Six Plays

_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.

Mary. That’s how ’twill be, dear John.

[JEREMY, _followed by the cousins_, _enters_. _He holds a bunch of leaves towards_ MARY.

Jeremy. There you be, mistress. Fools’ drink for fools. A mug of good cider would have fetched them to their senses quicker.

[MARY _takes the bunch_, _and still holding_ JOHN’S _hand_, _leads him to the kitchen_. JEREMY _watches the pair sarcastically_.

Jeremy. ’Tis all finished with the master, then.

[_The sisters seat themselves on the couch and mop their faces with handkerchiefs_.

Liz. Dear me, ’tis warm.

Jane. I hope my face don’t show mottled, sister?

Jeremy. I was saying as how ’twas all finished with the master.

[MARY, _followed by_ JOHN, _comes forward carrying two glasses_. _She gives one to_ ROSE _and the other to_ ROBERT.

Mary. Now do you take a good draught of this, the both of you. With violet leaves the fever of the mind is calmed, and heartsease lightens every trouble caused by love. Rosemary do put new life to anyone with its sweetness, and cold spring water does the rest.

[_She leaves the table and stands far back in the room by_ JOHN’S _side_. ROSE _slowly lifts her glass and begins to drink_. ROBERT _does the same_. _They are watched with anxiety by all in the room_. _When they have emptied their glasses_ ROSE _dries her tears and pushes the flowers a little way from her_. ROBERT _shakes himself and moves the cotton bonnet so that it falls unheeded to the floor_. _Meanwhile_ KITTY _has come quietly to the garden door and stands there watching the scene intently_.

Liz. Bain’t we going to get a drink too?

Jane. Seems as though master have been and forgot we.

Jeremy. [_Starting up and going to the kitchen_.] If I’ve been and forgot you two old women, I’ve remembered myself. Be blowed if I can get through any more of this foolishness without a wet of my mouth.

[_He goes out_.

Rose. [_Speaking faintly_.] Does it show upon my face, the crying, Robert?

Robert. [_Looking at her_.] No, no, Rose, your eyes be brighter nor ever they were.

Rose. [_Pushing the forget-me-nots yet further away_.] Those flowers are dying. My fancy ones were best.

Kitty. [_Coming forward with the orange blossoms_.] Here they are, dear Rose.

Rose. [_Taking them_.] O how beautiful they do look. I declare I can smell the sweetness coming out from them, Robert.

Robert. All the orange blossom in the world bain’t so sweet as one kiss from your lips, Rose.

Rose. Now is that truly so?

Robert. Ah, ’tis heavy work a-waiting for the coach, Rose.

John. [_Coming forward and taking_ MARY’S _hand_.] And yours won’t be the only marriage Rose-Anna. Did you never think that me and Mary might—

Kitty. [_Running forward_.] But I did—O so many times, John. [JEREMY _enters with_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL.

Jeremy. Servants be comed back. Man was to the Red Bull, I count. Female a-washing and a-combing of herself in the barn.

Rose. [_Coldly_.] I don’t care whether they be here or not. Set them to work, Jerry, whilst we are to church.

Liz. That’s it, Master Jeremy. I was never so put out in my life, as when sister did keep on ringing and the wench was not there to help us on with our gowns.

[ROSE _and_ ROBERT _get up and go towards the door_. _They pause before_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL.

Rose. The man puts me in mind of someone whom I knew before, called Lubin. I thought I had a fancy for him once—but ’twasn’t really so.

Robert. And the girl do favour a little servant wench from Framilode.

Rose. [_Jealously_.] You never went a-courting with a servant wench, now did you, my heart’s dearest?

Robert. Never in all my days, Rose. ’Twas but the fanciful thoughts of a boy towards she, that I had.

Rose. [_Putting her arm in_ ROBERT’S.] Well, we have nothing to do with anything more of it now, dear Robert.

Robert. You’re about right, my true love, we’ll get us off to the church.

Jeremy. Ah, coach have been waiting a smartish while, I reckon. ’Tis on master as expense’ll fall.

[ROSE _and_ ROBERT _with cold glances at_ LUBIN _and_ ISABEL, _pass out of the door_.

John. [_Giving his arm to_ MARY.] Now, Mary—now, Kitty. [_They pass out_.

Liz. Now, Jeremy, sister and me bain’t going off all alone.

Jeremy. [_Offering an arm to each_.] No further than the church door, I say. I’ve better things to do nor a-giving of my arm to females be they never so full of wiles. And you two do beat many what bain’t near so long in the tusk, ah, that you does.

[JEREMY _goes out with the sisters_.

Lubin. [_To_ ISABEL.] And shall we go off into the meadows, Isabel, seeing that we are quite forgot?

Isabel. No—’tis through these faithless ones as us have learnt to understand the hearts within of we. Let’s bide and get the marriage dinner ready for them first.

[_She stretches both her hands towards_ LUBIN, _who takes them reverently in his as the Curtain falls_.

THE NEW YEAR

Characters. STEVE BROWNING, _a Blacksmith_, _also Parish Clerk_.

GEORGE DAVIS, _a Carpenter_.

HARRY MOSS, _a young Tramp_.

MAY BROWNING.

JANE BROWNING.

DORRY BROWNING, _aged twelve_.

ANNIE SIMS.

ROSE SIMS.

VASHTI REED.

ACT I.—Scene 1.

_A country roadside_. _It is late afternoon and already dusk_. MAY BROWNING _with_ HARRY MOSS _come slowly forward_. _Close to a stile which is a little off the road_, MAY _stops_.

May. There, you don’t need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. You get on quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and the snow, too.

Harry. I don’t care much about leaving you like this on the roadside, May. And that’s the truth, ’tis.

May. Don’t you take no more thought for I, Harry. ’Tis a good boy as you’ve been to I since the day when we fell in together. But now there bain’t no more need for you to hold back your steps, going slow and heavy when you might run spry and light. For ’tis home as I be comed to now, I be. You go your way.

Harry. I see naught of any house afore us or behind. ’Tis very likely dusk as is upon us, or may happen ’tis the fog getting up from the river.

May. [_Coughing_.] Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a field path, bain’t there?

Harry. [_Taking a few steps to the right and peering through the gloom_.] Ah, and that there be.

May. And at t’other end of it a house what’s got a garden fence all round.

Harry. Ah—and ’tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light shining from out the windows of it, too, though ’tis shining dim-like in the mist.

May. ’Tis that yonder’s my home, Harry. There’s the door where I must stand and knock.

[_For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with weeping_.

Harry. I wouldn’t take on so, if ’twas me.

May. And did you say as how there was a light in the window? ’Twill be but fire light then, for th’ old woman she never would bring out the lamp afore ’twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, what’d lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it should go wasted.

Harry. There, ’tis shining better now—or maybe as the fog have shifted.

May. ’Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry.

Harry. Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I’ll go along of you a bit further. ’Twill not be much out of my way. Nothing to take no count of.

May. No, no, Harry. I bain’t going to cross that field, nor yet stand at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is it like as I’d let them see me coming over the meadow and going through the gate in this? [_Holding up a ragged shawl_.] In these? [_Pointing to her broken shoes_.] And—as I be to-day.

[_Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of anguished coughing_.

Harry. There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, like. Don’t you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you’ll be wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn’t know that you be coming back.

May. [_Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough_.] Harry, you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. ’Tis all live coals within I here, so ’tis.

Harry. You get along home, and maybe as them’ll find summat better nor water from the ditch to give you.

May. No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall and cover me, or I won’t never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. Give I to drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in quiet till all of the light be gone.

Harry. [_Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her_.] Where be I to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground?

May. [_Pointing_.] Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you there, ’tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch.

[HARRY _goes off with the can_. MAY _watches him_, _drawing her shawl again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing_.

[HARRY _returns and holds out the can_.

May. ’Tis not very quick as you’ve been, Harry Moss. Here—give it to I fast. Give!

[HARRY _puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands_, _which shake feverishly_, _and she drinks with sharp avidity_.

May. ’Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it. Drink of it, too, Harry.

Harry. ’Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat as’ll lie more warm and comfortable to th’ inside like. I bain’t one for much water, and that’s the truth, ’tis. [_He empties the water on the ground_.

May. Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, where the lamps do shine and ’tis bright and warm in the places where they sells the drink.

Harry. Once I sets off running by myself, I’ll get there fast enough, May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I don’t care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like.

May. Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too.

Harry. [_Sitting down by her side_.] ’Tis a fine thing to have a home what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside. How was it as you ever came away from it, like?

May. Ah, and that’s what I be asking of myself most of the time, Harry! For, ’tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut the door behind me and went out.

[_A slight pause_.

May. Away from them all, upon the road—so ’twas.

Harry. And never see’d no more of them, nor sent to say how ’twas with you, nor nothing?

May. Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And ’twas finished.

[_A long pause_, _during which the darkness has gathered_.

Harry. Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May?

May. [_Bitterly_.] Ah now, whatever did!

Harry. ’Tweren’t as though you might have been a young wench, flighty like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the streets of it. For, look you here, ’tis an old woman as you be now, May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don’t doubt.

May. An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you ’tis so, I count. But a twelve year gone by, O, ’twas a fine enough looking maid as I was then—Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the free ways of the road and the lights of the fair—And for the sun to rise in one place where I was, and for I to be in t’other when her should set.

Harry. I’d keep my breath for when ’twas wanted, if ’twas me.

May. Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as they’ll be likely to know I again up at home?

Harry. How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that ’tis but a ten days or less as I’ve been along of you on the road? And seeing that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you neither?

May. Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I’ll tell you how ’twas in the days gone by?

Harry. ’Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. The night be coming upon we wonderful fast.

May. The hair, ’twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, Harry. ’Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so ’twas.

Harry. Well, ’tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, that it be.

May. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. ’Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, Harry.

Harry. ’Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May.

May. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that I can. Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I up. Why, there, Harry, you won’t know as ’tis me when I’ve been to home a day or two—or may be as ’twill take a week.

Harry. I count ’twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as you once was, May.

May. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by the hair, which is different to what ’twas, or by the form of me, which be got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don’t come never no change. So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do appear to you.

Harry. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May.

May. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they.

Harry. Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed out from they. ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look into the eyes what you’ve got.

May. [_With despondence_.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as ’tis me, Harry Moss.

Harry. I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth.

May. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and the breath of me so short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, afore they sees who ’tis. Though all be changed to th’ eye like, there’ll be summat in me as’ll tell they. And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll speak for I—But ’tis summat what do come straight out of the hearts of we and do say better words for we nor what the looks nor tongues of us might tell. You mind me, Harry, there’s that which will come out of me as’ll bring they to know who ’tis.

Harry. Ah, I reckon as you’ll not let them bide till they does.

May. And when they do know, and when they sees who ’tis, I count as they’ll be good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as Steve, he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s his mother, hard too—And that it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I sees thing different now.

Harry. Ah, ’tis one thing to see by candle and another by day.

May. For ’twas wild as I was in the time gone by. Wild after pleasuring and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at the countenance of I, and a-turning back for to look again. But, hark you here, ’tis powerful changed as I be now.

Harry. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman into an old one.

May. I’m finished with the road journeying and standing about in the streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking places—Men what don’t want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to follow if ’twasn’t only a bit of eyelid as I’d lift on them, times that is gone.

Harry. Ah, ’twould take a lot of looking to see you as you was.

May. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to bide quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and the door shut.

Harry. I reckon as you be.

May. And I’m thinking as they’ll be rare pleased for to have I in the house again. ’Twill be another pair of hands to the work like. And when I was young, ’twas not on work as I was set much.

Harry. Ah, I did guess as much.

May. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, ’tis a strong arm as them’ll have working for they; Steve, th’ old woman what’s his mother, and little Dorry, too.

Harry. Dorry? I han’t heard tell of she.

May. That’s my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling on the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. Bless the innocent heart of her!

Harry. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can’t think! You must have been drove to it like, wasn’t you?

May. ’Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. ’Twas very likely the blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was tied up to Steve, ’twas as if they had got I shut in a box. ’Twas the bridle on my head and the bit in the mouth of I; and to be held in where once I had gone free. [_A short pause_.

May. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to be calling I from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries tossing in the wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where they’d been stuck all summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I powerful, so that one morning when the sun was up and the breeze running, I comed out into the air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. And ’twas done—so ’twas.

Harry. And didn’t they never try for to stop you, nor for to bring you back, May?

May. No, Harry, they did not.

Harry. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the door shut ahind of you?

May. Ah—where! To the east, to the south, every part. ’Twas morning with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into the countenance of I. Then ’twas the best as they could give as I might take; and ’twas for no lodging as I did want when dark did come falling.

Harry. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, May.

May. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, maybe. So ’twas with I.

[_She bows her head on her knees_, _and for a moment is shaken with sudden grief_.

Harry. Don’t you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to the end of your journeying this day, and that you be.

May. [_Raising her head_.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so. And ’tis rare glad as them’ll be to see I once again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good one—And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman what’s not me—and that he won’t—I never knowed him much as look on one, times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. And little Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, I warrant—so ’twill.

[_A slight pause_.

May. Th’ old woman—well—I shan’t take it amiss if her should be dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his station and that. God rest the bones of she, for I count her’ll have been lying in the churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, and if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day—so ’tis.

Harry. Look you here—the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis night. Get up and go in to them all yonder. ’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on the road to see you as you do go.

May. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be powerful weak.

Harry. [_Lifting her up_.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, May.

May. [_Standing up_.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I bide alone.

Harry. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to the door.

May. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide here a while in the quiet of my thoughts. ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home to go to, nor fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you quick.

Harry. There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May.

May. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis empty-handed as I be.

Harry. I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t.

May. [_Fumbling in her shawl_.] There, Harry—’tis comed back to my mind now. [_She takes out part of a loaf of bread_.] Take you this bread. And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. There, Harry, take and eat.

[_She holds the bread to him._

Harry. [_Taking the bread_.] I count ’twill all be well with you now, May?

May. I warrant as ’twill, for I be right to home. But go you towards the town, Harry, for ’tis late. And God go with you, my dear, now and all time.

Harry. I’ll set off running then. For the night, ’tis upon us, May, and the snow, ’tis thick in the air.

[MAY _turns to the stile and leans on it heavily_, _gazing across the field_. HARRY _sets off quickly down the road_.

ACT II.—Scene 1.

_The living room in the Brownings’ cottage_. _The room is divided by a curtain which screens the fireside end from the draught of the principal door_.

_To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs_. _Chairs are grouped round the hearth_, _and there is a table at which_ JANE BROWNING _is ironing a dress by the light of one candle_. DORRY _leans against the table_, _watching her_.

Jane. [_Putting aside the iron_.] There, you take and lay it on the bed upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I’m not a-going to iron it twice.

[_She lays the dress carefully across_ DORRY’S _arms_.

Dorry. Don’t the lace look nice, Gran’ma?

Jane. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come straight down again.

Dorry. Couldn’t I put it on once, Gran’ma, just to see how it do look on me?

Jane. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! You go and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear?

Dorry. [_Leaving the room by the door to the right_.] I’d like to put it on just once, I would.

[JANE BROWNING _blows out the candle and puts away the iron and ironing cloth_. _She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it as_ DORRY _comes back_.

Dorry. Dad’s cleaning of himself ever so—I heard the water splashing something dreadful as I went by his door.

Jane. ’Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing as he be about, I reckon.

Dorry. [_Sitting down on a stool_.] I’d like to go along, too, and see the dancing up at the schools to-night, I would.

Jane. And what next, I should like to know!

Dorry. And wear my new frock what’s ironed, and the beads what Miss Sims gived me.

Jane. [_Looking out at the window_.] I’m thinking as we shall get some snow by and bye. ’Tis come over so dark all of a sudden.

Dorry. Couldn’t I go along of they, Gran’ma, and wear my new frock, and the beads, too? I never see’d them dance th’ old year out yet, I haven’t.

Jane. Get along with you, Dorry. ’Tis many a year afore you’ll be of an age for such foolishness. And that’s what I calls it, this messing about with dancing and music and I don’t know what.

Dorry. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she’s let to go, she is.

Jane. You bain’t Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what’s to-morrow isn’t enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I don’t know what is.

Dorry. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran’ma, I do. Shall you put on your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to church?

Jane. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you knows how.

Dorry. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims to the dance, I shall. Dad’s got that kind to me since last night—he gived me a sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn’t asked. And won’t it be nice when Miss Sims comes here to live, and when you has someone to help you in the work, Gran’ma?

Jane. Well—’tis to be hoped as ’twill be all right this time.

Dorry. This time, Gran’ma! Why, wasn’t it all right when Dad was married afore, then?

Jane. [_Getting the lamp from a shelf_.] I don’t light up as a rule till ’tis six o’clock, but I count it’s a bit of snow coming as have darkened the air like.

Dorry. Gran’ma, isn’t Miss Sims nice-looking, don’t you think? I’d like to wear my hair like hers and have earrings a-hanging from me and a-shaking when I moves my head, I would.

Jane. [_Setting the lamp on the table_.] Here, fetch me the matches, do.

Dorry. [_Bringing the matches_.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss Sims, Gran’ma?

Jane. I’m one as goes by other things nor looks—For like as not ’tis fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them—give me a plain face and a heart what’s pure, I says, and ’tis not far out as you’ll be.

Dorry. Was my mammy’s heart pure, Gran’ma? [_A moment’s silence_. JANE _lights the lamp_. DORRY _leans at the table_, _watching her_.

Dorry. Was my mammy’s—[_A loud knock on the outside door_.

Jane. Who’s that come bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there’s a good child.

Dorry. It’ll be Gran’ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at the door loud with her stick.

[DORRY _runs to the window and looks out_.

Dorry. ’Tis her, and the snow white all upon her.

[DORRY _goes to the door to open it_.

Jane. [_To herself_.] Of all the meddlesome old women—why can’t her bide till her’s wanted.

[DORRY _opens the door wide_, _and_ VASHTI _Comes slowly in to the room_, _leaning on a big staff_.

Jane. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the hill to-day? ’Twould have been better had you bid at home, with the dark coming on and the snow.

Dorry. [_Who has closed the door_.] Sit down, Granny—there, close against the fire, do.

[VASHTI _stands in the middle of the room_, _looking from one to another_.

Dorry. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do.

Vashti. ’Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. And down to the pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where ’tis fog, And there be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the wind. And no where may the bones of me rest this day.

Jane. If ’tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you’d best have stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave sensible, and maybe as I’ll get you summat warm to drink presently.

Dorry. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we.

[VASHTI _sits stiffly down by the hearth_, _leaning on her stick_. JANE _resumes her place_, _and_ DORRY _puts her little stool between them_.

Vashti. And in the night when I was laid down, against the windowpane it fled a three times. A three time it fled and did beat the pane as though ’twould get in. And I up and did open the window. And the air it ran past I, and ’twas black, with naught upon it but the smell of a shroud. So I knowed.

Dorry. What did you know, Granny?

Vashti. [_Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire_, _speaking as though to herself_.] Summat lost—summat lost, and what was trying to get safe away.

Dorry. Safe away? From what, Granny?

Vashti. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, what holds in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I holds here, and the knife to it be as long again by twice.

Dorry. O, Granny, I’ll be a-feared to go across the garden after dark, I shall.

Jane. What do you want to go and put that there into the child’s head for? I’d like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff.

Vashti. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand in the mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And when the door was closed, ’twas as if one did come running round the house and did beat upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to open it, but the place outside was full of emptiness, and ’twas they old carrion crows what did talk to I out of the storm.

Jane. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don’t you speak of summat what’s got some sense to it? Come, don’t you know as Steve, his wedding day, ’tis to-morrow as ever is.

Dorry. ’Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad’s marriage.

Vashti. [_Suddenly_.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, then?

Dorry. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don’t you see how ’tis cleaned and the new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget ’gainst the door where the old one always tripped me up?

Vashti. I see naught but what ’tis more like a burial here. So ’tis. And ’tis a burial as I’ve carried in my heart as I comed down from the hills.

Dorry. [_Looking out of the window_.] Granny, you’ll be forced to bide the night along of we, ’cause the snow be falling thick, and ’twill be likely as not as you’ll lose your way if you start for to go home again when ’tis snowing.

Jane. Th’ old thing may as well bide the night now she be come. Hark you, Vashti, ’twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if you bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever wants.

Vashti. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane Browning?

Dorry. Why, Granny, ’tis Dad’s wedding day to-morrow, and ’tis a white frock with lace to it as I’m going to wear, and beads what Miss Sims gived me, and the shoes what was new except for being worn to church three times. Shall I fetch them all and show to you, Granny?

Jane. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely ’twill give her thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in one of her nasty moods to-day when you can’t get a word what isn’t foolishness out of her. [DORRY _runs upstairs_.

Vashti. [_Leaning forward_.] Was her telling of a marriage?

Jane. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, only you don’t trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of yourself in the night. ’Tis our Steve what’s going to marry Annie Sims to-morrow.

Vashti. Steve Browning?

Jane. I haven’t patience with th’ old gipsy! Yes—Steve. And ’tis a twelvemonth or more as you’d knowed of it.

Vashti. Our Steve, what’s husband to my May?

Jane. ’Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that ’tis. May, what went out trolloping along the roads ’stead of she biding at home to mind the house and child! ’Tis how you did breed she up, Vashti Reed, what led her to act as her did. And if you’d have bred her different, ’twould have been all the same; for what’s in the blood is bound to out and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it in the room, ’tain’t no flower as you must look for.

Vashti. ’Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. But in the blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through the door again. God bless the head an feet of she!

Jane. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb like she, was bound for to meet her doom. And ’twas in the river up London way where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same petticoat to it as I’ve seed on May a score of times. Don’t you recollect how ’twas parson as brought the news to we?

Vashti. ’Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come from the mouths of they, neither.

Jane. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was gone out. ’Twas not much as he did say, being a man what hasn’t many words to his tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat what do hang up yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the sleeve of it. Leastways, he didn’t speak the words, but I seed what he was after, and I took and sewed a bit on, and he’s wore it ever since till yesterday—And that’s eleven year ago it be—so there.

Vashti. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And I seems to feel the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain’t shrouded, nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of she—you take my words—and there shall come a day when the latch shall rise and her be standing among us and a-calling on her child and husband what’s forgotten she.

Jane. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such things to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn’t wonder if he was to put you out of the door and into the snow—and ’tis most unfitting for to talk so afore the child.

Vashti. [_Calling out loudly_.] Come back to I, May—you come back to I—there bain’t no one what thinks on the name of you, or what wants you but your old mother. You come back to I!

Jane. I’ll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! ’Tain’t nothing to be proud on as you’ve got, and ’twould be better if you was to be less free in your hollering. Look, here’s Dorry coming.

[DORRY _comes into the kitchen_; _she is wearing her new white frock_.

Dorry. See, Granny, I’ve been and put it on for to show you better. See the lace? Isn’t it nice? And the beads, too. I didn’t stop for to put on my shoes, nor my new stockings. Nor my hat, what’s got a great long feather all round of it.

Jane. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you’ll crease and tumble that frock so as it’s not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go to put it on for?

Dorry. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as she should come out of her trouble. Gran’s always got some trouble in her mind, han’t you, Granny?

Vashti. A twelve year gone by, my child.

Jane. I’ll give it you if you starts off again.

Vashti. A twelve year gone by—

Dorry. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny?

Vashti. ’Tis more’n eleven years since her wented out of the door, my child—your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the door! And likely as not ’twill be feet first as her shall be brought in again.

Dorry. Granny, was my poor mammy, what’s dead, nice looking like Miss Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow?

Vashti. ’Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all the green of it as was your mammy, my dear.

Dorry. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, like Miss Sims, Granny?

Jane. ’Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and pleasuring what was her undoing, as ’twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if you don’t take care. ’Tis she as you favours, and none of your father’s people, more’s the pity, and ’tis more thoughtful and serious as you’ll have to grow if you don’t want to come to harm. You take and go right up, and off with that frock, do you hear me?

Dorry. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I’d got it on, I did.

Jane. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, ’tis all as you do think on, and ’tis plain to see what’s got working in the inside of you, Dorry. ’Tis the drop of bad blood as you has got from she what bore you. But I might as well speak to that door for all you cares. Only, hark you here, you’ll be sorry one of these days as you han’t minded me better. And then ’twill be too late.

[STEVE _comes down the stairs_, _pushes open the door and enters_.

Steve. Well, Mother, what’s up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, what be you a-crying for?

Dorry. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad—now that I’ve got my frock on and all.—O, I wants to be let to go.

Steve. Well, Mother—what do you say? ’Twouldn’t hurt for she to look in about half an hour, and Annie and me we could bring her back betimes.

Dorry. O, Dad, I wants to go if ’twas only for a minute.

Steve. There, there—you shall go and we’ll say no more about it.

Jane. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, Steve.

Steve. Well, Mother, ’tain’t every day as a man’s married, that ’tain’t.

Vashti. And so you’re to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells me as you’re to be wed.

Steve. That’s right enough, Gran.

Vashti. [_Rising_.] And there be no resting in me to-day, Steve. There be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body and that will not let me bide.—And ’tis steps as I hears on the roadside and in the fields—and ’tis a bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be moving, and peering about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for to do away with the thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of death—So ’tis.

Jane. Now she’s off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and I’ll give you summat as’ll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in your chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water boiling.

[_She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it_.

Dorry. [_From the window_.] Here’s Miss Sims coming up the path, and Rosie too. O, they’re wrapped up all over ’cause ’tis snowing. I’ll open, I’ll open.

[_She runs to the door and unlatches it_. ANNIE _and_ ROSE SIMS _come in_, _shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their cloaks_, _which_ STEVE _takes from them and hangs on the door_.

ACT II.—Scene 2.

Annie. [_As_ STEVE _takes off her cloak_.] ’Tis going to be a dreadful night. The snow’s coming down something cruel.

Rose. There won’t be many to the dance if it keeps on like this, will there?

Steve. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before we sets out again.

Dorry. Miss Sims, Miss Sims—Miss Rosie—I’m going along with you to the dance, Dad says as I may.

Jane. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, and he so strict, I don’t know.

Annie. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry—I shouldn’t hardly know ’twas you. [_Turning to_ VASHTI REED.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, my eyes was very near blinded when I first got in out of the dark, and I didn’t see as you was there.

Rose. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold weather?

Vashti. [_Peering into their faces as they stand near her_.] What be you a-telling I of?

Annie. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed?

Vashti. How be I?

Rose. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now ’tis come over such nasty weather?

Vashti. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out in the rain and all the wind, and driv’ there too by them as was laid like snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she when her should have gotten to a time of weakness.

Jane. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down in the warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the clothes which you have upon you. [_Moving about and putting tea things on the table_.] I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for th’ old woman, with a drop of summat strong to it as will keep her from using of her tongue so free till morning time.

Annie. [_Sitting down_.] Poor old woman, ’tis a sad thing when folks do come to such a pass as she.

Rose. And han’t got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But she’s better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the hedge as we was coming across the meadow. “Why,” I says to Annie, “it must be bad to have no home to bide in such a night as this!” Isn’t that so, Mrs. Browning?

Steve. Ah, you’re right there, you’re right.

Rose. I wouldn’t much care to be upon the road to-night, would you, Steve?

Vashti. And at that hour when th’ old year be passing out, and dark on all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead which be in they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to each, as the corpses do go by. There’s many a night as I have stood and have looked into they when them did draw near to I, but never the face I did seek.

[_Here_ JANE, _who has been making a cup of tea_, _and who has poured something in it from a bottle_, _advances to_ VASHTI.

Jane. Here, Vashti Reed, here’s a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take and drink it up and very likely ’twill warm th’ inside of you, for I’ll lay as you haven’t seen a mouthful of naught this day.

Steve. Ah, that’s it, that’s it. When folks do go leer ’tis a powerful lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads of they.

[VASHTI _takes the cup and slowly drinks_.

Dorry. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran’ma, at what Miss Sims have got on!

Vashti. [_Putting down her cup and leaning forward_.] Which of you be clothed for marriage?

Jane. Get along of you, Gran, ’tis for the dance up at the school as they be come.

Vashti. Come you here—her what’s to wed our Steve. Come you here and let I look at you. My eyes bain’t so quick as they was once. Many tears have clouded they. But come you here.

Dorry. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice things.

Annie. [_Steps in front of_ VASHTI.] Here I be, Mrs. Reed.

Vashti. Be you the one what’s going to wed our Steve come New Year.

Annie. That’s it, Mrs. Reed, that’s it.

Vashti. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage or for burial?

Steve. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don’t you take no account of she. ’Tis worry and that as have caused the mind of she to wander a bit, but she don’t mean nothing by it.

Annie. All right, Steve. She don’t trouble me at all. [_To_ VASHTI.] ’Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed.

Vashti. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? Han’t he got one already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do Steve want for with a new one then?

Steve. Come on, girls. I can’t stand no more of this. Let’s off, and call in to George’s as we do go by.

Rose. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said as how ’twouldn’t be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve.

Steve. That’s right, then we’ll bide a bit longer till George do call for we, only ’tis more nor I can stand when th’ old lady gets her tongue moving.

Dorry. Why, look, Gran’s fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that Gran’s dropped off and can’t say none of her foolish things any more, do stand so as Dad and Gran’ma can see the frock which you’ve got for the dance.

Annie. O, Dorry, you’re a little torment, that’s the truth.

[_She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she has on_.

Rose. Well, Steve?

Steve. Well, Rosie.

Rose. Haven’t you got nothing as you can say, Steve?

Steve. What be I to say, Rose?

Rose. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course.

Steve. O, ’tis all right, I suppose.

Rose. All right! And is that about all as you’ve seen? Why, bless you, Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to know!

Steve. Well, there bain’t nothing wrong, be there?

Rose. Of course there isn’t. But I never did see such a man as you, Steve. Why, I don’t believe as you’d know whether Annie haves a pair of eyes to her face or not, nor if they be the same colour one to t’other.

Steve. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I’ve picked out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I is to be made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me this night, I reckon.

Dorry. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder what I should feel if ’twas me that was going to be married!

Rose. You get and ask Annie how ’tis with her, Dorry. I could tell a fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the candles that’s burned right down to the very end of them, I could.

Annie. Don’t you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. She’s that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce do know what she’s a-saying of. But suppose you was just to ask her what she’s got wrapped so careful in that there paper in her hand.

Dorry. O, Rosie, whatever is it?

Steve. What’s that you’ve got hold on now, Rosie?

Annie. Come, show them all, Rose.

[ROSE _slowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse carnation and a fern_.

Rose. There ’tis, then.

Dorry. O my, Rosie—isn’t it beautiful. Be you going to wear it to the dance?

Rose. No, Dorry, ’tisn’t for me.

Annie. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry.

Dorry. O, who is it for, Rosie—who is it for?

Rose. No—I’m not a-going to tell none of you.

[_She wraps it up carefully again_.

Annie. I’ll tell then, for you.

Rose. No, you shan’t, Annie—that you shan’t!

Annie. That I shall, then—come you here, Dorry—I’ll whisper it to your ear. [_Whispers it to_ DORRY.

Dorry. [_Excitedly_.] I know who ’tis—I know—’tis for Mr. Davis—for Mr. Davis! Think of that, Dad—the flower ’tis for George Davis.

Rose. O, Annie, how you could!

Steve. George—

Vashti. [_Suddenly roused_.] Who named George? There was but one man as was called by that name—and he courted my girl till her was faint and weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day when he was come—

Dorry. There’s Gran gone off on her tales again.

[JANE _crosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head of_ VASHTI, _who relapses again into sleep_.

Steve. [_Sitting down by_ ROSE.] What’s this, Rose? I han’t heard tell of this afore. Be there aught a-going on with you and George, then?

Rose. No, Steve, there isn’t nothing in it much, except that George and me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like—and a two or three time before.

Steve. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give to George, then?

Rose. Well—’tis for George as I’ve saved it out of some what the gardener up at Squire’s gived me.

Steve. [_As though to himself_.] ’Tis a powerful many years since George he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon a maid, I didn’t since—

Rose. Well, Steve, I’m sure there’s no need for you to be upset over it. ’Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he doesn’t.

Steve. Who said as I was upset, Rose?

Rose. Look at the long face what you’ve pulled. Annie, if ’twas me, I shouldn’t much care about marrying a man with such a look to him.

Annie. What’s up, Steve? What’s come over you like, all of a minute?

Steve. ’Tis naught, Annie, naught. ’Twas summat of past times what comed into the thoughts of me. But ’tis naught. And, Rose, if so be as ’twas you as George is after, I’d wish him to have luck, with all my heart, I would, for George and me—well, we too has always stuck close one to t’other, as you knows.

Jane. Ah—that you has, George and you—you and George.

Annie. Hark—there’s someone coming up now.

Dorry. O, let me open the door—let me open it!

[_She runs across the room and lifts the latch_. GEORGE _stands in the doorway shaking the snow from him_. _Then he comes into the room_.

Dorry. I’m going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven’t I got a nice frock on?

Steve. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night?

George. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss Sims, good evening—Yes, Steve, I’ll off with my coat, for ’tis pretty well sprinkled with snow, like.

[STEVE _helps_ GEORGE _to take off his overcoat_.

Rose. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis.

Jane. And that’s a thing which han’t no luck to it, if ’tis said afore the proper time, Rosie.

Rose. Well, but ’tis New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?

George. Ah, so ’tis—and a terrible nasty storm as ever I knowed! ’Twas comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, as I was a-crossing of the meadow. And there lay some poor thing sheltering below the hedge, with a bit of sacking throwed over her. I count ’tis very near buried alive as anyone would be as slept out in such a night.

Steve. I reckon ’twould be so—so ’twould. But come you in and give yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing.

Jane. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when ’tis free as you’ll get them up at the school?

Steve. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I’ll fetch it right away.

Jane. No, you don’t. I’ll have no one meddling in the pantry save it’s myself. Dorry, give me that there jug.

Dorry. [_Taking a jug from the dresser_.] Here ’tis, Gran’ma, shall I light the candle?

Jane. So long as you’ll hold the matches careful.

Annie. Well—’tis to be hoped as the weather’ll change afore morning.

Rose. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride.

George. That us shall, but it don’t look much as though we should get it.

[JANE BROWNING _and_ DORRY _go out of the room_.

Steve. Sit you down, George, along of we. ’Tis right pleased as I be for to see you here to-night.

George. Well, Steve, I bain’t one for a lot of words but I be powerful glad to see you look as you does, and ’tis all joy as I wishes you and her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow.

Annie. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, and a girl can’t do no more, can she?

Rose. And so you’re going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis?

George. ’Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got together and I among they.

Rose. O, come, Mr. Davis!

George. ’Tis with me as though t’were all hoof and horn as I was made of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality folks and such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his self in parts when the ground be thick on them.

Annie. Very likely ’tis a-shewing of them into their places of a Sunday and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along with the service, like, as has made Steve so easy.

ROSIE. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know what.

George. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don’t much agree with I, Miss Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the maids do pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and do speak as though ’twere church and parson at his sermon, I can’t think of naught but how ’twill feel for to be out in the open again. Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch my breath in one of they places from fear as there should be too much sound to it, and the noise of my own hammer do very near scare I into fits.

Rose. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it?

[MRS. BROWNING _and_ DORRY _come back and the cider is put upon the table_, DORRY _and_ ANNIE _getting glasses from the dresser_.

George. [_Drinking_.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss Sims. And many years of happiness to you both.

Steve. Thank you kindly, George.

Annie. Thank you, Mr. Davis.

Dorry. Hasn’t Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. Davis?

George. Well, I’m blessed if I’d taken no notice of it, Dorry.

Dorry. Why, you’re worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look at Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she’s got wrapped up in that there paper in her hand.

Rose. O, Dorry, you little tease, you!

Dorry. You just ask her, Mr. Davis.

Rose. [_Undoing the parcel_.] There, ’tis nothing to make such a commotion of! Just a flower—see, Mr. Davis? I knowed as it was one what you was partial to, and so I just brought it along with me.

George. That there bain’t for I, be it?

Rose. Indeed ’tis—if so as you’ll accept of it.

George. O, ’tis best saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be most gone from it, if I was to wear it now.

Dorry. No, no, Mr. Davis, ’tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put it on him, Rosie, put it on him.

Rose. [_Tossing the flower across the table to_ GEORGE.] He can put it on hisself well enough, Dorry.

George. [_After a moment’s hesitation_.] I don’t know so well about that.

Annie. Go on, Rosie—pin it into his coat. Come, ’tis getting late.

Dorry. O, pin it in quick, Rosie—come along—and then we can start to the dancing.

Rose. Shall I, Mr. Davis?

[GEORGE _gets up and crosses the room_; ROSE _takes the flower and_ DORRY _hands her a pin_. _She slowly pins the flower in his coat_.

Steve. [_Stretching out his hand to_ ANNIE.] You be so quiet like to-night, Annie. There isn’t nothing wrong, is there, my dear?

Annie. ’Tis only I’m that full of gladness, Steve, as I don’t seem to find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most days.

Steve. And that’s how ’tis with I, too, Annie. ’Tis as though I was out in the meadows, like—And as though ’twere Sunday, and such a stillness all around that I might think ’twas only me as was upon the earth. But then summat stirs in me sudden and I knows that you be there, too, and ’tis my love for you what has put me right away from the rest of them.

Annie. Steve, you’ve had a poor, rough time, I know, but I’ll do my best for to smooth it like for you, I will.

Steve. See here, Annie—I be comed out of the rain and into the sun once more.

Dorry. [_Leading_ GEORGE _forward_.] See how fine Mr. Davis do look—see, isn’t he grand? O, Miss Sims, see how nice the flower do look what Rosie has pinned in his coat! See, Gran’ma.

Jane. I’ve enough to do putting away all these glasses which have been messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed this night, seeing as ’tis late already and you none of you gone off yet.

Dorry. O, let us be off, let us be off—and what am I to put over my dress, Gran’ma, so as the snow shan’t get to it?

Jane. If you go careful and don’t drop it in the snow may be as I’ll wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what’s hanging behind the door.

Rose. Give me my cloak, Steve—O, how I do love a bit of dancing, don’t you, Mr. Davis?

George. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they great drag horses, Miss Rose.

Rose. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don’t believe half what you do say, no more does Annie.

Annie. If Mr. Davis don’t know how to dance right, you’re the one to learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and I’ll look after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. Good-night, Mrs. Reed.

Dorry. Why, Granny’s sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know.

Jane. And about time, too. ’Tis to be hoped as we shan’t have no more trouble with her till morning.

Dorry. [_Her eyes raised to the door latch_.] Just look, why the latch is up.

Annie. Whoever’s that, I wonder?

Rose. ’Tis very likely someone with a horse what’s lost a shoe, Steve.

Jane. I guess as ’tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis.

Steve. I bain’t a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, not if ’twas the King hisself what stood at the door.

George. If ’tis a corpse, I guess her’ll have to wait till the dancing’s finished, then.

[VASHTI _groans in her sleep and turns over in the chair_, _her face to the fire_.

Steve. [_Going to the door and speaking loudly_.] Who’s there?

George. Us’ll soon see.

[GEORGE _unbolts the door and opens it_, _first a little way_, _and then wide_. MAY _is seen standing in the doorway_. _Her shawl is drawn over head and the lower part of her face_.

George. Here’s someone what’s missed their way, I count.

Rose. Why, ’tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do believe.

ANNIE Whatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night!

Jane. [_Advancing firmly_.] ’Tis one of they dirty roadsters what there’s too many of all about the country. Here, I’ll learn you to come to folks’ houses this time of night, disturbing of a wedding party. You take and get gone. We don’t want such as you in here, we don’t.

[MAY _looks fixedly into_ JANE’S _face_.

George. I count ’tis very nigh starved by the cold as she be.

Steve. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone.

Jane. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that’ll learn the likes of she to come round begging at folks’ houses what’s respectable.

George. ’Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her this night.

Steve. And that ’tis, George, and what’s more, I bain’t a-going for to do it. ’Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog was to come to me for shelter I’d not be one to put him from the door.

Jane. ’Tain’t to be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my kitchen when ’tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve.

Steve. To-morrow, ’tis my day, Mother, and I’ll have the choosing of my guests, like. [_Turning to_ MAY.] Come you in out of the cold. This night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, may be, in years to come, ’twill please you to think back upon the eve afore my wedding.

[STEVE _stands back_, _holding the door wide open_. MAY, _from the threshold_, _has been looking first on one face and then on another_. _Suddenly her eyes fall on_ ANNIE, _who has moved to_ STEVE’S _side_, _laying her hand on his arm_, _and with a sudden defiance_, _she draws herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls_.

ACT II.—Scene 3.

_The same room_, _two hours later_. VASHTI REED _seems to be sleeping as before by the fireside_. _On the settle_ MAY _is huddled_, _her head bent_, _the shawl drawn over her face_. JANE BROWNING _moves about_, _putting away work things_, _cups and plates_, _seeing that the window is closed_, _winding the clock_, _etc._ _There is a tap at the outer door and_ JANE _opens it_. STEVE, ANNIE _and_ DORRY _enter_.

Jane. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to let you all in and not able to get away to my bed?

Dorry. O, Gran’ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, I could. We comed away early ’cause Miss Sims, she said as the dancing gived her the headache, but the New Year han’t been danced in yet, it han’t.

Jane. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that’s what you’ve got to do—and quickly.

Dorry. All right, Gran’ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, Dad. O, why, there’s Granny! But her’s tight asleep so I shan’t say nothing to her. O, I do wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and music playing every night, I do!

[DORRY _goes towards the staircase door_.

Jane. [_Calling after her_.] I’m a-coming along directly. Be careful with the candle, Dorry.

[JANE _opens the door and_ DORRY _goes upstairs_. STEVE _and_ ANNIE _come towards the fireplace_.

Steve. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing?

Jane. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what’s been and got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s the matter with she. See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of her; and not a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her the drop of tea a while back.

Steve. Well, well—she won’t do us no harm where she do bide. Leave her in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way.

Jane. She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, I’m thinking.

Steve. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, Mother.

Jane. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home?

Annie. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back—’tis but a step—and I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again.

Steve. I’m coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. I’ll be back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes.

Jane. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like.

[JANE _lights a candle and goes upstairs_. STEVE _takes_ ANNIE’S _hand and they go together towards the outer door_. _As they pass to the other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room_, MAY _suddenly rears herself up on the settle_, _throwing back her shawl_, _and she leans forward_, _listening intently_.

Steve. To-morrow night, Annie!

Annie. There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve.

Steve. You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can rightly think on, that ’tis.

Annie. Steve!

Steve. Well, Annie.

Annie. There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit this night. You didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas so.

Steve. Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was different from ordinary.

Annie. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. Steve, I couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on and all. So I told you as I’d the headache.

Steve. O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t seem to get them pushed aside, like.

Annie. How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve.

Steve. I don’t much care for to, Annie. But ’twas thoughts what comed out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard with—with her as was Dorry’s mother.

Annie. O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, Steve.

Steve. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might go the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being so much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t bear for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I could not stand it if ’twas as I should lose you.

Annie. There’s nothing in the world as could make you lose me, Steve. For, look you here, I don’t think as there’s a woman on the earth what’s got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me is to be wed and to live aside of one another till death do part us.

Steve. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake.

Annie. And what you feels about the days gone by don’t count, Steve, ’cause they bain’t true of you. You was always a kind husband, and from what I’ve hear-ed folks say, she was one as wasn’t never suited to neither you nor yours.

Steve. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks one way or t’other can’t do she no good. Only ’tis upon me as I could take you to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had been kinder to she, the time her was here.

Annie. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you’re regular done up, and that’s what ’tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this afore.

Steve. All right, my dear, don’t you mind what I’ve been saying. Very like ’tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But ’tis a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, that come to-morrow at this time, there won’t be no more need for us to part?

Annie. [_As he opens the door_.] O, ’tis dark outside!

[_They both leave the cottage_. MAY _throws back her shawl as though stifled_. _She gets up and first stands bending over_ VASHTI. _Seeing that she is still sleeping heavily_, _she goes to the door_, _opens it gently and looks out_. _After a moment she closes it and walks about the kitchen_, _examining everything with a fierce curiosity_. _She takes up the shawl_ DORRY _has been wearing_, _looks at it hesitatingly_, _and then clasps it passionately to her face_. _Hearing steps outside she flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle_, _where she sits huddled in the corner_, _having wrapped herself again in her shawl_, _only her eyes looking out unquietly from it_. STEVE _re-enters_. _He bolts the door_, _then goes up to the table in front of the fire to put out the lamp_.

Steve. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you up a bit this cold night?

[MAY _looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head_.

Steve. All right. You can just bide where you be on the settle. ’Tis warmer within nor upon the road to-night, and I’ll come and let you out when ’tis morning.

[MAY _raises both her hands in an attitude of supplication_.

Steve. [_Pausing_, _with his hand on the burner of the lamp_.] Be there summat as you wants what I can give to you?

[MAY _looks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper_.

May. Let I bide quiet in the dark, ’tis all I wants now. [STEVE _puts out the lamp_.

Steve. [_As though to himself_, _as he goes towards the door upstairs_.] Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams.

[_Curtain_.

ACT II.—Scene 4.

_The fire is almost out_. _A square of moonlight falls on the floor from the window_. VASHTI _still sleeps in the chimney corner_. MAY _is rocking herself to and fro on the settle_.

May. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams—your dreams—Ah, where is it as they have gone, I’d like for to know. The dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath the hedge. Dreams!

[_She gets up_, _feels down the wall in a familiar way for the bellows—blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently_. _Then she draws forward a chair and sits down before it_.

May. [_Muttering to herself_.] ’Tis my own hearth when ’tis all said and done.

[_She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself_, _looking sharply at_ VASHTI REED _now and then_.

[_Presently_ VASHTI’S _eyes open_, _resting_, _at first unseeingly_, _and then with recognition_, _on_ MAY’S _face_.

Vashti. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as you would.

May. How did you know ’twas me, then?

Vashti. ’Cause I knowed. There ’tis.

May. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming of myself by this here fire.

Vashti. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don’t see nothing of it, then.

May. Ah, I be got into an ugly old woman now, mother, and Steve—Steve, he looked in the face of I and didn’t so much as think who ’twas. “Get off to the drunken sleep of you and to your dreams.” ’Twas that what he did say to I.

Vashti. Your old mother do know better nor Steve. Ah, ’tweren’t in no shroud as I seed you, May, nor yet with the sod upon the face of you, but stepping, stepping up and down on the earth, through the water what layed on the roads, and on the dry where there be high places, and in the grass of the meadows. That’s how ’twas as I did see you, May.

May. And I would like to know how ’twas as Steve saw I.

Vashti. Ah, and there was they as did buzz around as thick as waspes in summer time and as said, “She be under ground and rotting now—that her be.” And they seed in I but a poor old woman what was sleeping in the chimney corner, with no hearing to I. “Rotting yourself,” I says, and I rears up sudden, “She be there as a great tree and all the leaves of it full out—and you—snakes in the grass, snakes in the grass, all of you!” There ’tis.

May. [_Mockingly_.] “It’s a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, that to-morrow this time there won’t be no need for us to part?” And in the days when I was a young woman and all the bloom of I upon me, ’twouldn’t have been once as he’d have looked on such as her.

Vashti. And ’tis full of bloom and rare fine and handsome as you appear now, May, leastways to my old eyes. And when you goes up to Steve and shows yourself, I take it the door’ll be shut in the face of the mealy one what they’ve all been so took up with this long while. I count that ’twill and no mistake. So ’tis.

May. [_Fiercely_.] Hark you here, Mother, and ’tis to be wed to-morrow as they be! Wed—the both of them, the both of them! And me in my flesh, and wife to Steve! “Can I cover you up with a bit of old sack or summat?” Old sack! When there be a coverlet with feathers to it stretched over where he do lie upstairs. “I’ll let you out when ’tis morning.” Ah, you will, will you, Steve Browning? Us’ll see how ’twill be when ’tis morning—Us’ll see, just won’t us then!

Vashti. Ah, ’tis in her place as th’ old woman will be set come morning—And that her’ll be—I count as ’tis long enough as her have mistressed it over the house. [_Shaking her fist towards the ceiling_.] You old she fox, you may gather the pads of you in under of you now, and crouch you down t’other side of the fire like any other old woman of your years—for my May’s comed back, and her’ll show you your place what you’ve not known where ’twas in all the days of your old wicked life. So ’tis.

May. Her han’t changed a hair of her, th’ old stoat! Soon as I heard the note of she, the heat bubbled up in I, though ’twas chattering in the cold as I had been but a moment afore. “One of they dirty roadsters—I’ll learn you to come disturbing of a wedding party, I will.” [_Shaking her fist towards the ceiling_.] No, you bain’t changed, you hardened old sinner—but the words out of the cruel old mouth of you don’t hurt I any more—not they. I be passed out of the power of such as you. I knowed I’d have to face you when I comed back, but I knowed, too, as I should brush you out of the way of me, like I would brush one of they old maid flies.

Vashti. Ah, and so I telled she many a time. “You bide till my May be comed home,” I says. “She be already put safe to bed and ’tis in the churchyard where her do take her rest,” says she. Ah, what a great liar that is, th’ old woman what’s Steve’s mother! And the lies they do grow right out of she tall as rushes, and the wind do blow they to the left and to the right. So ’tis.

May. Ah, she han’t any more power for to hurt I in the ugly old body of her. I be got beyond she. There be but one or two things as can touch I now—But one or two. And I be struck to the heart, I be, struck to the heart.

[_She bends forwards_, _rocking herself to and fro and weeping_.

May. [_As though speaking to herself_.] Back and fro, back and fro—On the dark of the earth and where ’twas light. When ’twas cold and no sound but the steps of I on the road, and the fox’s bark; when ’twas hot and the white dust smouldered in the mouth of I, and things flying did plague I with the wings of they—But ’twas always the same thought as I had—“Some day I shall come back to Steve,” I did tell me. And then again—“Some day I shall get and hold Dorry in my arms.” And now I be comed. And Steve—and Steve—Ah, I be struck deep to the heart, ’tis so. Struck deep!

Vashti. You get upstairs to Steve, May. Get you up there and take the place what’s yours.

May. My place, my place! Where’s that I want to know! ’Tis another what’s got into the nest now, to lie snug and warm within. And ’tis for I to spread the wings of me and to go out into the storm again. So ’tis.

Vashti. Get you to Steve, May, and let him but look on the form of you and on the bloom, and us’ll see what he will do with t’other hussy then. Ah, they sneaking, mealy wenches what have got fattened up and licked over by th’ old woman till ’tis queens as they fancies theirselves, you shall tell they summat about what they be, come morning. And your poor old mother, her’ll speak, too, what hasn’t been let sound her tongue these years gone by. Ah, hern shall know what us do think of they, hern shall squat upon the floor and hear the truth.

May. He thought as I was sleeping; but I looked out on her and seed the way his eyes was cast upon the girl. Steve, if you had cast your eyes on me like that but once, in days gone by—maybe, maybe I’d not have gone out and shut the door behind I.

Vashti. Get you to Steve and let him see you with the candle lit. Her bain’t no match for he, the young weasel! ’Tis you as has the blood of me and my people what was grand folk in times gone by, ’tis you, May, as is the mate for he, above all them white-jowled things what has honey at the mouth of they, but the heart running over with poison—Ah, and what throws you the bone and keeps the meat for their own bellies. What sets the skin afore you and laps the cream theirselves. Vipers, all of them, and she-cats. There ’tis.

May. Sit you down, Mother, and keep the tongue of you quiet. We don’t want for to waken they.

Vashti. [_Sitting down heavily_.] But we’ve got to waken Steve for he to know as how you be comed home again.

May. And where’s the good of that, when there bain’t so much as a board nor a rag, but what’s been stole from I?

Vashti. You go and say to him as ’tis his wife what have come back to her place. And put th’ old woman against the chimney there, and let her see you a-cutting of the bread and of the meat, and a-setting out of the food so as that they who be at the table can loose the garments of them when the eating ’tis finished, if they has a mind to, ’stead of drawing they together so not to feel ’tis leer. Ah, ’tis time you be comed, May, ’tis time.

May. [_Bitterly_.] I’m thinking ’tis time!

Vashti. ’Tis the lies of they be growed big as wheat stalks and the hardness of their hearts be worse nor death. But ’tis to judgment as they shall be led, now you be comed home, May, and the hand of God shall catch they when they do crawl like adders upon the earth. “Ah, and do you mind how ’twas you served old Vashti, what never did harm to no one all the life of her,” I shall call out to th’ old woman in that hour when her shall be burning in the lake. And her shall beg for a drop of water to lay upon the withered tongue of she, and it shall be denied, for other hands nor ours be at work, and ’tis the wicked as shall perish—yes, so ’tis.

May. [_Who has been bending forward_, _looking steadily into the fire_.] Stop that, Mother, I wants to get at my thoughts.

Vashti. Be you a-going to set on I, too, May, now that you be comed home. ’Tis poor work for an old woman like I.

May. [_As though to herself_.] And as I was laid beneath the hedge—“’Tis cold as my limbs is, now,” I says, “but I shall be warm this night.” And the pangs what was in the body of me did fairly quail I—“’Tis my fill of victuals as I shall soon put within,” thinks I. And they was laid a bit. The bleakness of the tempest fell on I, but “I shan’t feel lonesome no longer than this hour,” I telled me. For to my thinking, Steve, he was waiting all the time till I should be comed back. And Dorry, too. There ’tis. [_A long silence_.

May. I’d have been content to bide with the door shut—so long as it was shut with they two and me inside the room—th’ old woman—well, I count I shouldn’t have took many thought for she—she could have bided in her place if she’d had a mind—I’d have set me down, when once my clothes was decent and clean, and put my hands to the work and made a tidy wife for Steve, as good nor better than that there dressed-up thing out yonder—And bred Dorry up the right way, too, I would. But ’tis done with now, so ’tis.

Vashti. [_As though to herself_.] And when ’tis morning and she gets her down—“There, ’tis my girl as is mistress here, I’ll say to her—and ’tis my girl as shall sit cup end of the table—and you get you to the fire corner and bide there, like the poor old woman as you be, spite that you do slip about so spry on the wicked old legs of you.”

May. And I could set she back in her place, too, that tricked-up, flashy thing over the way. I’ve but to climb the stairs and clap my hand on Steve—“Get you from your dreams,” I have got but to say, “the woman what’s yourn be comed home. Her have tasted the cup of death, very near, and her have been a-thirst and an hungered. But her has carried summat for you in her heart all the way what you wouldn’t find in the heart of t’other, no, not if you was to cut it open and search it through.” And the right belongs to I to shut the door on t’other hussey, holding Steve to I till death divides we.

Vashti. Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as I did pass by. “And may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon you,” I says to them, “for ’tis a poor old woman as I be what has lost her child; and what’s that to you if so be as the shoes on her feet be broken or no? ’Tis naked as the toes of you shall go, that hour when the days of this world shall be rolled by. Ah, ’tis naked and set on the lake of burning fire as the hoofs of you shall run!”

May. I could up and screech so that the house should ring with the sound of me, “I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these many years. What’s this that you’ve got doing with another?” I could take hold on him and make him look into the eyes of I, yes, and th’ old woman, too. “See here, your ‘dirty roadster,’ look well on to her.” “Why, ’tis May.” But the eyes of him would then be cast so that I should see no more than a house what has dead within, and the blind pulled down. And I, what was thinking as there might be a light in the window!

Vashti. “And you may holler,” I says to them, “you may holler till you be heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won’t take no account of you.” And the lies of them which have turned into ropes of hempen shall come up and strangle they. But me and my child shall pass by all fatted up and clothed, and with the last flick, afore the eyelids of they drop, they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the teeth of them shall they repent them of their sins. Too late, too late! There ’tis.

May. Too late! There ’tis, I be comed home too late.

[_She rises and takes up her shawl_, _wrapping it about her shoulders_, _and muttering_.

May. But I know a dark place full of water—’Tis Simon’s pool they calls it—And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and be in quiet.

Vashti. Be you a-going up to Steve now?

May. No, I bain’t. ’Tis out from here that I be going. And back on to the road.

Vashti. May, my pretty May, you’re never going for to leave I, what’s such a poor old woman and wronged cruel. You step aloft and rouse up Steve. He’ll never have you go upon the roads again once he do know as you’ve comed back.

May. Steve! What’s it to Steve whether the like of I do go or bide? What be there in I for to quell the love of she which Steve’s got in him? Dead leaves for new. Ditch water for the clear spring.

Vashti. Give him to drink of it, May.

May. [_Looking upwards to the ceiling_.] No, Steve. Hark you here. I bain’t a-going to do it. I bain’t going to knock over the spoonful of sweet what you be carrying to your mouth. You take and eat of it in quiet and get you filled with the honey. ’Tain’t my way to snatch from no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed. There, ’tis finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done. And, don’t you fear, Steve, as ever I’ll trouble you no more.

Vashti. [_Rising_.] I be a-going to fetch him down, and that’s what I’m a-going for to do.

May. [_Pushing her back into her chair_.] Harken you, Steve, he’s never got to know as I’ve been here.

Vashti. I tell you, May, I’ll screech till he do come!

May. [_Sitting down by_ VASHTI _and laying her hand on her_.] I’ll put summat in your mouth as’ll stop you if you start screeching, mother. Why, hark you here. ’Tis enough of this old place as I’ve had this night, and ’tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th’ old woman—there’s naught much changed in she—And Steve—well, Steve be wonderful hard in the soul of him. “Can I get you an old sack,” says he—and never so much as seed ’twas I—Ah—’tis more than enough to turn the stomach in anyone—that it is. [_A slight pause_.

May. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside for long. The four walls of this here room have very near done for me now, so they have. And ’tis the air blowing free upon the road as I craves—Ah, and the wind which hollers, so that the cries of we be less nor they of lambs new born.

Vashti. God bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door ’tis the mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed.

May. So ’tis. And if I stopped ’twould be the same, her’d be between us always, the pretty cage bird—For look you here on I, Mother, and here—[_pointing to her feet_]—and here—and here—See what’s been done to I what’s knocked about in the world along the roads, and then think if I be such a one as might hold the love of Steve.

Vashti. [_Beginning to whine desolately_.] O, do not you go for to leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead all the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around of I as might be the venomous beasts in the grass. Stop with I, my pretty child—Stop along of your old mother, for the days of I be few and numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land.

May. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another time. I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th’ old woman won’t never know as I’ve been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth shut, maybe I’ll drop in at our own place on the hill one of these days and bide comfortable along of you, only now—I’m off, do you hear?

Vashti. I can’t abide for you to go. ’Tis more nor I can stand. Why, if you goes, May, ’tis t’other wench and th’ old woman what’ll get mistressing it here again in your place. [_Rising up_.] No—you shan’t go. I’ll holler till I’ve waked them every one—you shan’t! My only child, my pretty May! Ah, ’tis not likely as you shall slip off again. ’Tis not.

May. Look you here, Mother—bide still, I say. [_Looking round the room distractedly_.] See here—’tis rare dry as I be. You bide quiet and us’ll have a drink together, that us will. Look, th’ old woman’s forgot to put away the bottle, us’ll wet our mouths nice and quiet, mother—she won’t hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See!

[MAY _gets up and crosses the room_; _she takes the bottle off the shelf where she has just perceived it_, _and also two glasses_; _she fills one and hands it to her mother_.

Vashti. [_Stretching out her hand_.] ’Tis rare dry and parched as I be, now I comes to think on it, May.

May. That’s right—drink your fill, Mother.

Vashti. ’Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again, May.

May. Ah, ’tis my own drink and all, come to that.

Vashti. So ’tis. And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water. I seed her spoon it in the pot, and ’twas not above a half spoon as her did put in for I, th’ old badger. My eye was on she, though, and her’ll have it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the trumpet sound and all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking on at her as is brought to judgment. How will it be then, you old sinner, says I.

May. [_Re-filling the glass_.] Take and drink this little drop more, mother.

[VASHTI _drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half closed eyes_.

May. [_Putting away the bottle and glasses_.] Her’ll sleep very like, now. And when her wakes, I take it ’twill appear as though she’d been and dreamt summat.

Vashti. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. I would not have you be on the roads.

May. [_Sitting down beside her_.] O, the roads be fine on nights when the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the mouth of you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes quick on through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and ’tis a large town and there be folk moving this way and that and the music playing, and great fowls and horses what’s got clocks to the inside of they, a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a-riding on them—And the booths with red sugar and white, all lit and animals that’s wild a-roaring and a-biting in the tents—And girls what’s dancing, standing there in satin gowns all over gold and silver—And you walks to and fro in it all and ’tis good to be there and free—And ’tis better to be in such places and to come and to go where you have a mind than to be cooped in here, with th’ old woman and all—’Tis a fine life as you lives on the roads—and ’tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother.

Vashti. [_Who has gradually been falling into sleep_.] I count ’tis so. ’Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count I’ll go along of you, come morning.

May. That’s it, Mother, that’s it. Us’ll take a bit of sleep afore we sets off, won’t us? And when morning comes, us’ll open the door and go out.

Vashti. That’s it, when ’tis day.

[_Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep_.

[MAY _watches her for some moments_. _Then she gets up softly and wraps her shawl round her_. _The window shews signs of a gray light outside_, MAY _goes quietly towards the outer door_. _As she reaches it_, DORRY _comes into the room from the staircase_.

Dorry. [_Going up to_ VASHTI.] Granny, ’tis the New Year! I’m come down to see to the fire and to get breakfast for Dad and Gran’ma. Why, Granny, you’re sleeping still. And where’s that poor tramp gone off to? [_She looks round the room and then sees_ MAY _by the door_.

Dorry. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road afore ’tis got light?

May. [_In a hoarse whisper_.] And that I be. ’Tis very nigh to daybreak, so ’tis.

Dorry. Stop a moment. [_Calling up the stairs_.] Daddy, the tramp woman, she’s moving off already.

Steve. [_From upstairs_.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along of she. I don’t care that anyone should go an-hungered this day.

Dorry. [_Turning to_ MAY.] There—you bide a minute whilst I cuts the loaf. My Dad’s going to get married this day, and he don’t care that anyone should go hungry.

[MAY _comes slowly back into the room and stands watching_ DORRY, _who fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table_. _Then she pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in_.

Dorry. The snow’s very nigh gone, and ’tis like as not as the sun may come out presently. Here’s a piece of bread to take along of you. There, it’s a good big piece, take and eat it.

[MAY _hesitates an instant_, _then she stretches out her hand and takes the bread and puts it beneath her shawl_.

May. And so there’s going to be a wedding here to-day?

Dorry. ’Tis my Dad as is to be married.

May. ’Tis poor work, is twice marrying.

Dorry. My Dad’s ever so pleased, I han’t seen him so pleased as I can remember. I han’t.

May. Then maybe the second choosing be the best.

Dorry. Yes, ’tis—Gran’ma says as ’tis—and Dad, he be ever so fond of Miss Sims—and I be, too.

May. Then you’ve no call to wish as her who’s gone should come back to you, like?

Dorry. What’s that you’re saying?

May. You don’t never want as your mammy what you’ve lost should be amongst you as afore?

Dorry. I never knowed my mammy. Gran’ma says she had got summat bad in her blood. And Granny’s got the same. But Miss Sims, she’s ever so nice to Dad and me, and I’m real pleased as she’s coming to stop along of us always after that they’re married, like.

May. And th’ old woman what’s your gran’ma, Dorry?

Dorry. However did you know as I was called “Dorry”?

May. I heard them call you so last night.

Dorry. And whatever do you want to know about Gran’ma?

May. What have her got to say ’bout the—the—wench what’s going to marry your dad?

Dorry. O, Gran’ma, she thinks ever such a lot of Miss Sims, and she says as how poor Dad, what’s been served so bad, will find out soon what ’tis to have a real decent wife, what’ll help with the work and all, and what won’t lower him by her ways, nor nothing.

May. Look you here—’tis growing day. I must be getting off and on to the road.

Dorry. [_Moving to the door_.] I’ll unbolt the door, then. O, ’tis fine and daylight now.

May. [_Turning back at the doorway and looking at the room_.] I suppose you wouldn’t like to touch me, for good luck, Dorry?

Dorry. No, I shouldn’t. Gran’ma, she don’t let me go nigh road people as a rule. She’s a-feared as I should take summat from them, I suppose.

May. [_Hoarsely_, _her hand on the door_.] Then just say as you wishes me well, Dorry.

Dorry. I’ll wish you a good New Year, then, and Gran’ma said as I was to watch as you cleared off the place. [MAY _goes out softly and quickly_. DORRY _watches her until she is out of sight_, _and then she shuts the door_.

ACT III.—Scene 1.

_The same room_. _It is nearly mid-day_, _and the room is full of sunshine_. JANE BROWNING, _in her best dress_, _is fastening_ DORRY’S _frock_, _close to the window_.

Dorry. Dad’s been a rare long time a-cleaning of his self up, Gran.

Jane. Will you bide still! However’s this frock to get fastened and you moving this way and that like some live eel—and just see what a mark you’ve made on the elbow last night, putting your arm down somewhere where you didn’t ought to—I might just as well have never washed the thing.

Dorry. Granny’s sound asleep still—she’ll have to be waked time we goes along to the church.

Jane. That her shan’t be. Her shall just bide and sleep the drink out of her, her shall. Do you think as I didn’t find out who ’twas what had got at the bottle as Dad left on the dresser last night.

Dorry. Poor Gran, she do take a drop now and then.

Jane. Shame on th’ old gipsy. Her shall be left to bide till she have slept off some of the nonsense which is in her.

Dorry. Granny do say a lot of funny things sometimes, don’t she, now?

Jane. You get and put on your hat and button your gloves, and let the old gipsy be. We can send her off home when ’tis afternoon, and us back from church. Now, where did I lay that bonnet? Here ’tis.

[_She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall_. STEVE _comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves_, _carrying his coat_.

Dorry. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat.

Steve. And when’s a man to look pleased if ’tis not on his wedding morn, Dorry?

Dorry. The tramp what was here did say as how ’twas poor work twice marrying, but you don’t find it be so, Dad, do you now?

Steve. And that I don’t, my little wench. ’Tis as nigh heaven as I be like to touch—and that’s how ’tis with me.

Jane. [_Taking_ STEVE’S _coat from him_.] Ah, ’tis a different set out altogether this time. That ’tis. ’Tis a-marrying into your own rank, like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies.

Dorry. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran?

Jane. [_Beginning to brush_ STEVE’S _coat_.] Ah, much in the same pattern as th’ old woman what’s drunk asleep against the fireside. Here, button up them gloves, ’tis time we was off.

Dorry. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I grows up I’d like to look as she do, so I would.

Steve. [_To_ JANE.] There, Mother, that’ll do. I’d best put him on now.

Jane. [_Holding out the coat for him_.] Well, and you be got yourself up rare smart, Steve.

Steve. ’Tis rare smart as I be feeling, Mother. I’m all a kind of a dazzle within of me, same as ’tis with the sun upon the snow out yonder.

Jane. Why, look you, there’s George a-coming up the path already.

Dorry. He’s wearing of the flower what Rosie gived him last night.

Steve. [_Opening the door_.] Good morning, George. A first class New Year to you. You’re welcome, if ever a man was.

Jane. You bide where you do stand, George, till your feet is dry. My floor was fresh wiped over this morning.

George. [_Standing on the door mat_.] All right, Mrs. Browning. Don’t you fluster. Good morning, Dorry. How be you to-day, Steve?

Jane. Dorry, come you upstairs along with me and get your coat put on, so as your frock bain’t crushed.

Dorry. O, I wish I could go so that my nice frock was seen and no coat.

[_They go upstairs_. GEORGE _rubs his feet on the mat and comes into the room_, _walking up and down once or twice restlessly and in evident distress of mind_.

Steve. [_Who has lit a pipe and is smoking_.] Why, George, be you out of sorts this morning? You don’t look up to much, and that’s the truth.

George. [_Stopping before_ STEVE.] Hark you, Steve. ’Tis on my mind to ask summat of you. Did you have much speech with the poor thing what you took in from the snow last night?

Steve. No, George, and that I didn’t. Her was mostly in a kind of drunken sleep all the time, and naught to be got out from she. Mother, her tried. But ’twas like trying to get water from the pump yonder, when ’tis froze.

George. Your mother’s a poor one at melting ice, Steve, and ’tis what we all knows.

Steve. Ah, ’twasn’t much as we could do for the likes of she—what was a regular roadster. Bad herbs, all of them. And if it hadn’t been so as ’twas my wedding eve, this one shouldn’t have set foot inside of the house. But ’tis a season when a man’s took a bit soft and foolish, like, the night afore his marriage. Bain’t that so, George?

George. And when was it, Steve, as she went off from here?

Steve. That I couldn’t rightly say, George, but I counts ’twas just upon daybreak. And ’twas Dorry what seed her off the place and gived her a piece of bread to take along of her.

George. And do you think as she got talking a lot to Dorry, Steve?

Steve. I’m blest if I do know, George. I never gived another thought to she. What’s up?

George. They was getting the body of her from out of Simon’s Pool as I did come by. That’s all.

Steve. From Simon’s Pool, George?

George. I count her must have went across the plank afore ’twas fairly daylight. And, being slippery, like, from the snow, and her—her—as you did say.

Steve. In liquor.

George. I reckon as her missed her footing, like.

Steve. Well, upon my word, George, who’d have thought on such a thing!

George. I count as her had been in the water and below the ice a smartish while afore they catched sight of she.

Steve. Well, ’tis a cold finish to a hot life.

George. They took and laid her on the grass, Steve, as I comed by.

Steve. If it had been me, I’d have turned the head of me t’other side.

George. There was summat in the fashion her was laid, Steve, as drawed I near for to get a sight of the face of she.

Steve. Well, I shouldn’t have much cared for that, George.

George. Steve—did you get a look into the eyes of yon poor thing last night?

Steve. No, nor wanted for to, neither.

George. There was naught to make you think of—

Steve. Of what, George?

George. There—Steve, I can’t get it out, I can’t.

Steve. Then let it bide in.

George. ’Twas the way her was laid, and the long arms of she, and the hands which was clapped one on t’other, as it might be in church.

Steve. [_Looking through the window_.] You shut up, George. Here’s Annie with Rose a-coming up to the door. Don’t you get saying another word about yon poor wretch nor the end of her. I wouldn’t have my Annie upset for all the world to-day. ’Tis a thing as must not be spoke of afore they, nor Dorry neither, do you hear?

[_He moves towards the door and puts his hand to the latch_.

George. Hold back, Steve, a minute. There’s summat more as I’ve got to say.

Steve. You take and shut your mouth up, old George, afore I opens the door to the girls.

George. ’Tis bound for to come from me afore you goes along to church, Steve.

Steve. I warrant ’twill keep till us do come home again, George.

[_He throws the door wide open with a joyous movement_. ANNIE _and_ ROSE _in white dresses stand outside_.

Steve. Well, Annie, this is a rare surprise, and that’s the truth. [ANNIE _and_ ROSE _come into the room_.

Rose. Father, he’s outside, and Jim and Bill and Katie, and all the rest. We said as ’twould be pleasanter if we was all to go up together along to the church.

Steve. So ’twould be—so ’twould be—’Twas a grand thought of yourn, Rosie.

Annie. Steve—

Steve. [_Taking her hand_.] Annie, I’m fair beside myself this day.

Annie. O, Steve, there was never a day in my life like this one. [DORRY _and_ JANE _come down_.

Dorry. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice! Gran’ma, don’t Miss Sims look nice? And Rosie, too. O, they have nice gowns and hats on, haven’t they, Dad?

Steve. I don’t see no gowns nor hats, and that’s the truth. But I sees summat what’s like—what’s like a meadow of grass in springtime afore the sun’s got on to it.

Dorry. Why, Dad, ’tis white, not green, as Miss Sims is wearing.

Steve. ’Tis in the eyes of her as I finds my meadow.

Dorry. O, let me see, Dad, let me look, too!

Rose. [_Going up to_ GEORGE, _who has been standing aloof and moody in the background_.] Come, Mr. Davis, we must have a look, too.

Jane. ’Get along, get along. We han’t time for such foolishness. It be close on twelve already.

Annie. O, let me be, all of you! I declare, I don’t know which way to look, I don’t.

Steve. I’ll show you, Annie, then.

Rose. [_To_ GEORGE.] Well, Mr. Davis, you don’t seem over bright this morning.

Steve. ’Tis with the nerves as he be took!

Dorry. Look at what he’s wearing in his buttonhole, Rosie.

Rose. ’Tis kept beautiful and fresh.

Steve. Come on, come on, all of you. ’Tis time we was at the church.

Rose. Hark to him! He’s in a rare hurry for to get out of the house to-day.

George. Bain’t the old lady a-coming?

Jane. That she bain’t, the old drinking gipsy—’tis at the spirits as her got in the night—and put away very near the best part of a bottle. Now she’s best left to sleep it off, she be.

Steve. Come on, George. Come, Dorry.

Dorry. O, isn’t it a pity as Granny will get at the drink, Mr. Davis? And isn’t Miss Sims nice in her white dress? And don’t Dad look smiling and pleased? I never did know Dad smile like this afore.

George. [_Heavily_.] Come on, Dorry—you take hold of me. You and me, we’ll keep nigh one to t’other this day, won’t us?

Rose. [_Calling from outside_.] Come on, Mr. Davis.

[_They all go out_.

ACT III.—Scene 2.

_Nearly an hour later_. _The cottage room is full of sunlight_.

VASHTI REED _is awake and gazing vacantly about her from the same chair by the fire_. _Someone knocks repeatedly at the door from outside_.

Vashti. And ’tis no bit of rest as I gets for my bones, but they must come and hustle I and call I from the dreams which was soft. [_The knocking is heard again_.

Vashti. And I up and says to they, “Ah, and you would hustle a poor old woman what’s never harmed so much as a hair out of the ugly heads of you. You would hunt and drive of her till she be very nigh done to death. But there shall come a day when you shall be laid down and a-taking of your bit of rest, and the thing what you knows of shall get up upon you and smite you till you do go screeching from the house, and fleeing to the uttermost part of the land—whilst me and mine—”

[_The door opens and_ HARRY MOSS _enters_.

Harry. Beg pardon, old Missis, but I couldn’t make no one hear me.

Vashti. Seeing as them be sick of the abomination which was inside of they. [_Perceiving_ HARRY.] Well, and what be you as is comed into this room?

Harry. ’Tis Moss as I be called, old Missis. And as I was a-going by this place, I thought as I’d look in a moment, just for to ask how ’twas with May.

Vashti. They be all gone out from the house. All of them. They be in clothes what do lie in boxes most of the time with lumps of white among they. Them be set out in the best as they has, and in grand things of many colours. There ’tis.

Harry. And be you th’ old lady what’s Steve’s mother?

Vashti. I be not, sir. ’Tis mother to May as I be. May, what’s comed back, and what’ll set t’other old vixen in her place soon as they get home.

Harry. Then May, she be gone out, too, have her?

Vashti. [_Looking round vaguely_.] Ah, I counts as her be gone to church along of t’other.

Harry. To church, Missis?

Vashti. There’s marrying being done down here to-day.

Harry. Marrying, be there? Well, but I was ’most feared as how it might have been t’other thing.

Vashti. Ah, that there be—marrying. But there bain’t no more victuals got into the house as I knows of. Th’ old woman’s seen to that.

Harry. And be May gone out, too, along of them to see the marrying?

Vashti. Ah, I counts as her be. But her’s a-coming back in a little while, and you may sit down and bide till she does.

Harry. I’d sooner be about and on my way, Missis, if ’tis all the same to you. But I thanks you kindly. And you get and tell May when she do come home, that ’tis particular glad I be for to know as her bain’t took worse, nor nothing. And should I happen in these parts again, ’tis very likely as I’ll take a look in on she some day.

Vashti. Ah, her’ll have got t’other old baggage set in the right place by then.

Harry. [_Looking round him_.] Well, I be rare pleased to think of May so comfortable, like, for her was got down terrible low.

Vashti. T’other’ll be broughted lower.

Harry. Look you here, old Missis, ’tis a stomach full of naught as I carries. If so be as you has a crust to spare—

Vashti. [_Pointing to a door_.] There be a plate of meat inside of that cupboard. You take and fill your belly with it.

Harry. Thank you kindly, Missis, but I counts I han’t the time for heavy feeding this morning.

Vashti. ’Twould serve she right, th’ old sinner, for the place to be licked up clean, against the time when her was come’d back, so ’twould.

Harry. Well, Missis, you can tell May ’tis a brave New Year as I do wish she.

Vashti. [_Listening to bells which are heard suddenly ringing_.] There, there they be! Harken to them! ’Tis with bells as they be coming out. Bells what’s ringing. I count ’tis fine as May do look now in her marriage gown. Harken, ’tis the bells a-shaking of the window pane. I be an old woman, but the hearing of me bain’t spoiled.

Harry. I warrant it bain’t, Missis. Why, they’re ringing wonderful smart. ’Tis enough, upon my word, for to fetch down every stone of the old place.

Vashti. Get you out upon the garden path and tell I if you sees them a-coming.

Harry. That’s it, old Missis, and so I will.

[_He goes outside the house_.

Vashti. [_Sitting upright and looking with fixed vacancy before her_.] And when they was all laid low and the heads of them bowed. “You would, would you,” I says, for they was lifting the ends of their ugly mouths at I. And I passed among they and them did quail and crouch, being with fear. And me and mine did reach the place what was on the top. “See now yourselves,” I says, “if so be that you do not go in blindness and in dark.” ’Twas May what stood there aside of I. And “Look you,” I says, “over the bended necks of you my child shall pass. For you be done to death by the lies which growed within you and waxed till the bodies of you was fed with them and the poison did gush out from your lips.” But my little child stood in the light, and the hands of her was about the stars.

Harry. [_Coming in_.] Look, they be all a-coming over the meadow, old Missis. But May han’t comed with they—May han’t come too.

[_The wedding party enters the room as the curtain falls_.]

FOOTNOTES

{1} “_As I walked Out_.” _From Folk Songs from Essex collected by R. Vaughan Williams_. _The whole_, _or two verses can be sung_.

{2} “The Seeds of Love,” “Folk Songs from Somerset,” edited by Cecil J. Sharp and Charles L. Marsden.