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_ ACT I - SCENE I
A country roadside. It is late afternoon and already dusk.
MAY BROWNING with HARRY MOSS come slowly forward. Close to a stile which is a little off the road, MAY stops.
MAY.
There, you don't need to come no further with I, Harry Moss. You get on quick towards the town afore the night be upon you, and the snow, too.
HARRY.
I don't care much about leaving you like this on the roadside, May. And that's the truth, 'tis.
MAY.
Don't you take no more thought for I, Harry. 'Tis a good boy as you've been to I since the day when we fell in together. But now there bain't no more need for you to hold back your steps, going slow and heavy when you might run spry and light. For 'tis home as I be comed to now, I be. You go your way.
HARRY.
I see naught of any house afore us or behind. 'Tis very likely dusk as is upon us, or may happen 'tis the fog getting up from the river.
MAY.
[Coughing.]
Look you across that stile, Harry. There be a field path, bain't there?
HARRY.
[Taking a few steps to the right and peering through the gloom.]
Ah, and that there be.
MAY.
And at t'other end of it a house what's got a garden fence all round.
HARRY.
Ah--and 'tis so. And now as I comes to look there be a light shining from out the windows of it, too, though 'tis shining dim-like in the mist.
MAY.
'Tis that yonder's my home, Harry. There's the door where I must stand and knock.
[For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with weeping.]
HARRY.
I wouldn't take on so, if 'twas me.
MAY.
And did you say as how there was a light in the window? 'Twill be but fire light then, for th' old woman she never would bring out the lamp afore 'twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, what'd lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it should go wasted.
HARRY.
There, 'tis shining better now--or maybe as the fog have shifted.
MAY.
'Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry.
HARRY.
Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I'll go along of you a bit further. 'Twill not be much out of my way. Nothing to take no count of.
MAY.
No, no, Harry. I bain't going to cross that field, nor yet stand at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me. Why, is it like as I'd let them see me coming over the meadow and going through the gate in this?
[Holding up a ragged shawl.]
In these?
[Pointing to her broken shoes.]
And--as I be to-day.
[Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of anguished coughing.]
HARRY.
There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, like. Don't you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you'll be wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn't know that you be coming back.
MAY.
[Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough.]
Harry, you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink. 'Tis all live coals within I here, so 'tis.
HARRY.
You get along home, and maybe as them'll find summat better nor water from the ditch to give you.
MAY.
No, no, what was I a-saying to you? The dark must fall and cover me, or I won't never go across the field nor a-nigh the house. Give I to drink, give I to drink. And then let me bide in quiet till all of the light be gone.
HARRY.
[Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her.]
Where be I to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground?
MAY.
[Pointing.]
Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand. Look you there, 'tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch.
[HARRY goes off with the can. MAY watches him, drawing her shawl again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing.]
[HARRY returns and holds out the can.]
MAY.
'Tis not very quick as you've been, Harry Moss. Here--give it to I fast. Give!
[HARRY puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands, which shake feverishly, and she drinks with sharp avidity.]
MAY.
'Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year. Ah, and have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have. Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it. Drink of it, too, Harry.
HARRY.
'Tis no water as I wants, May. Give I summat as'll lie more warm and comfortable to th' inside like. I bain't one for much water, and that's the truth, 'tis.
[He empties the water on the ground.]
MAY.
Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, where the lamps do shine and 'tis bright and warm in the places where they sells the drink.
HARRY.
Once I sets off running by myself, I'll get there fast enough, May. But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I don't care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like.
MAY.
Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too.
HARRY.
[Sitting down by her side.]
'Tis a fine thing to have a home what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside. How was it as you ever came away from it, like?
MAY.
Ah, and that's what I be asking of myself most of the time, Harry! For, 'tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut the door behind me and went out.
[A slight pause.]
MAY.
Away from them all, upon the road--so 'twas.
HARRY.
And never see'd no more of them, nor sent to say how 'twas with you, nor nothing?
MAY.
Nor nothing, Harry. Went out and shut the door behind me. And 'twas finished.
[A long pause, during which the darkness has gathered.]
HARRY.
Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May?
MAY.
[Bitterly.]
Ah now, whatever did!
HARRY.
'Tweren't as though you might have been a young wench, flighty like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the streets of it. For, look you here, 'tis an old woman as you be now, May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don't doubt.
MAY.
An old woman be I, Harry? Well, to the likes of you 'tis so, I count. But a twelve year gone by, O, 'twas a fine enough looking maid as I was then--Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the free ways of the road and the lights of the fair--And for the sun to rise in one place where I was, and for I to be in t'other when her should set.
HARRY.
I'd keep my breath for when 'twas wanted, if 'twas me.
MAY.
Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as they'll be likely to know I again up at home?
HARRY.
How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that 'tis but a ten days or less as I've been along of you on the road? And seeing that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you neither?
MAY.
Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I'll tell you how 'twas in the days gone by?
HARRY.
'Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May. The night be coming upon we wonderful fast.
MAY.
The hair, 'twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, Harry. 'Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so 'twas.
HARRY.
Well, 'tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, that it be.
MAY.
And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. 'Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, Harry.
HARRY.
'Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May.
MAY.
Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that I can. Victuals to th' inside of I and a bit of clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I up. Why, there, Harry, you won't know as 'tis me when I've been to home a day or two--or may be as 'twill take a week.
HARRY.
I count 'twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as you once was, May.
MAY.
Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by the hair, which is different to what 'twas, or by the form of me, which be got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don't come never no change. So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do appear to you.
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.
[MAY turns to the stile and leans on it heavily, gazing across the field. HARRY sets off quickly down the road.] _
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