 | Dorothy |  |
56
BOOK III.
'Twas on that very same night, in the smoking-room at the Castle,After the ladies had gone, sorely fatigued, to their rest—
For they had suffer'd a ball, poor things, and an archery meeting,
Also a ride in the park, all within twenty-four hours—
'Twas on the very same night; and our great Parliamentary Colonel
Sat with his nephew, alone, over a final cigar.
Even their host had retired; Sir Harry, the pink of politeness,
Left his dear cousins, and left brandy and soda and all;
He, with appropriate words, with courtesies apologetic,
Hoped they'd forgive him, for once: ‘Damnable headache, you know!’
Thus they were seated alone; and the talk was of racing and hunting,
Gossip, and girls, and game—all that Society loves.
Suddenly, Frank broke out—‘I say though, talking of shooting,
‘Do you remember that girl out in the open, at plough?
‘Well, I have seen her again.’ ‘What of that?’ quoth the excellent Colonel;
‘You are too wise, I presume, twice to commit yourself there!’
‘Oh yes! But I was obliged, as luck would have it, to meet her;
‘For she was driving her cows up to the gate where I was.
‘So, I just ask'd how she did; said a few sage words on the weather;
‘Nothing that could do her harm—Virtue, and you, were my guard!
‘True, I was somewhat impress'd by her beautiful eyes, and her features:
‘Brown as she is, there's finesse—yes, there's real beauty, in them.
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‘Eros himself wouldn't dare lay his soft finger on hers!’—
‘Well then—et puis? What's the point of this very remarkable story?’—
‘Ah, you may laugh—but I'm sure something uncommon there is!
‘How should a peasant like her, so coarse and repulsive in some things,
‘Have such a highbred face; gentle, serene, and refined?
‘Uncle, why even your Bill to Regulate Female Employment
‘Doesn't explain such a thing: trust me, it doesn't indeed!’
‘You can explain it, then, eh?’ ‘Why, yes, if you'll only have patience:
‘She is a charity child, born on the farm where she lives;
‘And, although she doesn't know, I'm sure her anonymous father
‘Must have been some one of rank: some one superior, at least.’—
‘What a romance! And where is your hard-handed heroine's dwelling?
‘Where does she slumber at eve, after her feats at the plough?
‘Has she a highsounding name, à propos to her lofty condition?’—
‘Dorothy Crump is her name—that is plebeian enough!
‘White Rose Farm is the house; that pretty old house by the river—
‘Don't you remember the cliff, just at the turn of the road?
‘Dorothy Crump is her name: I ask'd, and she artlessly told me:
‘But, 'tis her mother's, of course; that is no clue to her birth.’—
‘White Rose Farm, did you say?’ said the languid Colonel, arising;
Shaken, it seem'd, for a time out of his evening repose:
‘Well, 'tis a charming name! And the story is just as you put it—
‘Folly has father'd her face: labour accounts for her hands.
‘But, it is late; Cousin Hal is sleeping the sleep of the blessed:
‘Bedtime, my boy!’ And they went each to his bachelor room.
Oddly enough—next day, for the first time since his arrival,
Colonel St. Quentin went out, long before breakfast, alone.
It was a beautiful morn; the first white frost of October
Sharpen'd the autumn air, freshen'd the odours of earth,
Shed upon leafage and lawn its crisp white gossamer garment,
Thin as a bridal veil; sparkling, and snowy, and cold.
Where then, so early a-field, this beautiful maidenly morning,
Sacred to innocent peace, pure as the breast of a bride,
Where did the Colonel go?—Who knows? Perhaps to the stables?
Or to the kennels, beyond? Or, for a stroll, to the Lodge?
Or to the river, perchance? Ah yes! No doubt, to the river;
For 'twas at White Rose Farm somebody saw him go by.
But, he return'd in time to behold, in the private garden,
Roses, late roses, in hand, Lady Sophia herself.
‘Ah!’ cried the gallant M.P., ‘what happiness, Lady Sophia,
‘Thus to surprise you, for once, here in your Eden, alone!’—
‘Nay, Cousin Charles,’ said the Dame, with a stately and courteous Goodmorrow,
‘If I am Eve at her flowers, who, may it please you, are you?’
‘Not, I assure you, a snake! Oh no, I have no such intentions:
‘You have already attain'd all that an Eve could desire.
‘I have no apples to give, and you are omniscient without them:
‘'Tis not for me to aspire—I cannot hope to persuade:
‘No—mais le père de famille, c'est lui, c'est monsieur votre mari--
‘Capable, celui-là, de tout; even of charming his wife!’—
That was a neat little touch; for he knew she was fond of Sir Harry:
Fond of him still—how strange! after a dozen of years:
Some ladies are, I perceive, thus cold and disdainful to others,
Keeping a soft little heart warm for their husbands alone.
Therefore, she brighten'd the more; and answer'd, with elegant fervour,
‘Ah, Cousin Charles, you are still subtle and smooth, as of old!
‘Well for the women at large you are now so devoted to serve them;
‘If you took opposite views, what would become of us all?
‘Tell me—your excellent Bill to Regulate Female Employment,
‘How does it work, mon ami, on the Conservative mind?
‘How are the Liberals pleased with that useful idea of coercion,
‘Telling a woman to do just what men say, and no more?
‘That wouldn't answer, of course, in the higher spheres of employment:
‘We must be absolute there—quite independent of you!
‘But, for the lower, 'tis well; they have too much freedom already;
‘Working, like men almost, out in the open, alone!
‘Would you believe—there are girls, yes, girls, on this very estate here,
‘Getting their living a-field, following horses at plough!
‘Is it not dreadful, to think of such gross, unfeminine conduct?
‘Yet they are actually fond—fond, of such labour as that!
‘They have been told it is wrong; but what is the use of our telling?
‘Nothing can stop it but you—you, and your excellent Bill.
‘Oh—à propos of these girls, my housekeeper tells me this morning
‘We have a little romance here, on the premises, now!
‘You condescend, I know, to the poor and their lowly enjoyments:
‘You too, perhaps, can endure Robin the keeper's romance?
‘Come—as we walk to the house, for I see it is breakfast time, nearly—
‘I will discourse you of love; love at the tail of the plough!
‘Robin, you know—Robin George, Sir Harry's respected head keeper?
‘Such a head keeper, it seems, never was seen upon earth!
‘Even in Scotland, forsooth, my husband must have his assistance,
‘Though you and Frank would arrive days before he could return.
‘Well—Robert George has a house, of course, and an excellent income;
‘Therefore, the women supposed he must be wanting a wife.
‘He, a fine well-to-do man, on the right side of thirty, or near it,
‘Sends a soft flutter of love all through the dovecotes around.
‘Every fair creature whose rank was sufficiently high and exalted,
‘Thought (so they tell me) at length she might become Mrs. George!
‘Farmers' daughters, to wit—upper servants here at the Castle—
‘Tradesfolk in yonder town—schoolmistress there at the Glebe—
‘Ah, 'twas a mere travestie of what happens with us, when a hero,
‘Blest with his ample estate, swoops on the county at large!
‘One sweet nymph, it was thought, our Robert especially favour'd;
‘Mary of White Rose Farm: don't you delight in the name?
‘Most respectable girl—so they tell me, I never have seen her—
‘Money—an only child—really a suitable match!
‘So that the rest, with a sigh and a shudder at Cupid's caprices,
‘Left him alone with his choice, gave him permission to woo.
‘Thus it went on; but to-day—oh, horror of horrors—the news is
‘'Tis not Mary at all; Robin refuses her love!
‘'Tis but a servant of theirs, a bondager bred on the homestead—
‘Some coarse creature, no doubt, following horses at plough.
‘Fancy, how shame and disgust run wild in the hearts of my maidens!
‘Women, you know, Cousin Charles, all are alike about this:
‘How should I feel—yes, and you—if some upstart citizen's daughter
‘Tangled dear Frank in her toils, forced the poor boy to propose?
‘Still, 'tis amusing enough, that grades so trivial in our eyes
‘Seem to the vulgar so large: what does it matter, at all,
‘Whether a keeper like George shall marry a farmer's daughter,
‘Or, a few levels below, stoop to the lowest of all?
‘So, I have taken his part; for the girl, they confess, is goodlooking—
‘And I have views about that, even in cases like hers—
‘I have condoned his offence; so the world must be pleased to be tranquil:
‘Even my housekeeper's tongue soon will begin to applaud!
‘Nay, I have sanction'd the girl: for Robert has orders to bring her
‘Up to the Castle to-day, here to be judged and approved.
‘Ah, by the way—if you like, you may witness that touching dénoûment:
‘Something may int'rest you there; something germane to the Bill!’
Colonel St. Quentin went out, long before breakfast, alone.
It was a beautiful morn; the first white frost of October
Sharpen'd the autumn air, freshen'd the odours of earth,
58
Thin as a bridal veil; sparkling, and snowy, and cold.
Where then, so early a-field, this beautiful maidenly morning,
Sacred to innocent peace, pure as the breast of a bride,
Where did the Colonel go?—Who knows? Perhaps to the stables?
Or to the kennels, beyond? Or, for a stroll, to the Lodge?
Or to the river, perchance? Ah yes! No doubt, to the river;
For 'twas at White Rose Farm somebody saw him go by.
But, he return'd in time to behold, in the private garden,
Roses, late roses, in hand, Lady Sophia herself.
‘Ah!’ cried the gallant M.P., ‘what happiness, Lady Sophia,
‘Thus to surprise you, for once, here in your Eden, alone!’—
‘Nay, Cousin Charles,’ said the Dame, with a stately and courteous Goodmorrow,
‘If I am Eve at her flowers, who, may it please you, are you?’
‘Not, I assure you, a snake! Oh no, I have no such intentions:
‘You have already attain'd all that an Eve could desire.
‘I have no apples to give, and you are omniscient without them:
‘'Tis not for me to aspire—I cannot hope to persuade:
‘No—mais le père de famille, c'est lui, c'est monsieur votre mari--
‘Capable, celui-là, de tout; even of charming his wife!’—
That was a neat little touch; for he knew she was fond of Sir Harry:
Fond of him still—how strange! after a dozen of years:
Some ladies are, I perceive, thus cold and disdainful to others,
Keeping a soft little heart warm for their husbands alone.
Therefore, she brighten'd the more; and answer'd, with elegant fervour,
‘Ah, Cousin Charles, you are still subtle and smooth, as of old!
‘Well for the women at large you are now so devoted to serve them;
‘If you took opposite views, what would become of us all?
‘Tell me—your excellent Bill to Regulate Female Employment,
‘How does it work, mon ami, on the Conservative mind?
‘How are the Liberals pleased with that useful idea of coercion,
‘Telling a woman to do just what men say, and no more?
59
‘We must be absolute there—quite independent of you!
‘But, for the lower, 'tis well; they have too much freedom already;
‘Working, like men almost, out in the open, alone!
‘Would you believe—there are girls, yes, girls, on this very estate here,
‘Getting their living a-field, following horses at plough!
‘Is it not dreadful, to think of such gross, unfeminine conduct?
‘Yet they are actually fond—fond, of such labour as that!
‘They have been told it is wrong; but what is the use of our telling?
‘Nothing can stop it but you—you, and your excellent Bill.
‘Oh—à propos of these girls, my housekeeper tells me this morning
‘We have a little romance here, on the premises, now!
‘You condescend, I know, to the poor and their lowly enjoyments:
‘You too, perhaps, can endure Robin the keeper's romance?
‘Come—as we walk to the house, for I see it is breakfast time, nearly—
‘I will discourse you of love; love at the tail of the plough!
‘Robin, you know—Robin George, Sir Harry's respected head keeper?
‘Such a head keeper, it seems, never was seen upon earth!
‘Even in Scotland, forsooth, my husband must have his assistance,
‘Though you and Frank would arrive days before he could return.
‘Well—Robert George has a house, of course, and an excellent income;
‘Therefore, the women supposed he must be wanting a wife.
‘He, a fine well-to-do man, on the right side of thirty, or near it,
‘Sends a soft flutter of love all through the dovecotes around.
‘Every fair creature whose rank was sufficiently high and exalted,
‘Thought (so they tell me) at length she might become Mrs. George!
‘Farmers' daughters, to wit—upper servants here at the Castle—
‘Tradesfolk in yonder town—schoolmistress there at the Glebe—
‘Ah, 'twas a mere travestie of what happens with us, when a hero,
‘Blest with his ample estate, swoops on the county at large!
‘One sweet nymph, it was thought, our Robert especially favour'd;
‘Mary of White Rose Farm: don't you delight in the name?
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‘Money—an only child—really a suitable match!
‘So that the rest, with a sigh and a shudder at Cupid's caprices,
‘Left him alone with his choice, gave him permission to woo.
‘Thus it went on; but to-day—oh, horror of horrors—the news is
‘'Tis not Mary at all; Robin refuses her love!
‘'Tis but a servant of theirs, a bondager bred on the homestead—
‘Some coarse creature, no doubt, following horses at plough.
‘Fancy, how shame and disgust run wild in the hearts of my maidens!
‘Women, you know, Cousin Charles, all are alike about this:
‘How should I feel—yes, and you—if some upstart citizen's daughter
‘Tangled dear Frank in her toils, forced the poor boy to propose?
‘Still, 'tis amusing enough, that grades so trivial in our eyes
‘Seem to the vulgar so large: what does it matter, at all,
‘Whether a keeper like George shall marry a farmer's daughter,
‘Or, a few levels below, stoop to the lowest of all?
‘So, I have taken his part; for the girl, they confess, is goodlooking—
‘And I have views about that, even in cases like hers—
‘I have condoned his offence; so the world must be pleased to be tranquil:
‘Even my housekeeper's tongue soon will begin to applaud!
‘Nay, I have sanction'd the girl: for Robert has orders to bring her
‘Up to the Castle to-day, here to be judged and approved.
‘Ah, by the way—if you like, you may witness that touching dénoûment:
‘Something may int'rest you there; something germane to the Bill!’
Grave and polite as he was, an attentive listener always,
Int'rested really, it seem'd, e'en in so homely a tale,
Colonel St. Quentin at last had certainly fretted a little;
Just at the end—at the words ‘here to be judged and approved.’
Haply, he thought to himself, ‘Who cares for the loves of a keeper?
‘He and his lubberly wench, why should they trouble us here?’
But, in his features composed, in his train'd and tutor'd expression,
Nothing so rude could appear; everything beam'd, as it ought,
Bicker'd and beam'd with delight—acquiescence disguised in effusion—
‘It was a charming idea; yes, he would certainly come.’—
They were arrived at the house, at the beautiful garden-entrance;
He, with a cousinly grace aptly enforced by a smile,
Handed her Ladyship in, to the wainscoted oak, to the armour;
Just as the gong had begun, handed her into the hall.
Int'rested really, it seem'd, e'en in so homely a tale,
Colonel St. Quentin at last had certainly fretted a little;
Just at the end—at the words ‘here to be judged and approved.’
Haply, he thought to himself, ‘Who cares for the loves of a keeper?
‘He and his lubberly wench, why should they trouble us here?’
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Nothing so rude could appear; everything beam'd, as it ought,
Bicker'd and beam'd with delight—acquiescence disguised in effusion—
‘It was a charming idea; yes, he would certainly come.’—
They were arrived at the house, at the beautiful garden-entrance;
He, with a cousinly grace aptly enforced by a smile,
Handed her Ladyship in, to the wainscoted oak, to the armour;
Just as the gong had begun, handed her into the hall.
Leave we them thus, with the guests, with the late luxurious breakfast:
We to their exquisite joys may not presume to aspire;
We must go down to the farm, to White Rose Farm in the valley,
Whither, on errands of love, Robin already has gone.
He, with a mind confused, with a heart all troubled within him,
Went on his errand of love: gladly he hasted to go;
But, to be sent, to perceive that his sweetheart must come to be stared at—
That was a doubtful thing; what should he think about that?
‘Surely, my Lady means well—she means for to do us an honour—
‘And, for myself, I am glad; glad to have Dorothy seen;
‘So as the gentles may know, let alone them gossiping servants,
‘She is a jewel, and worth—well, say a dozen o' them!
‘But, she won't like it, I know; she's afeard o' the housekeeper, even;
‘What'll she think, to be brought straight to my Lady herself?
‘Ay, and they'll stare at her clothes, at her hands, at her simple behaviour--
‘'Gad, I had liefer by half meet wi' yon poachers, alone!’—
Thus while he walk'd in his mood, lo, Dolly herself stood before him:
She from a hedge close by sprang, with a hoe in her hand;
For she had finish'd her work in the field, and was off to her dinner,
Ready—alas, how depraved! ready for bacon and beer.
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, what, you?’ ‘Why, Dolly, my lassie, my darling!’
Few are the words that precede warm salutations of love:
Kisses—how novel and sweet are the first that follow betrothal!
Press'd upon lips that are now—yes, and for ever, your own.
But, when their rapture was done (for it is but a fleeting enjoyment)
Robin bethought him with pain how he should speak to the maid;
How he should break the bad news, the tale of that terrible order,
Bidding her come, and so soon, up to Sir Harry's with him.
‘Dolly, love, don't be afeard! You and me are to go the Castle,
‘Just for an outing, you know—just for a bit of a spree;
‘And I am glad, for I know there isn't a girl o' the servants—
‘No, nor the ladies as well, fit to be reckon'd wi' you!’—
‘Go to the Castle!’ she cried, ‘What for? Oh no, Mr. Robert—
‘I canna do it, indeed—specially, going wi' you!
‘What would the housekeeper say, and the ladies' maids, and the housemaids?
‘Me to go trolloping there, bringing you trouble and shame!’—
‘Never you mind what they say; and it isn't the housekeeper, neither:
‘Dolly, my Lady herself wants to set eyes upon you!
‘And, when she sees you so fair, in your Sunday frock and your bonnet,
‘If she don't take to you then, I'll never trust her no more!’—
Ah, it was vain, that appeal to the natural weakness of woman:
Dolly's blue eyes were all dim—dim with her troublesome tears.
‘What!’ she exclaim'd—‘what, me, to go and be shown to my Lady!
‘Me!’ and she look'd at her clothes, look'd at her hardworking hands:
‘Oh, I should sink i' the earth! Mr. Robert, you shouldn't have let her—
‘She'd never wish it, I'm sure, if she could see what I am.
‘Oh, get me off, if you can, get me off, for I couldn't abide it!
‘Why, it might lose you your place, having a sweetheart like me!’—
‘Lose me my place?’ said the swain, ‘and because I have you for a sweetheart!
‘Marry come up, no indeed! Nay, I shall make it secure;
‘If she has sense, she must see what a wife you will make for a keeper,
‘Fit for to help him abroad, fit to be happy at home.
‘But, you must come: for she said I must bring you myself to the Castle:
‘Them was her positive words! Dolly, you'll do it for me?’—
We to their exquisite joys may not presume to aspire;
We must go down to the farm, to White Rose Farm in the valley,
Whither, on errands of love, Robin already has gone.
He, with a mind confused, with a heart all troubled within him,
Went on his errand of love: gladly he hasted to go;
But, to be sent, to perceive that his sweetheart must come to be stared at—
That was a doubtful thing; what should he think about that?
‘Surely, my Lady means well—she means for to do us an honour—
‘And, for myself, I am glad; glad to have Dorothy seen;
‘So as the gentles may know, let alone them gossiping servants,
‘She is a jewel, and worth—well, say a dozen o' them!
‘But, she won't like it, I know; she's afeard o' the housekeeper, even;
‘What'll she think, to be brought straight to my Lady herself?
‘Ay, and they'll stare at her clothes, at her hands, at her simple behaviour--
‘'Gad, I had liefer by half meet wi' yon poachers, alone!’—
Thus while he walk'd in his mood, lo, Dolly herself stood before him:
She from a hedge close by sprang, with a hoe in her hand;
For she had finish'd her work in the field, and was off to her dinner,
Ready—alas, how depraved! ready for bacon and beer.
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, what, you?’ ‘Why, Dolly, my lassie, my darling!’
Few are the words that precede warm salutations of love:
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Press'd upon lips that are now—yes, and for ever, your own.
But, when their rapture was done (for it is but a fleeting enjoyment)
Robin bethought him with pain how he should speak to the maid;
How he should break the bad news, the tale of that terrible order,
Bidding her come, and so soon, up to Sir Harry's with him.
‘Dolly, love, don't be afeard! You and me are to go the Castle,
‘Just for an outing, you know—just for a bit of a spree;
‘And I am glad, for I know there isn't a girl o' the servants—
‘No, nor the ladies as well, fit to be reckon'd wi' you!’—
‘Go to the Castle!’ she cried, ‘What for? Oh no, Mr. Robert—
‘I canna do it, indeed—specially, going wi' you!
‘What would the housekeeper say, and the ladies' maids, and the housemaids?
‘Me to go trolloping there, bringing you trouble and shame!’—
‘Never you mind what they say; and it isn't the housekeeper, neither:
‘Dolly, my Lady herself wants to set eyes upon you!
‘And, when she sees you so fair, in your Sunday frock and your bonnet,
‘If she don't take to you then, I'll never trust her no more!’—
Ah, it was vain, that appeal to the natural weakness of woman:
Dolly's blue eyes were all dim—dim with her troublesome tears.
‘What!’ she exclaim'd—‘what, me, to go and be shown to my Lady!
‘Me!’ and she look'd at her clothes, look'd at her hardworking hands:
‘Oh, I should sink i' the earth! Mr. Robert, you shouldn't have let her—
‘She'd never wish it, I'm sure, if she could see what I am.
‘Oh, get me off, if you can, get me off, for I couldn't abide it!
‘Why, it might lose you your place, having a sweetheart like me!’—
‘Lose me my place?’ said the swain, ‘and because I have you for a sweetheart!
‘Marry come up, no indeed! Nay, I shall make it secure;
‘If she has sense, she must see what a wife you will make for a keeper,
‘Fit for to help him abroad, fit to be happy at home.
‘But, you must come: for she said I must bring you myself to the Castle:
‘Them was her positive words! Dolly, you'll do it for me?’—
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What can a woman refuse to the man whom she loves—to her master,
So he be worthy to rule, so he be gentle and kind?
Then, his more equable strength, his masculine width of horizon,
Justify her to herself, yielding her wishes to his;
Specially, if she should feel, as Dorothy felt in her meekness,
Being so young and so low, sadly unworthy of him.
Dolly was strong as a horse—so the girls of the village would tell you—
And she was tall as a man; muscular, massive, and firm
All through her large live limbs; self-reliant in character, also,
Needing no help in her work, asking for nothing—save love.
Yet, being such and so strong, a rough undisciplined servant,
Able to fend for herself, used to act freely alone,
Now that fair Eros was come, and had learn'd her the lore of a lover,
She was as weak as the rest: mild as a minikin maid.
Strange, when her great hard hand lay in his, as light as a lady's!
Strange, when her stalwart frame lean'd on his breast, like a child!
Strange? Not at all! 'Twas the sure, the instinctive teaching of Nature,
Guiding the woman at once straight to the heart of the man.
So, she has yielded at last: but tearfully still, and in terror;
Dreading those gorgeous grandees lying in wait at the Squire's;
Dreading the smart sleek maids, and the gentlefolks, chiefly the ladies;
Dreading supremely, of course, Lady Sophia herself.
Robert will stand by her side? She falters a little, in asking:
She will be near him, at least? Only, a little behind—
Yes, just a little behind; out of sight of the strangers, or nearly;
Close to the doorway; and so ready at once to escape?
‘Oh, but they'll speak to you, lass: they'll ask you a few little questions:’
Speak? What a terrible thought! If she were forced to reply,
Could he not do it instead? He was used to the ways of the gentry:
Couldn't he answer for her, saying—whatever he liked?—
Yes, he has promised it all; has fondly, egregiously promised
All that his Dolly could ask: more than he dared to perform.
So he be worthy to rule, so he be gentle and kind?
Then, his more equable strength, his masculine width of horizon,
Justify her to herself, yielding her wishes to his;
Specially, if she should feel, as Dorothy felt in her meekness,
Being so young and so low, sadly unworthy of him.
Dolly was strong as a horse—so the girls of the village would tell you—
And she was tall as a man; muscular, massive, and firm
All through her large live limbs; self-reliant in character, also,
Needing no help in her work, asking for nothing—save love.
Yet, being such and so strong, a rough undisciplined servant,
Able to fend for herself, used to act freely alone,
Now that fair Eros was come, and had learn'd her the lore of a lover,
She was as weak as the rest: mild as a minikin maid.
Strange, when her great hard hand lay in his, as light as a lady's!
Strange, when her stalwart frame lean'd on his breast, like a child!
Strange? Not at all! 'Twas the sure, the instinctive teaching of Nature,
Guiding the woman at once straight to the heart of the man.
So, she has yielded at last: but tearfully still, and in terror;
Dreading those gorgeous grandees lying in wait at the Squire's;
Dreading the smart sleek maids, and the gentlefolks, chiefly the ladies;
Dreading supremely, of course, Lady Sophia herself.
Robert will stand by her side? She falters a little, in asking:
She will be near him, at least? Only, a little behind—
Yes, just a little behind; out of sight of the strangers, or nearly;
Close to the doorway; and so ready at once to escape?
‘Oh, but they'll speak to you, lass: they'll ask you a few little questions:’
Speak? What a terrible thought! If she were forced to reply,
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Couldn't he answer for her, saying—whatever he liked?—
Yes, he has promised it all; has fondly, egregiously promised
All that his Dolly could ask: more than he dared to perform.
Soon—for they hurried along, each wrapt in thoughts of the other,
And of those mighty events coming so near to them both—
Soon, they arrived at the farm; in time for the noonday dinner.
Little cared Dorothy, now, either for bacon or beer:
But, when her mistress observed (having heard the great news of the summons)
‘If the fond lass won't eat, nothing can come o' the job,’
She, with her heart in her mouth, sat down to the mug and the trencher,
And, with an effort, at length finish'd her morsel of food.
For, they had given her leave; and as for the afternoon milking,
Foddering, feeding the pigs—Mary would see to all that.
Was it not kind? Dolly thought: so like her Missis and Mary!
Happen what might at the Squire's, they would be friends to her still.
So, with a lighter heart, she went up anon to her attic;
Minded to deck herself out all in her very best things.
Partly, for vanity? Well, who would dare to say No, with a woman?
And, of her face and her form, Dolly had cause to be vain:
But, of her treasures, ah no! so rarely, so briefly, she wore them,
New as they look'd, they were old; old both in fashion and age.
Dorothy knew it quite well: even she had an eye for the fashions:
But she had nothing, save these; they were her best, and her all.
Partly for vanity, then, if you will, and partly for duty,
Yet, if I know her at all, chiefly she wore them for love;
Not for the gentles alone, and to show her respect for my Lady—
That was a duty, of course—but, she was going with him:
And, if indeed she were his, indeed acknowledged a sweetheart,
She, with such honours in view, must look as well as she can.
So that ere long she came down, in her brown straw cottager's bonnet,
Graced with a little white cap circling her beautiful face;
Graced too with ribbons—a bow at the side, and strings, and a curtain—
Over her sunburnt neck spreading their virginal blue:
Came in her green plaid shawl, with its soft vague chequer of purple:
Came in her russet-grey frock, modestly made and severe;
Sleeved to the wrists, of course; descending quite to the ankles;
Not, like her everyday wear, kilted half way to the knee:
Came in her best black boots; not heavy with earth and with iron,
Huge, and unfit for the house, such as she commonly wore;
But a diminutive pair—not much too big for the Colonel;
Black'd (she had taken such pains) almost as brightly as his.—
Such was her dress: for her face, it was rosy and fresh as the morning;
Brown—like a cairngorm stone set in the gold of her hair:
Delicate pale soft gold, lying smooth on her sun-smitten temples,
Lighting the dusk of her cheek, rippling away to her ears.
Ornaments? Nay, she had none; save the brooch she had fasten'd her shawl with:
'Twas Mr. Robert's last gift, bought at the Martlemas Fair.
Oh—and her collar and cuffs: but, alas! they were not ornamental;
They were a contrast, a foil, deep'ning the hue of her skin;
Surfaces polish'd and white, with the fine smooth texture of linen,
Close to her sun-tann'd face, close to her rough, ruddy hands!
‘That winna do,’ thought the dame; ‘she looks browner and coarser than ever;
‘Yet she's goodlooking, I swear; ay, she's as bonny as good!’
‘Dolly,’ she utter'd aloud, ‘thou's fettled thysen to a T, lass!
‘But, there is one thing still; hanna thee got any gloves?’
‘Gloves?’ cried poor Dolly, aghast; ‘why, Missis, they baffle my hands so!
‘I never wear 'em, you know; scarce of a Sunday, at church!
‘But there's a pair upstairs, i' my box—I know it is somewheres—
‘Maybe they'll do for to-day; if I can still get 'em on.’
It was that old yellow pair, that were once her anonymous father's;
Left, by some chance, at the farm: sole reminiscence of him.
‘Run for 'em, lass, ay, do! It'll look more respectful to wear 'em;
‘I know the gentlefolks' ways: happen they'd notice thy hands.’
Robert had noticed them too; but herself was the thing that he cared for;
He was enamour'd of that—therefore, of everything else:
And, as she stood there, he thought he never had seen her so charming;
Cleanly and sweet as she was, fit to be Queen of the May.
When she came back with the gloves, and he kiss'd her (by leave of her Missis),
‘Isn't she bonny?’ he cried; ‘isn't she fit for a lord?
‘If there's a man or a maid finds fault with her, up at the Castle,
‘Gentles or not, it's all one—they'll ha' to reckon wi' me!’
Which when the lover had said, with a mind to encourage his sweetheart,
He with a hearty good-day, she with an anxious farewell,
Bade their adieu to the twain, to the Missis and kindly Miss Mary;
Went through the yard, through the croft, up by the path of the hill.
And of those mighty events coming so near to them both—
Soon, they arrived at the farm; in time for the noonday dinner.
Little cared Dorothy, now, either for bacon or beer:
But, when her mistress observed (having heard the great news of the summons)
‘If the fond lass won't eat, nothing can come o' the job,’
She, with her heart in her mouth, sat down to the mug and the trencher,
And, with an effort, at length finish'd her morsel of food.
For, they had given her leave; and as for the afternoon milking,
Foddering, feeding the pigs—Mary would see to all that.
Was it not kind? Dolly thought: so like her Missis and Mary!
Happen what might at the Squire's, they would be friends to her still.
So, with a lighter heart, she went up anon to her attic;
Minded to deck herself out all in her very best things.
Partly, for vanity? Well, who would dare to say No, with a woman?
And, of her face and her form, Dolly had cause to be vain:
But, of her treasures, ah no! so rarely, so briefly, she wore them,
New as they look'd, they were old; old both in fashion and age.
Dorothy knew it quite well: even she had an eye for the fashions:
But she had nothing, save these; they were her best, and her all.
Partly for vanity, then, if you will, and partly for duty,
Yet, if I know her at all, chiefly she wore them for love;
Not for the gentles alone, and to show her respect for my Lady—
That was a duty, of course—but, she was going with him:
And, if indeed she were his, indeed acknowledged a sweetheart,
She, with such honours in view, must look as well as she can.
65
Graced with a little white cap circling her beautiful face;
Graced too with ribbons—a bow at the side, and strings, and a curtain—
Over her sunburnt neck spreading their virginal blue:
Came in her green plaid shawl, with its soft vague chequer of purple:
Came in her russet-grey frock, modestly made and severe;
Sleeved to the wrists, of course; descending quite to the ankles;
Not, like her everyday wear, kilted half way to the knee:
Came in her best black boots; not heavy with earth and with iron,
Huge, and unfit for the house, such as she commonly wore;
But a diminutive pair—not much too big for the Colonel;
Black'd (she had taken such pains) almost as brightly as his.—
Such was her dress: for her face, it was rosy and fresh as the morning;
Brown—like a cairngorm stone set in the gold of her hair:
Delicate pale soft gold, lying smooth on her sun-smitten temples,
Lighting the dusk of her cheek, rippling away to her ears.
Ornaments? Nay, she had none; save the brooch she had fasten'd her shawl with:
'Twas Mr. Robert's last gift, bought at the Martlemas Fair.
Oh—and her collar and cuffs: but, alas! they were not ornamental;
They were a contrast, a foil, deep'ning the hue of her skin;
Surfaces polish'd and white, with the fine smooth texture of linen,
Close to her sun-tann'd face, close to her rough, ruddy hands!
‘That winna do,’ thought the dame; ‘she looks browner and coarser than ever;
‘Yet she's goodlooking, I swear; ay, she's as bonny as good!’
‘Dolly,’ she utter'd aloud, ‘thou's fettled thysen to a T, lass!
‘But, there is one thing still; hanna thee got any gloves?’
‘Gloves?’ cried poor Dolly, aghast; ‘why, Missis, they baffle my hands so!
‘I never wear 'em, you know; scarce of a Sunday, at church!
‘But there's a pair upstairs, i' my box—I know it is somewheres—
‘Maybe they'll do for to-day; if I can still get 'em on.’
It was that old yellow pair, that were once her anonymous father's;
Left, by some chance, at the farm: sole reminiscence of him.
66
‘I know the gentlefolks' ways: happen they'd notice thy hands.’
Robert had noticed them too; but herself was the thing that he cared for;
He was enamour'd of that—therefore, of everything else:
And, as she stood there, he thought he never had seen her so charming;
Cleanly and sweet as she was, fit to be Queen of the May.
When she came back with the gloves, and he kiss'd her (by leave of her Missis),
‘Isn't she bonny?’ he cried; ‘isn't she fit for a lord?
‘If there's a man or a maid finds fault with her, up at the Castle,
‘Gentles or not, it's all one—they'll ha' to reckon wi' me!’
Which when the lover had said, with a mind to encourage his sweetheart,
He with a hearty good-day, she with an anxious farewell,
Bade their adieu to the twain, to the Missis and kindly Miss Mary;
Went through the yard, through the croft, up by the path of the hill.
Mother and daughter, the while, look'd after them out of the doorway;
Silent at first; but ere long, briskly the mother bespake:
‘Well, I could like to be there—I could like to ha' been in among 'em,
‘Just to ha' seen him again; just to make sure it was him.’—
‘Who, mother?’—‘Didn't you see, in the lane, quite early this morning,
‘Somebody staring about, dolloping round by the yard?
‘Looking for Dolly, mayhap! But she wasn't in sight, for a wonder;
‘She was a-milking, you know; 'long o' the cows, i' the byre.
‘Mary, it's twenty good year—twenty-one, come Mothering Sunday—
‘Since he was here at the farm, him and his dandering ways!
‘But, I could tell him at once, though his hair 's got as grey as my master's:
‘Just the same sodgering walk; eyeglass, moustaches, an' all.
‘He'll be some kin at the house; to Sir Harry, or else to my Lady:
‘That's how it is, I'll awand! He's at the Castle, no doubt.’—
‘Eh, what a thing, if it's true!’ cried Mary, lost in amazement;
‘Him at the Castle? Why then, surely he'll see her to-day!
‘What will he do, do you think? Will he know who she is? Will he own her?
‘Well, if he does, only think! Dolly's a lady, at once!’—
‘Own her?’ the Missis replied, ‘own Dolly, and make her a lady?
‘Ay—make a soft silk purse out of a sow's leather ear!
‘Nay, you may trust him, my lass—he'll none let 'em see 'at he owns her—
‘Let me alone, though, for that; I can speak up what I know!’—
‘Nay, mother, don't!’ said the girl; ‘our Dolly knows nothing about it;
‘Nor Mr. Robert, of course; nobody knows, but oursels:
‘It'd do nothing but harm; for my Lady would never believe it;
‘And, if she took it amiss, what 'd become o' them two?’
Thus while they fondly discoursed on the chances of Dorothy's birthright,
Silent at first; but ere long, briskly the mother bespake:
‘Well, I could like to be there—I could like to ha' been in among 'em,
‘Just to ha' seen him again; just to make sure it was him.’—
‘Who, mother?’—‘Didn't you see, in the lane, quite early this morning,
‘Somebody staring about, dolloping round by the yard?
‘Looking for Dolly, mayhap! But she wasn't in sight, for a wonder;
‘She was a-milking, you know; 'long o' the cows, i' the byre.
‘Mary, it's twenty good year—twenty-one, come Mothering Sunday—
‘Since he was here at the farm, him and his dandering ways!
‘But, I could tell him at once, though his hair 's got as grey as my master's:
‘Just the same sodgering walk; eyeglass, moustaches, an' all.
‘He'll be some kin at the house; to Sir Harry, or else to my Lady:
‘That's how it is, I'll awand! He's at the Castle, no doubt.’—
‘Eh, what a thing, if it's true!’ cried Mary, lost in amazement;
‘Him at the Castle? Why then, surely he'll see her to-day!
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‘Well, if he does, only think! Dolly's a lady, at once!’—
‘Own her?’ the Missis replied, ‘own Dolly, and make her a lady?
‘Ay—make a soft silk purse out of a sow's leather ear!
‘Nay, you may trust him, my lass—he'll none let 'em see 'at he owns her—
‘Let me alone, though, for that; I can speak up what I know!’—
‘Nay, mother, don't!’ said the girl; ‘our Dolly knows nothing about it;
‘Nor Mr. Robert, of course; nobody knows, but oursels:
‘It'd do nothing but harm; for my Lady would never believe it;
‘And, if she took it amiss, what 'd become o' them two?’
She and her lover advanced up the steep path of the hill;
Up to the top of the cliff, where the martins build in the springtime;
Up through the hazels beyond; up through the fields, to the park.
There—for already in sight the Castle appear'd in the distance—
There, with a beating heart, Dorothy falter'd and paused:
Wondering how she should look, how behave, in that terrible palace;
Vainly, with fingers untrain'd, striving—to put on her gloves!
They were too small; they were old; they were never intended for her hands:
How could her broad hard palm bend to the flexible kid?
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ said she, ‘it'll do if I carry 'em, won't it?
‘Gloves! They was never, I sure, meant for such creatures as me!
‘I'm not ashamed o' my hands; and if you don't want me to wear 'em—
‘These little pottering things—do let me throw 'em away!’
‘Nay, never throw 'em away; never lose a good thing when you've got it;
‘But, for your hands, Dolly dear, show 'em and welcome, for me!’
So, with the gloves in her grasp, just to prove that she own'd such a treasure,
Dorothy follow'd her swain up to that dreaded abode:
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Where, in their splendid attire, footmen and housemaids appear'd.
Ah, how they stared! Dolly thought; and her cheeks grew as red as a rooster,
Ah, how that bold little maid toss'd up her nose in the air!
But, it was over and done—they were safe in the house, in a moment;
Safe in that solemn domain round Mrs. Jellifer's door.
She, Mrs. Jellifer, sat in her sacred though stuffy apartment,
Thinking of Robert; in doubt how to behave to his bride:
How to be friendly to him, and still show her teeth at his sweetheart:
How to be civil, and yet teach the rude hussy her place.
But, with the knock at her door, with the advent of Robert and Dolly,
All this tremendous intent vanish'd at once into air.
'Twas not the beautiful face; 'twas the curtsey poor Dorothy made her,
Which with its artless respect soften'd the heart of the dame.
Shyly then Robert began: ‘Mrs. Jellifer, this is my sweetheart;
‘Dolly, you know, at the farm; come for my Lady to see!’—
‘Oh yes, I know,’ said the dame: ‘and how do you do, Mr. Robert?
‘Nay, then—shake hands with a friend, wishes you happy, I'm sure!’
But, while she gave him her hand, and he wrung it with masculine vigour,
Dolly came into her mind: must she shake hands too with her?
Nay, that was not in the bond; and the wench wouldn't dare to expect it:
Look you, how sheepish she stands, waiting, aback o' the door!
But it was Robert's resolve, that Dorothy shouldn't be slighted:
So, with the least little wink, least little push from behind,
‘Dolly, love, don't be afeard!’ he said, ‘Mrs. Jellifer's waiting;
‘She's been a friend to us both—she's got a welcome for you.’
Honest entrapper of sneaks, courageous destroyer of vermin,
Macte virtute, my man! Woman 's outwitted, for once!
For, at his artful appeal, the housekeeper redden'd a little,
Saw she must do it, and so might as well do it with grace;
Said, with an affable air, ‘Young woman, I see you are lucky—’
‘Lucky?’ cried Robert, ‘Nay, come! surely, it's me 'at's in luck!’
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‘Which there's a many, my girl, gladly 'ud stand i' your shoes!
‘Not but I wishes you well;’ and she smiled, condescending and gracious;
Smiled, and—incredible feat!—boldly extended her hand.
But, when she felt such a palm as Dorothy timidly offer'd,
Rasping her soft mottled skin e'en with its modest embrace,
Quickly she dropp'd it; and said, with a start (just a little affected),
‘You've got a hardworking place, judged by the feel o' your hand!’
‘Yes, ma'am,’ said Dolly, ‘it is; it's a hardworking place, but a good one;
‘I should be sorry to leave yet, if it wasn't for him!
‘But, Mr. Robert is kind; and Missis'll still be a neighbour;
‘I shall be always at hand, ready to help on the farm.’
‘Fool!’ thought the dame: and perhaps she had lectured the girl on her folly,
But, with a ladylike knock, somebody enter'd the room.—
Ha! 'tis my Lady herself! 'tis Βοωπις ποτνια Ηρη,
Come to observe, to assist, labouring mortals below;
Come to inspect and approve Briseis, captive and servant:
Come to behold for herself sturdy Achilles in love!
Gorgeous in afternoon dress, prepared for a drive in the carriage,
Fresh from the hands of her maid, she, the Immortal, appears:
Clad—but I dare not describe; for, before you have finish'd describing,
Out goes the fashion; and then, 'tis but a vulgar array.
Ah, what a flutter there was, when that glory of velvet and odours,
Mantled and feather'd and furr'd, enter'd the housekeeper's room!
Foolish Briseis, and fond, sought refuge behind her Achilles,
Curtseying once and again, deeper than ever before:
E'en Mrs. Jellifer's dress, that was almost as long as my Lady's,
Show'd, by its faltering folds, something was supple within;
As for bold Robin, he stood, erect yet wholly respectful;
Grave, with a manly regard, lifting a hand to his brow.
But, for the Goddess herself, just come from a luncheon of nectar,
Down to these commonplace folks, purely from motives of love,
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Can we—ah, never, alas!—fully express it in words?
No! we must leave that to you, intelligent exquisite reader,
You, who have fed on the sweets, lain in the lilies, of life;
You, who can quite understand the vast, the incredible distance
Which in a world like ours, orderly, proper, and proud,
Spreads from my Lady on high, the Earl's daughter, the queen of the county,
Down to poor Dolly the maid, following horses at plough!
Distance! Her ladyship's dress—her velvet and furs, and her odours,
Jewels and feathers and lace, cambric, diminutive gloves—
Oh, what a contrast, you say, to Dolly's short frock and straw bonnet,
And to her old plaid shawl, and to her bare rugged hands!
Yes; but the contrast indeed, the antipodean exemplar,
Is not alone in the dress—is in the wearers themselves;
One, a strange marvel of art and civilization and culture,
Wrought till the natural ground hardly again shall appear;
As for the other, she has common-sense and simplicity only;
Nature and Labour alone went to the making of her.
But there is somebody else—there is somebody else in the background;
Not unattended, it seems, Herè descends from above:
Who can this deity be, with the glossy and tutor'd moustaches,
Eyeglass, and soldierly air?—Colonel St. Quentin, by Jove!
Rather surprising, it is, when the great Parliamentary Colonel
Swoops from his Liberal bench down to a housekeeper's room!
So Mrs. Jellifer thought; though she didn't quite put it in that way:
‘As for my Lady,’ she thought, ‘why, it is all very well;
‘But for the Colonel to come prying after a couple o' sweethearts,
‘That is uncommonly odd, very demeaning to him!’
Robert, however, was glad; he had often attended the Colonel,
Often been handsomely tipp'd—ay, and deservedly too;
And, with a natural pride, he thought, ‘He has heard, from the master,
‘And, like a gentleman, comes kindly a-wishing us well.’
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Curtsey'd and trembled and stared, wondering who it might be:
Thinking that one was enough, and two was sadly too many:
‘Gentlefolks coming down here, just to make fun o' poor me!’
Simpleton! Little she knew of βοωπις ποτνια Ηρη,
Little could she understand how the Immortals behave!
They were as foreign to her as they will be, ere long, to her betters;
When o'er the studies of Youth, Science is voted supreme—
When we have done with the past, and its accurate elegant wisdom;
When in all English schools Greek is for ever taboo'd.
Not with the icy disdain that our ignorant Dolly expected,
Not with the haughty contempt dear to a Jellifer's heart,
But with a heavenly smile, inexpressibly sweet and superior,
Helping her low rich voice, thus did the goddess begin:—
‘Robert, I see you are come—and Sir Harry expressly desired it—
‘Here, with the girl of your choice, into a circle of friends!
‘For you have served us so well, you have been such an excellent keeper,
‘We are entitled, you know, thus to be friendly with you.
‘And, for myself, I have wish'd to make the young woman's acquaintance,
‘Knowing how well you deserve all that a woman can give.
‘Yes’—and the light of her charms shone full on the tremulous Dolly—
‘Yes, you are happy, my girl! And I am sure you are good:
‘I have inquired; I find you have long been an excellent servant;
‘So we may justly presume you will do well as a wife.
‘Still, I was hardly prepared—I had not been told of your beauty:
‘Where have you hid it? and why have I not seen you before?’—
Why? Pretty question, indeed! For how should her ladyship notice
Dolly at work on the farm, Dolly a-field with the plough?
Ere they had time to reply, the amiable goddess continued—
‘Is she not handsome, Charles? Has he not chosen with taste?
‘Yes, you are comely, my child; I declare, you are beautiful, really!
‘And you have sense, I perceive—far too much sense to be vain.
‘Tell me your name, and your age?’ And Dorothy curtsey'd, and told it:
‘Ah, 'tis a charming old name; fresh as the scent of the hay!
‘Dorothy, when you come home to your husband's house by the cover,
‘I shall inspect you, and see, some day, how happy you are.’
‘Thank you, my Lady, I'm sure,’ said Robert; ‘that will be an honour!’
Dorothy echoed his words—‘Thank you, my Lady, I'm sure!’
Thinking, however, far more of that vision of home and a husband,
Offer'd so kindly, and now nearer than ever to her.
‘But,’ said my Lady once more, ‘I must not keep you all standing;
‘You, Mrs. Jellifer, know what I should wish to be done;
‘You have already, no doubt, offer'd tea to your guests—or a supper—
‘Not in the servants' hall; here, in your own pretty room.
‘And there is one thing yet: for, Robert, you know at a wedding
‘Brides must have everything new, everything proper and smart:
‘So’—and she turn'd to the maid—‘you must let me make you a present;
‘Something to buy you a dress such as your beauty deserves.’
Then, from a perfumed purse, with gloved and delicate fingers,
Something she drew, with a smile: Dorothy, blushing and brown,
Held out her own poor hand, reluctantly forced to reveal it;
Curtsey'd and humbly replied, ‘Thank you, my Lady,’ again.
But when her ladyship's eyes caught sight of poor Dorothy's fingers,
And when the tips of her gloves touch'd that astonishing hand,
Startled, she lifted her brows, and with wonder and horror and pity
Gazed on the grey hard palm, bright with the polish of toil:
Gazed, and look'd up from the hand to the beautiful face of its owner;
Then from that feminine face back to the labourer's hand:
Seeming about to exclaim, to ask of that terrible contrast:
Checking herself in the act, only for Dorothy's sake—
Dolly, who never observed that fearful, that fatal impression:
Dolly, who, had she been ask'd, would not have minded at all;
Would but have artlessly said, ‘It's work, if you please, ma'am, has done it;
‘Work, that has harden'd my hands; work, that has made 'em so big!’
Not with the haughty contempt dear to a Jellifer's heart,
But with a heavenly smile, inexpressibly sweet and superior,
Helping her low rich voice, thus did the goddess begin:—
‘Robert, I see you are come—and Sir Harry expressly desired it—
‘Here, with the girl of your choice, into a circle of friends!
‘For you have served us so well, you have been such an excellent keeper,
‘We are entitled, you know, thus to be friendly with you.
‘And, for myself, I have wish'd to make the young woman's acquaintance,
‘Knowing how well you deserve all that a woman can give.
‘Yes’—and the light of her charms shone full on the tremulous Dolly—
‘Yes, you are happy, my girl! And I am sure you are good:
‘I have inquired; I find you have long been an excellent servant;
‘So we may justly presume you will do well as a wife.
‘Still, I was hardly prepared—I had not been told of your beauty:
‘Where have you hid it? and why have I not seen you before?’—
Why? Pretty question, indeed! For how should her ladyship notice
Dolly at work on the farm, Dolly a-field with the plough?
Ere they had time to reply, the amiable goddess continued—
‘Is she not handsome, Charles? Has he not chosen with taste?
72
‘And you have sense, I perceive—far too much sense to be vain.
‘Tell me your name, and your age?’ And Dorothy curtsey'd, and told it:
‘Ah, 'tis a charming old name; fresh as the scent of the hay!
‘Dorothy, when you come home to your husband's house by the cover,
‘I shall inspect you, and see, some day, how happy you are.’
‘Thank you, my Lady, I'm sure,’ said Robert; ‘that will be an honour!’
Dorothy echoed his words—‘Thank you, my Lady, I'm sure!’
Thinking, however, far more of that vision of home and a husband,
Offer'd so kindly, and now nearer than ever to her.
‘But,’ said my Lady once more, ‘I must not keep you all standing;
‘You, Mrs. Jellifer, know what I should wish to be done;
‘You have already, no doubt, offer'd tea to your guests—or a supper—
‘Not in the servants' hall; here, in your own pretty room.
‘And there is one thing yet: for, Robert, you know at a wedding
‘Brides must have everything new, everything proper and smart:
‘So’—and she turn'd to the maid—‘you must let me make you a present;
‘Something to buy you a dress such as your beauty deserves.’
Then, from a perfumed purse, with gloved and delicate fingers,
Something she drew, with a smile: Dorothy, blushing and brown,
Held out her own poor hand, reluctantly forced to reveal it;
Curtsey'd and humbly replied, ‘Thank you, my Lady,’ again.
But when her ladyship's eyes caught sight of poor Dorothy's fingers,
And when the tips of her gloves touch'd that astonishing hand,
Startled, she lifted her brows, and with wonder and horror and pity
Gazed on the grey hard palm, bright with the polish of toil:
Gazed, and look'd up from the hand to the beautiful face of its owner;
Then from that feminine face back to the labourer's hand:
Seeming about to exclaim, to ask of that terrible contrast:
Checking herself in the act, only for Dorothy's sake—
Dolly, who never observed that fearful, that fatal impression:
Dolly, who, had she been ask'd, would not have minded at all;
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‘Work, that has harden'd my hands; work, that has made 'em so big!’
Now, with this harrowing scene, this sad revelation, before him,
How did the Colonel behave? What did it please him to do?
He too came forward, and smiled; and said, ‘For the sake of your lover
‘You must allow me, my girl, some little share in your joy!
‘Robert I know and respect; he will make you a very good husband;
‘And I may safely predict you'll be an excellent wife:
‘So, as a friend to you both—one gladly assured of your welfare—
‘I would present you with this, merely to purchase the ring.’
Most of his beautiful words (ah me, in the Parliament Chamber,
How many beautiful words falter unheeded away!)—
Most of his elegant words, in their incomprehensible beauty,
Pass'd over Dorothy's head, left her as wise as before;
But she received what he gave—received it in lowly confusion;
Curtseying; murmuring still, ‘Thank ye, Sir, thank ye, I'm sure!’
Till, for a crown of the whole, a startling thrilling finale,
Just as my Lady had turn'd, waving a gracious farewell,
‘Now,’ said the Colonel, ‘good-bye! Although I am almost a stranger,
‘I must confess that I wish—heartily wish—to shake hands!’
Nay, she was helpless, and cow'd: for the thing was all done in a moment:
Ere she could beg a reprieve, ere she could utter a word,
He, with an exquisite pose, with a graceful, a fatherly congé,
Lifting her hand, had convey'd part of it into his own!
Part of her tell-tale palm in his soft though masculine fingers
Rested a moment; and why—why did it make him afraid?
Why did the warrior turn pale, and, his grasp on a sudden relaxing,
Bid her a hasty adieu, striding away to the door?
Haply, that touch of her hand reveal'd to the affable Colonel
What a tremendous abyss sever'd our Dolly from him:
Rank, education, mind; even make and outward appearance,
All were against her, you see: all, save her beautiful face.
Yet, what of that? What else could one ever expect, in a servant?
Was it not kind, though, of him, taking such interest in her?
Or, was it only his Bill to Regulate Female Employment
Made him attentive to her—just to see what she was like?
How did the Colonel behave? What did it please him to do?
He too came forward, and smiled; and said, ‘For the sake of your lover
‘You must allow me, my girl, some little share in your joy!
‘Robert I know and respect; he will make you a very good husband;
‘And I may safely predict you'll be an excellent wife:
‘So, as a friend to you both—one gladly assured of your welfare—
‘I would present you with this, merely to purchase the ring.’
Most of his beautiful words (ah me, in the Parliament Chamber,
How many beautiful words falter unheeded away!)—
Most of his elegant words, in their incomprehensible beauty,
Pass'd over Dorothy's head, left her as wise as before;
But she received what he gave—received it in lowly confusion;
Curtseying; murmuring still, ‘Thank ye, Sir, thank ye, I'm sure!’
Till, for a crown of the whole, a startling thrilling finale,
Just as my Lady had turn'd, waving a gracious farewell,
‘Now,’ said the Colonel, ‘good-bye! Although I am almost a stranger,
‘I must confess that I wish—heartily wish—to shake hands!’
Nay, she was helpless, and cow'd: for the thing was all done in a moment:
Ere she could beg a reprieve, ere she could utter a word,
He, with an exquisite pose, with a graceful, a fatherly congé,
Lifting her hand, had convey'd part of it into his own!
Part of her tell-tale palm in his soft though masculine fingers
Rested a moment; and why—why did it make him afraid?
Why did the warrior turn pale, and, his grasp on a sudden relaxing,
Bid her a hasty adieu, striding away to the door?
Haply, that touch of her hand reveal'd to the affable Colonel
What a tremendous abyss sever'd our Dolly from him:
74
All were against her, you see: all, save her beautiful face.
Yet, what of that? What else could one ever expect, in a servant?
Was it not kind, though, of him, taking such interest in her?
Or, was it only his Bill to Regulate Female Employment
Made him attentive to her—just to see what she was like?
Well, they are gone then, at last; my Lady, and also the Colonel:
After such efforts as theirs, sure they are glad to depart:
Ah, what a sense of relief! for them, to escape from the vulgar;
And for the vulgar, alas! just to be left to themselves.
Good Mrs. Jellifer's tongue was tied by her lofty position;
Robert's by duty and pride; Dolly was modestly mute;
But in their hearts all three were saying ‘Thank goodness, it's over;
‘Quality's done with us now: now we can talk at our ease!’
First, in her ample armchair the housekeeper flung herself, sighing
‘Now, Mr. Robert, sit down; see, there's another armchair.
‘Dolly, you've come like a wife—we must reckon you one of ourselves, lass;
‘And you've been standing so long: nay, you must really sit down!’
So, in that presence august—an earnest of matronly glories—
Even our Dolly, although shy and unwilling, sat down;
And, round the fire, at peace, they talk'd of the Past and the Future,
How the great folks had behaved: when should the wedding-day be.
‘Dolly,’ said Robert at length, ‘how much did the gentlefolks give thee?
‘Thou's getting rich, I'll awand—two wedding presents at once!’
‘Nay,’ said poor Dolly, ‘I sure they was nothing but pieces o' paper;
‘One's i' my pocket, and one here—stuck inside o' my hand.’
‘Paper, you innocent thing!’ cried Robert, ‘why, this is a bank-note!
‘This is a Five-Pound Note; ay, and yon t'other's a Ten!
‘Which did her ladyship give? And which one come fro' the Colonel?’
‘This be the Colonel's,’ she said: ‘this, with a scribble o' Ten.
‘How could I know what they was? I never ha' seen nothing like 'em:
‘Never, i' my born days, seed such a paper as yon!’—
Robert beheld her and smiled: her ignorance never displeased him;
But Mrs. Jellifer's laugh burst like a shell in the air.
Eh, what a story was this, when time and occasion should offer!
Eh, what a choice of a wife Robert, poor Robert, had made!
Still (for she knew very well that my Lady exacted obedience)
She, for the sake of the swain, suffer'd our Dolly to stay;
Nay, condescended at length to be grimly and grandly benignant:
Asking of this and of that: hoping she wasn't afeard.
So that the stillroom-maid, coming up to Pugs' Parlour for orders,
Bore to her fellows downstairs news of a mighty event:
How that Deceitful Old Thing has company out o' the common—
Not the head keeper, of course; he was a natural guest—
But the low wench from the farm, as they say he is going to marry:
She is up there, if you please! sits, where her betters must stand!
Ay, and she's going to have tea—tea and toast, and the company teapot—
Just like a real lady's-maid, 'long of Old Jelly herself.
Ay, and I listen'd, and heard—I, Emma, the maid of the stillroom—
Heard 'em go on about gifts, what has been give to the girl:
Money, and dresses, and that: and how wonderful good o' the Colonel,
Giving as much as he did; more nor my Lady herself!—
Bah! If the homely affairs, the hard honest toil, of a kitchen
Bear to be treated in song (yes, and, believe me, they do;
Being a part of our life, of the drama of human existence,
Neither unfitted to breed womanly natures and pure)
Yet in their baser forms—and all things droop into baseness,
Idly forsaking the work Nature has set them to do—
They have a look so depraved, so deeply and darkly disgusting,
Even the tolerant Muse shudders, and passes them by.
Not that these vices are worse than the scandal and spite of the parlour:
Nay, when exhibited thus, wholly repulsively bare,
They to intelligent eyes represent but the sins of our own class,
Seen as they are indeed, stript of each graceful disguise.
After such efforts as theirs, sure they are glad to depart:
Ah, what a sense of relief! for them, to escape from the vulgar;
And for the vulgar, alas! just to be left to themselves.
Good Mrs. Jellifer's tongue was tied by her lofty position;
Robert's by duty and pride; Dolly was modestly mute;
But in their hearts all three were saying ‘Thank goodness, it's over;
‘Quality's done with us now: now we can talk at our ease!’
First, in her ample armchair the housekeeper flung herself, sighing
‘Now, Mr. Robert, sit down; see, there's another armchair.
‘Dolly, you've come like a wife—we must reckon you one of ourselves, lass;
‘And you've been standing so long: nay, you must really sit down!’
So, in that presence august—an earnest of matronly glories—
Even our Dolly, although shy and unwilling, sat down;
And, round the fire, at peace, they talk'd of the Past and the Future,
How the great folks had behaved: when should the wedding-day be.
‘Dolly,’ said Robert at length, ‘how much did the gentlefolks give thee?
‘Thou's getting rich, I'll awand—two wedding presents at once!’
‘Nay,’ said poor Dolly, ‘I sure they was nothing but pieces o' paper;
‘One's i' my pocket, and one here—stuck inside o' my hand.’
‘Paper, you innocent thing!’ cried Robert, ‘why, this is a bank-note!
‘This is a Five-Pound Note; ay, and yon t'other's a Ten!
‘Which did her ladyship give? And which one come fro' the Colonel?’
‘This be the Colonel's,’ she said: ‘this, with a scribble o' Ten.
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‘Never, i' my born days, seed such a paper as yon!’—
Robert beheld her and smiled: her ignorance never displeased him;
But Mrs. Jellifer's laugh burst like a shell in the air.
Eh, what a story was this, when time and occasion should offer!
Eh, what a choice of a wife Robert, poor Robert, had made!
Still (for she knew very well that my Lady exacted obedience)
She, for the sake of the swain, suffer'd our Dolly to stay;
Nay, condescended at length to be grimly and grandly benignant:
Asking of this and of that: hoping she wasn't afeard.
So that the stillroom-maid, coming up to Pugs' Parlour for orders,
Bore to her fellows downstairs news of a mighty event:
How that Deceitful Old Thing has company out o' the common—
Not the head keeper, of course; he was a natural guest—
But the low wench from the farm, as they say he is going to marry:
She is up there, if you please! sits, where her betters must stand!
Ay, and she's going to have tea—tea and toast, and the company teapot—
Just like a real lady's-maid, 'long of Old Jelly herself.
Ay, and I listen'd, and heard—I, Emma, the maid of the stillroom—
Heard 'em go on about gifts, what has been give to the girl:
Money, and dresses, and that: and how wonderful good o' the Colonel,
Giving as much as he did; more nor my Lady herself!—
Bah! If the homely affairs, the hard honest toil, of a kitchen
Bear to be treated in song (yes, and, believe me, they do;
Being a part of our life, of the drama of human existence,
Neither unfitted to breed womanly natures and pure)
Yet in their baser forms—and all things droop into baseness,
Idly forsaking the work Nature has set them to do—
They have a look so depraved, so deeply and darkly disgusting,
Even the tolerant Muse shudders, and passes them by.
76
Nay, when exhibited thus, wholly repulsively bare,
They to intelligent eyes represent but the sins of our own class,
Seen as they are indeed, stript of each graceful disguise.
Leave we them, then: for at least they have nothing to do with our Dolly;
She, though the lowest of all, envied not others who climb:
She, too obscure to be base, too simple of heart to be vulgar,
Rested content with her lot; finding her happiness there:
Finding all happiness there, as they two walk'd home in the moonlight,
Robert and Dolly, alone under the favouring skies;
Rapt in that silent hour of intense ineffable union
Granted, just once in a life, if they deserve it, to all.
For, in the hush of the night, in the stillness of woodland and valley,
Robert and Dorothy heard voices as clear as their own:
Voices, too rare for the ear, but quick as its life to the spirit,
Telling of infinite hope, uttermost love and desire;
Promising joys that would come when the sweet church bells should have ended—
Joys in a work-a-day world never, ah, never fulfill'd.
She, though the lowest of all, envied not others who climb:
She, too obscure to be base, too simple of heart to be vulgar,
Rested content with her lot; finding her happiness there:
Finding all happiness there, as they two walk'd home in the moonlight,
Robert and Dolly, alone under the favouring skies;
Rapt in that silent hour of intense ineffable union
Granted, just once in a life, if they deserve it, to all.
For, in the hush of the night, in the stillness of woodland and valley,
Robert and Dorothy heard voices as clear as their own:
Voices, too rare for the ear, but quick as its life to the spirit,
Telling of infinite hope, uttermost love and desire;
Promising joys that would come when the sweet church bells should have ended—
Joys in a work-a-day world never, ah, never fulfill'd.
The name given by kitchenmaids and suchlike creatures to a housekeeper's or lady's-maid's room, wherein they may not adventure to appear.
Yet, there was joy sincere, there was genuine hearty emotion,
Then, when the sweet church bells rang for our Dorothy's day:
When she came back from the church, with Miss Mary herself for her bridesmaid,
Back to dear White Rose Farm, back to the hearts of her friends;
When, at the last, she went on her husband's arm, in the evening,
Up to her own new home under the skirts of the wood:
Up to the keeper's house, that lonely and lovable cottage
Set in a pure green thwaite close to the sheltering trees;
Listening at even and morn to the musical sigh of the pinewoods;
Gazing o'er garden and garth down to the light of the stream.
Yes, there was joy—and surprise: for, lo! at the wedding dinner,
Set by the sugar'd cake Missis had bought for her Maid,
Lay such a letter—a real large envelope, brought by the postman:
Written ‘at White Rose Farm;’ written ‘to Dorothy George.’
Dorothy George? Who is that? ‘Why, Dolly, lass, has thou forgotten
‘All 'at has happen'd to-day, all 'at we've promised in church?
‘Didn't I promise to love and honour and worship thee always?
‘Didn't thou take me for thine—all of me, even my name?’—
Dorothy blush'd at the thought: at last then, this day of her wedding,
She had an honest name; ay, and a name that was his!
His name, come to be hers: her own, to last her a lifetime:
Telling inquisitive folks whom she belong'd to, and how.
Ah, what a wonderful thing—what an honour, she thought, what a blessing!
Why, did you ever, she thought, see such a thing as this here—
Me, sitting up so smart, with him, at the top o' the table;
Me, 'at was servant till now, standing, and waiting on all.
But, for her letter, she said, ‘I canna tell what to do with it:
‘It's the uncommonest job ever I had i' my life!’
‘Open it, lass!’ they cried; and with awkward innocent fingers
She for the very first time open'd a letter, and read—
Rather, attempted to read: for the lawyer's jargon within it
Bore, to her unwarp'd mind, hardly a meaning at all;
So that she handed it soon to the lord of her heart, to her bridegroom,
Whispering, ‘You'll maybe read; I canna skill it, indeed!’—
Then, when the sweet church bells rang for our Dorothy's day:
When she came back from the church, with Miss Mary herself for her bridesmaid,
Back to dear White Rose Farm, back to the hearts of her friends;
When, at the last, she went on her husband's arm, in the evening,
Up to her own new home under the skirts of the wood:
Up to the keeper's house, that lonely and lovable cottage
Set in a pure green thwaite close to the sheltering trees;
77
Gazing o'er garden and garth down to the light of the stream.
Yes, there was joy—and surprise: for, lo! at the wedding dinner,
Set by the sugar'd cake Missis had bought for her Maid,
Lay such a letter—a real large envelope, brought by the postman:
Written ‘at White Rose Farm;’ written ‘to Dorothy George.’
Dorothy George? Who is that? ‘Why, Dolly, lass, has thou forgotten
‘All 'at has happen'd to-day, all 'at we've promised in church?
‘Didn't I promise to love and honour and worship thee always?
‘Didn't thou take me for thine—all of me, even my name?’—
Dorothy blush'd at the thought: at last then, this day of her wedding,
She had an honest name; ay, and a name that was his!
His name, come to be hers: her own, to last her a lifetime:
Telling inquisitive folks whom she belong'd to, and how.
Ah, what a wonderful thing—what an honour, she thought, what a blessing!
Why, did you ever, she thought, see such a thing as this here—
Me, sitting up so smart, with him, at the top o' the table;
Me, 'at was servant till now, standing, and waiting on all.
But, for her letter, she said, ‘I canna tell what to do with it:
‘It's the uncommonest job ever I had i' my life!’
‘Open it, lass!’ they cried; and with awkward innocent fingers
She for the very first time open'd a letter, and read—
Rather, attempted to read: for the lawyer's jargon within it
Bore, to her unwarp'd mind, hardly a meaning at all;
So that she handed it soon to the lord of her heart, to her bridegroom,
Whispering, ‘You'll maybe read; I canna skill it, indeed!’—
‘Colonel St. Quentin’ it said (for we render it now into English)—
‘Colonel St Quentin has heard much about Dorothy George;
‘How she has lived all her life in one respectable service:
‘How she is known as a girl quiet, hardworking, and good.
‘And he has seen for himself that this character does not belie her:
‘Modest, he sees her to be; capable, comely, and kind.
‘Also, he knows Robert George for an able and excellent keeper;
‘One who’—but here Mr. George skipp'd a few words as he read—
‘One who richly deserves, being an honest man and a true one,
‘Thus to obtain his desire; thus to be blest in a wife.
‘Therefore, to mark his sense of this happy and suitable marriage,
‘Colonel St. Quentin himself wishes to portion the bride:
‘Giving her money to spend, and something to bring to her husband;
‘So that she shall not arrive quite like a penniless maid.
‘And he has placed in the Funds, in her husband's name—for he trusts him—’
‘Ay, he may well!’ cried George; ‘sure, every penny's her own—
‘But, what is this, that he says? My goodness, why, it's a fortune!
‘Neighbours, you mustn't suppose I've had a hand in all this—
‘But he's a gentleman born, is the Colonel, if ever there was one!
‘Well, it's Five Hundred Pounds—all for my Dolly and me!’—
Fancy the joy and surprise, the wonder, and also the envy,
Roused by such tidings as these, fresh from the Colonel himself!
Fancy the change that was wrought, instanter, in Dorothy's favour—
She, unimpeachably now proved a most suitable match!
Nay, it was Robert, it seem'd, not Dolly, who ought to be envied:
Robert, obtaining with her all that a marriage should give.
Fancy, the folk, how they stared! From the Master and Missis and Mary
Down to old Carter John, down to that Billy the boy;
Down to that pert little Poll; who declared, to have luck like our Dolly's,
She were content to have hands almost as dreadful as hers.
Fancy poor Dolly herself, her turmoil of pride and confusion,
Hearing such praise of herself utter'd in presence of all;
Thinking, while those fine words were read by the lips of her darling,
‘Why has the Colonel wrote? What should he know about me?’
As for the money, it seem'd an enormous incredible marvel:
Only she thought with herself, ‘Maybe, it's better for him;
‘When I get old, too old to work and do for my husband,
‘Pr'aps it'll serve for us both; yes, it'll keep us, and more!’
‘Colonel St Quentin has heard much about Dorothy George;
‘How she has lived all her life in one respectable service:
‘How she is known as a girl quiet, hardworking, and good.
78
‘Modest, he sees her to be; capable, comely, and kind.
‘Also, he knows Robert George for an able and excellent keeper;
‘One who’—but here Mr. George skipp'd a few words as he read—
‘One who richly deserves, being an honest man and a true one,
‘Thus to obtain his desire; thus to be blest in a wife.
‘Therefore, to mark his sense of this happy and suitable marriage,
‘Colonel St. Quentin himself wishes to portion the bride:
‘Giving her money to spend, and something to bring to her husband;
‘So that she shall not arrive quite like a penniless maid.
‘And he has placed in the Funds, in her husband's name—for he trusts him—’
‘Ay, he may well!’ cried George; ‘sure, every penny's her own—
‘But, what is this, that he says? My goodness, why, it's a fortune!
‘Neighbours, you mustn't suppose I've had a hand in all this—
‘But he's a gentleman born, is the Colonel, if ever there was one!
‘Well, it's Five Hundred Pounds—all for my Dolly and me!’—
Fancy the joy and surprise, the wonder, and also the envy,
Roused by such tidings as these, fresh from the Colonel himself!
Fancy the change that was wrought, instanter, in Dorothy's favour—
She, unimpeachably now proved a most suitable match!
Nay, it was Robert, it seem'd, not Dolly, who ought to be envied:
Robert, obtaining with her all that a marriage should give.
Fancy, the folk, how they stared! From the Master and Missis and Mary
Down to old Carter John, down to that Billy the boy;
Down to that pert little Poll; who declared, to have luck like our Dolly's,
She were content to have hands almost as dreadful as hers.
Fancy poor Dolly herself, her turmoil of pride and confusion,
Hearing such praise of herself utter'd in presence of all;
Thinking, while those fine words were read by the lips of her darling,
‘Why has the Colonel wrote? What should he know about me?’
As for the money, it seem'd an enormous incredible marvel:
Only she thought with herself, ‘Maybe, it's better for him;
79
‘Pr'aps it'll serve for us both; yes, it'll keep us, and more!’
But, when the guests were gone, when even the bride had departed—
For she had stay'd to the end; habit, affection, and choice
Making her eager to work; and, as if she were still of the household,
Wrought as a servant still; clearing the tables away,
Bustling at this and at that, with her sleeves tuck'd up to her elbows;
Teaching the new-found maid how to inherit her place:
And, when all this was done, she, Dorothy, tearful and tender,
Clung to her mistress still, clung to the house that she loved;
Thanking them oft and again for the wedding bonnet, the dinner;
Grateful, but wholly untaught how to express it in words:
Saying, she hoped they would still let her help in the washing and cleaning;
Hoped they would send for her still, still let her work on the farm:
And at the last, with a kiss—yes, a kiss—from Missis and Mary,
And from her Master, a warm grasp of his fatherly hand;
She, with a smile and a blush, clinging fast to the arm of her Robert,
Went to her own new home, up by the skirts of the wood;
Where, among sheltering trees, soft breezes blow of an evening;
Where, over garden and garth, shimmers the light of the stream.
Then, when the guests were gone, and Robert and Dolly departed,
For she had stay'd to the end; habit, affection, and choice
Making her eager to work; and, as if she were still of the household,
Wrought as a servant still; clearing the tables away,
Bustling at this and at that, with her sleeves tuck'd up to her elbows;
Teaching the new-found maid how to inherit her place:
And, when all this was done, she, Dorothy, tearful and tender,
Clung to her mistress still, clung to the house that she loved;
Thanking them oft and again for the wedding bonnet, the dinner;
Grateful, but wholly untaught how to express it in words:
Saying, she hoped they would still let her help in the washing and cleaning;
Hoped they would send for her still, still let her work on the farm:
And at the last, with a kiss—yes, a kiss—from Missis and Mary,
And from her Master, a warm grasp of his fatherly hand;
She, with a smile and a blush, clinging fast to the arm of her Robert,
Went to her own new home, up by the skirts of the wood;
Where, among sheltering trees, soft breezes blow of an evening;
Where, over garden and garth, shimmers the light of the stream.
And in the kitchen remain'd Missis and Mary alone;
Then, with triumphant air, did the good wife say to her daughter,
‘Didn't I tell it thee, lass? Didn't I say it was him?
‘Dost not remember them gloves our Dorothy left at the Squire's,
‘What Mrs. Jellifer brought home in her pocket, to-day?
80
‘They was her father's gloves; all 'at was left her of him.
‘Ay, for I kept 'em for her; never thinking, nor never expecting,
‘He would turn up like this: him, and his Griffin, an' all!
‘He had a Griffin, you know, on the seal what he put to his letters:
‘Well—when I look'd i' them gloves, there was the Griffin, inside!
‘Nay, there it was, sure enough; I could tell it, as easy as ever:
‘And there was writing as well; C., and a bonny St. Q.!
‘What does that stand for, eh? Why, of course it stands for the Colonel:
‘Didn't they call him Charles? Isn't St. Quentin his name?
‘Look—for I've gotten 'em here; I kept 'em, to show to the master:
‘This 'll persuade him, I lay; this 'll speak out if it's true!
‘Well—as our parson says, its wonderful, even in this world,
‘How many things comes out, folks 'd be glad to keep in:
‘Think of a man such as him, a Parliament man and a Colonel,
‘Having a daughter like her, bred to the work of a farm!
‘Lass, it's a senseless thing, and clean contrary to Natur:
‘Ay, an' he's rued it, an' all; you may be certain o' that.
‘Still, he's behaved this day like a gentleman born, has the Colonel:
‘Giving such money as yon: making her happy for life.
‘Money? What more could he do, for a wench 'at is only a servant?
‘Married above her, indeed! What's a head-keeper to him?
‘No! An' I'll never no more have the heart to say nothing again him;
‘Never! I reckon he's done all such a father could do.
‘And I ha' settled in mind, an' thou must promise me, Mary,
‘Never to tell o' this tale; not to let Dorothy know.
‘Why, she was fit to burst out, if ever one spoke of her father;
‘Maybe, she'd think it a sin, touching his money at all.
‘Telling 'ud do her no good: a father she couldn't get on with;
‘Him and his gentlefolks' ways, what are they good for, to her?
‘Ay, and our Robert as well, he wouldn't be glad of it, neither:
‘Keeper, and him with a wife known to be kin to the Squire!
81
‘Dolly was daughter, almost—more nor a servant—to me;
‘Almost a sister to thee: and one thing I'll tell thee, Miss Mary;
‘We shall be lucky indeed, finding her equal again!’
| Dorothy | |