Dorothy | ||
37
Thus while they talk'd, standing there, poor Dolly was ever approaching,
She, with her horses in front headed by Billy the boy:
Ah, she had only escaped from the frying-pan into the fire—
Here were the quality folks, standing and staring at her!
What could she do? She was trapp'd—she could but go nearer and nearer,
Red though her face might be; redder than ever, just now:
Ay, and whatever its faults, her hands were too busy to hide them:
Well, she must let things alone; they'd never notice her face!
Swiftly she came to her doom—and the younger stranger address'd her
(‘Jove! she's a beauty,’ he thought, ‘Fancy a beauty at plough!’)
‘So you are ploughing, my lass? Warm work, in such weather as this is!’
‘Woa, horse!’ Dolly replied, pulling her best at the rein,
‘Woa!’ And the plough stood still; and she, as she stood in the furrow,
Dropp'd him a curtsey, and said, ‘Yes, Sir, it is very warm.’
‘Can you,’ the elder began, with a lofty though courteous demeanour—
‘Can you just tell us, my girl, which is the way to the Ings?’
‘Yes, Sir;’ and lifting her arm, she pointed down into the valley—
‘Yes, Sir, you go by yon farm, under the cliff in the lane.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and walk'd on; but the other one linger'd behind him:
Dorothy wonder'd at that—what was he stopping to say?
She, in the midst of her work—so unfit for her betters to talk to—
Wish'd they would both go away; wish'd they had never come near.
‘Ah, then, you live at that farm? Perhaps you're the farmer's daughter?
‘Me, Sir?’ cried Dolly, ‘Oh no! I am the servant, that's all!’
And, as she said it, she smiled; little knowing how well it became her;
How it condoned in his eyes all that was coarse in her work.
‘Are you a servant? Indeed! And why do they send you out ploughing?
‘Men should do that, don't you know? You should be quiet indoors!’
Dolly could almost have laugh'd, but she knew it would not be respectful;
Therefore she gravely replied, ‘Well, Sir, I'm used to the fields:
‘And there is only me, and Master, and this little lad here:
‘I should be shamed indeed, not to be able to plough!’
‘Would you? And what is your name? and what is the name of the farm there?’
‘White Rose Farm, Sir,’ she said; ‘that is the place where I live.’
As for her own poor name, she was silent; for why should he ask it?
‘White Rose Farm!’ he exclaim'd; ‘oh, what a beautiful name!
‘Yes, now I see how it is’—and he smiled in her face as he said it—
‘You gave its name to the farm; you are the bonny White Rose!
‘Well, I shall see you again! Good-bye—you will not forget me?
‘Here is a trifle, you know, just to remember me by.’
And, with the word, he held out a broad piece of glittering silver,
Such as she seldom had seen, never had had for her own.
Had he but look'd in her eyes, he would never have offer'd her money:
Both her blue eyes were aflame, shining like stars in a frost:
‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘not for me—no, thank you, Sir—I have my wages—
‘Billy, get on!’ And the plough moved in the furrow again;
She, with a grand disdain, with a muscular heave of her shoulders
Lifting the share to its work, setting it straight in the mould.
He was discomfited; he, who had had such success among ladies,
Foil'd by an ignorant wench bound to the tail of a plough!
It was distressing, of course; but with such an antagonist, truly
There was no shame in defeat—triumph itself were disgrace.
‘She is a vixen,’ he thought, ‘but I like her the better for that, though;
‘Jove, how that anger of hers suited her beautiful face!
‘She is no common girl; there must be a story about her:
‘I shall find out before long—yes, I will see her again.’
So, he stepp'd lightly away to the stile where his uncle was waiting—
Waiting indignant, and still twirling his grisly moustache.
‘Frank,’ said the senior, ‘I know you are too much addicted to women—
‘But I'm ashamed to see you stoop to a creature like that!
‘Wenches who work in the fields are sure to be reprobates always:
‘How much more, do you think, one so depraved as to plough?
‘And you should know where you are: remember our duty as guests, sir!
‘That girl's master, no doubt, farms on the Castle estate;
‘He is a lowborn boor; and she, lower still, is his servant;
‘How would you like to be seen stopping and speaking to her?
‘Ah, when I've carried my Bill—and it's rising in favour already—
We'll put a stop to all this; we'll have no women a-field!’—
Frank, that irreverent boy, had the courage to laugh at his uncle:
‘Bother your Bill!’ he replied—‘why, what a purist you are!
‘Uncle, I tell you you're wrong; you do her injustice, believe me;
‘She is no commonplace wench; she's not degraded at all.
‘You should have seen how she look'd when I ventured to offer her money!
‘Proud? Why, she rivals in pride Lady Sophia herself!
‘And, did you notice her face? It was sunburnt and rough, as her arms were,
‘But it was handsome withal—gentle, expressive, refined.
‘Yes’—for he saw the deep scorn in his uncle's countenance rising—
‘Yes, sir, I say it's refined: she'll never better your Bill!’
‘Bosh!’ growl'd the other, enraged: ‘when you've lived half as long, sir, as I have,
‘You'll understand that a girl brought up to labour like hers
‘Must be degraded and coarse: but I see it is useless to argue—
‘Don't let me hear this again!’ ‘No,’ said his nephew, ‘you shan't!’
Thus they contended in talk; each far from the truth of the matter:
But, as is usual, the youth trying at least to be just;
While the grave man of the world, by his own want of sympathy blinded,
Saw but the homely outside; noted down that for his Bill.
She, with her horses in front headed by Billy the boy:
Ah, she had only escaped from the frying-pan into the fire—
Here were the quality folks, standing and staring at her!
What could she do? She was trapp'd—she could but go nearer and nearer,
Red though her face might be; redder than ever, just now:
Ay, and whatever its faults, her hands were too busy to hide them:
Well, she must let things alone; they'd never notice her face!
Swiftly she came to her doom—and the younger stranger address'd her
(‘Jove! she's a beauty,’ he thought, ‘Fancy a beauty at plough!’)
‘So you are ploughing, my lass? Warm work, in such weather as this is!’
‘Woa, horse!’ Dolly replied, pulling her best at the rein,
‘Woa!’ And the plough stood still; and she, as she stood in the furrow,
Dropp'd him a curtsey, and said, ‘Yes, Sir, it is very warm.’
‘Can you,’ the elder began, with a lofty though courteous demeanour—
‘Can you just tell us, my girl, which is the way to the Ings?’
‘Yes, Sir;’ and lifting her arm, she pointed down into the valley—
‘Yes, Sir, you go by yon farm, under the cliff in the lane.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and walk'd on; but the other one linger'd behind him:
Dorothy wonder'd at that—what was he stopping to say?
She, in the midst of her work—so unfit for her betters to talk to—
Wish'd they would both go away; wish'd they had never come near.
‘Ah, then, you live at that farm? Perhaps you're the farmer's daughter?
‘Me, Sir?’ cried Dolly, ‘Oh no! I am the servant, that's all!’
And, as she said it, she smiled; little knowing how well it became her;
How it condoned in his eyes all that was coarse in her work.
‘Are you a servant? Indeed! And why do they send you out ploughing?
‘Men should do that, don't you know? You should be quiet indoors!’
Dolly could almost have laugh'd, but she knew it would not be respectful;
Therefore she gravely replied, ‘Well, Sir, I'm used to the fields:
‘And there is only me, and Master, and this little lad here:
‘I should be shamed indeed, not to be able to plough!’
38
‘White Rose Farm, Sir,’ she said; ‘that is the place where I live.’
As for her own poor name, she was silent; for why should he ask it?
‘White Rose Farm!’ he exclaim'd; ‘oh, what a beautiful name!
‘Yes, now I see how it is’—and he smiled in her face as he said it—
‘You gave its name to the farm; you are the bonny White Rose!
‘Well, I shall see you again! Good-bye—you will not forget me?
‘Here is a trifle, you know, just to remember me by.’
And, with the word, he held out a broad piece of glittering silver,
Such as she seldom had seen, never had had for her own.
Had he but look'd in her eyes, he would never have offer'd her money:
Both her blue eyes were aflame, shining like stars in a frost:
‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘not for me—no, thank you, Sir—I have my wages—
‘Billy, get on!’ And the plough moved in the furrow again;
She, with a grand disdain, with a muscular heave of her shoulders
Lifting the share to its work, setting it straight in the mould.
He was discomfited; he, who had had such success among ladies,
Foil'd by an ignorant wench bound to the tail of a plough!
It was distressing, of course; but with such an antagonist, truly
There was no shame in defeat—triumph itself were disgrace.
‘She is a vixen,’ he thought, ‘but I like her the better for that, though;
‘Jove, how that anger of hers suited her beautiful face!
‘She is no common girl; there must be a story about her:
‘I shall find out before long—yes, I will see her again.’
So, he stepp'd lightly away to the stile where his uncle was waiting—
Waiting indignant, and still twirling his grisly moustache.
‘Frank,’ said the senior, ‘I know you are too much addicted to women—
‘But I'm ashamed to see you stoop to a creature like that!
‘Wenches who work in the fields are sure to be reprobates always:
‘How much more, do you think, one so depraved as to plough?
‘And you should know where you are: remember our duty as guests, sir!
‘That girl's master, no doubt, farms on the Castle estate;
39
‘How would you like to be seen stopping and speaking to her?
‘Ah, when I've carried my Bill—and it's rising in favour already—
We'll put a stop to all this; we'll have no women a-field!’—
Frank, that irreverent boy, had the courage to laugh at his uncle:
‘Bother your Bill!’ he replied—‘why, what a purist you are!
‘Uncle, I tell you you're wrong; you do her injustice, believe me;
‘She is no commonplace wench; she's not degraded at all.
‘You should have seen how she look'd when I ventured to offer her money!
‘Proud? Why, she rivals in pride Lady Sophia herself!
‘And, did you notice her face? It was sunburnt and rough, as her arms were,
‘But it was handsome withal—gentle, expressive, refined.
‘Yes’—for he saw the deep scorn in his uncle's countenance rising—
‘Yes, sir, I say it's refined: she'll never better your Bill!’
‘Bosh!’ growl'd the other, enraged: ‘when you've lived half as long, sir, as I have,
‘You'll understand that a girl brought up to labour like hers
‘Must be degraded and coarse: but I see it is useless to argue—
‘Don't let me hear this again!’ ‘No,’ said his nephew, ‘you shan't!’
Thus they contended in talk; each far from the truth of the matter:
But, as is usual, the youth trying at least to be just;
While the grave man of the world, by his own want of sympathy blinded,
Saw but the homely outside; noted down that for his Bill.
Well—and our Dolly herself, what did she do? and what were her feelings?
Oh, she just stuck to the plough—finish'd the baulk she was on;
Follow'd her horses again, up and down, up and down, till the evening;
Chiefly intent on her work, thinking of little, save that.
But, when the day's work was done, when the plough was unyoked by the hedgerow,
When the whole team went home, headed by Billy the boy;
She, on the hindmost horse, high perch'd, holding on by the halter,
All in her simple heart ponder'd the things she had heard.
She had been brought face to face with men of a rank far above her:
Forced to converse with them, too, since they were pleased to converse:
Ay, and what wearisome talk, what foolish trumpery questions—
This was her first great thought—had she been hearing today!
If they were all like him, what strange irrational persons
Quality folks must be! Yet, she could easily tell,
Both by his voice and words, his dress and his company manners,
He had come out of a world larger and higher than hers.
That was just it! He thought that poor folks' ways were beneath him:
Things that might serve to amuse such as are clever and rich:
Thought he might say what he liked, talk ever such flatulent nonsense,
When he should stoop to address ignorant people like her.
Such were her thoughts—not her words: oh dear me, no, not her words, ma'am!
She had no words; or at least, only an impotent few:
But she could think, and feel; and her thoughts were somewhat on this wise—
‘Me a White Rose, did he say? Me give a name to the farm?
‘Rubbish! But happen, he thought I should like to be talk'd to a-that way;
‘Happen, 'twas only his fun—making a game, like, o' me!
‘Farmer's daughter, indeed! When he knew very well I'm a servant:
‘Must have seen it, of course; everything shows what I am!
‘And to be quiet indoors, and never do nothing at field work—
‘Never make hay, never hoe turnips and taters and wheat—
‘Me, 'at can do it as well as a man, I'll awand you, or better,
‘Me, to be shut up indoors—oh, what a fool he must be!
‘How I do hate such talk! Mr. Robert, how different he was!
‘Told me I ought to be proud both o' my work an' my hands;
‘Seem'd to be pleased, and spoke like a sensible man and a kind one—
‘Not such a guiser as yon—meaning, one canna tell what!’—
True, she hated his talk: but not for its foolishness only;
Something mor deadly than that ruffled her maidenly pride:
For, with his smooth soft words, and the offer he made her of money,
Memories hotter than hate went like a flash through her brain.
Maybe, she thought, it was thus that some one first spoke to her mother—
Flatt'ring her pretty young face, tempting her foully with coin!
That, and not pride, was the thought that drove her indignantly onward;
That made her hurry away, spurning his money and him:
Not the mere silver; oh no—she could curtsey and smile at a shilling
Honestly given and meant: shillings were precious, to her.
Oh, she just stuck to the plough—finish'd the baulk she was on;
Follow'd her horses again, up and down, up and down, till the evening;
Chiefly intent on her work, thinking of little, save that.
But, when the day's work was done, when the plough was unyoked by the hedgerow,
When the whole team went home, headed by Billy the boy;
She, on the hindmost horse, high perch'd, holding on by the halter,
All in her simple heart ponder'd the things she had heard.
40
Forced to converse with them, too, since they were pleased to converse:
Ay, and what wearisome talk, what foolish trumpery questions—
This was her first great thought—had she been hearing today!
If they were all like him, what strange irrational persons
Quality folks must be! Yet, she could easily tell,
Both by his voice and words, his dress and his company manners,
He had come out of a world larger and higher than hers.
That was just it! He thought that poor folks' ways were beneath him:
Things that might serve to amuse such as are clever and rich:
Thought he might say what he liked, talk ever such flatulent nonsense,
When he should stoop to address ignorant people like her.
Such were her thoughts—not her words: oh dear me, no, not her words, ma'am!
She had no words; or at least, only an impotent few:
But she could think, and feel; and her thoughts were somewhat on this wise—
‘Me a White Rose, did he say? Me give a name to the farm?
‘Rubbish! But happen, he thought I should like to be talk'd to a-that way;
‘Happen, 'twas only his fun—making a game, like, o' me!
‘Farmer's daughter, indeed! When he knew very well I'm a servant:
‘Must have seen it, of course; everything shows what I am!
‘And to be quiet indoors, and never do nothing at field work—
‘Never make hay, never hoe turnips and taters and wheat—
‘Me, 'at can do it as well as a man, I'll awand you, or better,
‘Me, to be shut up indoors—oh, what a fool he must be!
‘How I do hate such talk! Mr. Robert, how different he was!
‘Told me I ought to be proud both o' my work an' my hands;
‘Seem'd to be pleased, and spoke like a sensible man and a kind one—
‘Not such a guiser as yon—meaning, one canna tell what!’—
True, she hated his talk: but not for its foolishness only;
Something mor deadly than that ruffled her maidenly pride:
For, with his smooth soft words, and the offer he made her of money,
Memories hotter than hate went like a flash through her brain.
41
Flatt'ring her pretty young face, tempting her foully with coin!
That, and not pride, was the thought that drove her indignantly onward;
That made her hurry away, spurning his money and him:
Not the mere silver; oh no—she could curtsey and smile at a shilling
Honestly given and meant: shillings were precious, to her.
Dorothy | ||