Chapter III: Act I: Scene 2

_It is dusk on the same evening_.

MILLIE _is standing by the table folding up the silken cloak_. ANNET _sits watching her_, _on her knees lies a open parcel disclosing a woollen shawl_. _In a far corner of the room_ MAY _is seated on a stool making a daisy chain_.

ANNET. ’Twas very good of Uncle to bring me this nice shawl, Millie.

MILLIE. You should have had a cloak like mine, Annet, by rights.

ANNET. I’m not going to get married, Millie.

MILLIE. [_Sitting down with a sudden movement of despondence and stretching her arms across the table_.] O don’t you speak to me of that, Annet. ’Tis more than I can bear to-night.

ANNET. But, Millie, he’s coming for your answer now. You musn’t let him find you looking so.

MILLIE. My face shall look as my heart feels. And that is all sorrow, Annet.

ANNET. Can’t you bring yourself round to fancy Andrew, Millie?

MILLIE. No, that I cannot, Annet, I’ve tried a score of times, I have—but there it is—I cannot.

ANNET. Is it that you’ve not forgotten Giles, then?

MILLIE. I never shall forget him, Annet. Why, ’tis a five year this day since father sent him off to foreign parts, and never a moment of all that time has my heart not remembered him.

ANNET. I feared ’twas so with you, Millie.

MILLIE. O I’ve laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted the pillow all over so that I’ve had to turn it t’other side up.

ANNET. And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor nothing?

MILLIE. Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, Annet. But, O, he’s none the worse for that.

ANNET. Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was it when you and he did part, one with t’other?

MILLIE. I did give him my ring, Annet—secret like—when we were walking in the wood.

ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it?

MILLIE. Yes, grandmother’s ring, that she left me. And I did say to him—if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, Giles—look you at these white stones.

ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie.

MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to him, the stones shall darken. But you’ll never see that day. [_She begins to cry_.

ANNET. Don’t you give way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis very likely that Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,—well, Andrew he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And ’tis Andrew you have got to wed, you know.

MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew—I’m sick at the very name of him.

ANNET. See the fine house you’ll live in. Think on the grand parlour that you’ll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you and naught but Sunday clothes on your back.

MILLIE. I’d sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me.

ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. And Uncle says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good and all.

MILLIE. O I cannot see him—I’m wearied to death of Andrew, and that’s the very truth it is.

ANNET. O Millie—I wonder how ’twould feel to be you for half-an-hour and to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to say Yes.

MILLIE. O I wish ’twas you and not me that he was after, Annet.

ANNET. ’Tisn’t likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever come courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I’d dearly love to know how ’twould feel.

[MILLIE _raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in silence_, _then her face brightens_.

MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet.

ANNET. Shall what, Mill?

MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here—’Tis sick to death I am with courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and if I’m to wed Andrew come next month, I’ll not be tormented with him before that time,—so ’tis you that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll slip out to the woods and gather flowers.

ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill.

MILLIE. In the dusk he’ll never know that ’tisn’t me. Being cousins, we speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us there’s not much that’s amiss.

ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill—why, ’tis a grand young lady that you look—whilst I—

MILLIE. [_Taking up the silken cloak_.] Here—put this over your gown, Annet.

ANNET. [_Standing up_.] I don’t mind just trying it on, like.

MILLIE. [_Fastening it_.] There—and now the bonnet, with the veil pulled over the face.

[_She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on_ ANNET.

MILLIE. [_Standing back and surveying her cousin_.] There, Annet, there May, who is to tell which of us ’tis?

MAY. [_Coming forward_.] O I should never know that ’twasn’t you, Cousin Mill.

MILLIE. And I could well mistake her for myself too, so listen, Annet. ’Tis you that shall talk with Master Andrew when he comes to-night. And ’tis you that shall give him my answer. I’ll not burn my lips by speaking the word he asks of me.

ANNET. O Mill—I cannot—no I cannot.

MILLIE. Don’t let him have it very easily, Annet. Set him a ditch or two to jump before he gets there. And let the thorns prick him a bit before he gathers the flower. You know my way with him.

MAY. And I know it too, Millie—Why, your tongue, ’tis very near as sharp as when Aunt do speak.

ANNET. O Millie, take off these things—I cannot do it, that’s the truth.

MAY. [_Looking out through the door_.] There’s Andrew a-coming over the mill yard.

MILLIE. Here, sit down, Annet, with the back of you to the light.

[_She pushes_ ANNET _into a chair beneath the window_.

MAY. Can I get into the cupboard and listen to it, Cousin Mill?

MILLIE. If you promise to bide quiet and to say naught of it afterwards.

MAY. O I promise, I promise—I’ll just leave a crack of the door open for to hear well.

[MAY _gets into the cupboard_. MILLIE _takes up_ ANNET’S _new shawl and puts it all over her_.

MILLIE. No one will think that ’tisn’t you, in the dusk.

ANNET. O Millie, what is it that you’ve got me to do?

MILLIE. Never you mind, Annet—you shall see what ’tis to have a grand suitor and I shall get a little while of quiet out yonder, where I can think on Giles.

[_She runs out of the door just as_ ANDREW _comes up_. ANDREW _knocks and then enters the open door_.

ANDREW. Where’s Annet off to in such a hurry?

ANNET. [_Very faintly_.] I’m sure I don’t know. [ANDREW _lays aside his hat and comes up to the window_. _He stands before_ ANNET _looking down on her_. _She becomes restless under his gaze_, _and at last signs to him to sit down_.

ANDREW. [_Sitting down on a chair a little way from her_.] The Master said that I might come along to-night, Millie—Otherwise—[ANNET _is still silent_.

Otherwise I shouldn’t have dared do so.

[ANNET _sits nervously twisting the ribbons of her cloak_.

The Master said, as how may be, your feeling for me, Millie, might be changed like. [ANNET _is still silent_.

And that if I was to ask you once more, very likely ’twould be something different as you might say.

[_A long silence_.

Was I wrong in coming, Millie?

ANNET. [_Faintly_.] ’Twould have been better had you stayed away like.

ANDREW. Then there isn’t any change in your feelings towards me, Millie?

ANNET. O, there’s a sort of a change, Andrew.

ANDREW. [_Slowly_.] O Mill, that’s good hearing. What sort of a change is it then?

ANNET. ’Tis very hard to say, Andrew.

ANDREW. Look you, Mill, ’tis more than a five year that I’ve been a-courting of you faithful.

ANNET. [_Sighing_.] Indeed it is, Andrew.

ANDREW. And I’ve never got naught but blows for my pains.

ANNET. [_Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply_.] O I’m so sorry—No—I mean—’Tis your own fault, Andrew.

ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words from another, Millie.

ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to—I mean, ’tis as well that you should get used to blows, seeing we’re to be wed, Andrew.

ANDREW. Then ’tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news—Why, I do scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming.

ANNET. [_Very sadly_.] Very likely you’ll be glad enough to be dreaming a month from now, poor Andrew.

ANDREW. [_Drawing nearer_.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to me so kind and gentle, and I’ll ask you to name the day.

ANNET. [_Shrinking back_.] O ’twill be a very long distance from now, Andrew.

ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart and play with it same as a cat does with the mouse.

ANNET. [_Becoming gay and hard in her manner_.] Your heart, Andrew? ’Twill go all the better afterwards if ’tis tossed about a bit first.

ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you’ll wed me.

ANNET. [_Warding him off with her hand_.] You shall have my answer in a new song Andrew, which I have been learning.

[ANDREW _sits down despondently and prepares to listen_.

ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over in your mind. [_She begins to sing_:

Say can you plough me an acre of land
Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme.
Between the sea and the salt sea strand
And you shall be a true lover of mine?

[_A slight pause_. ANNET _looks questioningly at_ ANDREW, _who turns away with a heavy sigh_.

ANNET. [_Singing_.]

Yes, if you plough it with one ram’s horn
Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme
And sow it all over with one peppercorn
And you shall be a true lover of mine.

ANDREW. ’Tis all foolishness.

ANNET. [_Singing_.]

Say can you reap with a sickle of leather
Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme
And tie it all up with a Tom-tit’s feather
And you shall be a true lover of mine.

ANDREW. [_Rises up impatiently_.] I can stand no more. You’ve danced upon my heart till ’tis fairly brittle, and ready to be broke by a feather.

ANNET. [_Very gently_.] O Andrew, I’ll mend your heart one day.

ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already.

ANNET. [_In a harder voice_.] But very likely there’ll be a crack left to it always.

[FARMER DANIEL _and_ ELIZABETH _come into the room_.

DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie?

ANDREW. [_Boldly_.] ’Tis for a month from now.

DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that?

ELIZABETH. I’m not deaf, Father.

DANIEL. [_Shaking_ ANDREW’S _hand_.] Ah my boy, I knowed as you’d bring the little maid to the senses of she.

ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself as though for church.

DANIEL. ’Tis with the maids as ’tis with the fowls when they be come out from moult. They be bound to pick about this way and that in their new feathers.

ELIZABETH. Well, ’tis to be hoped the young people have fixed it up for good and all this time.

DANIEL. Come Mill, my wench, you be wonderful quiet. Where’s your tongue?

ELIZABETH. I think we’ve all had quite enough of Millie’s tongue, Father. Let her give it a rest if she’ve a mind.

DANIEL. I warrant she be gone as shy as a May bettel when ’tis daylight. But us’ll take it as she have fixed it up in her own mind like. Come, Mother, such a time as this, you won’t take no objection to the drawing of a jug of cider.

ELIZABETH. And supper just about to be served? I’m surprised at you, Father. No, I can’t hear of cider being drawn so needless like.

DANIEL. Well, well,—have it your own way—but I always says, and my father used to say it afore I, a fine deed do call for a fine drink, and that’s how ’twas in my time.

ELIZABETH. Millie, do you call your cousins in to supper.

DANIEL. Ah, and where be the maids gone off to this time of night, Mother?

ANDREW. Annet did pass me as I came through the yard, Master

[MAY, _quietly opens the cupboard door and comes out_.

ELIZABETH. So that’s where you’ve been, you deceitful little wench.

ANDREW. Well, to think of that, Millie.

ELIZABETH. And how long may you have bid there, I should like to know?

DANIEL. Come, come, my little maid, ’tis early days for you to be getting a lesson in courtship.

MAY. O there wasn’t any courtship, Uncle, and I didn’t hear nothing at all to speak of.

ELIZABETH. There, run along quick and find your sister. Supper’s late already, and that it is.

ANNET. I’ll go with her.

[_She starts forward and hurriedly moves towards the door_.

ELIZABETH. Stop a moment, Millie. What are you thinking of to go trailing out in the dew with that beautiful cloak and bonnet. Take and lay them in the box at once, do you hear?

DANIEL. That’s it, Mill. ’Twouldn’t do for to mess them up afore the day. ’Twas a fair price as I gived for they, and that I can tell you, my girl.

[ANNET _stops irresolutely_. MAY _seizes her hand_.

MAY. Come off, come off, “Cousin Millie”; ’tis not damp outside, and O I’m afeared to cross the rickyard by myself.

[_She pulls_ ANNET _violently by the hand and draws her out of the door_.

ELIZABETH. Off with the cloak this minute, Millie.

MAY. [_Calling back_.] She’s a-taking of it off, Aunt, she is.

ELIZABETH. I don’t know what’s come to the maid. She don’t act like herself to-day.

DANIEL. Ah, that be asking too much of a maid, to act like herself, and the wedding day close ahead of she.

ELIZABETH. I’d be content with a suitable behaviour, Father. I’m not hard to please.

DANIEL. Ah, you take and let her go quiet, same as I lets th’ old mare when her first comes up from grass.

ELIZABETH. ’Tis all very well for you to talk, Father but ’tis I who have got to do.

DANIEL. Come Mother, come Andrew, I be sharp set. And ’tis the feel of victuals and no words as I wants in my mouth.

ELIZABETH. Well, Father, I’m not detaining you. There’s the door, and the food has been cooling on the table this great while.

DANIEL. Come you, Andrew, come you, Mother. Us’ll make a bit of a marriage feast this night.

[_He leads the way and the others follow him out_.

[_Curtain_.]