University of Virginia Library

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.’—

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!’

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!’