 | Dorothy |  |
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.
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.
| Dorothy | |