Thomas Spring, a farmer, aged 35.

Emily, his wife, the same age.

Clara, his sister, aged 21.

Jessie and Robin, the children of Thomas and Emily, aged 10 and 8.

Joan, maid to Clara.

Miles Hooper, a rich draper.

Luke Jenner, a farmer.

Lord Lovel.

George, aged 28.

ACT I.—Scene 1.

A wood. It is a morning in June.

George, carrying an empty basket, comes slowly through the wood. On reaching a fallen tree he sits down on it, placing his basket on the ground. With his stick he absently moves the grass and leaves that lie before him, and is so deeply lost in his own thoughts that he does not hear the approach of Miles and Luke until they are by his side.

Miles. Here’s the very man to tell us all we want to know.

Luke. Why, if ’tisn’t George from Ox Lease.

[George half rises.

Miles. No, sit you down again, my lad, and we’ll rest awhile by the side of you.

Luke. That’s it, Miles. Nothing couldn’t have fallen out better for us, I’m thinking.

Miles. You’re about right, Luke. Now, George, my man, we should very much appreciate a few words with you.

George. [Taking up his basket.] Morning baint the time for words, masters. I count as words will keep till the set of sun. ’Tis otherwise with work.

Miles. Work, why, George, ’tis clear you are come out but to gather flowers this morning.

Luke. ’Tis the very first time as ever I caught George an idling away of his time like this.

George. ’Tis over to Brook as I be going, masters, to fetch back a couple of young chicken. Ourn be mostly old fowls, or pullets what do lay.

Luke. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease afore July was in.

George. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. But mistress, her says, you can’t sit a maid from town at table unless there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in their feeding, maids from town, so mistress do say.

Miles. That just brings us to our little matter, George. When is it that you expect the young lady?

George. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom since yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come on their own feet from where the morning coach do set them down.

Luke. Nay, but there’s only one maid what’s expected.

George. Miss Clara, what’s master’s sister; and the serving wench of she.

Miles. Well, George, ’twas a great day for your master when old Madam Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the quality.

George. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, from the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place where ’twas seeded.

Miles. No, no, George, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A little country wench may bloom into something very modish and elegant, once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of velvet and curtains of satin. You’ll see.

George. ’Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by curtains, nor yet carpets, master.

Miles. Take my word for it, George, Ox Lease will have to smarten up a bit for this young lady. I know the circles she has been moving in, and ’tis to the best of everything that she has been used.

George. [Rising.] That’s what mistress do say. And that’s why I be sent along down to Brook with haymaking going on and all. Spring chicken with sparrow grass be the right feeding for such as they. So mistress do count.

Miles. Stop a moment, George. You have perhaps heard the letters from Miss Clara discussed in the family from time to time.

George. Miss Clara did never send but two letters home in all the while she was gone. The first of them did tell as how th’ old lady was dead and had left all of her fortune to Miss Clara. And the second was to say as how her was coming back to the farm this morning.

Luke. And hark you here, George, was naught mentioned about Miss Clara’s fine suitors in neither of them letters?

George. That I cannot say, Master Jenner.

Miles. Nothing of their swarming thick around her up in London, George?

George. They may be swarming by the thousand for aught as I do know. They smells gold as honey bees do smell the blossom. Us’ll have a good few of them a-buzzing round the farm afore we’re many hours older, so I counts.

Miles. Well, George, that’ll liven up the place a bit, I don’t doubt.

Luke. ’Tis a bit of quiet and no livening as Ox Lease do want. Isn’t that so, George, my lad?

George. [Preparing to set off.] I’ll say good morning to you, masters. I count I’ve been and wasted a smartish time already on the road. We be a bit hard pressed up at the farm this day.

Miles. But George, my man, we have a good many questions to ask of you before you set off.

George. Them questions will have to bide till another time, I reckon. I’m got late already, master.

[He hurries off.

Miles. Arriving by the morning coach! I shall certainly make my call to the farm before sunset. What do you say, Jenner?

Luke. You’re a rich man, Miles, and I am poor. But we have always been friends.

Miles. And our fathers before us, Luke.

Luke. And the courting of the same maid shall not come between us.

Miles. [Slowly.] That’ll be all right, Luke.

Luke. What I do say is, let’s start fair. Neck to neck, like.

Miles. As you please, my good Luke.

Luke. Then, do you tell me honest, shall I do in the clothes I’m a-wearing of now, Miles?

Miles. [Regarding him critically.] That neckerchief is not quite the thing, Luke.

Luke. ’Tis my Sunday best.

Miles. Step over to the High Street with me, my lad. I’ve got something in the shop that will be the very thing. You shall have it half price for ’tis only a bit damaged in one of the corners.

Luke. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Miles.

Miles. That’s all right, Luke.

Luke. George would look better to my thinking if there was a new coat to the back of him.

Miles. Ah, poor beggar, he would, and no mistake.

Luke. I warrant as Emily do keep it afore him as how he was took in from off the road by th’ old farmer in his day.

Miles. I flatter myself that I have a certain way with the ladies. They come to me confidential like and I tell them what’s what, and how that, this or t’other is worn about town. But with Missis Spring ’tis different. That’s a woman I could never get the right side of no how.

Luke. Ah, poor Thomas! There’s a man who goes down trod and hen scratched if you like.

Miles. ’Tis altogether a very poor place up at Ox Lease, for young Miss.

Luke. [Pulling out his watch.] Time’s slipping on. What if we were to stroll on to the shop and see about my neckerchief, Miles?

Miles. I’m sure I’m quite agreeable, Luke. ’Twill help to pass away the morning.

[He puts his arm in Luke’s and they go briskly off in the direction of the village.

ACT I.—Scene 2.

Clara, followed by Joan, comes through the wood. Clara is dressed in a long, rich cloak and wears a bonnet that is brightly trimmed with feathers and ribbons. Joan wears a cotton bonnet and small shawl. She carries her mistress’s silken bag over her arm.

Clara. [Pointing to the fallen tree.] There is the very resting place for us. We will sit down under the trees for a while. [She seats herself.

Joan. [Dusting the tree with her handkerchief before she sits on it.] Have we much further to go, mistress?

Clara. Only a mile or two, so far as I can remember.

Joan. ’Tis rough work for the feet, down in these parts, mistress.

Clara. If London roads were paved with diamonds I’d sooner have my feet treading this rugged way that leads to home.

Joan. What sort of a place shall we find it when we gets there, mistress.

Clara. I was but seven when I left them all, Joan. And that is fourteen years ago to-day.

Joan. So many years may bring about some powerful big changes, mistress.

Clara. But I dream that I shall find all just as it was when I went away. Only that Gran’ma won’t be there.

[There is a short silence during which Clara seems lost in thought. Joan flicks the dust off her shoes with a branch of leaves.

Joan. ’Tis the coaches I do miss down in these parts.

Clara. I would not have driven one step of the way this morning, Joan. In my fancy I have been walking up from the village and through the wood and over the meadows since many a day. I have not forgotten one turn of the path.

Joan. The road has not changed then, mistress?

Clara. No. But it does not seem quite so broad or so fine as I remembered it to be. That is all.

Joan. And very likely the house won’t seem so fine neither, mistress, after the grand rooms which you have been used to.

Joan. What company shall we see there, mistress?

Clara. Well, there’s Thomas, he is my brother, and Emily his wife. Then the two children.

Clara. [After a short silence, and as though to herself.] And there was George.

Joan. Yes, mistress

Clara. Georgie seemed so big and tall to me in those days. I wonder how old he really was, when I was seven.

Joan. Would that be a younger brother of yours, like, mistress

Clara. No, George minded the horses and looked after the cows and poultry. Sometimes he would drive me into market with him on a Saturday. And in the evenings I would follow him down to the pool to see the cattle watered.

Joan. I’m mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the sight nor the sound of those animals.

Clara. You’ll soon get over that, Joan.

Joan. And I don’t care for poultry neither, very much. I goes full of fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about.

Clara. [Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm.] There, do you see this little scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese when the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a piece right out of my arm.

Joan. [Looking intently on the scar.] I have often seen that there mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be living along of the poultry still?

Clara. I wish he might be, Joan.

Joan. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall go with our lives in our hands, as you might say.

Clara. [As though to herself.] When the days got colder, we would sit under the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to me. Some of his songs, I could say off by heart this day.

Joan. [Looking nervously upward.] O do look at that nasty little thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever put such a thing up in the tree I’d like to know.

Clara. [Brushing it gently aside.] That won’t hurt you—a tiny caterpillar.

Joan. [After a moment.] What more could the farm hand do, mistress?

Clara. He would clasp on his bells and dance in the Morris on certain days, Joan.

Joan. ’Tis to be hoped as there’ll be some dancing or something to liven us all up a bit down here.

Clara. Why, Joan, I believe you’re tired already of the country.

Joan. ’Tis so powerful quiet and heavy like, mistress.

Clara. ’Tis full of sounds. Listen to the doves in the trees and the lambs calling from the meadow.

Joan. I’d sooner have the wheels of the coaches and the cries upon the street, and the door bell a ringing every moment and fine gentlemen and ladies being shewn up into the parlour.

Clara. [Stretching out her arms.] O how glad I am to be free of all that. And most of all, how glad to be ridded of one person.

Joan. His lordship will perhaps follow us down here, mistress.

Clara. No, I have forbidden it. I must have a month of quiet, and he is to wait that time for his answer.

Joan. O mistress, you’ll never disappoint so fine a gentleman.

Clara. You forget that Lord Lovel and I have played together as children. It is as a brother that I look upon him.

Joan. His lordship don’t look upon you as a sister, mistress.

Clara. [Rising.] That is a pity, Joan. But see, it is getting late and we must be moving onwards.

[Joan rises and smoothes and shakes out her skirt.

Clara. Here, loosen my cloak, Joan, and untie the ribbons of my bonnet.

Joan. O mistress, keep the pretty clothes upon you till you have got to the house.

Clara. No, no—such town garments are not suited to the woods and meadows. I want to feel the country breeze upon my head, and my limbs must be free from the weight of the cloak. I had these things upon me during the coach journey. They are filled with road dust and I dislike them now.

Joan. [Unfastening the cloak and untying the bonnet.] They are fresh and bright for I brushed and shook them myself this morning.

Clara. [Retying a blue ribbon which she wears in her hair.] I have taken a dislike to them. See here, Joan, since you admire them, they shall be yours.

Joan. Mine? The French bonnet and the satin cloak?

Clara. To comfort you for the pains of the country, Joan.

Joan. O mistress, let us stop a moment longer in this quiet place so that I may slip them on and see how they become me.

Clara. As you will. Listen, that is the cuckoo singing.

Joan. [Throwing off her cotton bonnet and shawl and dressing herself hastily in the bonnet and cloak.] O what must it feel like to be a grand lady and wear such things from dawn to bed time.

Clara. I am very glad to be without them for a while. How good the air feels on my head.

Joan. There, mistress, how do I look?

Clara. Very nicely, Joan. So nicely that if you like, you may keep them upon you for the remainder of the way.

Joan. O mistress, may I really do so?

Clara. Yes. And Joan, do you go onwards to the farm by the quickest path which is through this wood and across the high road. Anyone will shew you where the place is. I have a mind to wander about in some of the meadows which I remember. But I will join you all in good time.

Joan. Very well, mistress. If I set off in a few moments it will do, I suppose? I should just like to take a peep at myself as I am now, in the little glass which you carry in your silk bag.

Clara. [Going off.] Don’t spend too much time looking at what will be shewn you, Joan.

Joan. Never fear, mistress. I’ll be there afore you, if I have to run all the way. [Clara wanders off.

[Joan sits down again on the trunk of the fallen tree. She opens the silken bag, draws out a small hand glass and looks long and steadily at her own reflection. Then she glances furtively around and, seeing that she is quite alone, she takes a small powder box from the bag and hastily opening it, she gives her face several hurried touches with the powder puff.

Joan. [Surveying the effect in the glass.] Just to take off the brown of my freckles. Now if any one was to come upon me sitting here they wouldn’t know as I was other than a real, high lady. All covered with this nice cloak as I be, the French bonnet on my head, and powder to my face, who’s to tell the difference? But O—these must be hid first.

[She perceives her cotton bonnet and little shawl on the ground. She hastily rolls them up in a small bundle and stuffs them into the silken bag. Then she takes up the glass and surveys herself again.

Joan. How should I act now if some grand gentleman was to come up and commence talking to me? Perhaps he might even take me for a lady of title in these fine clothes, and ’twould be a pity to have to undeceive him.

[She arranges her hair a little under the bonnet and then lowers the lace veil over her face.

[Miles and Luke come slowly up behind her. Miles nudges Luke with his elbow, signing to him to remain where he is whilst he steps forward in front of Joan.

Miles. Pardon me, madam, but you appear to have mistook the way. Allow me to set you on the right path for Ox Lease.

Joan. [Letting the mirror fall on her lap and speaking very low.] How do you know I am going to Ox Lease, sir?

Miles. You see, madam, I happen to know that a stylish young miss from town is expected there to-day.

Luke. [Coming forward and speaking in a loud whisper.] Now Miles. I count as you made one of the biggest blunders of the time. Our young lady be journeying along of her servant wench. This one baint she.

Miles. If we have made a small error, madam, allow me to beg your pardon.

Joan. Don’t mention it, sir. Everyone is mistaken sometimes.

Luke. Well, I’m powerful sorry if we have given any offence, mam.

Joan. [Looking up at Luke with sudden boldness and speaking in a slow, affected voice.] There’s nothing to make so much trouble about, sir.

Miles. Can we be of any assistance to you, madam? The wood may appear rather dense at this point.

Joan. That it does. Dense and dark—and the pathway! My goodness, but my feet have never travelled over such rough ground before.

Muss. That I am sure of, madam. I have no doubt that the delicate texture of your shoes has been sadly treated by our stones and ruts.

Joan. [Insensibly pulling her skirts over her thick walking shoes.] Well, it’s vastly different to London streets, where I generally take exercise—at least when I’m not a-riding in the coach.

Miles. The country is but a sad place at the best, Miss Clara Spring.

Joan. [Looking round furtively and speaking in a whisper.] O, how did you guess my—my name?

Luke. Come, ’twasn’t a hard matter, that.

Miles. Missey can command my services.

Joan. [Rallying, and standing up.] Then gentlemen, do you walk a bit of the road with me and we could enjoy some conversation as we go along.

Luke. [Offering his arm.] You take my arm, Miss Clara—do—.

Miles. [Also offering his arm.] I shall also give myself the pleasure of supporting Miss.

Joan. [Taking an arm of each.] O thank you, kindly gentlemen. Now we shall journey very comfortably, I am sure.

[They all set out walking in the direction of the farm.

The kitchen of Ox Lease Farm. There are three doors. One opens to the staircase, one to the garden and a third into the back kitchen. At a table in the middle of the room Emily stands ironing some net window curtains. Jessie and Robin lean against the table watching her. By the open doorway, looking out on the garden, stands Thomas, a mug of cider in one hand and a large slice of bread in the other. As he talks, he takes alternate drinks and bites.

Emily. [Speaking in a shrill, angry voice.] Now Thomas, suppose you was to take that there bread a step further away and eat it in the garden, if eat it you must, instead of crumbling it all over my clean floor.

Thomas. Don’t you be so testy, Emily. The dogs’ll lick the crumbs up as clean as you like presently.

Emily. Dogs? I’d like to see the dog as’ll shew its nose in here to-day when I’ve got it all cleaned up against the coming of fine young madam.

Thomas. [Finishing his bread and looking wistfully at his empty hand.] The little maid’ll take a brush and sweep up her daddy’s crumbs, now, won’t her?

Emily. I’ll give it to any one who goes meddling in my brush cupboard now that I’ve just put all in order against the prying and nozzling of the good-for-nothing baggage what’s coming along with your sister.

Robin. What’s baggage, Mother?

Emily. [Sharply.] Never you mind. Get and take your elbow off my ironing sheet.

Jessie. [Looking at her father.] I count as you’d like a piece more bread, Dad?

Thomas. Well, I don’t say but ’twouldn’t come amiss. ’Tis hungry work in th’ hayfield. And us be to go without our dinners this day, isn’t that so, Emily?

Emily. [Slamming down her iron on the stand.] If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twenty times, ’twas but the one pair of hands as I was gived at birth. Now, what have you got to say against that, Thomas?

Thomas. [Sheepishly.] I’m sure I don’t know.

Emily. And if so be as I’m to clean and wash and cook, and run, and wait, and scour, and mend, for them lazy London minxes, other folk must go without hot cooking at mid-day.

Thomas. [Faintly.] ’Twasn’t nothing cooked, like. ’Twas a bit of bread as I did ask for.

Jessie. [Getting up.] I’ll get it for you, Dad. I know where the loaf bides and the knife too. I’ll cut you, O such a large piece.

Emily. [Seizing her roughly by the hand.] You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll take this here cold iron into Maggie and you’ll bring back one that is hot. How am I to get these curtains finished and hung and all, by the time the dressed up parrots come sailing in, I’d like to know.

[Jessie runs away with the iron.

Thomas. [Setting down his mug and coming to the table.] I’d leave the windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form the suitablest shade for they, to my thinking.

Emily. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, take your hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs shewing all over the clean net what I’ve washed and dried and ironed, and been a-messing about with since ’twas light?

Thomas. Now that’s what I be trying for to say. There’s no need for you to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of little Clara coming back. Home’s home. And ’twon’t be neither the curtains nor the hot dinner as Clara will be thinking of when her steps into th’ old place once more.

Jessie. [Running back with the hot iron which she sets down on the table.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad?

Thomas. [Shy and abashed under a withering glance from Emily who has taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net.] Her’ll remember, very like, how ’twas when her left—some fourteen year ago. And her’ll have her eyes on Gran’ma’s chair, what’s empty.

Robin. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what’s for dinner.

Thomas. And her’ll look up to th’ old clock, and different things what’s still in their places. The grand parts where she have been bred up will be forgot. ’Twill be only home as her’ll think on.

Emily. I haven’t patience to listen to such stuff.

Thomas. [After a pause.] I count that ’tisn’t likely as a young woman what’s been left riches as Clara have, would choose to make her home along of such as we for always, like.

Emily. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, but when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank you, Thomas, I’m not going to do it.

Robin. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother.

Jessie. What are spangled plumes, Mother?

Emily. [Viciously.] You’ll see plenty of them presently.

Robin. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she?

[A slight pause during which Emily irons vigorously.

Emily. [As she irons.] Some folk have all the honey. It do trickle from the mouths of them and down to the ground.

Robin. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then?

Emily. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts and the vinegar.

Jessie. Like you, Mother—Least, that’s what Maggie said this morning.

Emily. What’s that?

Jessie. That ’twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, Mother.

Emily. I’ll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she can’t fetch them out respectful like. [Shouting.] Mag, come you here this minute—what are you after now, I’d like to know, you ugly, idle piece of mischief?

[Maggie, wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen.

Maggie. Was you calling, mistress?

Emily. What’s this you’ve got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like to know.

Jessie. [Running to Maggie and laying her hand on her arm.] Dear Maggie, ’tis only what you did tell about poor mother’s tongue being in the vinegar jar.

Maggie. O Miss Jessie.

Emily. Hark you here, my girl—if ’twasn’t hay time you should bundle up your rags and off with you this minute. But as ’tis awkward being short of a pair of hands just now, you’ll bide a week or two and then you’ll get outside of my door with no more character to you nor what I took you with.

Thomas. Come, come Emily. The girl’s a good one for to work, and that she is.

Emily. Be quiet, Thomas. This is my business, and you’ll please to keep your words till they’re wanted.

Maggie. O mistress, I didn’t mean no harm, I didn’t.

Emily. I don’t want no words nor no tears neither.

Maggie. [Beginning to cry loudly.] I be the only girl as have stopped with you more nor a month, I be. T’others wouldn’t bide a day, some of them.

Emily. Be quiet. Back to your work with you. And when the hay is all carried, off with you, ungrateful minx, to where you came from.

Jessie. O let us keep her always, Mother, she’s kind.

Robin. Don’t you cry, Mag. I’ll marry you when I’m a big man like Daddy.

Thomas. Harken to them, Emily! She’s been a good maid to the children. I’d not part with any one so hasty, if ’twas me.

Emily. [Very angrily.] When I want your opinion, Thomas, I’ll ask for it. Suppose you was to go out and see after something which you do understand.

Thomas. O I’ll go down to the field fast enough, I can tell you. ’Twas only being hungered as drove me into the hornets’ nest, as you might say.

Emily. [Ironing fiercely.] What’s that?

Thomas. Nothing. I did only say as I was a-going back to the field when George do come home.

Emily. There again. Did you ever know the man to be so slow before. I warrant as he have gone drinking or mischiefing down at the Spotted Cow instead of coming straight home with they chicken.

Thomas. Nay, nay. George is not the lad to do a thing like that. A quieter more well bred up lad nor George never trod in shoes.

Emily [Glancing at Maggie.] What are you tossing your head like that for, Maggie? Please to recollect as you’re a lazy, good-for-nothing little slut of a maid servant, and not a circus pony all decked out for the show.

Jessie. Maggie’s fond of Georgie. And Georgie’s kind to Mag.

Maggie. [Fearfully.] O don’t, Miss Jessie, for goodness sake.

Emily. [Viciously.] I’ll soon put an end to anything in that quarter.

Thomas. Now, Emily—take it quiet. Why, we shall have Clara upon us before us knows where we are.

Emily. [Folding the curtains.] I’ll settle her too, if she comes before I’m ready for her.

Robin. [Pointing through the open.] There’s George, coming with the basket.

[George comes into the room. He carefully rubs his feet on the mat as he enters. Then he advances to the table. Maggie dries her eyes with the back of her hand. Jessie is standing with her arm in Maggie’s.

Emily. Well, and where have you been all this while, I’d like to know?

George. To Brook Farm, mam, and home.

Emily. You’ve been up to some mischief on the way, I warrant.

Thomas. Come, Emily.

[George looks calmly into Emily’s face. Then his gaze travels leisurely round the room.

George. I was kept waiting while they did pluck and dress the chicken.

Emily. [Lifting the cloth covering the basket, and looking within it.] I’d best have gone myself. Of all the thick-headed men I ever did see, you’re the thickest. Upon my word you are.

George. What’s wrong now, mistress?

Emily. ’Taint chicken at all what you’ve been and fetched me.

George. I’ll be blowed if I do know what ’tis then.

Emily. If I’d been given a four arms and legs at birth same as th’ horses, I’d have left a pair of them at home and gone and done the job myself, I would. And then you should see what I’d have brought back.

George. You can’t better what I’ve got here. From the weight it might be two fat capons. So it might.

Emily. [Seizing the basket roughly.] Here, Mag, off into the pantry with them. A couple of skinny frogs from out the road ditch would have done as well. And you, Jess, upstairs with these clean curtains and lay them careful on the bed. I’ll put them to the windows later.

Thomas. George, my boy, did you meet with any one on the way, like?

Emily. You’d best ask no questions if you don’t want to be served with lies, Thomas.

George. [Throwing a glance of disdain at Emily.] Miles Hooper and Farmer Jenner was taking the air ’long of one another in the wood, master.

Thomas. Miles Hooper and Luke a-taking of the air, and of a weekday morning!

George. That they was, master. And they did stop I—

Emily. Ah, now you’ve got it, Thomas. Now we shall know why George was upon the road the best part of the day and me kept waiting for the chicken.

George. [Steadily.] Sunday clothes to the back of both of them. And, when was Miss Clara expected up at home.

Thomas. Ah, ’tis a fair commotion all over these parts already, I warrant. There wasn’t nothing else spoke of in market last time, but how as sister Clara with all her money was to come home.

Jessie. [Coming back.] I’ve laid the curtains on the bed, shall I gather some flowers and set them on the table, mother?

Emily. I’d like to see you! Flowers in the bedroom? I never heard tell of such senseless goings on. What next, I’d like to know?

George. Miss Clara always did fill a mug of clover blooms and set it aside of her bed when her was a little thing—so high.

Jessie. Do you remember our fine aunt, then, Georgie?

George. I remembers Miss Clara right enough.

Emily. Don’t you flatter yourself, George, as such a coxsy piece of town goods will trouble herself to remember you.

Thomas. The little maid had a good enough heart to her afore she was took away from us.

Jessie. Do you think our aunt Clara has growed into a coxsy town lady, George?

George. No, I do not, Miss Jessie.

Emily. [Beginning to stir about noisily as she sets the kitchen in order.] Get off with you to the field, Thomas, can’t you. I’ve had enough to do as ’tis without a great hulking man standing about and taking up all the room.

Thomas. Come, George, us’ll clear out down to th’ hay field, and snatch a bite as we do go.

George. That’s it, master.

Emily. [Calling angrily after them.] There’s no dinner for no one to-day, I tell you.

[Thomas and George go out of the back kitchen door. Emily begins putting the irons away, folding up the ironing sheet and setting the chairs back against the wall.

[Jessie and Robin, from their places at the table, watch her intently.

Emily. [As she moves about.] ’Twouldn’t be half the upset if the wench was coming by herself, but to have a hussy of a serving maid sticking about in the rooms along of us, is more nor I can stand.

[She begins violently to sweep up the hearth.

[Steps are heard outside.

Jessie. Hark, what’s that, mother?

Emily. I’ll give it to any one who wants to come in here.

Jessie. [Running to the open door.] They’re coming up the path. ’Tis our fine auntie and two grand gentlemen either side of she.

Robin. [Running also to the door.] O I want to look on her too.

Emily. [Putting the broom in a corner.] ’Tis no end to the vexation. But she’ll have to wait on herself. I’ve no time to play the dancing bear. And that I’ve not.

[Joan, between Miles Hooper and Luke Jenner, comes up to the open door.

Miles. [To Jessie.] See here, my little maid, what’ll you give Mister Hooper for bringing this pretty lady safe up to the farm?

Jessie. I know who ’tis you’ve brought. ’Tis my Aunt Clara.

Luke. You’re a smart little wench, if ever there was one.

Robin. I know who ’tis, too, ’cause of the spangled plumes in the bonnet of she. Mother said as there’d be some.

Emily. [Coming forward.] Well, Clara, if ’twas by the morning coach as you did come, you’re late. If ’twas by th’ evening one, you’re too soon by a good few hours.

Miles. Having come by the morning coach, Miss Clara had the pleasant fancy to stroll here through the woodlands, Missis Spring.

Luke. Ah, and ’twas lost on the way as we did find her, like a strayed sheep.

Miles. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer safely home.

Emily. [Scornfully looking Joan over from head to foot.] Where’s that serving wench of yours got to, Clara?

Miles. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent her maid on by another road.

Emily. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have found something of mischief for her idle hands to do.

Miles. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat fatigued by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately framed, Missis Spring.

Emily. [Pointing ungraciously.] There’s chairs right in front of you.

[Miles and Luke lead Joan forward, placing her in an armchair with every attention. Joan sinks into it, and, taking a little fan from the silken bag on her arm, begins to fan herself violently.

Emily. [Watching her with fierce contempt.] Maybe as you’d like my kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it concerns her to attend to.

Joan. [Faintly.] O no, thank you. The day is rather warm—that’s all.

Emily. Warm, I should think it was warm in under of that great white curtain.

Jessie. Aunt Clara, I’m Jessie.

Joan. Are you, my dear?

Robin. And I’m Robin.

Miles. Now, I wager, if you are both good little children, this pretty lady will give you each a kiss.

Joan. [Faintly.] To be sure I will.

Jessie. Then you’ll have to take off that white thing from your face. ’Tis like what mother do spread over the currant bushes to keep the birds from the fruit.

[Joan slowly raises her veil, showing her face.

Jessie. Shall I give you a kiss, Aunt?

Emily. I’d be careful if I was you, Jess. Fine ladies be brittle as fine china.

Jessie. O I’ll kiss her very lightly, Mother.

[She goes up to Joan and kisses her. Robin then reaches up his face and Joan kisses him.

Robin. [Rubbing his mouth.] The flour do come from Aunt same as it does from a new loaf.

Miles. [To Joan.] You must pardon these ignorant little country brats, Miss Clara.

Joan. O there’s nothing amiss, thank you.

Emily. Amiss, who said as there was? When folks what can afford to lodge at the inn do come down and fasten theirselves on the top of poor people, they must take things as they do find them and not start grumbling at the first set off.

Luke. There, there, Missis Spring. There wasn’t naught said about grumbling. But Miss Clara have come a smartish long distance, and it behoves us all as she should find summat of a welcome at the end of her journey, like.

Miles. [Aside to Joan.] How strange this country tongue must fall on your ears, Miss Clara!

Joan. I don’t understand about half of what they say.

Emily. [Overhearing her.] O, you don’t, don’t you. Well, Clara, I was always one for plain words, and I say ’tis a pity when folks do get above the position to which they was bred, and for all the fine satins and plumes upon you, the body what’s covered by them belongs to Clara Spring, what’s sister to Thomas. And all the world knows what Thomas is—A poor, mean spirited, humble born man with but two coats to the back of him, and with not a thought to the mind of him which is not foolishness. And I judge from by what they be in birth, and not by the bags of gold what have been left them by any old madams in their dotage. So now you see how I takes it all and you and me can start fair, like.

Joan. [To Luke.] O Mister—Mister Jenner, I feel so faint.

Miles. [Taking her fan.] Allow me. [He begins to fan her.] I assure you she means nothing by it. It’s her way. You see, she knows no better.

Luke. I’d fetch out summat for her to eat if I was you, missis. ’Tis famished as the poor young maid must be.

Emily. She should have come when ’twas meal time then. I don’t hold with bites nor drinks in between whiles.

Joan. O I’m dying for a glass of milk—or water would do as well.

Miles. My dear young lady—anything to oblige. [Turning to Jessie.] Come, my little maid, see if you can’t make yourself useful in bringing a tray of refreshment for your auntie. And you [turning to Robin] trot off and help sister.

Emily. Not if I know it. Stop where you are, Jess. Robin, you dare to move. If Clara wants to eat and drink I’m afeared she must wait till supper time.

Robin. There be chicken and sparrow grass for supper, Aunt.

Jessie. And a great pie of gooseberries.

Joan. [Faintly.] O I couldn’t touch a mouthful of food, don’t speak to me about it.

Robin. I likes talking of dinner. After I’ve done eating of it, I likes next best to talk about it.

Luke. See here, missis. Let’s have a glass of summat cool for Miss Clara.

Emily. [Calling angrily.] Maggie, Maggie, where are you, you great lazy-boned donkey?

Maggie. [Comes in from the back kitchen, her apron held to her eyes.] Did you call me, mistress?

Emily. Get up a bucket of water from the well. Master’s sister wants a drink.

Maggie. [Between sobs.] Shall I bring it in the bucket, or would the young lady like it in a jug?

Emily. [With exasperation.] There’s no end to the worriting that other folks do make.

Jessie. Let me go and help poor Maggie, mother.

Robin. [To Joan.] Do you know what Maggie’s crying for, Aunt Clara?

Joan. I’m sure I don’t, little boy.

Robin. ’Tis because she’s got to go. Mother’s sent her off. ’Twas what she said of mother’s tongue.

Emily. [Roughly taking hold of Robin and Jessie.] Come you along with me, you ill-behaved little varmints. ’Tis the back kitchen and the serving maid as is the properest place for such as you. I’ll not have you bide ’mongst the company no longer. [She goes out with the children and followed by Maggie.]

[Directly they have left the room Joan, whose manner has been nervously shrinking, seems to recover herself and she assumes a languid, artificial air, badly imitating the ways of a lady of fashion.

Joan. [Fanning herself with her handkerchief and her fan.] Well, I never did meet with such goings on before.

Miles. You and I know how people conduct themselves in London, Miss Clara. We must not expect to find the same polite ways down here.

Luke. Come now, ’tisn’t so bad as all that with we. There baint many what has the tongue of mistress yonder.

Joan. I’m quite unused to such people.

Luke. And yet, Miss Clara, ’tisn’t as though they were exactly strangers to you like.

Joan. They feel as good as strangers to me, any way.

Miles. Ah, how well I understand that, Miss. ’Tisn’t very often as we lay a length of fine silken by the side of unbleached woollen at my counters.

Joan. I could go through with it better perhaps, if I didn’t feel so terrible faint and sinking.

Luke. [Going to the back kitchen door.] Here, Maggie, stir yourself up a bit. The lady is near fainting, I do count.

Jessie. [Runs in with a tray on which is a jug of water and a glass.] I’m bringing the drink for Aunt, Mr. Jenner. Maggie’s crying ever so badly, and Mother’s sent her upstairs to wash her face and put her hair tidy.

[Jessie puts the tray on the table near to where Joan is sitting. Miles Hoofer busies himself in pouring out a glass of water and in handing it with a great deal of exaggerated deference to Joan.

Joan. [Drinking.] Such a coarse glass!

Miles. Ah, you must let me send you up one from my place during your stay here. Who could expect a lady to drink from such a thing as that?

Joan. [Laying aside the glass.] There’s a taste of mould in the water too.

Jessie. It’s fresh. Mother drawed it up from the well, she did.

Joan. [Looking disdainfully round on the room.] Such a strange room. So very common.

Luke. Nay, you mustn’t judge of the house by this. Don’t you recollect the parlour yonder, with the stuffed birds and the chiney cupboard?

Joan. [Looking round again.] Such an old-fashioned place as this I never did see. ’Tis a low sort of room too, no carpet on the boards nor cloth to the table, nor nothing elegant.

Miles. Ah, we find the mansions in town very different to a country farm house, don’t we Miss?

Joan. I should think we did, Mister Hooper. Why, look at that great old wooden chair by the hearth? Don’t it look un-stylish, upon my word, with no cushions to it nor nothing.

Jessie. [Coming quite close to Joan and looking straight into her face.] That’s great gran’ma’s chair, what Dad said you’d be best pleased for to see.

[Joan looks very confused and begins to fan herself hastily.

Jessie. And th’ old clock’s another thing what Dad did say as you’d look upon.

Joan. O the old clock’s well enough, to be sure.

Jessie. I did want to gather a nosegay of flowers to set in your bedroom, Aunt, but Mother, she said, no.

Joan. [Languidly.] I must say I don’t see any flowers blooming here that I should particular care about having in my apartment.

Jessie. And Father said as how you’d like to smell the blossoms in the garden. And Georgie told as how you did use to gather the clover blooms when you was a little girl and set them by you where you did sleep.

Joan. [Crossly.] O run away, child, I’m tired to death with all this chatter. How would you like to be so pestered after such a travel over the rough country roads as I have had?

Luke. Now, my little maid, off you go. Take back the tray to Mother, and be careful as you don’t break the glasses on it.

Jessie. [Taking up the tray.] I’m off to play in the hayfield along of Robin, then.

[Luke opens the back kitchen door for her and she goes out. Meanwhile Miles has taken up the fan and is fanning Joan, who leans back in her chair with closed eyes and exhausted look.

Luke. [Coming to her side and sitting down.] ’Twill seem more homelike when Thomas do come up from the field.

Joan. [Raising herself and looking at him.] You mustn’t trouble about me, Mister Jenner. I shall be quite comfortable presently.

[The back door opens and Maggie comes hurriedly in.

Maggie. Please, mistress, there be a young person a-coming through the rick yard.

Joan. [Nervously.] A young person?

Maggie. Mistress be at the gooseberries a-gathering of them, and the children be gone off to th’ hay field.

Miles. ’Tis very likely your serving maid, dear Miss. Shall I fetch the young woman in to you?

Joan. My maid, did you say? My maid?

Luke. Ah, depend on it, ’tis she.

Maggie. The young person do have all the looks of a serving wench, mistress. She be tramping over the yard with naught but a white handkerchief over the head of she and a poking into most of the styes and a-calling of the geese and poultry.

Luke. That’s her, right enough. Bring her in, Mag.

Joan. [Agitatedly.] No, no—I mean—I want to see her particular—and alone. I’ll go to meet her. You—gentlemen—[Maggie goes slowly into the back kitchen.

Miles. [Placing a chair for Joan.] Delicate ladies should not venture out into the heat at this time of day.

Joan. [With sudden resolution ignoring the chair and going to the window.] Then, do you two kind gentlemen take a stroll in the garden. I have need of the services of my—my young woman. But when she has put me in order after the dusty journey, I shall ask you to be good enough to come back and while away an hour for me in this sad place.

Miles. [Fervently.] Anything to oblige a lady, miss.

Luke. That’s right. Us’ll wait while you do lay aside your bonnet.

[Miles and Luke go out through the garden door. Miles, turning to bow low before he disappears. Joan stands as though distraught in the middle of the room. Through the open door of the back kitchen the voices of Clara and Maggie are distinctly heard.

Clara. Is no one at home then?

Maggie. Ah, go you straight on into the kitchen, you’ll find whom you be searching for in there. I’d take and shew you in myself only I’m wanted down to th’ hayfield now.

Clara. Don’t put yourself to any trouble about me. I know my way.

[Clara comes into the kitchen. She has tied a white handkerchief over her head, and carries a bunch of wildflowers in her hands.

Clara. Still in your cloak and bonnet! Why, I thought by now you would have unpacked our things and made yourself at home.

Joan. [Joining her hands supplicatingly and coming towards Clara, speaking almost in a whisper.] O mistress, you’ll never guess what I’ve been and done. But ’twasn’t all my fault at the commencement.

Clara. [Looking her over searchingly.] You do look very disturbed, Joan, what has happened?

Joan. ’Twas the fine bonnet and cloak, mam. ’Twas they as did it.

Clara. Did what?

Joan. Put the thought into my head, like.

Clara. What thought?

Joan. As how ’twould feel to be a real grand lady, like you, mistress.

Clara. What then, Joan?

Joan. So I began to pretend all to myself as how that I was one, mistress.

Clara. Come, tell me all.

Joan. And whilst I was sat down upon that fallen tree, and sort of pretending to myself, the two gentlemen came along.

Clara. What gentlemen?

Joan. Gentlemen as was after courting you, mistress.

Clara. Courting me?

Joan. Yes, and they commenced speaking so nice and respectful like.

Clara. Go on, Joan, don’t be afraid.

Joan. It did seem to fall in with the game I was a-playing with myself. And then, before I did know how, ’twas they was both of them a-taking me for you, mam.

Clara. And did you not un-deceive them, Joan?

Joan. [Very ashamedly.] No, mam.

Clara. You should have told them the truth about yourself at once.

Joan. O I know I should have, mistress. But there was something as held me back when I would have spoke the words.

Clara. I wonder what that could have been?

Joan. ’Twas them being such very nice and kind gentlemen. And, O mistress, you’ll not understand it, because you’ve told me many times as the heart within you have never been touched by love.

Clara. [Suddenly sitting down.] And has yours been touched to-day, Joan, by love?

Joan. That it have, mistress. Love have struck at it heavily.

Clara. Through which of the gentlemen did it strike, Joan?

Joan. Through both. Leastways, ’tis Mister Jenner that my feelings do go out most quickly to, mistress. But ’tis Mister Hooper who do court the hardest and who has the greatest riches like.

Clara. Well, and what do you want me to do or to say now, Joan?

Joan. See here, mistress, I want you to give me a chance. They’ll never stoop to wed me if they knows as I’m but a poor serving maid.

Clara. Your dressing up as a fine lady won’t make you other than what you are, Joan.

Joan. Once let me get the fish in my net, mistress.

Clara. Are you proposing to catch the two, Joan?

Joan. I shall take the one as do offer first, mistress.

Clara. That’ll be Mister Hooper, I should think.

Joan. I should go riding in my own chaise, mistress, if ’twas him.

Clara. But, Joan, either of these men would have to know the truth before there could be any marriage.

Joan. I knows that full well, mistress. But let one of them just offer hisself. By that time my heart and his would be so closely twined together like, ’twould take more nor such a little thing as my station being low to part us.

[Clara sits very still for a few moments, looking straight before her, lost in thought. Joan sinks on to a chair by the table as though suddenly tired out, and she begins to cry gently.

Clara. Listen, Joan. I’m one for the straight paths. I like to walk in open fields and over the bare heath. Only times come when one is driven to take to the ways which are set with bushes and with briars.

Joan. [Lifting her head and drying her eyes.] O mistress, I feel to be asking summat as is too heavy for you to give.

Clara. But for a certain thing, I could never have lent myself to this acting game of yours, Joan.

Joan. No, mistress?

Clara. Only that, to-day, my heart too has gone from my own keeping.

Joan. O mistress, you don’t mean to say as his lordship have followed us down already.

Clara. [Scornfully.] His lordship! As if I should be stirred by him!

Joan. [Humbly.] Who might it be, mistress, if I may ask?

Clara. ’Tis one who would never look upon me with thoughts of love if I went to him as I am now, Joan.

Joan. I can’t rightly understand you, mam.

Clara. My case is just the same as yours, Joan. You say that your fine gentlemen would not look upon a serving maid.

Joan. I’m certain of it, mistress.

Clara. And the man I—I love will never let his heart go out to mine with the heaviness of all these riches lying between us.

Joan. I count that gold do pave the way for most of us, mistress.

Clara. So for this once, I will leave the clear high road, Joan. And you and I will take a path that is set with thorns. Pray God they do not wound us past healing at the end of our travel.

Joan. O mistress, ’twill be a lightsome journey for me.

Clara. But the moment that you reach happiness, Joan, remember to confess.

Joan. There won’t be nothing to fear then, mistress.

Clara. Make him love you for yourself, Joan. O we must each tie the heart of our true love so tightly to our own that naught shall ever be able to cut the bonds.

Joan. Yes, mistress, and I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you.

Clara. Ah, I am lending myself to all this, because I, too, have something to win or lose.

Joan. Where did you meet him, mistress?

Clara. I did not meet him. I stood on the high ground, and he passed below. His face was raised to the light, and I saw its look. I think my love for him has always lain asleep in my heart, Joan. But when he passed beneath me in the meadow, it awoke.

Joan. O mistress, what sort of an appearance has the gentleman?

Clara. I don’t know how to answer you, Joan.

Joan. I count as it would take a rare, grand looking man for to put his lordship into the shadow, like.

Clara. You are right there, Joan. But now we must talk of your affairs. Your fine courtiers will be coming in presently and you must know how to receive them in a good way.

Joan. That’s what do hamper me dreadful, my speech and other things. How would it be if you was to help me a little bit, like?

Clara. With all my heart.

Joan. How should I act so not to be found out, mistress?

Clara. You must speak little, and low. Do not show haste in your goings and comings. Put great care into your way of eating and drinking.

Joan. O that will be a fearsome hard task. What else?

Clara. You must be sisterly with Thomas.

Joan. I’d clean forgot him. I don’t doubt but what he’ll ferret out the truth in no time.

Clara. I don’t think so. I was but a little child when I left him. He will not remember how I looked. And our colouring is alike, Joan.

Joan. ’Tis the eating and drinking as do play most heavily upon my mind, mistress.

Clara. Then think of these words as you sit at table. Eat as though you were not hungry and drink as though there were no such thing as thirst. Let your hands move about your plate as if they were too tired to lift the knife and fork.

[Joan, darts to the dresser—seizes up a plate with a knife and fork, places them on the table and sits down before them, pretending to cut up meat. Clara watches her smilingly.

Joan. [Absently, raising the knife to her mouth.] How’s that, mistress?

Clara. Not so, not so, Joan. That might betray you.

Joan. What, mistress?

Clara. ’Tis the fork which journeys to the mouth, and the knife stops at home on the plate.

Joan. [Dispiritedly.] ’Tis almost more than I did reckon for when I started.

Clara. Well, we mustn’t think of that now. We must hold up our spirits, you and I.

Joan. [Getting up and putting away the crockery.] I’d best take off the bonnet and the cloak, mistress, hadn’t I?

Clara. Yes, that you had. We will go upstairs together and I will help you change into another gown. Come quickly so that we may have plenty of time.

[They go towards the staircase door, Clara leading the way. With her hand on the latch of the door she gives one look round the kitchen. Then with a sudden movement she goes up to the wooden armchair at the hearth and bends her head till her lips touch it, she then runs upstairs, followed by Joan.

ACT II.—Scene 2.

After a few moments Miles Hooper and Luke Jenner come into the kitchen. They both look round the room enquiringly.

Luke. Ah, she be still up above with that there serving wench what’s come.

Miles. My good man, you didn’t expect our fair miss to have finished her toilet under an hour, did you?

Luke. I don’t see what there was to begin on myself, let alone finish.

Miles. ’Tis clear you know little of the ways of our town beauties, Luke.

Luke. Still, I mean to have my try with her, Miles Hooper.

Miles. [Sarcastically.] I’m quite agreeable, Mister Jenner.

[Thomas and George come in. George carries a bucket of water.

Thomas. Where’s the little maid got to? George and me be come up from the field on purpose for to bid her welcome home.

Miles. Miss is still at her toilet, farmer.

[Joan, in a flowered silk gown, comes slowly and carefully into the room, followed by Clara, who carries a lace shawl over one arm. She has put on a large white apron, but wears nothing on her head but the narrow blue ribbon. During the following scene she stands quietly, half hidden by the door.

[Joan looks nervously round the room, then she draws herself up very haughtily. Miles comes forward and bows low.

Thomas. [Looking Joan up and down.] Well, bless my soul, who’d have guessed at the change it do make in a wench?

Joan. [Holding out her hand, very coldly.] A good afternoon to you, sir.

Thomas. [Taking her hand slowly.] Upon my word, but you might knock me over.

Miles. Miss has grown into a very superb young lady, Thomas.

Thomas. [Still looking at her.] That may be so, yet ’twasn’t as such I had figured she in the eye of my mind, like. [There is a moment’s silence.

Thomas. George, my boy, you and sister Clara used to be up to rare games one with t’other once on a time. [Turning to Joan.] There, my wench, I count you’ve not forgotten Georgie?

Joan. I’m afeared I’ve not much of a memory.

Thomas. Shake hands, my maid, and very like as the memory will come back to roost same as the fowls do.

Joan. [Bowing coldly.] Good afternoon, George.

Miles. [Aside to Luke.] Now that’s what I call a bit of stylish breeding.

[George has made no answer to Joan’s bow. He quietly ignores it, and takes up his pail of water. As he does so he catches sight of Clara, who has been watching the whole scene from the corner where she is partly concealed. He looks at her for one moment, and then sets the bucket down again.

Thomas. Why, George—I guess as it’s took you as it took me, us didn’t think how ’twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up.

George. [Quietly.] No, us did not, master.

[He carries his pail into the back kitchen as Emily and the children come in.

Emily. What’s all this to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know?

Thomas. Us did but come up for to—to give a handshake to sister Clara, like.

Emily. Well, now you can go off back to work again. And you—[turning to Joan]—now that you’ve finished curling of your hair and dressing of yourself up, you can go and sit down in the best parlour along with your fancy gentlemen.

Miles. [Offering his arm to Joan.] It will be my sweet pleasure to conduct Missy to the parlour.

[Luke offers his arm on the other side, and Joan moves off with both the young men.

Joan. [As she goes.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a comfortable couch. I’m dead tired of the country air already.

Robin. [Calling after her.] You’ll not go off to sleep afore the chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt?

[Miles, Luke and Joan having gone out, Emily begins to bang the chairs back in their places and to arrange the room, watched by the two children. Clara, who has remained half hidden by the door, now goes quietly upstairs.

Emily. [Calling.] Here, George, Mag.

[George comes in.

Emily. Well, George, ’tisn’t much worse nor I expected.

Jessie. I don’t like Aunt Clara.

Robin. I hates her very much.

George. [Slowly.] And I don’t seem to fancy her neither.

[Curtain.]

ACT III.—Scene 1.

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.

ACT IV.—Scene 1.

The kitchen is decorated with bunches of flowers. A long table is spread with silver, china and food. Clara is setting mugs to each place. Maggie comes in from the back kitchen with a large dish of salad.

Maggie. When folks do come down to the countryside they likes to enjoy themselves among the vegetables.

Clara. [Placing the last mug.] There—Now all is ready for them.

Maggie. [Bending over a place at the end of the table.] Come you and look at this great old bumble-dore, Joan, what have flyed in through the window.

Clara. [Goes to Maggie’s side and bends down over the table.] O what a beautiful thing. Look at the gold on him, and his legs are like feathers.

Maggie. [Taking the bee carefully up in a duster and letting it fly through the window.] The sign of a stranger, so they do say.

Clara. A stranger, Maggie?

Maggie. You mind my words, ’tis a stranger as’ll sit where yon was stuck, afore the eating be finished.

Clara. I don’t believe in such signs, myself.

Maggie. I never knowed it not come true.

[Thomas comes in. He is wearing his best clothes and looks pleased, yet nervous.

Thomas. Well, maids. Upon my word ’tis a spread. Never saw so many different vituals brought together all at a time afore in this house.

Maggie. ’Tis in honour of Miss Clara’s going to be married like, master.

Thomas. So ’tis, so ’tis. Well—A single rose upon the bush. Bound to be plucked, you know. Couldn’t be left to fade in the sun, eh, girls?

Clara. Where shall Maggie and me stop whilst the supper is going on, master? Mistress has not told us yet.

Thomas. [Nervously.] Mistress haven’t told you—haven’t she? Well—well—at such a time we must all—all rejoice one with t’other, like. No difference made t’wixt master and man. Nor t’wixt maid and missus. Down at the far end of the table you can sit yourselves, my wenches. Up against George—How’s that?

Clara. That will do very well for us, Master.

Maggie. I don’t expect as missus will let we bide there long.

Thomas. Look here, my wench, I be master in my own house, and at the asking in marriage of my only sister like, ’tis me as shall say what shall sit down with who. And there’s an end of it. That’s all.

Maggie. I hear them a coming in, master.

[Emily, holding the hands of Jessie and Robin, comes into the room. Her eyes fall on Thomas who is standing between Clara and Maggie, looking suddenly sheepish and nervous.

Emily. [In a voice of suppressed anger.] Thomas! O, if I catch any more of these goings on in my kitchen.

[Joan, very elegantly dressed and hanging on the arm of Miles Hooper, follows Emily into the room.

Emily. I’ll not have the food kept back any longer for Luke Jenner. If folk can’t come to the time when they’re asked, they baint worth waiting for, so sit you down, all of you.

[She sits down at the head of the table, a child on either side of her. Joan languidly sinks into a chair and Miles puts himself at her right. A place at her left remains empty. Thomas sits opposite. Three places at the end of the table are left vacant. As they sit down, George, wearing a new smock and neck handkerchief, comes in.

Emily. [Beginning to help a dish.] You need not think you’re to be helped first, Clara, for all that the party is given for you, like. The poor little children have been kept waiting a sad time for their supper, first because you was such a while a having your head curled and puffed out, and then ’twas Luke Jenner as didn’t come.

[Clara sits down at a place at the end of the table. George and Maggie still remain standing.

Emily. [Perceiving Clara’s movement.] Well, I never did see anything so forward. Who told you to sit yourself down along of your betters, if you please, madam serving maid?

[George comes involuntarily forward and stands behind Clara’s chair. Clara does not move.

Emily. Get you out of that there place this instant, do you hear? [Turning to Miles.] To see the way the young person acts one might think as she fancied herself as something uncommon rare and high. But you’ll not take any fool in, not you, for all that you like to play the fine lady. Us can see through your game very clear, can’t us, Mr. Hooper?

Miles. O certainly, to be sure, Missis Spring. No one who has the privilege of being acquainted with a real lady of quality could be mistook by any of the games played by this young person.

[Clara looks him gravely in the face without moving.

Emily. Get up, do you hear, and help Maggie pass the dishes!

Thomas. [Nervously.] Nay, nay, ’twas my doing, Emily. I did tell the wenches as they might sit their-selves along of we, just for th’ occasion like.

Emily. And who are you, if you please, giving orders and muddling about like a lord in my kitchen?

Thomas. [Faintly.] Come, Emily, I’m the master.

Emily. And I, the mistress. Hear that, you piece of London impudence?

George. [Comes forward.] Master Luke be coming up the garden, mistress.

[Luke Jenner enters. He goes straight up to Joan and holds out his hand to her, and then to Miles.

Luke. I do wish you happiness with all my heart, Miss Clara. Miles, my lad, ’tis rare—rare pleased as I be to shake your hand this day.

Emily. Come, come, Luke Jenner, you’ve been and kept us waiting more nor half an hour. Can’t you sit yourself down and give other folk a chance of eating their victuals quiet? There’s naught to make all this giddle-gaddle about as I can see.

Luke. [Sitting down in the empty place by Joan’s side.] Beg pardon, mistress, I know I’m a bit late. But the victuals as are waited for do have a better flavour to them nor those which be ate straight from the pot like.

Thomas. That’s true ’tis. And ’tis hunger as do make the best sauce.

[George and Maggie quietly seat themselves on either side of Clara. Emily is too busy dispensing the food to take any notice. George hands plates and dishes to Clara, and silently cares for her comfort throughout the meal.

Thomas. Well, Emily; well, Luke. I didn’t think to lose my little sister afore she’d stopped a three days in the place. That I did not. But I don’t grudge her to a fine prospering young man like friend Hooper, no, I don’t.

Emily. No one called upon you for a speech, Thomas. See if you can’t make yourself of some use in passing the green stuff. [Turning to Luke.] We have two serving maids and a man, Mister Jenner, but they’re to be allowed to act the quality to-day, so we’ve got to wait upon ourselves.

Luke. A man is never so well served as by his own two hands, mistress. That’s my saying at home.

Thomas. And a good one too, Luke, my boy, for most folk, but with me ’tis otherwise. I’ve got another pair of hands in the place as do for me as well, nor better than my own.

Emily. Yes, Thomas, I often wonders where you’d be without mine.

Thomas. I wasn’t thinking of yourn, Emily. ’Tis George’s hands as I was speaking of.

Emily. [Contemptuously.] George! You’ll all find out your mistake one day, Thomas.

Miles. [To Joan, who has been nervously handling her knife and fork and watching Clara’s movements furtively.] My sweet Miss is not shewing any appetite.

Joan. I’m—I’m not used to country fare.

Emily. O, I hear you, Clara. Thomas, this is very fine. Clara can’t feed ’cause she’s not used to country fare! What next, I’d like to know!

Robin. [Who has been watching Joan.] Why does Aunt sometimes put her knife in her mouth, Mother?

Miles. My good boy, ’tis plain you’ve never mixed among the quality or you would know that each London season has its own new fashion of acting. This summer ’tis the stylish thing to put on a countryfied mode at table.

Jessie. Joan don’t eat like that, Mister Hooper.

Miles. Joan’s only a maid servant, Miss Jessie. You should learn to distinguish between such people and fine ladles like your aunt.

Joan. [Forcing herself to be more animated.] Give me some fruit, Miles—I have no appetite to-day for heavy food. ’Tis far too warm.

Miles. As for me, the only food I require is the sweet honey of my Missy’s voice.

Thomas. Ah, ’tis a grand thing to be a young man, Miles Hooper. There was a day when such things did come handy to my tongue, like.

Emily. [Sharply.] I don’t seem to remember that day, Thomas.

Thomas. [Sheepishly, his look falling.] Ah—’twas afore—afore our courting time, Emily.

Luke. [Energetically.] Prime weather for the hay, farmer. I count as this dry will last until the whole of it be carried. [A knock is heard at the door.

Thomas. Now who’ll that be? Did you see anyone a-coming up the path, Mother?

Emily. Do you expect me to be carving of the fowls and a-looking out of the window the same time, Thomas?

Thomas. George, my lad, do you open the door and see who ’tis.

[Joan looks anxiously across the table at Clara. Then she drops her spoon and fork and takes up her fan, using it violently whilst George slowly gets up and opens the door. Lord Lovel is seen standing on the threshold.

Lord Lovel. [To George.] Kindly tell me, my man, is this the farm they call Ox Lease?

George. Ah, that’s right enough.

Lord Lovel. I’m sorry to break in upon a party like this, but I want to see Miss Clara Spring if she is here.

Thomas. [Standing up.] You’ve come at the very moment, master. This be a giving in marriage supper. And ’tis Miss Clara, what’s only sister to me, as is to be wed.

Lord Lovel. Impossible, my good sir!

Thomas. Ah, that’s it. Miles Hooper, he’s the happy man. If you be come by Painswick High Street you’ll have seen his name up over the shop door.

Lord Lovel. Miss Clara—Miles Hooper—No, I can’t believe it.

Thomas. [Pointing towards Joan and Miles.] There they be—the both of them. Turtle doves on the same branch. You’re right welcome, master, to sit down along of we as one of the family on this occasion.

Lord Lovel. [Looking at Joan who has suddenly dropped her fan and is leaning back with a look of supplication towards Clara.] I must have come to the wrong place—that’s not the Miss Clara Spring I know.

Miles. [Bending over Joan.] My sweet Missy has no acquaintance with this gentleman, I am sure.

[Lord Lovel suddenly turns round and perceives Clara seated by Maggie at the table. He quickly goes towards her, holding out his hand.

Lord Lovel. Miss Clara. Tell me what is going on. [Looking at her cap and apron.] Why have you dressed yourself like this?

Thomas. Come, come. There seems to be some sort of a hitch here. The young gentleman has very likely stopped a bit too long at the Spotted Cow on his way up.

Joan. [Very faintly, looking at Clara.] O do you stand by me now.

Clara. [Lays her hand on Lord Lovel’s arm.] Come with me, my lord. I think I can explain everything if you will only step outside with me. Come—[She leads him swiftly through the door which George shuts behind them.]

[Joan leans back in her chair as though she were going to faint.

Thomas. Well, now—but that’s a smartish wench, getting him out so quiet, like. George, you’d best step after them to see as the young man don’t annoy her in any way.

Emily. That young person can take good care of herself. Sit you down, Thomas and George, and get on with your eating, if you can.

Jessie. Why did he think Joan was our aunt, mother?

Emily. ’Cause he was in that state when a man don’t know his right leg from his left arm.

George. [Who has remained standing.] Look you here, Master Thomas—see here mistress. ’Tis time as there was an end of this cursed play acting, or whatever ’tis called.

Emily. Play acting there never has been in my house, George, I’d like for you to know.

George. O yes there have been, mistress. And ’tis time it was finished. [Pointing to Joan.] You just take and ask that young person what she do mean by tricking herself out in Miss Clara’s gowns and what not, and by having herself called by Miss Clara’s own name.

Miles. [Taking Joan’s hand in his.] My sweet Miss must pay no attention to the common fellow. I dare him to speak like that of my little lady bride.

George. A jay bird in peacock’s feathers, that’s what ’tis. And she’s took you all in, the every one of you.

Jessie. O George, isn’t she really our aunt from London?

George. No, that she baint, Miss Jessie.

Thomas. Come, come, my lad. I never knew you act so afore.

Emily. ’Tis clear where he have spent his time this afternoon.

Luke. Nay, nay, I never did see George inside of the Spotted Cow in all the years I’ve known of him. George baint made to that shape.

Robin. Then who is Aunt Clara, George?

George. She who be just gone from out of the room, Master Robin, and none other.

Thomas. Come, George, this talk do sound so foolish.

George. I can’t help that, master. Foolish deeds do call for foolish words, may be.

Miles. My pretty Miss is almost fainting, I declare. [He pours out water for Joan and bends affectionately over her.] Put the drunken fellow outside and let’s have an end of this.

George. [Advancing.] Yes, us’ll have an end to it very shortly. But I be going to put a straight question to the maid first, and ’tis a straight answer as her’ll have to give me in reply.

Miles. Not a word, not a word. Miss is sadly upset by your rude manners.

George. Do you ask of the young lady but one thing, Master Hooper, and then I’ll go when you will.

Miles. Well, my man, what’s that?

George. Do you get her to speak the name as was given she at baptism, Mister Hooper.

Miles. This is madness. My pretty Miss shall not be teased by such a question. Thomas, you’ll have to get this stupid fellow locked up, or something.

George. [Angrily.] Her shall say it, if I stands here all night.

[Joan suddenly bends forward and hides her face in her hands, her form shaken by violent weeping. The door opens and Clara enters followed by Lord Lovel. She has taken off her cap and apron.

Joan. [Raising her head and stretching out her hands to Clara.] O speak for me, mistress. Speak for me and help.

Clara. I am Clara, she is Joan. Thomas, Emily, I pray you to forgive us both for taking you in like this.

Thomas. Well, I never did hear tell of such a thing.

Emily. I’m not going to believe a word the young person says.

Lord Lovel. She has told you but the truth, my good friends.

Emily. And who are you, to put your tongue into the basin, I’d like to know?

Clara. This is the nephew of my dear godmother. Lord Lovel is his name.

Emily. If you think I’m going to be took in with such nonsense, the more fool you, I says.

Lord Lovel. But all that Miss Clara tells you is true, Missis Spring. She and her serving maid, for certain reasons of their own, agreed to change parts for a few days.

Thomas. [Turning to Joan.] Is this really so, my maid?

[Joan bows her head, her handkerchief still covering her face.

Thomas. [To Clara.] Who ever would have thought on such a thing?

Clara. ’Twas a foolish enough thing, but no harm is done. Look up, Joan, and do not cry so pitifully.

Joan. [Looking up at Miles.] You’ll never go and change towards me now that we’re most as good as wed, will you, Mister Hooper?

Miles. [Rising and speaking with cold deliberation.] Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you all a very pleasant evening.

Thomas. Come, come Miles, we be all a bit turned in the head, it seems. But things’ll settle back to their right places if you gives them a chance. Sit you down and take a drink of sommat.

Emily. Don’t be so foolish, Thomas. As if a man what’s been stung by a wasp would care to sit himself down on a hornet’s nest.

Miles. You are perfectly right, madam. This is no place for me. I have been sported with. My good name has been treated as a jest.

Joan. O Mister Hooper, ’twas my doing, all of it, but I did it for the best, I did.

Miles. [Going to the door.] Thank you, my good woman. Next time you want to play a little prank like this, I beg that you will select your partner with more care. The name of Hooper is not a suitable one to toy with, let me tell you.

Robin. Aren’t you going to marry her then, Mister Hooper?

Miles. I am not, Master Robin.

Jessie. You said as you could tell a real lady by her ways, but you couldn’t very well, could he, Mother?

[Miles, covering his mortification with sarcastic bows made to the right and left, goes out. Joan leans back almost fainting in her chair.

Luke. [Taking her hand.] This is the finest hearing in all the world for me, Miss—Miss Joan.

Joan. O Mr. Jenner, how deep you must despise me.

Luke. And that I’d never do, though I’m blest if I know why you did it.

Clara. It was as much my fault as hers, Mister Jenner. There were things that each of us wanted, and that we thought we might get, by changing places, one with the other.

Thomas. [To Clara.] Well, my maid, I’m blessed if I do know what you was a hunting about for, dressed up as a serving wench.

Clara. [Turning a little towards George.] I thought to find something which was mine when I was a little child, but which I lost.

Jessie. O Georgie do know how to find things which is lost. ’Twas he as brought back the yellow pullet when her had strayed off.

Robin. Yes. And ’twas George as did find your blue hair ribbon Aunt Clara, when it was dropped in the hayfield.

Jessie. I believe as Georgie knowed which of them was our aunt all the time.

Robin. I believe it too.

Thomas. Why, George, you sly dog, what put you on the scent, like?

George. ’Twas not one, but many things. And if you wants a clear proof [Turning to Clara]—put back the laces of your sleeve, Miss Clara.

Clara. What for, George?

George. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did pull up your sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. Not that ’twas needed for me, like.

[Clara pushes up both her sleeves, and holds out her arms towards George.

George. [Pointing to the scar.] There ’tis—there’s where th’ old gander have left his mark.

The Children. [Getting up.] Where, where! O do let us see!

[They run round to where Clara stands and look eagerly at the mark on her arm which she shews to them.

Thomas. George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can play fox.

Emily. Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when ’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him.

Thomas. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint th’ only fox. How now, my lad?

George. I don’t see what you be driving at, master.

Thomas. [Slyly.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George?

Clara. Yes, Thomas. Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me.

George. [Stepping forward till he is by Clara’s side.] No, and that I will not do. ’Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I’ll keep it.

Clara. [To George.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I can stand for a moment. Georgie, do you remember the days when you used to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting me over the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by their thorns?

George. Hark you here, Clara. This once I’ll speak. I never had but one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through the woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine. I learnt she the note of every bird. And when th’ evening was come, us would watch together till th’ old mother badger did get from out of her hole, and start hunting in the long grasses.

Clara. [Taking George’s hand.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for the disguise that I put upon myself.

George. Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint no cloud upon the sky, Clara?

Clara. Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might raise up between you and me.

Thomas. That’s all finished and done with now, my maid. If I’d a hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should.

Emily. Thank you. Thomas. One of your sisters is about enough.

Luke. [Who has been sitting with Joan’s hand in his.] Hark you here, mistress. There’s many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day. Baint that a true saying, Joan?

Joan. [Looking up radiantly.] O that it is, dear Luke.

Lord Lovel. Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be said.

Emily. And that’s the most sensible thing as has been spoke this long while. Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, grizzling sort of a muddler. She might have took up with this young man, who has a very respectable appearance.

Lord Lovel. [Coming forward to George and shaking his hand.] I’m proud to make your acquaintance, sir.

Emily. [Rising angrily.] Come Thomas, come Luke, come Clara. Us might be a barn full of broody hens the way we be set around of this here table. ’Twill be midnight afore the things is cleared away and washed up.

Thomas. What if it be, Emily. ’Tisn’t very often as I gets the chance of minding how ’twas in times gone past. Ah, I was a young man in those days, too, I was.

Emily. And ’tis a rare old addle head as you be got now, Thomas.

Jessie. [Slipping her hand into Thomas’s.] O do let us sit up till midnight, Dad.

Robin. I shall eat a smartish lot more if we does.

[Curtain.]