 | Dorothy |  |
What is she dreaming of now? for the moon is up, and I see her
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!
And with her heart in her mouth, as she enter'd the house by the kitchens,
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.
‘What was he going to tell?’ cried Dorothy, starting and waking:
‘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.
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.
| Dorothy | |