[Curtain.]

THE SEEDS OF LOVE

CHARACTERS

John Daniel, aged 30, a Miller. 
Rose-Anna his sister. 
Kitty, aged 16, his sister. 
Robert Pearce, aged 26. 
Liz, Jane elderly cousins of Robert. 
Jeremy, John’s servant—­of middle age. 
Mary meadows, aged 24, a Herbalist. 
Lubin. 
Isabel.

The time is Midsummer.

ACT I

A woodland road outside Mary’s cottage.  There are rough seats in the porch and in front of the window.  Bunches of leaves and herbs hang drying around door and window.  Mary is heard singing within.

Mary. [Singing.]

I sowed the seeds of Love,
And I sowed them in the Spring. 
I gathered them up in the morning so soon. 
While the sweet birds so sweetly sing,
While the sweet birds so sweetly sing. {2}

[Mary comes out of the cottage, a bundle of enchanter’s nightshade in her arms.  She hangs it by a string to the wall and then goes indoors.

Mary. [Singing.]

The violet I did not like,
Because it bloomed so soon;
The lily and the pink I really over think,
So I vowed I would wait till June,
So I vowed I would wait till June.

[During the singing Lubin comes slowly and heavily along the road.  He wears the dress of a farm labourer and carries a scythe over his shoulder.  In front of the cottage he pauses, looks round doubtfully, and then sits stiffly and wearily down on the bench beneath the window.

Mary. [Coming to the doorway with more plants and singing.]

“For the grass that has oftentimes been trampled underfoot, Give it time, it will rise up again.”

Lubin. [Looking up gloomily.] And that it won’t, mistress.

Mary. [Suddenly perceiving him and coming out.] O you are fair spent from journeying.  Can I do anything for you, master?

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.