ’Twas all the doing of a great fool, that man of his.
JULIA. And you—did you give him what he asked of you—before he knew that
your name was not Julia?
LAURA. O, I did—that I did. [_A short silence_.
JULIA. And could you forget the prick of the thorn, did you hold the
rose again, Laura?
LAURA. O that I could. For me there’d be naught but the rose, were it
laid once more in my hand. But ’tis not likely to be put there, since
’tis you he favours.
JULIA. But I don’t favour him.
LAURA. You’ll favour him powerful well when you see him, Julia.
JULIA. I’ve given my heart already, but ’tis not to him.
LAURA. You’ve given your heart?
JULIA. Yes, Chris has all of it, Laura. There is nothing left for
anyone else in the world.
LAURA. O Julia, think of your position.
JULIA. That I will not do. I am going to think of yours.
LAURA. [_Beginning to cry_.] I’m no better in my station than a serving
maid, like Susan.
JULIA. [_Pointing_.] There she comes [_calling_] Susan, Susan!
[SUSAN _comes up_. _During the next sentences_ LAURA _takes one bunch of
vegetables after another from the basket_, _smoothing each in turn with a
fond caressing movement_.
SUSAN. Did you call, mistress?
JULIA. Yes, Susan. That I did.
SUSAN. Can I help you in any way, Miss Julia?
JULIA. Yes, and that you can. You have got to run quickly back to the
farm.
SUSAN. Be it got terrible late, mistress?
JULIA. ’Tis not only that. You have got to find your master and tell
him to expect a visit from me in less than an hour’s time from now. Do
you understand?
SUSAN. O, yes, mistress, and that I do—to tell master as you be coming
along after he as fast as you can run.
JULIA. Well—I should not have put it in that way, but ’tis near enough
may be. So off, and make haste, Susan.
SUSAN. Please, mistress, I could make the words have a more loving sound
to them if you do wish it.
JULIA. My goodness, Susan, what are you thinking of? Say naught, but
that I’m coming. Run away now, and run quickly. [SUSAN _goes off_.
LAURA. [_Looking up_, _a bunch of carrots in her hands_.] What are you
going to do now, Julia?
JULIA. You shall see, when you have done playing with those carrots.
LAURA. He pulled them, every one, with his own hands, Julia.
JULIA. My love has gathered something better for me than a carrot. See,
a spray of elder bloom that was tossing ever so high in the wind.
[_She takes a branch of elder flower from her dress_, _and shews it to_
LAURA.
LAURA. The roots that lie warm in the earth do seem more homely like to
me.
JULIA. Well—each one has their own way in love—and mine lies through the
dark woods, and yours is in the vegetable garden. And ’tis your road
that we will take this afternoon—so come along quickly with me, Laura,
for the sun has already begun to change its light.
[LAURA _replaces the vegetables in her basket and rises from the seat as
the curtain falls_.
ACT III.—Scene 1.
_The Garden of Road Farm as in Act I_.
MRS. GARDNER _is knitting in the Arbour_. WILLIAM _strolls about
gloomily_, _his hands in his pockets_.
MRS. GARDNER. And serve you right, William, for sending the man when you
should have gone yourself.
WILLIAM. John has a tongue that is better used to this sort of business
than mine.
MRS. GARDNER. Nonsense, when was one of our family ever known to fail in
the tongue?
WILLIAM. If she that was asked first had only been the right one, all
would have been over and done with now.
MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis John that you have got to thank for the blunder.
WILLIAM. [_Sighing_.] That was a rare fine maid, and no mistake.
MRS. GARDNER. And a rare brazen hussy, from all that has reached my
ears.
WILLIAM. Well—I’ve done with courting—now and for all time, that I have.
And you may roast me alive if I’ll ever go nigh to a maid again.
MRS. GARDNER. That you shall, William—and quickly too. There’s no time
like the present, and your Sunday clothes are upon you still.
WILLIAM. I was just going up to change, Mother.
MRS. GARDNER. Then you’ll please to remain as you are. You may take
what gift you like along with you this time, so long as it’s none of my
home-cured meat.
WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I do stir out again this day. Why, look at the
seedlings crying for water, and the nets to lay over the fruit and sommat
of everything wanting to be done all around of me. I’ll not stir.
[JOHN _comes towards them_.
MRS. GARDNER. Here’s John. Suppose he were to make himself useful in
the garden for once instead of meddling in things that are none of his
business.
JOHN. I’ll be blowed if ’tis any more courting as I’ll do, neither for
Master William nor on my own account.
WILLIAM. Why, John, ’twasn’t your fault that the lady wouldn’t take me,
you did your best with her, I know.
JOHN. An that I did, Master William, but a more contrary coxsy sort of a
maid I never did see. “I baint one as fancies pig meat,” her did say.
And the nose of she did curl away up till it could go no higher. That’s
not the wench for me, I says to myself.
MRS. GARDNER. Is the jowl hung up in its right place again, John?
JOHN. That ’tis, mistress. I put it back myself, and a good job for
that ’taint went out of the family and off to the mouths of strangers, so
says I.
MRS. GARDNER. Do you tend to Master William’s garden John, instead of
talking. We’ve had enough of your tongue for one day.
JOHN. Why, be Master William goin’ out for to court again, this
afternoon?
WILLIAM. No, John—No, I’ve had enough of that for my life time.
JOHN. So have I, master, and more nor enough. I don’t care particular
if I never set eyes on a maid again.
WILLIAM. [_Pointing to a plot of ground_.] That’s where I pulled the
young carrots this morning.
JOHN. Ah, and so you did, master.
WILLIAM. And there’s from where I took the Early Snowballs.
JOHN. And a great pity as you did. There be none too many of that sort
here.
WILLIAM. She had a wonderful soft look in her eyes as she did handle
them and the spring cabbage, John.
JOHN. Ah, and a wonderful hard tongue when her knowed ’twasn’t for she
as they was pulled.
WILLIAM. Was t’other maid anything of the same pattern, John?
JOHN. Upon my word, if t’other wasn’t the worst of the two, for she did
put a powerful lot of venom into the looks as she did give I, and the
words did fall from she like so many bricks on my head.
WILLIAM. Pity the first was not the right maid.
JOHN. Ah, a maid what can treat a prime home-cured jowl as yon did baint
the sort for to mistress it over we, I’m thinking.
MRS. GARDNER. See here, John—suppose you were to let your tongue bide
still in its home awhile, and start doing something with your hands.
JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. What’s wanted, Master William?
WILLIAM. I’m blessed if I can recollect, John. This courting business
lies heavy on me, and I don’t seem able to get above it, like.
JOHN. I’d let it alone, master, if I was you. They be all alike, the
maids. And ’twouldn’t be amiss if we was to serve they as we serves the
snails when they gets to the young plants.
[SUSAN _comes hurriedly into the garden_.
SUSAN. Please master, please mistress.
MRS. GARDNER. What do you mean, Susan, by coming into the garden without
your cap? Go and put it on at once.
SUSAN. The wind must have lifted it from me, mistress, for I was running
ever so fast.
MRS. GARDNER. Do you expect me to believe that, Susan—and not a breath
stirring the flowers or trees, or anything?
SUSAN. ’Twas the lady I met as—as—as I was coming across the field from
feeding the fowls.
MRS. GARDNER. What lady, Susan?
SUSAN. Her from Luther’s, mistress.
JOHN. And what of she; out with it, wench.
SUSAN. She did tell I to say as she be coming along as fast as she may
after Master William.
WILLIAM. [_As though to himself with an accent of despair_.] No. No.
JOHN. There, master, didn’t I tell you so?
WILLIAM. [_Very nervously_.] What did you tell me, John?
JOHN. That, let her abide and her’d find the senses of she presently.
WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know what to do.
[JOHN _takes his master’s arm and draws him aside_.
JOHN. You pluck up your heart, my dearest master, and court she hard.
And in less nor a six months ’tis along to church as you’ll be a-driving
she.
WILLIAM. But John, ’tis t’other with the cherry ribbons that has taken
all my fancy.
JOHN. No, no, Master William. You take and court the mistress. You
take and tame the young vixen, and get the gold and silver from she.
T’other wench is but the serving maid.
SUSAN. The lady’s coming along ever so quickly, master.
[MRS. GARDNER, _rising and folding up her knitting_.
MRS. GARDNER. You’ll please to come indoors with me, William, and I’ll
brush you down and make you look more presentable than you appear just
now. Susan, you’ll get a cap to you head at once, do you hear me! And
John, take and water master’s seedlings. Any one can stand with their
mouths open and their eyes as big as gooseberries if they’ve a mind.
’Tis not particular sharp to do so. Come, William.
WILLIAM. I’d like a word or two with John first, Mother.
MRS. GARDNER. You come along with me this moment, William. ’Tis a too
many words by far that you’ve had with John already, and much good
they’ve done to you. Come you in with me.
WILLIAM. O I’m blessed if I do know whether ’tis on my head or on my
feet that I’m standing.
[WILLIAM _follows his mother slowly and gloomily into the house_.
JOHN. Well—if ever there was a poor, tormented animal ’tis the master.
SUSAN. Ah, mistress should have been born a drover by rights. ’Tis a
grand nagging one as her’d have made, and sommat what no beast would ever
have got the better of.
JOHN. I wouldn’t stand in Master William’s shoes, not if you was to put
me knee deep in gold.
SUSAN. Nor I.
JOHN. Ah, this courting business, ’tis a rare caddling muddle when ’tis
all done and said.
SUSAN. ’Tis according as some folks do find it, Master John.
JOHN. ’Tis a smartish lot as you’ll get of it come Sunday night, my
wench. You wait and see.
SUSAN. That shews how little you do know. ’Twill be better nor ever
with me then.
JOHN. ’Twill be alone by yourself as you’ll go walking, Su.
SUSAN. We’ll see about that when the time comes, John.
JOHN. All I says is that I baint a-going walking with you.
SUSAN. I never walk with two, John.
JOHN. You’ll have to learn to go in your own company.
SUSAN. I shall go by the side of my husband by then, very likely.
JOHN. Your husband? What tales be you a-giving out now?
SUSAN. ’Tis to Nat as I’m to be wed come Saturday.
JOHN. Get along with you, Susan, and put a cap to your head. Mistress
will be coming out presently, and then you know how ’twill be if her
catches you so. Get along in with you.
SUSAN. Now you don’t believe what I’m telling you—but it’s true, O it’s
true.