University of Virginia Library

Music! There's little of that in the life of an English peasant:
Dorothy knew not a note—knew not what melody means;
Yet she could sing—in church; and doubtless, doubtless, to-morrow
She will be carolling loud, light'ning her labour with song.
But for to-day, 'twas enough to lean on his breast and be thankful:
Wondering if it were true, if she were really his own:
Till, in the heart of her joy, in the midst of that tender endearment,
She was reminded that Love is but a stranger on earth;
She, so transfigured, refined, to a loftier level of being,
Fell in a moment, alas! down to her kitchen again.
For there were voices and lights, and Missis herself in the doorway,
Over the wide farmyard calling to some one aloud,
‘Where can the wench have gone? She's never come back from the cows yet!
‘Something's amiss, I'll be bound; 'tisn't like Dolly, at all!’
Then they both started, those two, where they stood in the dusk by the hayricks:
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ she cried, ‘Missis is talking o' me!
‘I never thought o' the time—I must run, I haven't a minute—
‘Oh, but to leave you out here, all in the dark, and alone!’—
‘Never you fret about me,’ and he kiss'd her lips as he loosed her;
‘Leave me alone, lass, for that; I shall be here again soon:
‘Run, Dolly, run—’ and she ran, through the gate, through the yard, through the back-door
Into the kitchen; and there, blushing, awaited her doom.
‘Dolly,’ said Missis, ‘I say! what's matter? what makes thee so late, girl?’
But, as the culprit paused, framing some feeble reply,
Came such a fury of knocks, unexpected, ill-timed, at the front door—
Door never open'd at all, save on a company day!
‘Mercy! What's that?’ cried the dame; ‘one 'ud think they was banging the house down.
‘Happen, my Lady is ill—maybe, the Castle's a-fire!
‘Ay, it's bad news, I'll awand!’ and she flew to discover the wonder,
Leaving poor Dolly alone, trembling at such a reprieve.
Mary had run for the door, but her mother achieved it before her;
Crying ‘Who's there?’ till the bolts gave at the voice of a friend.
‘Why, Mr. Robert! Good Lord, is it you, 'at we thought was in Scotland?
‘Fraying a body like this! What, is there anything wrong?’
‘Nay, nothing wrong,’ said the swain, ‘if so be as you take to it kindly—’
‘Kindly be shiver'd! Come in—Master shall welcome you home.’
‘No, not the Master! It's you, only you, as I wanted to speak to,
‘If you can spare me the time, just a few minutes, alone.’
So they went into the room, the prim little calico parlour,
Kept like a raree-show; sacred to holiday times.
There, in the dark (but the moon shone lovingly in through the window)
Robin unburden'd his mind; spake of his Dolly, at last:
Spake with a faltering tongue; for he privily thought that Miss Mary—
Or, 'twas her mother, perhaps—squinted a little on him:
But, as the tale went on, his heart and his masculine courage
Rose with the theme, and he spake fearless and frank, like a man.
‘So,’ at the last he said, ‘if you think you could any ways spare her,
‘We might be wed very soon—leastways, in winter, I mean.
‘Dolly's a woman grown; and me, why I'm close upon thirty,
‘Time to be wed! and, you know, I can afford her a home.’
All through his tale, ill at ease, making brief exclamations of wonder,
Lifting her hands and her eyes, sat the incredulous dame;
Now a believer, at length, in the truth of his misplaced affection;
Now a believer; and yet marvelling how it could be.
‘Well, this is news!’ she exclaim'd, when the story was finally ended;
‘Dolly's in wonderful luck, getting a sweetheart like you!
‘Who would ha' thought it o' you, to be choosing a rough farm-servant,
‘One as is base-born, too! Not as I blame her for that:
‘'Tisn't her fault, poor thing! An' I will say this for our Dolly,
‘She is a rare good lass—hardworking, honest, and true:
‘But, she's a servant, you know: Mr. Robert, you might ha' done better—
‘Better a thousand times—ay, and wi' money, an' all!
‘Well, she's a handsome face, though I reckon its brown, to our Mary's;
‘Ay, and a kind heart too; that I would never deny!
‘Yes, and what is it to me, if you fancy a wench o' the kitchen?
‘Though she's been here from the first—born in our garret, you know—
‘Born? Ay, and been like a child, like our own, to me an' my master;
‘All her life, you may say: scarce like a servant at all!
‘Still, I've no call to say No; how should I? she isn't my daughter:
‘Betsy, her mother, is dead: as for the father, who knows?
‘I know him, though, who he is; he's a gentleman, that you may swear to—
‘Dolly herself shows that, everywhere—even her hands—
‘But, if I catch him again, if I ever set eyes upo’ that man,
‘He shall ha' something fro' me—some little piece o' my mind!
‘Well—for this sweethearting job: deary me, I was almost forgetting—
‘So, you've a mind to be wed soon, when the winter comes on?
‘Spare her, said you? If I know I never shall get such another,
‘What can I do but spare? If you must have her, you must!’—
So it was settled; and he, springing up from his chair, in the moonlight,
Thank'd her with heartfelt words; squeezed her warm hand in his own.
‘Nay, never thank me! She's free, and somebody 'd sure to ha' had her;
‘And, she'll be appy wi' you: you'll make her happy, I know.’

Dolly meanwhile, left alone, was standing forlorn in the kitchen;
Too much excited to work—too overjoy'd to sit down.
Tearful and silent, she stood; leaning back on the old oak dresser;
Folding her hands on her lap, waiting again for her doom.
Enter to her, unannounced, with a smile full of meaning, Miss Mary:
Springs to her side, to her cheek: gives her a sisterly kiss!
That was an honour, of course—young Missis a-kissing the servant:
Dorothy felt it, and blush'd: ‘Thank you, Miss Mary,’ she said—
‘Thank you—I know you mean well; but I'd liefer it hadn't have happen'd.’
‘Happen'd? Why, what?’ cried the girl; ‘how did you know he was here?’
‘Here!’ scream'd poor Dolly, ‘What, now? Mr. Robert has come to the house, then?’
‘Ay, that he has! An' what's more, mother herself let him in!
‘Yes, she has got him alone, their two sweet selves in the parlour;
‘Talking—you know what about: all about sweethearts, an' you.
‘Didn't I tell you he'd come? An' didn't I say he was faithful?
‘Tell me now—wasn't it him kept you so long out o' doors?’
‘Yes, it was him—it was him—I never expected to meet him:
‘Oh, what a trouble it is, being so happy as this!’
‘Trouble, you fainthearted wench? What, a trouble to marry your sweetheart?
‘That's what it's coming to, now; mother is sure to give in;
‘And you deserve him, you do—’ ‘Oh no!’ interrupted our Dolly—
‘Yes, you deserve him, I say—never you tell me you don't!
‘So, you'll be happy at last: and won't we all come to your wedding!
‘Come to your wedding, said I? Nay, you'll be married from here.’
Thus they discoursed; and anon, the door being furtively open'd,
Enter bold Robin himself—smiling, successful, and shy:
Shy, when he saw who was there; and it would have been certainly awkward,
But that Miss Mary advanced—Nature instructed her so—
Gracious, with offer'd hand, and said, ‘Well indeed, Mr. Robert!
‘Why did you keep it so close? You might ha' trusted us all!’
Soothed by her tact—for it show'd she was not disappointed, nor jealous—
Robert shook hands like a friend; thank'd her, and tried to explain:
But she withdrew; for she said, ‘Two's company, isn't it, Dolly?
‘Three isn't wanted just now: so, Mr. Robert, good-night!’
Lightly she left them alone, like a wise and sensible maiden:
So did her mother, awhile: so will we too, if you please!
For there's another thing still, one more little episode wanting,
Ere we can leave them for good,—husband (it may be) and wife.