 | Dorothy |  |
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.
| Dorothy | |