 | Dorothy |  |
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.
75
‘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.
| Dorothy | |