SCENE: Kitchen at Woodbarrow Farm. An ideal old farmhouse kitchen. From the smoke-blackened ceiling beams hang huge sides of bacon, strings of onions, and herbs, and poultry. Over the great fireplace are the guns, and in profusion everywhere are the homely furnishings of a prosperous farmhouse kitchen. A huge fire burns r. in old-fashioned fireplace, with settle on each side. Door l.c. at back opening on corner of farmyard. Latticed window looking out on yard to r. of door. Table r.c. piled with linen waiting to be folded. Linen press l. Door l. below press. Settle in front of press. Mrs. Rollitt at table r.c. discovered ironing. She folds up clothes as she finishes with them, and crosses and places them one by one in press l.
MRS. R. Rachael! Rachael!! (Crossing l. then crosses to r. at back of table r.c.) Ah, drat the girls—alius philandering about with the boys when they’re wanted. Rachael!
(Enter Rachael, she comes slowly forward to l.c.)
RACH. Did you call, ma’am?
MRS. R. (At table.) Did I call? Why thee be getting deaf in thee old age sure, Rachael.
RACH. I was in the dairy, ma’am.
MRS. R. In the dairy! Well, and the dairy bean’t a mile off, be it? I expect there wur Joe’s thick head ’twixt you and the sound of my voice, warn’t there?
RACH. No, ma’am.
MRS. R. Whose wur it, then?
RACH. Ichabod’s, ma’am. I—I mean Mr. Ichabod was helping me, ma’am.
MRS. R. What at? (Pause.) How often am I to tell ’ee I won’t have that hulking scamp hanging about here after his work’s done. Do ’ee understand?
RACH. Yes, ma’am.
MRS. R. Here’s getting on for 8 o’clock, and thee master may be home any minute as hungry as a hunter, poor lad, and noothing ready for his supper. Get down the ham (Rachael goes to fireplace r.), and bring me in the frying-pan and I’ll do it myself.
RACH. (Turning to go.) Yes, ma’am.
MRS. R. And don’t be half-an-hour about it. Is Ichabod gone?
RACH. Oh yes, ma’am.
(Mrs. R. turns to her work, Ichabod appears at door at hack, with a trout in his hand. Rachael catching sight of him stops, and motions him to go away.)
MRS. R. Ah, a good thing for un as he has, if I catch un here again to-night, I’ll—(Rachael makes sign to Ichabod who is up c. Mrs. R. looks at Rachael)—Lord help the lass, be she struck foolish? Bean’t ’ee agoing?
RACH. Yes, ma’am.
MRS. R. Well then, do ut. Thee keeps on saying, “yes, ma’am,” “yes, ma’am,” and there ’ee sticks. (Drops eyes. Rachael makes sign to Ichabod. Mrs. Rollitt catches her.)
(Ichabod does not understand Rachel, and tries to explain to her in pantomime about the trout, which he holds up and points to. Mrs. Rollitt follows Rachael’s eyes, and sees Ichabod. Rachael is struck dumb, and Ichabod grins and pulls his hair.)
MRS. R. If thee don’t take theeself off pretty, soon, my boy, I’ll do that for un. (He makes no answer but continues pulling his hair and grinning, making a few steps forward and still holding out the trout. Mrs. Rollitt advances to him slowly.)
MRS. R. (Comes c.) How often am I to tell ’ee I won’t have ’ee loafing about here after thee work’s done, and thee mother waiting for thee at home, thee good-for-nothing young—(eyeing the trout)—aye, but he be a bonny un that.
ICH. Thowt maybe he’d do for the measter’s supper, ma’am. He wur a-having his own not half-an-hour agone, ma’am.
MRS. R. (l. with fish in hand.) Her be a three pound un, Ichabod.
ICH. As full as an egg, her be, just. Thee feel her, ma’am.
MRS. R. Ah, well, I won’t say but what thee art a thoughtful lad, Ichabod, and it will be main good for thee measter’s supper. See there’s a clear fire. (Crosses r.Enter Deborah from staircase L.) Rachael, and bring me the stew pan and we’ll boil un.
DEB. No, don’t boil it, aunt. (Takes fish from Mrs. R.) Let me fry it. Allen alius likes ‘em best that way. (Goes r. c. up stage.)
MRS. R. So un does, lass, so un does. Ah, thee knaw what the lad loikes, thee shall fry it. (Hands trout to Deb.) And I’ll finish the linen while I’ve got my hand on it. (At back of table r.c.)
DEB. Allen will like that, I know. Where did you get it?
ICH. (Confused and grinning.) What, me, Miss?
DEB. Not poached, I hope, Ichabod?
ICH. (Offended.) Poached, Miss? No, Miss, I wur trying to teach a fly of mine to swim, that wur all, Miss, and when I took un from the water there wur this thing hanging on to the end of un, and I couldn’t get ‘un off.
MRS. R. (At table r. c.) Thee’d best stop awhile now, Ichabod, and the girls will gie un a bit sup. Thee mother will be main glad to be rid o’ ye a bit, I take it.
ICH. Thank ye, ma’am. Mother’s alius glad to be rid of me at supper toime. (To Deborah.) Gie me un, Miss, I’ll clean un for ye. (Takes fish from Deborah, goes down l. at back of settle.)
RACH. Shall I cook un, Miss?
MRS. R. Na, na, thee bring the pan in here, Rachael, I woan’t trust the master’s supper to ‘ee, while there’s a pair of breeches about the room.
RACH. (Crosses l. with a toss of her head.) I’m sure I don’t want ‘em there at all. (Picks up buckets near door l. down stage.)
MRS. R. Ah, thee wouldn’t ha’ the lad theer wi’out ‘em! Go and do as I tell ‘ee.
[Rachael hits Ichabod with bucket. Exeunt Rachael and Ichabod l. door down stage.]
MRS. R.MRS. R. The lad will enjoy it all the more if thee cook it for un. Ah. and he do enjoy his food too. It do me good to see un eat.
DEB. He does you a lot of good that way, doesn’t he, aunt?
MRS. R. (Laughing.‘) Ah, yes, he be like his father wur before him, a rare trencher man. Ah, but they’re better than those as doesn’t eat much, but sits a-turning and a-smelling, and a-grumbling at everything that’s set before them, for all the world like an overfed turkey cock trying to eat potato peelings. Thee wean’t ha’ much trouble looking arter un when I’m gone.
DEB. (Goes to fireplace R.) Oh, aunt, how naughty you are, always talking of being “gone,” just as if you were an old woman.
MRS. R. No, no, lass, I bean’t talking of being gone now. I’ve many a year before me yet, please God. But it must come sometime, thee knaws, and I like to think that when it do there’ll be someone to gie the lad his bit of food, and look arter un loike—and, Lord, a man do want a power of looking arter to be sure.
DEB. (At fire R. making it up.) I think that’s why we love ‘em, aunt, because they’re so helpless.
MRS. R. (Cross to l.) Ah, maybe it is. There must be summut to account for it.
DEB. And I suppose they be like the poultry. They get fond of us because we feed them. He does say I’ve got a good hand for cooking, aunt.
MRS. R. (Cross to r.) Ah, yes, lass. It be a light hand for the kitchen and a cool hand for the dairy. It will make a good hand for a farmer’s wife. (Takes Deborah’s hand at table R.)
DEB. I don’t think Allen will want a farmer’s wife, aunt.
MRS. R. Lord, whose wife should a farmer want, then?
DEB. (Pokes fire r.) I don’t think Allen wants to be a farmer at all. He says he wants to be a somebody, not a nobody.
MRS. R. Well, bean’t a farmer somebody?
DEB. Somebody, aunt, but not a somebody. Allen wants to be in the world, you know, aunt.
MRS. R. Well, and he be in the world sure, ain’t he? Sure I think I ought to know. (Cross to l.)
DEB. No, not in the world he means, aunt. Not in the great world as they call it.
MRS. R. Ah! he be in God’s world, that ought to be big enough for un. (Cross to r.)
DEB. (A little spitefully.) Yes, aunt, but it’s not select enough. There’s all sorts of common people in God’s world. Allen wants to be in the big world of lords and ladies and big folk up in London. He says it’s being buried alive down here; that he wants to be among the stir and bustle.
MRS. R. (Cross to h., putting clothes in press.) Ah! that be only his talk. The young uns be all alike. They run arter shadows like the chickens do arter chaff. (Cross l.) Why, I mind when I wur a lass, I used to look in the glass and think I’d be a duchess. But the dook didn’t come, so I just married thee uncle. The young ducks all fancies as they’ll paddle off to the sea, But they live and dies in the old pond arter all. (Crosses to R.)
DEB. (Laughing.) And you think that your duck will live and die in the Woodbarrow pond, aunt? (Helps Mrs. Rollitt to fold.)
MRS. R. Ah, bless un, yes, the lads they fancy that any place is better than the old home; but arter they’ve had a good look round, they know that the old home’s better than any place else. He’ll flutter about a bit maybe (looks at Deborah), but he’ll settle down in the nest ‘fore long, and the children will be running about the house (Deborah turns away a little) and making it untidy—Bless ‘em—afore I close my eyes.
DEB. (Demurely.) I wonder who he’ll marry.
MRS. R. Ah, I wonder now. (Crosses to put linen in chest of drawers.)
DEB. (r. folding linen.) There’s Polly Steddles. He walked home from church with her last Sunday. I think he’s a little sweet on Polly Steddles, don’t you, aunt?
(Mrs. R. comes l. of table r.)
MRS. R. Ah, it bean’t much good being a little sweet on a girl that size. It would take a power of sweetness to go round her. (Crosses L. with linen.).
DEB. She’s big, but then men like big women, don’t they, aunt?
MRS. R. (l.) Ah, some on ’em goes in for quantity, and some on ’em goes in for quality. The little ones, they go in for size cause they bean’t much of it themselves; and the big ones goes in for sense, cause that be what they be most in need of. (Goes R.) And Allen, he be’s medium, so he can just please himself.
DEB. And there’s Miss Dexter, that he drives over to Minehead so often. (Mrs. Rollitt goes l.) He thinks a lot of her, I know.
MRS. R. (l.) What, Colonel Dexter’s darter, oop at Lucott’s Hill? Oh, yes, her’d be a fine un to make the butter and cure the hams, her would. Her be loike them umbrellas they be a selling at Peter’s for 1s. 11d.—only meant to be walked out wi’. (Near press l.)
DEB. Ah, but she’s so beautiful, aunt, and she’s a lady! (Sighs.)
MRS. R. Ah! (goes to table r. c.) there be a good many sorts o’ them.
DEB. She is a lady, isn’t she, aunt?
MRS. R. Her’s got the clothes all right. (Sits l. of table r. A pause—goes up and pats Deborah’s cheek.)
As if thee didn’t know the lad were in love with theeself.
DEB. (Tossing her head.) Sure an’ I don’t see how I should—he never says anything.
MRS. R. Ah, the men bain’t much to say for their-selves, poor things. Thee must go by what they does. Why, thee uncle kept company wi’ me for three years, an’ un never said a word. The first year un only sot and stared, and the second year un put un’s arm round my waist, and the third year un kissed me, and then mother said it were time to put up the banns, and her done it.
DEB. (Laughs.) Ah, the man that wants to marry me will have to ask me ever and ever so many times and plead, oh, as if his life depended on it (tossing her head—at fire.)
MRS. R. Ah, the lad be shy, that be all. He be frightened ’o thee.
DEB. (Smiling.) Of me, aunt?
MRS. R. Ah, sure!—(Laughs.)—I expect un be worrying hisself finely for fear thee doan’t care for un, a fancying thee prefers Jim Harkabuck, maybe.
DEB. (Demurely—goes up r. and gets l. of Mrs. Rollitt.) Jim Harkabuck is a very nice fellow, and he does stare. (Smiling, and going to her aunt.) Do you think Allen really—really does—Aunt? (Kneels to Mrs. Rollitt, who turns her head away r. a little.)
MRS. R. (Laughing, and shaking her off playfully. Pauses.) Does he! Why beant he alius quarreling wi’ thee, and doan’t he eat twice as much o’ anything if he knows thee cooked it—and besides—(Pauses and becomes absorbed in stockings.)
DEB. Besides what, aunt?
MRS. R. Why didn’t I find un only the evening afore last when un didn’t know I wur there. (Laughing.)
(Enter Rachael l. door with fish in frying-pan.—Deborah rises.)
RACH. (Crossing r. and giving it to Deborah.) Shall I put it on, Miss?
DEB. (c. goes R. to fireplace.) No, I’ll see to it; Rachael, thank you.
RACH. I have put some butter in the pan, Miss.
(Exit Rachael l. down stage.)
DEB. Yes, aunt. (r. of table and seeing to fish with back to Mrs. Rollitt.) You—you were saying how you came upon Allen the other evening, aunt, when he didn’t know you were there, and he was doing something.
MRS. R. Ah, yes, it wur Toosday, and he—not in love wi’ ’ee—(laughing)—why—(taking up stocking and looking at hole.) Ah, look at that now, blest if I can make out where the holes come from, just.
DEB. What was he doing, aunt?
MRS. R. Why there un wur wi’ your—
(Enter Purtwee c.—who coughs.)
MRS. R. (Turning, and seeing him as he stands in doorway.) What, Mr. Purtwee! (Deborah in despair goes to fire and cooks fish.) Well, ’ee do surprise me! ’Ee be quite a stranger. Come in. Thee be just in time for a bit of sup.