Six Plays by Lady Florence Henrietta Fisher Darwin Part 78

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.

[JANE lights a candle and goes upstairs. STEVE takes ANNIE'S hand and they go together towards the outer door. As they pa.s.s to the other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room, MAY suddenly 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. MAY throws back her shawl as though stifled. She gets up and first stands bending over VASHTI. 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 shawl DORRY has been wearing, looks at it hesitatingly, and then clasps it pa.s.sionately 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. STEVE re-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?

[MAY looks 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.

[MAY raises both her hands in an att.i.tude 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?

[MAY looks 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. [STEVE puts 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.

ACT II.--Scene 4.

The fire is almost out. A square of moonlight falls on the floor from the window. VASHTI still sleeps in the chimney corner. MAY is rocking herself to and fro on the settle.

MAY. Get off to your drunken sleep and to your dreams! Your dreams- -your dreams--Ah, where is it as they have gone, I'd like for to know. The dreams as comed to I when I was laid beneath the hedge.

Dreams!

[She gets up, feels down the wall in a familiar way for the bellows-- blows up the fire and puts some coal on it gently. Then she draws forward a chair and sits down before it.

MAY. [Muttering to herself.] 'Tis my own hearth when 'tis all said and done.

[She turns up the front of her skirt and warms herself, looking sharply at VASHTI REED now and then.

[Presently VASHTI'S eyes open, resting, at first unseeingly, and then with recognition, on MAY'S face.

VASHTI. So you be comed back, May. I always knowed as you would.

MAY. How did you know 'twas me, then?

VASHTI. 'Cause I knowed. There 'tis.

MAY. I be that changed from the times when I would sit a-warming of myself by this here fire.

VASHTI. Ah, and be you changed, May? My eyes don't see nothing of it, then.