 | Dorothy |  |
BOOK I.
Dorothy goes with her pails to the ancient well in the courtyardDaily at grey of morn, daily ere twilight at eve;
Often and often again she winds at the mighty old windlass,
Still with her strong red arms landing the bucket aright:
Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on her broad square shoulders,
Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her burden returns:
She with her burden returns to the fields that she loves, to the cattle
Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming her and her pails.
Dorothy—who is she? She is only a servant-of-all-work;
Servant at White Rose Farm, under the cliff in the vale:
Under the sandstone cliff, where martins build in the springtime,
Hard by the green level meads, hard by the streams of the Yore.
Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the pride of the dairy!
Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a heifer to work:
Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built for labour—
Witness her muscular arm, witness the grip of her hand!
It was her hands, do you know, that lost her and won her a sweetheart,
Here, in the harvest time, only a twelvemonth ago.
Dorothy came to the farm, where her mother was servant before her,
Long, long since—let me see; yes, it is here she was born:
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Lay in a garret here, dead, leaving her baby behind.
Great was the scandal it caused; for many suspected the father:
Oft had he lodged in the house—made it a bachelor's home;
Sketching and fishing in spring, and hunting at times in the winter;
Visiting, too, when he pleased, all the great neighbours around.
Why should he care for her, for Betsy the rude ruddy milkmaid,
He, who could have, if he would, ladies in plenty to woo?
Well—but they said it was he: and the motherly wife of the farmer
Took poor Betsy's child, rear'd it almost like her own.
Two little daughters she had; and Dorothy grew up beside them,
Learning her ABC out of the very same book:
Learning moreover to write, though her clumsy laborious fingers
Never took kindly to that, hardly could manage a pen.
True, she had marks of her sire—his height, his regular features;
Also her golden hair seem'd a reflexion of his:
But with her mother's frame—the strong coarse frame of a farm-wench;
Only, refined here and there, shaped by a quality blood:
And, as the years drew on, and she grew from a child to a servant,
Earning wages at last, heartily working and well,
More of her mother appear'd; and the delicate traits of the father,
Save in her handsome face, speedily faded away.
Weakly her mistress was, and weakly the two little daughters;
But by her master's side Dorothy wrought like a son:
Wrought out of doors on the farm, and labour'd in dairy and kitchen,
Doing the work of two; help and support of them all.
Rough were her broad brown hands, and within, ah me! they were horny:
Rough were her thick ruddy arms, shapely and round as they were:
Rough too her glowing cheeks; and her sunburnt face and forehead
Browner than cairngorm seem'd, set in her amber-bright hair.
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Labour could never spoil, ignorance could not degrade:
And in her clear blue eyes bright gleams of intelligence linger'd;
And on her warm red mouth, Love might have 'lighted and lain.
Never an unkind word nor a rude unseemly expression
Came from that soft red mouth; nor in those sunny blue eyes
Lived there a look that belied the frankness of innocent girlhood—
Fearless, because it is pure; gracious, and gentle, and calm.
Have you not seen such a face, among rural hardworking maidens
Born but of peasant stock, free from our Dorothy's shame?
Just such faces as hers—a countenance open and artless,
Where no knowledge appears, culture, nor vision of grace;
Yet which an open-air life and simple and strenuous labour
Fills with a charm of its own—precious, and warm from the heart?
Hers was full of that charm; and besides, was something ennobled,
Something adorn'd, by thoughts due to a gentle descent:
So that a man should say, if he saw her afield at the milking,
Or with her sickle at work reaping the barley or beans,
‘There is a strapping wench—a lusty lass of a thousand,
‘Able to fend for herself, fit for the work of a man!’
But if he came more near, and she lifted her face to behold him,
‘Ah,’ he would cry, ‘what a change! Surely a lady is here!’
Yes—if a lady be one who is gracious and quiet in all things,
Thinking no evil at all, helpful wherever she can;
Then too at White Rose Farm, by the martins' cliff in the valley,
There was a lady; and she was but the servant of all.
True, when she spoke, her speech was the homely speech of the country;
Rough with quaint antique words, picturesque sayings of old:
And, for the things that she said, they were nothing but household phrases—
News of the poultry and kine, tidings of village and home;
But there was something withal in her musical voice and her manner
Gave to such workaday talk touches of higher degree.
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Or amid golden clouds saw him descending at eve;
Though no poetic thought, no keen and rapturous insight,
Troubled her childlike soul, yet she could wonder and gaze;
Yet she could welcome the morn for its beauty as well as its brightness,
And, in the evening glow, think—not of supper alone.
Still, after all, with the life of a rustic maid, of a servant,
Thought has but little to do; action alone is her sphere.
Action! And what can she do? Must I tell you our Dorothy's labours,
Set her accomplishments down, merely to flatter your pride;
Merely to let you perceive that she cannot do anything you do;
Can neither play nor sing; cannot speak German, nor French;
Cannot converse—not she—on matters away from her calling;
Can't for the life of her tell what your æsthetics may mean;
Cannot at all understand, when you speak about pictures and concerts;
Has not the faintest idea either of science or art;
Nay, is so dreadfully dull, that you all might talk in her presence
Hours together, and she would not remember a word!
Ay, and worse still—for this is a fatal sign, in a woman—
Has no views about dress; cares not a bit for the mode?
But, if you ask her to tell of the things that belong to the country—
How cade-lambs are rear'd; when such a calf should be wean'd;
How to make butter and cheese, or do this or that in the kitchen;
She, in her modest way, simply and aptly replies:
Or, if you ask of the ways of birds and four-footed creatures,
Robin the keeper himself knows them not better than she.
True (as among the poor and such as live by labour
Often a skilful hand goes with a faltering tongue;
Or as the knights of old left the tale of their deeds to a minstrel,
Thinking it scorn to relate what they were proud to achieve)
True—there was much she could do, but could not explain how she did it;
Spending her skill on the deed, not on the art to describe:
But she could show it in act—could show how to harness a cart-horse,
How to cut turnips for sheep; how to feed cattle in stall;
How you should choose your manure for a cold clay land, or a light one;
How you should fatten a pig; how you should kill him and cure.
Thought has but little to do; action alone is her sphere.
Action! And what can she do? Must I tell you our Dorothy's labours,
Set her accomplishments down, merely to flatter your pride;
Merely to let you perceive that she cannot do anything you do;
Can neither play nor sing; cannot speak German, nor French;
Cannot converse—not she—on matters away from her calling;
Can't for the life of her tell what your æsthetics may mean;
Cannot at all understand, when you speak about pictures and concerts;
Has not the faintest idea either of science or art;
Nay, is so dreadfully dull, that you all might talk in her presence
Hours together, and she would not remember a word!
Ay, and worse still—for this is a fatal sign, in a woman—
Has no views about dress; cares not a bit for the mode?
But, if you ask her to tell of the things that belong to the country—
How cade-lambs are rear'd; when such a calf should be wean'd;
How to make butter and cheese, or do this or that in the kitchen;
She, in her modest way, simply and aptly replies:
Or, if you ask of the ways of birds and four-footed creatures,
Robin the keeper himself knows them not better than she.
True (as among the poor and such as live by labour
Often a skilful hand goes with a faltering tongue;
Or as the knights of old left the tale of their deeds to a minstrel,
Thinking it scorn to relate what they were proud to achieve)
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Spending her skill on the deed, not on the art to describe:
But she could show it in act—could show how to harness a cart-horse,
How to cut turnips for sheep; how to feed cattle in stall;
How you should choose your manure for a cold clay land, or a light one;
How you should fatten a pig; how you should kill him and cure.
‘Base barren knowledge,’ say you? But what if it earns her a living?
What if it should be her all—all she can ever display?
And I deny it is base: these things must be done, and the doer
Surely ennobles the work, if she be true to herself;
Yea, she ennobles her mates: the presence and help of a woman,
If she be woman indeed, checks yet enlivens a man.
Woman indeed—ah yes; for factory-girls and pit-girls
Well may be under control, working in gangs as they do;
But in our Dorothy's life, herself was her only controller;
Master and maid was she, working with men or alone.
Oh—I have yet to complete the list of her many employments:
First, she can read, as I said; read in the Bible, I mean—
Oft on a Sunday night, when the household meet in the evening,
Reading aloud by the hearth, taking her turn with the rest:
And, as I said, she can write; she can fashion her name in a round hand
Fit for a ploughman to see under his own in the book:
Then, she can sew, right well: for stitching and hemming and darning,
Whether to make or to mend, none are more clever than she;
Hard as her fingers are, fine needlework only excepted,
None in the parish can show stitching more subtle than hers:
Samplers, too; long ago, she wrought a most beautiful sampler,
Gay with a cris-cross row, splendid with Adam and Eve;
Framed in her attic, it is, a joy for them that come after:
Such as her mother made—such as they never make now.
Then, she can scrub, and scour, and swill with the bucket and besom,
Flinging her pailfuls afar mightily over the yard;
Sweeping the water away with rapid and vigorous movement,
Till on the clean wet flags never a footmark appears:
And all over the house you may hear her on Saturdays, always,
Down on her hands and knees, lustily scrubbing away;
Scrubbing the warm red bricks of the kitchen floor or the dairy;
Scrubbing the oaken boards—parlour and staircase and all.
Item—as Touchstone says—she can blacklead grates and fenders;
Cleverly lay you a fire, tidily sweep up the hearth;
Dig and carry the coals; chop wood, and polish the irons;
Blacken her master's boots, and, on a Sunday, her own.
What if her hands for awhile were as black as the boots she was cleaning?
They were the better for that—weapons of better defence:
So that, if Robin should come and slyly offer to kiss her,
'Ere she has wash'd at the sink, 'ere she can rise from the floor,
Up go her dangerous hands, and she cries ‘Mr. Robert, behave now!
Else I shall give you a face black as a tinker's, like mine!’
Curious, the ways of these folk of humble and hardy condition:
What if it should be her all—all she can ever display?
And I deny it is base: these things must be done, and the doer
Surely ennobles the work, if she be true to herself;
Yea, she ennobles her mates: the presence and help of a woman,
If she be woman indeed, checks yet enlivens a man.
Woman indeed—ah yes; for factory-girls and pit-girls
Well may be under control, working in gangs as they do;
But in our Dorothy's life, herself was her only controller;
Master and maid was she, working with men or alone.
Oh—I have yet to complete the list of her many employments:
First, she can read, as I said; read in the Bible, I mean—
Oft on a Sunday night, when the household meet in the evening,
Reading aloud by the hearth, taking her turn with the rest:
And, as I said, she can write; she can fashion her name in a round hand
Fit for a ploughman to see under his own in the book:
Then, she can sew, right well: for stitching and hemming and darning,
Whether to make or to mend, none are more clever than she;
Hard as her fingers are, fine needlework only excepted,
None in the parish can show stitching more subtle than hers:
Samplers, too; long ago, she wrought a most beautiful sampler,
Gay with a cris-cross row, splendid with Adam and Eve;
Framed in her attic, it is, a joy for them that come after:
Such as her mother made—such as they never make now.
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Flinging her pailfuls afar mightily over the yard;
Sweeping the water away with rapid and vigorous movement,
Till on the clean wet flags never a footmark appears:
And all over the house you may hear her on Saturdays, always,
Down on her hands and knees, lustily scrubbing away;
Scrubbing the warm red bricks of the kitchen floor or the dairy;
Scrubbing the oaken boards—parlour and staircase and all.
Item—as Touchstone says—she can blacklead grates and fenders;
Cleverly lay you a fire, tidily sweep up the hearth;
Dig and carry the coals; chop wood, and polish the irons;
Blacken her master's boots, and, on a Sunday, her own.
What if her hands for awhile were as black as the boots she was cleaning?
They were the better for that—weapons of better defence:
So that, if Robin should come and slyly offer to kiss her,
'Ere she has wash'd at the sink, 'ere she can rise from the floor,
Up go her dangerous hands, and she cries ‘Mr. Robert, behave now!
Else I shall give you a face black as a tinker's, like mine!’
Kisses, amongst ourselves, bless me, how much they imply!
Ere you can come to a kiss, you must scale the whole gamut of courtship—
Introduction first; pretty attentions and words;
Tentative looks; and at length, perhaps the touch of a finger;
Then the confession; and then (if she allow it) the kiss.
So that a kiss comes last—'tis the crown and seal of the whole thing;
Passion avow'd by you, fondly accepted by her.
But in our Dorothy's class, a kiss only marks the beginning:
Comes me a light-hearted swain, thinking of nothing at all;
Flings his fustian sleeve round the ample waist of the maiden;
Kisses her cheek, and she—laughingly thrusts him away.
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'Tis but the homage, she feels, paid to her beauty by men:
So that, at Kiss-in-the-Ring—an innocent game and a good one—
Strangers in plenty may kiss: nay, she pursues, in her turn.
Not that our Dorothy did; though she went to the fair with her mistress:
She was too grave for that, too unaccustom'd to play;
But she stood by, with a smile, while the other girls fled from their partners,
And she approved in her heart, when they were captured and kiss'd.
Why did her heart thus approve? It was not that she wanted a sweetheart;
She never thought of such things—she, with her hands full of work!
And, there was no one to have: Mr. Robert was ‘meat for her betters’;
He had a house of his own; and, though he often appear'd,
Mary (for Ann had died), her master's delicate daughter—
Mary, she thought, was his game: she was the sweetheart for him.
True, he had once and again given Dolly a kiss or a fairing;
But she thought nothing of that—that was the way of the men:
Haply he did it, she thought, because she belong'd to the Missis—
Trying his hand on her, waiting for Mary awhile.
Then, there was Billy the boy, who help'd her at times with the ladder,
When she was busy aloft, cleaning the windows upstairs;
He was too young: he was rude: he would oft run away, and leave her
High on the ladder alone, just when a cart was at hand!
As for Carter John, whom she help'd in the stable and cowhouse,
He was a married man, weighted with women and bairns:
So there was no one to have; not a soul—except Mr. Robert—
For with the village lads she had but little to do.
Therefore, she went on her way, spring, summer, autumn, winter—
Doing the season's work indoors and out, at the farm;
Caring for little, save that, and the warm and equal affection
She from a child had known—daughter and servant in one.
Winter—she help'd old John, a-laying down straw for the cattle;
Clean'd out the stable and byres, nothing afraid of the bull;
Help'd at the pig-killing too, and clean'd out the pigstye after;
She never thought, not she, that was a trouble to do:
Spring—she look'd after the lambs, and the calves that wanted suckling;
Work'd in the fields too, a bit, cleaning the land, or at plough.
Well can our Dorothy plough—as a girl, she learnt it and loved it;
Leading the teams, at first, follow'd by Master himself;
Then, when she grew to the height and the strength of a muscular woman,
Grasping the stilts in her pride, driving the mighty machine.
Ah, what a joy for her, at early morn, in the springtime,
Driving from hedge to hedge furrows as straight as a line!
Seeing the crisp brown earth, like waves at the bow of a vessel,
Rise, curl over, and fall, under the thrust of the share;
Orderly falling and still, its edges all creamy and crumbling,
But, on the sloping side, polish'd and purple as steel;
Till all the field, she thought, looked bright as the bars of that gridiron
In the great window at church, over the gentlefolks' pew:
And evermore, as she strode, she has cheerful companions behind her;
Rooks and the smaller birds, following after her plough;
And, 'ere the ridges were done, there was gossamer woven above them,
Gossamer dewy and white, shining like foam on the sea.,
Well may she joy in such things, in the freedom of outdoor labour—
Freeborn lass that she is, fetter'd by Duty alone:
Well may she do—being young, and healthy and hearty and fearless—
Things that a town-bred girl dared not adventure at all.
For, 'twas not ploughing alone; but she wrought with the hoe and the harrow,
Drove the great waggon afield, carted and spread the manure;
Mounted tall Dobbin or Dick, and rode him unharness'd to water,
Riding, when no one was near, skilfully riding, astride.
Yes—honi soit, if you please! For the damsels of Brittany do it;
So do the bonny Welsh girls, out in the vale of Llanrwst;
So, over half the world, does every one, gentle and simple,
Women as well as the men—maidens and matrons and all.
But in the Summer, again, from haytime till after the harvest,
Mary was maid of the house: Dorothy, willing and strong,
Willing and strong as she was, could never do all that was wanted;
Cleaning and baking must wait—Mary will do what she can:
Dorothy's work is abroad—in the field, on the farm, in the dairy,
Churning, milking of course, making of curds and of cheese;
Tending of cattle and swine, and haymaking down in the meadows
Or up in Breakheart Field; haymaking she with the rest.
Doing the season's work indoors and out, at the farm;
Caring for little, save that, and the warm and equal affection
She from a child had known—daughter and servant in one.
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Clean'd out the stable and byres, nothing afraid of the bull;
Help'd at the pig-killing too, and clean'd out the pigstye after;
She never thought, not she, that was a trouble to do:
Spring—she look'd after the lambs, and the calves that wanted suckling;
Work'd in the fields too, a bit, cleaning the land, or at plough.
Well can our Dorothy plough—as a girl, she learnt it and loved it;
Leading the teams, at first, follow'd by Master himself;
Then, when she grew to the height and the strength of a muscular woman,
Grasping the stilts in her pride, driving the mighty machine.
Ah, what a joy for her, at early morn, in the springtime,
Driving from hedge to hedge furrows as straight as a line!
Seeing the crisp brown earth, like waves at the bow of a vessel,
Rise, curl over, and fall, under the thrust of the share;
Orderly falling and still, its edges all creamy and crumbling,
But, on the sloping side, polish'd and purple as steel;
Till all the field, she thought, looked bright as the bars of that gridiron
In the great window at church, over the gentlefolks' pew:
And evermore, as she strode, she has cheerful companions behind her;
Rooks and the smaller birds, following after her plough;
And, 'ere the ridges were done, there was gossamer woven above them,
Gossamer dewy and white, shining like foam on the sea.,
Well may she joy in such things, in the freedom of outdoor labour—
Freeborn lass that she is, fetter'd by Duty alone:
Well may she do—being young, and healthy and hearty and fearless—
Things that a town-bred girl dared not adventure at all.
For, 'twas not ploughing alone; but she wrought with the hoe and the harrow,
Drove the great waggon afield, carted and spread the manure;
Mounted tall Dobbin or Dick, and rode him unharness'd to water,
Riding, when no one was near, skilfully riding, astride.
Yes—honi soit, if you please! For the damsels of Brittany do it;
So do the bonny Welsh girls, out in the vale of Llanrwst;
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Women as well as the men—maidens and matrons and all.
But in the Summer, again, from haytime till after the harvest,
Mary was maid of the house: Dorothy, willing and strong,
Willing and strong as she was, could never do all that was wanted;
Cleaning and baking must wait—Mary will do what she can:
Dorothy's work is abroad—in the field, on the farm, in the dairy,
Churning, milking of course, making of curds and of cheese;
Tending of cattle and swine, and haymaking down in the meadows
Or up in Breakheart Field; haymaking she with the rest.
Child's play, you think, making hay? Why yes, when a dainty young lady
Tosses a forkful or two, just for a frolic, in fun:
Not when you work all day, from morning far into moonlight,
Up and down the long rows, raking and forking away;
Standing at last on the stack, and catching up hay from the waggon—
That was our Dorothy's work; ay, and she did it, and well!
Also, when harvest was come, she work'd in the field with her sickle;
Wheat, and barley, and beans fell to the sweep of her blade:
She could keep up with the men at reaping, and binding, and stacking;
She could keep up with the men; she could leave laggards behind.
All through the sultry days, in the silent ranks of the reapers,
Dorothy wrought like a man, keeping her time with the best;
Earning her harvest wage—for her wages were doubled in harvest;
Earning her bacon and bread under the hazels at noon.
Brown grew her handsome face, her bare arms brown as the chestnut;
She too, a labourer still, wrought in the sweat of her brow;
But, with her hair tied up in a handkerchief under her bonnet,
And with her lilac frock kilted up gaily behind,
She was a pleasure to see; and there was not a man of her fellows
Would not have snatch'd, if he dared, Dorothy's hard-working hand.
But they all knew her; they knew, though she chatted and laugh'd like another,
Neither refused her lips when the cool barrel went round,
Yet she was proud of her work, and kept to herself like a lady—
Awing a man by her strength, awing him more by her eyes.
Therefore they let her alone—Mr. Robert was never among them—
And she went free to the field; free and unaided, return'd.
But on the last day of all, when the crop was housed, and the stubble
All over Breakheart Field shone like a faint yellow haze;
When every sheaf was bound, and the Harvest Home was approaching;
Dorothy came not afield—for she was wanted within.
Mistress and Mary alone could never accomplish the supper—
Dorothy too must be there, helping to cook and to clean;
Furbishing knives and plates, and dusty old things from the storeroom—
Crockery seldom used, kept for such banquets as this.
Tosses a forkful or two, just for a frolic, in fun:
Not when you work all day, from morning far into moonlight,
Up and down the long rows, raking and forking away;
Standing at last on the stack, and catching up hay from the waggon—
That was our Dorothy's work; ay, and she did it, and well!
Also, when harvest was come, she work'd in the field with her sickle;
Wheat, and barley, and beans fell to the sweep of her blade:
She could keep up with the men at reaping, and binding, and stacking;
She could keep up with the men; she could leave laggards behind.
All through the sultry days, in the silent ranks of the reapers,
Dorothy wrought like a man, keeping her time with the best;
Earning her harvest wage—for her wages were doubled in harvest;
Earning her bacon and bread under the hazels at noon.
Brown grew her handsome face, her bare arms brown as the chestnut;
She too, a labourer still, wrought in the sweat of her brow;
But, with her hair tied up in a handkerchief under her bonnet,
And with her lilac frock kilted up gaily behind,
She was a pleasure to see; and there was not a man of her fellows
Would not have snatch'd, if he dared, Dorothy's hard-working hand.
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Neither refused her lips when the cool barrel went round,
Yet she was proud of her work, and kept to herself like a lady—
Awing a man by her strength, awing him more by her eyes.
Therefore they let her alone—Mr. Robert was never among them—
And she went free to the field; free and unaided, return'd.
But on the last day of all, when the crop was housed, and the stubble
All over Breakheart Field shone like a faint yellow haze;
When every sheaf was bound, and the Harvest Home was approaching;
Dorothy came not afield—for she was wanted within.
Mistress and Mary alone could never accomplish the supper—
Dorothy too must be there, helping to cook and to clean;
Furbishing knives and plates, and dusty old things from the storeroom—
Crockery seldom used, kept for such banquets as this.
Ah, what a time it is, that finishing day of the harvest!
When the last load comes home, joyously into the yard;
Labourers, women and men, all shouting and singing around it—
Glad that their work is done; scenting the supper at last!
Labourers, women and men, come gathering in to that supper,
Silent and shy at first, thinking of what there will be,
What there will be to eat—for that is the principal question;
Drink we are sure there will be—every one knows there is beer.
Master himself sits first, with his wife and daughter beside him;
Friends—Mr. Robert, perhaps—friends are the next in degree;
Then, Carter John and his spouse, and the shepherd, and Davy the fiddler;
Then, all the harvest folks, lads and their lasses arow:
All expecting awhile the tender delights of the banquet;
Each one grasping a knife, eager at once to fall to.
But, though the meal is served, and the guests have begun their enjoyment,
Dorothy never sits down—she is too busy for that:
She is still bustling about, her face on fire with labour,
Waiting on this one and that, filling their mugs to the brim;
Washing up dishes and plates, or fetching hot things from the oven;
Active and ready and kind, caring for all but herself.
Often they made her a place, crying ‘Dolly, why don't you sit down, lass?’
Often her mistress call'd ‘Dolly, the pudding's a-cold!’
So that at last she sat down, on a bench at the foot of the table,
Emptied her plate and her mug, drank to a health with the rest;
Eating as fast as she could—for she was the last, you remember—
Thrusting her trencher away jauntily, when she had done!
Ah, poor ignorant girl, how shall we attempt to reform her?
How shall we soften her hands, polish her rough rugged ways?
How can we ever expect didicisse fideliter artes,
So that her father's friends haply may notice his child?
Yes, how indeed! For, as soon as they tired of the δαιτος εισης,
Dorothy sprang to her feet, lightly jump'd over the bench,
Heaved it up under her arm, and another bench under the left arm,
Swept off the plates in a trice, push'd the big table aside,
Carried off dishes and mugs by armfuls into the back-house,
Turn'd up her sleeves once more, girded herself to wash up.
When the last load comes home, joyously into the yard;
Labourers, women and men, all shouting and singing around it—
Glad that their work is done; scenting the supper at last!
Labourers, women and men, come gathering in to that supper,
Silent and shy at first, thinking of what there will be,
What there will be to eat—for that is the principal question;
Drink we are sure there will be—every one knows there is beer.
Master himself sits first, with his wife and daughter beside him;
Friends—Mr. Robert, perhaps—friends are the next in degree;
Then, Carter John and his spouse, and the shepherd, and Davy the fiddler;
Then, all the harvest folks, lads and their lasses arow:
All expecting awhile the tender delights of the banquet;
Each one grasping a knife, eager at once to fall to.
But, though the meal is served, and the guests have begun their enjoyment,
Dorothy never sits down—she is too busy for that:
11
Waiting on this one and that, filling their mugs to the brim;
Washing up dishes and plates, or fetching hot things from the oven;
Active and ready and kind, caring for all but herself.
Often they made her a place, crying ‘Dolly, why don't you sit down, lass?’
Often her mistress call'd ‘Dolly, the pudding's a-cold!’
So that at last she sat down, on a bench at the foot of the table,
Emptied her plate and her mug, drank to a health with the rest;
Eating as fast as she could—for she was the last, you remember—
Thrusting her trencher away jauntily, when she had done!
Ah, poor ignorant girl, how shall we attempt to reform her?
How shall we soften her hands, polish her rough rugged ways?
How can we ever expect didicisse fideliter artes,
So that her father's friends haply may notice his child?
Yes, how indeed! For, as soon as they tired of the δαιτος εισης,
Dorothy sprang to her feet, lightly jump'd over the bench,
Heaved it up under her arm, and another bench under the left arm,
Swept off the plates in a trice, push'd the big table aside,
Carried off dishes and mugs by armfuls into the back-house,
Turn'd up her sleeves once more, girded herself to wash up.
E'en when the room was clear'd, and the couples all ranged for the dancing,
Dorothy did not appear, she was too busy for that:
And, in the scullery there, still washing and rinsing and wiping,
Who was it found her at last? Why, Mr. Robert himself!
‘Dolly lass, what does thee mean—washing up, when the folks are a-playing?
‘Come to the kitchen with me: I must have thee for a dance!
‘How can thee stand like this, with the lads all romping and laughing—
‘Davy—why, hark to him now—scraping his fiddle like mad?’
‘Well, Mr. Robert,’ said she, ‘I've finish'd my work, very nearly;
‘But I must clean myself first—then I will come, by-and-by.
‘And it is kind of you, very kind, to want me for the dancing;
‘For there's a many, you know, ought to be ax'd afore me.
‘What would my Missis say, if you didn't dance first wi’ Miss Mary?
‘May be you have, to be sure; still, you should do it again:
‘Then, if you wish it, you know, you'll be certain to light o'me somewheres;
‘But you must leave me just now, else I shall never get done.’
Strangely he smiled, as she spoke, with his hands stuck into his pockets:
‘Well, thou's a hard-working wench, Dolly, my lass, I declare!
‘But thou art something besides: don't thee know, thou art very good-looking?’
‘Nay, Mr. Robert,’ says she, ‘don't you come joking at me!’
Well, never mind—we shall see, by-and-by, when thou comes to the dancing:
‘If thee don't dance with me soon, George! but I'll kiss thee again!’
‘Fie, Mr. Robert!’—And then she took off her clogs and her apron
(Not till he'd gone, though), and wash'd; cool'd her hot face at the pump:
Scrubb'd her rough hands and her arms with the floor brush, as if it was Sunday;
Making them redder, indeed, but—for a labourer's—clean:
Then she went lightly upstairs, to her own little loft in the attic;
Put on a clean cotton frock, brush'd out her bonny bright hair:
Turn'd down her sleeves—for, you know, you ladies wear sleeves in a morning,
Baring your arms but at night, just for the men to admire;
But, with these working girls, bare arms are needed for labour;
So, when the labour is done, sleeves are a sign of repose:
Sleeves, too, are useful to hide—as Dorothy felt when she wore them—
Workaday arms like hers, if there were gentlefolks near;
Gentlefolks do so stare at the rough ruddy skin of a servant—
Just as if she could have arms cover'd and coddled, like theirs!
Not that she knew much of that, for gentlefolks seldom came near her:
But—Mr. Robert was there; he might object to her arms.
Therefore she turn'd down her sleeves, rejoicing that such was the fashion;
Donn'd her white collar and cuffs—oh, what a luxury they!
Oh, what a contrast, too, to the sunburnt neck of the wearer,
And to her strong red wrists, strengthen'd by holding the plough!
But when she look'd in the glass, there was something, just then, to console her,
Whether for rough red wrists, or for a throat that was tann'd:
There was a rosy young face, as bright and as brown as a berry;
Framed in its pale yellow hair, like a ripe nut in the sheath.
And she beheld it, and smiled; for she thought, after all, for a wonder,
Brown as it was, he was right: some folks might think she was fair!
Think she was fair? Yes, indeed! she might easily pass for a lady,
Judged by her features alone: but for her hard-working hands;
But for her tell-tale hands, so big and so broad—on the outside
Rough as the bark of a tree, hard as its timber within.
Still, she had gloves, you suppose: at least on occasions of this sort?
Gloves? How our Dolly would laugh, if she could hear you say that!
Rarely on Sundays at church, and certainly not on a week day,
Had she worn gloves in her life: why, she had never a pair!
Stay—she had one: men's size; they had once belong'd to her father:
Gentlemen's gloves: so of course they were too little for her.
Gloves! You might almost as soon see her scented with lavender water;
Using a silk parasol; wearing a muff, or a veil!
And, when that pert little Poll, who likes dressmaking better than service,
Sewing at White Rose Farm, said to our Dorothy once—
‘How can you do with such hands, a nice-looking creature as you are?
‘Spoilt like an ostler's with work—how can you let 'em be seen?’
‘How can I let 'em be seen?’ says Dorothy, ‘how can I help it?
‘Me that must work for my bread morning and night, as I do?
‘Nobody sees 'em, you know, except master and missis and Mary;
‘Well, Mr. Robert, perhaps; he must be used to 'em now.
‘But if they did, what o’ that? I'm sure they may see 'em and welcome:
‘See 'em, and feel if they like; then they'll find out if they're hard!
‘Why, when we stand to be hired—farm-wenches, I mean, such as I am—
‘Up at the Martlemas Fair, don't they look first at our hands?
‘Ay, and the lass 'at has hands showing work as plainly as mine does
‘She gets the Godspenny first—she is the one they would choose.
‘Spoilt, did you say? Well, I know I reckon my hands is my fortune:
‘I'm not ashamed of 'em—no, nor of the work they can do!’
Such was her argument still; she was not ashamed of her calling,
Nor of its outward signs—homely, uncouth, if they were;
She was contented: ‘Because she had never known anything better?’
Lucky for her, I should say, not to know anything worse!
And she had known nothing worse than a simple and innocent girlhood,
Spent among rural scenes, country delights and employ:
Under a kindhearted dame, amid cheerful and lowly companions,
Fond of their life, like her; caring for little beyond.
Regular open-air work, and home-made food in abundance,
Strengthen'd her spirit and frame, straighten'd her lusty young limbs;
So that at length she was fit for her place as a wife and a mother—
Mother of men like herself; Englishmen, sturdy and tall.
Dorothy did not appear, she was too busy for that:
And, in the scullery there, still washing and rinsing and wiping,
Who was it found her at last? Why, Mr. Robert himself!
‘Dolly lass, what does thee mean—washing up, when the folks are a-playing?
‘Come to the kitchen with me: I must have thee for a dance!
‘How can thee stand like this, with the lads all romping and laughing—
‘Davy—why, hark to him now—scraping his fiddle like mad?’
‘Well, Mr. Robert,’ said she, ‘I've finish'd my work, very nearly;
‘But I must clean myself first—then I will come, by-and-by.
12
‘For there's a many, you know, ought to be ax'd afore me.
‘What would my Missis say, if you didn't dance first wi’ Miss Mary?
‘May be you have, to be sure; still, you should do it again:
‘Then, if you wish it, you know, you'll be certain to light o'me somewheres;
‘But you must leave me just now, else I shall never get done.’
Strangely he smiled, as she spoke, with his hands stuck into his pockets:
‘Well, thou's a hard-working wench, Dolly, my lass, I declare!
‘But thou art something besides: don't thee know, thou art very good-looking?’
‘Nay, Mr. Robert,’ says she, ‘don't you come joking at me!’
Well, never mind—we shall see, by-and-by, when thou comes to the dancing:
‘If thee don't dance with me soon, George! but I'll kiss thee again!’
‘Fie, Mr. Robert!’—And then she took off her clogs and her apron
(Not till he'd gone, though), and wash'd; cool'd her hot face at the pump:
Scrubb'd her rough hands and her arms with the floor brush, as if it was Sunday;
Making them redder, indeed, but—for a labourer's—clean:
Then she went lightly upstairs, to her own little loft in the attic;
Put on a clean cotton frock, brush'd out her bonny bright hair:
Turn'd down her sleeves—for, you know, you ladies wear sleeves in a morning,
Baring your arms but at night, just for the men to admire;
But, with these working girls, bare arms are needed for labour;
So, when the labour is done, sleeves are a sign of repose:
Sleeves, too, are useful to hide—as Dorothy felt when she wore them—
Workaday arms like hers, if there were gentlefolks near;
Gentlefolks do so stare at the rough ruddy skin of a servant—
Just as if she could have arms cover'd and coddled, like theirs!
Not that she knew much of that, for gentlefolks seldom came near her:
But—Mr. Robert was there; he might object to her arms.
Therefore she turn'd down her sleeves, rejoicing that such was the fashion;
Donn'd her white collar and cuffs—oh, what a luxury they!
Oh, what a contrast, too, to the sunburnt neck of the wearer,
And to her strong red wrists, strengthen'd by holding the plough!
13
Whether for rough red wrists, or for a throat that was tann'd:
There was a rosy young face, as bright and as brown as a berry;
Framed in its pale yellow hair, like a ripe nut in the sheath.
And she beheld it, and smiled; for she thought, after all, for a wonder,
Brown as it was, he was right: some folks might think she was fair!
Think she was fair? Yes, indeed! she might easily pass for a lady,
Judged by her features alone: but for her hard-working hands;
But for her tell-tale hands, so big and so broad—on the outside
Rough as the bark of a tree, hard as its timber within.
Still, she had gloves, you suppose: at least on occasions of this sort?
Gloves? How our Dolly would laugh, if she could hear you say that!
Rarely on Sundays at church, and certainly not on a week day,
Had she worn gloves in her life: why, she had never a pair!
Stay—she had one: men's size; they had once belong'd to her father:
Gentlemen's gloves: so of course they were too little for her.
Gloves! You might almost as soon see her scented with lavender water;
Using a silk parasol; wearing a muff, or a veil!
And, when that pert little Poll, who likes dressmaking better than service,
Sewing at White Rose Farm, said to our Dorothy once—
‘How can you do with such hands, a nice-looking creature as you are?
‘Spoilt like an ostler's with work—how can you let 'em be seen?’
‘How can I let 'em be seen?’ says Dorothy, ‘how can I help it?
‘Me that must work for my bread morning and night, as I do?
‘Nobody sees 'em, you know, except master and missis and Mary;
‘Well, Mr. Robert, perhaps; he must be used to 'em now.
‘But if they did, what o’ that? I'm sure they may see 'em and welcome:
‘See 'em, and feel if they like; then they'll find out if they're hard!
‘Why, when we stand to be hired—farm-wenches, I mean, such as I am—
‘Up at the Martlemas Fair, don't they look first at our hands?
‘Ay, and the lass 'at has hands showing work as plainly as mine does
‘She gets the Godspenny first—she is the one they would choose.
14
‘I'm not ashamed of 'em—no, nor of the work they can do!’
Such was her argument still; she was not ashamed of her calling,
Nor of its outward signs—homely, uncouth, if they were;
She was contented: ‘Because she had never known anything better?’
Lucky for her, I should say, not to know anything worse!
And she had known nothing worse than a simple and innocent girlhood,
Spent among rural scenes, country delights and employ:
Under a kindhearted dame, amid cheerful and lowly companions,
Fond of their life, like her; caring for little beyond.
Regular open-air work, and home-made food in abundance,
Strengthen'd her spirit and frame, straighten'd her lusty young limbs;
So that at length she was fit for her place as a wife and a mother—
Mother of men like herself; Englishmen, sturdy and tall.
Ah, but whose wife will she be? That is still but a faraway question,
Since she has never allow'd even a sweetheart, as yet:
And we have left her alone, this long, long while, in her attic,
Her, who could put on her things, bonnet and all, in a trice!
So that in five minutes' time she was down in the spacious old kitchen,
Just with a blush on her cheek, feeling it strange to be thus:
Just with a bright red blush through her brown skin melting and glowing,
Like to a sunrise in spring, mask'd by dun clouds of the dawn.
‘Here is our Dolly!’ cried one; and ‘Dolly's come back!’ said another:
So they were pleased, it appear'd, when she came into the room.
Even her mistress spoke; saying, ‘Master shall handsel thee, Dolly!’
‘Ay,’ said her goodman, ‘I will; Dolly, my girl, come along!’
Ere she could think, they were off; the strong in the grasp of the stronger:
Down the long dance, and again up to the top, and away!
And at the end, when he turn'd, and kiss'd her cheek for remembrance,
That was an honour indeed! Missis had noticed it, too:
‘Father!’ she laughingly said, ‘is thou kissing our Dolly before me?’
‘Ay!’ cried the cheery old man; ‘wife, here's another for thee!’
So they all laugh'd, sitting round; and Dolly stood panting beside them,
Stood with her hands on her hips, taking it easy awhile.
Taking it easy—and yet looking furtively round at the dancers,
When the next dance began: just to see who might be there;
Who might be dancing with whom—Mr. Robert, no doubt, with Miss Mary;
Yes—there she was in his arms, looking as pleased as a bride!
Dorothy too was pleased, to see them so happy together—
Yes, for ‘He's doing,’ she thought, ‘just what I ax'd him to do:’
So, she was pleased, of course; but when Jumping Jack from the village
Came with a sheepish smile, ask'd her to foot it with him,
Somehow, she wish'd in her heart that she had the luck of Miss Mary;
Born in the regular way, sure to inherit a farm.
Still, she forgot all that, when Jumping Jack, in his wild way,
Gallop'd all over the floor, keeping her galloping too;
Stamping and ramping about, through the boisterous crowded kitchen;
Envied, by some for his skill, and for his partner by all.
‘Eh, you're a good 'un!’ he said; for Dorothy throughly enjoy'd it:
Quiet and grave as she was, careless of pleasures like this,
Once they had enter'd the dance, she was carried away by excitement;
Proving herself, here too, strongest and swiftest of all.
Yet she was wearied at last: ‘Oh, Jack, this is harder than threshing!
‘Pull up, my lad, for a bit—let's get our breath, and sit down:
‘Eh, how I'm blown, to be sure! it's fit to try any one, this is!
‘Take some one else, now do; Missis 'll want me, I'm sure.’
Thus, with a smile, she prevail'd; and he saunter'd away to another,
Saying ‘I'll clip her again; Dolly's the market for me!’
So said the men, every one, though they couldn't all deal at that market;
Nay, even women approved—all but a critical few:
Such as the two Misses Smith; but they were a tradesman's daughters;
She, a farm-servant, indeed! what could they care about her?
‘Look at her moggany face,’ said Tabitha Smith to Jemima,
‘Shining with 'eat, I declare—ay, she is wipin’ it now!
‘Wipin’ 'er face, did ye see, wi' the hend of 'er large white hapron;
‘My! what a hignorant thing—isn't she vulgar, oh no!’
‘Yes,’ said Jemima, ‘to think of 'er 'avin’ a hapron to dance in!
‘Them sort o’ girls never knows what a young lady should wear:
‘Look at 'er great coarse 'ands—why, a 'edger's gloves wouldn't fit 'em—
‘Spread on her knees like paws; sure, she might 'ide 'em, for once!’
So spake the two Misses Smith; fastidious, fine-spoken damsels,
Proudly aware as their Pa baked the best bread for the 'All:
Also that pert little Poll, with her dressmaking gewgaws about her,
Wonder'd how Dolly could bear dressing as plain as she did:
Never a sprig in her hair, nor a bit of a bow on her bosom—
Only an apron, you know; only a clean cotton frock!
As for the apron, well—one could overlook that, in a servant;
She had her work to do, after the dancing was done:
‘But,’ said the pert little Poll, ‘as her 'ands is so very 'ardworking,
‘She might 'ave 'id 'em, this once; might ha' wore mittens, at least.’—
Since she has never allow'd even a sweetheart, as yet:
And we have left her alone, this long, long while, in her attic,
Her, who could put on her things, bonnet and all, in a trice!
So that in five minutes' time she was down in the spacious old kitchen,
Just with a blush on her cheek, feeling it strange to be thus:
Just with a bright red blush through her brown skin melting and glowing,
Like to a sunrise in spring, mask'd by dun clouds of the dawn.
‘Here is our Dolly!’ cried one; and ‘Dolly's come back!’ said another:
So they were pleased, it appear'd, when she came into the room.
Even her mistress spoke; saying, ‘Master shall handsel thee, Dolly!’
‘Ay,’ said her goodman, ‘I will; Dolly, my girl, come along!’
Ere she could think, they were off; the strong in the grasp of the stronger:
Down the long dance, and again up to the top, and away!
And at the end, when he turn'd, and kiss'd her cheek for remembrance,
That was an honour indeed! Missis had noticed it, too:
15
‘Ay!’ cried the cheery old man; ‘wife, here's another for thee!’
So they all laugh'd, sitting round; and Dolly stood panting beside them,
Stood with her hands on her hips, taking it easy awhile.
Taking it easy—and yet looking furtively round at the dancers,
When the next dance began: just to see who might be there;
Who might be dancing with whom—Mr. Robert, no doubt, with Miss Mary;
Yes—there she was in his arms, looking as pleased as a bride!
Dorothy too was pleased, to see them so happy together—
Yes, for ‘He's doing,’ she thought, ‘just what I ax'd him to do:’
So, she was pleased, of course; but when Jumping Jack from the village
Came with a sheepish smile, ask'd her to foot it with him,
Somehow, she wish'd in her heart that she had the luck of Miss Mary;
Born in the regular way, sure to inherit a farm.
Still, she forgot all that, when Jumping Jack, in his wild way,
Gallop'd all over the floor, keeping her galloping too;
Stamping and ramping about, through the boisterous crowded kitchen;
Envied, by some for his skill, and for his partner by all.
‘Eh, you're a good 'un!’ he said; for Dorothy throughly enjoy'd it:
Quiet and grave as she was, careless of pleasures like this,
Once they had enter'd the dance, she was carried away by excitement;
Proving herself, here too, strongest and swiftest of all.
Yet she was wearied at last: ‘Oh, Jack, this is harder than threshing!
‘Pull up, my lad, for a bit—let's get our breath, and sit down:
‘Eh, how I'm blown, to be sure! it's fit to try any one, this is!
‘Take some one else, now do; Missis 'll want me, I'm sure.’
Thus, with a smile, she prevail'd; and he saunter'd away to another,
Saying ‘I'll clip her again; Dolly's the market for me!’
So said the men, every one, though they couldn't all deal at that market;
Nay, even women approved—all but a critical few:
Such as the two Misses Smith; but they were a tradesman's daughters;
She, a farm-servant, indeed! what could they care about her?
16
‘Shining with 'eat, I declare—ay, she is wipin’ it now!
‘Wipin’ 'er face, did ye see, wi' the hend of 'er large white hapron;
‘My! what a hignorant thing—isn't she vulgar, oh no!’
‘Yes,’ said Jemima, ‘to think of 'er 'avin’ a hapron to dance in!
‘Them sort o’ girls never knows what a young lady should wear:
‘Look at 'er great coarse 'ands—why, a 'edger's gloves wouldn't fit 'em—
‘Spread on her knees like paws; sure, she might 'ide 'em, for once!’
So spake the two Misses Smith; fastidious, fine-spoken damsels,
Proudly aware as their Pa baked the best bread for the 'All:
Also that pert little Poll, with her dressmaking gewgaws about her,
Wonder'd how Dolly could bear dressing as plain as she did:
Never a sprig in her hair, nor a bit of a bow on her bosom—
Only an apron, you know; only a clean cotton frock!
As for the apron, well—one could overlook that, in a servant;
She had her work to do, after the dancing was done:
‘But,’ said the pert little Poll, ‘as her 'ands is so very 'ardworking,
‘She might 'ave 'id 'em, this once; might ha' wore mittens, at least.’—
Thus while our Dorothy fared with the witty and wise of her own sex,
She neither heeded nor heard: sitting alone by the wall—
Sitting and smiling alone, still fanning herself with her apron,
Or with her hands on her lap; resting, enjoying repose.
Not very long, though; for soon Mr. Robert came silently towards her:
‘Dolly,’ said he with a smile, ‘where is thy promise to me?’
‘Nay, Mr. Robert, I'm sure I never said nothing to promise;
‘Still, if you want me, I'll come—I'll do the best as I can.’
‘Ay, and that's better than best! Don't you know you're the Queen o' the even
ing,
‘None is so clever to dance, none so good-looking, as thee!
‘Every one says so, indeed; why, even the lasses confess it:
‘Dolly o' White Rose Farm—none but our Dolly 'll do!’
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ cried she, ‘how can you go talking i’ that way?
‘Making such fun o' poor me—you, 'at knows well what I am!
‘Me, in a plain cotton frock, and nothing to cover my hands with—
‘Really, you shouldn't talk so; really, you shouldn't indeed!
‘Them 'at works hard all day can't think to look well of an evening;
‘That's for a lady to do, not for a servant like me:
‘If I am strong, well and good—I want it, to work for my living:
‘But, to be beautiful—no! Don't you come speaking o' that!’—
Thus while she hurriedly spake, disclaiming with passionate ardour
Praise that another such girl sure would be proud to receive,
And while her large blue eyes shone forth on him, moist as the morning
When every flower and leaf seems running over with dew;
He too was startled and changed; and ‘Dolly,’ he said, ‘is thee serious?
‘What, does thee think me a brute, joking and gaping at thee?
‘Nay, it was true, every word! But since thou takes on so about it,
‘Better a million times I had said nothing at all!
‘Why should it fret thee, my lass? Is it wrong to be beautiful, think you?
‘Some would give half o' their ears, if one could say it o' them!
‘And, for thy strength, and that—why, we all of us know thou's a wonder;
‘So, if thou won't be the Queen, thou shalt be champion of all.
‘Come, wipe thy eyes, and get up! else the Master and Missis 'll notice—
‘Bless me, the dance is half done—come, let's be off and away!’
Dorothy smiled through her tears, as he flung his arm lightly around her—
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ she said, ‘don't you think badly o' me;
‘You meant it well, Sir, I know; but I hate to be told I'm good-looking:
‘For—it was that, don't you know, ruin'd poor mother, and me!’
Ah, and so this was his crime—and she knew of her origin, did she?
Robin himself knew it well; every one knew it, indeed;
But, that she knew it herself, and felt it so strangely and deeply,
That was a new thing to him, never suspected before.
Who would have thought there could be in the heart of so lowly a maiden
Such a fine fibre as this—such an extravagant shame?
She, a chance-child on a farm! If her wages and victuals were found her,
Why should she care for her birth? What could she know of disgrace?
So thought Robin—a man of a calm, unimpressible temper,
Slow to receive new ideas; strong as a vice, to retain:
So did he ponder and think, as they whirl'd up and down in the dancing,
Silent; and she too was grave, mute with respect and amaze;
For she kept thinking ‘Oh dear, I wish I had not been so silly;
‘Surely he's angry wi' me—surely he thinks me a fool!’
‘Dolly's in luck,’ said one, ‘to ha' got Mr. George for a partner!’
‘Ay,’ said another, ‘but see—see, lass, how solemn they are!
‘He never smiles, never jumps, never freshens her up to a gallop:
‘Eh, it was different just now, when she was mated wi' Jack!’
Every one noticed the pair; so seldom together, so silent;
Every one noticed, and spake after his kind and degree:
‘Well,’ said a girl, ‘Robert George had better ha' stuck to Miss Mary;
‘Dolly's no fellow for him—why does he take up wi' her?’
But, as the dance went on, Mr. Robert grew better and brighter;
Stepp'd with a heartier step; said a few kind civil words;
Said a few welcome words, so that Dorothy brighten'd up also,
Moved with a livelier grace, trusted the more to his arm;
And, when the music ceased, and he kiss'd her cheek for remembrance,
Oh, how she started and blush'd all through her ruddy brown skin!
Just as you sometimes see, in clear bronze streams of the moorland,
Gleams of a rosy light caught from the westering sun;
So did she blush; and her heart felt happy and light in a moment—
Yes, all along of a kiss often rejected before!
But it was different now: 'twas the token, now, of remembrance;
Friendly remembrance: and that—that was the thing she desired.
So, when he said ‘I must go—I must say good night to the Missis;
‘But I shall drink your health: Dolly, lass, get me some beer—
‘Ay, and draw some for thyself, thee must be quite dry wi' the dancing:
‘Be in the larder, thou knows, just by the stable-yard door:’
So (for 'twas part of her work, to fetch up the beer from the cellar,
Filling the kegs and the jugs, handing the tankards around)
Even that homely request to her had nothing offensive;
Neither seem'd out of its place, e'en in so tender a time.
Nay, she felt flatter'd and pleased; she flew to the best of the barrels,
Fill'd the great jug—took it up—froth'd it, in Master's own mug;
And, in a trice, he was there—he was with her—he took it, and thank'd her—
Drank to her very good health, drank to their meeting again.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I am off! But Dolly, this isn't a parting;
‘I shall be back by-and-by—back with Sir Harry, thou knows;
‘And, for the present, my lass, there's one thing I wanted to tell thee:
‘I never knew what thou was, never—so help me—till now!’
She neither heeded nor heard: sitting alone by the wall—
Sitting and smiling alone, still fanning herself with her apron,
Or with her hands on her lap; resting, enjoying repose.
Not very long, though; for soon Mr. Robert came silently towards her:
‘Dolly,’ said he with a smile, ‘where is thy promise to me?’
‘Nay, Mr. Robert, I'm sure I never said nothing to promise;
‘Still, if you want me, I'll come—I'll do the best as I can.’
‘Ay, and that's better than best! Don't you know you're the Queen o' the even
ing,
‘None is so clever to dance, none so good-looking, as thee!
‘Every one says so, indeed; why, even the lasses confess it:
‘Dolly o' White Rose Farm—none but our Dolly 'll do!’
17
‘Making such fun o' poor me—you, 'at knows well what I am!
‘Me, in a plain cotton frock, and nothing to cover my hands with—
‘Really, you shouldn't talk so; really, you shouldn't indeed!
‘Them 'at works hard all day can't think to look well of an evening;
‘That's for a lady to do, not for a servant like me:
‘If I am strong, well and good—I want it, to work for my living:
‘But, to be beautiful—no! Don't you come speaking o' that!’—
Thus while she hurriedly spake, disclaiming with passionate ardour
Praise that another such girl sure would be proud to receive,
And while her large blue eyes shone forth on him, moist as the morning
When every flower and leaf seems running over with dew;
He too was startled and changed; and ‘Dolly,’ he said, ‘is thee serious?
‘What, does thee think me a brute, joking and gaping at thee?
‘Nay, it was true, every word! But since thou takes on so about it,
‘Better a million times I had said nothing at all!
‘Why should it fret thee, my lass? Is it wrong to be beautiful, think you?
‘Some would give half o' their ears, if one could say it o' them!
‘And, for thy strength, and that—why, we all of us know thou's a wonder;
‘So, if thou won't be the Queen, thou shalt be champion of all.
‘Come, wipe thy eyes, and get up! else the Master and Missis 'll notice—
‘Bless me, the dance is half done—come, let's be off and away!’
Dorothy smiled through her tears, as he flung his arm lightly around her—
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ she said, ‘don't you think badly o' me;
‘You meant it well, Sir, I know; but I hate to be told I'm good-looking:
‘For—it was that, don't you know, ruin'd poor mother, and me!’
Ah, and so this was his crime—and she knew of her origin, did she?
Robin himself knew it well; every one knew it, indeed;
But, that she knew it herself, and felt it so strangely and deeply,
That was a new thing to him, never suspected before.
Who would have thought there could be in the heart of so lowly a maiden
Such a fine fibre as this—such an extravagant shame?
18
Why should she care for her birth? What could she know of disgrace?
So thought Robin—a man of a calm, unimpressible temper,
Slow to receive new ideas; strong as a vice, to retain:
So did he ponder and think, as they whirl'd up and down in the dancing,
Silent; and she too was grave, mute with respect and amaze;
For she kept thinking ‘Oh dear, I wish I had not been so silly;
‘Surely he's angry wi' me—surely he thinks me a fool!’
‘Dolly's in luck,’ said one, ‘to ha' got Mr. George for a partner!’
‘Ay,’ said another, ‘but see—see, lass, how solemn they are!
‘He never smiles, never jumps, never freshens her up to a gallop:
‘Eh, it was different just now, when she was mated wi' Jack!’
Every one noticed the pair; so seldom together, so silent;
Every one noticed, and spake after his kind and degree:
‘Well,’ said a girl, ‘Robert George had better ha' stuck to Miss Mary;
‘Dolly's no fellow for him—why does he take up wi' her?’
But, as the dance went on, Mr. Robert grew better and brighter;
Stepp'd with a heartier step; said a few kind civil words;
Said a few welcome words, so that Dorothy brighten'd up also,
Moved with a livelier grace, trusted the more to his arm;
And, when the music ceased, and he kiss'd her cheek for remembrance,
Oh, how she started and blush'd all through her ruddy brown skin!
Just as you sometimes see, in clear bronze streams of the moorland,
Gleams of a rosy light caught from the westering sun;
So did she blush; and her heart felt happy and light in a moment—
Yes, all along of a kiss often rejected before!
But it was different now: 'twas the token, now, of remembrance;
Friendly remembrance: and that—that was the thing she desired.
So, when he said ‘I must go—I must say good night to the Missis;
‘But I shall drink your health: Dolly, lass, get me some beer—
‘Ay, and draw some for thyself, thee must be quite dry wi' the dancing:
‘Be in the larder, thou knows, just by the stable-yard door:’
19
Filling the kegs and the jugs, handing the tankards around)
Even that homely request to her had nothing offensive;
Neither seem'd out of its place, e'en in so tender a time.
Nay, she felt flatter'd and pleased; she flew to the best of the barrels,
Fill'd the great jug—took it up—froth'd it, in Master's own mug;
And, in a trice, he was there—he was with her—he took it, and thank'd her—
Drank to her very good health, drank to their meeting again.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I am off! But Dolly, this isn't a parting;
‘I shall be back by-and-by—back with Sir Harry, thou knows;
‘And, for the present, my lass, there's one thing I wanted to tell thee:
‘I never knew what thou was, never—so help me—till now!’
They two were standing alone; and her stable-lantern beside him
Lighted her figure and face, leaving his own in the shade:
‘Dolly, shake hands!’ he exclaim'd; and his voice was all of a tremble:
She too, so tall and so strong, quiver'd and shook as he spake:
‘Dolly, shake hands!’—She was dazed, she hardly knew what she was doing—
Blindly she gave him her hand; firmly he took it and held:
Grasp'd it, and look'd at it oft; caress'd the rough back, and the fingers
Crooked and stiffen'd with toil; gazed on the colourless palm;
She looking at him the while, and wondering much why he did it;
Wondering what he could mean, why he should care for her hands.
For, though she was not ashamed to have hands like these, it was only—
Only because they were signs, instruments, symbols, of work:
Not for themselves, oh no! for she knew very well they were ugly;
Ugly in gentlefolk's eyes: what did that matter to her?
‘Girls 'at has nothing to do may have little white fingers, and welcome;
‘What could a soft little hand do for a servant like me?’
That was her creed; and she knew Mr. Robert lived much among grand folks;
Housekeepers, smart ladies' maids bristling all over with pride:
‘Yes, he must know very well, even kitchenmaids, up at the Squire's,
‘Haven't got hands like mine; he must be thinking it, now!’
Oh then, how startled she was, how she blush'd to the height of her forehead,
When, with her hand still in his, holding it up to the light,
All of a sudden, he stoop'd, and kiss'd it—eagerly kiss'd it—
Kiss'd that cold grey palm, cooling his lips with the horn!
‘Oh, Mr. Robert!’ she cried, ‘oh, Sir! how could you? how can you?
‘Kissing a hand like mine—how can you shame yourself so?’
‘Shame myself, Dolly?’ said he; ‘yes, it shames me a little, to see thee,
‘Thee, with such hands as these, just like a labouring man's!
‘Man's, did I say? Why, these are a many times coarser nor mine are;
‘Mine are not hard—but see, see, they are brown, though, like thine!
‘But, I am thirty; and thee, I know thou art scarce over twenty:
‘Heavens! what work thou hast done! oh, what a deal to go through!
‘Well, they are honest hard hands; and thou ought to be proud on 'em, Dolly;
‘Proud on 'em, lass, dost hear? Don't let folks make thee ashamed—
‘Don't be ashamed, not a bit, even if they was laid by a lady's:
‘Wait till I kiss 'em again! Dolly, God bless thee—good-bye!’
Lighted her figure and face, leaving his own in the shade:
‘Dolly, shake hands!’ he exclaim'd; and his voice was all of a tremble:
She too, so tall and so strong, quiver'd and shook as he spake:
‘Dolly, shake hands!’—She was dazed, she hardly knew what she was doing—
Blindly she gave him her hand; firmly he took it and held:
Grasp'd it, and look'd at it oft; caress'd the rough back, and the fingers
Crooked and stiffen'd with toil; gazed on the colourless palm;
She looking at him the while, and wondering much why he did it;
Wondering what he could mean, why he should care for her hands.
For, though she was not ashamed to have hands like these, it was only—
Only because they were signs, instruments, symbols, of work:
Not for themselves, oh no! for she knew very well they were ugly;
Ugly in gentlefolk's eyes: what did that matter to her?
‘Girls 'at has nothing to do may have little white fingers, and welcome;
‘What could a soft little hand do for a servant like me?’
That was her creed; and she knew Mr. Robert lived much among grand folks;
Housekeepers, smart ladies' maids bristling all over with pride:
20
‘Haven't got hands like mine; he must be thinking it, now!’
Oh then, how startled she was, how she blush'd to the height of her forehead,
When, with her hand still in his, holding it up to the light,
All of a sudden, he stoop'd, and kiss'd it—eagerly kiss'd it—
Kiss'd that cold grey palm, cooling his lips with the horn!
‘Oh, Mr. Robert!’ she cried, ‘oh, Sir! how could you? how can you?
‘Kissing a hand like mine—how can you shame yourself so?’
‘Shame myself, Dolly?’ said he; ‘yes, it shames me a little, to see thee,
‘Thee, with such hands as these, just like a labouring man's!
‘Man's, did I say? Why, these are a many times coarser nor mine are;
‘Mine are not hard—but see, see, they are brown, though, like thine!
‘But, I am thirty; and thee, I know thou art scarce over twenty:
‘Heavens! what work thou hast done! oh, what a deal to go through!
‘Well, they are honest hard hands; and thou ought to be proud on 'em, Dolly;
‘Proud on 'em, lass, dost hear? Don't let folks make thee ashamed—
‘Don't be ashamed, not a bit, even if they was laid by a lady's:
‘Wait till I kiss 'em again! Dolly, God bless thee—good-bye!’
Gone? He was gone; and she stood gazing after him out of the doorway,
All in a trance, as it were; scarce knowing how she got there!
But when she came to herself, she held up her hand to the lantern,
Look'd at its hard grey palm, kiss'd it—the very same place—
Kiss'd it, and fray'd her soft lips with the touch of its rough rugged edges;
Kiss'd it, and thought, ‘What a hand, this, to have kisses from him!’
Ay, and with that came tears; not of shame for a thing so unsightly,
No, nor of love—not quite: but of great joy, and of pride:
Pride, that she was not despised; that even a hand such as hers was
Thus had been kiss'd, and by him—by Mr. Robert, you know!
Joy, too, great joy, at his words: he had said that she never should mind it,
Nay, should be proud, he had said, both of her work and her hands;
And (for in spite of herself, 'twas a thing she was fain to rejoice in)
Said he was coming back soon; said, he should do it again!
She had thought thus of her work, but seldom had ventured to speak it;
Knowing what others would say—chiefly, that pert little Poll;
Now, it was true! he had said: and she held them both up, in her folly,
Held up her two coarse hands, look'd at them fondly—and sigh'd!
Sigh'd—for she thought, after all, they could never be fit to be his hands,
Even if he—and she paused: ‘Oh, what a silly am I!’—
All in a trance, as it were; scarce knowing how she got there!
But when she came to herself, she held up her hand to the lantern,
Look'd at its hard grey palm, kiss'd it—the very same place—
Kiss'd it, and fray'd her soft lips with the touch of its rough rugged edges;
Kiss'd it, and thought, ‘What a hand, this, to have kisses from him!’
Ay, and with that came tears; not of shame for a thing so unsightly,
No, nor of love—not quite: but of great joy, and of pride:
Pride, that she was not despised; that even a hand such as hers was
Thus had been kiss'd, and by him—by Mr. Robert, you know!
21
Nay, should be proud, he had said, both of her work and her hands;
And (for in spite of herself, 'twas a thing she was fain to rejoice in)
Said he was coming back soon; said, he should do it again!
She had thought thus of her work, but seldom had ventured to speak it;
Knowing what others would say—chiefly, that pert little Poll;
Now, it was true! he had said: and she held them both up, in her folly,
Held up her two coarse hands, look'd at them fondly—and sigh'd!
Sigh'd—for she thought, after all, they could never be fit to be his hands,
Even if he—and she paused: ‘Oh, what a silly am I!’—
Whether it was—who knows? that her conscience was pricking within her,
Or 'twas her mistress's voice, hurriedly calling her name;
Sudden she dropp'd her hands, and rush'd to the pump in the corner;
Cool'd her wet eyes and her face, made herself sprightly again;
Ran to the kitchen door, but open'd it slowly and calmly,
Making as if it was naught, all that had happen'd just now:
All she had heard and seen, the tumult and whirl of her feelings—
Making as if was naught: Ah, what a hypocrite, she!
‘Dolly, where have you been?’ said the Missis, half rising to meet her;
‘Master's been calling o' you, wanting the key o' the beer!
‘Why, all the folks has just gone, and nobody here to attend 'em!
‘What was you doing, and why didn't you answer afore?’—
‘I never heard, ma'am, I sure! I never heard Master a-calling,
‘I never thought it was time—surely I haven't been long?
‘I've been a-fetching of beer—Mr. Robert, he sent me to draw it—
‘Said he could do with a glass—told me to get it—and so,
‘So, ma'am, I fill'd him the jug—I knew you and Master 'ud wish it;
‘Brought it, and waited a bit—just till he'd drunk it and gone.’—
Such was her story; and oh, how many a story of passion
Wears such a probable face, is so untruthfully true!
Simpletons, not to have seen that her face was redder than ever,
And that her eyes look'd down while she was telling the tale!
But, as they both knew well she was honest and good, they believed her:
Only, they thought it strange, he should have kept her so long.
‘Beer?’ said her master, ‘of course! you was right to get beer for him, Dolly,
‘Still, I do wonder, wife, he never ax'd it o' me!’
‘Tut! never mind,’ said the dame: ‘get along, get along to your work, girl!
‘Put out the lights—lock the doors—quick, and be off to your bed!
‘Things may be left all night; but mind you're up early to-morrow—
‘Oh, what a clearing there 'll be! Oh, what a mess they have made!’—
Thankfully, Dolly obey'd; did her work, and ran up to her attic;
Lightly undress'd, said her prayers, jump'd into bed, and lay down;
Lay in her small truckle bed, with the sloping roof just above her;
Lay for a moment, and then—then, was asleep, like a child.
Or 'twas her mistress's voice, hurriedly calling her name;
Sudden she dropp'd her hands, and rush'd to the pump in the corner;
Cool'd her wet eyes and her face, made herself sprightly again;
Ran to the kitchen door, but open'd it slowly and calmly,
Making as if it was naught, all that had happen'd just now:
All she had heard and seen, the tumult and whirl of her feelings—
Making as if was naught: Ah, what a hypocrite, she!
‘Dolly, where have you been?’ said the Missis, half rising to meet her;
‘Master's been calling o' you, wanting the key o' the beer!
‘Why, all the folks has just gone, and nobody here to attend 'em!
‘What was you doing, and why didn't you answer afore?’—
‘I never heard, ma'am, I sure! I never heard Master a-calling,
‘I never thought it was time—surely I haven't been long?
‘I've been a-fetching of beer—Mr. Robert, he sent me to draw it—
‘Said he could do with a glass—told me to get it—and so,
‘So, ma'am, I fill'd him the jug—I knew you and Master 'ud wish it;
‘Brought it, and waited a bit—just till he'd drunk it and gone.’—
Such was her story; and oh, how many a story of passion
Wears such a probable face, is so untruthfully true!
22
And that her eyes look'd down while she was telling the tale!
But, as they both knew well she was honest and good, they believed her:
Only, they thought it strange, he should have kept her so long.
‘Beer?’ said her master, ‘of course! you was right to get beer for him, Dolly,
‘Still, I do wonder, wife, he never ax'd it o' me!’
‘Tut! never mind,’ said the dame: ‘get along, get along to your work, girl!
‘Put out the lights—lock the doors—quick, and be off to your bed!
‘Things may be left all night; but mind you're up early to-morrow—
‘Oh, what a clearing there 'll be! Oh, what a mess they have made!’—
Thankfully, Dolly obey'd; did her work, and ran up to her attic;
Lightly undress'd, said her prayers, jump'd into bed, and lay down;
Lay in her small truckle bed, with the sloping roof just above her;
Lay for a moment, and then—then, was asleep, like a child.
'Twas but a poor little room; a farm-servant's loft in a garret;
One small window and door; never a chimney at all:
One little stool by the bed, and a remnant of cast-away carpet:
But on the floor, by the wall, carefully dusted and bright,
Stood the green-painted box, our Dorothy's closet and wardrobe,
Holding her treasures, her all—all that she own'd in the world!
Linen and hosen were there, coarse linen and home-knitted hosen;
Handkerchiefs bought at the fair, aprons and smocks not a few;
Kirtles for warmth when afield, and frocks for winter and summer,
Blue-spotted, lilac, grey; cotton and woollen and serge;
All her simple attire, save the clothes she felt most like herself in—
Rough coarse workaday clothes, fit for a labourer's wear.
There was her Sunday array—the boots, and the shawl, and the bonnet,
Solemnly folded apart, not to be lightly assumed:
There was her jewelry too; 'twas a brooch (she had worn it this evening)
Made of a cairngorm stone—really too splendid for her!
Which on a Martlemas Day Mr. Robert had bought for a fairing:
Little she thought, just then, how she would value it now!
As for her sewing gear, her housewife, her big brass thimble,
Knitting and suchlike work, such as her fingers could do,
That was away downstairs, in a dresser-drawer in the kitchen,
Ready for use of a night, when she was tidied and clean.
Item, up there in the chest were her books; The Dairyman's Daughter:
Ballads: The Olney Hymns: Bible and Prayer-book, of course:
That was her library; these were the limits of Dorothy's reading;
Wholesome, but scanty indeed: was it then all that she knew?
Nay, for like other good girls, she had profited much by her schooling
Under the mighty three—Nature, and Labour, and Life:
Mightier they than books; if books could have only come after,
Thoughts of instructed minds filtering down into hers.
That was impossible now; what she had been, she was, and she would be;
Only a farm-serving lass—only a peasant, I fear!
One small window and door; never a chimney at all:
One little stool by the bed, and a remnant of cast-away carpet:
But on the floor, by the wall, carefully dusted and bright,
Stood the green-painted box, our Dorothy's closet and wardrobe,
Holding her treasures, her all—all that she own'd in the world!
Linen and hosen were there, coarse linen and home-knitted hosen;
Handkerchiefs bought at the fair, aprons and smocks not a few;
Kirtles for warmth when afield, and frocks for winter and summer,
Blue-spotted, lilac, grey; cotton and woollen and serge;
All her simple attire, save the clothes she felt most like herself in—
Rough coarse workaday clothes, fit for a labourer's wear.
There was her Sunday array—the boots, and the shawl, and the bonnet,
Solemnly folded apart, not to be lightly assumed:
There was her jewelry too; 'twas a brooch (she had worn it this evening)
Made of a cairngorm stone—really too splendid for her!
23
Little she thought, just then, how she would value it now!
As for her sewing gear, her housewife, her big brass thimble,
Knitting and suchlike work, such as her fingers could do,
That was away downstairs, in a dresser-drawer in the kitchen,
Ready for use of a night, when she was tidied and clean.
Item, up there in the chest were her books; The Dairyman's Daughter:
Ballads: The Olney Hymns: Bible and Prayer-book, of course:
That was her library; these were the limits of Dorothy's reading;
Wholesome, but scanty indeed: was it then all that she knew?
Nay, for like other good girls, she had profited much by her schooling
Under the mighty three—Nature, and Labour, and Life:
Mightier they than books; if books could have only come after,
Thoughts of instructed minds filtering down into hers.
That was impossible now; what she had been, she was, and she would be;
Only a farm-serving lass—only a peasant, I fear!
Well—on that green-lidded box, her name was painted in yellow;
Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump? what a horrible name!
Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like the box) 'twas her mother's;
Ready to hand—though of course she had no joy in the name:
She had no kin—and indeed, she never had needed a surname;
Never had used one at all, never had made one her own:
‘Dolly’ she was to herself, and to every one else she was ‘Dolly’;
Nothing but ‘Dolly’; and so, that was enough for a name.
Thus then, her great green box, her one undoubted possession,
Stood where it was; like her, ‘never went nowhere’ at all;
Waited, perhaps, as of old some beautiful Florentine bride-chest,
Till, in the fulness of time, He, the Beloved, appears.—
Was there naught else in her room? nothing handy for washing or dressing?
Yes; on a plain deal stand, bason, and ewer, and dish:
All of them empty, unused; for the sink was the place of her toilet;
Save on a Sunday—and then, she too could dress at her ease:
Then, by the little sidewall of the diamonded dormer-window
She at a sixpenny glass brush'd out her bonny bright hair.
Ah, what a poor little room! Would you like to sleep in it, ladies?
Innocence sleeps there unharm'd; Honour, and Beauty, and Peace—
Love, too, has come; and with these, even dungeons were easily cheerful:
But, for our Dorothy's room, it is no dungeon at all.
No! through the latticed panes of the diamonded dormer-window
Dorothy looks on a world free and familiar and fair:
Looks on the fair farmyard, where the poultry and cattle she lives with
Bellow and cackle and low—music delightful to her;
Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloud-shadows flying above them,
Singing of birds in the air, woodlands and waters around.
She in those fragrant meads has wrought, every year of her girlhood;
Over those purple lands she, too, has follow'd the plough;
And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is yean'd in the meadows,
She, to herself and to us, seems like a part of it all.
What is she dreaming of now? for the moon is up, and I see her
Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump? what a horrible name!
Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like the box) 'twas her mother's;
Ready to hand—though of course she had no joy in the name:
She had no kin—and indeed, she never had needed a surname;
Never had used one at all, never had made one her own:
‘Dolly’ she was to herself, and to every one else she was ‘Dolly’;
Nothing but ‘Dolly’; and so, that was enough for a name.
Thus then, her great green box, her one undoubted possession,
Stood where it was; like her, ‘never went nowhere’ at all;
Waited, perhaps, as of old some beautiful Florentine bride-chest,
Till, in the fulness of time, He, the Beloved, appears.—
Was there naught else in her room? nothing handy for washing or dressing?
Yes; on a plain deal stand, bason, and ewer, and dish:
24
Save on a Sunday—and then, she too could dress at her ease:
Then, by the little sidewall of the diamonded dormer-window
She at a sixpenny glass brush'd out her bonny bright hair.
Ah, what a poor little room! Would you like to sleep in it, ladies?
Innocence sleeps there unharm'd; Honour, and Beauty, and Peace—
Love, too, has come; and with these, even dungeons were easily cheerful:
But, for our Dorothy's room, it is no dungeon at all.
No! through the latticed panes of the diamonded dormer-window
Dorothy looks on a world free and familiar and fair:
Looks on the fair farmyard, where the poultry and cattle she lives with
Bellow and cackle and low—music delightful to her;
Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloud-shadows flying above them,
Singing of birds in the air, woodlands and waters around.
She in those fragrant meads has wrought, every year of her girlhood;
Over those purple lands she, too, has follow'd the plough;
And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is yean'd in the meadows,
She, to herself and to us, seems like a part of it all.
Laid in her small truckle bed under the bright-colour'd quilt—
Under the patchwork quilt, all cunningly fitted together,
Made of her old cotton frocks, made by herself long ago.
Ah, 'tis a dream of to-day, of its arduous joys and its wonders;
All that has happen'd, and much—much that is yet for to come!
Do we not know that in dreams we are ever forecasting the future,
Framing out things that should be, though they may never come true?
Such was our Dorothy's dream: she sat on her box in a waggon,
Right through the village, and then up to the Castle itself;
For she had even attain'd to a scull'ry-maid's place at the Squire's—
Oh, what a rise in the world! Oh, what an honour, for her!
25
Wonderful footmen around titter'd and stared at her ways;
Just as they really had done, when she, going once with the butter,
Stood such a while at the door, fearful of all she beheld.
Then, in her dream, she was sent—to be seen, and inspected, and order'd,
Straight to the housekeeper's room: silent, she stood by the door;
Curtsey'd, and stood by the door, feeling ever so frighten'd and awkward,
While Mrs. Jellifer sat giving her awful commands.
But, in the morning, it seem'd, when Dolly was cleaning the kitchen,
Just risen up from her knees, cleaning and working away,
Who should come in at the door but My Lady—My Lady Sophia,
Mistress of that great House, daughter (they said) to a Lord!
She, who so seldom was here, except at the shooting in autumn,
She, the great lady herself, came to the kitchen alone!
Oh, how our Dorothy blush'd and curtsey'd and flutter'd and trembled,
Suddenly thus to be seen by such a Missis as that!
Thus, in her working clothes, with her tell-tale hands, and her bare arms,
Standing unable to fly, fix'd by that masterful gaze:
For with a masterful gaze the Lady Sophia survey'd her,
Looking (she look'd so in church) stately and cold, like a ghost.
‘Girl, who are you?’ said the Dame; ‘you are not the new scull'ry-maid, surely?
‘What, have they let you come here straight from a common farmhouse?
‘Look at your face, and your arms! and your hands are as coarse as a ploughman's—
‘You are not fit to wash up dishes and plates such as mine:
‘Send Mrs. Jellifer here!’—But, just as the culprit was going,
Lo, Mr. Robert appear'd; started, yet was not afraid;
Was not ashamed of her, for, touching his brow to my Lady,
Sudden he sprang to her side, seized her rough hand, and began—
Ah, and what was it he said? For, alas! we have lost it for ever:
E'en at that critical time, e'en at the point of her dream,
Came through the diamonded panes, 'twixt the blind and the window, a sunbeam;
Lighted on Dorothy's face, melted her fancies away.
26
‘Oh, it was only a dream—why, there's the sun, I declare!
‘Missis, she told me last night I must sure to be early this morning—
‘Eh, if she should be up first, won't she be angry wi' me!’
Lightly she sprang out of bed, and flung on her clothes in a moment;
Lightly she ran downstairs, all but forgetting her prayers;
And by the kitchen clock it was half past five, to a minute:
So, she was not very late; nobody else was astir.
Thus then, at half past five, her day was begun, and her labour:
Opening of windows and doors, cleaning of grates and of hearths;
Wiping of settles and chairs, and sweeping and swilling and scouring,
Everywhere over the house, half through a long summer day.
Is it not sad, do you think, to see Dorothy drudging and scouring,
Scrubbing the dirty floor, where she had danced like a guest?
Prone on her hands and knees, crawling under the tables and benches,
She, who was praised overnight, she, who was Queen of the ball?
Well—not a thought of all this ever enter'd the head of our Dolly:
Work was her daily delight; holidays seldom and few;
And, though she liked them right well, she thought of them, too, as a servant--
One who must buy with her hands all the brief bliss she enjoy'd,
As she was buying it now: by cleaning and tidying after;
Mending what others had marr'd; setting their chaos to rights.
Opening of windows and doors, cleaning of grates and of hearths;
Wiping of settles and chairs, and sweeping and swilling and scouring,
Everywhere over the house, half through a long summer day.
Is it not sad, do you think, to see Dorothy drudging and scouring,
Scrubbing the dirty floor, where she had danced like a guest?
Prone on her hands and knees, crawling under the tables and benches,
She, who was praised overnight, she, who was Queen of the ball?
Well—not a thought of all this ever enter'd the head of our Dolly:
Work was her daily delight; holidays seldom and few;
And, though she liked them right well, she thought of them, too, as a servant--
One who must buy with her hands all the brief bliss she enjoy'd,
As she was buying it now: by cleaning and tidying after;
Mending what others had marr'd; setting their chaos to rights.
You, who are fair, who are belles, who glitter all night in your triumph,
Breakfasting late the next day, tended and dress'd by a maid,
How would you care for a ball, if you had to be up in the morning
Doing what Dorothy did—ay, and perforce, and for hire?—
Oh, what a difference it makes, being a lady, or only a woman!
Dorothy knew it quite well—she was a woman, you know—
She, though she seldom had seen and never had talk'd with a lady,
She understood it; and thought—what? That she wouldn't exchange.
Thought that she wouldn't exchange her life for the life of a lady;
Wouldn't give up what she was, not to be ever so fine!
Ah, poor thing! you perceive it was ignorance saved her from envy—
Envy of all we possess, culture and leisure and wealth:
Had she but known of these things, and the joys and the lovers they bring us,
She would have prick'd up her ears, she would have wish'd for them too!
No, I think not; for you see, she was busy with things that are useful:
Every-day duties, I mean—such as are always to do.
But there was one thing she wish'd: that she could have been, like Miss Mary,
Blest with a nice little sum, if she should happen to wed.
Oh, how prosaic! Of course, you and I never think of such matters:
We are too cultured for that; we always marry for love:
Love? Why, 'twas that, and naught else, made her wish for a trumpery fortune,
Just to outweigh, so she thought, all that was poor in herself;
So that—whoever he was—the man that should seek her a-wooing,
Might be contented, perhaps; might not repent of his choice.
Breakfasting late the next day, tended and dress'd by a maid,
How would you care for a ball, if you had to be up in the morning
Doing what Dorothy did—ay, and perforce, and for hire?—
Oh, what a difference it makes, being a lady, or only a woman!
Dorothy knew it quite well—she was a woman, you know—
27
She understood it; and thought—what? That she wouldn't exchange.
Thought that she wouldn't exchange her life for the life of a lady;
Wouldn't give up what she was, not to be ever so fine!
Ah, poor thing! you perceive it was ignorance saved her from envy—
Envy of all we possess, culture and leisure and wealth:
Had she but known of these things, and the joys and the lovers they bring us,
She would have prick'd up her ears, she would have wish'd for them too!
No, I think not; for you see, she was busy with things that are useful:
Every-day duties, I mean—such as are always to do.
But there was one thing she wish'd: that she could have been, like Miss Mary,
Blest with a nice little sum, if she should happen to wed.
Oh, how prosaic! Of course, you and I never think of such matters:
We are too cultured for that; we always marry for love:
Love? Why, 'twas that, and naught else, made her wish for a trumpery fortune,
Just to outweigh, so she thought, all that was poor in herself;
So that—whoever he was—the man that should seek her a-wooing,
Might be contented, perhaps; might not repent of his choice.
And, it was strange—but to-day, when her cleaning and scrubbing were over,
When she was tidied and wash'd, ready to go to the farm,
As she went forth with her pails to call up the kine for the milking
(She was too throng in the morn, Billy had done it instead)
As she came back down the lane, with the meek cows walking before her,
There was Miss Mary herself! ‘Dolly,’ she said, ‘is it you?
‘Oh, I'm so glad we're alone! For there's something I wanted to ax' you—
‘Something I couldn't, at home—mother is always about.
‘Father, he says it was you saw him off when he went—Mr. Robert;
‘Tell me, now, what did he say? Did he say where he was gone?
Dolly look'd up; and she thought—yes, she thought her young Missis was blushing
Then she look'd down; and she felt ‘I must be honest, and tell—
‘Not the whole truth—not now—that wouldn't be nice, nor respectful;
‘But, just a little at least; something, at least, that is true.’
‘Yes, it was me saw him off; for he sent me to fetch it, Miss Mary—
‘Sent me to fetch him the beer, just as he started to go.
‘And, when he went, he did say—for of course I should never have ax'd him—
‘He was to go with the Squire, off with Sir Harry, to shoot.’
‘Gone with Sir Harry, he is? Oh, Dolly, he might ha' told me, then!
‘That wasn't like him, you know; that wasn't friendly or kind!
‘Dolly, you're more of a friend, a sister almost, nor a servant;
‘Else I could almost think he was a-courting of you!’
‘Me, Miss!’ (she always said Miss, though many a farm-servant does not;
If she obeys, 'tis enough; no one expects any more)—
‘Me, Miss! why should he? What, him, head-gamekeeper up at the Squire's,
‘Him come a-courting a girl hasn't a penny, like me?
‘No—if you want him indeed, Miss Mary, of course you've a right to,
‘If he can have such as you, why should he humble to me?’
‘Want him?’ said Mary, ‘oh no! I wouldn't be wanting of no man:
‘They shall come just as they will, them 'at comes courting to me.
‘Still, I did think—but indeed, when I look at you, Dolly, I don't know—
‘Yours is a sweet pretty face, better nor mine by a deal:
‘Why, if you wasn't so brown and so big, they'd call you a beauty;
‘Some folks call you it now—yes, I have heard 'em myself!
‘And for hard work and that, you're a many times stronger nor I am;
‘I am so weak and so pale—what good am I on a farm?’
‘Never you mind about that, Miss Mary! You needn't do nothing,
‘You'll have your father's brass; you needn't work like a slave,
‘You are a Missis; and me—well, I'm used to hard work, and I like it;
‘I am a servant, and strong; that's right enough, to be sure!
‘As for my looks, don't you know I hate to be told o' such nonsense;
‘Let me but fend for myself; sweethearts is nothing to me!
‘Still,’ cried poor Dolly—‘oh dear! I wish you had never have named him!
‘How can I tell what he thinks? How can I help what he does?
‘But, you was always so kind—more like something else nor a Missis—
‘Seems, I am not doing right, not to be telling you all.
‘Well then, he did just talk a little bit out o' the common,
‘When he was going, last night, when he was wishing goodbye—’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘I knew, I knew there was something to speak of!
‘Tell me, lass, don't be afraid—tell me, and what did he do?’
‘Well, Miss, there's nothing to tell—it seems such a strange thing to talk on—
‘Praising such hands as mine—how can one think what he meant?
‘Still, he did praise 'em, and said’—she dared not say he had kiss'd them—
‘Said, they was good hard hands; he didn't mind 'em at all!’
‘Praising your hands!’ said her friend, ‘Oh, Dolly, what can you be thinking?
‘Men like a hand’—and she look'd, fondly perhaps, at her own—
‘Men like a hand 'at is white, and little, and soft, in a woman;
‘Praising such hands as yours—that has no meaning o' love!’
Ruefully, Dolly replied, ‘Maybe not; but I thought as he liked 'em;
‘So I was pleased, of course; no one had praised 'em afore!
‘But it was silly, I know; an' I do wish you hand't ha' named him.
‘Tell me, Miss Mary—now do—wouldn't you like him yourself?’
Here was a question, indeed, for one girl to put to another!
Mary look'd up, with a smile, straight into Dorothy's eyes:
Straight into Dolly's blue eyes that were eager and moist with emotion,
Brimming all over with—yes! Mary perceived it—with love.
She was a commonplace girl, but a kind and a tender, was Mary:
Older than Dorothy, too; older, and wiser by far;
For she had been at a school, had kept up the thread of her learning,
Long after Dolly's broad hands came to be harden'd with work;
She had been out in the world—her uncle, the prosperous grocer,
Ask'd her sometimes to the town, show'd her its wonderful ways,
Show'd her its smart young men, its giggling, gossiping misses,
Drest in the newest guise fresh from great London itself.
She was a commonplace girl: no tremulous passionate ardours
Troubled her small quiet soul, safe in the shallows of life;
And she was kind: she could love—for a home, perhaps, and a husband—
But to give pain to a friend, that was no pleasure to her.
Robin had liked her, she thought—but she wasn't quite sure of it, either;
And she liked him, she thought—still, she was not very sure;
For, not a long while ago, young Roffey, the neighbouring farmer,
Seem'd to be thinking of her—p'r'aps he was doing so still!
So, while she thought of all this, her heart grew softer and kinder;
Jealousy, scarcely aroused, sank before Dolly's blue eyes;
(Dolly, who kept looking down, and wondering why she was silent)
And at the last, she said ‘Dolly, you love him yourself!
‘Yes, I can see you do, by your talk, and the look of your eyes, lass!
‘You are the one he should have—leastways, you wish it, I know!
‘Well, I did think it was me, but I don't much care if it isn't:
‘When he comes back, we'll see; we shall find out, pretty soon;
‘And, if he does love you, if he really is wanting to have you,
‘I'll never stand i' your way—you shall be happy, for me.’
When she was tidied and wash'd, ready to go to the farm,
As she went forth with her pails to call up the kine for the milking
(She was too throng in the morn, Billy had done it instead)
As she came back down the lane, with the meek cows walking before her,
There was Miss Mary herself! ‘Dolly,’ she said, ‘is it you?
‘Oh, I'm so glad we're alone! For there's something I wanted to ax' you—
‘Something I couldn't, at home—mother is always about.
‘Father, he says it was you saw him off when he went—Mr. Robert;
‘Tell me, now, what did he say? Did he say where he was gone?
Dolly look'd up; and she thought—yes, she thought her young Missis was blushing
Then she look'd down; and she felt ‘I must be honest, and tell—
28
‘But, just a little at least; something, at least, that is true.’
‘Yes, it was me saw him off; for he sent me to fetch it, Miss Mary—
‘Sent me to fetch him the beer, just as he started to go.
‘And, when he went, he did say—for of course I should never have ax'd him—
‘He was to go with the Squire, off with Sir Harry, to shoot.’
‘Gone with Sir Harry, he is? Oh, Dolly, he might ha' told me, then!
‘That wasn't like him, you know; that wasn't friendly or kind!
‘Dolly, you're more of a friend, a sister almost, nor a servant;
‘Else I could almost think he was a-courting of you!’
‘Me, Miss!’ (she always said Miss, though many a farm-servant does not;
If she obeys, 'tis enough; no one expects any more)—
‘Me, Miss! why should he? What, him, head-gamekeeper up at the Squire's,
‘Him come a-courting a girl hasn't a penny, like me?
‘No—if you want him indeed, Miss Mary, of course you've a right to,
‘If he can have such as you, why should he humble to me?’
‘Want him?’ said Mary, ‘oh no! I wouldn't be wanting of no man:
‘They shall come just as they will, them 'at comes courting to me.
‘Still, I did think—but indeed, when I look at you, Dolly, I don't know—
‘Yours is a sweet pretty face, better nor mine by a deal:
‘Why, if you wasn't so brown and so big, they'd call you a beauty;
‘Some folks call you it now—yes, I have heard 'em myself!
‘And for hard work and that, you're a many times stronger nor I am;
‘I am so weak and so pale—what good am I on a farm?’
‘Never you mind about that, Miss Mary! You needn't do nothing,
‘You'll have your father's brass; you needn't work like a slave,
‘You are a Missis; and me—well, I'm used to hard work, and I like it;
‘I am a servant, and strong; that's right enough, to be sure!
‘As for my looks, don't you know I hate to be told o' such nonsense;
‘Let me but fend for myself; sweethearts is nothing to me!
‘Still,’ cried poor Dolly—‘oh dear! I wish you had never have named him!
‘How can I tell what he thinks? How can I help what he does?
29
‘Seems, I am not doing right, not to be telling you all.
‘Well then, he did just talk a little bit out o' the common,
‘When he was going, last night, when he was wishing goodbye—’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘I knew, I knew there was something to speak of!
‘Tell me, lass, don't be afraid—tell me, and what did he do?’
‘Well, Miss, there's nothing to tell—it seems such a strange thing to talk on—
‘Praising such hands as mine—how can one think what he meant?
‘Still, he did praise 'em, and said’—she dared not say he had kiss'd them—
‘Said, they was good hard hands; he didn't mind 'em at all!’
‘Praising your hands!’ said her friend, ‘Oh, Dolly, what can you be thinking?
‘Men like a hand’—and she look'd, fondly perhaps, at her own—
‘Men like a hand 'at is white, and little, and soft, in a woman;
‘Praising such hands as yours—that has no meaning o' love!’
Ruefully, Dolly replied, ‘Maybe not; but I thought as he liked 'em;
‘So I was pleased, of course; no one had praised 'em afore!
‘But it was silly, I know; an' I do wish you hand't ha' named him.
‘Tell me, Miss Mary—now do—wouldn't you like him yourself?’
Here was a question, indeed, for one girl to put to another!
Mary look'd up, with a smile, straight into Dorothy's eyes:
Straight into Dolly's blue eyes that were eager and moist with emotion,
Brimming all over with—yes! Mary perceived it—with love.
She was a commonplace girl, but a kind and a tender, was Mary:
Older than Dorothy, too; older, and wiser by far;
For she had been at a school, had kept up the thread of her learning,
Long after Dolly's broad hands came to be harden'd with work;
She had been out in the world—her uncle, the prosperous grocer,
Ask'd her sometimes to the town, show'd her its wonderful ways,
Show'd her its smart young men, its giggling, gossiping misses,
Drest in the newest guise fresh from great London itself.
She was a commonplace girl: no tremulous passionate ardours
Troubled her small quiet soul, safe in the shallows of life;
30
But to give pain to a friend, that was no pleasure to her.
Robin had liked her, she thought—but she wasn't quite sure of it, either;
And she liked him, she thought—still, she was not very sure;
For, not a long while ago, young Roffey, the neighbouring farmer,
Seem'd to be thinking of her—p'r'aps he was doing so still!
So, while she thought of all this, her heart grew softer and kinder;
Jealousy, scarcely aroused, sank before Dolly's blue eyes;
(Dolly, who kept looking down, and wondering why she was silent)
And at the last, she said ‘Dolly, you love him yourself!
‘Yes, I can see you do, by your talk, and the look of your eyes, lass!
‘You are the one he should have—leastways, you wish it, I know!
‘Well, I did think it was me, but I don't much care if it isn't:
‘When he comes back, we'll see; we shall find out, pretty soon;
‘And, if he does love you, if he really is wanting to have you,
‘I'll never stand i' your way—you shall be happy, for me.’
Happy? Our Dorothy felt she was thoroughly happy already:
Everything seem'd to be changed—all things were possible now!
Somehow, it all had come out: there was nothing she need be ashamed of:
She had no rival to fear: she stood in nobody's way!
And she forgot her cows, forgot the big stick that she drove with—
Yes, let it drop in the lane; stopp'd, and with innocent joy
Loudly she clapp'd her hands—and ah, as she smote them together,
Who would have guess'd such a sound was but an echo of love?
‘Oh, I am glad!’ she exclaim'd; ‘oh, Miss Mary, I'm glad you don't love him!
‘Sure, you'd have said, if you did—then you would have him, of course;
‘For, it would be such a thing, for me to be proud and presuming,
‘Coming betwixt you and him, stealing a sweetheart from you;
‘You, 'at has been so kind, it was always a pleasure to serve you!
‘Now, it'll be som'at more; now I must love you, as well.
‘Yet, what a stupid I am! For how can I tell 'at he likes me?
‘He is the keeper, you know—ever so much above me—
‘Wouldn't it seem like a shame, if he wanted it ever so badly?
‘P'r'aps it was only his way; p'r'aps he meant nothing at all!’
‘Nonsense, you foolish girl,’ said Mary, ‘I'm certain he loves you:
‘How can he help it, you know? I should, if I was a man!
‘And, as for being what you are, what of that? You deserve a good husband—
‘Only, I don't understand why he should care for your hands.’—
‘No, nor me neither! it's strange—one 'd think he'd be fit to despise 'em;
‘Oh, but you never can tell—men are so bad to make out!
‘Still, if he does want me, and you don't mind it, Miss Mary,
‘I shall be—well, never mind; we mustn't talk of it now.
‘Don't you tell Master, please; and whatever you do, not Missis;
‘That 'd be worst thing of all—that 'd be trouble indeed!’—
‘Tell 'em!’ said Mary, ‘oh no! You may trust me—they never shall know it—
‘Not till he tells 'em himself—not till he takes you away!’—
Thus, then, they stood in the lane, those two, and smiled at each other:
Two bonny girls—for, indeed, Mary was not to say plain:
And you would think, I suppose, that at least in so tender a moment,
After such words had been said, such an endearment begun,
Dolly all glowing with bliss, and Mary with kindly contentment,
Now, you suppose, they would kiss, now they would kiss and embrace.
No, not at all! Such a thing never happens, with girls such as these are:
'Tis for young ladies alone, dainty impressible souls!
These are but rustics, you know, and Dorothy only a servant;
They were not equals, and that made it more difficult still.—
True, I have seen, just once, two pit-girls in corduroy trousers,
Blackfaced muscular girls—feminine too, for all that—
Who in a pause of their work, like horses that wait for a waggon,
Waited for their waggon too; harness'd, for they were the team;
And, as you see such a horse fling its head o'er the neck of its neighbour,
Playfully biting her ear, only for something to do;
So, of those two strong girls, the slighter (she wasn't so slight, though)
Actually flung up her arms—fell on the neck of her mate!
Whether it was but fatigue, or whether it really were fondness,
Strange was the sight to me—curious, and almost unique:
There was this manlike maid, with her head on her fellow's broad shoulder,
Clasping her, just like a—well, just like a delicate girl!
What did the other one do, who was bigger and taller and stronger?
Did she respond? Did she say, ‘Dearest, how sweet to be thus?’
Bless you, not she! She was good, and gentle, I tell you, and loving;
I know her well, and I know how she is sorrowing now;
But she was grave, like a man; she hated such infantine petting;
Ay, and in worktime an' all—lasses and men looking on!
So, with a powerful thrust, with a lion-like shake of her large limbs,
‘Dang tha', lëan oop, wench!’ she cried—those were her terrible words—
‘Dang tha', lëan oop!’ and with that, she push'd off her tender companion;
Who had been fell'd by the blow, but that she also was strong.
Was she offended? Oh no; for up came the loaded waggon—
Up from the workings it came, laden with coals to the brim;
And, with an emulous start, with a habit of duty, the lasses
Sprang to their load, both at once, cheerily dragg'd it away.
'Twas a remarkable case; I never have seen such another:
For, among untaught girls—peasants and hardworking maids—
If they are shallow and light, they care not for graceful abandon;
Having no grace of their own, having no feelings, indeed:
And, if they're serious and good, like Mary for instance and Dolly,
Life too is serious, for them; they are too grave for display.—
Therefore, those two good girls neither kiss'd nor fondled each other:
Only stood smiling apart, giving out love with their eyes;
Till, when the spell was loosed—‘My goodness, where is the cattle?
‘Where ha' they gone? They are lost—Crumple has led 'em astray!’
Dolly, she snatch'd up her stick, and ran with the speed of a hunter
Up the long sandy lane—not very far, it is true;
For they were quiet and safe, and cropping the grass in the hedgerows,
Heedless of human joys—thinking them trivial, no doubt!
Dorothy drove them straight home, and penn'd them in fold for the milking;
And, as she sat on her stool, leaning her cheek on the cow,
Milking with hard dry hands (and they are the hands for a milkmaid),
Seeing the warm rich milk foaming and white in the pail,
Hearing her cow's soft breath, and feeling the stillness around her,
Dorothy also was still'd, both from her joy and her pain:
Dorothy also was soothed—though she never thought about soothing—
After a time like this, such as she never had known.
Everything seem'd to be changed—all things were possible now!
Somehow, it all had come out: there was nothing she need be ashamed of:
She had no rival to fear: she stood in nobody's way!
And she forgot her cows, forgot the big stick that she drove with—
Yes, let it drop in the lane; stopp'd, and with innocent joy
Loudly she clapp'd her hands—and ah, as she smote them together,
Who would have guess'd such a sound was but an echo of love?
‘Oh, I am glad!’ she exclaim'd; ‘oh, Miss Mary, I'm glad you don't love him!
‘Sure, you'd have said, if you did—then you would have him, of course;
‘For, it would be such a thing, for me to be proud and presuming,
‘Coming betwixt you and him, stealing a sweetheart from you;
‘You, 'at has been so kind, it was always a pleasure to serve you!
‘Now, it'll be som'at more; now I must love you, as well.
31
‘He is the keeper, you know—ever so much above me—
‘Wouldn't it seem like a shame, if he wanted it ever so badly?
‘P'r'aps it was only his way; p'r'aps he meant nothing at all!’
‘Nonsense, you foolish girl,’ said Mary, ‘I'm certain he loves you:
‘How can he help it, you know? I should, if I was a man!
‘And, as for being what you are, what of that? You deserve a good husband—
‘Only, I don't understand why he should care for your hands.’—
‘No, nor me neither! it's strange—one 'd think he'd be fit to despise 'em;
‘Oh, but you never can tell—men are so bad to make out!
‘Still, if he does want me, and you don't mind it, Miss Mary,
‘I shall be—well, never mind; we mustn't talk of it now.
‘Don't you tell Master, please; and whatever you do, not Missis;
‘That 'd be worst thing of all—that 'd be trouble indeed!’—
‘Tell 'em!’ said Mary, ‘oh no! You may trust me—they never shall know it—
‘Not till he tells 'em himself—not till he takes you away!’—
Thus, then, they stood in the lane, those two, and smiled at each other:
Two bonny girls—for, indeed, Mary was not to say plain:
And you would think, I suppose, that at least in so tender a moment,
After such words had been said, such an endearment begun,
Dolly all glowing with bliss, and Mary with kindly contentment,
Now, you suppose, they would kiss, now they would kiss and embrace.
No, not at all! Such a thing never happens, with girls such as these are:
'Tis for young ladies alone, dainty impressible souls!
These are but rustics, you know, and Dorothy only a servant;
They were not equals, and that made it more difficult still.—
True, I have seen, just once, two pit-girls in corduroy trousers,
Blackfaced muscular girls—feminine too, for all that—
Who in a pause of their work, like horses that wait for a waggon,
Waited for their waggon too; harness'd, for they were the team;
And, as you see such a horse fling its head o'er the neck of its neighbour,
Playfully biting her ear, only for something to do;
32
Actually flung up her arms—fell on the neck of her mate!
Whether it was but fatigue, or whether it really were fondness,
Strange was the sight to me—curious, and almost unique:
There was this manlike maid, with her head on her fellow's broad shoulder,
Clasping her, just like a—well, just like a delicate girl!
What did the other one do, who was bigger and taller and stronger?
Did she respond? Did she say, ‘Dearest, how sweet to be thus?’
Bless you, not she! She was good, and gentle, I tell you, and loving;
I know her well, and I know how she is sorrowing now;
But she was grave, like a man; she hated such infantine petting;
Ay, and in worktime an' all—lasses and men looking on!
So, with a powerful thrust, with a lion-like shake of her large limbs,
‘Dang tha', lëan oop, wench!’ she cried—those were her terrible words—
‘Dang tha', lëan oop!’ and with that, she push'd off her tender companion;
Who had been fell'd by the blow, but that she also was strong.
Was she offended? Oh no; for up came the loaded waggon—
Up from the workings it came, laden with coals to the brim;
And, with an emulous start, with a habit of duty, the lasses
Sprang to their load, both at once, cheerily dragg'd it away.
'Twas a remarkable case; I never have seen such another:
For, among untaught girls—peasants and hardworking maids—
If they are shallow and light, they care not for graceful abandon;
Having no grace of their own, having no feelings, indeed:
And, if they're serious and good, like Mary for instance and Dolly,
Life too is serious, for them; they are too grave for display.—
Therefore, those two good girls neither kiss'd nor fondled each other:
Only stood smiling apart, giving out love with their eyes;
Till, when the spell was loosed—‘My goodness, where is the cattle?
‘Where ha' they gone? They are lost—Crumple has led 'em astray!’
33
Up the long sandy lane—not very far, it is true;
For they were quiet and safe, and cropping the grass in the hedgerows,
Heedless of human joys—thinking them trivial, no doubt!
Dorothy drove them straight home, and penn'd them in fold for the milking;
And, as she sat on her stool, leaning her cheek on the cow,
Milking with hard dry hands (and they are the hands for a milkmaid),
Seeing the warm rich milk foaming and white in the pail,
Hearing her cow's soft breath, and feeling the stillness around her,
Dorothy also was still'd, both from her joy and her pain:
Dorothy also was soothed—though she never thought about soothing—
After a time like this, such as she never had known.
For the death of her favourite sister, who was also a collier; one of the best and handsomest girls I ever knew.
END OF BOOK I.
| Dorothy | |