Harry. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May.
May. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they.
Harry. Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed out from they. ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look into the eyes what you’ve got.
May. [With despondence.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as ’tis me, Harry Moss.
Harry. I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth.
May. The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and the breath of me so short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, afore they sees who ’tis. Though all be changed to th’ eye like, there’ll be summat in me as’ll tell they. And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll speak for I—But ’tis summat what do come straight out of the hearts of we and do say better words for we nor what the looks nor tongues of us might tell. You mind me, Harry, there’s that which will come out of me as’ll bring they to know who ’tis.
Harry. Ah, I reckon as you’ll not let them bide till they does.
May. And when they do know, and when they sees who ’tis, I count as they’ll be good to me, I count they will. I did used to think as Steve, he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s his mother, hard too—And that it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I sees thing different now.
Harry. Ah, ’tis one thing to see by candle and another by day.
May. For ’twas wild as I was in the time gone by. Wild after pleasuring and the noise in the town, and men a-looking at the countenance of I, and a-turning back for to look again. But, hark you here, ’tis powerful changed as I be now.
Harry. Ah, I count as you be. Be changed from a young woman into an old one.
May. I’m finished with the road journeying and standing about in the streets on market days and the talk with men in the drinking places—Men what don’t want to look more nor once on I now, and what used to follow if ’twasn’t only a bit of eyelid as I’d lift on them, times that is gone.
Harry. Ah, ’twould take a lot of looking to see you as you was.
May. Yes, I be finished with all of it now, and willing for to bide quiet at the fireside and to stay with the four walls round I and the door shut.
Harry. I reckon as you be.
May. And I’m thinking as they’ll be rare pleased for to have I in the house again. ’Twill be another pair of hands to the work like. And when I was young, ’twas not on work as I was set much.
Harry. Ah, I did guess as much.
May. But when I gets a bit over this here nasty cough, ’tis a strong arm as them’ll have working for they; Steve, th’ old woman what’s his mother, and little Dorry, too.
Harry. Dorry? I han’t heard tell of she.
May. That’s my little baby as was, Harry Moss. I left she crawling on the floor, and now I count as she be growed into a rare big girl. Bless the innocent heart of her!
Harry. Whatever led you to do such a thing, I can’t think! You must have been drove to it like, wasn’t you?
May. ’Twas summat inside of me as drove I, then. ’Twas very likely the blood of they gipsies which did leap in I, so that when I was tied up to Steve, ’twas as if they had got I shut in a box. ’Twas the bridle on my head and the bit in the mouth of I; and to be held in where once I had gone free. [A short pause.
May. And I turned wild, Harry, for the very birds seemed to be calling I from the hedges to come out along of they, and the berries tossing in the wind, and the leaves blowing away quick from where they’d been stuck all summer. All of it spoke to I, and stirred I powerful, so that one morning when the sun was up and the breeze running, I comed out into the air, Harry, and shut the door behind I. And ’twas done—so ’twas.
Harry. And didn’t they never try for to stop you, nor for to bring you back, May?
May. No, Harry, they did not.
Harry. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the door shut ahind of you?
May. Ah—where! To the east, to the south, every part. ’Twas morning with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into the countenance of I. Then ’twas the best as they could give as I might take; and ’twas for no lodging as I did want when dark did come falling.
Harry. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, May.
May. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, maybe. So ’twas with I.
[She bows her head on her knees,and for a moment is shaken with sudden grief.
Harry. Don’t you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to the end of your journeying this day, and that you be.
May. [Raising her head.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so. And ’tis rare glad as them’ll be to see I once again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good one—And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman what’s not me—and that he won’t—I never knowed him much as look on one, times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. And little Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, I warrant—so ’twill.
[A slight pause.
May. Th’ old woman—well—I shan’t take it amiss if her should be dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his station and that. God rest the bones of she, for I count her’ll have been lying in the churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, and if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day—so ’tis.
Harry. Look you here—the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis night. Get up and go in to them all yonder. ’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on the road to see you as you do go.
May. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be powerful weak.
Harry. [Lifting her up.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, May.
May. [Standing up.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I bide alone.
Harry. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to the door.
May. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide here a while in the quiet of my thoughts. ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home to go to, nor fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you quick.
Harry. There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May.
May. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis empty-handed as I be.
Harry. I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t.
May. [Fumbling in her shawl.] There, Harry—’tis comed back to my mind now. [She takes out part of a loaf of bread.] Take you this bread. And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. There, Harry, take and eat.
[She holds the bread to him.
Harry. [Taking the bread.] I count ’twill all be well with you now, May?
May. I warrant as ’twill, for I be right to home. But go you towards the town, Harry, for ’tis late. And God go with you, my dear, now and all time.
Harry. I’ll set off running then. For the night, ’tis upon us, May, and the snow, ’tis thick in the air.
[Mayturns to the stile and leans on it heavily,gazing across the field.Harrysets off quickly down the road.
The living room in the Brownings’ cottage.The room is divided by a curtain which screens the fireside end from the draught of the principal door.
To the right of the fireplace is a door leading upstairs.Chairs are grouped round the hearth,and there is a table at whichJane Browningis ironing a dress by the light of one candle.Dorryleans against the table,watching her.
Jane. [Putting aside the iron.] There, you take and lay it on the bed upstairs, and mind you does it careful, for I’m not a-going to iron it twice.
[She lays the dress carefully acrossDorry’sarms.
Dorry. Don’t the lace look nice, Gran’ma?
Jane. You get along upstairs and do as I says, and then come straight down again.
Dorry. Couldn’t I put it on once, Gran’ma, just to see how it do look on me?
Jane. And get it all creased up afore to-morrow! Whatever next! You go and lay it on the bed this minute, do you hear?
Dorry. [Leaving the room by the door to the right.] I’d like to put it on just once, I would.
[Jane Browningblows out the candle and puts away the iron and ironing cloth.She stirs up the fire and then sits down by it asDorrycomes back.
Dorry. Dad’s cleaning of himself ever so—I heard the water splashing something dreadful as I went by his door.
Jane. ’Tis a-smartening of hisself up for this here dancing as he be about, I reckon.
Dorry. [Sitting down on a stool.] I’d like to go along, too, and see the dancing up at the schools to-night, I would.
Jane. And what next, I should like to know!
Dorry. And wear my new frock what’s ironed, and the beads what Miss Sims gived me.
Jane. [Looking out at the window.] I’m thinking as we shall get some snow by and bye. ’Tis come over so dark all of a sudden.
Dorry. Couldn’t I go along of they, Gran’ma, and wear my new frock, and the beads, too? I never see’d them dance th’ old year out yet, I haven’t.
Jane. Get along with you, Dorry. ’Tis many a year afore you’ll be of an age for such foolishness. And that’s what I calls it, this messing about with dancing and music and I don’t know what.
Dorry. Katie Sims be younger nor me and she’s let to go, she is.
Jane. You bain’t Katie Sims, nor she you. And if the wedding what’s to-morrow isn’t enough to stuff you up with nonsense, I don’t know what is.
Dorry. I wish it was to-morrow now, Gran’ma, I do. Shall you put on your Sunday gown first thing, or wait till just afore we goes to church?
Jane. How your tongue do go! Take and bide quiet a bit, if you knows how.
Dorry. I shall ask Dad if I may go along of him and Miss Sims to the dance, I shall. Dad’s got that kind to me since last night—he gived me a sixpence to buy sweets this morning when I hadn’t asked. And won’t it be nice when Miss Sims comes here to live, and when you has someone to help you in the work, Gran’ma?
Jane. Well—’tis to be hoped as ’twill be all right this time.
Dorry. This time, Gran’ma! Why, wasn’t it all right when Dad was married afore, then?
Jane. [Getting the lamp from a shelf.] I don’t light up as a rule till ’tis six o’clock, but I count it’s a bit of snow coming as have darkened the air like.
Dorry. Gran’ma, isn’t Miss Sims nice-looking, don’t you think? I’d like to wear my hair like hers and have earrings a-hanging from me and a-shaking when I moves my head, I would.
Jane. [Setting the lamp on the table.] Here, fetch me the matches, do.
Dorry. [Bringing the matches.] Was my mammy nice-looking, like Miss Sims, Gran’ma?
Jane. I’m one as goes by other things nor looks—For like as not ’tis fine looks as is the undoing of most girls as has them—give me a plain face and a heart what’s pure, I says, and ’tis not far out as you’ll be.
Dorry. Was my mammy’s heart pure, Gran’ma? [A moment’s silence.Janelights the lamp.Dorryleans at the table,watching her.
Dorry. Was my mammy’s—[A loud knock on the outside door.
Jane. Who’s that come bothering round! Run and see, Dorry, there’s a good child.
Dorry. It’ll be Gran’ma Vashti, I daresay. She do mostly knock at the door loud with her stick.
[Dorryruns to the window and looks out.
Dorry. ’Tis her, and the snow white all upon her.
[Dorrygoes to the door to open it.
Jane. [To herself.] Of all the meddlesome old women—why can’t her bide till her’s wanted.
[Dorryopens the door wide,andVashtiComes slowly in to the room,leaning on a big staff.
Jane. Well, Vashti Reed, and what brings you down from the hill to-day? ’Twould have been better had you bid at home, with the dark coming on and the snow.
Dorry. [Who has closed the door.] Sit down, Granny—there, close against the fire, do.
[Vashtistands in the middle of the room,looking from one to another.
Dorry. Sit down, Granny, by the fire, do.
Vashti. ’Tis in the house and out of it as I have went. And down to the pool where the ice do lie, and up on the fields where ’tis fog, And there be summat in I what drives I onward, as might the wind. And no where may the bones of me rest this day.
Jane. If ’tis to talk your foolishness as you be come, you’d best have stopped away. Here, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and behave sensible, and maybe as I’ll get you summat warm to drink presently.
Dorry. Yes, Grannie, sit you down along of we.
[Vashtisits stiffly down by the hearth,leaning on her stick.Janeresumes her place,andDorryputs her little stool between them.
Vashti. And in the night when I was laid down, against the windowpane it fled a three times. A three time it fled and did beat the pane as though ’twould get in. And I up and did open the window. And the air it ran past I, and ’twas black, with naught upon it but the smell of a shroud. So I knowed.
Dorry. What did you know, Granny?
Vashti. [Leaning forward and warming her hands at the fire,speaking as though to herself.] Summat lost—summat lost, and what was trying to get safe away.
Dorry. Safe away? From what, Granny?
Vashti. And there be one what walks abroad in the night time, what holds in the hand of him a stick, greater nor this staff what I holds here, and the knife to it be as long again by twice.
Dorry. O, Granny, I’ll be a-feared to go across the garden after dark, I shall.
Jane. What do you want to go and put that there into the child’s head for? I’d like for Steve to hear you talking of such stuff.
Vashti. I sat me down at the table, but the victuals was as sand in the mouth, and the drink did put but coldness within I. And when the door was closed, ’twas as if one did come running round the house and did beat upon it for to be let in. Then I did go for to open it, but the place outside was full of emptiness, and ’twas they old carrion crows what did talk to I out of the storm.
Jane. How you do go on, to be sure! Why don’t you speak of summat what’s got some sense to it? Come, don’t you know as Steve, his wedding day, ’tis to-morrow as ever is.
Dorry. ’Tis the New Year, too, Granny, as well as Dad’s marriage.
Vashti. [Suddenly.] Be this house made ready for a-marrying, then?
Dorry. Why, of course it be, Granny. Don’t you see how ’tis cleaned and the new net curtains in the windows, and the bit of drugget ’gainst the door where the old one always tripped me up?
Vashti. I see naught but what ’tis more like a burial here. So ’tis. And ’tis a burial as I’ve carried in my heart as I comed down from the hills.
Dorry. [Looking out of the window.] Granny, you’ll be forced to bide the night along of we, ’cause the snow be falling thick, and ’twill be likely as not as you’ll lose your way if you start for to go home again when ’tis snowing.
Jane. Th’ old thing may as well bide the night now she be come. Hark you, Vashti, ’twill save you the journey down to-morrow like, if you bides the night, and the chimney corner is all as you ever wants.
Vashti. And what should I be journeying down to-morrow for, Jane Browning?
Dorry. Why, Granny, ’tis Dad’s wedding day to-morrow, and ’tis a white frock with lace to it as I’m going to wear, and beads what Miss Sims gived me, and the shoes what was new except for being worn to church three times. Shall I fetch them all and show to you, Granny?
Jane. Yes, run along and get them, Dorry; very likely ’twill give her thoughts a turn, looking at the things, seeing as she be in one of her nasty moods to-day when you can’t get a word what isn’t foolishness out of her. [Dorryruns upstairs.
Vashti. [Leaning forward.] Was her telling of a marriage?
Jane. Why, yes, Vashti Reed. And you know all about it, only you don’t trouble for to recollect nothing but what you dreams of yourself in the night. ’Tis our Steve what’s going to marry Annie Sims to-morrow.
Vashti. Steve Browning?
Jane. I haven’t patience with th’ old gipsy! Yes—Steve. And ’tis a twelvemonth or more as you’d knowed of it.
Vashti. Our Steve, what’s husband to my May?
Jane. ’Tis a fine thing to fetch up May this evening, that ’tis. May, what went out trolloping along the roads ’stead of she biding at home to mind the house and child! ’Tis how you did breed she up, Vashti Reed, what led her to act as her did. And if you’d have bred her different, ’twould have been all the same; for what’s in the blood is bound to out and show; and when you picks a weed and sets it in the room, ’tain’t no flower as you must look for.
Vashti. ’Tis summat like a twelve year since her went. But in the blinking of an eye the latch might be raised, and she come through the door again. God bless the head an feet of she!
Jane. There you are, Vashti, talking so foolish. A bad herb like she, was bound for to meet her doom. And ’twas in the river up London way where the body of her was catched, floating, and the same petticoat to it as I’ve seed on May a score of times. Don’t you recollect how ’twas parson as brought the news to we?
Vashti. ’Taint with no parsons as I do hold, nor with what may come from the mouths of they, neither.
Jane. And Steve, I knowed what was in his mind when parson was gone out. ’Twas not much as he did say, being a man what hasn’t many words to his tongue. But he took and fetched down his big coat what do hang up yonder, and told I to put a bit of black to the sleeve of it. Leastways, he didn’t speak the words, but I seed what he was after, and I took and sewed a bit on, and he’s wore it ever since till yesterday—And that’s eleven year ago it be—so there.
Vashti. Her be moving about upon the earth, her be. And I seems to feel the tread of she at night time, and by day as well. Her bain’t shrouded, nor boxed, nor no churchyard sod above the limbs of she—you take my words—and there shall come a day when the latch shall rise and her be standing among us and a-calling on her child and husband what’s forgotten she.
Jane. For goodness sake, Vashti, have done speaking about such things to-night. If Steve was to hear you, why I shouldn’t wonder if he was to put you out of the door and into the snow—and ’tis most unfitting for to talk so afore the child.
Vashti. [Calling out loudly.] Come back to I, May—you come back to I—there bain’t no one what thinks on the name of you, or what wants you but your old mother. You come back to I!
Jane. I’ll thank you for to shut your mouth, old Vashti! ’Tain’t nothing to be proud on as you’ve got, and ’twould be better if you was to be less free in your hollering. Look, here’s Dorry coming.
[Dorrycomes into the kitchen;she is wearing her new white frock.
Dorry. See, Granny, I’ve been and put it on for to show you better. See the lace? Isn’t it nice? And the beads, too. I didn’t stop for to put on my shoes, nor my new stockings. Nor my hat, what’s got a great long feather all round of it.
Jane. You bad, naughty girl, Dorry, you’ll crease and tumble that frock so as it’s not fit to be seen to-morrow! Whatever did you go to put it on for?
Dorry. So as that Gran should see something pretty, and so as she should come out of her trouble. Gran’s always got some trouble in her mind, han’t you, Granny?
Vashti. A twelve year gone by, my child.
Jane. I’ll give it you if you starts off again.
Vashti. A twelve year gone by—
Dorry. A twelve year gone by, what then, Granny?
Vashti. ’Tis more’n eleven years since her wented out of the door, my child—your poor mammy. Out of the door, out of the door! And likely as not ’twill be feet first as her shall be brought in again.
Dorry. Granny, was my poor mammy, what’s dead, nice looking like Miss Sims as is going for to marry Dad, to-morrow?
Vashti. ’Twas grand as a tree in full leaf and the wind a-moving all the green of it as was your mammy, my dear.
Dorry. And did she have fine things to her, nice gowns and things, like Miss Sims, Granny?
Jane. ’Twas the looks of her and the love of finery and pleasuring what was her undoing, as ’twill be the undoing of you, too, Dorry, if you don’t take care. ’Tis she as you favours, and none of your father’s people, more’s the pity, and ’tis more thoughtful and serious as you’ll have to grow if you don’t want to come to harm. You take and go right up, and off with that frock, do you hear me?
Dorry. O, I wanted to be let to go to the dancing now I’d got it on, I did.
Jane. Dancing, there you are! Dancing and finery, ’tis all as you do think on, and ’tis plain to see what’s got working in the inside of you, Dorry. ’Tis the drop of bad blood as you has got from she what bore you. But I might as well speak to that door for all you cares. Only, hark you here, you’ll be sorry one of these days as you han’t minded me better. And then ’twill be too late.
[Stevecomes down the stairs,pushes open the door and enters.
Steve. Well, Mother, what’s up now? Gran, you here? Why, Dorry, what be you a-crying for?
Dorry. I wants to be let to go to the dancing, Dad—now that I’ve got my frock on and all.—O, I wants to be let to go.
Steve. Well, Mother—what do you say? ’Twouldn’t hurt for she to look in about half an hour, and Annie and me we could bring her back betimes.
Dorry. O, Dad, I wants to go if ’twas only for a minute.
Steve. There, there—you shall go and we’ll say no more about it.
Jane. I never knowed you give in to her so foolish like this afore, Steve.
Steve. Well, Mother, ’tain’t every day as a man’s married, that ’tain’t.
Vashti. And so you’re to be wed come to-morrow, Steve? They tells me as you’re to be wed.
Steve. That’s right enough, Gran.
Vashti. [Rising.] And there be no resting in me to-day, Steve. There be summat as burns quick in the bones of my body and that will not let me bide.—And ’tis steps as I hears on the roadside and in the fields—and ’tis a bad taste as is in my victuals, and I must be moving, and peering about, and a-taking cold water into my mouth for to do away with the thing on my tongue, which is as the smell of death—So ’tis.
Jane. Now she’s off again! Come, sit you down, Vashti Reed, and I’ll give you summat as’ll very likely warm you and keep you quiet in your chair a while. Just you wait till I gets the water boiling.
[She begins to stir up the fire and sets a kettle on it.
Dorry. [From the window.] Here’s Miss Sims coming up the path, and Rosie too. O, they’re wrapped up all over ’cause ’tis snowing. I’ll open, I’ll open.
[She runs to the door and unlatches it.AnnieandRose Simscome in,shaking the snow from them and unbuttoning their cloaks,whichStevetakes from them and hangs on the door.
Annie. [AsStevetakes off her cloak.] ’Tis going to be a dreadful night. The snow’s coming down something cruel.
Rose. There won’t be many to the dance if it keeps on like this, will there?
Steve. Get you to the fire, both of you, and warm yourselves before we sets out again.
Dorry. Miss Sims, Miss Sims—Miss Rosie—I’m going along with you to the dance, Dad says as I may.
Jane. Bless the child! However her has worked upon her father, and he so strict, I don’t know.
Annie. Well, you be got up fine and grand, Dorry—I shouldn’t hardly know ’twas you. [Turning toVashti Reed.] Good evening, Mrs. Reed, my eyes was very near blinded when I first got in out of the dark, and I didn’t see as you was there.
Rose. Good evening, Mrs. Reed, and how be you keeping this cold weather?
Vashti. [Peering into their faces as they stand near her.] What be you a-telling I of?
Annie. We was saying, how be you in this sharp weather, Mrs. Reed?
Vashti. How be I?
Rose. Yes, Mrs. Reed, how be you a-keeping now ’tis come over such nasty weather?
Vashti. And how should an old woman be, and her one child out in the rain and all the wind, and driv’ there too by them as was laid like snakes in the grass about the feet of she, ready for to overthrow she when her should have gotten to a time of weakness.
Jane. Take no account of what she do say, girls, but sit you down in the warm and bide till I gets the time to take and look on the clothes which you have upon you. [Moving about and putting tea things on the table.] I be but just a-going to make a cup of tea for th’ old woman, with a drop of summat strong to it as will keep her from using of her tongue so free till morning time.
Annie. [Sitting down.] Poor old woman, ’tis a sad thing when folks do come to such a pass as she.
Rose. And han’t got their proper sense to them, nor nothing. But she’s better off nor a poor creature what we saw crouching below the hedge as we was coming across the meadow. “Why,” I says to Annie, “it must be bad to have no home to bide in such a night as this!” Isn’t that so, Mrs. Browning?
Steve. Ah, you’re right there, you’re right.
Rose. I wouldn’t much care to be upon the road to-night, would you, Steve?
Vashti. And at that hour when th’ old year be passing out, and dark on all the land, the graves shall open and give up the dead which be in they. And, standing in the churchyard you may read the face to each, as the corpses do go by. There’s many a night as I have stood and have looked into they when them did draw near to I, but never the face I did seek.
[HereJane,who has been making a cup of tea,and who has poured something in it from a bottle,advances toVashti.
Jane. Here, Vashti Reed, here’s a nice cup of hot tea for you. Take and drink it up and very likely ’twill warm th’ inside of you, for I’ll lay as you haven’t seen a mouthful of naught this day.
Steve. Ah, that’s it, that’s it. When folks do go leer ’tis a powerful lot of fancies as do get from the stomach to the heads of they.
[Vashtitakes the cup and slowly drinks.
Dorry. O, Miss Sims, you do look nice. Look, Gran’ma, at what Miss Sims have got on!
Vashti. [Putting down her cup and leaning forward.] Which of you be clothed for marriage?
Jane. Get along of you, Gran, ’tis for the dance up at the school as they be come.
Vashti. Come you here—her what’s to wed our Steve. Come you here and let I look at you. My eyes bain’t so quick as they was once. Many tears have clouded they. But come you here.
Dorry. Go along to her, Miss Sims, Granny wants to look at your nice things.
Annie. [Steps in front ofVashti.] Here I be, Mrs. Reed.
Vashti. Be you the one what’s going to wed our Steve come New Year.
Annie. That’s it, Mrs. Reed, that’s it.
Vashti. And be these garments which you be clothed in for marriage or for burial?
Steve. Come, Granny, have another cup of tea. Annie, don’t you take no account of she. ’Tis worry and that as have caused the mind of she to wander a bit, but she don’t mean nothing by it.
Annie. All right, Steve. She don’t trouble me at all. [ToVashti.] ’Tis to be hoped as I shall make a good wife to Steve, Mrs. Reed.
Vashti. Steve! What do Steve want with another wife? Han’t he got one already which is as a rose among the sow-thistles. What do Steve want for with a new one then?
Steve. Come on, girls. I can’t stand no more of this. Let’s off, and call in to George’s as we do go by.
Rose. We did meet Mr. Davis as we was coming along and he said as how ’twouldn’t be many minutes afore he joined us here, Steve.
Steve. That’s right, then we’ll bide a bit longer till George do call for we, only ’tis more nor I can stand when th’ old lady gets her tongue moving.
Dorry. Why, look, Gran’s fell asleep! O, Miss Sims, now that Gran’s dropped off and can’t say none of her foolish things any more, do stand so as Dad and Gran’ma can see the frock which you’ve got for the dance.
Annie. O, Dorry, you’re a little torment, that’s the truth.
[She gets up and turns slowly round so that all can see what she has on.
Rose. Well, Steve?
Steve. Well, Rosie.
Rose. Haven’t you got nothing as you can say, Steve?
Steve. What be I to say, Rose?
Rose. Well, something of how you thinks she looks, of course.
Steve. O, ’tis all right, I suppose.
Rose. All right! And is that about all as you’ve seen? Why, bless you, Steve, where have you gone and hid your tongue I should like to know!
Steve. Well, there bain’t nothing wrong, be there?
Rose. Of course there isn’t. But I never did see such a man as you, Steve. Why, I don’t believe as you’d know whether Annie haves a pair of eyes to her face or not, nor if they be the same colour one to t’other.
Steve. I sees enough for me. I sees as Annie is the girl as I’ve picked out of the whole world. And I know that to-morrow she and I is to be made man and wife. And that be pretty nigh enough for me this night, I reckon.
Dorry. O, Miss Sims, do you hear what Dad is saying? O, I wonder what I should feel if ’twas me that was going to be married!
Rose. You get and ask Annie how ’tis with her, Dorry. I could tell a fine tale of how as she do lie tossing half the nights, and of the candles that’s burned right down to the very end of them, I could.
Annie. Don’t you go for to listen to her, Dorry, nor Steve, neither. She’s that flustered herself about the dance to-night that she scarce do know what she’s a-saying of. But suppose you was just to ask her what she’s got wrapped so careful in that there paper in her hand.
Dorry. O, Rosie, whatever is it?
Steve. What’s that you’ve got hold on now, Rosie?
Annie. Come, show them all, Rose.
[Roseslowly unfolds the paper and shows them all a hothouse carnation and a fern.
Rose. There ’tis, then.
Dorry. O my, Rosie—isn’t it beautiful. Be you going to wear it to the dance?
Rose. No, Dorry, ’tisn’t for me.
Annie. You just ask her for whom it is, then, Dorry.
Dorry. O, who is it for, Rosie—who is it for?
Rose. No—I’m not a-going to tell none of you.
[She wraps it up carefully again.
Annie. I’ll tell then, for you.
Rose. No, you shan’t, Annie—that you shan’t!
Annie. That I shall, then—come you here, Dorry—I’ll whisper it to your ear. [Whispers it toDorry.
Dorry. [Excitedly.] I know who ’tis—I know—’tis for Mr. Davis—for Mr. Davis! Think of that, Dad—the flower ’tis for George Davis.
Rose. O, Annie, how you could!
Steve. George—
Vashti. [Suddenly roused.] Who named George? There was but one man as was called by that name—and he courted my girl till her was faint and weary of the sound and shape of he, and so on a day when he was come—
Dorry. There’s Gran gone off on her tales again.
[Janecrosses the hearth and puts a shawl over the head ofVashti,who relapses again into sleep.
Steve. [Sitting down byRose.] What’s this, Rose? I han’t heard tell of this afore. Be there aught a-going on with you and George, then?
Rose. No, Steve, there isn’t nothing in it much, except that George and me we walked out last Sunday in the evening like—and a two or three time before.
Steve. And is it that you be a-keeping of that flower for to give to George, then?
Rose. Well—’tis for George as I’ve saved it out of some what the gardener up at Squire’s gived me.
Steve. [As though to himself.] ’Tis a powerful many years since George he went a-courting. I never knowed him so much as look upon a maid, I didn’t since—
Rose. Well, Steve, I’m sure there’s no need for you to be upset over it. ’Tis nothing to you who George walks out with, or who he doesn’t.
Steve. Who said as I was upset, Rose?
Rose. Look at the long face what you’ve pulled. Annie, if ’twas me, I shouldn’t much care about marrying a man with such a look to him.
Annie. What’s up, Steve? What’s come over you like, all of a minute?
Steve. ’Tis naught, Annie, naught. ’Twas summat of past times what comed into the thoughts of me. But ’tis naught. And, Rose, if so be as ’twas you as George is after, I’d wish him to have luck, with all my heart, I would, for George and me—well, we too has always stuck close one to t’other, as you knows.
Jane. Ah—that you has, George and you—you and George.
Annie. Hark—there’s someone coming up now.
Dorry. O, let me open the door—let me open it!
[She runs across the room and lifts the latch.Georgestands in the doorway shaking the snow from him.Then he comes into the room.
Dorry. I’m going to the dance, Mr. Davis. Look, haven’t I got a nice frock on?
Steve. Good evening, George, and how be you to-night?
George. Nicely, Steve, nicely. Good evening, Mrs. Browning. Miss Sims, good evening—Yes, Steve, I’ll off with my coat, for ’tis pretty well sprinkled with snow, like.
[StevehelpsGeorgeto take off his overcoat.
Rose. A happy New Year to you, Mr. Davis.
Jane. And that’s a thing which han’t no luck to it, if ’tis said afore the proper time, Rosie.
Rose. Well, but ’tis New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?
George. Ah, so ’tis—and a terrible nasty storm as ever I knowed! ’Twas comed up very nigh to my knees, the snow, as I was a-crossing of the meadow. And there lay some poor thing sheltering below the hedge, with a bit of sacking throwed over her. I count ’tis very near buried alive as anyone would be as slept out in such a night.
Steve. I reckon ’twould be so—so ’twould. But come you in and give yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing.
Jane. What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when ’tis free as you’ll get them up at the school?
Steve. Just a drop for to warm we through. Here, I’ll fetch it right away.
Jane. No, you don’t. I’ll have no one meddling in the pantry save it’s myself. Dorry, give me that there jug.
Dorry. [Taking a jug from the dresser.] Here ’tis, Gran’ma, shall I light the candle?
Jane. So long as you’ll hold the matches careful.
Annie. Well—’tis to be hoped as the weather’ll change afore morning.
Rose. We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride.
George. That us shall, but it don’t look much as though we should get it.
[Jane BrowningandDorrygo out of the room.
Steve. Sit you down, George, along of we. ’Tis right pleased as I be for to see you here to-night.
George. Well, Steve, I bain’t one for a lot of words but I be powerful glad to see you look as you does, and ’tis all joy as I wishes you and her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow.
Annie. Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis. I shall do my best for Steve, and a girl can’t do no more, can she?
Rose. And so you’re going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis?
George. ’Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got together and I among they.
Rose. O, come, Mr. Davis!
George. ’Tis with me as though t’were all hoof and horn as I was made of. But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality folks and such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his self in parts when the ground be thick on them.
Annie. Very likely ’tis a-shewing of them into their places of a Sunday and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along with the service, like, as has made Steve so easy.
Rosie. But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know what.
George. Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don’t much agree with I, Miss Rose. And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the maids do pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and do speak as though ’twere church and parson at his sermon, I can’t think of naught but how ’twill feel for to be out in the open again. Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch my breath in one of they places from fear as there should be too much sound to it, and the noise of my own hammer do very near scare I into fits.
Rose. Well, Mr. Davis, who would ever have thought it?
[Mrs. BrowningandDorrycome back and the cider is put upon the table,DorryandAnniegetting glasses from the dresser.
George. [Drinking.] Your health, Steve, and yours, too, Miss Sims. And many years of happiness to you both.
Steve. Thank you kindly, George.
Annie. Thank you, Mr. Davis.
Dorry. Hasn’t Miss Sims got a nice frock on her for the dance, Mr. Davis?
George. Well, I’m blessed if I’d taken no notice of it, Dorry.
Dorry. Why, you’re worse nor Dad, I do declare! But you just look at Rosie, now, Mr. Davis, and ask her what she’s got wrapped up in that there paper in her hand.
Rose. O, Dorry, you little tease, you!
Dorry. You just ask her, Mr. Davis.
Rose. [Undoing the parcel.] There, ’tis nothing to make such a commotion of! Just a flower—see, Mr. Davis? I knowed as it was one what you was partial to, and so I just brought it along with me.
George. That there bain’t for I, be it?
Rose. Indeed ’tis—if so as you’ll accept of it.
George. O, ’tis best saved against to-morrow. The freshness will be most gone from it, if I was to wear it now.
Dorry. No, no, Mr. Davis, ’tis for now! To wear at the dance. Put it on him, Rosie, put it on him.
Rose. [Tossing the flower across the table toGeorge.] He can put it on hisself well enough, Dorry.
George. [After a moment’s hesitation.] I don’t know so well about that.
Annie. Go on, Rosie—pin it into his coat. Come, ’tis getting late.
Dorry. O, pin it in quick, Rosie—come along—and then we can start to the dancing.
Rose. Shall I, Mr. Davis?
[Georgegets up and crosses the room;Rosetakes the flower andDorryhands her a pin.She slowly pins the flower in his coat.
Steve. [Stretching out his hand toAnnie.] You be so quiet like to-night, Annie. There isn’t nothing wrong, is there, my dear?
Annie. ’Tis only I’m that full of gladness, Steve, as I don’t seem to find words to my tongue for the things what I can talk on most days.
Steve. And that’s how ’tis with I, too, Annie. ’Tis as though I was out in the meadows, like—And as though ’twere Sunday, and such a stillness all around that I might think ’twas only me as was upon the earth. But then summat stirs in me sudden and I knows that you be there, too, and ’tis my love for you what has put me right away from the rest of them.
Annie. Steve, you’ve had a poor, rough time, I know, but I’ll do my best for to smooth it like for you, I will.
Steve. See here, Annie—I be comed out of the rain and into the sun once more.
Dorry. [LeadingGeorgeforward.] See how fine Mr. Davis do look—see, isn’t he grand? O, Miss Sims, see how nice the flower do look what Rosie has pinned in his coat! See, Gran’ma.
Jane. I’ve enough to do putting away all these glasses which have been messed up. What I wants to know is when I shall get off to bed this night, seeing as ’tis late already and you none of you gone off yet.
Dorry. O, let us be off, let us be off—and what am I to put over my dress, Gran’ma, so as the snow shan’t get to it?
Jane. If you go careful and don’t drop it in the snow may be as I’ll wrap my big shawl around of you, Dorry, what’s hanging behind the door.
Rose. Give me my cloak, Steve—O, how I do love a bit of dancing, don’t you, Mr. Davis?
George. I be about as much use in the ball room as one of they great drag horses, Miss Rose.
Rose. O, get on, Mr. Davis! I don’t believe half what you do say, no more does Annie.
Annie. If Mr. Davis don’t know how to dance right, you’re the one to learn him, Rose. Come, Dorry, you take hold of my hand, and I’ll look after you on the way. Good-night, Mrs. Browning. Good-night, Mrs. Reed.
Dorry. Why, Granny’s sound asleep, Miss Sims, you know.
Jane. And about time, too. ’Tis to be hoped as we shan’t have no more trouble with her till morning.
Dorry. [Her eyes raised to the door latch.] Just look, why the latch is up.
Annie. Whoever’s that, I wonder?
Rose. ’Tis very likely someone with a horse what’s lost a shoe, Steve.
Jane. I guess as ’tis a coffin wanted sudden, George Davis.
Steve. I bain’t a-going to shoe no horses this time of night, not if ’twas the King hisself what stood at the door.
George. If ’tis a corpse, I guess her’ll have to wait till the dancing’s finished, then.
[Vashtigroans in her sleep and turns over in the chair,her face to the fire.
Steve. [Going to the door and speaking loudly.] Who’s there?
George. Us’ll soon see.
[Georgeunbolts the door and opens it,first a little way,and then wide.Mayis seen standing in the doorway.Her shawl is drawn over head and the lower part of her face.
George. Here’s someone what’s missed their way, I count.
Rose. Why, ’tis like the poor thing we seed beneath the hedge, I do believe.
AnnieWhatever can she want a-coming-in here at this time of night!
Jane. [Advancing firmly.] ’Tis one of they dirty roadsters what there’s too many of all about the country. Here, I’ll learn you to come to folks’ houses this time of night, disturbing of a wedding party. You take and get gone. We don’t want such as you in here, we don’t.
[Maylooks fixedly intoJane’sface.
George. I count ’tis very nigh starved by the cold as she be.
Steve. Looks like it, and wetted through to the bone.
Jane. Put her out and shut the door, George, and that’ll learn the likes of she to come round begging at folks’ houses what’s respectable.
George. ’Tis poor work shutting the door on such as her this night.
Steve. And that ’tis, George, and what’s more, I bain’t a-going for to do it. ’Tis but a few hours to my wedding, and if a dog was to come to me for shelter I’d not be one to put him from the door.
Jane. ’Tain’t to be expected as I shall let a dirty tramp bide in my kitchen when ’tis all cleaned up against to-morrow, Steve.
Steve. To-morrow, ’tis my day, Mother, and I’ll have the choosing of my guests, like. [Turning toMay.] Come you in out of the cold. This night you shall bide fed and warmed, so that, may be, in years to come, ’twill please you to think back upon the eve afore my wedding.
[Stevestands back,holding the door wide open.May,from the threshold,has been looking first on one face and then on another.Suddenly her eyes fall onAnnie,who has moved toSteve’sside,laying her hand on his arm,and with a sudden defiance,she draws herself up and comes boldly into the room as the curtain falls.
The same room,two hours later.Vashti Reedseems to be sleeping as before by the fireside.On the settleMayis huddled,her head bent,the shawl drawn over her face.Jane Browningmoves about,putting away work things,cups and plates,seeing that the window is closed,winding the clock,etc.There is a tap at the outer door andJaneopens it.Steve,AnnieandDorryenter.
Jane. Whatever kept you so late, Steve, and me a-sitting up for to let you all in and not able to get away to my bed?
Dorry. O, Gran’ma, it was beautiful, I could have stopped all night, I could. We comed away early ’cause Miss Sims, she said as the dancing gived her the headache, but the New Year han’t been danced in yet, it han’t.
Jane. You get and dance off to bed, Dorry, that’s what you’ve got to do—and quickly.
Dorry. All right, Gran’ma. Good-night, Miss Sims; good-night, Dad. O, why, there’s Granny! But her’s tight asleep so I shan’t say nothing to her. O, I do wish as there was dancing, and lamps, and music playing every night, I do!
[Dorrygoes towards the staircase door.
Jane. [Calling after her.] I’m a-coming along directly. Be careful with the candle, Dorry.
[Janeopens the door andDorrygoes upstairs.SteveandAnniecome towards the fireplace.
Steve. Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing?
Jane. Poor thing, indeed! A good-for-nothing roadster what’s been and got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s the matter with she. See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of her; and not a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her the drop of tea a while back.
Steve. Well, well—she won’t do us no harm where she do bide. Leave her in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way.
Jane. She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, I’m thinking.
Steve. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, Mother.
Jane. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home?
Annie. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back—’tis but a step—and I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again.
Steve. I’m coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. I’ll be back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes.
Jane. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like.
[Janelights a candle and goes upstairs.StevetakesAnnie’shand and they go together towards the outer door.As they pass to the other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room,Maysuddenly rears herself up on the settle,throwing back her shawl,and she leans forward,listening intently.
Steve. To-morrow night, Annie!
Annie. There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve.
Steve. You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can rightly think on, that ’tis.
Annie. Steve!
Steve. Well, Annie.
Annie. There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit this night. You didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas so.
Steve. Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was different from ordinary.
Annie. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. Steve, I couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on and all. So I told you as I’d the headache.
Steve. O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t seem to get them pushed aside, like.
Annie. How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve.
Steve. I don’t much care for to, Annie. But ’twas thoughts what comed out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard with—with her as was Dorry’s mother.
Annie. O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, Steve.
Steve. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might go the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being so much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t bear for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I could not stand it if ’twas as I should lose you.
Annie. There’s nothing in the world as could make you lose me, Steve. For, look you here, I don’t think as there’s a woman on the earth what’s got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me is to be wed and to live aside of one another till death do part us.
Steve. Them be good words, Annie, and no mistake.
Annie. And what you feels about the days gone by don’t count, Steve, ’cause they bain’t true of you. You was always a kind husband, and from what I’ve hear-ed folks say, she was one as wasn’t never suited to neither you nor yours.
Steve. Poor soul, she be dead and gone now, and what I thinks one way or t’other can’t do she no good. Only ’tis upon me as I could take you to-morrow more glad-like, Annie, if so be as I had been kinder to she, the time her was here.
Annie. Do you go off to bed, Steve, you’re regular done up, and that’s what ’tis. I never hear-ed you take on like this afore.
Steve. All right, my dear, don’t you mind what I’ve been saying. Very like ’tis a bit unnerved as I be this night. But ’tis a good thought, bain’t it, Annie, that come to-morrow at this time, there won’t be no more need for us to part?
Annie. [As he opens the door.] O, ’tis dark outside!
[They both leave the cottage.Maythrows back her shawl as though stifled.She gets up and first stands bending overVashti.Seeing that she is still sleeping heavily,she goes to the door,opens it gently and looks out.After a moment she closes it and walks about the kitchen,examining everything with a fierce curiosity.She takes up the shawlDorryhas been wearing,looks at it hesitatingly,and then clasps it passionately to her face.Hearing steps outside she flings it down again on the chair and returns to the settle,where she sits huddled in the corner,having wrapped herself again in her shawl,only her eyes looking out unquietly from it.Stevere-enters.He bolts the door,then goes up to the table in front of the fire to put out the lamp.
Steve. Can I get you an old sack or summat for to cover you up a bit this cold night?
[Maylooks at him for a moment and then shakes her head.
Steve. All right. You can just bide where you be on the settle. ’Tis warmer within nor upon the road to-night, and I’ll come and let you out when ’tis morning.
[Mayraises both her hands in an attitude of supplication.
Steve. [Pausing,with his hand on the burner of the lamp.] Be there summat as you wants what I can give to you?
[Maylooks at him for a moment and then speaks in a harsh whisper.
May. Let I bide quiet in the dark, ’tis all I wants now. [Steveputs out the lamp.
Steve. [As though to himself,as he goes towards the door upstairs.] Then get off to your drunken sleep again, and your dreams.
[Curtain.