like any rough gipsy wench on the road. Get you in and make yourself a
decenter appearance and then go and tell the mistress as they be comed.
SUSAN. [_Preparing to go indoors and speaking over her shoulder_.] ’Tis
in the parson’s gown as you should be clothed, Master John. Ah, ’tis a
wonderful wordy preacher as you would make, to be sure. And ’tis a rare
crop as one might raise with the seed as do fall from your mouth.
[_She goes indoors_. JULIA _comes leisurely into the garden_.
JULIA. Well, John, and how are you feeling now?
JOHN. Nicely, thank you, mistress. See yon arbour?
JULIA. And that I do, John.
JOHN. Well, you may go and sit within it till the master has leisure to
come and speak with you.
JULIA. Thank you, John, but I would sooner stop and watch you tend the
flowers.
JOHN. ’Tis all one to me whether you does or you does not.
JULIA. Now, John, you are angry with me still.
JOHN. I likes a wench as do know the mind of she, and not one as can
blow hot one moment and cold the next.
JULIA. There was never a moment when I did not know my own mind, John.
And that’s the truth.
JOHN. Well, us won’t say no more about that. ’Taint fit as there should
be ill feeling nor quarrelling ’twixt me and you.
JULIA. You’re right, John. And there was something that I had it in my
mind to ask you.
JOHN. You can say your fill. There baint no one but me in the garden.
JULIA. John, you told me that since Sunday your master has been sick
with love.
JOHN. That’s right enough, mistress. I count as we shall bury he if
sommat don’t come to his relief.
JULIA. Now, John, do you look into my eyes and tell me if ’tis for love
of Julia or of Laura that your master lies sickening.
JOHN. You’d best go and ask it of his self, mistress. ’Tis a smartish
lot of work as I’ve got to attend to here.
JULIA. You can go on working, John. I am not hindering you.
JOHN. No more than one of they old Juney bettels a-roaring and a-buzzin
round a man’s head.
JULIA. Now, John—you must tell me which of the two it is. Is it Laura
whom your master loves, or Julia?
JOHN. ’Tis Julia, then, since you will have it out of me.
JULIA. No, John, you’re not looking straight at me. You are looking
down at the flower bed. Let your eyes meet mine.
JOHN. [_Looking up crossly_.] I’ve got my work to think of. I’m not
one to stand cackling with a maid.
JULIA. Could you swear me it is Julia?
JOHN. ’Tis naught to I which of you it be. There bide over, so as I can
get the watering finished.
JULIA. [_Seizes the watering can_.] Now, John, you have got to speak
the truth to me.
JOHN. Give up yon can, I tell you. O you do act wonderful unseemly for
a young lady.
JULIA. [_Withholding the can_.] Not till I have the truth from you.
JOHN. [_Angrily_.] Well then, is it likely that my master would set his
fancy on such a plaguy, wayward maid? Why, Master William do know better
nor to do such a thing, I can tell you.
JULIA. Then ’tis for Laura that he is love-sick, John.
JOHN. Give I the watering can.
JULIA. [_Giving him the can_.] Here it is, dear John. O I had a fancy
all the time that ’twas to Laura your master had lost his heart. And now
I see I made no mistake.
JOHN. I shouldn’t have spoke as I did if you hadn’t a buzzed around I
till I was drove very nigh crazy. Master William, he’ll never forgive me
this.
JULIA. That he will, I’m sure, when he has listened to what I have got
to say to him.
JOHN. You do set a powerful store on what your tongue might say, but I’d
take and bide quiet at home if I was you and not come hunting of a nice
reasonable gentleman like master, out of his very garden.
JULIA. O John, you’re a sad, ill-natured man, and you misjudge me very
unkindly. But I’ll not bear malice if you will just run in and tell your
master that I want a word with him.
JOHN. A word? Why not say fifty? When was a maid ever satisfied with
one word I’d like to know?
JULIA. Well—I shan’t say more than six, very likely, so fetch him to me
now, John, and I’ll wait here in the garden. [JOHN _looks at her with
exasperated contempt_. _Then he slowly walks away towards the house_.
JULIA _goes in the opposite direction to the garden gate_.
JULIA. [_Calling_.] Chris! [CHRIS _comes in_.
JULIA. [_Pointing_.] O Chris, look at this fine garden—and yon
arbour—see the fine house, with lace curtains to the windows of it.
CHRIS. [_Sullenly_.] Ah—I sees it all very well.
JULIA. And all this could be mine for the stretching out of a hand.
CHRIS. Then stretch it.
JULIA. ’Twould be like putting a wild bird into a gilded cage, to set me
here in this place. No, I must go free with you, Chris—and we will
wander where our spirits lead us—over all the world if we have a mind to
do so.
CHRIS. Please God you’ll not grieve at your choice.
JULIA. That I never shall. Now call to Laura. Is she in the lane
outside?
CHRIS. There, she be come to the gate now.
[LAURA _comes in_, _followed by_ NAT _and_ TANSIE.
JULIA. [_Pointing to a place on the ground_.] Laura, see, here is the
place from which your young carrots were pulled.
LAURA. O look at the flowers, Julia—Lillies, pinks and red roses.
JULIA. ’Tis a fine red rose that shall be gathered for you presently,
Laura. [JOHN _comes up_.
JOHN. The master’s very nigh ready now, mistress.
[SUSAN _follows him_.
SUSAN. The mistress says, please to be seated till she do come.
JOHN. [_To_ CHRIS _and_ NAT.] Now, my men, we don’t want the likes of
you in here. You had best get off afore Master William catches sight of
you.
JULIA. No, John. These are my friends, and I wish them to hear all that
I have to say to your master.
JOHN. Ah, ’tis in the grave as poor Master William will be landed soon
if you don’t have a care.
LAURA. [_Anxiously_.] O is he so delicate as that, John?
JOHN. Ah—and that he be. And these here love matters and courtings and
foolishness have very nigh done for he. I don’t give him but a week
longer if things do go on as they be now.
[WILLIAM _and_ MRS. GARDNER _come in_. WILLIAM _looks nervously round
him_. MRS. GARDNER _perceives the gipsies_, _and_ SUSAN _talking to_
NAT.
MRS. GARDNER. Susan, get you to your place in the kitchen, as quick as
you can. John, put yon roadsters through the gate, if you please.
[_Turning to_ JULIA.] Now young Miss?
JULIA. A very good evening to you, mistress. And let me make Chris
known to you for he and I are to be wed to-morrow.
[_She takes_ CHRIS _by the hand and leads him forward_.
MRS. GARDNER. What’s this? William, do you understand what the young
person is telling us?
JULIA. [_Taking_ LAURA _with her other hand_.] And here is Laura to
whom I have given all my land and all my money. She is the mistress of
Luther’s now.
JOHN. [_Aside to_ WILLIAM.] Now master, hearken to that. Can’t you
lift your spirits a bit.
JULIA. [_To_ MRS. GARDNER.] And I beg you to accept her as a daughter.
She will make a better farmer’s wife than ever I shall.
JOHN. [_In a loud whisper_.] Start courting, master.
WILLIAM. O I dare not quite so sudden, John.
MRS. GARDNER. [_Sitting down_.] It will take a few moments for me to
understand this situation.
JULIA. There is no need for any hurry. We have all the evening before
us.
JOHN. [_Hastily gathers a rosebud and puts it into_ WILLIAM’S _hand_.]
Give her a blossom, master. ’Tis an easy start off.
WILLIAM. [_Coming forward shyly with the flower_.] Would you fancy a
rosebud, mistress?
LAURA. O that I would, master.
WILLIAM. Should you care to see—to see where the young celery is planted
out?
LAURA. O, I’d dearly love to see the spot.
WILLIAM. I’ll take you along to it then. [_He gives her his arm_, _very
awkwardly_, _and they move away_.
MRS. GARDNER. [_Sitting down_.] Well—things have changed since I was
young.
JOHN. [_Looking viciously at_ NAT _and_ SUSAN.] Ah, I counts they have,
mistress, and ’tis all for the worse.
SUSAN. [_Comes forward timidly_.] And me and Nat are to be married too,
mistress.
MRS. GARDNER. I should have given you notice anyhow to-night, Susan, so
perhaps it’s just as well you have made sure of some sort of a roof to
your head.
NAT. ’Twill be but the roof of th’ old cart, mistress; but I warrant as
her’ll sleep bravely under it, won’t you, Su.
SUSAN. That I shall, dear Nat.
TANSIE. Well, Master John, have you a fancy to come tenting along of we.
JOHN. Upon my word, but I don’t know how ’tis with the young people
nowadays, they be so bold.
JULIA. [_Who has been standing apart_, _her hand in that of_ CHRIS.]
New days, new ways, John.
JOHN. Bless my soul, but ’tis hard to keep up with all these goings on,
and no mistake.
JULIA. No need for you to try, John. If you are too old to run with us
you must abide still and watch us as we go.
CHRIS. But there, you needn’t look downhearted, master, for I knows
someone as’ll give you a rare warm welcome if so be as you should change
your mind and take your chance in the open, same as we.
TANSIE. You shall pay for that, Chris.
JOHN. [_Stiffly_.] I hope as I’ve a properer sense of my duty nor many
others what I could name.
MRS. GARDNER. Those are the first suitable words that have been spoken
in my hearing this afternoon.
[WILLIAM, _with_ LAURA _on his arm_, _returns_. LAURA _carries a small
cucumber very lovingly_.
LAURA. Julia, look! The first one of the season! O, isn’t it a
picture!
JULIA. O Laura, ’tis a fine wedding gift to be sure.
WILLIAM. [_Stepping up to_ JOHN.] John, my man, here’s a five pound
note to your pocket. I’d never have won this lady here if it hadn’t been
for you.
JOHN. [_Taking the note_.] Don’t name it, dear master. ’Tis a long
courtship what has no ending to it, so I always says.
MRS. GARDNER. ’Tis one upset after another, but suppose you were to make
yourself useful for once, Susan, and bring out the tray with the cake and
glasses on it.
JOHN. Ah, that’s it, and I’ll go along of she and help draw the cider.
Courtship be powerful drying work.
LAURA. [_Looking into_ WILLIAM’S _eyes_.] O William, ’twas those Early
Snowballs that did first stir up my heart.
WILLIAM. ’Twas John who thought of them. Why, John has more sensible
thoughts to the mind of him than any other man in the world—and when the
cider is brought, ’tis to John’s health we will all drink.
[_Curtain_.]
PRINCESS ROYAL
CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY
ROSE, MARION, _village girls_.
LADY MILLICENT.
ALICE, _her maid_.
LEAH, _an old gipsy_.
SUSAN, _otherwise Princess Royal_, _her grand-daughter_.
JOCKIE, _a little swine herd_.
LADY CULLEN.
_Her ladies in waiting_ (_or one lady only_).
LORD CULLEN, _her only son_.
* * * * *
_As many girls as are needed for the dances should be in this Play_.
_The parts of Lord Cullen and Jockie may be played by girls_.
ACT I.—Scene 1.
_A village green_. _Some girls with market baskets come on to it_, _each
one carrying a leaflet which she is earnestly reading_.
_Gradually all the girls approach from different sides reading leaflets_.
_Under a tree at the far end of the green the old gipsy is sitting—she
lights a pipe and begins to smoke as_ ROSE, _her basket full of market
produce_, _comes slowly forward reading her sheet of paper_. _She is
followed by_ MARION—_also reading_.
ROSE. Well, ’tis like to be a fine set out, this May Day.
MARION. I can make naught of it myself.
ROSE. Why, ’tis Lord Cullen putting it about as how he be back from the
war and thinking of getting himself wed, like.
MARION. I understands that much, I do.
ROSE. Only he can’t find the maid what he’s lost his heart to.
MARION. [_Reading_.] The wench what his lordship did see a-dancing all
by herself in the forest when he was hid one day all among the brambles,
a-rabbiting or sommat.
ROSE. And when my lord would have spoke with her, the maid did turn and
fled away quick as a weasel.
MARION. And his lordship off to the fighting when ’twas next morn.
ROSE. So now, each maid of us in the village and all around be to dance
upon the green come May Day so that my lord may see who ’twas that
pleased his fancy.
[SUSAN _comes up and stands quietly listening_. _She is bare foot and
her skirt is ragged_, _she wears a shawl over her shoulders and her hair
is rough and untidy_. _On her arm she carries a basket containing a few
vegetables and other marketings_.
MARION. And when he do pitch upon the one, ’tis her as he will wed.
ROSE. ’Twill be a thing to sharpen the claws of th’ old countess worse
nor ever—that marriage.
MARION. Ah, I reckon as her be mortal angered with all the giddle-gaddle
this business have set up among the folk.
ROSE. [_Regretfully_.] I’ve never danced among the trees myself.
MARION. [_Sadly_.] Nor I, neither, Rose.
ROSE. I’d dearly like to be a countess, Marion.
MARION. His lordship might think I was the maid. I’m spry upon my feet
you know.
[SUSAN _comes still nearer_.
MARION. [_Turning to her and speaking rudely_.] Well, Princess Rags,
’tisn’t likely as ’twas you a-dancing one of your Morris dances in the
wood that day!
ROSE. [_Mockingly_.] ’Tisn’t likely as his lordship would set his
thoughts on a wench what could caper about like a Morris man upon the
high road. So there.
SUSAN. [_Indifferently_.] I never danced upon the high road, I dances
only where ’tis dark with gloom and no eyes upon me. No mortal eyes.
MARION. [_Impudently_.] Get along with you, Princess Royal. Go off to
th’ old gipsy Gran’ma yonder. We don’t want the likes of you along of
us.
ROSE. Go off and dance to your own animals, Miss Goatherd. All of us be
a-going to practise our steps against May Day. Come along girls.
[_She signs to the other girls who all draw near and arrange themselves
for a Country Dance_. SUSAN _goes slowly towards her_ GRANDMOTHER _and
sits on the ground by her side_, _looking sadly and wistfully at the
dancers_. _At the end of the dance_, _the girls pick up their baskets
and go off in different directions across the green_. SUSAN _and her_
GRANDMOTHER _remain in their places_. _The gipsy continues to smoke and_
SUSAN _absently turns over the things in her basket_.
SUSAN. They mock me in the name they have fixed to me—Princess Royal.
GRANDMOTHER. Let them mock. I’ll bring the words back to them like
scorpions upon their tongues.
[_There is a little silence and then_ SUSAN _begins to sing as though to
herself_.
SUSAN. [_Singing_.]
“As I walked out one May morning,
So early in the Spring;
I placed my back against the old garden gate,
And I heard my true love sing.” {1}
GRANDMOTHER. [_At the end of the singing_.] It might be the blackcap
a-warbling all among of the branches. So it might.
SUSAN. Ah, ’twas I that was a-dancing in the shade of the woods that
day.
GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never look on the likes of you—that’s sure enough, my
little wench.
SUSAN. I wish he was a goat-herd like myself—O that I do.
GRANDMOTHER. Then there wouldn’t be no use in your wedding yourself with
him as I can see.
SUSAN. ’Tis himself, not his riches that I want.
GRANDMOTHER. You be speaking foolishness. What do you know of him—what
do us blind worms know about the stars above we?
SUSAN. I see’d him pass by upon his horse one day. All there was of him
did shine like the sun upon the water—I was very near dazed by the
brightness. So I was.
[_The_ GRANDMOTHER _continues to smoke in silence_.
SUSAN. [_Softly_.] And ’twas then I lost the heart within me to him.
[JOCKIE _runs up beating his tabor_.
SUSAN. [_Springing up_.] Come, Jockie, I have a mind to dance a step or
two. [_Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands_.] Tears be for them
as have idle times and not for poor wenches what mind cattle and goats.
Come, play me my own music, Jock. And play it as I do like it best.
[JOCKIE _begins to play the tune of_ “_Princess Royal_” _and_ SUSAN
_dances_. _Whilst_ SUSAN _is dancing_ LADY MILLICENT _and her waiting
maid come slowly by and stand watching_. SUSAN _suddenly perceives them
and throws herself on the ground_. JOCKIE _stops playing_.
LADY MILLICENT. [_Fanning herself_.] A wondrous bold dance, upon my
word—could it have been that which captivated my lord, Alice?
ALICE. O no, mistress. His lordship has no fancy for boldness in a
maid.
LADY MILLICENT. Immodest too. A Morris dance. The girl should hide her
face in shame.
ALICE. And there she is, looking at your ladyship with her gipsy eyes,
bold as a brass farthing.
SUSAN. [_Starting up and speaking passionately_.] I’ll not be taunted
for my dancing—I likes to dance wild, and leap with my body when my
spirit leaps, and fly with my limbs when my heart flies and move in the
air same as the birds do move when ’tis mating time.
GRANDMOTHER. Ah, ’tis so with she. She baint no tame mouse what creeps
from its hole along of t’others and who do go shuffle shuffle, in and out
of the ring, mild as milk and naught in the innards of they but the
squeak.
SUSAN. [_Defiantly_.] ’Twas my dance gained his lordship’s praise—so
there, fine madam.
LADY MILLICENT. Your dance? Who are you then?
ALICE. A gipsy wench, mistress, who minds the goats and pigs for one of
they great farms.
GRANDMOTHER. Have a care for that tongue of yours, madam waiting maid.
For I know how to lay sommat upon it what you won’t fancy.
LADY MILLICENT. [_Coming up to_ SUSAN _and laying her hand on her arm_.]
Now tell me your name, my girl.
SUSAN. They call me Princess Royal.
LADY MILLICENT. O that must be in jest. Why, you are clothed in rags,
poor thing.
SUSAN. [_Shaking herself free_.] I’d sooner wear my own rags nor the
laces which you have got upon you.
LADY MILLICENT. Now why do you say such a thing?
SUSAN. ’Twas in these rags as I danced in the wood that day, and ’tis by
these rags as my lord will know me once more.
LADY MILLICENT. Listen, I will cover you in silk and laces, Princess
Royal.
ALICE. Susan is the maid’s name.
SUSAN. I don’t want none of your laces or silks.
LADY MILLICENT. And feed you with poultry and cream and sweetmeats.
SUSAN. I want naught but my crust of bread.
LADY MILLICENT. I’ll fill your hands with gold pieces.
GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Sue?
SUSAN. [_Doggedly_.] I hear her well enough, Gran.
LADY MILLICENT. If you’ll teach me your dance against May Day. Then,
I’ll clothe myself much after your fashion and dance upon the green with
the rest.
SUSAN. I’ll not learn you my dance. Not for all the gold in the world.
You shan’t go and take the only thing I have away from me.
LADY MILLICENT. [_Angrily_.] Neither shall a little gipsy wretch like
you take my love from me. We were as good as promised to each other at
our christening.
ALICE. Don’t put yourself out for the baggage, madam. His lordship
would never look on her.
GRANDMOTHER. Gold, did you say, mistress?
LADY MILLICENT. Gold? O yes—an apron full of gold, and silver too.
GRANDMOTHER. Do you hear that, Susan?
SUSAN. [_Doggedly_.] I’ll not do it for a King’s ransom.
GRANDMOTHER. You will. You’ll do it for the sake of poor old Gran,
what’s been father and mother to you—and what’s gone hungered and thirsty
so that you might have bread and drink.
SUSAN. [_Distractedly_.] O I can never give him up.
GRANDMOTHER. He’ll never be yourn to give—Dance till your legs is off
and he’ll have naught to say to a gipsy brat when ’tis all finished.
ALICE. Whilst my lady belongs to his lordship’s own class, ’tis but
suitable as she should be the one to wed with him—knowing the foreign
tongues and all, and playing so sweetly on her instruments. There’s a
lady anyone would be proud to take before the Court in London.
[SUSAN _turns away with a movement of despair_. _The_ GRANDMOTHER
_begins to smoke again_. LADY MILLICENT _fans herself and_ ALICE
_arranges her own shawl_.
GRANDMOTHER. I could do with a little pig up at our place if I’d the
silver to take into the market for to buy him with. [_A silence_.
GRANDMOTHER. And I could do with a pair of good shoes to my poor old
feet come winter time when ’tis snowing. [_Another silence_.
GRANDMOTHER. And ’twould be good not to go to bed with the pain of
hunger within my lean old body—so ’twould. [SUSAN _turns round
suddenly_.
SUSAN. I’ll do it, Gran. I’ll do it for your sake. ’Tis very likely
true what you do say, all of you. I’d but dance my feet off for naught.
When he came to look into my gipsy eyes, ’twould all be over and done
with.
LADY MILLICENT. Sensible girl.
ALICE. ’Tis time she should see which way her bread was spread.
SUSAN. Come, Jockie, come ladies—come Gran—we’ll be off to the quiet of
our own place where I can learn her ladyship the steps and capers.
GRANDMOTHER. [_Rising and pointing to an advancing figure_.] You’d best
make haste. The mice be a-running from their holes once more—t’wouldn’t
do for they to know aught about this.
SUSAN. Let us go quickly then.
[_The_ GRANDMOTHER, SUSAN, LADY MILLICENT _with_ ALICE _and_ JOCKIE _go
out as a crowd of village girls come on to the green_, _and laughing and
talking together_, _arrange themselves to practise a Country Dance_.
_End of Act I_.
ACT II.—Scene 1.
_Groups of village girls are sitting or standing about on the green_. _A
dais has been put up at one end of it_.
MARION. How slow the time do pass, this May Day.
ROSE. Let’s while it away with a song or two.
[_They all join in singing_. _At the end of the song the gipsy comes
slowly and painfully across the green_, _casting black looks to right and
to left_. _She is followed by_ SUSAN, _who appears weighed down by
sadness_.
ROSE. Good afternoon, Princess Royal Rags. Are we to see you cutting
capers before his lordship this afternoon?
MARION. Get along and hide your bare feet behind the tree, Royal. I’d
be ashamed to go without shoes if ’twas me.
SUSAN. O leave me alone—you be worse nor a nest of waspes—that you be.
GRANDMOTHER. [_Turning fiercely round_.] Us’ll smoke them out of their
holes one day—see if us do not.
[_They pass over to the tree where the_ GRANDMOTHER _sits down and_ SUSAN
_crouches by her side_. _Presently they are joined by_ JOCKIE. _The
girls sing a verse or two of another song_, _and during this_ LADY
MILLICENT, _enveloped in a big cloak_, _goes over to the tree_, _followed
by_ ALICE, _also wearing a long cloak and they sit down by the side of_
SUSAN.
MARION. [_Pointing_.] Who are those yonder, Rose?
ROSE. I’m sure I don’t know, Marion—strangers, may be.
MARION. O my heart goes wild this afternoon.
ROSE. Mine too. Look, there they come.
[_The Music begins to play and old_ LADY CULLEN, _followed by her lady
companions_, _comes slowly towards the dais_, _on which she seats
herself_.
LADY CULLEN. Dear me, what a gathering to be sure.
HER LADY. Indeed it is an unusual sight.
LADY CULLEN. And O what a sad infatuation on the part of my poor boy.
HER LADY. The war has been known to turn many a brain.
LADY CULLEN. And yet my son holds his own with the brightest
intelligences of the day.
HER LADY. Only one little spot of his lordship’s brain seems to be
affected.
LADY CULLEN. Just so. But here he comes, poor misguided youth.
[LORD CULLEN _comes slowly over the green_, _looking to right and to
left_. _He mounts the dais and sits down by his mother_, _and the music
plays for a country dance_. “_The Twenty Ninth of May_.” _The girls
arrange themselves_, _and during the dance_ LORD CULLEN _scans each face
very eagerly_. _The dance ends and the girls pass in single file before
the dais_.
LORD CULLEN. No, no—that was not the music of it, that was not the
dance—not a face among them resembles the image I carry in my heart.
LADY CULLEN. [_Aside_.] Thank goodness. May that face never be seen
again.
[_A fresh group come up and another dance is formed and danced_.
LORD CULLEN. [_At the end of it_.] Worse and worse. Could I have
dreamed both the music and the dance and the dancer?
LADY CULLEN. [_Soothingly_.] I am sure this was the case, my dear son.
LORD CULLEN. [_Rallying_.] I heard her voice singing in the forest
before ever she began to dance. It was the sweetest voice and song I
ever heard. [_Looking around_.] Can any of these maid, sing to me, I
wonder?
MARION. [_Steps forward_.] I only know one song, my lord.
[LORD CULLEN _signs to her to sing_, _and she stands before the dais and
sings a verse of_ “_Bedlam_.”
LORD CULLEN. [_Impatiently_.] No, no—that is not in the least what I
remember. [_Turning to_ ROSE.] You try now.
ROSE. I don’t sing, my lord—but—[_Indicating another girl in the group_]
she has a sweet voice, and she knows a powerful lot of songs.
[_A girl steps out from the others and sings a verse of_ “_The Lark in
the Morn_.”
LORD CULLEN. Not that. Mine was a song to stir the depths of a man’s
heart and bring tears up from the fountains of it.
[_He leans back in deep dejection—and at this moment_ LADY MILLICENT
_and_ ALICE _come forward_.
LORD CULLEN. [_Eagerly_.] I seem to know that russet skirt—those bare,
small feet. [_Standing up quickly_.] Mother, look at that maid with the
red kerchief on her head.
LADY CULLEN. Some sort of a gipsy dress, to all appearance.
LORD CULLEN. [_Doubtfully_.] The skirt she wore was torn and
ragged—that day in the forest. She had no gold rings to her ears, nor
silken scarf upon her head—But this might be her dress for holidays.
[JOCKIE _advances and begins to play the tune of_ “_Princess Royal_.”
LORD CULLEN. [_Eagerly_.] That is the right music—O is it possible my
quest is ended!
[LADY MILLICENT _and_ ALICE, _standing opposite one to another begin to
dance—slowly and clumsily_, _and in evident doubt as to their steps_.
LORD CULLEN _watches them for a moment and then claps his hands angrily
as a sign for the music to stop_. _The dancers pause_.
LORD CULLEN. This is a sad mimicry of my beautiful love. But there lies
something behind the masquerade which I shall probe.
[_He leaves the dais and goes straight towards_ LADY MILLICENT, _who
turns from him in confusion_.
LORD CULLEN. From whom did you take the manner and the colour of your
garments, my maid?
[LADY MILLICENT _remains obstinately silent_.
LORD CULLEN. [_To_ ALICE.] Perhaps you have a tongue in your head.
From whom did you try to learn those steps?
[ALICE _turns sulkily away_. JOCKIE _comes forward_.
JOCKIE. I’ll tell your lordship all about it, and I’ll take your
lordship straight to the right wench, that I will, if so be as your
lordship will give a shilling to a poor little swine-herd what goes empty
and hungered most of the year round.
LORD CULLEN. A handful of gold, my boy, if you lead me rightly.
[JOCKIE _leads the way to the tree where_ SUSAN _is sitting_. _She
stands up as_ LORD CULLEN _approaches_, _and for a moment they gaze at
one another in silence_.
GRANDMOTHER. You might curtsey to the gentleman, Susan.
LORD CULLEN. No—there’s no need of that, from her to me. [_Turning to_
JOCKIE _and putting his hand in his pocket_.] Here, my boy, is a golden
pound for you—and more shall follow later.
[_He then takes_ SUSAN’S _hand and leads her to the foot of the dais_.
LORD CULLEN. Will you dance for me again, Susan?
SEVERAL OF THE GIRLS. [_Mockingly_.] Princess Royal is her name.
MARION. [_Rudely_.] Or Princess Rags.
SUSAN. ’Tis all took out of my hands now, I can but do as your lordship
says. Jockie, play me my music, and play it bravely too.
[JOCKIE _places himself near her and begins to play_. SUSAN _dances by
herself_. _At the end of her dance_ LORD CULLEN _leads the applause_,
_and even the ladies on the dais join faintly in it_. _He then takes_
SUSAN _by the hand and mounts the dais with her and presents her to his
mother_.
LADY CULLEN. [_Aside_, _to her companion_.] I wonder if the young
person understands that my poor boy is a little touched in the brain?
LORD CULLEN. Here is your daughter, mother.
[LADY CULLEN _and_ SUSAN _look at one another in silence_. _After a
moment_ SUSAN _turns to_ LORD CULLEN.
SUSAN. I’m a poor ragged thing to be daughter to the likes of she. But
the heart within of me is grander nor that of any queen, because of the
love that it holds for you, my lord.
[LORD CULLEN _takes her hand and leads her to the front of the dais_.
LORD CULLEN. We will be married to-morrow, my princess. And all these
good people shall dance at our wedding.
MARION. [_Springing up_.] And we’ll do a bit of dancing now as well.
Come, Jockie, give us the tune of “Haste to the Wedding.”
ROSE. That’s it. Come girls—
LADY MILLICENT. [_To_ ALICE.] I pray he won’t find out about me.
[_The old_ GRANDMOTHER _has come slowly towards the middle of the green_.
GRANDMOTHER. Ah, and my little wench will know how to pay back some of
the vipers tongues which slandered her, when she sits on her velvet chair
as a countess, the diamonds a-trickling from her neck and the rubies
a-crowning of her head. Her’ll not forget the snakes what did lie in the
grass. Her’ll have her heel upon they, so that their heads be put low
and there shan’t go no more venom from their great jaws to harm she, my
pretty lamb—my little turtle.
[_The music begins to play and all those on the green form themselves for
the dance_. LORD CULLEN _and_ SUSAN _stand side by side in front of the
dais_, _and the_ GRANDMOTHER _lights a pipe and smokes it as she watches
the dance from below_. _At the end of the dance_ LORD CULLEN, _leading_
SUSAN, _comes down from the dais and_, _followed by_ LADY CULLEN _and her
ladies_, _passes between two lines of girls and so off the stage_. _The
girls follow in procession_, _and lastly the_ GRANDMOTHER _preceded by_
JOCKIE, _beating his drum_.
[_Curtain_.]
THE SEEDS OF LOVE
CHARACTERS
JOHN DANIEL, _aged_ 30, _a Miller_.
ROSE-ANNA _his sister_.
KITTY, _aged_ 16, _his sister_.
ROBERT PEARCE, _aged_ 26.
LIZ, JANE _elderly cousins of Robert_.
JEREMY, _John’s servant—of middle age_.
MARY MEADOWS, _aged_ 24, _a Herbalist_.
LUBIN.
ISABEL.
_The time is Midsummer_.
ACT I
_A woodland road outside_ MARY’S _cottage_. _There are rough seats in
the porch and in front of the window_. _Bunches of leaves and herbs hang
drying around door and window_. MARY _is heard singing within_.
MARY. [_Singing_.]
I sowed the seeds of Love,
And I sowed them in the Spring.
I gathered them up in the morning so soon.
While the sweet birds so sweetly sing,
While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {2}
[MARY _comes out of the cottage_, _a bundle of enchanter’s nightshade in
her arms_. _She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes indoors_.
MARY. [_Singing_.]
The violet I did not like,
Because it bloomed so soon;
The lily and the pink I really over think,
So I vowed I would wait till June,
So I vowed I would wait till June.
[_During the singing_ LUBIN _comes slowly and heavily along the road_.
_He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his
shoulder_. _In front of the cottage he pauses_, _looks round
doubtfully_, _and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath
the window_.
MARY. [_Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing_.]
“For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot,
Give it time, it will rise up again.”
LUBIN. [_Looking up gloomily_.] And that it won’t, mistress.
MARY. [_Suddenly perceiving him and coming out_.] O you are fair spent
from journeying. Can I do anything for you, master?
LUBIN. [_Gazing at her fixedly_.] You speak kindly for a stranger, but
’tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me.
MARY. [_Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the house_.]
See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There’s medicine for
every sort of sickness there, sir.
LUBIN. There’s not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that
could cure the sickness I have within me.
MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master.
LUBIN. So ’tis. ’Tis love.
MARY. Love?
LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when
riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to another.
[ISABEL _has been slowly approaching_, _she wears a cotton handkerchief
over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm_.
_Her movements are languid and sad_.
MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love.
ISABEL. [_Coming forward and speaking earnestly_.] O tell me of them
quickly, mistress.
MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint?
ISABEL. [_Sinking down on the grass at_ MARY’S _feet_.] So bruised and
wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well have
been a hundred miles or more.
LUBIN. Framilode? ’Tis there you come from?
ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. Do
you know the place, master?
LUBIN. [_In deep gloom_.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too.
MARY. [_Leaning forward and clasping her hands_.] Him as is there
to-day, or him who was?
LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year
ago.
[ISABEL _covers her face and is shaken by sobs_. LUBIN _leans his elbow
on his knee_, _shading his eyes with his hand_.
MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be given
us for that.
ISABEL. [_Looking up_.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. ’Tis
like when a quist do sing, as you speaks.
MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. ’Twill be strange if I do
not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you.
LUBIN. ’Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred.
MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder?
LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I—we courted and was like to
marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She would not take
a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what you do see me
now—just a day labourer.
ISABEL. Mine, ’tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man and
me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a powerful
rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. ’Twas he that
’ticed my lover off to foreign parts.
LUBIN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] These things are almost more than I can
bear.
ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then ’twas seldom
like. Then ’twas never. And then there comed a day—[_She is interrupted
by her weeping_.
MARY. Try to get out your story—you can let the tears run afterwards if
you have a mind.
ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. He
brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff with
money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about to wed.
LUBIN. Did he name the maid?
ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel’s mill up yonder.
LUBIN. Rose-Anna—She with whom I was to have gone to church.
MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose.
ISABEL. O ’twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the
riverside, him and me.
LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday
afternoon.
[_A pause during which_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _seem lost in their own sad
memories_. MARY _gets up softly and goes within the cottage_.
ISABEL. And when I heared as ’twas to-morrow they were to wed, though
’twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me
upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day just for
one look upon his face again.
LUBIN. ’Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt
myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so
cruel false into mine.
ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him ’twould do no good—poor
wench of a serving maid like me.
LUBIN. [_Looking down at himself_.] She’d spurn me from the door were I
to stand there knocking—in the coat I have upon me now. No—let her go
her way and wed her fancy man.
[LUBIN _shades his eyes with one hand_. ISABEL _bows her head on her
knees weeping_. MARY _comes out of the house carrying two glass bowls of
water_.
MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh
water from the spring will revive you from your travelling.
LUBIN. [_Looking up_.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy,
mistress.
ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die.
[MARY _giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink slowly_.
MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by for another. A
man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but ’tis the scarlet rose
as takes his fancy come to-morrow.
ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress?
MARY. [_Slowly_.] After many years.
LUBIN. And could you wed you to another?
MARY. [_Still more slowly_.] Give the grass that has been trampled
underfoot a bit of time, ’twill rise again. There’s healing all around
of us for every ill, did we but know it.
LUBIN. I’d give sommat to know where ’tis then.
MARY. There isn’t a herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to them
that are in pain.
ISABEL. Give me a bloom that’ll put me to sleep for always, mistress.
MARY. There’s evil plants as well, but ’tisn’t a many. There’s hen bane
which do kill the fowls and fishes if they eat the seed of it. And
there’s water hemlock which lays dumbness upon man.
LUBIN. I’ve heard them tell of that, I have.
MARY. And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the
feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon the
door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house.
LUBIN. And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon the
heart, mistress?
ISABEL. [_Speaking in anguish_.] Aught that can turn our faithless
lovers back again to we?
MARY. That I have. See these small packages—you that love Robert, take
you this—and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your hand.
[_She puts a small paper packet into the hands of each_.
LUBIN. [_Looking uncertainly at his packet_.] What’ll this do for me,
I’d like to know?
MARY. ’Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, and
another seed as well. You put it in her glass of water—and the love
comes back to you afore next sun-rise.
ISABEL. And will it be the same with I?
MARY. You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. To-morrow
at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall do what
you will with it.
ISABEL. O I can’t believe in this. ’Tis too good to be true, and that
it be—A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little wretch like me!
LUBIN. [_Slowly_.] ’Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like
us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was when I
did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as one of
theirselves. But now! Why, they’d take and hound me away from the door.
ISABEL. And me too.
MARY. [_Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from the bunch
drying_.] That’ll bring luck, may be.
[ISABEL _takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet in
her bundle_. LUBIN _puts his packet away also_. _Whilst they are doing
this_, MARY _strolls a little way on the road_.
MARY. [_Returning_.] The man from Daniels be coming along.
LUBIN. [_Hastily_.] What, old Andrews?
MARY. No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have the
patience to keep in with him.
LUBIN. How’s that?
MARY. So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer at the
cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, and that’s
why master do put up with him.
[JEREMY _comes heavily towards them_, _a straw in his mouth_. _His hat
is pushed to the back of his head_. _His expression is still and
impassive_. _He comes straight towards_ MARY, _then halts_.
MARY. Come, Jeremy, I reckon ’tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram you be
come here this morning?
JEREMY. [_Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and pointing
to them_.] Who be they?
MARY. Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest.
[JEREMY _continues to look them all over in silence_.
MARY. How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry?
JEREMY. Powerful bad.
MARY. O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened?
[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _lean forward_, _listening eagerly_.
JEREMY. ’Tis a pretty caddle, that’s all.
MARY. The mistress isn’t took ill? or Miss Kitty?
JEREMY. I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn’t be none of this
here marrying to-morrow.
MARY. What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry?
JEREMY. One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on.
MARY. ’Tis three you’ve got up there.
JEREMY. There you’re mistook. Th’ idle wench and the lad be both
away—off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of they. I
be left with all upon me like, and ’tis too much.
MARY. What shall you do, Jerry?
JEREMY. I’ll be blowed if I’m agoin’ to do anything. There.
MARY. But you’ll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set the
table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses and
all, Jerry—seeing as you’re the only one.
JEREMY. I’ll not. I’m not one as steps beyond my own work, and master
do know it too.
MARY. Then how are they going to manage?
JEREMY. I’m out to find them as’ll manage for them. [_Turning sharply
to_ LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young man?
LUBIN. I—I count as I’ve nothing particular in view.
JEREMY. [_Turning to_ ISABEL.] And you, wench?
ISABEL. [_Faintly_.] I’ve gone from the place where I was servant.
JEREMY. Then you’ll come along of me—the both of you.
ISABEL. [_Shrinking_.] O no—I couldn’t go among—among strangers.
JEREMY. I never takes no count of a female’s vapours. You’ll come along
of me. You’ll curl the mistress’s hair and lace her gown and keep her
tongue quiet—and you [_turning to_ LUBIN] my man, will set the tables and
wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town this dinner-time.
LUBIN. [_Angrily_.] I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and
I’ll not start now.
JEREMY. You will. I’m not agoin’ a half mile further this warm morning.
Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you.
MARY. [_Looking fixedly at_ ISABEL.] This is a chance for you, my dear.
You’ll not find a better.
JEREMY. Better? I count as you’ll not better this’n. Good money for
your pains—victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can drink on
a summer’s day. I count you’ll not better that.
LUBIN. [_As though to himself_.] I could not go.
JEREMY. Some cattle want a lot of driving.
ISABEL. [_Timidly to_ LUBIN.] If I go, could not you try and come along
with me, master?
LUBIN. You’ll never have the heart to go through with it.
JEREMY. ’Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. Don’t you go
and put fancies into the head of her.
ISABEL. [_To_ LUBIN.] I’ll go if so be as you’ll come along of me too.
[LUBIN _bends his head and remains thinking deeply_.
JEREMY. ’Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches—I’ll get me a
drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you’ll be ready time I’ve
finished.
MARY. I’ll see that you’re not kept waiting, Jeremy.
JEREMY. [_Turning back after he has started_.] What be they called,
Mary?
[MARY _looks doubtfully towards_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL.
ISABEL. My name—they calls me Isabel.
JEREMY. [_Turning to_ LUBIN.] And yourn?
LUBIN. [_In confusion_.] I don’t rightly recollect.
JEREMY. [_Impassively_.] ’Tis of no account, us’ll call you William
like the last one.
ISABEL. O, and couldn’t I be called like the last one too?
JEREMY. Then us’ll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and
doubtless you’ll not prove much worser.
[_He goes away_.
MARY. This is your chance. A good chance too—
LUBIN. They’ll know the both of us. Love isn’t never quite so dead but
what a sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring some
breath to it again.
ISABEL. You’re right there, master—sommat’ll stir in the hearts of them
when they sees we—and ’tis from the door as us’ll be chased for masking
on them like this.
MARY. But not before the seeds of love have done their work. Come,
Isabel; come, Lubin—I will so dress you that you shall not be recognised.
[MARY _goes indoors_. ISABEL _slowly rises and takes up her bundle_.
LUBIN _remains seated_, _looking gloomily before him_.
ISABEL. Come, think what ’twill feel to be along of our dear loves and
look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of their voices once
again.
LUBIN. That’s what I am a-thinking of. ’Twill be hot iron drove right
into the heart all the while. Ah, that’s about it.
ISABEL. I’ll gladly bear the pain.
LUBIN. [_After a pause_.] Then so will I. We’ll go.
[_He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows her
into the cottage_.
ACT II.—Scene 1.
_The living room at Daniel’s Mill_. _In the window_ ROSE-ANNA _is seated
awkwardly sewing some bright ribbons on to a muslin gown_. KITTY _is
moving about rapidly dusting chairs and ornaments which are in disorder
about the room and_ JOHN _stands with his back to the grate gravely
surveying them_.
ROSE. [_Petulantly_.] Whatever shall we do, John! Me not dressed,
everything no how, and them expected in less nor a half hour’s time?
KITTY. There! I’ve finished a-dusting the chairs. Now I’ll set them in
their places.
ROSE. No one is thinking of me! Who’s going to help me on with my gown
and curl my hair like Robert was used to seeing me wear it at Aunt’s?
KITTY. Did you have it different down at Bristol, Rose?
ROSE. Of course I did. ’Twouldn’t do to be countrified in the town.
JOHN. Your hair’s well enough like that. ’Tisn’t of hair as anyone’ll
be thinking when they comes in, but of victuals. And how we’re a-going
to get the table and all fixed up in so short a time do fairly puzzle me.
KITTY. I’ll do the table.
ROSE. No. You’ve got to help me with my gown. O that was a
good-for-nothing baggage, leaving us in the lurch!
JOHN. Well, I’ve done my best to get us out of the fix.
ROSE. And what would that be, pray?
KITTY. Why John, you’ve done nothing but stand with your back to the
grate this last hour.
JOHN. I’ve sent off Jerry.
ROSE. [_Scornfully_.] Much good that’ll do.
KITTY. We know just how far Jerry will have gone.
JOHN. I told him not to shew hisself unless he could bring a couple of
servants back along with him.
ROSE. [_Angrily_.] You’re more foolish than I took you to be, John.
Get you off at once and fetch Jerry from his cider at the Red Bull. He’s
not much of a hand about the house, but he’s better than no one.
JOHN. [_Sighing heavily_.] Jeremy’s not the man to start his drinking
so early in the day.
ROSE. I’ve caught him at the cask soon after dawn.
KITTY. And so have I, John. How you put up with his independent ways I
don’t know.
JOHN. Ah, ’tisn’t everyone as has such a powerful strong head as
Jerry’s. He’s one that can be trusted to take his fill, and none the
worse with him afterwards.
[_A knock at the door_, _which is pushed open by_ JEREMY.
JEREMY. [_From the doorway_.] Well, Master John—well, mistress?
ROSE. [_Sharply_.] Master was just starting out for to fetch you home,
Jerry.
JEREMY. [_Ignoring her_.] Well, master, I’ve brought a couple back
along of me.
ROSE. Ducklings or chickens?
JEREMY. I’ve gotten them too.
KITTY. Do you mean that you’ve found some servants for us, Jerry?
JEREMY. Two outside. Female and male.
JOHN. Didn’t I tell you so! There’s naught that Jerry cannot do.
You’ll have a drink for this, my man
ROSE. You may take my word he’s had that already, John.
JEREMY. I have, mistress. Whilst they was a packing up the poultry in
my basket. Down at the Bull.
ROSE. What sort of a maid is it?
JEREMY. Ah, ’tis for you to tell me that, mistress, when you’ve had her
along of you a bit.
ROSE. And the man?
JEREMY. Much the same as any other male.
ROSE. [_Impatiently_.] Do you step outside, John, and have a look at
them, and if they’re suitable bring them in and we’ll set them about
their work.
[JOHN _goes out_. KITTY _peers through the window_.
JEREMY. I reckon I can go off and feed the hilts now. ’Tis the time.
ROSE. Feed the hilts! Indeed you can’t do no such thing. O I’m mad
with vexation that nothing is well ordered or suitably prepared for Mr.
Robert and his fine cousins from Bristol town. Whatever will they say to
such a house when they do see it?
JEREMY. I’m sure I don’t know.
KITTY. [_From the window_.] I see the new servants. John is bringing
them up the walk. The man’s face is hid by his broad hat, but the girl
looks neat enough in her cotton gown and sun-bonnet.
[JOHN _comes into the room_, _followed by_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL. LUBIN
_shuffles off his hat_, _but holds it between his face and the people in
the room_.
JEREMY. [_Pointing to them and speaking to_ ROSE.] There you are,
mistress—man-servant and maid.
ROSE. What do we know about them? Folk picked up by Jerry at the Red
Bull.
JEREMY. No, from the roadside.
ROSE. Worser far.
JOHN. No, no, Rose. These young persons were spoken for by Mary
Meadows. And ’tis rare fortunate for we to obtain their services at
short notice like this.
ROSE. [_To_ ISABEL.] What are you called, my girl?
ISABEL. [_Faintly_.] Isabel is my name, but I’d sooner you called me
Lucy.
ROSE. And that I will. My tongue is used to Lucy. The other is a
flighty, fanciful name for a servant.
KITTY. And what is the man called, John?
LUBIN. [_Harshly_.] I am called William.
KITTY. William and Lucy! Like the ones that ran away this morning.
ROSE. O do not let us waste any more time! Jerry, do you take the man
and shew him his work in the back kitchen; and Lucy, come to me and help
me with my gown and my hair dressing. We have not a minute to lose.
KITTY. They may be upon us any time now. I’ll go out and gather the
flowers for the parlour, since you don’t want me any more within, Rose.
JOHN. And I’ll get and finish Jeremy’s work in the yard. ’Tis upside
down and round about and no how to-day. But we’ll come out of it some
time afore next year I reckon.
JEREMY. Don’t you ever go for to get married, master. There could never
come a worser caddle into a man’s days nor matrimony, I count.
[JOHN, _on his way to the door_, _pauses—as though momentarily lost in
thought_.
JOHN. Was Mary Meadows asked to drop in at any time to-day, Rose?
ROSE. [_Who is taking up her gown and ribbons to show to_ ISABEL, _and
speaking crossly_.] I’m sure I don’t know, nor care. I’ve enough to
think about as ’tis.
KITTY. [_Taking_ JOHN’S _arm playfully_.] You’re terribly took up with
Mary Meadows, John.
JOHN. There isn’t many like her, Kitty. She do rear herself above
t’others as—as a good wheat stalk from out the rubbish.
[JOHN _and_ KITTY _go slowly out_.
JEREMY. [_As though to himself_.] I sees as how I shall have to keep an
eye on master—[_turning to_ LUBIN _and signing to him_.] But come, my
man, us has no time for romance, ’tis dish washing as lies afore you now.
[LUBIN _jerks his head haughtily and makes a protesting gesture_. _Then
he seems to remember himself and follows_ JEREMY _humbly from the room_.
ROSE _takes up some ribbons and laces_.
ROSE. [_To_ ISABEL, _who is standing near_.] Now, Lucy, we must look
sharp; Mister Robert and his cousins from Bristol town will soon be here.
I have not met with the cousins yet, but I’ve been told as they’re very
fine ladies—They stood in place of parents to my Robert, you know. ’Tis
unfortunate we should be in such a sad muddle the day they come.
ISABEL. When I have helped you into your gown, mistress, I shall soon
have the dinner spread and all in order. I be used to such work, and I’m
considered spry upon my feet.
ROSE. ’Tis more serious that you should be able to curl my hair in the
way that Mr. Robert likes.
ISABEL. [_Sadly_.] I don’t doubt but that I shall be able to do that
too, mistress.
ROSE. Very well. Take the gown and come with me up to my room.
[_They go out together_, ISABEL _carrying the gown_.
ACT II.—Scene 2.
_The same room_. _The table is laid for dinner and_ ISABEL _is putting
flowers upon it_. LUBIN _wearing his hat_, _enters with large jugs of
cider_, _which he sets upon a side table_.
ISABEL. [_Looking up from her work_.] Shall us ever have the heart to
go on with it, Master Lubin?
LUBIN. [_Bitterly_.] Do not you “Master” me, Isabel. I’m only a common
servant in the house where once I was lover and almost brother.
ISABEL. [_Coming up to him_.] O do not take it so hard, Lubin—Us can do
naught at this pass but trust what the young woman did tell me.
LUBIN. [_Gloomily_.] The sight of Rose has stirred up my love so
powerful that I do hardly know how to hold the tears back from my eyes.
ISABEL. [_Pressing her eyes with her apron_.] What’ll it be for me when
Robert comes in?
LUBIN. We’ll have to help one another, Isabel, in the plight where we
stand.
ISABEL. That’s it. And perchance as them seeds’ll do the rest.
[_They spring apart as a sound of voices and laughter is heard outside_.
KITTY. [_Runs in_.] They’ve come. All of them. And do you know that
Robert’s cousins are no fine ladies at all, as he said, but just two
common old women dressed grand-like.
ISABEL. That will be a sad shock to poor mistress.
KITTY. O, she is too much taken up with Mister Robert to notice yet.
But quick! They are all sharp set from the drive. Fetch in the dishes,
William and Lucy.
ISABEL. All shall be ready in a moment, Miss Kitty.
[_She goes hurriedly out followed by_ LUBIN. KITTY _glances round the
room and then stands at the side of the front door_. JOHN, _giving an
arm to each of_ ROBERT’S _cousins_, _enters_. _The cousins are dressed
in coloured flowered dresses_, _and wear bonnets that are heavy with
bright plumes_. _They look cumbered and ill at ease in their clothes_,
_and carry their sunshades and gloves awkwardly_.
LIZ. [_Looking round her_.] Very comfortable, I’m sure. But I count as
that there old-fashioned grate do take a rare bit of elbow grease.
JANE. Very pleasant indeed. But I didn’t reckon as the room would be
quite the shape as ’tis.
LIZ. Come to that, I didn’t expect the house to look as it do.
JANE. Very ancient in appearance, I’m sure.
JOHN. Ah, the house has done well enough for me and my father and
grandfather afore me.
[ROSE, _very grandly dressed_, _comes in hanging on_ ROBERT’S _arm_.
ROBERT _is clothed in the fashion of the town_.
ROSE. Please to remove your bonnet, Miss Eliza. Please to remove yours,
Miss Jane.
JOHN. [_Heartily_.] Ah, that’s so—’Twill be more homely like for
eating.
ROSE. There’s a glass upon the wall.
LIZ. I prefer to remain as I be.
JANE. Sister and me have our caps packed up in the tin box.
KITTY. [_Bringing the tin box from the doorway_.] Shall I take you
upstairs to change? Dinner’s not quite ready yet.
LIZ. That will suit us best, I’m sure. Come, sister.
[KITTY _leads the way out_, _followed by both sisters_.
JOHN. I’ll just step outside and see that Jerry’s tending to the horse.
[_He hurries out_, _and_ ROBERT _is left alone with_ ROSE.
ROSE. [_Coming towards him and holding out her hands_.] O, Robert, is
it the same between us as it was last time?
ROBERT. [_Looking at her critically_.] You’ve got your hair different
or something.
ROSE. [_Putting her hand to her head_.] The new maid. A stupid country
wench.
ROBERT. You’ve got my meaning wrong. ’Tis that I’ve never seen you look
so well before.
ROSE. O dear Robert!
ROBERT. You’ve got my fancy more than ever, Rose.
ROSE. O, I’m so happy to be going off with you to-morrow, and I love it
down at Bristol. Robert, I’m tired and sick of country life.
ROBERT. We’ll make a grand fine lady of you there, Rose.
ROSE. [_A little sharply_.] Am I not one in looks already, Robert?
ROBERT. You’re what I do dote upon. I can’t say no more.
[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _enter carrying dishes_, _which they set upon the
table_. ROBERT _and_ ROSE _turn their backs to them and look out into
the garden_. _The staircase door is opened_, _and_ LIZ, JANE _and_ KITTY
_come into the room_. LIZ _and_ JANE _are wearing gaudy caps trimmed
with violet and green ribbons_.
ROSE. We’ll sit down, now. John won’t be a moment before he’s here.
[_She sits down at one end of the table and signs to_ ROBERT _to place
himself next to her_. _The sisters and_ KITTY _seat themselves_. JOHN
_comes hurriedly in_.
JOHN. That’s right. Everyone in their places? But no cover laid for
Mary?
ROSE. [_Carelessly_.] We can soon have one put, should she take it into
her head to drop in.
JOHN. That’s it. Now ladies, now Robert—’tis thirsty work a-driving
upon the Bristol road at midsummer. We’ll lead off with a drink of
home-made cider. The eating’ll come sweeter afterwards.
ROBERT. That’s it, Miller.
[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _come forward and take the cider mugs from each place
to the side table_, _where_ LUBIN _fills them from a large jug_. _In the
mugs of_ ROSE-ANNA _and_ ROBERT, ISABEL _shakes the contents of the
little packets_. _Whilst they are doing this the following talk is
carried on at the table_.
LIZ [_Taking up a spoon_.] Real plated, sister.
JANE. Upon my word, so ’tis.
ROSE. And not so bright as I should wish to see it neither. I’ve had a
sad trouble with my maids of late.
LIZ. Sister and I don’t keep none of them, thank goodness.
JANE. We does our work with our own hands. We’d be ashamed if ’twas
otherwise.
ROBERT. [_Scowling at them_.] I’ve been and engaged a house-full of
servants for Rose-Anna. She shall know what ’tis to live like a lady
once she enters our family.
JOHN. Servants be like green fly on the bush. They do but spoil th’
home and everything they do touch. All save one.
KITTY. And that one’s Jerry, I suppose.
JOHN. You’re right there, Kitty, that you are. A harder head was never
given to man than what Jerry do carry twixt his shoulders.
[LUBIN _and_ ISABEL _here put round the mugs of cider_, _and everyone
drinks thirstily_. ISABEL _stands behind the chairs of_ ROSE _and_
ROBERT _and_ LUBIN _at_ JOHN’S _side_.
ROBERT. [_Setting down his mug_.] There’s a drink what can’t be got in
foreign parts.
ROSE. [_Looking fondly at him_.] Let the maid fill your mug again, my
dear one.
ROBERT. [_Carelessly handing it to_ ISABEL.] I don’t mind if I do have
another swill.
[ISABEL _fills the mug and puts it by his side_.
LIZ. As good as any I ever tasted.
JANE. Couldn’t better it at the King’s Head up our way.
JOHN. Good drink—plenty of it. Now we’ll start upon the meat I reckon.
[_He takes up a knife and fork and begins to carve_, _and_ LUBIN _hands
round plates_. _During this_ ROBERT’S _gaze restlessly wanders about the
room_, _finally fixing itself on_ ISABEL, _who presently goes out to the
back kitchen with plates_.
ROBERT. The new serving maid you’ve got there, Rose, should wear a cap
and not her bonnet.
ROSE. How sharp you are to notice anything.
ROBERT. A very pretty looking wench, from what I can see.
ROSE. [_Speaking more to the cousins than to_ ROBERT.] O she’s but a
rough and untrained girl got in all of a hurry. Not at all the sort I’ve
been used to in this house, I can tell you.
[ISABEL _comes back with fresh plates and stands at the side table_.
LIZ. [_To_ JANE.] A mellower piece of pig meat I never did taste,
sister.
JANE. I’m sorry I went and took the poultry.
KITTY. John will carve you some ham if you’d like to try it, Miss Jane.
JANE. I’m sure I’m much obliged.
[JEREMY _comes in_.]
JEREMY. [_Coming to the back of_ JANE’S _chair_.] Don’t you get mixing
of your meats is what I says. Commence with ham and finish with he.
That’s what do suit the inside of a delicate female.
JANE. [_Looking up admiringly_.] Now that’s just what old Uncle he did
used to say.
JEREMY. Old uncle did know what he was a-talking about then.
LIZ. [_Warming and looking less awkward and ill at ease_.] ’Twas the
gout what kept Uncle so low in his eating, ’twas not th’ inclination of
him.
JEREMY. Ah ’twouldn’t be the gout nor any other disease as would keep me
from a platter of good food.
JOHN. Nor from your mug of drink neither, Jerry.
[JEREMY _laughs and moves off to the side table_.
LIZ. A very pleasant sort of man.
JANE. I do like anyone what’s homely.
JOHN. [_Calling out heartily_.] Do you listen to that, Jerry! The
ladies here do find you pleasant and homely, and I don’t know what else.
JEREMY. The mugs want filling once more.
[_He stolidly goes round the table refilling the mugs_. ROSE’S _gaze
wanders about her_.
ROSE. [_To_ ROBERT.] That’s not a bad looking figure of a man—
ROBERT. Who?
ROSE. Well—the new farm hand.
ROBERT. A sulky looking brute. I’d not let him wear his hat to table if
I was master here.
ROSE. He puts me in mind of—well—there, I can’t recollect who ’tis. [_A
knock is heard at the door_.
ROSE. [_Sharply to_ ISABEL.] Go and see who ’tis, Lucy.
[ISABEL _opens the door_, _and_ MARY MEADOWS _stands on the threshold_,
_a large nosegay of beautiful wild flowers in her hand_.
JOHN. [_Rising up in great pleasure_.] You’re late, Mary. But you’re
welcome as the—as the very sunshine.
ROSE. Set another place, Lucy.
MARY. Not for me, Rose. I did not come here to eat or drink, but to
bring you these few blossoms and my love.
ROSE. [_Rises from the table and takes the nosegay_.] I’m sure you’re
very kind, Mary—Suppose we were all to move into the parlour now we have
finished dinner, and then we could enjoy a bit of conversation.
LIZ. Very pleasant, I’m sure.
JANE. I see no objection.
KITTY. [_Running round to look at the flowers_.] And Mary shall tell us
how to make charms out of the flowers—and the meanings of the blossoms
and all the strange things she knows about them.
JOHN. [_Taking a flower from the bunch and putting it into his coat_.]
Yes, and how to brew tea as’ll curl up anyone’s tongue within the mouth
for a year—and fancy drinks for sheep with foot rot, and powders against
the murrain and any other nonsense that you do please.
MARY. Now, John, I’ll not have you damage my business like this.
LIZ. Maybe as the young person’s got sommat what’ll be handy with your
complaint, sister.
JANE. Or for when you be took with th’ air in your head so bad, Jane.
ROSE. Yes, I reckon that Mary has a charm for every ill beneath the sun.
Let’s go off to the parlour along of her. You’re not coming with us,
John, are you?
JOHN. I’d not miss the telling of these things for anything in the
world, foolishness though they be.
ROSE. Come along then—all of you.
[_They all go out_. JEREMY _holds the door open for them_. _As she
passes through it_ LIZ _says_, _looking at him_.
LIZ. We shall hope for your company, too.
JANE. To be sure, mister.
JEREMY. [_Haughtily_.] I bain’t one for parlours, nor charms, ma’am. I
be here for another purpose.
[_They leave the room_.
JEREMY. [_Having watched the party out_, _moves towards the cider jug_.]
Now, my man, now, my wench—us’ll see what can be done with the victuals
and drink they’ve been and left. ’Tis a fair heavy feed and drink as I
do need. Sommat as’ll lift me up through all the trials of this here
foolish matrimony and stuff.
[_He raises the jug of cider to his mouth as the Curtain falls_.
ACT III.—Scene 1.
_The next morning_. ROBERT’S _cousins are standing by the fire-place of
the same room_.
LIZ. ’Tis powerful unhomely here, Jane.
JANE. And that ’tis. I wish as Robert had never brought us along of
him.
LIZ. She’s a stuck-up jay of a thing what he’s about to wed if ever I
seed one.
JANE. That her be. He’ll live to wish hisself dead and buried one day.
LIZ. There bain’t but one sensible tongue in the whole place to my mind.
JANE. Ah, he’s a man to anyone’s liking, sister.
LIZ. ’Tis homelike as he do make I to feel among all these strangers.
JANE. Here he comes.
[JEREMY _with a yoke and two pails stands at the doorway_.
LIZ. Now do you come in, mister, and have a bit of talk along of we.
JANE. Set down them pails and do as sister says, Mister Jeremy.
[JEREMY _looks them all over and then slowly and deliberately sets down
his pails_.
LIZ. That’s right, sister and me was feeling terribly lonesome here this
morning.
JANE. And we was wishing as we’d never left home to come among all these
stranger folk.
LIZ. Not that we feels you to be a stranger, dear Mister Jeremy.
JANE. You be a plain homely man such as me and sister be accustomed to.
JEREMY. Anything more?
LIZ. I suppose you’ve put by a tidy bit—seeing as you be of a certain
age.
JANE. Although your looks favour you well, don’t they, sister?
LIZ. To be sure they do.
JANE. And I reckon as you could set up a home of your own any day,
mister.
JEREMY. [_Pointing through the window_.] See that there roof against
the mill?
LIZ. Indeed I do.
JEREMY. That’s where I do live.
[_Both sisters move quickly to the window_.
JANE. A very comfortable looking home indeed.
LIZ. I likes the looks of it better nor this great old house.
JANE. [_Archly_.] Now I daresay there’s but one thing wanted over
there, Mister Jeremy.
JEREMY. What’s that?
JANE. A good wife to do and manage for you.
JEREMY. I never was done for nor managed by a female yet, and blowed if
I will be now.
LIZ. [_Shaking her finger at him_.] Sister an’ me knows what comes of
such words, don’t us, sister? ’Tis an old saying in our family as one
wedding do make a many.
JEREMY. Give me a woman’s tongue for foolishness. I’ve heared a saying
too in my family, which be—get a female on to your hearth and ’tis Bedlam
straight away.
JANE. Now, sister, did you ever hear the like of that?
LIZ. Us’ll have to change his mind for him, Jane.
JEREMY. I reckon ’twould take a rare lot of doing to change that,
mistress.
JANE. Bain’t you a-goin’ to get yourself ready for church soon?
JEREMY. Dashed if I ever heard tell of such foolishness. Who’s to mind
the place with all the folk gone fiddle-faddling out?
LIZ. There’s the man William.
JEREMY. I bain’t a-goin’ to leave the place to a stranger.
JANE. Why, sister, us’ll feel lost and lonesome without mister, shan’t
us, Liz?
LIZ. That us will. What if us stayed at home and helped to mind the
house along of he?
JANE. [_Slowly_.] And did not put our new gowns upon the backs of we
after all the money spent?
JEREMY. Ah, there you be. ’Tis the same with all females. Creatures of
vanity—even if they be got a bit long in the tooth. ’Tis all the same.
[JANE _and_ LIZ _draw themselves up_, _bridling_, _but_ LIZ _relaxes_.
LIZ. He must have his little joke, sister, man-like, you know.
[JOHN _enters_.]
JOHN. Jerry, and I’ve been seeking you everywhere. Come you off to the
yard. ’Tis as much as we shall do to be ready afore church time. I
never knew you to idle in the house afore.
JEREMY. [_Taking up his pails_, _sarcastically_.] ’Twas the females as
tempted I, master, but ’twon’t occur again, so there. [_He hurries off_,
_followed by_ JOHN.
LIZ. [_With dignity_.] Us’ll go upstairs and dress, sister.
JANE. ’Tis time we did so. All them new-fashioned things be awkward in
the fastenings.
[_They go upstairs_.
[ROBERT _and_ ROSE _come in from the garden_. ROBERT _carries a little
card-board box in his hand_, _which he places on the table_. ROSE _sits
down listlessly on a chair leaning her arms on the table_.
ROBERT. [_Undoing the box_.] This is the bouquet what I promised to
bring from town.
ROSE. [_Her gaze wandering outside_.] Well, we might as well look at it
afore I go to dress.
[ROBERT _uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white flowers
surrounded by a lace frill_.
ROSE. [_Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face_.]
Why, they are false ones.
ROBERT. [_Contemptuously_.] My good girl, who ever went to church with
orange blossom that was real, I’d like to know?
ROSE. [_Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table_.] I’m sure I don’t
care. I reckon that one thing’s about as good as another to be married
with.
ROBERT. [_Going to the window and looking out_.] Ah—I daresay ’tis so.
ROSE. I feel tired of my wedding day already—that I do.
ROBERT. There’s a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what a
man’s hardly used to, so it seems to me.
ROSE. [_Wildly_.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we
die.
ROBERT. Now—if ’twas with the right—
ROSE. Right what, Robert?
ROBERT. [_Confused_.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, Rose.
Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to dress yourself. We
might as well get it all over and finished with.
ROSE. [_Rising slowly_.] Perhaps ’twould be best. I’ll go to my room,
and you might call the girl Lucy and send her up to help me with my
things.
ROBERT. Won’t you take the bouquet along of you?
ROSE. No—let it bide there. I can have it later.
[_She goes slowly from the room_.
[_Left to himself_, ROBERT _strolls to the open door and looks gloomily
out on the garden_. _Suddenly his face brightens_.
ROBERT. Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment.
LUCY. [_From outside_.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths,
master.
ROBERT. Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves. Your mistress wants
you, Lucy.
LUCY. [_Coming to the door_.] Mistress wants me, did you say?
ROBERT. Yes, you’ve got to go and dress her for the church. But you can
spare me a minute or two first.
ISABEL. [_Going quickly across the room to the staircase door_.]
Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master. ’Tis late already.
ROBERT. [_Catches her hand and pulls her back_.] I’ve never had a good
look at your face yet, my girl—you act uncommon coy, and that you do.
ISABEL. [_Turning her head away and speaking angrily_.] Let go of my
hand, I tell you. I don’t want no nonsense of that sort.
ROBERT. Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and
there’s sommat about the appearance of you—
ISABEL. Let go of me, master. Suppose as anyone should look through the
window.
ROBERT. Let them look. I’d give a good bit for all the world to see us
now.
ISABEL. O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert?
ROBERT. What I say. ’Tis with you as I’d be going along to church this
morning. Not her what’s above.
ISABEL. But I wouldn’t go with you—No, not for all the gold in the
world.
ROBERT. Ah, you’ve changed since yesterday. When I caught your eye at
dinner, ’twas gentle as a dove’s—and your hand, when it gave me my mug of
cider did seem—well did seem to put a caress upon me like.
ISABEL. O there lies a world of time twixt yesterday and to-day, Master
Robert.
ROBERT. So it do seem. For to-day ’tis all thorns and thistles with
you—But I’m a-goin’ to have my look at your pretty face and my kiss of it
too.
ISABEL. I shall scream out loud if you touches me—that I shall.
ROBERT. [_Pulling her to him_.] Us’ll see about that.
[_He tries to get a sight of her face_, _but she twists and turns_.
_Finally he seizes both her hands and covers them with kisses as_ KITTY
_enters_.
KITTY. O whatever’s going on! Rose, Rose, John—come you in here
quickly, do. [_To_ LUCY.] O you bad, wicked girl. I knew you couldn’t
be a very nice servant brought in off the road by Jeremy.
[ISABEL, _released by_ ROBERT, _goes over to the window arranging her
disordered sun-bonnet and trying to hide her tears_. ROBERT _watches her
sullenly_.
KITTY. [_Goes to the staircase door and calls loudly_.] Rose, Rose—come
you down as quick as you can run.
ROSE. [_Coming down_.] What’s all this, I’d like to know?
KITTY. It’s Lucy, behaving dreadful—O you must send her straight away
from the house, Rose.
ROSE. What has she done, then?
KITTY. Going on with Robert. Flirting, Rose, and kissing.
ISABEL. O no, mistress, twasn’t so, I do swear to you.
ROBERT. [_Brutally_.] Yes ’twas. The maid so put me powerful in mind
of someone who—who—
ROSE. [_Coldly_.] I understand you, Robert. Well, ’tis lucky that all
this didn’t come off an hour or so later.
KITTY. [_Tearfully_.] O Rose, what do you mean?
ROSE. I mean that what’s not broken don’t need no mending. Robert can
go to church with someone else to-day, he can. And no harm done.
[_She takes up the bunch of orange flowers and begins pulling it to
pieces and throwing it all about the room_.
KITTY. O Rose, Rose, don’t take it so hard. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault.
’Twas the girl off the road what led him on. I know it. Tell her to get
out of the house. I’ll dress you—I’ll do the work. Only be just and
sensible again; dear Rose.
ROSE. Let the girl bide. It makes no difference to me. There’ll be no
marrying for me to-day.
[JOHN _comes in at the door_.
KITTY. [_Running to him_.] O John, John—do you quiet down Rose and tell
her to get upstairs and dress. She’s a-saying that she won’t marry
Robert because of his goings on with the new servant—But, O, you’ll talk
her into reason again, won’t you, dear John?
JOHN. Come, come, what’s all this cackle about, Rose?
ROSE. I’m breaking off with Robert, that’s all, John.
JOHN. Robert, can’t you take and explain a bit what ’tis.
ROBERT. [_Sullenly_.] A little bit of play ’twixt me and the wench
there, and that’s about all, I reckon.
JOHN. Now that’s an unsensible sort of thing to get doing on your
marriage day, to my thinking.
KITTY. ’Twasn’t Robert’s fault, I know. ’Twas the maid off the road who
started it.
[_Here_ ISABEL _sinks down on a chair by the window_, _leaning her arms
on the table and bowing her head_, _in tears_.
JOHN. [_Going to the door_.] Jeremy—Jeremy—come you in here a minute.
[_Instead of_ JEREMY, LUBIN _comes in_.
JOHN. ’Twas Jeremy I did call—not you.
LUBIN. He’s gone off the place for a few minutes.
JOHN. [_Vexedly_.] Ah, ’tis early for the Red Bull.
LUBIN. Can I—can I do anything for you, master?
JOHN. Not unless you can account for the sort of serving wench off the
roadside what Jerry has put upon us.
LUBIN. What is there to account for in her, master?
ROSE. [_Passionately_.] O I don’t particular mind about what’s
happened. Let her kiss with Robert if she has the mind. ’Tis always the
man who commences.
JOHN. ’Tis not. There are some wenches who don’t know how to leave
anyone alone. Worser than cattle flies, that sort.
ISABEL. [_Going across the room to_ LUBIN’S _side_.] O you shame me by
them words, I bain’t that sort of maid—you’ll answer for me—William?
[LUBIN _silently takes her hand_.
ROSE. [_Her eyes fixed on_ LUBIN.] I’ll tell you what, John; I’ll tell
you, Kitty. I wish I’d held me to my first lover and I wish ’twas with
Lubin that I was a-going to the church to-day.
ROBERT. [_Sullenly_.] Then I’ll say sommat, Rose. I wish ’twas with
Isabel that I was getting wed.
JOHN. Now, now—’Tis like two children a quarrelling over their
playthings. Suppose you was to go and get yourself dressed,
Rose-Anna—And you too, Robert. Why, the traps will be at the door afore
you’re ready if you don’t quicken yourselves up a bit. Kitty, you go and
help your sister.
ROSE. [_With a jealous glance at Isabel_.] No, I’ll have Lucy with me.
JOHN. That’s it, you keep her out of mischief
KITTY. I’ve got my own dress to put on.
JOHN. And Robert, you and me will have a drink after all this caddle.
’Tis dry work getting ready for marriage so it appears.
ROBERT. ’Tis fiery dry to my thinking.
ROSE. [_Crossing the room and going up to_ LUBIN.] I have no flowers to
take to church with me, William; go you to the waterside, I have a mind
to carry some of the blue things what grow there.
KITTY. Forget-me-nots, you mean!
ROSE. Forget-me-nots, I mean. And none but you to gather them for me,
William. Because—because—well, you do put me in thoughts of someone that
I once held and now have lost. That’s all.
[_Curtain_.
ACT III.—Scene 2.
_The same room half an hour later_. ISABEL _is picking up the scattered
orange blossom which she ties together and lays on the window sill_.
LUBIN _comes in with a large bunch of river forget-me-nots_.
LUBIN. I didn’t think to find you here, Isabel.
ISABEL. O but that is a beautiful blue flower. I will take the bunch
upstairs. She is all dressed and ready for it.
LUBIN. [_Putting it on the table_.] No—do you bide a moment here with
me.
[ISABEL _looks helplessly at_ LUBIN _who takes her hands slowly in his_.
LUBIN. What are we going to do?
ISABEL. I wish as we had never touched the seeds.
LUBIN. O cursed seeds of love—Far better to have left all as ’twas
yesterday in the morning.
ISABEL. He has followed me like my shadow, courting and courting me hard
and all the time, Lubin.
LUBIN. She sought me out in the yard at day-break, and what I’d have
given twenty years of life for yester eve I could have thrown into the
stream this morning.
ISABEL [_Sadly_.] So ’tis with my feelings.
LUBIN. She has altered powerful, to my fancy, in these years.
ISABEL. And Robert be differenter too from what I do remember. [_A long
silence_.
LUBIN. Have you thought as it might be in us two these changes have come
about, Isabel?
ISABEL. I was just the maid as ever I was until—
LUBIN. And so was I unchanged, until I started travelling up on the same
road as you, Isabel.
[_For a few minutes they look gravely into one another’s eyes_.
LUBIN. [_Taking_ ISABEL’S _hands_.] So that’s how ’tis with you and me.
ISABEL. O Lubin—a poor serving maid like I am.
LUBIN. I’ll have no one else in the whole world.
ISABEL. What could I have seen in him, times gone by?
LUBIN. And was it ever true that I did sit through a long Sunday her
hand in mine? [_Another silence_.
ISABEL. But how’s us ever to get out of the caddle where we be?
LUBIN. [_Gaily_.] We’ll just run away off to the Fair as t’other
servants did.
ISABEL. And leave them in their hate for one another? No—’twould be too
cruel. Us’ll run to the young mistress what knows all about them herbs.
I count as there be seeds or sommat which could set the hearts of them
two back in the right places again. Come—
LUBIN. Have it your own way then. But ’twill have to be done very
quickly if ’tis done at all.
ISABEL. Us’ll fly over the ground like.
[_She puts her hand impetuously in_ LUBIN’S _and they go out together_.
_As they do so_, ISABEL’S _bonnet falls from her head and lies unheeded
on the floor_.
ACT III.—Scene 3.
_A few minutes later_. LIZ _and_ JANE _wearing gay sprigged dresses and
feathered bonnets_, _come to the room_. _They carry fans and
handkerchiefs in their hands_. _It is seen that their gowns are not
fastened at the back_.
LIZ. Such a house I never heard tell of. Ring, ring at the bell and no
one to come nigh.
JANE. Being unused to bells, sister, maybe as us did pull them wrong or
sommat.
LIZ. I wish we’d had the gowns made different.
JANE. To do up in the front—sensible like.
[_They twist and turn in front of the glass on the wall_, _absorbed in
their dress_, _they do not notice that_ JEREMY _has come in and is
watching them sarcastically_.
JEREMY. Being as grey as th’ old badger don’t keep a female back from
vanity.
LIZ. O dear, Master Jeremy, what a turn you did give me, to be sure.
JANE. We can’t find no one in this house to attend upon we.
JEREMY. I count as you can not. Bain’t no one here.
LIZ. We rang for the wench a many time.
JEREMY. Ah, and you might ring.
JANE. We want someone as’ll fasten them niggly hooks to our gowns.
JEREMY. Ah, and you may want.
LIZ. Our sight bain’t clear enough to do one for t’other, the eyelets be
made so small.
JEREMY. Count as you’ll have to go unfastened then.
JANE. O now you be a laughing at us. Call the wench down, or we shall
never be ready in time.
JEREMY. Man and maid be both gone off. Same as t’others, us’ll have to
do without service.
LIZ. Gone off!
JANE. Runned clean away?
JEREMY. That’s about it.
JANE. Well now, sister, us’ll have to ask the little Miss to help we.
JEREMY. I’ve harnessed the mare a many time. Don’t see why I shouldn’t
get the both of you fixed into the shafts like.
LIZ and JANE. [_Fanning themselves coyly_.] O Master Jeremy—
JEREMY. Come now. Let’s have a try. I count as no one have a steadier
hand nor me this side of the river, nor a finer eye for seeing as
everything be in its place. I’ll settle the both of you afore I gets out
the horse and trap. Turn round.
[_The sisters turn awkwardly_, _and with very self-conscious airs begin
to flutter their fans_. JEREMY _quickly hooks each gown in succession_.
_As he finishes the fastening of_ JANE’S _dress_ ROSE, _followed by_
KITTY, _comes into the room_. _She is wearing her bridal gown and veil_.
ROSE. [_Pausing_.] What’s this, Jeremy?
JEREMY. The servants be runned away same as t’others—that’s all,
mistress.
ROSE. Run away?
JEREMY. So I do reckon. Bain’t anywhere about the place.
ROSE. [_Flinging herself down on a chair by the table_, _in front of the
bunch of forget-me-nots_.] Let them be found. Let them be brought back
at once.
KITTY. For my part I’m glad they’ve gone off. The girl was a wild, bad
thing. I saw how she went on with Robert.
ROSE. [_Brokenly to_ JEREMY.] You found them. Bring them back, Jerry.
KITTY. No—wait till you and Robert are made man and wife, Rose. Then
’twon’t matter quite so much.
ROSE. I’ll never wed me to Robert, I’ll only wed me to him who gathered
these blue flowers here.
KITTY. Good heavens, Rose, ’twas the man William.
[KITTY _looks in consternation from_ ROSE _to the cousins and then to_
JEREMY, _who remains impassive and uninterested_, _sucking a straw_.
ROSE _clasps her hands round the forget-me-nots and sits gazing at them_,
_desolately unhappy_. ROBERT _enters_. _He is very grandly dressed for
the wedding_, _but as he comes into the room he sees_ ISABEL’S _cotton
bonnet on the floor_. _He stoops_, _picks it up and laying it reverently
on the table_, _sinks into a chair opposite_ ROSE _and raising one of its
ribbons_, _kisses this with passion_.
ROBERT. There—I’d not change this for a thousand sacks of gold—I swear
I’d not.
KITTY. Now Robert—get up, the two of you. Are you bewitched or sommat—O
Jerry, stir them, can’t you.
LIZ. Robert, ’tisn’t hardly suitable—with the young miss so sweetly
pretty in her white gown.
JANE. And wedding veil and all. And sister and me hooked up into our
new sprigs, ready for the ceremony.
JEREMY. [_Looking at them with cold contempt_.] Let them bide. The
mush’ll swim out of they same as ’twill swim off the cider vat. Just let
the young fools bide.
KITTY. O this’ll never do. Jerry forgetting of his manners and all.
[_Calling at the garden door_.] John, John, come you here quickly,
there’s shocking goings on. [JOHN, _in best clothes comes in_.
JOHN. What’s the rattle now, Kitty? I declare I might be turning round
on top of my own mill wheel such times as these.
KITTY. Rose says she won’t wed Robert, and Robert’s gone off his head
all along of that naughty servant maid.
[JOHN _stands contemplating_ ROSE _and_ ROBERT. ROSE _seems lost to the
outside world and is gazing with tears at her forget-me-nots_, _whilst_
ROBERT, _in sullen gloom_, _keeps his eyes fixed on the sun-bonnet_.
JOHN. Come, Rose, ’tis time you commenced to act a bit different. [ROSE
_does not answer_.
JOHN. Come, Robert, if you play false to my sister at the last moment,
you know with whom you’ll have to reckon like. [ROBERT _pays no heed to
him_.
JOHN. [_To_ JEREMY.] Can you do naught to work upon them a bit, Jerry?
JEREMY. I’d have a jug of cider in, master. ’Twill settle them all.
Folks do get ’sterical and vapourish face to face with matrimony. Put
some drink afore of them, and see how ’twill act.
LIZ. O what a wise thought, Master Jerry.
JANE. Most suitable, I call it.
[_Here_ MARY MEADOWS _comes in_, JOHN _turns eagerly to her_.
JOHN. O Mary—have you come to help us in the fix where we are? [_He
signs to_ ROSE _and_ ROBERT.
MARY. What has happened, John?
JEREMY. I’ll tell you in a couple of words, mistress.
LIZ. No—do you fetch the cider, dear Mister Jeremy.
JOHN. ’Tis more than I can do with, Mary. Rose is set against Robert,
and Robert is set against Rose. Rose—well I’m fairly ashamed to mention
it—Rose has lost her senses and would wed the servant William—and Robert
is a-courting of the maid.
JEREMY. Ah, let each fool follow their own liking, says I.
LIZ. And sister and me all dressed in our new gowns for the church.
JANE. And Jerry had to do the hooking for we, both of the servants
having runned away.
MARY. Well, now I’m here I’ll lend a hand. I’ll help with the dinner
time you’re at church. You shall not need to trouble about anything, Mr.
John.
JOHN. O once I do get them to the church and the ring fixed and all I
shan’t trouble about nothing, Mary. But ’tis how to move them from where
they be! That’s the puzzle.
ROSE. I’ll never move till the hand that gathered these flowers be here
to raise me.
ROBERT. I’ll sit here to the end of the world sooner nor go along to be
wed with Miss over there.
MARY. ’Tis midsummer heat have turned their brains. But I know a
cooling draught that will heal them of their sickness. Jeremy, do you
step into the garden and bring me a handful of fresh violet leaves, one
blossom from the heartsease and a sprig of rosemary.
JEREMY. [_Sighing_.] What next?
JOHN. Get gone at once, Jerry.
[JEREMY _goes to the door_—_as he does so_ LIZ _and_ JANE _start up and
follow him_.
LIZ. Sister and me will come along and help you, dear Mr. Jeremy.
JANE. And that us will, if our new gowns bain’t hooked too tight for we
to bend.
[_They follow_ JEREMY _to the garden_. KITTY _silently leaves the room
also_. ROSE _and_ ROBERT _remain lost in their sorrowful reflections_.
JOHN _and_ MARY _look at them for a moment and then turn to one another_.
JOHN. Mary, I never thought to see such a thing as this.
MARY. You take my word for it, John, the storm will soon be blown away.
JOHN. I don’t know how I should stand up against the worry of it all,
wasn’t it for you, Mary.
[_A short silence_.
JOHN. [_Taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] ’Twill be a bit lonesome for me here,
when they’ve gone off, Mary.
MARY. You’ll have Kitty to do for you then.
JOHN. Kitty be going to live along of them at Bristol too, after a
while.
MARY. [_Looking round the room_.] Then I count as it might feel a bit
desolate like in this great house alone.
JOHN. [_Taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] I cannot face it, Mary. I’ve loved you
many years, you know.
MARY. I know you have, dear John.
JOHN. Can’t you forget he what was false to you, days gone by, and take
me as your husband now?
MARY. [_Doubtfully_.] I don’t hardly know.
JOHN. You used to sing sommat—the grass that was trampled under foot,
give it time, it will rise up again.
MARY. [_Drying her eyes_.] Ah, it has risen, dear John—and I count it
have covered the wound of those past days—my heart do tell me so, this
minute.
JOHN. [_Holding both her hands_.] Then ’tis one long midsummer afore
you and me, Mary.