 | Dorothy |  |
34
BOOK II.
Now was the autumn come, and ploughers went forth to their ploughing;
After the harvest was done, after the stubble was glean'd;
Ploughing the cornlands in, and turning up some of the fallows;
Getting all ready to sow crops for the incoming year.
Oh, how delightful to see the exquisite sweep of the furrows
Climbing in regular lines over the side of the hill!
Stretching in beautiful curves, as it seems at a distance, but really
Straight as the strings of a harp; ranged in great octaves, like them.
For you shall see, in the sun, all purple and steely and shining,
Ranges of long bright lines, all of them strictly alike;
But, at the end of each range, at equal intervals always,
Comes a great deep bass line, carved like a trench—as it is.
Masterly art, in its way, and noble, the art of the ploughman!
Well might our Dorothy feel proud of its ‘glory and joy!’
For she was ploughing too; in the cool sweet air of October
She too was out with the morn, scoring the slopes of the hill.
Under a hedge by the wood stood her plough, with its yoketree of scarlet—
Symbol of all good work—waiting till Dolly should come;
Till she had harness'd the team, and with Billy the boy to attend her,
Rode on the foremost horse, fresh for her labour of love.
For 'twas a labour of love, whereby she was earning her living:
What can be better than that, either for woman or man?
Always to feel that your work is a thing that you know and are fit for,
Always to love it, and feel ‘Yes, I am doing it well’!
That was what Dorothy felt, though she couldn't have told you her feelings,
While she strode over the field after her horses, at plough;
Driving her furrows so straight, and trenching them round at the hedgerows,
Guiding the stilts with a grasp skilful and strong as a man's.
After the harvest was done, after the stubble was glean'd;
Ploughing the cornlands in, and turning up some of the fallows;
Getting all ready to sow crops for the incoming year.
Oh, how delightful to see the exquisite sweep of the furrows
Climbing in regular lines over the side of the hill!
Stretching in beautiful curves, as it seems at a distance, but really
Straight as the strings of a harp; ranged in great octaves, like them.
For you shall see, in the sun, all purple and steely and shining,
Ranges of long bright lines, all of them strictly alike;
But, at the end of each range, at equal intervals always,
Comes a great deep bass line, carved like a trench—as it is.
Masterly art, in its way, and noble, the art of the ploughman!
Well might our Dorothy feel proud of its ‘glory and joy!’
For she was ploughing too; in the cool sweet air of October
She too was out with the morn, scoring the slopes of the hill.
Under a hedge by the wood stood her plough, with its yoketree of scarlet—
Symbol of all good work—waiting till Dolly should come;
Till she had harness'd the team, and with Billy the boy to attend her,
Rode on the foremost horse, fresh for her labour of love.
For 'twas a labour of love, whereby she was earning her living:
What can be better than that, either for woman or man?
Always to feel that your work is a thing that you know and are fit for,
Always to love it, and feel ‘Yes, I am doing it well’!
That was what Dorothy felt, though she couldn't have told you her feelings,
While she strode over the field after her horses, at plough;
35
Guiding the stilts with a grasp skilful and strong as a man's.
Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet cool air of October,
High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts of the wood,
Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not sooner describe it?)
Just such a dress as they all—all the farm-servants around:
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and a fitness—
Colour and pattern and shape suited so aptly to her.
First, on her well-set head a lilac hood-bonnet of cotton,
Framing her amberbright hair, shading her neck from the sun;
Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red kerchief of woollen,
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her berry-brown skin;
Then came a blue cotton frock—dark blue, and spotted with yellow—
Sleeved to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny arms bare;
So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim dull blue for a background,
Seem'd not so rough as they were—softer in colour and grain.
All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted,
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg:
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various colour
Striped on a blue-grey ground: sober, and modest, and warm;
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings;
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear:
Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature:
Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels.
After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows,
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours!
'Twas in the quiet of noon; and Dolly, thus clad, thus attended,
High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts of the wood,
Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not sooner describe it?)
Just such a dress as they all—all the farm-servants around:
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and a fitness—
Colour and pattern and shape suited so aptly to her.
First, on her well-set head a lilac hood-bonnet of cotton,
Framing her amberbright hair, shading her neck from the sun;
Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red kerchief of woollen,
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her berry-brown skin;
Then came a blue cotton frock—dark blue, and spotted with yellow—
Sleeved to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny arms bare;
So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim dull blue for a background,
Seem'd not so rough as they were—softer in colour and grain.
All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted,
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg:
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various colour
Striped on a blue-grey ground: sober, and modest, and warm;
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings;
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear:
Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature:
Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels.
After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows,
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours!
Sat on a green hedge-bank, taking her rest for awhile:
36
Bacon and bread and cold tea—under the shade of the hedge;
Under the shade of her team, for the tall plough-horses above her
Also were taking their ease, patiently waiting for her:
When, from the midst of the copse, from the heart of the mellowing woodlands,
Firing of guns was heard, whirring of terrified birds.
‘Gentlefolks!’ Dolly exclaim'd, and sprang up at once to her labour;
‘Billy, lad, straighten the team—maybe they're coming this way!’
And, with a crack of her whip, with a loud ‘Gee up!’ and a ‘Woa, horse!’
Off they all started—and she lifting and swaying behind.
Scarce had the great plough achieved one furrow and half of another,
When from the edge of the wood two polish'd strangers appear'd;
Each with his gun, and equipp'd with shooting-coat, leggings, and all that:
Gentlemen both, as it seem'd: guests at the Castle, no doubt.
One was an iron-grey man of forty, or even of fifty;
Statue-like, soldierly, calm; but the quick light in his eyes
Spake of a passionate past: the other was twenty years younger;
Still but a stripling, and fair; fair, with a lovely moustache.
‘Ah,’ cried the elder, ‘I see! This is Breakheart Field, with a vengeance!’
‘Yes, I remember it well; and there's a footpath, I know,
‘Somewhere about, by a farm, to the Ings—the waterside meadows;
‘There we can meet them, you know; that's where the luncheon's to be.’—
‘'Gad, though, look there!’ cried the youth;—‘a woman, by George!—and she's ploughing—
‘What, do they train them, out here—women—to follow the plough?
‘Uncle, we'll ask her the way—she's a social phenomenon, surely;
‘Which you can quote with effect, next time you bring in your Bill!
‘P'r'aps she has heard of your Bill to Regulate Female Employment—
‘“Women and children,” you know—won't she adore you for that!
‘Yet, if you look at her now, you'll admit she's a capital ploughman:
‘See how she helps it along—see how she handles her team!’
37
Thus while they talk'd, standing there, poor Dolly was ever approaching,
She, with her horses in front headed by Billy the boy:
Ah, she had only escaped from the frying-pan into the fire—
Here were the quality folks, standing and staring at her!
What could she do? She was trapp'd—she could but go nearer and nearer,
Red though her face might be; redder than ever, just now:
Ay, and whatever its faults, her hands were too busy to hide them:
Well, she must let things alone; they'd never notice her face!
Swiftly she came to her doom—and the younger stranger address'd her
(‘Jove! she's a beauty,’ he thought, ‘Fancy a beauty at plough!’)
‘So you are ploughing, my lass? Warm work, in such weather as this is!’
‘Woa, horse!’ Dolly replied, pulling her best at the rein,
‘Woa!’ And the plough stood still; and she, as she stood in the furrow,
Dropp'd him a curtsey, and said, ‘Yes, Sir, it is very warm.’
‘Can you,’ the elder began, with a lofty though courteous demeanour—
‘Can you just tell us, my girl, which is the way to the Ings?’
‘Yes, Sir;’ and lifting her arm, she pointed down into the valley—
‘Yes, Sir, you go by yon farm, under the cliff in the lane.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and walk'd on; but the other one linger'd behind him:
Dorothy wonder'd at that—what was he stopping to say?
She, in the midst of her work—so unfit for her betters to talk to—
Wish'd they would both go away; wish'd they had never come near.
‘Ah, then, you live at that farm? Perhaps you're the farmer's daughter?
‘Me, Sir?’ cried Dolly, ‘Oh no! I am the servant, that's all!’
And, as she said it, she smiled; little knowing how well it became her;
How it condoned in his eyes all that was coarse in her work.
‘Are you a servant? Indeed! And why do they send you out ploughing?
‘Men should do that, don't you know? You should be quiet indoors!’
Dolly could almost have laugh'd, but she knew it would not be respectful;
Therefore she gravely replied, ‘Well, Sir, I'm used to the fields:
‘And there is only me, and Master, and this little lad here:
‘I should be shamed indeed, not to be able to plough!’
‘Would you? And what is your name? and what is the name of the farm there?’
‘White Rose Farm, Sir,’ she said; ‘that is the place where I live.’
As for her own poor name, she was silent; for why should he ask it?
‘White Rose Farm!’ he exclaim'd; ‘oh, what a beautiful name!
‘Yes, now I see how it is’—and he smiled in her face as he said it—
‘You gave its name to the farm; you are the bonny White Rose!
‘Well, I shall see you again! Good-bye—you will not forget me?
‘Here is a trifle, you know, just to remember me by.’
And, with the word, he held out a broad piece of glittering silver,
Such as she seldom had seen, never had had for her own.
Had he but look'd in her eyes, he would never have offer'd her money:
Both her blue eyes were aflame, shining like stars in a frost:
‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘not for me—no, thank you, Sir—I have my wages—
‘Billy, get on!’ And the plough moved in the furrow again;
She, with a grand disdain, with a muscular heave of her shoulders
Lifting the share to its work, setting it straight in the mould.
He was discomfited; he, who had had such success among ladies,
Foil'd by an ignorant wench bound to the tail of a plough!
It was distressing, of course; but with such an antagonist, truly
There was no shame in defeat—triumph itself were disgrace.
‘She is a vixen,’ he thought, ‘but I like her the better for that, though;
‘Jove, how that anger of hers suited her beautiful face!
‘She is no common girl; there must be a story about her:
‘I shall find out before long—yes, I will see her again.’
So, he stepp'd lightly away to the stile where his uncle was waiting—
Waiting indignant, and still twirling his grisly moustache.
‘Frank,’ said the senior, ‘I know you are too much addicted to women—
‘But I'm ashamed to see you stoop to a creature like that!
‘Wenches who work in the fields are sure to be reprobates always:
‘How much more, do you think, one so depraved as to plough?
‘And you should know where you are: remember our duty as guests, sir!
‘That girl's master, no doubt, farms on the Castle estate;
‘He is a lowborn boor; and she, lower still, is his servant;
‘How would you like to be seen stopping and speaking to her?
‘Ah, when I've carried my Bill—and it's rising in favour already—
We'll put a stop to all this; we'll have no women a-field!’—
Frank, that irreverent boy, had the courage to laugh at his uncle:
‘Bother your Bill!’ he replied—‘why, what a purist you are!
‘Uncle, I tell you you're wrong; you do her injustice, believe me;
‘She is no commonplace wench; she's not degraded at all.
‘You should have seen how she look'd when I ventured to offer her money!
‘Proud? Why, she rivals in pride Lady Sophia herself!
‘And, did you notice her face? It was sunburnt and rough, as her arms were,
‘But it was handsome withal—gentle, expressive, refined.
‘Yes’—for he saw the deep scorn in his uncle's countenance rising—
‘Yes, sir, I say it's refined: she'll never better your Bill!’
‘Bosh!’ growl'd the other, enraged: ‘when you've lived half as long, sir, as I have,
‘You'll understand that a girl brought up to labour like hers
‘Must be degraded and coarse: but I see it is useless to argue—
‘Don't let me hear this again!’ ‘No,’ said his nephew, ‘you shan't!’
Thus they contended in talk; each far from the truth of the matter:
But, as is usual, the youth trying at least to be just;
While the grave man of the world, by his own want of sympathy blinded,
Saw but the homely outside; noted down that for his Bill.
She, with her horses in front headed by Billy the boy:
Ah, she had only escaped from the frying-pan into the fire—
Here were the quality folks, standing and staring at her!
What could she do? She was trapp'd—she could but go nearer and nearer,
Red though her face might be; redder than ever, just now:
Ay, and whatever its faults, her hands were too busy to hide them:
Well, she must let things alone; they'd never notice her face!
Swiftly she came to her doom—and the younger stranger address'd her
(‘Jove! she's a beauty,’ he thought, ‘Fancy a beauty at plough!’)
‘So you are ploughing, my lass? Warm work, in such weather as this is!’
‘Woa, horse!’ Dolly replied, pulling her best at the rein,
‘Woa!’ And the plough stood still; and she, as she stood in the furrow,
Dropp'd him a curtsey, and said, ‘Yes, Sir, it is very warm.’
‘Can you,’ the elder began, with a lofty though courteous demeanour—
‘Can you just tell us, my girl, which is the way to the Ings?’
‘Yes, Sir;’ and lifting her arm, she pointed down into the valley—
‘Yes, Sir, you go by yon farm, under the cliff in the lane.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and walk'd on; but the other one linger'd behind him:
Dorothy wonder'd at that—what was he stopping to say?
She, in the midst of her work—so unfit for her betters to talk to—
Wish'd they would both go away; wish'd they had never come near.
‘Ah, then, you live at that farm? Perhaps you're the farmer's daughter?
‘Me, Sir?’ cried Dolly, ‘Oh no! I am the servant, that's all!’
And, as she said it, she smiled; little knowing how well it became her;
How it condoned in his eyes all that was coarse in her work.
‘Are you a servant? Indeed! And why do they send you out ploughing?
‘Men should do that, don't you know? You should be quiet indoors!’
Dolly could almost have laugh'd, but she knew it would not be respectful;
Therefore she gravely replied, ‘Well, Sir, I'm used to the fields:
‘And there is only me, and Master, and this little lad here:
‘I should be shamed indeed, not to be able to plough!’
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‘White Rose Farm, Sir,’ she said; ‘that is the place where I live.’
As for her own poor name, she was silent; for why should he ask it?
‘White Rose Farm!’ he exclaim'd; ‘oh, what a beautiful name!
‘Yes, now I see how it is’—and he smiled in her face as he said it—
‘You gave its name to the farm; you are the bonny White Rose!
‘Well, I shall see you again! Good-bye—you will not forget me?
‘Here is a trifle, you know, just to remember me by.’
And, with the word, he held out a broad piece of glittering silver,
Such as she seldom had seen, never had had for her own.
Had he but look'd in her eyes, he would never have offer'd her money:
Both her blue eyes were aflame, shining like stars in a frost:
‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘not for me—no, thank you, Sir—I have my wages—
‘Billy, get on!’ And the plough moved in the furrow again;
She, with a grand disdain, with a muscular heave of her shoulders
Lifting the share to its work, setting it straight in the mould.
He was discomfited; he, who had had such success among ladies,
Foil'd by an ignorant wench bound to the tail of a plough!
It was distressing, of course; but with such an antagonist, truly
There was no shame in defeat—triumph itself were disgrace.
‘She is a vixen,’ he thought, ‘but I like her the better for that, though;
‘Jove, how that anger of hers suited her beautiful face!
‘She is no common girl; there must be a story about her:
‘I shall find out before long—yes, I will see her again.’
So, he stepp'd lightly away to the stile where his uncle was waiting—
Waiting indignant, and still twirling his grisly moustache.
‘Frank,’ said the senior, ‘I know you are too much addicted to women—
‘But I'm ashamed to see you stoop to a creature like that!
‘Wenches who work in the fields are sure to be reprobates always:
‘How much more, do you think, one so depraved as to plough?
‘And you should know where you are: remember our duty as guests, sir!
‘That girl's master, no doubt, farms on the Castle estate;
39
‘How would you like to be seen stopping and speaking to her?
‘Ah, when I've carried my Bill—and it's rising in favour already—
We'll put a stop to all this; we'll have no women a-field!’—
Frank, that irreverent boy, had the courage to laugh at his uncle:
‘Bother your Bill!’ he replied—‘why, what a purist you are!
‘Uncle, I tell you you're wrong; you do her injustice, believe me;
‘She is no commonplace wench; she's not degraded at all.
‘You should have seen how she look'd when I ventured to offer her money!
‘Proud? Why, she rivals in pride Lady Sophia herself!
‘And, did you notice her face? It was sunburnt and rough, as her arms were,
‘But it was handsome withal—gentle, expressive, refined.
‘Yes’—for he saw the deep scorn in his uncle's countenance rising—
‘Yes, sir, I say it's refined: she'll never better your Bill!’
‘Bosh!’ growl'd the other, enraged: ‘when you've lived half as long, sir, as I have,
‘You'll understand that a girl brought up to labour like hers
‘Must be degraded and coarse: but I see it is useless to argue—
‘Don't let me hear this again!’ ‘No,’ said his nephew, ‘you shan't!’
Thus they contended in talk; each far from the truth of the matter:
But, as is usual, the youth trying at least to be just;
While the grave man of the world, by his own want of sympathy blinded,
Saw but the homely outside; noted down that for his Bill.
Well—and our Dolly herself, what did she do? and what were her feelings?
Oh, she just stuck to the plough—finish'd the baulk she was on;
Follow'd her horses again, up and down, up and down, till the evening;
Chiefly intent on her work, thinking of little, save that.
But, when the day's work was done, when the plough was unyoked by the hedgerow,
When the whole team went home, headed by Billy the boy;
She, on the hindmost horse, high perch'd, holding on by the halter,
All in her simple heart ponder'd the things she had heard.
She had been brought face to face with men of a rank far above her:
Forced to converse with them, too, since they were pleased to converse:
Ay, and what wearisome talk, what foolish trumpery questions—
This was her first great thought—had she been hearing today!
If they were all like him, what strange irrational persons
Quality folks must be! Yet, she could easily tell,
Both by his voice and words, his dress and his company manners,
He had come out of a world larger and higher than hers.
That was just it! He thought that poor folks' ways were beneath him:
Things that might serve to amuse such as are clever and rich:
Thought he might say what he liked, talk ever such flatulent nonsense,
When he should stoop to address ignorant people like her.
Such were her thoughts—not her words: oh dear me, no, not her words, ma'am!
She had no words; or at least, only an impotent few:
But she could think, and feel; and her thoughts were somewhat on this wise—
‘Me a White Rose, did he say? Me give a name to the farm?
‘Rubbish! But happen, he thought I should like to be talk'd to a-that way;
‘Happen, 'twas only his fun—making a game, like, o' me!
‘Farmer's daughter, indeed! When he knew very well I'm a servant:
‘Must have seen it, of course; everything shows what I am!
‘And to be quiet indoors, and never do nothing at field work—
‘Never make hay, never hoe turnips and taters and wheat—
‘Me, 'at can do it as well as a man, I'll awand you, or better,
‘Me, to be shut up indoors—oh, what a fool he must be!
‘How I do hate such talk! Mr. Robert, how different he was!
‘Told me I ought to be proud both o' my work an' my hands;
‘Seem'd to be pleased, and spoke like a sensible man and a kind one—
‘Not such a guiser as yon—meaning, one canna tell what!’—
True, she hated his talk: but not for its foolishness only;
Something mor deadly than that ruffled her maidenly pride:
For, with his smooth soft words, and the offer he made her of money,
Memories hotter than hate went like a flash through her brain.
Maybe, she thought, it was thus that some one first spoke to her mother—
Flatt'ring her pretty young face, tempting her foully with coin!
That, and not pride, was the thought that drove her indignantly onward;
That made her hurry away, spurning his money and him:
Not the mere silver; oh no—she could curtsey and smile at a shilling
Honestly given and meant: shillings were precious, to her.
Well for a peasant girl who has beauty and worth, like our Dolly,
Oh, she just stuck to the plough—finish'd the baulk she was on;
Follow'd her horses again, up and down, up and down, till the evening;
Chiefly intent on her work, thinking of little, save that.
But, when the day's work was done, when the plough was unyoked by the hedgerow,
When the whole team went home, headed by Billy the boy;
She, on the hindmost horse, high perch'd, holding on by the halter,
All in her simple heart ponder'd the things she had heard.
40
Forced to converse with them, too, since they were pleased to converse:
Ay, and what wearisome talk, what foolish trumpery questions—
This was her first great thought—had she been hearing today!
If they were all like him, what strange irrational persons
Quality folks must be! Yet, she could easily tell,
Both by his voice and words, his dress and his company manners,
He had come out of a world larger and higher than hers.
That was just it! He thought that poor folks' ways were beneath him:
Things that might serve to amuse such as are clever and rich:
Thought he might say what he liked, talk ever such flatulent nonsense,
When he should stoop to address ignorant people like her.
Such were her thoughts—not her words: oh dear me, no, not her words, ma'am!
She had no words; or at least, only an impotent few:
But she could think, and feel; and her thoughts were somewhat on this wise—
‘Me a White Rose, did he say? Me give a name to the farm?
‘Rubbish! But happen, he thought I should like to be talk'd to a-that way;
‘Happen, 'twas only his fun—making a game, like, o' me!
‘Farmer's daughter, indeed! When he knew very well I'm a servant:
‘Must have seen it, of course; everything shows what I am!
‘And to be quiet indoors, and never do nothing at field work—
‘Never make hay, never hoe turnips and taters and wheat—
‘Me, 'at can do it as well as a man, I'll awand you, or better,
‘Me, to be shut up indoors—oh, what a fool he must be!
‘How I do hate such talk! Mr. Robert, how different he was!
‘Told me I ought to be proud both o' my work an' my hands;
‘Seem'd to be pleased, and spoke like a sensible man and a kind one—
‘Not such a guiser as yon—meaning, one canna tell what!’—
True, she hated his talk: but not for its foolishness only;
Something mor deadly than that ruffled her maidenly pride:
For, with his smooth soft words, and the offer he made her of money,
Memories hotter than hate went like a flash through her brain.
41
Flatt'ring her pretty young face, tempting her foully with coin!
That, and not pride, was the thought that drove her indignantly onward;
That made her hurry away, spurning his money and him:
Not the mere silver; oh no—she could curtsey and smile at a shilling
Honestly given and meant: shillings were precious, to her.
If she have strength not her own, thus to support her at need!
Even if rashly she think—as Dolly had reason for thinking—
Gentlemen must go about seeking poor maids to devour.
She was a poor maid, too: but if he should seek to devour her—
He, with his glamour of words, graceful and glittering ways—
Surely he will not succeed? For that which ruin'd the mother
Gave to the daughter a soul keener and stronger than hers:
Love, too, was fast coming in—the added strength of attachment—
Soon Mr. Robert would come; soon she should see him again!
Thus then she waited and work'd, and thought of the shooting in Scotland:
When would Sir Harry return? When would they all be at home?
Weeks had already gone by, that day when the gentlemen met her,
Since the great Harvest Home, since Mr. Robert had gone;
Weeks had already gone by: when the housekeeper up at the Castle,
Calling at White Rose Farm, once, on her way to the town,
Mention'd, in affable talk to the Missis, and also to Mary,
That there was news of them all—news of Sir Harry, at last.
‘Yes, they are all coming back; and isn't it strange, Mr. Robert,
Going to be married so soon? Leastways, they say as it's him.’
‘Married!’ the Missis exclaim'd; but Mary was prudently silent,
Keeping her heart to herself, till the old gossip had gone.
Then, she also exclaim'd: ‘I'll never believe it! But, mother,
‘Don't you tell Dorothy, though; don't let our Dorothy know!’
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‘Setting her cap at him, eh? Nay, it can never be that!’
‘Setting her cap? No indeed!’ cried Mary; ‘but, mother, I'm certain
‘He has a fancy for her—he'll marry nobody else.’
‘Why then, I thought it was you he was making sheep's eyes all along at!’
‘Me, mother? No, not he—I wouldn't have him, at least:
‘Somebody else shall have me’—but ere they were talking in this way,
Dolly, unhappy, had heard what Mrs. Jellifer said:
For in the scullery near, she was sitting and peeling potatoes,
Thinking of nothing at all; happy, no doubt, in her work;
When Mr. Robert his name had flash'd through her ears like the lightning;
Follow'd by thunder, alas! ‘Going to be married so soon!’
What did she do? Did she faint, and scream, and go into hysterics?
No, madam! Fainting and salts are not for wenches like her:
She only dropp'd her knife; and the curly potato parings
Roll'd off her quivering knees, settled themselves on the floor,
While she rose up, and went out: to the barn, for she knew it was empty—
Had a good cry, and return'd heavily back to her work.
Nobody named the affair; and all things went on just as usual;
Till, on a washing day, Mary and she were alone,
And she broke out and said, ‘Miss Mary, why didn't you tell me?’
‘Tell you? tell what?’ said the girl: ‘Why, that he's going to be wed!’
‘Wed? Not a bit! Not he! Now, Dorothy, don't you believe it!
‘I'll bet a penny it's lies—wait till you see him, and then!
‘Yes, it's just like them girls in the housemaids’ room at the Castle,
‘Wanting to have him theirsels—making up tales, when they can't!’
Dorothy shook her head: ‘I canna help thinking it's true, Miss;
There's such a many—and then, sure Mrs. Jellifer knows!’
'Twas on that very same day, while Dorothy, after her milking,
Went along White Rose Lane, driving her cattle a-field,
43
Sauntering there all alone, smoking his evening cigar!
Leaning, he was, on the gate of the field into which she was going;
Gazing, it seem'd, towards the West: what was he studying there?
Well, there was something to see; for the sun was setting in glory,
Glowing through marvellous clouds, molten, suffused, with his light;
Clouds all rosy above, like the snows of an Alpine sunset,
But in the heart of their snow thrill'd with a cavernous fire;
Clouds that were couch'd superb in a blaze of opal and em'rald,
Haunting the clear cool sky, lucid and lovely and blue.
Yes, he was studying that; and Dorothy noticed it also:
How could she help it, you know, walking straight into the West?
Her heart too was refresh'd by the sight of those wonderful colours,
Though she had seen them before, many and many a time.
‘What, is it you?’ said the youth; ‘the White Rose maid of the farm there!
‘Ah, you do well to be out now, in an evening like this!
‘Is it not beautiful here? And do you not often enjoy it,
‘Strolling abroad in the lanes, after your duties are done?
‘You have been milking, perhaps? What clear-eyed beautiful creatures!
‘Why, they have skins, I believe, almost as soft as your own!’
Dolly had curtsey'd and blush'd, when he open'd his lips to address her;
Awed by his presence, and yet wishing he hand't been there;
Now, she started and stared—what, again? Would he never have done, then,
Talking his nonsense? And worse, making such game about her?
Who would have thought, indeed, that gentlefolks could be so artful,
Saying in roundabout words just what they never could mean?
It was too bad, Dolly thought; and she solemnly said, ‘If you please, Sir,
Just let me open the gate—let me come through with the cows!’
‘Oh, is it this way you go? Let me set the gate open for you!
Gaily he did it, and held; but the poor ignorant cows,
Seeing a stranger, hung back; and Dorothy scamper'd around them,
Calling, and waving her arms, using her stick now and then,
44
Scann'd her (she felt it), and stood calmly surveying the scene.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Dorothy said, turning hastily round to go homeward:
But he had shut-to the gate; closed it, and she was inside!
There he stood, leaning without, and smiling, and holding her captive;
Smiling persuasive smiles, under his golden moustache!
‘I have done something for you—and will you do nothing for me, then?
‘You must pay toll, don't you know? That is the rule of the road!’
Toll! Though the phrase was new, she guess'd what he meant; and it call'd up,
Over her bonny brown face, crimson as deep as the sky's:
What, should she stand like a stock, and a stranger gentleman kiss her?
No! And she sprang to the gate, meaning to climb it at once:
Gates were a trifle, to her: she would climb it in spite of him, easy,
And from the topmost bar lightly leap down, and away!
But he relented: ‘Oh no! Not that—I would never detain you—
‘Only a moment's talk—won't you just hear me, for once?’—
‘Hear you, Sir?’ Dolly replied, as she came through the gate very proudly,
‘You can ha' nothing to say—nothing as I understand!
‘You are demeaning yourself, Sir, to talk to a servant like I am;
‘Let me go home to the farm—I am no fellow for you!’
‘Servant?’ he said, ‘But indeed I do not believe you're a servant;
‘You are too pretty for that. Tell me, now, what is your name?’
‘Dolly's my name, Sir,’ she said. ‘Dolly what?’ ‘Oh, nothing but Dolly!
‘Why was you axing my name?’ For, with a flutter of shame,
All her heart took fire at the thought that she had not a father,
Save such a stranger as this: just such another, perhaps!
All her simple heart went flickering this way and that way,
Thinking of him that was gone, whom she could love very well—
Thinking of this one here, this gentleman, dainty and clever,
Whom she could not love at all: why was he bothering her?
‘Give me your hand,’ said he, ‘and I'll tell you your name without asking!’
She, with a sudden disdain, put it behind her at once:
45
‘If I but show him my hand: yes, let him see it, and feel!’
Therefore, she held out her hand; and he snatch'd it, poor man! without looking:
'Twas but her face that he saw—that was the thing he admired;
That, and her picturesque dress; and perhaps her arms, just a little;
Though even peasants, he thought, might have more delicate arms.
Lightly he took her hand; intending, doubtless, to press it:
Meaning at least to bestow some pretty compliment there;
But, as to one in the dark, who, feeling for silk or for velvet,
Suddenly grasps unawares rusty old iron instead,
So did it happen to him, thus grasping the hand of our Dolly—
Rough as old iron, and hard—terribly callous—within.
Singular contrast, this, these two hands mated together!
One so laborious and large, one so refined and so small;
Singular, too, to reflect—these young folk facing each other,
He no effeminate man, she a most womanly maid—
Curious, I say, to reflect that the hands were not as their owners:
That which was small and refined, slender and soft, was the man's;
That which was clumsy and coarse, and big, was the hand of the maiden!
He was the lady, it seem'd; she was the muscular man.
Have you not noticed this thing—this strange pathetic bouleversement,
Making our culture and class stronger than Nature and sex?
Desinit in piscem mulier formosa supernè—
While from his homelier couche Man rises tender and fair!
So that a well-bred youth, fastidious, gracious, and gentle,
Lives in his delicate world, beauty around him at will,
While some poor maid of the house, as gentle by nature as he is,
Grows, through hard labour, unfit even to wait upon him.
This is an evil, you say? I respectfully beg to deny it:
'Tis not an evil at all: 'tis but the half of a good.
She by her labour shall gain self-reliance and strength, as a man does:
He, through his culture, shall share her inexhaustible grace.
46
And let the woman be coarse, wholly subdued to her work:
Yet, when her love-time comes, and her motherhood after her marriage,
Nature asserts itself then—sex has its rights in the end.
But I am leaving those two, Mr. Frank and our Dolly, together;
He with her hand in his! What, is he holding it still?
No—for the moment he felt the touch of her labouring fingers,
And, looking down at her hand, judged of it there by his own,
Straightway he dropp'd it, and cried, ‘Good God, what a hand for a woman!
‘Where have you lived, all your life? What sort of work have you done?’
Dorothy was not surprised, nor hurt, nor even offended;
Only amused, in her way—seeing the change in his tone;
And she look'd up, and replied, ‘I've lived i' one place all my life, Sir;
‘And, for my work, I can do all that belongs to a farm:
‘I can hoe turnips and wheat; and plough (as you saw me) and harrow;
‘Fettle both horses and cows; clean out the stable and byre;
‘Milking, of course, I can do; and poultry and pigs, and the dairy;
‘Reaping in harvest time; haymaking, stacking, an' all—
‘And for indoors, I clean, and scrub, and attend to the housework;
‘Washing and ironing, too; baking and brewing, sometimes;
‘Cleaning of knives and boots’—and she look'd courageously at him,
Looking as one who should say, ‘there! would you like any more?’
He, as he heard, stood amazed; such a horribly frank revelation,
Made by so handsome a girl, stagger'd him quite, for awhile!
Then he exclaim'd, ‘How strange! I really can not understand you—
‘Such a sweet face as yours—such indescribable hands!
‘What, do you like such work?’ ‘Yes, I do, Sir! I wouldn't exchange it,
‘No, nor my hands, if I might—not for such soft ones as yourn!’—
She was grown bold, you perceive; she had no more fear of his passion:
Passion? the touch of her hands cured him completely of love!
Ah, she could talk to him now: she knew that his feelings were alter'd:
He, with his soft pink palm smarting from pressure of hers!
‘Well, pretty Dolly,’ he said, ‘I must leave you, I fear, to your work, then:
‘Tell me your name, though, at least—I shall not vex you again!’
‘Crump is my name, Sir,’ she said: ‘at least, Bessy Crump was my mother:
‘I have no name, only hers; that's why I hid it, afore.’
‘Oh—I perceive! You are wise; and don't you be fool'd, like your mother:
‘Marry some honest good man, one in your own rank of life;
‘One who—ahem! can admire and appreciate hands such as yours are—
‘Hands that can labour for love, doubtless, as well as for hire!’
Labour for love, did he say? She look'd in his face as he said it—
Labour for love? Yes, indeed—that was the wish of her heart!
He had divined it! And now, she felt so free and so grateful,
If he had sent her a mile, she would have gone for him twain.
‘Ah, your eyes brighten!’ said he; ‘but your smiles are for somebody else, though—
‘You have a sweetheart, I see; you are expecting him now.’
‘No, Sir!’ poor Dolly replied; ‘oh no, indeed I am not, Sir!
‘But you was speaking so kind—not as you was at the first—
‘Gentlefolks can do us good, if they keep their place, and advise us—
‘And I am thankful, I sure, if you think kindly o' me!
‘Sir, I must go, if you please—my Missis is wanting her supper;
‘And there's the things to wash up: humbly I wish you good-bye.’
He did not ask for her hand—not again—'twas too dreadful to think of—
You might as well shake hands with a macadamized road!
But with a kindly farewell he acknowledged her reverent curtsey,
Watch'd her departing, and then—lighted another cigar.
He with her hand in his! What, is he holding it still?
No—for the moment he felt the touch of her labouring fingers,
And, looking down at her hand, judged of it there by his own,
Straightway he dropp'd it, and cried, ‘Good God, what a hand for a woman!
‘Where have you lived, all your life? What sort of work have you done?’
Dorothy was not surprised, nor hurt, nor even offended;
Only amused, in her way—seeing the change in his tone;
And she look'd up, and replied, ‘I've lived i' one place all my life, Sir;
‘And, for my work, I can do all that belongs to a farm:
‘I can hoe turnips and wheat; and plough (as you saw me) and harrow;
‘Fettle both horses and cows; clean out the stable and byre;
‘Milking, of course, I can do; and poultry and pigs, and the dairy;
‘Reaping in harvest time; haymaking, stacking, an' all—
‘And for indoors, I clean, and scrub, and attend to the housework;
‘Washing and ironing, too; baking and brewing, sometimes;
‘Cleaning of knives and boots’—and she look'd courageously at him,
Looking as one who should say, ‘there! would you like any more?’
He, as he heard, stood amazed; such a horribly frank revelation,
Made by so handsome a girl, stagger'd him quite, for awhile!
Then he exclaim'd, ‘How strange! I really can not understand you—
‘Such a sweet face as yours—such indescribable hands!
‘What, do you like such work?’ ‘Yes, I do, Sir! I wouldn't exchange it,
‘No, nor my hands, if I might—not for such soft ones as yourn!’—
She was grown bold, you perceive; she had no more fear of his passion:
Passion? the touch of her hands cured him completely of love!
47
He, with his soft pink palm smarting from pressure of hers!
‘Well, pretty Dolly,’ he said, ‘I must leave you, I fear, to your work, then:
‘Tell me your name, though, at least—I shall not vex you again!’
‘Crump is my name, Sir,’ she said: ‘at least, Bessy Crump was my mother:
‘I have no name, only hers; that's why I hid it, afore.’
‘Oh—I perceive! You are wise; and don't you be fool'd, like your mother:
‘Marry some honest good man, one in your own rank of life;
‘One who—ahem! can admire and appreciate hands such as yours are—
‘Hands that can labour for love, doubtless, as well as for hire!’
Labour for love, did he say? She look'd in his face as he said it—
Labour for love? Yes, indeed—that was the wish of her heart!
He had divined it! And now, she felt so free and so grateful,
If he had sent her a mile, she would have gone for him twain.
‘Ah, your eyes brighten!’ said he; ‘but your smiles are for somebody else, though—
‘You have a sweetheart, I see; you are expecting him now.’
‘No, Sir!’ poor Dolly replied; ‘oh no, indeed I am not, Sir!
‘But you was speaking so kind—not as you was at the first—
‘Gentlefolks can do us good, if they keep their place, and advise us—
‘And I am thankful, I sure, if you think kindly o' me!
‘Sir, I must go, if you please—my Missis is wanting her supper;
‘And there's the things to wash up: humbly I wish you good-bye.’
He did not ask for her hand—not again—'twas too dreadful to think of—
You might as well shake hands with a macadamized road!
But with a kindly farewell he acknowledged her reverent curtsey,
Watch'd her departing, and then—lighted another cigar.
‘Eh, what a blessing,’ she thought, as she ran down the lane in the twilight,
‘Eh, what a mercy it was, him getting hold o' my hand!
‘But, I was sure it 'd do—for gentlefolks cannot abide 'em—
‘Hardworking hands like mine: theirn is so very unlike!
‘My, what a hand his was—as soft an' as tender as satin!
‘What must a lady's be, if there's such hands in a man?’
Thus she ran on; and the night, coming quietly down into evening,
Deepen'd the twilight below, lighted the stars up above;
And she saw no one; until, by the hayricks close to the farmyard,
Somebody call'd from behind, ‘Dolly, my lass, is it you?’
Ah! she should know that voice: but it couldn't be he though—of course not!
They hand't come—and besides, what could she be to him now?
Still, she must answer and stop—and she trembled a bit, as she did so;
Wishing it mightn't be him: wishing it might, all the same.
‘Eh, what a mercy it was, him getting hold o' my hand!
‘But, I was sure it 'd do—for gentlefolks cannot abide 'em—
‘Hardworking hands like mine: theirn is so very unlike!
48
‘What must a lady's be, if there's such hands in a man?’
Thus she ran on; and the night, coming quietly down into evening,
Deepen'd the twilight below, lighted the stars up above;
And she saw no one; until, by the hayricks close to the farmyard,
Somebody call'd from behind, ‘Dolly, my lass, is it you?’
Ah! she should know that voice: but it couldn't be he though—of course not!
They hand't come—and besides, what could she be to him now?
Still, she must answer and stop—and she trembled a bit, as she did so;
Wishing it mightn't be him: wishing it might, all the same.
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, it's you? Whoever 'ud think for to see you
‘Standing out here by yourself? Master 'll take it unkind!
‘When did you come?’—‘Why, to-day; dost think I could wait till to-morrow,
‘Dolly, thou hard-hearted girl, when I was coming to thee?
‘I've got a something to say’—‘Oh yes, Mr. Robert, I know it;
‘We have heard all—and I sure every one wishes you well!’
‘Wishes me well, does she say? Is the wench gone daft, sin' I left her?
‘What have they said about me? Dolly, lass, what does thee mean?’
‘Why, Mr. Robert, of course I mean about you an' your wedding;
‘Old Mrs. Jellifer came—said it was going to be soon.’—
‘Dang Mrs. Jelly, I say! them women must always be meddling!
‘Dolly, forgive me—I know thou wouldn't meddle, for one!’
‘Isn't it true, then?’ she cried, ‘Oh, isn't it true you've a sweetheart?’
‘Ay, I've a sweetheart, I hope—that's what I've come about, now:
‘But, I can tell how it is—it's Amos, the under-keeper,
‘Him and his barefooted girl—that's how the story began.
‘What does it signify, though, the lies they may tell at the Castle?
‘Dolly, I've come to fetch thee! Didn't I say I would come?
‘Dolly, thou knows very well I love thee and nobody else, lass—
‘Hast thou forgotten that night, after our dance, at the farm?’
‘No, Mr. Robert, oh no!’ she said, in a tremulous whisper,
‘Only, I thought you had found somebody better 'an me!’—
‘Somebody better 'an thee? Ay, that would be a job, though, to find her!
‘Give me thy hand—that's right—just let me feel it again’—
Freely she gave him her hand; and not as an antidote this time:
Sure of an answering grip almost as hard as her own:
‘Dolly,’ he grasp'd it and said, ‘there's lasses a plenty in Scotland;
‘Some 'at has hardworking hands, some as are bonny—a few:
‘But if there's one on 'em all, for work and for beauty together,
‘Fit to come second to thee—I'm not a keeper, that's all!
‘Why, thou must look i' the glass to find such another as thine is—
‘Such a sweet face, I mean: just like a peach i' the sun!
‘And, if thy hands are hard—and I know they couldn't be harder,
‘Doing such things as thee does, working so hard on the farm—
‘I like 'em better for that; for it's real honest labour has done it:
‘And they'll grow softer in time; yes, they'll improve by-and-by!’—
‘No, Mr. Robert, they won't! They shall never be soft, if I know it:
‘Didn't you tell me yourself I should be glad they was hard?
‘And, do you think, if I'm proud o' the name of a hard-working servant,
‘I could sit idle at home, when I am—anything else?’
‘Idle, dear Dolly? Oh no; it isn't in thee to be idle!
‘Thou shall have work o' thy own, if thou'll be guided by me:
‘Give us thy other hand’—and he held up its thick third finger—
‘Thou's never yet had a ring; couldn't thee do with one, here?’
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, ’she cried, ‘oh, what shall I say? I believe you;
‘Yes, I believe you indeed; you are so friendly and kind!
‘And I have known you for long—but then, I am only a servant;
‘Haven't a penny to give—all as I've got i' the world
‘Is just the wages I earn, an' a few little pounds o' my savings;
‘How can I do it, you know? How can I let you love me?
‘Oh, it'd be such a shame, if I was the one to disgrace you—
‘You, that's head-keeper an' all; ay, an' a house o' your own!
‘You, that has but to speak out, an' there's many a farmer's daughter,
‘Many a bettermost girl, gladly 'ud have you, I sure!’
‘Oh, you innocent lass! What signifies farmers' daughters,
‘Bettermost girls, and that, when I'm a-courting o' thee?
‘Thou art the one as I want; an' if any one else would ha' had me,
‘Why, let 'em whistle, say I: somebody's sure to be near!
‘Dolly, dear Dolly, say Yes, and come to the house as you talk on,
‘Come, an' thou'll make it a home; that's what it's never been yet!—’
‘Standing out here by yourself? Master 'll take it unkind!
‘When did you come?’—‘Why, to-day; dost think I could wait till to-morrow,
‘Dolly, thou hard-hearted girl, when I was coming to thee?
‘I've got a something to say’—‘Oh yes, Mr. Robert, I know it;
‘We have heard all—and I sure every one wishes you well!’
‘Wishes me well, does she say? Is the wench gone daft, sin' I left her?
‘What have they said about me? Dolly, lass, what does thee mean?’
‘Why, Mr. Robert, of course I mean about you an' your wedding;
‘Old Mrs. Jellifer came—said it was going to be soon.’—
‘Dang Mrs. Jelly, I say! them women must always be meddling!
‘Dolly, forgive me—I know thou wouldn't meddle, for one!’
‘Isn't it true, then?’ she cried, ‘Oh, isn't it true you've a sweetheart?’
‘Ay, I've a sweetheart, I hope—that's what I've come about, now:
‘But, I can tell how it is—it's Amos, the under-keeper,
‘Him and his barefooted girl—that's how the story began.
‘What does it signify, though, the lies they may tell at the Castle?
‘Dolly, I've come to fetch thee! Didn't I say I would come?
‘Dolly, thou knows very well I love thee and nobody else, lass—
‘Hast thou forgotten that night, after our dance, at the farm?’
49
‘Only, I thought you had found somebody better 'an me!’—
‘Somebody better 'an thee? Ay, that would be a job, though, to find her!
‘Give me thy hand—that's right—just let me feel it again’—
Freely she gave him her hand; and not as an antidote this time:
Sure of an answering grip almost as hard as her own:
‘Dolly,’ he grasp'd it and said, ‘there's lasses a plenty in Scotland;
‘Some 'at has hardworking hands, some as are bonny—a few:
‘But if there's one on 'em all, for work and for beauty together,
‘Fit to come second to thee—I'm not a keeper, that's all!
‘Why, thou must look i' the glass to find such another as thine is—
‘Such a sweet face, I mean: just like a peach i' the sun!
‘And, if thy hands are hard—and I know they couldn't be harder,
‘Doing such things as thee does, working so hard on the farm—
‘I like 'em better for that; for it's real honest labour has done it:
‘And they'll grow softer in time; yes, they'll improve by-and-by!’—
‘No, Mr. Robert, they won't! They shall never be soft, if I know it:
‘Didn't you tell me yourself I should be glad they was hard?
‘And, do you think, if I'm proud o' the name of a hard-working servant,
‘I could sit idle at home, when I am—anything else?’
‘Idle, dear Dolly? Oh no; it isn't in thee to be idle!
‘Thou shall have work o' thy own, if thou'll be guided by me:
‘Give us thy other hand’—and he held up its thick third finger—
‘Thou's never yet had a ring; couldn't thee do with one, here?’
‘Oh, Mr. Robert, ’she cried, ‘oh, what shall I say? I believe you;
‘Yes, I believe you indeed; you are so friendly and kind!
‘And I have known you for long—but then, I am only a servant;
‘Haven't a penny to give—all as I've got i' the world
‘Is just the wages I earn, an' a few little pounds o' my savings;
‘How can I do it, you know? How can I let you love me?
‘Oh, it'd be such a shame, if I was the one to disgrace you—
‘You, that's head-keeper an' all; ay, an' a house o' your own!
50
‘Many a bettermost girl, gladly 'ud have you, I sure!’
‘Oh, you innocent lass! What signifies farmers' daughters,
‘Bettermost girls, and that, when I'm a-courting o' thee?
‘Thou art the one as I want; an' if any one else would ha' had me,
‘Why, let 'em whistle, say I: somebody's sure to be near!
‘Dolly, dear Dolly, say Yes, and come to the house as you talk on,
‘Come, an' thou'll make it a home; that's what it's never been yet!—’
Did she say Yes? Who knows? I don't think any one heard it:
But he caress'd her unblamed—caught her, and kiss'd her, and held:
She, the stout stalwart wench, with the ample waist, and the shoulders,
Lay on his heart for awhile, happy and still, like a child.
Where were her strong brown arms, all used to the farm and the cattle?
Ah, they were tenderly wreathed, just as a lady's might be:
Where was her sunburnt cheek, all roughen'd and bronzed by the rude winds?
Ah, it was glowing and soft; warm with ineffable joy:
Even her hands, that had grown to be implements merely of labour,
Thrill'd with a daintier sense, here in this dreamland of Love!
For, when the love-time comes, the day of delight and possession,
Out of the loving heart all that is lovely appears;
All that is sensitive opes—and the signs of labour and sorrow
Shrink away into the past, counting for nothing at all.
Silent they both of them were, for it was the moment of silence:
Even in commonplace moods peasants have not many words;
And at a time like this the most eloquent passion is speechless:
Language can never express half that humanity feels;
Yea, and the tongue of the wise, and the rapturous words of the poet,
Could not deliver in full even poor Dorothy's heart.
Music alone can do that: behold how the mighty Beethoven,
When Leonora at length clings to her own Florestan,
He, in that hour of supreme transcendent passionate triumph,
Lifts his immortal airs quite from the region of words;
Gives to the lovers a cry—inarticulate utterance only,
Keeps, for the height of his theme, pure and unsyllabled sound.
But he caress'd her unblamed—caught her, and kiss'd her, and held:
She, the stout stalwart wench, with the ample waist, and the shoulders,
Lay on his heart for awhile, happy and still, like a child.
Where were her strong brown arms, all used to the farm and the cattle?
Ah, they were tenderly wreathed, just as a lady's might be:
Where was her sunburnt cheek, all roughen'd and bronzed by the rude winds?
Ah, it was glowing and soft; warm with ineffable joy:
Even her hands, that had grown to be implements merely of labour,
Thrill'd with a daintier sense, here in this dreamland of Love!
For, when the love-time comes, the day of delight and possession,
Out of the loving heart all that is lovely appears;
All that is sensitive opes—and the signs of labour and sorrow
Shrink away into the past, counting for nothing at all.
Silent they both of them were, for it was the moment of silence:
Even in commonplace moods peasants have not many words;
And at a time like this the most eloquent passion is speechless:
Language can never express half that humanity feels;
Yea, and the tongue of the wise, and the rapturous words of the poet,
Could not deliver in full even poor Dorothy's heart.
Music alone can do that: behold how the mighty Beethoven,
When Leonora at length clings to her own Florestan,
51
Lifts his immortal airs quite from the region of words;
Gives to the lovers a cry—inarticulate utterance only,
Keeps, for the height of his theme, pure and unsyllabled sound.
Music! There's little of that in the life of an English peasant:
Dorothy knew not a note—knew not what melody means;
Yet she could sing—in church; and doubtless, doubtless, to-morrow
She will be carolling loud, light'ning her labour with song.
But for to-day, 'twas enough to lean on his breast and be thankful:
Wondering if it were true, if she were really his own:
Till, in the heart of her joy, in the midst of that tender endearment,
She was reminded that Love is but a stranger on earth;
She, so transfigured, refined, to a loftier level of being,
Fell in a moment, alas! down to her kitchen again.
For there were voices and lights, and Missis herself in the doorway,
Over the wide farmyard calling to some one aloud,
‘Where can the wench have gone? She's never come back from the cows yet!
‘Something's amiss, I'll be bound; 'tisn't like Dolly, at all!’
Then they both started, those two, where they stood in the dusk by the hayricks:
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ she cried, ‘Missis is talking o' me!
‘I never thought o' the time—I must run, I haven't a minute—
‘Oh, but to leave you out here, all in the dark, and alone!’—
‘Never you fret about me,’ and he kiss'd her lips as he loosed her;
‘Leave me alone, lass, for that; I shall be here again soon:
‘Run, Dolly, run—’ and she ran, through the gate, through the yard, through the back-door
Into the kitchen; and there, blushing, awaited her doom.
‘Dolly,’ said Missis, ‘I say! what's matter? what makes thee so late, girl?’
But, as the culprit paused, framing some feeble reply,
Came such a fury of knocks, unexpected, ill-timed, at the front door—
Door never open'd at all, save on a company day!
‘Mercy! What's that?’ cried the dame; ‘one 'ud think they was banging the house down.
‘Happen, my Lady is ill—maybe, the Castle's a-fire!
‘Ay, it's bad news, I'll awand!’ and she flew to discover the wonder,
Leaving poor Dolly alone, trembling at such a reprieve.
Mary had run for the door, but her mother achieved it before her;
Crying ‘Who's there?’ till the bolts gave at the voice of a friend.
‘Why, Mr. Robert! Good Lord, is it you, 'at we thought was in Scotland?
‘Fraying a body like this! What, is there anything wrong?’
‘Nay, nothing wrong,’ said the swain, ‘if so be as you take to it kindly—’
‘Kindly be shiver'd! Come in—Master shall welcome you home.’
‘No, not the Master! It's you, only you, as I wanted to speak to,
‘If you can spare me the time, just a few minutes, alone.’
So they went into the room, the prim little calico parlour,
Kept like a raree-show; sacred to holiday times.
There, in the dark (but the moon shone lovingly in through the window)
Robin unburden'd his mind; spake of his Dolly, at last:
Spake with a faltering tongue; for he privily thought that Miss Mary—
Or, 'twas her mother, perhaps—squinted a little on him:
But, as the tale went on, his heart and his masculine courage
Rose with the theme, and he spake fearless and frank, like a man.
‘So,’ at the last he said, ‘if you think you could any ways spare her,
‘We might be wed very soon—leastways, in winter, I mean.
‘Dolly's a woman grown; and me, why I'm close upon thirty,
‘Time to be wed! and, you know, I can afford her a home.’
All through his tale, ill at ease, making brief exclamations of wonder,
Lifting her hands and her eyes, sat the incredulous dame;
Now a believer, at length, in the truth of his misplaced affection;
Now a believer; and yet marvelling how it could be.
‘Well, this is news!’ she exclaim'd, when the story was finally ended;
‘Dolly's in wonderful luck, getting a sweetheart like you!
‘Who would ha' thought it o' you, to be choosing a rough farm-servant,
‘One as is base-born, too! Not as I blame her for that:
‘'Tisn't her fault, poor thing! An' I will say this for our Dolly,
‘She is a rare good lass—hardworking, honest, and true:
‘But, she's a servant, you know: Mr. Robert, you might ha' done better—
‘Better a thousand times—ay, and wi' money, an' all!
‘Well, she's a handsome face, though I reckon its brown, to our Mary's;
‘Ay, and a kind heart too; that I would never deny!
‘Yes, and what is it to me, if you fancy a wench o' the kitchen?
‘Though she's been here from the first—born in our garret, you know—
‘Born? Ay, and been like a child, like our own, to me an' my master;
‘All her life, you may say: scarce like a servant at all!
‘Still, I've no call to say No; how should I? she isn't my daughter:
‘Betsy, her mother, is dead: as for the father, who knows?
‘I know him, though, who he is; he's a gentleman, that you may swear to—
‘Dolly herself shows that, everywhere—even her hands—
‘But, if I catch him again, if I ever set eyes upo’ that man,
‘He shall ha' something fro' me—some little piece o' my mind!
‘Well—for this sweethearting job: deary me, I was almost forgetting—
‘So, you've a mind to be wed soon, when the winter comes on?
‘Spare her, said you? If I know I never shall get such another,
‘What can I do but spare? If you must have her, you must!’—
So it was settled; and he, springing up from his chair, in the moonlight,
Thank'd her with heartfelt words; squeezed her warm hand in his own.
‘Nay, never thank me! She's free, and somebody 'd sure to ha' had her;
‘And, she'll be appy wi' you: you'll make her happy, I know.’
Dorothy knew not a note—knew not what melody means;
Yet she could sing—in church; and doubtless, doubtless, to-morrow
She will be carolling loud, light'ning her labour with song.
But for to-day, 'twas enough to lean on his breast and be thankful:
Wondering if it were true, if she were really his own:
Till, in the heart of her joy, in the midst of that tender endearment,
She was reminded that Love is but a stranger on earth;
She, so transfigured, refined, to a loftier level of being,
Fell in a moment, alas! down to her kitchen again.
For there were voices and lights, and Missis herself in the doorway,
Over the wide farmyard calling to some one aloud,
‘Where can the wench have gone? She's never come back from the cows yet!
‘Something's amiss, I'll be bound; 'tisn't like Dolly, at all!’
Then they both started, those two, where they stood in the dusk by the hayricks:
‘Oh, Mr. Robert,’ she cried, ‘Missis is talking o' me!
‘I never thought o' the time—I must run, I haven't a minute—
‘Oh, but to leave you out here, all in the dark, and alone!’—
‘Never you fret about me,’ and he kiss'd her lips as he loosed her;
‘Leave me alone, lass, for that; I shall be here again soon:
‘Run, Dolly, run—’ and she ran, through the gate, through the yard, through the back-door
Into the kitchen; and there, blushing, awaited her doom.
‘Dolly,’ said Missis, ‘I say! what's matter? what makes thee so late, girl?’
But, as the culprit paused, framing some feeble reply,
52
Door never open'd at all, save on a company day!
‘Mercy! What's that?’ cried the dame; ‘one 'ud think they was banging the house down.
‘Happen, my Lady is ill—maybe, the Castle's a-fire!
‘Ay, it's bad news, I'll awand!’ and she flew to discover the wonder,
Leaving poor Dolly alone, trembling at such a reprieve.
Mary had run for the door, but her mother achieved it before her;
Crying ‘Who's there?’ till the bolts gave at the voice of a friend.
‘Why, Mr. Robert! Good Lord, is it you, 'at we thought was in Scotland?
‘Fraying a body like this! What, is there anything wrong?’
‘Nay, nothing wrong,’ said the swain, ‘if so be as you take to it kindly—’
‘Kindly be shiver'd! Come in—Master shall welcome you home.’
‘No, not the Master! It's you, only you, as I wanted to speak to,
‘If you can spare me the time, just a few minutes, alone.’
So they went into the room, the prim little calico parlour,
Kept like a raree-show; sacred to holiday times.
There, in the dark (but the moon shone lovingly in through the window)
Robin unburden'd his mind; spake of his Dolly, at last:
Spake with a faltering tongue; for he privily thought that Miss Mary—
Or, 'twas her mother, perhaps—squinted a little on him:
But, as the tale went on, his heart and his masculine courage
Rose with the theme, and he spake fearless and frank, like a man.
‘So,’ at the last he said, ‘if you think you could any ways spare her,
‘We might be wed very soon—leastways, in winter, I mean.
‘Dolly's a woman grown; and me, why I'm close upon thirty,
‘Time to be wed! and, you know, I can afford her a home.’
All through his tale, ill at ease, making brief exclamations of wonder,
Lifting her hands and her eyes, sat the incredulous dame;
Now a believer, at length, in the truth of his misplaced affection;
Now a believer; and yet marvelling how it could be.
53
‘Dolly's in wonderful luck, getting a sweetheart like you!
‘Who would ha' thought it o' you, to be choosing a rough farm-servant,
‘One as is base-born, too! Not as I blame her for that:
‘'Tisn't her fault, poor thing! An' I will say this for our Dolly,
‘She is a rare good lass—hardworking, honest, and true:
‘But, she's a servant, you know: Mr. Robert, you might ha' done better—
‘Better a thousand times—ay, and wi' money, an' all!
‘Well, she's a handsome face, though I reckon its brown, to our Mary's;
‘Ay, and a kind heart too; that I would never deny!
‘Yes, and what is it to me, if you fancy a wench o' the kitchen?
‘Though she's been here from the first—born in our garret, you know—
‘Born? Ay, and been like a child, like our own, to me an' my master;
‘All her life, you may say: scarce like a servant at all!
‘Still, I've no call to say No; how should I? she isn't my daughter:
‘Betsy, her mother, is dead: as for the father, who knows?
‘I know him, though, who he is; he's a gentleman, that you may swear to—
‘Dolly herself shows that, everywhere—even her hands—
‘But, if I catch him again, if I ever set eyes upo’ that man,
‘He shall ha' something fro' me—some little piece o' my mind!
‘Well—for this sweethearting job: deary me, I was almost forgetting—
‘So, you've a mind to be wed soon, when the winter comes on?
‘Spare her, said you? If I know I never shall get such another,
‘What can I do but spare? If you must have her, you must!’—
So it was settled; and he, springing up from his chair, in the moonlight,
Thank'd her with heartfelt words; squeezed her warm hand in his own.
‘Nay, never thank me! She's free, and somebody 'd sure to ha' had her;
‘And, she'll be appy wi' you: you'll make her happy, I know.’
Dolly meanwhile, left alone, was standing forlorn in the kitchen;
Too much excited to work—too overjoy'd to sit down.
Tearful and silent, she stood; leaning back on the old oak dresser;
Folding her hands on her lap, waiting again for her doom.
Enter to her, unannounced, with a smile full of meaning, Miss Mary:
Springs to her side, to her cheek: gives her a sisterly kiss!
That was an honour, of course—young Missis a-kissing the servant:
Dorothy felt it, and blush'd: ‘Thank you, Miss Mary,’ she said—
‘Thank you—I know you mean well; but I'd liefer it hadn't have happen'd.’
‘Happen'd? Why, what?’ cried the girl; ‘how did you know he was here?’
‘Here!’ scream'd poor Dolly, ‘What, now? Mr. Robert has come to the house, then?’
‘Ay, that he has! An' what's more, mother herself let him in!
‘Yes, she has got him alone, their two sweet selves in the parlour;
‘Talking—you know what about: all about sweethearts, an' you.
‘Didn't I tell you he'd come? An' didn't I say he was faithful?
‘Tell me now—wasn't it him kept you so long out o' doors?’
‘Yes, it was him—it was him—I never expected to meet him:
‘Oh, what a trouble it is, being so happy as this!’
‘Trouble, you fainthearted wench? What, a trouble to marry your sweetheart?
‘That's what it's coming to, now; mother is sure to give in;
‘And you deserve him, you do—’ ‘Oh no!’ interrupted our Dolly—
‘Yes, you deserve him, I say—never you tell me you don't!
‘So, you'll be happy at last: and won't we all come to your wedding!
‘Come to your wedding, said I? Nay, you'll be married from here.’
Thus they discoursed; and anon, the door being furtively open'd,
Enter bold Robin himself—smiling, successful, and shy:
Shy, when he saw who was there; and it would have been certainly awkward,
But that Miss Mary advanced—Nature instructed her so—
Gracious, with offer'd hand, and said, ‘Well indeed, Mr. Robert!
‘Why did you keep it so close? You might ha' trusted us all!’
Soothed by her tact—for it show'd she was not disappointed, nor jealous—
Robert shook hands like a friend; thank'd her, and tried to explain:
But she withdrew; for she said, ‘Two's company, isn't it, Dolly?
‘Three isn't wanted just now: so, Mr. Robert, good-night!’
Lightly she left them alone, like a wise and sensible maiden:
So did her mother, awhile: so will we too, if you please!
For there's another thing still, one more little episode wanting,
Ere we can leave them for good,—husband (it may be) and wife.
Too much excited to work—too overjoy'd to sit down.
54
Folding her hands on her lap, waiting again for her doom.
Enter to her, unannounced, with a smile full of meaning, Miss Mary:
Springs to her side, to her cheek: gives her a sisterly kiss!
That was an honour, of course—young Missis a-kissing the servant:
Dorothy felt it, and blush'd: ‘Thank you, Miss Mary,’ she said—
‘Thank you—I know you mean well; but I'd liefer it hadn't have happen'd.’
‘Happen'd? Why, what?’ cried the girl; ‘how did you know he was here?’
‘Here!’ scream'd poor Dolly, ‘What, now? Mr. Robert has come to the house, then?’
‘Ay, that he has! An' what's more, mother herself let him in!
‘Yes, she has got him alone, their two sweet selves in the parlour;
‘Talking—you know what about: all about sweethearts, an' you.
‘Didn't I tell you he'd come? An' didn't I say he was faithful?
‘Tell me now—wasn't it him kept you so long out o' doors?’
‘Yes, it was him—it was him—I never expected to meet him:
‘Oh, what a trouble it is, being so happy as this!’
‘Trouble, you fainthearted wench? What, a trouble to marry your sweetheart?
‘That's what it's coming to, now; mother is sure to give in;
‘And you deserve him, you do—’ ‘Oh no!’ interrupted our Dolly—
‘Yes, you deserve him, I say—never you tell me you don't!
‘So, you'll be happy at last: and won't we all come to your wedding!
‘Come to your wedding, said I? Nay, you'll be married from here.’
Thus they discoursed; and anon, the door being furtively open'd,
Enter bold Robin himself—smiling, successful, and shy:
Shy, when he saw who was there; and it would have been certainly awkward,
But that Miss Mary advanced—Nature instructed her so—
Gracious, with offer'd hand, and said, ‘Well indeed, Mr. Robert!
‘Why did you keep it so close? You might ha' trusted us all!’
Soothed by her tact—for it show'd she was not disappointed, nor jealous—
Robert shook hands like a friend; thank'd her, and tried to explain:
But she withdrew; for she said, ‘Two's company, isn't it, Dolly?
‘Three isn't wanted just now: so, Mr. Robert, good-night!’
55
So did her mother, awhile: so will we too, if you please!
For there's another thing still, one more little episode wanting,
Ere we can leave them for good,—husband (it may be) and wife.
END OF BOOK II.
| Dorothy | |