________________________________________________
_ ACT III - SCENE II
A few minutes later.
ELIZABETH stands tying her bonnet strings before a small mirror on the wall. DANIEL is mopping his face with a big, bright handkerchief. ANNET, dressed for church, is by the table. She sadly takes up the nosegay of flowers which ANDREW brought for MILLIE, and moves her hand caressingly over it.
ELIZABETH.
If you think that your neckerchief is put on right 'tis time you should know different, Father.
DANIEL.
What's wrong with it then, I'd like to know?
ELIZABETH.
'Tis altogether wrong. 'Tis like the two ears of a heifer sticking out more than anything else that I can think on.
DANIEL.
Have it your own way, Mother--and fix it as you like.
[He stands before her and she rearranges it.]
ANNET.
These flowers were lying on the ground.
ELIZABETH.
Thrown there in a fine fit of temper, I warrant.
DANIEL.
Her was as quiet as a new born lamb once the door was broke open and she did see as my word, well, 'twas my word.
ELIZABETH.
We all hear a great deal about your word, Father, but 'twould be better for there to be more do and less say about you.
DANIEL.
[Going over to Annet and looking at her intently.]
Why, my wench--what be you a-dropping tears for this day?
ANNET.
[Drying her eyes.]
'Twas--'twas the scent out of one of the flowers as got to my eyes, Uncle.
DANIEL.
Well, that's a likely tale it is. Hear that, Mother? 'Tis with her eyes that this little wench do snuff at a flower. That's good, bain't it?
ELIZABETH.
I haven't patience with the wenches now-a-days. Lay down that nosegay at once, Annet, and call your cousin from her room. I warrant she has finished tricking of herself up by now.
DANIEL.
Ah, I warrant as her'll need a smartish bit of time for to take the creases out of the face of she.
[ANDREW and MAY come in.]
DANIEL.
Well, Andrew, my lad, 'tis about time as we was on the way to church I reckon.
ANDREW.
I count as 'tis full early yet, master.
[He takes up the nosegay from the table and crosses the room to the window where ANNET is standing, and trying to control her tears.
ANDREW.
Annet, Millie will have none of my blossoms. I should like it well if you would carry them in your hand to church this day.
ANNET.
[Looking wonderingly at him.]
Me, Andrew?
ANDREW.
Yes, you, Annet. For, look you, they become you well. They have sommat of the sweetness of you in them. And the touch of them is soft and gentle. And--I would like you to keep them in your hands this day, Annet.
ANNET.
O Andrew, I never was given anything like this before.
ANDREW.
[Slowly.]
I should like to give you a great deal more, Annet--only I cannot. And 'tis got too late.
ELIZABETH.
Too late--I should think it was. What's come to the maid! In my time girls didn't use to spend a quarter of the while afore the glass as they do now. Suppose you was to holler for her again, Father.
DANIEL.
Anything to please you, Mother -
MAY.
I hear her coming, Uncle. I hear the noise of the silk.
[MILLIE comes slowly into the room in her wedding clothes. She holds herself very upright and looks from one to another quietly and coldly.]
MAY.
Andrew's gived your nosegay to Annet, Millie.
MILLIE.
'Twould have been a pity to have wasted the fresh blossoms.
MAY.
But they were gathered for you, Mill.
MILLIE.
Annet seems to like them better than I did.
DANIEL.
Well, my wench--you be tricked out as though you was off to the horse show. Mother, there bain't no one as can beat our wench in looks anywhere this side of the country.
ELIZABETH.
She's right enough in the clothing of her, but 'twould be better if her looks did match the garments more. Come, Millie, can't you appear pleasanter like on your wedding day?
MILLIE.
I'm very thirsty, Mother. Could I have a drink of water before we set out?
ELIZABETH.
And what next, I should like to know?
MILLIE.
'Tis only a drink of water that I'm asking for.
DANIEL.
Well, that's reasonable, Mother, bain't it?
ELIZABETH.
Run along and get some for your cousin, May.
[MAY runs out of the room.]
DANIEL.
Come you here, Andrew, did you ever see a wench to beat ourn in looks, I say?
ANDREW.
[Who has remained near ANNET without moving.]
'Tis very fine that Millie's looking.
DANIEL.
Fine, I should think 'twas. You was a fine looking wench, Mother, the day I took you to church, but 'tis my belief that Millie have beat you in the appearance of her same as the roan heifer did beat th' old cow when the both was took along to market. Ah, and did fetch very near the double of what I gived for the dam.
[MAY returns carrying a glass bowl full of water.]
MAY.
Here's a drink of cold water, Millie. I took it from the spring.
[MILLIE takes the bowl. At the same moment a loud knocking is heard at the outside door.]
ELIZABETH.
Who's that, I should like to know?
[MILLIE sets down the bowl on the table. She listens with a sudden intent, anxiety on her face as the knock is repeated.]
DANIEL.
I'll learn anyone to come meddling with me on a day when 'tis marrying going on.
[The knocking is again heard.]
MILLIE.
[To MAY, who would have opened the door.]
No, no. 'Tis I who will open the door.
[She raises the latch and flings the door wide open. GILES disguised as a poor and bent old man, comes painfully into the room.]
ELIZABETH.
We don't want no beggars nor roadsters here to-day, if you please.
DANIEL.
Ah, and that us don't. Us be a wedding party here, and 'tis for you to get moving on, old man.
MILLIE.
He is poor and old. And he has wandered far, in the heat of the morning. Look at his sad clothing.
ANDREW.
[To ANNET.]
I never heard her put so much gentleness to her words afore.
MILLIE.
And 'tis my wedding day. He shall not go uncomforted from here.
ELIZABETH.
I never knowed you so careful of a poor wretch afore, Millie. 'Tis quite a new set out, this.
MILLIE.
I am in mind of another, who may be wandering, and hungered, and in poor clothing this day.
MAY.
Give him something quick, Aunt, and let him get off so that we can start for the wedding.
MILLIE.
[Coming close to GILES.]
What is it I can do for you, master?
GILES.
'Tis only a drink of water that I ask, mistress.
MILLIE.
[Taking up the glass bowl.]
Only a drink of water, master? Then take, and be comforted.
[She holds the bowl before him for him to drink. As he takes it, he drops a ring into the water. He then drinks and hands the bowl back to MILLIE. For a moment she gazes speechless at the bottom of the bowl. Then she lifts the ring from it and would drop the bowl but for MAY, who takes it from her.]
MILLIE.
Master, from whom did you get this?
GILES.
Look well at the stones of it, mistress, for they are clouded and dim.
MILLIE.
And not more clouded than the heart which is in me, master. O do you bring me news?
GILES.
Is it not all too late for news, mistress?
MILLIE.
Not if it be the news for which my heart craves, master.
GILES.
And what would that be, mistress?
[MILLIE goes to GILES, and with both hands slowly pushes back his big hat and gazes at him.
MILLIE.
O Giles, my true love. You are come just in time. Another hour and I should have been wed.
GILES.
And so you knew me, Mill?
MILLIE.
O Giles, no change of any sort could hide you from the eyes of my love.
GILES.
Your love, Millie. And is that still mine?
MILLIE.
It always has been yours, Giles. O I will go with you so gladly in poor clothing and in hunger all over the face of the earth.
[She goes to him and clasps his arm; and, standing by his side, faces all those in the room.]
ELIZABETH.
[Angrily.]
Please to come to your right senses, Millie.
DANIEL.
Come, Andrew, set your foot down as I've set mine.
ANDREW.
Nay, master. There's naught left for me to say. The heart does shew us better nor all words which way we have to travel.
MAY.
And are you going to marry a beggar man instead of Andrew, who looks so brave and fine in his wedding clothes, Millie?
MILLIE.
I am going to marry him I have always loved, May--and--O Andrew, I never bore you malice, though I did say cruel and hard words to you sometimes.--But you'll not remember me always--you will find gladness too, some day.
ANDREW.
I count as I shall, Millie.
DANIEL.
Come, come, I'll have none of this--my daughter wed to a beggar off the highway! Mother, 'tis time you had a word here.
ELIZABETH.
No, Father, I'll leave you to manage this affair. 'Tis you who have spoiled Mill and brought her up so wayward and unruly, and 'tis to you I look for to get us out of this unpleasant position.
MAY.
Dear Millie--don't wed my brother Giles. Why, look at his ragged smock and his bare feet.
MILLIE.
I shall be proud to go bare too, so long as I am by his side, May.
[GILES goes to the door and blows his whistle three times and loudly.]
MAY.
What's that for, Giles?
GILES.
You shall soon see, little May.
DANIEL.
I'll be hanged if I'll stand any more of this caddling nonsense. Here, Mill--the trap's come to the door. Into it with you, I say.
GILES.
I beg you to wait a moment, master.
DANIEL.
Wait!--'Tis a sight too long as we have waited this day. If all had been as I'd planned, we should have been to church by now. But womenfolk, there be no depending on they. No, and that there bain't.
[GEORGE, JOHN and the OLD MAN come up. GEORGE and JOHN carry their packets and the OLD MAN has GILES' coat and hat over his arm.]
ELIZABETH.
And who are these persons, Giles?
[GEORGE and JOHN set down their burdens on the floor and begin to mop their faces. The OLD MAN stretches out his fine coat and hat and buckled shoes to GILES.]
OLD MAN.
Here they be, my lord, and I warrant as you'll feel more homely like in they, nor what you've got upon you now.
[GILES takes the things from him.]
GILES.
Thank you, old master.
[He turns to MILLIE.]
Let me go into the other room, Millie. I will not keep you waiting longer than a few moments.
[He goes out.]
ELIZABETH.
[To GEORGE.]
And who may you be, I should like to know? You appear to be making very free with my parlour.
GEORGE.
We be the servants what wait upon Master Giles, old Missis.
ELIZABETH.
Old Missis, indeed. Father, you shall speak to these persons.
DANIEL.
Well, my men. I scarce do know whether I be a-standing on my head or upon my heels, and that's the truth 'tis.
GEORGE.
Ah, and that I can well understand, master, for I'm a married man myself, and my woman has a tongue to her head very similar to that of th' old missis yonder--so I know what 'tis.
ELIZABETH.
Put them both out of the door, Father, do you hear me? 'Tis to the cider as they've been getting. That's clear.
MILLIE.
My good friends, what is it that you carry in those bundles there?
GEORGE.
'Tis gold in mine.
JOHN.
And silver here.
ELIZABETH.
Depend upon it 'tis two wicked thieves we have got among us, flying from justice.
MILLIE.
No, no--did not you hear them say, their master is Giles.
GEORGE.
And a better master never trod the earth.
JOHN.
And a finer or a richer gentleman I never want to see.
ELIZABETH.
Do you hear that, Father? O you shocking liars--'tis stolen goods that you've been and brought to our innocent house this day. But, Father, do you up and fetch in the constable, do you hear?
MAY.
O I'll run. I shall love to see them going off to gaol.
MILLIE.
Be quiet, May. Can't you all see how 'tis. Giles has done the cruel hard task set him by Father--and is back again with the bushel of silver and that of gold to claim my hand. [GILES enters.] But Giles--I'd have given it to you had you come to me poor and forlorn and ragged, for my love has never wandered from you in all this long time.
ANDREW.
No, Giles--and that it has not. Millie has never given me one kind word nor one gentle look all the years that I've been courting of her, and that's the truth. And you can call witness to it if you care.
GILES.
Uncle, Aunt, I've done the task you set me years ago--and now I claim my reward. I went from this house a poor wretch, with nothing but the hopeless love in my heart to feed and sustain me. I have returned with all that the world can give me of riches and prosperity. Will you now let me be the husband of your daughter?
MILLIE.
O say ye, Uncle, for look how fine and grand he is in his coat--and the bags are stuffed full to the brim and 'tis with gold and silver.
ELIZABETH.
Well--'tis a respectabler end than I thought as you'd come to, Giles. And different nor what you deserved.
DANIEL.
Come, come, Mother.--The fewer words to this, the better. Giles, my boy--get you into the trap and take her along to the church and drive smart.
ANDREW.
Annet--will you come there with me too?
ANNET.
O Andrew--what are you saying?
DANIEL.
Come, come. Where's the wind blowing from now? Here, Mother, do you listen to this.
ELIZABETH.
I shall be deaf before I've done, but it appears to me that Annet's not lost any time in making the most of her chances.
DANIEL.
Ah, and she be none the worse for that. 'Tis what we all likes to do. Where'd I be in the market if I did let my chances blow by me? Hear that, Andrew?
ANDREW.
I'm a rare lucky man this day, farmer.
DANIEL.
Ah, and 'tis a rare good little wench, Annet--though she bain't so showy as our'n. A rare good little maid. And now 'tis time we was all off to church, seeing as this is to be a case of double harness like.
MAY.
O Annet, you can't be wed in that plain gown.
ANNET.
May, I'm so happy that I feel as though I were clothed all over with jewels.
ANDREW.
Give me your hand, Annet.
MAY.
[Mockingly.]
Millie--don't you want to give a drink of water to yon poor old man?
MILLIE.
That I will, May? Here--fetch me something that's better than water for him.
ELIZABETH.
I'll have no cider drinking out of meal times here.
MILLIE.
Then 'twill I have to be when we come back from church.
OLD MAN.
Bless you, my pretty lady, but I be used to waiting. I'll just sit me down outside in the sun till you be man and wife.
ELIZABETH.
And that'll not be till this day next year if this sort of thing goes on any longer.
DANIEL.
That's right, Mother. You take and lead the way. 'Tis the womenfolk as do keep we back from everything. But I knows how to settle with they--[roaring]--come Mill, come Giles, Andrew, Annet, May. Come Mother, out of th' house with all of you and to church, I say.
[He gets behind them all and drives them before him and out of the room. When they have gone, the OLD MAN sinks on a bench in the door-way.]
OLD MAN.
I'm done with all the foolishness of life and I can sit me down and sleep till it be time to eat.
[Curtain.]
[THE END]
Florence Henrietta Darwin's play: Lovers' Tasks
_
Read previous: Act 3 - Scene 1
Table of content of Lovers' Tasks
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
