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_ ACT I
A woodland road outside MARY'S cottage. There are rough seats in the porch and in front of the window. Bunches of leaves and herbs hang drying around door and window. MARY is heard singing within.
MARY.
[Singing.]
I sowed the seeds of Love,
And I sowed them in the Spring.
I gathered them up in the morning so soon.
While the sweet birds so sweetly sing,
While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {1}
[Footnote 1: "The Seeds of Love," "Folk Songs from Somerset," edited by Cecil J. Sharp and Charles L. Marsden.]
[MARY comes out of the cottage, a bundle of enchanter's nightshade in her arms. She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes indoors.]
MARY.
[Singing.]
The violet I did not like,
Because it bloomed so soon;
The lily and the pink I really over think,
So I vowed I would wait till June,
So I vowed I would wait till June.
[During the singing LUBIN comes slowly and heavily along the road. He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his shoulder. In front of the cottage he pauses, looks round doubtfully, and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath the window.]
MARY.
[Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing.]
"For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot, Give it time, it will rise up again."
LUBIN.
[Looking up gloomily.]
And that it won't, mistress.
MARY.
[Suddenly perceiving him and coming out.]
O you are fair spent from journeying. Can I do anything for you, master?
LUBIN.
[Gazing at her fixedly.]
You speak kindly for a stranger, but 'tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me.
MARY.
[Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the house.]
See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There's medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir.
LUBIN.
There's not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that could cure the sickness I have within me.
MARY.
That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master.
LUBIN.
So 'tis. 'Tis love.
MARY.
Love?
LUBIN.
Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to another.
[ISABEL has been slowly approaching, she wears a cotton handkerchief over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm. Her movements are languid and sad.]
MARY.
I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love.
ISABEL.
[Coming forward and speaking earnestly.]
O tell me of them quickly, mistress.
MARY.
Why, are you sick of the same complaint?
ISABEL.
[Sinking down on the grass at MARY'S feet.]
So bruised and wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well have been a hundred miles or more.
LUBIN.
Framilode? 'Tis there you come from?
ISABEL.
I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry. Do you know the place, master?
LUBIN. [In deep gloom.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too.
MARY.
[Leaning forward and clasping her hands.]
Him as is there to- day, or him who was?
LUBIN.
He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year ago.
[ISABEL covers her face and is shaken by sobs. LUBIN leans his elbow on his knee, shading his eyes with his hand.]
MARY.
I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be given us for that.
ISABEL.
[Looking up.]
You be gentle in your voices mistress. 'Tis like when a quist do sing, as you speaks.
MARY.
Then do both of you tell your sorrow. 'Twill be strange if I do not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you.
LUBIN.
'Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred.
MARY.
Close up to Daniels yonder?
LUBIN.
The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I--we courted and was like to marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She would not take a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what you do see me now--just a day labourer.
ISABEL.
Mine, 'tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man and me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a powerful rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert. 'Twas he that 'ticed my lover off to foreign parts.
LUBIN.
[With a heavy sigh.]
These things are almost more than I can bear.
ISABEL.
At first he wrote his letters very often. Then 'twas seldom like. Then 'twas never. And then there comed a day--[She is interrupted by her weeping.
MARY.
Try to get out your story--you can let the tears run afterwards if you have a mind.
ISABEL.
There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol. He brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff with money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about to wed.
LUBIN.
Did he name the maid?
ISABEL.
Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel's mill up yonder.
LUBIN.
Rose-Anna--She with whom I was to have gone to church.
MARY.
Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose.
ISABEL.
O 'twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the riverside, him and me.
LUBIN.
She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday afternoon.
[A pause during which LUBIN and ISABEL seem lost in their own sad memories. MARY gets up softly and goes within the cottage.]
ISABEL.
And when I heared as 'twas to-morrow they were to wed, though 'twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day just for one look upon his face again.
LUBIN.
'Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so cruel false into mine.
ISABEL.
If I was to plead upon my knees to him 'twould do no good-- poor wench of a serving maid like me.
LUBIN.
[Looking down at himself.]
She'd spurn me from the door were I to stand there knocking--in the coat I have upon me now. No--let her go her way and wed her fancy man.
[LUBIN shades his eyes with one hand. ISABEL bows her head on her knees weeping. MARY comes out of the house carrying two glass bowls of water.
MARY.
Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh water from the spring will revive you from your travelling.
LUBIN.
[Looking up.]
The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, mistress.
ISABEL.
I could well lie me down and die.
[MARY giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink slowly.]
MARY.
I spoke as you do, once. My lover passed me by for another. A man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but 'tis the scarlet rose as takes his fancy come to-morrow.
ISABEL.
And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress?
MARY.
[Slowly.]
After many years.
LUBIN.
And could you wed you to another?
MARY.
[Still more slowly.]
Give the grass that has been trampled underfoot a bit of time, 'twill rise again. There's healing all around of us for every ill, did we but know it.
LUBIN.
I'd give sommat to know where 'tis then.
MARY.
There isn't a herb nor a leaf but what carries its message to them that are in pain.
ISABEL.
Give me a bloom that'll put me to sleep for always, mistress.
MARY.
There's evil plants as well, but 'tisn't a many. There's hen bane which do kill the fowls and fishes if they eat the seed of it. And there's water hemlock which lays dumbness upon man.
LUBIN.
I've heard them tell of that, I have.
MARY.
And of the good leaves there is hounds tongue. Wear it at the feet of you against dogs what be savage. Herb Benet you nail upon the door. No witch nor evil thing can enter to your house.
LUBIN.
And have you naught that can deaden the stab of love upon the heart, mistress
ISABEL.
[Speaking in anguish.]
Aught that can turn our faithless lovers back again to we?
MARY.
That I have. See these small packages--you that love Robert, take you this--and you who courted Rose-Anna, stretch out your hand.
[She puts a small paper packet into the hands of each.
LUBIN.
[Looking uncertainly at his packet.]
What'll this do for me, I'd like to know?
MARY.
'Tis an unfailing charm. A powder from roses, fine as dust, and another seed as well. You put it in her glass of water--and the love comes back to you afore next sun-rise.
ISABEL.
And will it be the same with I?
MARY.
You have the Herb of Robert there. Be careful of it. To- morrow at this hour, his heart will be all yours again, and you shall do what you will with it.
ISABEL.
O I can't believe in this. 'Tis too good to be true, and that it be--A fine gentleman as Robert be now and a poor little wretch like me!
LUBIN.
[Slowly.]
'Tis but a foolish dream like. How are folks like us to get mixing and messing with the drinks of they? Time was when I did sit and eat along of them at the table, the same as one of theirselves. But now! Why, they'd take and hound me away from the door.
ISABEL.
And me too.
MARY.
[Breaking off a spray of the enchanters nightshade from the bunch drying.]
That'll bring luck, may be.
[ISABEL takes it and puts it in her dress and then wraps the packet in her bundle. LUBIN puts his packet away also. Whilst they are doing this, MARY strolls a little way on the road.
MARY.
[Returning.]
The man from Daniels be coming along.
LUBIN.
[Hastily.]
What, old Andrews?
MARY.
No. This is another. Folk do marvel how Miller John do have the patience to keep in with him.
LUBIN.
How's that?
MARY.
So slow and heavy in his ways. But he can drink longer at the cider than any man in the county afore it do fly to his head, and that's why master do put up with him.
[JEREMY comes heavily towards them, a straw in his mouth. His hat is pushed to the back of his head. His expression is still and impassive. He comes straight towards MARY, then halts.]
MARY.
Come, Jeremy, I reckon 'tis not for rue nor tea of marjoram you be come here this morning?
JEREMY.
[Looking coldly and critically at the travellers and pointing to them.]
Who be they?
MARY.
Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest.
[JEREMY continues to look them all over in silence.]
MARY.
How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry?
JEREMY.
Powerful bad.
MARY.
O I am grieved to hear of it. What has happened?
[LUBIN and ISABEL lean forward, listening eagerly.]
JEREMY.
'Tis a pretty caddle, that's all.
MARY.
The mistress isn't took ill? or Miss Kitty?
JEREMY.
I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn't be none of this here marrying to-morrow.
MARY.
What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry?
JEREMY.
One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on.
MARY.
'Tis three you've got up there.
JEREMY.
There you're mistook. Th' idle wench and the lad be both away--off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of they. I be left with all upon me like, and 'tis too much.
MARY.
What shall you do, Jerry?
JEREMY.
I'll be blowed if I'm agoin' to do anything. There.
MARY.
But you'll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set the table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses and all, Jerry--seeing as you're the only one.
JEREMY.
I'll not. I'm not one as steps beyond my own work, and master do know it too.
MARY.
Then how are they going to manage?
JEREMY.
I'm out to find them as'll manage for them. [Turning sharply to LUBIN.] Be you in search of work, young man?
LUBIN.
I--I count as I've nothing particular in view.
JEREMY.
[Turning to ISABEL.]
And you, wench?
ISABEL.
[Faintly.]
I've gone from the place where I was servant.
JEREMY.
Then you'll come along of me--the both of you.
ISABEL.
[Shrinking.]
O no--I couldn't go among--among strangers.
JEREMY.
I never takes no count of a female's vapours. You'll come along of me. You'll curl the mistress's hair and lace her gown and keep her tongue quiet--and you [turning to LUBIN] my man, will set the tables and wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town this dinner-time.
LUBIN.
[Angrily.]
I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and I'll not start now.
JEREMY.
You will. I'm not agoin' a half mile further this warm morning. Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you.
MARY.
[Looking fixedly at ISABEL.]
This is a chance for you, my dear. You'll not find a better.
JEREMY.
Better? I count as you'll not better this'n. Good money for your pains--victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can drink on a summer's day. I count you'll not better that.
LUBIN.
[As though to himself.]
I could not go.
JEREMY.
Some cattle want a lot of driving.
ISABEL.
[Timidly to LUBIN.]
If I go, could not you try and come along with me, master?
LUBIN.
You'll never have the heart to go through with it.
JEREMY.
'Tis a fine fat heart as her has within of she. Don't you go and put fancies into the head of her.
ISABEL.
[To LUBIN.]
I'll go if so be as you'll come along of me too.
[LUBIN bends his head and remains thinking deeply.]
JEREMY.
'Tis thirsty work this hiring of men and wenches--I'll get me a drop of cider down at the Red Bull. Mayhap you'll be ready time I've finished.
MARY.
I'll see that you're not kept waiting, Jeremy.
JEREMY.
[Turning back after he has started.]
What be they called, Mary?
[MARY looks doubtfully towards LUBIN and ISABEL.]
ISABEL.
My name--they calls me Isabel.
JEREMY.
[Turning to LUBIN.]
And yourn?
LUBIN.
[In confusion.]
I don't rightly recollect.
JEREMY.
[Impassively.]
'Tis of no account, us'll call you William like the last one.
ISABEL.
O, and couldn't I be called like the last one too?
JEREMY.
Then us'll call you Lucy. And a rare bad slut her was, and doubtless you'll not prove much worser.
[He goes away.]
MARY.
This is your chance. A good chance too -
LUBIN.
They'll know the both of us. Love isn't never quite so dead but what a sound in the speech or a movement of the hand will bring some breath to it again.
ISABEL.
You're right there, master--sommat'll stir in the hearts of them when they sees we--and 'tis from the door as us'll be chased for masking on them like this.
MARY.
But not before the seeds of love have done their work. Come, Isabel; come, Lubin--I will so dress you that you shall not be recognised.
[MARY goes indoors. ISABEL slowly rises and takes up her bundle. LUBIN remains seated, looking gloomily before him.]
ISABEL.
Come, think what 'twill feel to be along of our dear loves and look upon the forms of them and hear the notes of their voices once again.
LUBIN.
That's what I am a-thinking of. 'Twill be hot iron drove right into the heart all the while. Ah, that's about it.
ISABEL.
I'll gladly bear the pain.
LUBIN.
[After a pause.]
Then so will I. We'll go.
[He raises his eyes to her face and then gets heavily up and follows her into the cottage.] _
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