Six Plays by Lady Florence Henrietta Fisher Darwin Part 39

JOHN. There, master. That's courting for you. That's the sort of thing. And a caddling thing it is too.

WILLIAM. But 'tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John.

And 'tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this afternoon, there--that's what I've come to in my thoughts.

JOHN. Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now?

WILLIAM. See here, John--we'll cut a nosegay for you to carry--some of the best blooms I'll spare. And you, who know what courting is, and who have such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once and do the business for me.

JOHN. Master, if 'twas an acre of stone as you'd asked me to plough, I'd sooner do it nor a job like this.

WILLIAM. John, you've been a good friend to me all the years that you have lived on the farm, you'll not go and fail me now.

JOHN. Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William?

'Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of she.

WILLIAM. Your words are all right, John. 'Tisn't as though sensible speech was needed. You do know what's wanted with the maids, whilst I have never been used to them in any way whatever. So let's say no more about it, but commence gathering the flowers.

JOHN. [Heavily, but resigned.] Since you say so, master. [They begin to gather flowers.

WILLIAM. What blooms do young maids like the best, John?

JOHN. Put in a sprig of thyme, master.

WILLIAM. Yes--I can well spare that.

JOHN. And a rose that's half opened, master.

WILLIAM. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, John.

JOHN. 'Tain't likely as you can get through courts.h.i.+p without parting with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you're called upon to spill.

WILLIAM. That's true, John--I'll gather the rose -

JOHN. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they.

WILLIAM. Put them into the nosegay, John--And now--no more--'Tis enough waste for one day.

JOHN. 'Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I.

WILLIAM. A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John.

JOHN. 'Tis to be hoped as 'twill be the same with the lady, master.

WILLIAM. There, off you go, John. And mind, 'tis her with the cherry ribbon to her gown and bonnet.

JOHN. Why, master, and her might have a different ribbon to her head this day, being that 'tis Thursday?

WILLIAM. An eye like--like a bullace, John. And a grand colour to the face of her like yon rose.

JOHN. That's enough, Master William. I'll not pitch upon the wrong maid, never fear. And now I'll clean myself up a bit at the pump, and set off straight away.

WILLIAM. [Shaking JOHN's hand.] Good luck to you, my man. And if you can bring it off quiet and decent like without me coming in till at the last, why, 'tis a five pound note that you shall have for your trouble.

JOHN. You be a grand gentleman to serve, Master William, and no mistake about that.

[Curtain.]

ACT II.--Scene 1.

A wood. To the right a fallen tree (or a bench). JOHN comes from the left, a large bunch of flowers in his hand.

JOHN. Out, and a taking of the air in the wood, be they? Well, bless my soul, but 'tis a rare caddling business what master's put upon I. 'Tis worse nor any job he have set me to in all the years I've been along of him, so 'tis. But I'm the one to bring it off slick and straight, and, bless me, if I won't take and hide myself by yon great bush till I see the wenches a-coming up. That'll give me time to have a quiet look at the both and pick out she what master's going a-courting of.

[JOHN puts himself behind some thick bushes as JULIA and LAURA come forward. JULIA is very simply dressed. Her head is bare, and she is carrying her white cotton sunbonnet. LAURA wears finer clothes and her bonnet is tied by bright ribbons of cherry colour.

LAURA. [Stopping by the bench.] We'll sit down--'Tis a warm day, and I've had enough of walking.

[She sinks down on the seat.

JULIA. [Looking all round her.] 'Tis beautiful and quiet here. O this is ever so much better than the farm.

LAURA. The farm! What's wrong with that, I should like to know?

JULIA. Everything. 'Tis more like a prison than a home to me.

Within the house there's always work crying out to be done--and outside I believe 'tis worse--work--nothing else speaking to me.

LAURA. You're a sad ungrateful girl. Why, there's many would give their eyes to change with you.

JULIA. But out here 'tis all peace, and freedom. There's naught calling out to be done. The flowers grow as they like, and the breezes move them this way, and that. The ground is thick with leaves and blossoms and no one has got to sweep it, and the hard things with great noises to them, like pails and churns, are far away and clean forgot.

LAURA. 'Tisn't much use as you'll be on the farm.

JULIA. I wish I'd never come nigh to it. I was happier far before.

LAURA. 'Tis a grand life. You'll see it as I do one of these days.

JULIA. No, that I shall not. Every day that I wake and hear the cattle lowing beneath my window I turn over on my pillow, and 'tis a heart of lead that turns with me. The smell of the wild flowers in the fields calls me, but 'tis to the dairy I must go, to work. And at noonday, when the shade of the woodland makes me thirsty for its coolness, 'tis the kitchen I must be in--or picking green stuff for the market. And so on till night, when the limbs of me can do no more and the spirit in me is like a bird with the wing of it broken.

LAURA. You'll harden to it all by winter time right enough.

JULIA. O I'll never harden to it. 'Tis not that way I am made.

Some girls can set themselves down with four walls round them, and do their task nor ask for anything beyond, but 'tis not so with me.

LAURA. How is it then with you?