Six Plays by Lady Florence Henrietta Fisher Darwin Part 80

MAY. [Sitting down by VASHTI and laying her hand on her.] I'll put summat in your mouth as'll stop you if you start screeching, mother.

Why, hark you here. 'Tis enough of this old place as I've had this night, and 'tis out upon the roads as I be going. Th' old woman-- there's naught much changed in she--And Steve--well, Steve be wonderful hard in the soul of him. "Can I get you an old sack," says he--and never so much as seed 'twas I--Ah--'tis more than enough to turn the stomach in anyone--that it is. [A slight pause.

MAY. I was never a meek one as could bide at the fireside for long.

The four walls of this here room have very near done for me now, so they have. And 'tis the air blowing free upon the road as I craves-- Ah, and the wind which hollers, so that the cries of we be less nor they of lambs new born.

VASHTI. G.o.d bless you, May, and if you goes beyond the door 'tis the mealy-faced jade will get in come morning, for Steve to wed.

MAY. So 'tis. And if I stopped 'twould be the same, her'd be between us always, the pretty cage bird--For look you here on I, Mother, and here--[pointing to her feet]--and here--and here--See what's been done to I what's knocked about in the world along the roads, and then think if I be such a one as might hold the love of Steve.

VASHTI. [Beginning to whine desolately.] O, do not you go for to leave your old mammy again what has mourned you as if you was dead all the years. Do not you go for to leave I and the wicked around of I as might be the venomous beasts in the gra.s.s. Stop with I, my pretty child--Stop along of your old mother, for the days of I be few and numbered, and the enemies be thick upon the land.

MAY. Hark you here, Mother, and keep your screeching till another time. I wants to slip out quiet so as Steve and th' old woman won't never know as I've been nigh. And if you keeps your mouth shut, maybe I'll drop in at our own place on the hill one of these days and bide comfortable along of you, only now--I'm off, do you hear?

VASHTI. I can't abide for you to go. 'Tis more nor I can stand.

Why, if you goes, May, 'tis t'other wench and th' old woman what'll get mistressing it here again in your place. [Rising up.] No--you shan't go. I'll holler till I've waked them every one--you shan't!

My only child, my pretty May! Ah, 'tis not likely as you shall slip off again. 'Tis not.

MAY. Look you here, Mother--bide still, I say. [Looking round the room distractedly.] See here--'tis rare dry as I be. You bide quiet and us'll have a drink together, that us will. Look, th' old woman's forgot to put away the bottle, us'll wet our mouths nice and quiet, mother--she won't hear I taking out the cork, nor nothing. See!

[MAY gets up and crosses the room; she takes the bottle off the shelf where she has just perceived it, and also two gla.s.ses; she fills one and hands it to her mother.

VASHTI. [Stretching out her hand.] 'Tis rare dry and parched as I be, now I comes to think on it, May.

MAY. That's right--drink your fill, Mother.

VASHTI. 'Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again, May.

MAY. Ah, 'tis my own drink and all, come to that.

VASHTI. So 'tis. And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water.

I seed her spoon it in the pot, and 'twas not above a half spoon as her did put in for I, th' old badger. My eye was on she, though, and her'll have it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the trumpet sound and all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking on at her as is brought to judgment. How will it be then, you old sinner, says I.

MAY. [Re-filling the gla.s.s.] Take and drink this little drop more, mother.

[VASHTI drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half closed eyes.

MAY. [Putting away the bottle and gla.s.ses.] Her'll sleep very like, now. And when her wakes, I take it 'twill appear as though she'd been and dreamt summat.

VASHTI. Do you sit a-nigh me, May. The night be a wild one. I would not have you be on the roads.

MAY. [Sitting down beside her.] O, the roads be fine on nights when the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the mouth of you and lies with a good taste on your tongue. And you goes quick on through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and 'tis a large town and there be folk moving this way and that and the music playing, and great fowls and horses what's got clocks to the inside of they, a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a- riding on them--And the booths with red sugar and white, all lit and animals that's wild a-roaring and a-biting in the tents--And girls what's dancing, standing there in satin gowns all over gold and silver--And you walks to and fro in it all and 'tis good to be there and free--And 'tis better to be in such places and to come and to go where you have a mind than to be cooped in here, with th' old woman and all--'Tis a fine life as you lives on the roads--and 'tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother.

VASHTI. [Who has gradually been falling into sleep.] I count 'tis so. 'Tis prime in the freshening of the day. I count I'll go along of you, come morning.

MAY. That's it, Mother, that's it. Us'll take a bit of sleep afore we sets off, won't us? And when morning comes, us'll open the door and go out.

VASHTI. That's it, when 'tis day.

[Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep.

[MAY watches her for some moments. Then she gets up softly and wraps her shawl round her. The window shews signs of a gray light outside, MAY goes quietly towards the outer door. As she reaches it, DORRY comes into the room from the staircase.

DORRY. [Going up to VASHTI.] Granny, 'tis the New Year! I'm come down to see to the fire and to get breakfast for Dad and Gran'ma.

Why, Granny, you're sleeping still. And where's that poor tramp gone off to? [She looks round the room and then sees MAY by the door.

DORRY. O, there you are. Are you going out on the road afore 'tis got light?

MAY. [In a hoa.r.s.e whisper.] And that I be. 'Tis very nigh to daybreak, so 'tis.

DORRY. Stop a moment. [Calling up the stairs.] Daddy, the tramp woman, she's moving off already.

STEVE. [From upstairs.] Then give her a bit of bread to take along of she. I don't care that anyone should go an-hungered this day.

DORRY. [Turning to MAY.] There--you bide a minute whilst I cuts the loaf. My Dad's going to get married this day, and he don't care that anyone should go hungry.

[MAY comes slowly back into the room and stands watching DORRY, who fetches a loaf from the pantry and cuts it at the table. Then she pulls aside the curtain and a dim light comes in.

DORRY. The snow's very nigh gone, and 'tis like as not as the sun may come out presently. Here's a piece of bread to take along of you. There, it's a good big piece, take and eat it.

[MAY hesitates an instant, then she stretches out her hand and takes the bread and puts it beneath her shawl.

MAY. And so there's going to be a wedding here to-day?

DORRY. 'Tis my Dad as is to be married.

MAY. 'Tis poor work, is twice marrying.

DORRY. My Dad's ever so pleased, I han't seen him so pleased as I can remember. I han't.

MAY. Then maybe the second choosing be the best.

DORRY. Yes, 'tis--Gran'ma says as 'tis--and Dad, he be ever so fond of Miss Sims--and I be, too.

MAY. Then you've no call to wish as her who's gone should come back to you, like?

DORRY. What's that you're saying?

MAY. You don't never want as your mammy what you've lost should be amongst you as afore?

DORRY. I never knowed my mammy. Gran'ma says she had got summat bad in her blood. And Granny's got the same. But Miss Sims, she's ever so nice to Dad and me, and I'm real pleased as she's coming to stop along of us always after that they're married, like.

MAY. And th' old woman what's your gran'ma, Dorry?

DORRY. However did you know as I was called "Dorry"?

MAY. I heard them call you so last night.

DORRY. And whatever do you want to know about Gran'ma?