Six Plays by Lady Florence Henrietta Fisher Darwin Part 56

LUBIN. [Gazing at her fixedly.] You speak kindly for a stranger, but 'tis beyond the power of you nor anyone to do aught for me.

MARY. [Sitting down beside him and pointing to the wall of the house.] See those leaves and flowers drying in the sun? There's medicine for every sort of sickness there, sir.

LUBIN. There's not a root nor yet a herb on the face of the earth that could cure the sickness I have within me.

MARY. That must be a terrible sort of a sickness, master.

LUBIN. So 'tis. 'Tis love.

MARY. Love?

LUBIN. Yes, love; wicked, unhappy love. Love what played false when riches fled. Love that has given the heart what was all mine to another.

[ISABEL has been slowly approaching, she wears a cotton handkerchief over her head and carries a small bundle tied up in a cloth on her arm. Her movements are languid and sad.

MARY. I know of flowers that can heal even the pains of love.

ISABEL. [Coming forward and speaking earnestly.] O tell me of them quickly, mistress.

MARY. Why, are you sick of the same complaint?

ISABEL. [Sinking down on the gra.s.s at MARY'S feet.] So bruised and wounded in the heart that the road from Framilode up here might well have been a hundred miles or more.

LUBIN. Framilode? 'Tis there you come from?

ISABEL. I was servant at the inn down yonder. Close upon the ferry.

Do you know the place, master?

LUBIN. [In deep gloom.] Ah, the place and the ferry man too.

MARY. [Leaning forward and clasping her hands.] Him as is there to- day, or him who was?

LUBIN. He who was there and left for foreign parts a good three year ago.

[ISABEL covers her face and is shaken by sobs. LUBIN leans his elbow on his knee, shading his eyes with his hand.

MARY. I have help for all torments in my flowers. Such things be given us for that.

ISABEL. [Looking up.] You be gentle in your voices mistress. 'Tis like when a quist do sing, as you speaks.

MARY. Then do both of you tell your sorrow. 'Twill be strange if I do not find sommat that will lighten your burdens for you.

LUBIN. 'Twas at Moat Farm I was born and bred.

MARY. Close up to Daniels yonder?

LUBIN. The same. Rose-Anna of the Mill and I--we courted and was like to marry. But there came misfortune and I lost my all. She would not take a poor man, so I left these parts and got to be what you do see me now--just a day labourer.

ISABEL. Mine, 'tis the same tale, very nigh. Robert the ferry-man and me, we loved and was to have got us wedded, only there came a powerful rich gentleman what used to go fishing along of Robert.

'Twas he that 'ticed my lover off to foreign parts.

LUBIN. [With a heavy sigh.] These things are almost more than I can bear.

ISABEL. At first he wrote his letters very often. Then 'twas seldom like. Then 'twas never. And then there comed a day--[She is interrupted by her weeping.

MARY. Try to get out your story--you can let the tears run afterwards if you have a mind.

ISABEL. There comed a day when I did meet a fisherman from Bristol.

He brought me news of Robert back from the seas, clothed in fine stuff with money in the pockets of him, horse and carriage, and just about to wed.

LUBIN. Did he name the maid?

ISABEL. Rose-Anna she was called, of Daniel's mill up yonder.

LUBIN. Rose-Anna--She with whom I was to have gone to church.

MARY. Here is a tangle worse nor any briar rose.

ISABEL. O 'twas such beautiful times as we did have down by the riverside, him and me.

LUBIN. She would sit, her hand in mine by the hour of a Sunday afternoon.

[A pause during which LUBIN and ISABEL seem lost in their own sad memories. MARY gets up softly and goes within the cottage.

ISABEL. And when I heared as 'twas to-morrow they were to wed, though 'twas like driving a knife deeper within the heart of me, I up and got me upon the road and did travel along by starlight and dawn and day just for one look upon his face again.

LUBIN. 'Twas so with me. From beyond Oxford town I am come to hurt myself worse than ever, by one sight of the eyes that have looked so cruel false into mine.

ISABEL. If I was to plead upon my knees to him 'twould do no good-- poor wench of a serving maid like me.

LUBIN. [Looking down at himself.] She'd spurn me from the door were I to stand there knocking--in the coat I have upon me now. No--let her go her way and wed her fancy man.

[LUBIN shades his eyes with one hand. ISABEL bows her head on her knees weeping. MARY comes out of the house carrying two gla.s.s bowls of water.

MARY. Leave your sorrowful tears till later, my friends. This fresh water from the spring will revive you from your travelling.

LUBIN. [Looking up.] The heart of me is stricken past all remedy, mistress.

ISABEL. I could well lie me down and die.

[MARY giving to each one a bowl from which they begin to drink slowly.

MARY. I spoke as you do, once. My lover pa.s.sed me by for another.

A man may give all his love to the gilly flower, but 'tis the scarlet rose as takes his fancy come to-morrow.

ISABEL. And has your heart recovered from its sickness, mistress?

MARY. [Slowly.] After many years.