 | Dorothy |  |
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?’
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!
67
‘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?’
| Dorothy | |