 | Dorothy |  |
But I am leaving those two, Mr. Frank and our Dolly, together;
He with her hand in his! What, is he holding it still?
No—for the moment he felt the touch of her labouring fingers,
And, looking down at her hand, judged of it there by his own,
Straightway he dropp'd it, and cried, ‘Good God, what a hand for a woman!
‘Where have you lived, all your life? What sort of work have you done?’
Dorothy was not surprised, nor hurt, nor even offended;
Only amused, in her way—seeing the change in his tone;
And she look'd up, and replied, ‘I've lived i' one place all my life, Sir;
‘And, for my work, I can do all that belongs to a farm:
‘I can hoe turnips and wheat; and plough (as you saw me) and harrow;
‘Fettle both horses and cows; clean out the stable and byre;
‘Milking, of course, I can do; and poultry and pigs, and the dairy;
‘Reaping in harvest time; haymaking, stacking, an' all—
‘And for indoors, I clean, and scrub, and attend to the housework;
‘Washing and ironing, too; baking and brewing, sometimes;
‘Cleaning of knives and boots’—and she look'd courageously at him,
Looking as one who should say, ‘there! would you like any more?’
He, as he heard, stood amazed; such a horribly frank revelation,
Made by so handsome a girl, stagger'd him quite, for awhile!
Then he exclaim'd, ‘How strange! I really can not understand you—
‘Such a sweet face as yours—such indescribable hands!
‘What, do you like such work?’ ‘Yes, I do, Sir! I wouldn't exchange it,
‘No, nor my hands, if I might—not for such soft ones as yourn!’—
She was grown bold, you perceive; she had no more fear of his passion:
Passion? the touch of her hands cured him completely of love!
Ah, she could talk to him now: she knew that his feelings were alter'd:
He, with his soft pink palm smarting from pressure of hers!
‘Well, pretty Dolly,’ he said, ‘I must leave you, I fear, to your work, then:
‘Tell me your name, though, at least—I shall not vex you again!’
‘Crump is my name, Sir,’ she said: ‘at least, Bessy Crump was my mother:
‘I have no name, only hers; that's why I hid it, afore.’
‘Oh—I perceive! You are wise; and don't you be fool'd, like your mother:
‘Marry some honest good man, one in your own rank of life;
‘One who—ahem! can admire and appreciate hands such as yours are—
‘Hands that can labour for love, doubtless, as well as for hire!’
Labour for love, did he say? She look'd in his face as he said it—
Labour for love? Yes, indeed—that was the wish of her heart!
He had divined it! And now, she felt so free and so grateful,
If he had sent her a mile, she would have gone for him twain.
‘Ah, your eyes brighten!’ said he; ‘but your smiles are for somebody else, though—
‘You have a sweetheart, I see; you are expecting him now.’
‘No, Sir!’ poor Dolly replied; ‘oh no, indeed I am not, Sir!
‘But you was speaking so kind—not as you was at the first—
‘Gentlefolks can do us good, if they keep their place, and advise us—
‘And I am thankful, I sure, if you think kindly o' me!
‘Sir, I must go, if you please—my Missis is wanting her supper;
‘And there's the things to wash up: humbly I wish you good-bye.’
He did not ask for her hand—not again—'twas too dreadful to think of—
You might as well shake hands with a macadamized road!
But with a kindly farewell he acknowledged her reverent curtsey,
Watch'd her departing, and then—lighted another cigar.
He with her hand in his! What, is he holding it still?
No—for the moment he felt the touch of her labouring fingers,
And, looking down at her hand, judged of it there by his own,
Straightway he dropp'd it, and cried, ‘Good God, what a hand for a woman!
‘Where have you lived, all your life? What sort of work have you done?’
Dorothy was not surprised, nor hurt, nor even offended;
Only amused, in her way—seeing the change in his tone;
And she look'd up, and replied, ‘I've lived i' one place all my life, Sir;
‘And, for my work, I can do all that belongs to a farm:
‘I can hoe turnips and wheat; and plough (as you saw me) and harrow;
‘Fettle both horses and cows; clean out the stable and byre;
‘Milking, of course, I can do; and poultry and pigs, and the dairy;
‘Reaping in harvest time; haymaking, stacking, an' all—
‘And for indoors, I clean, and scrub, and attend to the housework;
‘Washing and ironing, too; baking and brewing, sometimes;
‘Cleaning of knives and boots’—and she look'd courageously at him,
Looking as one who should say, ‘there! would you like any more?’
He, as he heard, stood amazed; such a horribly frank revelation,
Made by so handsome a girl, stagger'd him quite, for awhile!
Then he exclaim'd, ‘How strange! I really can not understand you—
‘Such a sweet face as yours—such indescribable hands!
‘What, do you like such work?’ ‘Yes, I do, Sir! I wouldn't exchange it,
‘No, nor my hands, if I might—not for such soft ones as yourn!’—
She was grown bold, you perceive; she had no more fear of his passion:
Passion? the touch of her hands cured him completely of love!
47
He, with his soft pink palm smarting from pressure of hers!
‘Well, pretty Dolly,’ he said, ‘I must leave you, I fear, to your work, then:
‘Tell me your name, though, at least—I shall not vex you again!’
‘Crump is my name, Sir,’ she said: ‘at least, Bessy Crump was my mother:
‘I have no name, only hers; that's why I hid it, afore.’
‘Oh—I perceive! You are wise; and don't you be fool'd, like your mother:
‘Marry some honest good man, one in your own rank of life;
‘One who—ahem! can admire and appreciate hands such as yours are—
‘Hands that can labour for love, doubtless, as well as for hire!’
Labour for love, did he say? She look'd in his face as he said it—
Labour for love? Yes, indeed—that was the wish of her heart!
He had divined it! And now, she felt so free and so grateful,
If he had sent her a mile, she would have gone for him twain.
‘Ah, your eyes brighten!’ said he; ‘but your smiles are for somebody else, though—
‘You have a sweetheart, I see; you are expecting him now.’
‘No, Sir!’ poor Dolly replied; ‘oh no, indeed I am not, Sir!
‘But you was speaking so kind—not as you was at the first—
‘Gentlefolks can do us good, if they keep their place, and advise us—
‘And I am thankful, I sure, if you think kindly o' me!
‘Sir, I must go, if you please—my Missis is wanting her supper;
‘And there's the things to wash up: humbly I wish you good-bye.’
He did not ask for her hand—not again—'twas too dreadful to think of—
You might as well shake hands with a macadamized road!
But with a kindly farewell he acknowledged her reverent curtsey,
Watch'd her departing, and then—lighted another cigar.
‘Eh, what a blessing,’ she thought, as she ran down the lane in the twilight,
‘Eh, what a mercy it was, him getting hold o' my hand!
‘But, I was sure it 'd do—for gentlefolks cannot abide 'em—
‘Hardworking hands like mine: theirn is so very unlike!
‘My, what a hand his was—as soft an' as tender as satin!
‘What must a lady's be, if there's such hands in a man?’
Thus she ran on; and the night, coming quietly down into evening,
Deepen'd the twilight below, lighted the stars up above;
And she saw no one; until, by the hayricks close to the farmyard,
Somebody call'd from behind, ‘Dolly, my lass, is it you?’
Ah! she should know that voice: but it couldn't be he though—of course not!
They hand't come—and besides, what could she be to him now?
Still, she must answer and stop—and she trembled a bit, as she did so;
Wishing it mightn't be him: wishing it might, all the same.
‘Eh, what a mercy it was, him getting hold o' my hand!
‘But, I was sure it 'd do—for gentlefolks cannot abide 'em—
‘Hardworking hands like mine: theirn is so very unlike!
48
‘What must a lady's be, if there's such hands in a man?’
Thus she ran on; and the night, coming quietly down into evening,
Deepen'd the twilight below, lighted the stars up above;
And she saw no one; until, by the hayricks close to the farmyard,
Somebody call'd from behind, ‘Dolly, my lass, is it you?’
Ah! she should know that voice: but it couldn't be he though—of course not!
They hand't come—and besides, what could she be to him now?
Still, she must answer and stop—and she trembled a bit, as she did so;
Wishing it mightn't be him: wishing it might, all the same.
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, it's you? Whoever 'ud think for to see you
‘Standing out here by yourself? Master 'll take it unkind!
‘When did you come?’—‘Why, to-day; dost think I could wait till to-morrow,
‘Dolly, thou hard-hearted girl, when I was coming to thee?
‘I've got a something to say’—‘Oh yes, Mr. Robert, I know it;
‘We have heard all—and I sure every one wishes you well!’
‘Wishes me well, does she say? Is the wench gone daft, sin' I left her?
‘What have they said about me? Dolly, lass, what does thee mean?’
‘Why, Mr. Robert, of course I mean about you an' your wedding;
‘Old Mrs. Jellifer came—said it was going to be soon.’—
‘Dang Mrs. Jelly, I say! them women must always be meddling!
‘Dolly, forgive me—I know thou wouldn't meddle, for one!’
‘Isn't it true, then?’ she cried, ‘Oh, isn't it true you've a sweetheart?’
‘Ay, I've a sweetheart, I hope—that's what I've come about, now:
‘But, I can tell how it is—it's Amos, the under-keeper,
‘Him and his barefooted girl—that's how the story began.
‘What does it signify, though, the lies they may tell at the Castle?
‘Dolly, I've come to fetch thee! Didn't I say I would come?
‘Dolly, thou knows very well I love thee and nobody else, lass—
‘Hast thou forgotten that night, after our dance, at the farm?’
‘No, Mr. Robert, oh no!’ she said, in a tremulous whisper,
‘Only, I thought you had found somebody better 'an me!’—
‘Somebody better 'an thee? Ay, that would be a job, though, to find her!
‘Give me thy hand—that's right—just let me feel it again’—
Freely she gave him her hand; and not as an antidote this time:
Sure of an answering grip almost as hard as her own:
‘Dolly,’ he grasp'd it and said, ‘there's lasses a plenty in Scotland;
‘Some 'at has hardworking hands, some as are bonny—a few:
‘But if there's one on 'em all, for work and for beauty together,
‘Fit to come second to thee—I'm not a keeper, that's all!
‘Why, thou must look i' the glass to find such another as thine is—
‘Such a sweet face, I mean: just like a peach i' the sun!
‘And, if thy hands are hard—and I know they couldn't be harder,
‘Doing such things as thee does, working so hard on the farm—
‘I like 'em better for that; for it's real honest labour has done it:
‘And they'll grow softer in time; yes, they'll improve by-and-by!’—
‘No, Mr. Robert, they won't! They shall never be soft, if I know it:
‘Didn't you tell me yourself I should be glad they was hard?
‘And, do you think, if I'm proud o' the name of a hard-working servant,
‘I could sit idle at home, when I am—anything else?’
‘Idle, dear Dolly? Oh no; it isn't in thee to be idle!
‘Thou shall have work o' thy own, if thou'll be guided by me:
‘Give us thy other hand’—and he held up its thick third finger—
‘Thou's never yet had a ring; couldn't thee do with one, here?’
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, ’she cried, ‘oh, what shall I say? I believe you;
‘Yes, I believe you indeed; you are so friendly and kind!
‘And I have known you for long—but then, I am only a servant;
‘Haven't a penny to give—all as I've got i' the world
‘Is just the wages I earn, an' a few little pounds o' my savings;
‘How can I do it, you know? How can I let you love me?
‘Oh, it'd be such a shame, if I was the one to disgrace you—
‘You, that's head-keeper an' all; ay, an' a house o' your own!
‘You, that has but to speak out, an' there's many a farmer's daughter,
‘Many a bettermost girl, gladly 'ud have you, I sure!’
‘Oh, you innocent lass! What signifies farmers' daughters,
‘Bettermost girls, and that, when I'm a-courting o' thee?
‘Thou art the one as I want; an' if any one else would ha' had me,
‘Why, let 'em whistle, say I: somebody's sure to be near!
‘Dolly, dear Dolly, say Yes, and come to the house as you talk on,
‘Come, an' thou'll make it a home; that's what it's never been yet!—’
‘Standing out here by yourself? Master 'll take it unkind!
‘When did you come?’—‘Why, to-day; dost think I could wait till to-morrow,
‘Dolly, thou hard-hearted girl, when I was coming to thee?
‘I've got a something to say’—‘Oh yes, Mr. Robert, I know it;
‘We have heard all—and I sure every one wishes you well!’
‘Wishes me well, does she say? Is the wench gone daft, sin' I left her?
‘What have they said about me? Dolly, lass, what does thee mean?’
‘Why, Mr. Robert, of course I mean about you an' your wedding;
‘Old Mrs. Jellifer came—said it was going to be soon.’—
‘Dang Mrs. Jelly, I say! them women must always be meddling!
‘Dolly, forgive me—I know thou wouldn't meddle, for one!’
‘Isn't it true, then?’ she cried, ‘Oh, isn't it true you've a sweetheart?’
‘Ay, I've a sweetheart, I hope—that's what I've come about, now:
‘But, I can tell how it is—it's Amos, the under-keeper,
‘Him and his barefooted girl—that's how the story began.
‘What does it signify, though, the lies they may tell at the Castle?
‘Dolly, I've come to fetch thee! Didn't I say I would come?
‘Dolly, thou knows very well I love thee and nobody else, lass—
‘Hast thou forgotten that night, after our dance, at the farm?’
49
‘Only, I thought you had found somebody better 'an me!’—
‘Somebody better 'an thee? Ay, that would be a job, though, to find her!
‘Give me thy hand—that's right—just let me feel it again’—
Freely she gave him her hand; and not as an antidote this time:
Sure of an answering grip almost as hard as her own:
‘Dolly,’ he grasp'd it and said, ‘there's lasses a plenty in Scotland;
‘Some 'at has hardworking hands, some as are bonny—a few:
‘But if there's one on 'em all, for work and for beauty together,
‘Fit to come second to thee—I'm not a keeper, that's all!
‘Why, thou must look i' the glass to find such another as thine is—
‘Such a sweet face, I mean: just like a peach i' the sun!
‘And, if thy hands are hard—and I know they couldn't be harder,
‘Doing such things as thee does, working so hard on the farm—
‘I like 'em better for that; for it's real honest labour has done it:
‘And they'll grow softer in time; yes, they'll improve by-and-by!’—
‘No, Mr. Robert, they won't! They shall never be soft, if I know it:
‘Didn't you tell me yourself I should be glad they was hard?
‘And, do you think, if I'm proud o' the name of a hard-working servant,
‘I could sit idle at home, when I am—anything else?’
‘Idle, dear Dolly? Oh no; it isn't in thee to be idle!
‘Thou shall have work o' thy own, if thou'll be guided by me:
‘Give us thy other hand’—and he held up its thick third finger—
‘Thou's never yet had a ring; couldn't thee do with one, here?’
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, ’she cried, ‘oh, what shall I say? I believe you;
‘Yes, I believe you indeed; you are so friendly and kind!
‘And I have known you for long—but then, I am only a servant;
‘Haven't a penny to give—all as I've got i' the world
‘Is just the wages I earn, an' a few little pounds o' my savings;
‘How can I do it, you know? How can I let you love me?
‘Oh, it'd be such a shame, if I was the one to disgrace you—
‘You, that's head-keeper an' all; ay, an' a house o' your own!
50
‘Many a bettermost girl, gladly 'ud have you, I sure!’
‘Oh, you innocent lass! What signifies farmers' daughters,
‘Bettermost girls, and that, when I'm a-courting o' thee?
‘Thou art the one as I want; an' if any one else would ha' had me,
‘Why, let 'em whistle, say I: somebody's sure to be near!
‘Dolly, dear Dolly, say Yes, and come to the house as you talk on,
‘Come, an' thou'll make it a home; that's what it's never been yet!—’
Did she say Yes? Who knows? I don't think any one heard it:
But he caress'd her unblamed—caught her, and kiss'd her, and held:
She, the stout stalwart wench, with the ample waist, and the shoulders,
Lay on his heart for awhile, happy and still, like a child.
Where were her strong brown arms, all used to the farm and the cattle?
Ah, they were tenderly wreathed, just as a lady's might be:
Where was her sunburnt cheek, all roughen'd and bronzed by the rude winds?
Ah, it was glowing and soft; warm with ineffable joy:
Even her hands, that had grown to be implements merely of labour,
Thrill'd with a daintier sense, here in this dreamland of Love!
For, when the love-time comes, the day of delight and possession,
Out of the loving heart all that is lovely appears;
All that is sensitive opes—and the signs of labour and sorrow
Shrink away into the past, counting for nothing at all.
Silent they both of them were, for it was the moment of silence:
Even in commonplace moods peasants have not many words;
And at a time like this the most eloquent passion is speechless:
Language can never express half that humanity feels;
Yea, and the tongue of the wise, and the rapturous words of the poet,
Could not deliver in full even poor Dorothy's heart.
Music alone can do that: behold how the mighty Beethoven,
When Leonora at length clings to her own Florestan,
He, in that hour of supreme transcendent passionate triumph,
Lifts his immortal airs quite from the region of words;
Gives to the lovers a cry—inarticulate utterance only,
Keeps, for the height of his theme, pure and unsyllabled sound.
But he caress'd her unblamed—caught her, and kiss'd her, and held:
She, the stout stalwart wench, with the ample waist, and the shoulders,
Lay on his heart for awhile, happy and still, like a child.
Where were her strong brown arms, all used to the farm and the cattle?
Ah, they were tenderly wreathed, just as a lady's might be:
Where was her sunburnt cheek, all roughen'd and bronzed by the rude winds?
Ah, it was glowing and soft; warm with ineffable joy:
Even her hands, that had grown to be implements merely of labour,
Thrill'd with a daintier sense, here in this dreamland of Love!
For, when the love-time comes, the day of delight and possession,
Out of the loving heart all that is lovely appears;
All that is sensitive opes—and the signs of labour and sorrow
Shrink away into the past, counting for nothing at all.
Silent they both of them were, for it was the moment of silence:
Even in commonplace moods peasants have not many words;
And at a time like this the most eloquent passion is speechless:
Language can never express half that humanity feels;
Yea, and the tongue of the wise, and the rapturous words of the poet,
Could not deliver in full even poor Dorothy's heart.
Music alone can do that: behold how the mighty Beethoven,
When Leonora at length clings to her own Florestan,
51
Lifts his immortal airs quite from the region of words;
Gives to the lovers a cry—inarticulate utterance only,
Keeps, for the height of his theme, pure and unsyllabled sound.
| Dorothy | |