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_ ACT III - SCENE I
Two days have passed by.
It is morning. CLARA, wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head, sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief. MAGGIE, who is dusting the plates on the dressers, pauses to watch her.
MAGGIE.
I'd sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor have to set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you.
CLARA.
I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine.
MAGGIE.
I count 'tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a young miss such as yourn be.
CLARA.
What makes you say that, Maggie?
MAGGIE.
Missis be very high in her ways and powerful sharp in the tongue, but I declare as your young lady will be worser nor missis when she do come to that age.
CLARA.
Why do you think this, Mag?
MAGGIE.
O she do look at any one as though they was lower nor the very worms in the ground. And her speaks as though each word did cost she more nor a shilling to bring it out. And see how destructive she be with her fine clothing. A laced petticoat tore to ribbons last night, and to-day yon handkerchief.
CLARA.
These things are soon mended.
[MAGGIE continues to dust for a few moments.]
MAGGIE.
The day you comed here, 'twas a bit of ribbon as you did have around of your hair.
CLARA.
[After a moment's hesitation.]
I put it on to keep my hair neat on the journeying.
MAGGIE.
[Coming nearer.]
I count as you've not missed it, have you?
CLARA.
Indeed I have, and I think I must have lost it in the hayfield.
MAGGIE.
'Tain't lost.
CLARA.
Where is it then?
MAGGIE.
Look here, I could tell you, but I shan't.
CLARA.
If you have found it, Maggie, you may keep it.
MAGGIE.
'Twould be a fine thing to be a grand serving maid as you be, and to give away ribbons, so 'twould.
[CLARA takes no notice of her and goes on sewing.]
MAGGIE.
[More insistently.]
'Twasn't me as found the ribbon.
CLARA.
Who was it then?
MAGGIE.
I daresay you'd like for to know, but I'm not going to say nothing more about it.
[MAGGIE leans against the table watching CLARA as she sews.]
[EMILY with both the children now come in. EMILY carries a basket of potatoes, and JESSIE a large bowl.]
EMILY.
[Setting down the basket.]
Maggie, you idle, bad girl, whatever are you doing here when master expects you down in the meadow to help with the raking?
MAGGIE.
I be just a-going off yonder, mistress.
EMILY.
I'd thank other folk not to bring dressed up fine young serving minxes down here--you was bad enough afore, Maggie, but you'll be a hundred times worser now.
MAGGIE.
I'll be off and help master. I've been and put the meat on to boil as you said, missis.
[MAGGIE goes off.]
[CLARA continues to sew, quietly. JESSIE has put her bowl down on the table, and now comes to her side. ROBIN also comes close to her. EMILY flings herself into a chair for a moment and contemptuously watches them.]
JESSIE.
We don't care much about our new aunt, Joan.
ROBIN.
Dad said as how Aunt would be sure to bring us sommat good from London town in them great boxes.
JESSIE.
And Aunt has been here two days and more, and she hasn't brought us nothing.
EMILY.
Your fine aunt have been too much took up with her fancy gentlemen to think of what would be suitable behaviour towards you children.
JESSIE.
Will Aunt Clara get married soon?
EMILY.
'Tis to be hoped as she will be. Such a set out in the house I have never seen afore in all my days. Young women as is hale and hearty having their victuals took up to their rooms and a-lying in bed till 'tis noon or later.
JESSIE.
'Tis only one of them as lies in bed.
ROBIN.
[To CLARA.]
Do you think Aunt has got sommat for us upstairs, Joan?
CLARA.
[Rising and putting down her work.]
I know she has, Robin.
EMILY.
Don't let me catch you speaking to Master Spring as though you and he was of the same station, young person.
CLARA.
Master Robin, and Miss Jessie, I will go upstairs and fetch the gifts that your aunt has brought for you.
[She goes leisurely towards the staircase door, smiling at the children.]
EMILY.
Ah, and you may tell your young madam that 'tis high time as she was out of bed and abroad. Hear that?
[CLARA goes out.]
JESSIE.
I like her. She speaks so gentle. Not like Aunt.
EMILY.
She's a stuck up sort of fine lady herself like. Look at the hands of her, 'tis not a day's hard work as they have done in her life, I'll warrant.
ROBIN.
What will she bring us from out of the great boxes, do you think?
EMILY.
Sommat what you don't need, I warrant. 'Tis always so. When folks take it into their heads to give you aught, 'tis very nigh always sommat which you could do better without.
[EMILY gets up and begins settling the pots on the fire, and fetching a jug of cold water from the back kitchen and a knife which she lays on the table.]
[CLARA enters carrying some parcels. She brings them to the table. Both the children run to her.]
CLARA.
[Holding out a long parcel to EMILY and speaking to the children.]
The first is for your mother, children.
EMILY.
[With an angry exclamation.]
Now, you mark my words, 'twill be sommat as I shall want to fling over the hedge for all the use 'twill be.
[She comes near, opens the parcel and perceives it to be a length of rich black silk.]
CLARA.
My mistress thought it might be suitable.
EMILY.
Suitable? I'll suitable her. When shall my two hands find time to sew me a gown out of it, I'd like to know? And if 'twas sewn, when would my limbs find time to sit down within of it?
[Flinging it down on the table.]
Suitable? You can tell your mistress from me as she can keep her gifts to herself if she can't do better nor this.
JESSIE.
[Stroking the silk.]
O Mother, the feel of it be softer nor a dove's feather.
ROBIN.
[Feeling it too.]
'Tis better nor the new kittens' fur.
EMILY.
Let us see if your aunt have done more handsomely towards you children.
CLARA.
I am afraid not. These coral beads are for Miss Jessie, with her aunt's dear love. And this book of pictures is for Master Robin.
JESSIE.
[Seizing the beads with delight.]
I love a string of beads.
[Putting them on.]
How do they look on me?
EMILY.
Off with them this moment. I'll learn her to give strings of rubbish to my child.
JESSIE.
[Beginning to cry.]
O do let me wear it just a little while, just till dinner, Mother.
EMILY.
Have done with that noise. Off with it at once, do you hear.
JESSIE.
[Taking the necklace off.]
I love the feel of it--might I keep it in my hand then?
EMILY.
[Seizing it.]
'Twill be put by with the silk dress. So there. 'Tis not a suitable thing for a little girl like you.
ROBIN.
[Looking up from the pages of his book.]
No one shan't take my book from me. There be pictures of great horses and sheep and cows in it--and no one shan't hide it from me.
EMILY.
[Putting the silk dress and necklace on another table.]
Next time your aunt wants to throw her money into the gutter I hope as she'll ask me to come and see her a-doing of it.
JESSIE.
[Coming up to CLARA very tearfully.]
And was there naught for Dad in the great box?
CLARA.
Perhaps there may be.
ROBIN.
And did Aunt Clara bring naught for Georgie?
CLARA.
I don't know.
JESSIE.
Poor Georgie. He never has nothing gived him.
ROBIN.
And Mother puts the worst of the bits on his plate at dinner.
EMILY.
[Sharply.]
Look you here, young woman. Suppose you was to take and do something useful with that idle pair of hands as you've got.
CLARA.
Yes, mistress, I should like to help you in something.
EMILY.
Us knows what fine promises lead to.
CLARA.
But I mean it.
Do let me help a little.
EMILY.
See them taters?
CLARA.
Yes.
EMILY.
Take and peel and wash them and get them ready against when I wants to cook them.
CLARA.
[A little doubtfully.]
Yes--I'll--I'll try -
EMILY.
Ah, 'tis just as I thought. You're one of them who would stir the fire with a silver spoon rather nor black their hands with the poker.
CLARA.
[Eagerly.]
No, no--it isn't that. I'll gladly do them. Come, Miss Jessie, you will shew me if I do them wrongly, won't you?
JESSIE.
O yes, I'll help you because I like you, Joan.
ROBIN.
I'll help too, when I have finished looking at my book.
[EMILY goes out. CLARA sits down by the table and takes up a potato and the knife and slowly and awkwardly sets to work. JESSIE stands by her watching.
JESSIE.
You mustn't take no account of Mother when she speaks so sharp. 'Tis only her way.
ROBIN.
Could you come and be our serving maid when Maggie's sent off?
CLARA.
O I should be too slow and awkward at the work, I think.
JESSIE.
Yes, you don't do them taters very nice.
ROBIN.
That don't matter, I like you, and you can tell me fine things about other parts.
JESSIE.
Georgie can tell of fine things too. See, there he comes with the vegetables from the garden.
[GEORGE comes in with a large basket of vegetables, which he sets down in the back kitchen. Then he stands at the door, silently watching the group near the table.]
JESSIE.
Come here, Georgie, and let Joan hear some of the tales out of what you do sing.
GEORGE.
What would mistress say if she was to catch me at my songs this time of day?
JESSIE.
Mother's gone upstairs, she won't know nothing.
ROBIN.
Come you here, George, and look at my fine book what Aunt have brought me.
GEORGE.
[Slowly approaching the table.]
That be a brave, fine book of pictures, Master Robin.
ROBIN.
[Holding up the open book.]
I don't fancy Aunt Clara much, but I likes her better nor I did because of this book.
[GEORGE'S eyes wander from the book to CLARA as she bends over her work.]
JESSIE.
Joan doesn't know how to do them very nicely, does she George!
GEORGE.
'Tis the first time you've been set down to such work, may be, mistress.
JESSIE.
You mustn't say "mistress" to Joan, you know. Why, Mother would be ever so angry if she was to hear you. Joan's only a servant.
CLARA.
[Looking up.]
Like you, George.
GEORGE.
[Steadily.]
What I was saying is--'Tis the first time as you have been set afore a bowl of taters like this.
CLARA.
You are right, George. It is the first time since--since I was quite a little child. And I think I'm very clumsy at my work.
GEORGE.
No one could work with them laces a-falling down all over their fingers.
JESSIE.
You should turn back your sleeves for kitchen work, Joan, same as Maggie does.
GEORGE.
Yes, you should turn back your sleeves, Miss Joan.
[JOAN puts aside the knife and basket, turns back her sleeves, and then resumes her work. GEORGE'S eyes are rivetted on her hands and arms for a moment. Then he turns as though to go away.]
JESSIE.
Don't go away, Georgie. Come and tell us how you like Aunt Clara now that she's growed into such a grand lady.
GEORGE.
[Coming back to the table.]
I don't like nothing about her, Miss Jessie.
JESSIE.
Is Aunt very much changed from when she did use to ride the big horses to the trough, Georgie?
ROBIN.
And from the time when th' old gander did take a big piece right out of her arm, Georgie?
GEORGE.
[His eyes on CLARA'S bent head.]
I count her be wonderful changed, like.
JESSIE.
So that you would scarce know her?
GEORGE.
So that I should scarce know she.
JESSIE.
She have brought Mother a silken gown and me a string of coral beads. But naught for you, Georgie.
GEORGE.
I reckon as Miss Clara have not kept me in her remembrance like.
CLARA.
[With sudden earnestness.]
O that she has, George.
JESSIE.
She didn't seem to know him by her looks.
CLARA.
Looks often speak but poorly for the heart.
ROBIN.
[Who has been watching CLARA.]
See there, Joan. You've been and cut that big tater right in half. Mother will be cross.
CLARA.
O dear, I am thoughtless. One cannot work and talk at the same time.
GEORGE.
[Taking basket and knife from her and seating himself on the edge of the table.]
Here,--give them all to me. I understand such work, and 'tis clear that you do not. I'll finish them off in a few minutes, and mistress will never be the wiser.
CLARA.
O thank you, George, but am I to go idle?
GEORGE.
You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a mind. 'Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job.
[CLARA puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework.
JESSIE.
Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters.
GEORGE.
No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day.
JESSIE.
You ask him, Joan.
CLARA.
Will not you sing one little verse, George?
GEORGE.
Nay--strangers from London town would have no liking for the songs we sing down here among the fields.
CLARA.
There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me very well.
JESSIE.
What was it called?
CLARA.
I cannot remember the name--but there was something of bushes and of briars in it.
JESSIE.
I know which that is. 'Tis a pretty song. Sing it, Georgie.
GEORGE.
Nay--sing it yourself, Miss Jessie.
JESSIE.
'Tis like this at the beginning.
--[she sings or repeats] -
"Through bushes and through briars
I lately took my way,
All for to hear the small birds sing
And the lambs to skip and play."
CLARA.
That is the song I was thinking of, Jessie.
GEORGE.
Can you go on with it, Miss Jessie.
JESSIE.
I can't say any more.
CLARA.
[Gently singing or speaking.]
I overheard my own true love,
Her voice it was so clear.
"Long time I have been waiting for
The coming of my dear."
GEORGE.
[Heaving a sigh.]
That's it.
JESSIE.
Go on, Joan, I do like the sound of it.
CLARA.
Shall I go on with the song, George?
GEORGE.
As you please.
CLARA.
"Sometimes I am uneasy
And troubled in my mind,
Sometimes I think I'll go to my love
And tell to him my mind."
"And if I would go to my love
My love he will say nay
If I show to him my boldness
He'll ne'er love me again."
JESSIE.
When her love was hid a-hind of the bushes and did hear her a-singing so pitiful, what did he do then?
CLARA.
I don't know, Jessie.
JESSIE.
I reckon as he did come out to show her as he knowed all what she did keep in her mind.
CLARA.
Very likely the briars were so thick between them, Jess, that he never got to the other side for her to tell him.
GEORGE.
Yes, that's how 'twas, I count.
JESSIE.
[Running up to ROBIN.]
I'm going to look at your book along of you, Robin.
ROBIN.
But I'm the one to turn the leaves, remember.
[The children sit side by side looking at the picture book. CLARA sews. GEORGE goes on with the potatoes. As the last one is finished and tossed into the water, he looks at CLARA for the first time. A long silence.]
GEORGE.
Miss Clara and me was good friends once on a time.
CLARA.
Tell me how it was then, George.
GEORGE.
I did used to put her on the horse's back, and we would go down to the water trough in the evening time and -
CLARA.
What else did you and Miss Clara do together, George?
GEORGE.
Us would walk in the woods aside of one another--And I would lift she to a high branch in a tree--and pretend for to leave her there.
CLARA.
And then?
GEORGE.
Her would call upon me pitiful--and I would come back from where I was hid.
CLARA.
And did her crying cease?
GEORGE.
She would take and spring as though her was one of they little wild squirrels as do dance about in the trees.
CLARA.
Where would she spring to, George?
GEORGE.
I would hold out my two arms wide to her, and catch she.
CLARA.
And did she never fall, whilst springing from the tree, George?
GEORGE.
I never let she fall, nor get hurted by naught so long as her was in the care of me.
CLARA.
[Slowly, after a short pause.]
I do not think she can have forgotten those days, George.
GEORGE.
[Getting up and speaking harshly.]
They're best forgot. Put them away. There be briars and brambles and thorns and sommat of all which do hurt the flesh of man atween that time and this'n.
[CLARA turns her head away and furtively presses her handkerchief to her eyes. GEORGE looks gloomily on the floor. EMILY enters.]
EMILY.
George, what are you at sitting at the kitchen table I'd like to know?
[GEORGE gets hastily off. Both children look up from their book.]
EMILY.
[Looking freezingly at CLARA.]
'Tis plain as a turnpike what you've been after, young person. If you was my serving wench, 'tis neck and crop as you should be thrown from the door.
CLARA.
What for, mistress?
EMILY.
What for? You have the impudence to ask what for? I'll soon tell you. For making a fool of George and setting your cap at him and scandalising of my innocent children in their own kitchen.
GEORGE.
This be going a bit too far, missis. I'll not have things said like that.
EMILY.
Then you may turn out on to the roads where you were took from--a grizzling little roadsters varmint. You do cost more'n what you eats nor what we get of work from out of your body, you great hulk.
CLARA.
[Springing up angrily.]
O I'll not hear such things said. I'll not.
EMILY.
Who asked you to speak? Get you upstairs and pull your mistress out of bed--and curl the ringlets of her hair and dust the flour on to her face. 'Tis about all you be fit for.
CLARA.
[Angrily going to the stair door.]
Very well. 'Tis best that I should go. I might say something you would not like.
GEORGE.
[Advancing towards EMILY.]
Look you here, mistress. I've put up with it going on for fifteen years. But sometimes 'tis almost more nor I can bear. If 'twasn't for Master Thomas I'd have cleared out this long time ago.
EMILY.
Don't flatter yourself as Thomas needs you, my man.
GEORGE.
We has always been good friends, farmer and me. 'Tis not for what I gets from he nor for what he do get out of I as we do hold together. But 'tis this--as he and I do understand one another.
EMILY.
We'll see what master has to say when I tell him how you was found sitting on the kitchen table and love-making with that saucy piece of London trash.
GEORGE.
I'm off. I've no patience to listen any longer. You called me roadster varmint. Well, let it be so. On the road I was born and on the road I was picked from my dead mother's side, and I count as 'tis on the road as I shall breathe my last. But for all that, I'll not have road dirt flung on me by no one. For, roadsters varmint though I be, there be things which I do hold brighter nor silver and cleaner nor new opened leaves, and I'll not have defilement throwed upon them.
EMILY.
[Seizing the arms of JESSIE and ROBIN.]
The lad's raving. 'Tis plain as he's been getting at the cider. Come you off with me to the haymaking, Robin and Jess.
ROBIN.
May I take my book along of me?
EMILY.
[Flinging the book down violently.]
I'll book you! What next?
JESSIE.
Poor Georgie. He was not courting Joan, mother. He was only doing the taters for her.
EMILY.
[As they go out.]
The lazy good-for-nothing cat. I'll get her packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don't.
[GEORGE is left alone in the kitchen. When all sounds of EMILY and the children have died away, he sighs. Then, looking furtively round the room, he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket. He spreads it out on one hand and stands looking down on it, sadly and longingly. Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it. Just as he is doing this THOMAS comes into the room.]
THOMAS.
Why, George, my lad.
GEORGE.
[Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket.]
Yes, Master Thomas.
THOMAS.
[Looking meaningly at GEORGE.]
'Tis a pretty enough young maid, George.
GEORGE.
What did you say, Master?
THOMAS.
That one with the bit of blue round the head of her.
GEORGE.
Blue?
THOMAS.
Ah, George. I was a young man myself once on a time.
GEORGE.
Yes, master.
THOMAS.
'Twasn't a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but 'twas a blossom dropped from her gown.
GEORGE.
Whose gown, master? I'll warrant 'twasn't missus's.
THOMAS.
Bless my soul, no. No, no, George. 'Twasn't the mistress then.
GEORGE.
Ah, I count as it could not have been she.
THOMAS.
First love, 'tis best, George.
GEORGE.
Ah, upon my word, that 'tis.
THOMAS.
But my maid went and got her married to another.
GEORGE.
More's the pity, Master Thomas.
THOMAS.
[Sighing.]
Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been-- with her and me, like.
GEORGE.
Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master?
THOMAS.
Soft and sweet as the field lark, George.
GEORGE.
Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master Thomas.
THOMAS.
Ah, George, don't you never run into the trap, no matter whether 'tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on. Once in, never out. There 'tis.
GEORGE.
No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master. I baint worth trapping.
THOMAS.
You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty baggage from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had the fortune.
GEORGE.
No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint nothing.
THOMAS.
There be a piece of blue ribbon, George.
GEORGE.
They be coming down and into the room now, master. [Steps are heard in the staircase.
THOMAS.
We'll off to the meadow then, George.
[GEORGE and THOMAS go out.]
[JOAN, dressed as a lady of fashion, and followed by CLARA, comes into the kitchen.]
CLARA.
Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, and let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more easy and natural when you are in the air.
JOAN.
O I'm very nigh dead with fright when I'm within doors. 'Tis so hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at table 'tis worst of all.
CLARA.
You've stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the headache, and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood.
JOAN.
But to-night 'twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have asked them both to supper again.
CLARA.
Luke Jenner and the other man?
JOAN.
I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time, mistress.
CLARA.
That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, and then I will shew you how it is to be eaten.
JOAN.
And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, what have I got to say to him?
CLARA.
O, I shouldn't trouble about that. I'd open my fan and take no notice if I were you.
JOAN.
I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, mistress. And with the children, too.
CLARA.
Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your way with the children.
JOAN.
I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with them.
CLARA.
That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, Joan. Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner here and there.
JOAN.
[With a heavy sigh.]
'Tis the here and the there as I finds it so hard to manage.
JESSIE.
[Running in breathlessly.]
A letter, a letter for Aunt Clara.
[CLARA involuntarily puts out her hand.]
No, Joan. I was to give it to Aunt Clara herself. I've run all the way.
[JOAN slowly takes the letter, looking confused.]
JESSIE.
Will you read it now, Aunt?
JOAN.
Run away, little girl, I don't want no children worriting round me now.
[Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to speak brightly.]
I mean--no, my dear little girl, I'd rather wait to read it till I'm by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, my pet.
JESSIE.
O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much.
JOAN.
Never mind. Run along back to mother, there's a sweet little maid.
JESSIE.
I'd sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like.
CLARA.
[Taking JESSIE'S hand and leading her to the door.]
Now, Miss Jessie, your aunt must read her letter in quiet, but if you will come back presently I will have a game with you outside.
JESSIE.
[As she runs off.]
Mother won't let me talk with you any more, alone. She says as you've made a fool of Georgie and you'll do the same by us all.
JOAN.
[When JESSIE has run off.]
There now, how did I do that, mistress?
CLARA.
Better, much better.
JOAN.
'Tis the feeling of one thing and the speaking of another, with you ladies and gentlemen. So it appears to me.
CLARA.
[After a moment's thought.]
No. It is not quite like that. But 'tis, perhaps, the dressing up of an ugly feeling in better garments.
JOAN.
[Handing the letter to CLARA.]
There, mistress, 'tis yours, not mine.
CLARA.
[Glancing at it.]
Lord Lovel's writing.
[CLARA opens the letter and reads it through.]
He will not wait longer for my answer. And he is coming here as fast as horses can bring him.
JOAN.
O, mistress, whatever shall we do?
CLARA.
We had better own to everything at once. It will save trouble in the end.
JOAN.
Own to everything now, and lose all just as my hand was closing upon it, like!
CLARA.
Poor Joan, it will not make any difference in the end, if the man loves you truly.
JOAN.
Be kind and patient just to the evening, mistress. Hooper is coming up to see me now. I'd bring him to offer his self, if I was but left quiet along of him for a ten minutes or so.
CLARA.
And then, Joan?
JOAN.
And then, when was all fixed up comfortable between us, mistress, maybe as you could break it gently to him so as he wouldn't think no worse of me.
[CLARA gets up and goes to the window, where she looks out for a few minutes in silence. JOAN cries softly meanwhile.]
CLARA.
[Turning towards JOAN.]
As you will, Joan. Very likely 'twill be to-morrow morning before my lord reaches this place.
JOAN.
O bless you for your goodness, mistress. And I do pray as all may go as well with you as 'tis with me.
CLARA.
[Sadly.]
That is not likely, Joan.
JOAN.
What is it stands in the way, mistress?
CLARA.
Briars, Joan. Thorns of pride, and many another sharp and hurting thing.
JOAN.
Then take you my counsel, mistress, and have his lordship when he do offer next.
CLARA.
I'll think of what you say, Joan. There comes a moment when the heart is tired of being spurned, and it would fain get into shelter. [A slight pause.
JOAN.
[Looking through the window.]
Look up quickly, mistress. There's Hooper.
CLARA.
[Getting up.]
Then I'll run away. May all be well with you, dear Joan.
[CLARA goes out.]
[JOAN seats herself in a high-backed chair and opens her fan. MILES enters, carrying a small box.]
MILES.
Already astir, Miss Clara. 'Tis early hours to be sure for one of our London beauties.
[He advances towards her, and she stretches out her hand without rising. He takes it ceremoniously.]
JOAN.
You may sit down, if you like, Mister Hooper.
[MILES places a chair in front of JOAN, and sits down on it.]
MILES.
[Untying the parcel.]
I've been so bold as to bring you a little keepsake from my place in town, Missy.
JOAN.
How kind you are, Mister Miles.
MILES.
You'll be able to fancy yourself in Bond Street when you see it, Miss Clara.
JOAN.
Now, you do excite me, Mister Hooper.
MILES.
[Opening the box and taking out a handsome spray of bright artificial flowers.]
There, what do you say to that, Miss? And we can do you the same in all the leading tints.
JOAN.
O, 'tis wonderful modish. I declare I never did see anything to beat it up in town.
MILES.
Now I thought as much. I flatter myself that we can hold our own with the best of them in Painswick High Street.
JOAN.
I seem to smell the very scent of the blossoms, Mister Hooper.
[She puts out her hand shyly and takes the spray from MILES, pretending to smell it.]
MILES.
Well--and what's the next pleasure, Madam?
[JOAN drops the spray and begins to fan herself violently.]
MILES.
[Very gently.]
What's Missy's next pleasure?
JOAN.
I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Miles.
MILES.
Miles Hooper would like Missy to ask for all that is his.
JOAN.
O, Mister Hooper, how kind you are.
MILES.
Ladies never like the sound of business, so we'll set that aside for a moment and discuss the music of the heart in place of it.
JOAN.
Ah, that's a thing I do well understand, Mister Hooper.
MILES.
I loved you from the first, Miss. There's the true, high born lady for you, says I to myself. There's beauty and style, elegance and refinement.
JOAN.
Now, did you really think all that, Mister Hooper?
MILES.
Do not keep me in suspense, Miss Clara.
JOAN.
What about, sir?
MILES.
The answer to my question, Missy.
JOAN.
And what was that, I wonder?
MILES. I want my pretty Miss to take the name of Hooper. Will she oblige her Miles?
JOAN.
O that I will. With all my heart.
MILES.
[Standing up.]
I would not spoil this moment, but by and bye my sweet Missy shall tell me all the particulars of her income, and such trifles.
JOAN.
[Agitatedly.]
O let us not destroy to-day by thoughts of anything but our dear affection one for t'other.
MILES.
Why, my pretty town Miss is already becoming countrified in her speech.
JOAN.
'Tis from hearing all the family. But, dear Miles, promise there shan't be nothing but--but love talk between you and me this day. I could not bear it if we was to speak of, of other things, like.
MILES.
[Getting up and walking about the room.]
As you will--as you will. Anything to oblige a lady.
[He stops before the table, on which is laid EMILY'S silk dress, and begins to finger it.
JOAN.
What's that you're looking at?
MILES.
Ten or fifteen shillings the yard, and not a penny under, I'll be bound.
JOAN.
O do come and talk to me again and leave off messing with the old silk.
MILES.
No, no, Missy, I'm a man of business habits, and 'tis my duty to go straight off to the meadow and seek out brother Thomas. He and I have got to talk things over a bit, you know.
JOAN.
Off so soon! O you have saddened me.
MILES.
Nay, what is it to lose a few minutes of sweet company, when life is in front of us, Miss Clara?
[He raises her hand, kisses it, and leaves her. As he goes out by the door CLARA enters.]
JOAN.
O, Mistress--stop him going down to Farmer Thomas at the meadow!
CLARA.
Why, Joan, what has happened?
JOAN.
All has happened. But stop him going to the farmer to talk about the--the wedding and the money.
CLARA.
The money?
JOAN.
The income which he thinks I have.
CLARA.
I'll run, but all this time I've been keeping Master Luke Jenner quiet in the parlour.
JOAN.
O what does he want now?
CLARA.
Much the same as the other one wanted.
JOAN.
Must I see him?
CLARA.
Yes, indeed he will wait no longer for his answer. He's at boiling point already.
JOAN.
Then send him in. But do you run quickly, Miss Clara, and keep Miles Hooper from the farmer.
CLARA.
I'll run my best, never fear.
[She goes out.]
[LUKE JENNER comes in, a bunch of homely flowers in his hand.]
JOAN.
[Seating herself.]
You are early this morning, Mister Jenner.
LUKE.
[Sitting opposite to her.]
I have that to say which would not bide till sunset, Miss Clara.
JOAN.
Indeed, Mister Jenner. I wonder what that can be.
LUKE.
'Tis just like this, Miss Clara. The day I first heard as you was coming down here--"I could do with a rich wife if so be as I could win her," I did tell myself.
JOAN.
O, Mister Jenner, now did you really?
LUKE.
But when I met you in the wood--saw you sitting there, so still and yet so bright, so fine and yet so homely. "That's the maid for me," I says to myself.
JOAN.
[Tearfully.]
O, Mister Jenner!
LUKE.
And if it had been beggar's rags upon her in the place of satin, I'd have said the same.
JOAN.
[Very much stirred.]
O, Mister Jenner, and did you really think like that?
LUKE.
If all the gold that do lie atween me and you was sunk in the deep ocean, 'twould be the best as could happen. There!
JOAN.
[Faintly.]
O, Mister Jenner, why?
LUKE.
Because, very like 'twould shew to you as 'tis yourself I'm after and not the fortune what you've got.
JOAN.
Mister Jenner, I'm mighty sorry.
LUKE.
Don't say I'm come too late, Miss Clara.
JOAN.
You are. Mister Hooper was before you. And now, 'tis he and I who are like to be wed.
LUKE.
I might have known I had no chance.
JOAN.
[Rising and trying to hide her emotion.]
I wouldn't have had it happen so for the world, Mr. Jenner.
LUKE.
[Laying his bunch of flowers on the table, his head bent, and his eyes on the ground.]
'Twas none of your doing, Miss Clara. You've naught to blame yourself for. 'Tis not your fault as you're made so--so beautiful, and yet so homely.
[JOAN looks at him irresolutely for a moment and then precipitately leaves the room.]
[LUKE folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them in an attitude of deepest despondency. After a few moments CLARA enters.]
CLARA.
O, Mister Jenner, what has happened to you?
LUKE.
[Raising his head and pointing to the window.]
There she goes, through the garden with her lover.
CLARA.
I wish that you were in his place.
LUKE.
[Bitterly.]
I've no house with golden rails to offer her. Nor any horse and chaise.
CLARA.
But you carry a heart within you that is full of true love.
LUKE.
What use is the love which be fastened up in a man's heart and can spend itself on naught, I'd like to know.
[He rises as though to go and take up the bunch of flowers which has been lying on the table. Brokenly.]
I brought them for her. But I count as he'll have given her something better nor these.
[CLARA takes the flowers gently from his hand, and as she does so, EMILY enters.]
EMILY.
What now if you please! First with George and then with Luke. 'Twould be Thomas next if he wasn't an old sheep of a man as wouldn't know if an eye was cast on him or no. But I'll soon put a stop to all this. Shame on you, Luke Jenner. And you, you fine piece of London vanity, I wants my kitchen to myself, do you hear, so off with you upstairs.
[She begins to move violently about the kitchen as the curtain falls.] _
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