ACT III

 

 

 

    The same room, half an hour later.

 

    BEATRICE WYLD sits in the arm-chair, and NELLIE LAMBERT on the sofa, the latter doing drawn-thread work on a white tray-cloth, part of which is fixed in a ring: at this part NELLIE is stitching.

 

 

 

BEATRICE: Ah, it makes you grin! the way she used to talk before she had him!

 

NELLIE: She did. She thought nobody was as good as her Arthur. She’s found her mistake out.

 

BEATRICE: She has an’ all! He wanted some chips for his supper the other night, when I was there. “Well,” I said, “it’s not far to Fretwell’s, Arthur.” He did look mad at me. “I’m not going to fetch chips,” he said, a cocky little fool; and he crossed his little legs till I should ‘a liked to have smacked his mouth. I said to her, “Well, Mabel, if you do, you’re a fool!” — in her state, and all the men that were about! He’s not a bit of consideration. You never saw anybody as fagged as she looks.

 

NELLIE: She does. I felt fair sorry for her when I saw her last Sunday but one. She doesn’t look like she used.

 

BEATRICE: By Jove, she doesn’t! He’s brought her down a good many pegs. I shouldn’t wonder if she wasn’t quite safe, either. She told me she had awful shooting pains up her side, and they last for five minutes.

 

NELLIE (looking up): Oh?

 

BEATRICE: Ay! I’m glad I’m not in her shoes. They may talk about getting married as they like! Not this child!

 

NELLIE: Not to a thing like him.

 

BEATRICE: I asked her if she didn’t feel frightened, an’ she said she didn’t care a scrap. I should care, though — and I’ll bet she does, at the bottom.

 

The latch clicks. The MOTHER enters, carrying a large net full of purchases, and a brown-paper parcel. She lets these fall heavily on the table, and sits on the nearest chair, panting a little, with evident labour of the heart.

 

MOTHER: Yes, my lady! — you called for that meat, didn’t you?

 

NELLIE (rising and going to look in the parcels): Well, my duck, I looked for you downtown; then when I was coming back, I forgot all about it.

 

MOTHER: And I — was silly enough — to lug it myself —

 

NELLIE (crossing to her mother, all repentant): Well, what did you for? — you knew I could fetch it again! You do do such ridiculous things! (She begins to take off her mother’s bonnet.)

 

MOTHER: Yes! We know your fetching it — again. If I hadn’t met little Abel Gibson — I really don’t think I should have got home.

 

BEATRICE (leaning forward): If Nellie forgets it, you should forget it, Mrs Lambert. I’m sure you ought not to go lugging all those things.

 

MOTHER: But I met young Abel Gibson just when I was thinking I should have to drop them — and I said: “Here, Abel, my lad, are you going home?” and he said he was, so I told him he could carry my bag. He’s a nice little lad. He says his father hasn’t got much work, poor fellow. I believe that woman’s a bad manager. She’d let that child clean up when he got home — and he said his Dad always made the beds. She’s not a nice woman, I’m sure. (She shakes her head and begins to unfasten her coat.)

 

NELLIE, seeing her mother launched into easy gossip, is at ease on her score, and returns to the bags.

 

You needn’t go looking; there’s nothing for you.

 

NELLIE (petulantly): You always used to bring us something —

 

MOTHER: Ay, I’ve no doubt I did. . . . (She sniffs and looks at BEATRICE WYLD.)

 

NELLIE (still looking, unconvinced): Hello! Have a grape, Beatrice. (She offers BEATRICE a white-paper bag of very small black grapes.)

 

MOTHER: They want washing first, to get the sawdust out. Our Ernest likes those little grapes, and they are cheap: only four-pence.

 

BEATRICE (looking up from the bag): Oh, they are cheap. No, I won’t have any, Nellie, thanks.

 

NELLIE: I’ll wash them.

 

MOTHER: Just let the tap run on them — and get a plate.

 

NELLIE: Well, as if I shouldn’t get a plate! The little Ma thinks we’re all daft.

 

MOTHER (sniffing — it is her manner of winking): Is all the bread done?

 

NELLIE: Yes. I took the last out about a quarter of an hour ago.

 

MOTHER (to BEATRICE): Was Maggie Pearson gone when you came?

 

BEATRICE: No — she’s only been gone about three-quarters of an hour.

 

MOTHER (tossing her head and lowering her tone confidentially): Well, really! I stopped looking at a man selling curtains a bit longer than I should, thinking she’d be gone.

 

BEATRICE: Pah! — it makes you sick, doesn’t it?

 

MOTHER: It does. You wouldn’t think she’d want to come trailing down here in weather like this, would you?

 

BEATRICE: You wouldn’t. I’ll bet you’d not catch me! — and she knows what you think, alright.

 

MOTHER: Of course she does.

 

BEATRICE: She wouldn’t care if the old Dad was here, scowling at her; she’d come.

 

MOTHER: If that lad was at home.

 

BEATRICE (scornfully): Ay!

 

The MOTHER rises and goes out with her coat.

 

NELLIE enters, with a plate of wet black grapes.

 

NELLIE: Now, Beat! (Offering the grapes.)

 

BEATRICE: No, Nellie, I don’t think I’ll have any.

 

NELLIE: Go on — have some! Have some — go on! (Speaks rather imperatively.)

 

BEATRICE takes a few grapes in her hand.

 

What a scroddy few! Here, have some more.

 

BEATRICE (quietly): No, Nellie, thanks, I won’t have any more. I don’t think they’d suit me.

 

NELLIE sits down and begins to eat the grapes, putting the skins on a piece of paper.

 

The MOTHER re-enters. She looks very tired. She begins carrying away the little parcels.

 

NELLIE: Don’t you put those away, mother; I’ll do it in a minute.

 

The MOTHER continues. NELLIE rises in a moment or two, frowning.

 

You are a persistent little woman! Why don’t you wait a bit and let me do it?

 

MOTHER: Because your father will be in in a minute, and I don’t want him peeking and prying into everything, thinking I’m a millionaire. (She comes and sits down in her rocking-chair by the oven.)

 

NELLIE continues to carry away the goods, which have littered the table, looking into every parcel.

 

NELLIE: Hello! what are these little things?

 

MOTHER: Never you mind.

 

NELLIE: Now, little woman, don’t you try to hug yourself and be secretive. What are they?

 

MOTHER: They’re pine-kernels. (Turning to BEATRICE.) Our Ernest’s always talking about the nut-cakes he gets at Mrs Dacre’s; I thought I’d see what they were like. Put them away; don’t let him see them. I shan’t let him know at all, if they’re not up to much. I’m not going to have him saying Mother Dacre’s things are better than mine.

 

BEATRICE: I wouldn’t — for I’m sure they’re not.

 

MOTHER: Still, I rather like the idea of nuts. Here, give me one; I’ll try it.

 

They each eat a pine-kernel with the air of a connoisseur in flavours.

 

(smiling to herself): Um — aren’t they oily!

 

BEATRICE: They are! But I rather like them.

 

NELLIE: So do I. (Takes another.)

 

MOTHER (gratified): Here, put them away, miss!

 

NELLIE takes another. The MOTHER rises and snatches them away from her, really very pleased.

 

There won’t be one left, I know, if I leave them with her. (She puts them away.)

 

NELLIE (smiling and nodding her head after her mother; in a whisper): Isn’t she fussy?

 

BEATRICE puts out her tongue and laughs.

 

MOTHER (returning): I tried a gelatine sponge last week. He likes it much better than cornflour. Mrs Dacre puts them in mincemeat, instead of suet — the pine-kernels. I must try a bit.

 

BEATRICE: Oh! it sounds better.

 

MOTHER (seating herself): It does. (She looks down at the bread.)

 

BEATRICE puts up her shoulders in suspense.

 

I think you let this one dry up.

 

NELLIE: No, I didn’t. It was our Ernest who let it burn.

 

MOTHER: Trust him! And what’s he done? (She begins to look round.)

 

BEATRICE pulls a very wry face, straightens it quickly and says calmly:

 

BEATRICE: Is your clock right, Mrs Lambert?

 

MOTHER (looking round at the clock): Ten minutes — ten minutes fast. Why, what time is it?

 

BEATRICE: Good lack! (Rising suddenly.) It’s half-past ten! Won’t our Pa rave! “Yes, my gel — it’s turning-out time again. We’re going to have a stop put to it.” And our mother will recite! Oh, the recitations! — there’s no shutting her up when she begins. But at any rate, she shuts our Pa up, and he’s a nuisance when he thinks he’s got just cause to be wrath. — Where did I put my things?

 

MOTHER: I should think that Nellie’s put hers on top. (She looks at NELLIE.) Don’t sit there eating every one of those grapes. You know our Ernest likes them.

 

NELLIE (suddenly incensed): Good gracious! I don’t believe I’ve had more than half a dozen of the things!

 

MOTHER (laughing and scornful): Half a dozen!

 

NELLIE: Yes, half a dozen. — Beatrice, we can’t have a thing in this house — everything’s for our Ernest.

 

MOTHER: What a story! What a story! But he does like those little grapes.

 

NELLIE: And everything else.

 

MOTHER (quietly, with emphasis): He gets a good deal less than you.

 

NELLIE (withdrawing from dangerous ground): I’ll bet.

 

GERTIE COOMBER runs in.

 

BEATRICE: Hello, Gert, haven’t you seen John?

 

GERTIE (putting up her chin): No.

 

BEATRICE: A little nuisance! — fancy!

 

GERTIE: Eh, I don’t care — not me.

 

NELLIE: No, it’s her fault. She never does want to see him. I wonder any fellow comes to her.

 

GERTIE (nonchalantly): Um — so do I.

 

BEATRICE: Get out, Gert; you know you’re fretting your heart out ‘cause he’s not come.

 

GERTIE (with great scorn): Am I? Oh, am I? Not me! If I heard him whistling this moment, I wouldn’t go out to him.

 

NELLIE: Wouldn’t you! I’d shove you out, you little cat!

 

GERTIE (with great assumption of amusing dignity): Oh, would you, indeed!

 

They all laugh.

 

BEATRICE pins on her hat before the mirror.

 

You haven’t got Ernest to take you home to-night, Beat. Where is he? With Maggie Pearson? Hasn’t he come back yet?

 

MOTHER (with some bitterness): He hasn’t. An’ he’s got to go to college to-morrow. Then he reckons he can get no work done.

 

GERTIE: Ha! — they’re all alike when it suits them.

 

MOTHER: I should thank her not to come down here messing every Friday and Sunday.

 

NELLIE: Ah, she’s always here. I should be ashamed of myself.

 

BEATRICE: Well — our Pa! I must get off. Good night, everybody. See you to-morrow, Nell.

 

NELLIE: I’ll just come with you across the field.

 

She fetches a large white cashmere shawl and puts it over her head. She disposes it round her face at the mirror.

 

BEATRICE winks at the MOTHER.

 

GERTIE: She’s going to look for Eddie.

 

NELLIE (blushing): Well, what if I am? Shan’t be many minutes, Ma.

 

MOTHER (rather coldly): I should think not! I don’t know what you want at all going out at this time o’ night.

 

NELLIE shrugs her shoulders, and goes out with BEATRICE WYLD, who laughs and bids another good night.

 

MOTHER (when they have gone): A silly young hussy, gadding to look for him. As if she couldn’t sleep without seeing him.

 

GERTIE: Oh, he always says, “Come and look for me about eleven.” I bet he’s longing to shut that shop up.

 

MOTHER (shortly): Ha! he’s softer than she is, and I’m sure that’s not necessary. I can’t understand myself how folks can be such looneys. I’m sure I was never like it.

 

GERTIE: And I’m sure I never should be. I often think, when John’s coming, “Oh, hang it, I wish he’d stay away!”

 

MOTHER: Ah, but that’s too bad, Gertie. If you feel like that you’d better not keep it on any longer. — Yet I used to be about the same myself. I was born with too much sense for that sort of slobber.

 

GERTIE: Yes, isn’t it hateful? I often think, “Oh, get off with you!” I’m sure I should never be like Nellie. — Isn’t Ernest late? You’ll have Mr Lambert in first.

 

MOTHER (bitterly): He is late. He must have gone every bit of the way.

 

GERTIE: Nay, I bet he’s not — that.

 

There is silence a moment.

 

The MOTHER remembers the bread.

 

MOTHER (turning round and looking in the panchion): Well, there ought to be two more brown loaves. What have they done with them, now? (Turns over the loaves, and looks about.)

 

GERTIE (laughing): I should think they’ve gone and eaten them, between them.

 

MOTHER: That’s very funny. (She rises, and is going to look round the room.)

 

There is a whistle outside.

 

GERTIE (turning her head sharply aside): Oh, hang it! I’m not going — I’m not!

 

MOTHER: Who is it? John?

 

GERTIE: It is, and I’m not going.

 

The whistle is heard again.

 

He can shut up, ‘cause I’m not going!

 

MOTHER (smiling): You’ll have to just go and speak to him, if he’s waiting for you.

 

The whistle is heard louder.

 

GERTIE: Isn’t it hateful! I don’t care. I’ll tell him I was in bed. I should be if my father wasn’t at the “Ram”.

 

MOTHER (sighing): Ay! But you may guess he’s seen Nellie, and she’s been saying something to him.

 

GERTIE: Well, she needn’t, then!

 

The whistle goes again.

 

GERTIE cannot resist the will of the other, especially as the MOTHER bids her go. She flings her hand, and turns with great impatience.

 

He can shut up! What’s he want to come at this time for? Oh, hang him!

 

She goes out slowly and unwillingly, her lips closed angrily. The MOTHER smiles, sighs, and looks sad and tired again.

 

MOTHER (to herself): It’s a very funny thing!

 

She wanders round the room, looking for the bread. She lights a taper and goes into the scullery.

 

(re-passing, she repeats): A very remarkable thing!

 

She goes into the pantry on right, and after a moment returns with the loaf in the damp cloth, which she has unfolded. She stands looking at the loaf, repeating a sharp little sound against her palate with her tongue, quickly vibrating her head up and down.

 

(to herself): So this is it, is it? It’s a nice thing! — And they put it down there, thinking I shouldn’t see it. It’s a nice thing! (Goes and looks in the oven, then says bitterly): I always said she was a deep one. And he thinks he’ll stop out till his father comes! — And what have they done with the other? — Burnt it, I should think. That’s what they’ve done. It’s a nice thing — a nice thing! (She sits down in the rocking-chair, perfectly rigid, still overdone with weariness and anger and pain.)

 

After a moment, the garden gate is heard to bang back, and a heavy step comes up the path, halting, punctuated with the scratch and thrust of a walking-stick, rather jarring on the bricked yard.

 

The FATHER enters. He also bends his head a little from the light, peering under his hat-brim.

 

The MOTHER has quickly taken the withered loaf and dropped it in among the others in the panchion.

 

The FATHER does not speak, but goes straight to the passage, and hangs up his hat, overcoat, and jacket, then returns and stands very near the fire, holding his hands close down to the open ruddy grate. He sways slightly when he turns, after a moment or two, and stands with his hands spread behind his back, very near the fire.

 

The MOTHER turns away her head from him.

 

He remains thus for a minute or so, then he takes a step forward, and, leaning heavily on the table, begins to pick the grapes from the plate, spitting out the skins into his right hand and flinging them at random towards the fire behind his back, leaning all the time heavily with the left hand on the table.

 

After a while this irritates the MOTHER exceedingly.

 

MOTHER: You needn’t eat all those grapes. There’s somebody else!

 

FATHER (speaking with an exaggerated imitation of his son’s English): “Somebody else!” Yes, there is “somebody else”! (He pushes the plate away and the grapes roll on the table.) I know they was not bought for me! I know it! I know it! (His voice is rising.) Somebody else! Yes, there is somebody else! I’m not daft! I’m not a fool. Nothing’s got for me. No-o. You can get things for them, you can.

 

The MOTHER turns away her head, with a gesture of contempt.

 

(Continues with maddening tipsy, ironic snarl): I’m not a fool! I can see it! I can see it! I’m not daft! There’s nothing for me, but you begrudge me every bit I put in my mouth.

 

MOTHER (with cold contempt): You put enough down your own throat. There’s no need for anybody else. You take good care you have your share.

 

FATHER: I have my share. Yes, I do, I do!

 

MOTHER (contemptuously): Yes, you do.

 

FATHER: Yes, I do. But I shouldn’t if you could help it, you begrudging bitch. What did you put away when I came in, so that I shouldn’t see it? Something! Yes! Something you’d got for them! Nobody else. Yes! I know you’d got it for somebody else!

 

MOTHER (quietly, with bitter scorn): As it happens, it was nothing.

 

FATHER (his accent is becoming still more urban. His O’s are A’s, so that “nothing” is “nathing”): Nathing! Nathing! You’re a liar, you’re a liar. I heard the scuffle. You don’t think I’m a fool, do you, woman?

 

She curls her lips in a deadly smile.

 

FATHER: I know, I know! Do you have what you give me for dinner? No, you don’t. You take good care of it!

 

MOTHER: Look here, you get your good share. Don’t think you keep the house. Do you think I manage on the few lousy shillings you give me? No, you get as much as you deserve, if any man did. And if you had a rice pudding, it was because we had none. Don’t come here talking. You look after yourself, there’s no mistake.

 

FATHER: An’ I mean to, an’ I mean to!

 

MOTHER: Very well, then!

 

FATHER (suddenly flaring): But I’m not going to be treated like a dog in my own house! I’m not, so don’t think it! I’m master in this house, an’ I’m going to be. I tell you, I’m master of this house.

 

MOTHER: You’re the only one who thinks so.

 

FATHER: I’ll stop it! I’ll put a stop to it. They can go — they can go!

 

MOTHER: You’d be on short commons if they did.

 

FATHER: What? What? Me! You saucy bitch, I can keep myself, an’ you as well, an’ him an’ all as holds his head above me — am doing — an’ I’ll stop it, I’ll stop it — or they can go.

 

MOTHER: Don’t make any mistake — you don’t keep us. You hardly keep yourself.

 

FATHER: Do I? — do I? And who does keep ‘em, then?

 

MOTHER: I do — and the girl.

 

FATHER: You do, do you, you snappy little bitch! You do, do you? Well, keep ‘em yourself, then. Keep that lad in his idleness yourself, then.

 

MOTHER: Very willingly, very willingly. And that lad works ten times as hard as you do.

 

FATHER: Does he? I should like to see him go down th’ pit every day! I should like to see him working every day in th’ hole. No, he won’t dirty his fingers.

 

MOTHER: Yes, you wanted to drag all the lads into the pit, and you only begrudge them because I wouldn’t let them.

 

FATHER (shouting): You’re a liar — you’re a liar! I never wanted ‘em in th’ pit.

 

MOTHER (interrupting): You did your best to get the other two there, anyway.

 

FATHER (still shouting): You’re a liar — I never did anything of the sort. What other man would keep his sons doing nothing till they’re twenty-two? Where would you find another? Not that I begrudge it him — I don’t, bless him. . . .

 

MOTHER: Sounds like it.

 

FATHER: I don’t. I begrudge ‘em nothing. I’m willing to do everything I can for ‘em, and ‘ow do they treat me? Like a dog, I say, like a dog!

 

MOTHER: And whose fault is it?

 

FATHER: Yours, you stinking hussy! It’s you as makes ‘em like it. They’re like you. You teach ‘em to hate me. You make me like dirt for ‘em: you set ‘em against me . . .

 

MOTHER: You set them yourself.

 

FATHER (shouting): You’re a liar! (He jumps from his chair and stands bending towards her, his fist clenched and ready and threatening.) It’s you. It always ‘as been you. You’ve done it —

 

Enter ERNEST LAMBERT.

 

ERNEST (pulling off his cap and flashing with anger): It’s a fine row you’re kicking up. I should bring the neighbours in!

 

FATHER: I don’t care a damn what I do, you sneering devil, you! (He turns to his son, but remains in the same crouching, threatening attitude.)

 

ERNEST (flaring): You needn’t swear at me, either.

 

FATHER: I shall swear at who the devil I like. Who are you, you young hound — who are you, you measley little —

 

ERNEST: At any rate, I’m not a foul-mouthed drunken fool.

 

FATHER (springing towards him): What! I’ll smite you to the ground if you say it again, I will, I will!

 

ERNEST: Pah!

 

He turns his face aside in contempt from the fist brandished near his mouth.

 

FATHER (shouting): What! Say it! I’ll drive my fist through you!

 

ERNEST (suddenly tightening with rage as the fist is pushed near his face): Get away, you spitting old fool!

 

The FATHER jerks nearer and trembles his fist so near the other’s nose that he draws his head back, quivering with intense passion and loathing, and lifts his hands.

 

MOTHER: Ernest, Ernest, don’t!

 

There is a slight relaxation.

 

(Lamentable, pleading): Don’t say any more, Ernest! Let him say what he likes. What should I do if . . .

 

There is a pause.

 

ERNEST continues rigidly to glare into space beyond his father.

 

The FATHER turns to the MOTHER with a snarling movement, which is nevertheless a movement of defeat. He withdraws, sits down in the arm-chair, and begins, fumbling, to get off his collar and tie, and afterwards his boots.

 

ERNEST has taken a book, and stands quite motionless, looking at it. There is heard only the slash of the FATHER’S bootlaces. Then he drags off the boot, and it falls with a loud noise.

 

ERNEST, very tense, puts down the book, takes off his overcoat, hangs it up, and returns to the side of the sofa nearest the door, where he sits, pretending to read.

 

There is silence for some moments, and again the whip of boot-laces. Suddenly a snarl breaks the silence.

 

FATHER: But don’t think I’m going to be put down in my own house! It would take a better man than you, you white-faced jockey — or your mother either — or all the lot of you put together! (He waits awhile.) I’m not daft — I can see what she’s driving at. (Silence.) I’m not a fool, if you think so. I can pay you yet, you sliving bitch! (He sticks out his chin at his wife.)

 

ERNEST lifts his head and looks at him.

 

(Turns with renewing ferocity on his son): Yes, and you either. I’ll stand no more of your chelp. I’ll stand no more! Do you hear me?

 

MOTHER: Ernest!

 

ERNEST looks down at his book.

 

The FATHER turns to the MOTHER.

 

FATHER: Ernest! Ay, prompt him! Set him on — you know how to do it — you know how to do it!

 

There is a persistent silence.

 

I know it! I know it! I’m not daft, I’m not a fool! (The other boot falls to the floor.)

 

He rises, pulling himself up with the arms of the chair, and, turning round, takes a Waterbury watch with a brass chain from the wall beside the bookcase: his pit watch that the MOTHER hung there when she put his pit-trousers in the cupboard — and winds it up, swaying on his feet as he does so. Then he puts it back on the nail, and a key swings at the end of the chain. Then he takes a silver watch from his pocket, and, fumbling, missing the keyhole, winds that up also with a key, and, swaying forward, hangs it up over the cupboard. Then he lurches round, and, limping pitiably, goes off upstairs. There is a heavy silence. The Waterbury watch can be heard ticking.

 

ERNEST: I would kill him, if it weren’t that I shiver at the thought of touching him.

 

MOTHER: Oh, you mustn’t! Think how awful it would be if there were anything like that. I couldn’t bear it.

 

ERNEST: He is a damned, accursed fool!

 

The MOTHER sighs. ERNEST begins to read.

 

There is a quick patter of feet, and GERTIE COOMBER comes running in.

 

GERTIE: Has Mr Lambert come?

 

MOTHER: Ay — in bed.

 

GERTIE: My father hasn’t come yet. Isn’t it sickening?

 

MOTHER: It is, child. They want horsewhipping, and those that serve them, more.

 

GERTIE: I’m sure we haven’t a bit of peace of our lives. I’m sure when mother was alive, she used to say her life was a burden, for she never knew when he’d come home, or how.

 

MOTHER: And it is so.

 

GERTIE: Did you go far, Ernest?

 

ERNEST (not looking up): I don’t know. Middling.

 

MOTHER: He must have gone about home, for he’s not been back many minutes.

 

GERTIE: There’s our Frances shouting!

 

She runs off.

 

MOTHER (quietly): What did you do with that other loaf?

 

ERNEST (looking up, smiling): Why, we forgot it, and it got all burned.

 

MOTHER (rather bitterly): Of course you forgot it. And where is it?

 

ERNEST: Well, it was no good keeping it. I thought it would only grieve your heart, the sight of it, so I put it on the fire.

 

MOTHER: Yes, I’m sure! That was a nice thing to do, I must say! . . . Put a brown loaf on the fire, and dry the only other one up to a cinder!

 

The smile dies from his face, and he begins to frown.

 

(She speaks bitterly): It’s always alike, though. If Maggie Pearson’s here, nobody else matters. It’s only a laughing matter if the bread gets burnt to cinders and put on the fire. (Suddenly bursts into a glow of bitterness.)It’s all very well, my son — you may talk about caring for me, but when it comes to Maggie Pearson it’s very little you care for me — or Nellie — or anybody else.

 

ERNEST (dashing his fingers through his hair): You talk just like a woman! As if it makes any difference! As if it makes the least difference!

 

MOTHER (folding her hands in her lap and turning her face from him): Yes, it does.

 

ERNEST (frowning fiercely): It doesn’t. Why should it? If I like apples, does it mean I don’t like — bread? You know, Ma, it doesn’t make any difference.

 

MOTHER (doggedly): I know it does.

 

ERNEST (shaking his finger at her): But why should it, why should it? You know you wouldn’t be interested in the things we talk about: you know you wouldn’t.

 

MOTHER: Why shouldn’t I?

 

ERNEST: Should you, now? Look here: we talked about French poetry. Should you care about that?

 

No answer.

 

You know you wouldn’t! And then we talked about those pictures at the Exhibition — about Frank Brangwyn — about Impressionism — for ever such a long time. You would only be bored by that —

 

MOTHER: Why should I? You never tried.

 

ERNEST: But you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t care whether it’s Impressionism or pre-Raphaelism. (Pathetically.)

 

MOTHER: I don’t see why I shouldn’t.

 

ERNEST (ruffling his hair in despair; after a pause): And, besides, there are lots of things you can’t talk to your own folks about, that you would tell a stranger.

 

MOTHER (bitterly): Yes, I know there are.

 

ERNEST (wildly): Well, I can’t help it — can I, now?

 

MOTHER (reluctantly): No — I suppose not — if you say so.

 

ERNEST: But you know — !

 

MOTHER (turning aside again; with some bitterness and passion): I do know, my boy — I do know!

 

ERNEST: But I can’t help it.

 

His MOTHER does not reply, but sits with her face averted.

 

Can I, now? Can I?

 

MOTHER: You say not.

 

ERNEST (changing the position again): And you wouldn’t care if it was Alice, or Lois, or Louie. You never row me if I’m a bit late when I’ve been with them. . . . It’s just Maggie, because you don’t like her.

 

MOTHER (with emphasis): No, I don’t like her — and I can’t say I do.

 

ERNEST: But why not? Why not? She’s as good as I am — and I’m sure you’ve nothing against her — have you, now?

 

MOTHER (shortly): No, I don’t know I’ve anything against her.

 

ERNEST: Well, then, what do you get so wild about?

 

MOTHER: Because I don’t like her, and I never shall, so there, my boy!

 

ERNEST: Because you’ve made up your mind not to.

 

MOTHER: Very well, then.

 

ERNEST (bitterly): And you did from the beginning, just because she happened to care for me.

 

MOTHER (with coldness): And does nobody else care for you, then, but her?

 

ERNEST (knitting his brows and shaking his hands in despair): Oh, but it’s not a question of that.

 

MOTHER (calmly, coldly): But it is a question of that.

 

ERNEST (fiercely): It isn’t! You know it isn’t! I care just as much for you as ever — you know I do.

 

MOTHER: It looks like it, when night after night you leave me sitting up here till nearly eleven — and gone eleven sometimes —

 

ERNEST: Once, Mother, once — and that was when it was her birthday.

 

MOTHER (turning to him with the anger of love): And how many times is it a quarter to eleven, and twenty to?

 

ERNEST: But you’d sit up just the same if I were in; you’d sit up reading — you know you would.

 

MOTHER: You don’t come in to see.

 

ERNEST: When I am in, do you go to bed before then?

 

MOTHER: I do.

 

ERNEST: Did you on Wednesday night, or on Tuesday, or on Monday?

 

MOTHER: No; because you were working.

 

ERNEST: I was in.

 

MOTHER: I’m not going to go to bed and leave you sitting up, and I’m not going to go to bed to leave you to come in when you like . . . so there!

 

ERNEST (beginning to unfasten his boots): Alright — I can’t help it, then.

 

MOTHER: You mean you won’t.

 

There is a pause. ERNEST hangs his head, forgetting to unlace his boot further.

 

ERNEST (pathetically): You don’t worry our Nellie. Look, she’s out now. You never row her.

 

MOTHER: I do. I’m always telling her.

 

ERNEST: Not like this.

 

MOTHER: I do! I called her all the names I could lay my tongue to last night.

 

ERNEST: But you’re not nasty every time she goes out to see Eddie, and you don’t for ever say nasty things about him. . . .

 

There is a moment of silence, while he waits for an answer.

 

ERNEST: And I always know you’ll be sitting here working yourself into a state if I happen to go up to Herod’s Farm.

 

MOTHER: Do I? — and perhaps you would, if you sat here waiting all night —

 

ERNEST: But, Ma, you don’t care if Nellie’s out.

 

MOTHER (after brooding awhile; with passion): No, my boy, because she doesn’t mean the same to me. She has never understood — she has not been — like you. And now — you seem to care nothing — you care for anything more than home: you tell me nothing but the little things: you used to tell me everything; you used to come to me with everything; but now — I don’t do for you now. You have to find somebody else.

 

ERNEST: But I can’t help it. I can’t help it. I have to grow up — and things are different to us now.

 

MOTHER (bitterly): Yes, things are different to us now. They never used to be. And you say I’ve never tried to care for her. I have — I’ve tried and tried to like her, but I can’t, and it’s no good.

 

ERNEST (pathetically): Well, my dear, we shall have to let it be, then, and things will have to go their way. (He speaks with difficulty.)You know, Mater — I don’t care for her — really — not half as I care for you. Only, just now — well, I can’t help it, I can’t help it. But I care just the same — for you — I do.

 

MOTHER (turning with a little cry): But I thought you didn’t!

 

He takes her in his arms, and she kisses him, and he hides his face in her shoulder. She holds him closely for a moment; then she kisses him and gently releases him. He kisses her. She gently draws away, saying, very tenderly:

 

MOTHER: There! — Nellie will be coming in.

 

ERNEST (after a pause): And you do understand, don’t you, Mater?

 

MOTHER (with great gentleness, having decided not to torment him): Yes, I understand now. (She bluffs him.)

 

ERNEST takes her hand and strokes it a moment. Then he bends down and continues to unfasten his boots. It is very silent.

 

I’m sure that hussy ought to be in — just look at the time!

 

ERNEST: Ay, it’s scandalous!

 

There are in each of their voices traces of the recent anguish, which makes their speech utterly insignificant. Nevertheless, in thus speaking, each reassures the other that the moment of abnormal emotion and proximity is passed, and the usual position of careless intimacy is reassumed.

 

MOTHER (rising): I shall have to go and call her — a brazen baggage!

 

There is a rattle of the yard gate, and NELLIE runs in, blinking very much.

 

NELLIE (out of breath; but very casually): Hello, our Ernest, you home?

 

MOTHER: Yes, miss, and been home long ago. I’ll not have it, my lady, so you needn’t think it. You’re not going to be down there till this time of night! It’s disgraceful. What will his mother say, do you think, when he walks in at past eleven?

 

NELLIE: She can say what she likes. Besides, she’ll be in bed.

 

MOTHER: She’ll hear him, for all that. I’d be ashamed of myself, that I would, standing out there slobbering till this time of night! I don’t know how anyone can be such a fool!

 

NELLIE (smiling): Perhaps not, my dear.

 

MOTHER (slightly stung): No, and I should be sorry. I don’t know what he wants running up at this time of a night.

 

NELLIE: Oh, Mother, don’t go on again! We’ve heard it a dozen times.

 

MOTHER: And you’ll hear it two dozen.

 

ERNEST, having got off his shoes, begins to take off his collar and tie.

 

NELLIE sits down in the arm-chair.

 

NELLIE (dragging up the stool and beginning to unlace her boots): I could hear my father carrying on again. Was he a nuisance?

 

MOTHER: Is he ever anything else when he’s like that?

 

NELLIE: He is a nuisance. I wish he was far enough! Eddie could hear every word he said.

 

ERNEST: Shame! Shame!

 

NELLIE (in great disgust): It is! He never hears anything like that. Oh, I was wild. I could have killed him!

 

MOTHER: You should have sent him home; then he’d not have heard it at all.

 

NELLIE: He’d only just come, so I’m sure I wasn’t going to send him home then.

 

ERNEST: So you heard it all, to the mild-and-bitter end?

 

NELLIE: No, I didn’t. And I felt such a fool!

 

ERNEST: You should choose your spot out of earshot, not just by the garden gate. What did you do?

 

NELLIE: I said, “Come on, Eddie, let’s get away from this lot.” I’m sure I shouldn’t have wondered if he’d gone home and never come near again.

 

MOTHER (satirically): What for?

 

NELLIE: Why — when he heard that row.

 

MOTHER: I’m sure it was very bad for him, poor boy.

 

NELLIE (fiercely): How should you like it?

 

MOTHER: I shouldn’t have a fellow there at that time at all.

 

ERNEST: You thought a father-in-law that kicked up a shindy was enough to scare him off, did you? Well, if you choose your girl, you can’t choose your father-in-law — you’ll have to tell him that.

 

NELLIE has taken off her shoes. She stands in front of the mirror and uncoils her hair, and plaits it in a thick plait which hangs down her back.

 

MOTHER: Come, Ernest; you’ll never want to get up in the morning.

 

NELLIE (suddenly): Oh! There now! I never gave him that rose. (She looks down at her bosom and lifts the head of a rather crushed rose.)What a nuisance!

 

ERNEST: The sad history of a rose between two hearts:

 

    “Rose, red rose, that burns with a low flame,

         What has broken you?

    Hearts, two hearts caught up in a game

         Of shuttlecock — Amen!”

 

NELLIE (blushing): Go on, you soft creature! (Looks at the rose.)

 

ERNEST: Weep over it.

 

NELLIE: Shan’t!

 

ERNEST: And pickle it, like German girls do.

 

NELLIE: Don’t be such a donkey.

 

ERNEST: Interesting item: final fate of the rose.

 

NELLIE goes out; returns in a moment with the rose in an egg-cup in one hand, and a candle in the other.

 

The MOTHER rises.

 

ERNEST: I’ll rake, Mother.

 

NELLIE lights her candle, takes her shawl off the table, kisses her mother good night, and bids her brother good night as he goes out to the cellar.

 

The MOTHER goes about taking off the heavy green tablecloth, disclosing the mahogany, and laying a doubled table-cloth half across. She sets the table with a cup and saucer, plate, knife, sugar-basin, brown-and-white teapot and tea-caddy. Then she fetches a tin bottle and a soiled snapbag, and lays them together on the bare half of the table. She puts out the salt and goes and drags the pit-trousers from the cupboard and puts them near the fire.

 

Meanwhile ERNEST has come from the cellar with a large lump of coal, which he pushes down in the fireplace so that it shall not lodge and go out.

 

MOTHER: You’ll want some small bits. — And bring a few pieces for him in the morning.

 

ERNEST (returning to the cellar with the dust-pan): Alright! I’ll turn the gas out now.

 

The MOTHER fetches another candle and continues her little tasks. The gas goes suddenly down and dies slowly out.

 

ERNEST comes up with his candlestick on a shovelful of coal. He puts the candle on the table, and puts some coal on the fire, round the “raker”. The rest he puts in the shovel on the hearth. Then he goes to wash his hands.

 

The MOTHER, leaving her candle in the scullery, comes in with an old iron fire-screen which she hangs on the bars of the grate, and the ruddy light shows over and through the worn iron top.

 

ERNEST is heard jerking the roller-towel. He enters, and goes to his mother, kissing her forehead, and then her cheek, stroking her cheek with his finger-tips.

 

ERNEST: Good night, my dear.

 

MOTHER: Good night. — Don’t you want a candle?

 

ERNEST: No — blow it out. Good night.

 

MOTHER (very softly): Good night.

 

There is in their tones a dangerous gentleness — so much gentleness that the safe reserve of their souls is broken.

 

ERNEST goes upstairs. His bedroom door is heard to shut.

 

The MOTHER stands and looks in the fire. The room is lighted by the red glow only. Then in a moment or two she goes into the scullery, and after a minute — during which running of water is heard — she returns with her candle, looking little and bowed and pathetic, and crosses the room, softly closing the passage door behind her.

 

 

 

END OF ACT III