Chapter XXIX: Act II: Scene 3

_The same room_, _two hours later_. VASHTI REED _seems to be sleeping as before by the fireside_. _On the settle_ MAY _is huddled_, _her head bent_, _the shawl drawn over her face_. JANE BROWNING _moves 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 and_ JANE _opens it_. STEVE, ANNIE _and_ DORRY _enter_.

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!

[DORRY _goes towards the staircase door_.

JANE. [_Calling after her_.] I’m a-coming along directly. Be careful with the candle, Dorry.

[JANE _opens the door and_ DORRY _goes upstairs_. STEVE _and_ ANNIE _come 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.

[JANE _lights a candle and goes upstairs_. STEVE _takes_ ANNIE’S _hand and they go together towards the outer door_. _As they pass 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 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_. 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 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?

[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_.