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_ ACT II - SCENE I
A woodland path. GILES comes forward with his two servants, GEORGE and JOHN, who are carrying heavy packets.
GILES.
'Tis powerful warm to-day. We will take a bit of rest before we go further.
GEORGE.
[Setting down his packet.]
That's it, master. 'Tis a rare weight as I've been carrying across my back since dawn.
JOHN.
[Also setting down his burden.]
Ah, I be pleased for to lay aside yon. 'Tis wonderful heavy work, this journeying to and fro with gold and silver.
GILES.
Our travelling is very nigh finished. There lies the road which goes to Camel Farm.
GEORGE.
Oh, I count as that must be a rare sort of a place, master.
JOHN.
Seeing as us haven't stopped scarce an hour since us landed off the sea.
GEORGE.
But have come running all the while same as the fox may run in th' early morning towards the poultry yard.
JOHN.
Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th' insides of we.
GILES.
'Tis very little further that you have got to journey, my good lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring.
GEORGE.
And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master?
GILES.
'Tis the place out of all the world to me.
JOHN.
I count 'tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we be come from brave foreign parts, master.
GILES.
'Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie beneath the sun, my lads.
GEORGE.
That's good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be as fine as the place?
GILES.
O, you'll fare well enough yonder.
JOHN.
I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that was over there neither.
GILES.
Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the grandest roof that ever sheltered a man's head. And you shall sit at a table spread as you've not seen this many a year.
GEORGE.
That'll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our legs again.
JOHN.
I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that's the truth.
[The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees. GILES walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at any delay. From time to time he glances at a ring which he wears, sighing heavily as he does so.]
[An old man comes up, leaning on his staff.
OLD MAN.
Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen.
GILES.
Good-morning, master.
OLD MAN.
'Tis a wonderful warm sun to-day.
GILES.
You're right there, master.
OLD MAN.
I warrant as you be journeying towards the same place where I be going, my lord.
GILES.
And where is that, old master?
OLD MAN.
Towards Camel Farm.
GILES.
You're right. 'Tis there and nowhere else that we are going.
OLD MAN.
Ah, us'll have to go smartish if us is to be there in time.
GILES.
In time for what, my good man?
OLD MAN.
In time for to see the marrying, my lord.
GILES.
The marrying? What's that you're telling me?
OLD MAN.
'Tis at noon this day that she's to be wed.
GILES.
Who are you speaking of, old man?
OLD MAN.
And where is your lordship journeying this day if 'tis not to the marrying?
GILES.
Who's getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly?
OLD MAN.
'Tis th' old farmer's daughter what's to wed come noon- tide.
GILES.
[Starting.]
Millie! O that is heavy news.
[Looking at his hand.]
Then 'tis as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the brightness has all gone from out of the seven stones. That's how 'twould be, she told me once.
[He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind.]
GEORGE.
Us'll see no Camel Farm this day.
JOHN.
And th' inside of I be crying out for victuals.
OLD MAN.
Then you be not of these parts, masters?
GEORGE.
No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master.
JOHN.
Ah, 'tis a fine gentleman, master. But powerful misfortunate in things of the heart.
GEORGE.
Ah, he'd best have stopped where he was. Camel Farm baint no place for the like of he to go courting at.
JOHN.
Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold and marble with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that you might.
GEORGE.
All painted glass. And each chair with golden legs to him, and a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of after a night's drinking, old man. [GILES comes slowly towards them.
GILES.
And who is she to wed, old man?
OLD MAN.
Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, my lord?
GILES.
Yes. With whom does she go to church to-day?
OLD MAN.
'Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go. What lives up Cranham way.
GILES.
Ah, th' old farmer was always wonderful set on him.
[A pause.]
OLD MAN.
I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, master, and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water there, and the shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me at night time.
GILES.
What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that the heart of you be whole and unbroken?
OLD MAN.
Us poor old wretches don't carry no hearts to th' insides of we. The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and from the winter's cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind do moan over the fields, and when the fox do bark.
GILES.
What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter set against the cruel torment of a disappointed love?
OLD MAN.
I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did carry a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of them clean forgot.
GILES.
Then what do you up yonder at the marrying this morning?
OLD MAN.
Oh, I do take me to those places where there be burying or marriage, for the hearts of folk at these seasons be warmed and kinder, like. And 'tis bread and meat as I gets then. Food be thrown out to the poor old dog what waits patient at the door.
GILES.
[Looks intently at him for a moment.]
See here, old master. I would fain strike a bargain with you. And 'tis with a handful of golden pieces that I will pay your service.
OLD MAN.
Anything to oblige you, my young lord.
GILES.
[To GEORGE.]
Take out a handful from the bag of gold. And you, John, give him some of the silver.
[GEORGE and JOHN untie their bags and take out gold and silver. They twist it up in a handkerchief which they give to the old man.]
OLD MAN.
May all the blessings of heaven rest on you, my lord, for 'tis plain to see that you be one of the greatest and finest gentlemen ever born to the land.
GILES.
My good friend, you're wrong there, I was a poor country lad, but I had the greatest treasure that a man could hold on this earth. 'Twas the love of my cousin Millie. And being poor, I was put from out the home, and sent to seek my fortune in parts beyond the sea.
OLD MAN.
Now, who'd have thought 'twas so, for the looks of you be gentle born all over.
GILES.
"Come back with a bushel of gold in one hand and one of silver in t'other" the old farmer said to me, "and then maybe I'll let you wed my daughter."
OLD MAN.
And here you be comed back, and there lie the gold and the silver bags.
GILES.
And yonder is Millie given in marriage to another.
GEORGE.
'Taint done yet, master.
JOHN.
'Tisn't too late, by a long way, master.
GILES.
[To OLD MAN.]
And so I would crave something of you, old friend. Lend me your smock, and your big hat and your staff. In that disguise I will go to the farm and look upon my poor false love once more. If I find that her heart is already given to another, I shall not make myself known to her. But if she still holds to her love for me, then -
GEORGE.
Go in the fine clothes what you have upon you, master. And even should the maid's heart, be given to another, the sight of so grand a cloth and such laces will soon turn it the right way again.
JOHN.
Ah, that's so, it is. You go as you be clothed now, master. I know what maids be, and 'tis finery and good coats which do work more on the hearts of they nor anything else in the wide world.
GILES.
No, no, my lads. I will return as I did go from yonder. Poor, and in mean clothing. Nor shall a glint of all my wealth speak one word for me. But if so be as her heart is true in spite of everything, my sorrowful garments will not hide my love away from her.
OLD MAN.
[Taking off his hat.]
Here you are master.
[GILES hands his own hat to GEORGE. He then takes off his coat and gives it to JOHN. The OLD MAN takes off his smock, GILES puts it on.]
OLD MAN.
Pull the hat well down about the face of you, master, so as the smooth skin of you be hid.
GILES.
[Turning round in his disguise.]
How's that, my friends?
GEORGE.
You be a sight too straight in the back, master.
GILES.
[Stooping.]
I'll soon better that.
JOHN.
Be you a-going in them fine buckled shoes, master?
GILES.
I had forgot the shoes. When I get near to the house 'tis barefoot that I will go.
GEORGE.
Then let us be off, master, for the' time be running short.
JOHN.
Ah, that 'tis. I count it be close on noon-day now by the look of the sun.
OLD MAN.
And heaven be with you, my young gentleman.
GILES.
My good friends, you shall go with me a little further. And when we have come close upon the farm, you shall stop in the shelter of a wood that I know of and await the signal I shall give you.
GEORGE.
And what'll that be, master?
GILES.
I shall blow three times, and loudly from my whistle, here.
JOHN.
And be we to come up to the farm when we hears you?
GILES.
As quickly as you can run. 'Twill be the sign that I need all of you with me.
GEORGE and JOHN.
That's it, master. Us do understand what 'tis as we have got to do.
OLD MAN.
Ah, 'tis best to be finished with hearts that beat to the tune of a maid's tongue, and to creep quiet along the roads with naught but them pains as hunger and thirst do bring to th' inside. So 'tis.
[Curtain.] _
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