THE WIDOWING OF
MRS. HOLROYD

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS

BY

D. H. LAWRENCE

LONDON

DUCKWORTH & CO.

3, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, W. C.

1914

COPYRIGHT 1914 BY
MITCHELL KENNERLEY

THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

D H. Lawrence is one of the most significant of the new generation of writers just beginning to appear in England. One of their chief marks is that they seem to step forward full-grown, without a history to account for their maturity. Another characteristic is that they frequently spring from social layers which in the past had to remain largely voiceless. And finally, they have all in their blood what their elders had to acquire painfully: that is, an evolutionary conception of life.

Three years ago the author of "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd" was wholly unknown, having not yet published a single work. To-day he has to his credit three novels—"The White Peacock," "The Trespasser" and "Sons and Lovers"—a collection of verse entitled "Love Poems," and the play contained in this volume. All of these works, but in particular the play and the latest novel, prove their author a man gifted with a strikingly original vision, a keen sense of beauty, an equally keen sense of verbal values, and a sincerity, which makes him see and tell the truth where even the most audacious used to falter in the past. Flaubert himself was hardly less free from the old curse of sentimentalizing compromise—and yet this young writer knows how to tell the utmost truth with a daintiness that puts offence out of the question.

He was born twenty-seven years ago in a coal-miner's cottage at the little colliery town of Eastwood, on the border line between Nottingham and Derbyshire. The home was poor, yet not without certain aspirations and refinements. It was the mother who held it together, who saved it from a still more abject poverty, and who filled it with a spirit that made it possible for the boy—her youngest son—to keep alive the gifts still slumbering undiscovered within him. In "Sons and Lovers" we get the picture of just such a home and such a mother, and it seems safe to conclude that the novel in question is in many ways autobiographical.

At the age of twelve the boy won a County Council Scholarship—and came near having to give it up because he found that the fifteen pounds a year conferred by it would barely pay the fees at the Nottingham High School and the railway fares to that city. But his mother's determination and self-sacrifice carried him safely past the seemingly impossible. At sixteen he left school to earn his living as a clerk. Illness saved him from that uncongenial fate. Instead he became a teacher, having charge of a class of colliers' boys in one of those rough, old-fashioned British schools where all the classes used to fight against one another within a single large room. Before the classes convened in the morning, at eight o'clock, he himself received instruction from the head-master; at night he continued his studies in the little kitchen at home, where all the rest of the family were wont to fore gather. At nineteen he found himself, to his own and everybody else's astonishment, the first on the list of the King's Scholarship examination, and from that on he was, to use his own words, "considered clever." But the lack of twenty pounds needed in a lump sum to pay the entrance fee at the training college for teachers made it impossible for him to make use of the gained advantage.

Two years later, however, he succeeded in matriculating at the Nottingham Day Training College. But by that time the creative impulse had already begun to stir within him, aided by an early love affair, and so he wrote poems and worked at his first novel when he should have been studying. At twenty-three he left the college and went to London to teach school, to study French and German, and to write. At twenty-five he had his first novel—"The White Peacock"—accepted and printed. But the death of his mother only a month before that event made his victory seem useless and joyless. After the publication of his second novel, in 1912, he became able to give up teaching in order to devote himself entirely to his art. Out of that leisure—and perhaps also out of the sorrow caused by the loss of her who until then had been the mainspring of his life—came "Sons and Lovers" and "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd."

What has struck me most deeply in these two works—apart from their splendid craftsmanship—is their psychological penetration, so closely paralleling the most recent conclusions of the world's leading thinkers. In the hands of this writer, barely emerged out of obscurity, sex becomes almost a new thing. Not only the relationship between man and woman, but also that of mother and child is laid bare in a new light which startles—or even shocks—but which nevertheless compels acceptance. One might think that Mr. Lawrence had carefully studied and employed the very latest theories of such men as Freud, for instance, and yet it is a pretty safe bet that most of his studies have been carried on in his own soul, within his own memories. Thus it is proved once more that what the student gropingly reasons out for abstract formulation is flashed upon the poetic dreamer in terms of living reality.

Another thing that has impressed me is the aspect in which Mr. Lawrence presents the home life of those hitherto submerged classes which are now at last reaching out for a full share in the general social and cultural inheritance. He writes of that life, not only with a knowledge obtained at first hand, but with a sympathy that scorns any apologetic phrase-mongering. Having read him, one feels inclined to conclude, in spite of all conflicting testimony, that the slum is not a location, but a state of mind, and that everywhere, on all levels, the individual soul may create around itself an atmosphere expressive of its ideals. A book like "Sons and Lovers" ought to go far to prove that most of the qualities held peculiar to the best portion of the "ruling classes" are nothing but the typical marks of normal humanity.

Edwin Björkman.

THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD

PERSONS

Mrs. Holroyd
Holroyd
Blackmore
Jack Holroyd
Minnie Holroyd
Grandmother
Rigley
Clara
Laura
Manager
Two Miners

THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD

THE FIRST ACT

SCENE I

The kitchen of a miner's small cottage. On the left is the fireplace, with a deep, full red fire. At the back is a white-curtained window, and beside it the outer door of the room. On the right, two white wooden stairs intrude into the kitchen below the closed stair foot door. On the left, another door.

The room is furnished with a chintz-backed sofa under the window, a glass-knobbed painted dresser on the right, and in the centre, toward the fire, a table with a red and blue check tablecloth. On one side of the hearth is a wooden rocking-chair, on the other an armchair of round staves. An unlighted copper-shaded lamp hangs from the raftered ceiling. It is dark twilight, with the room full of warm fireglow. A woman enters from the outer door. As she leaves the door open behind her, the colliery rail can be seen not far from the threshold, and, away back, the headstocks of a pit.

The woman is tall and voluptuously built. She carries a basket heaped full of washing, which she has just taken from the clotheslines outside. Setting down the basket heavily, she feels among the clothes. She lifts out a white heap of sheets and other linen, setting it on the table; then she takes a woollen shirt in her hand.

MRS. HOLROYD (aloud, to herself)

You know they're not dry even now, though it's been as fine as it has. (She spreads the shirt on the back of her rocking-chair, which she turns to the fire)

VOICE (calling from outside)

Well, have you got them dry?

[Mrs. Holroyd starts up, turns and flings her hand in the direction of the open door, where appears a man in blue overalls, swarfed and greased. He carries a dinner-basket.

MRS. HOLROYD

You—you—I don't know what to call you! The idea of shouting at me like that—like the Evil One out of the darkness!

BLACKMORE

I ought to have remembered your tender nerves. Shall I come in?

MRS. HOLROYD

No—not for your impudence. But you're late, aren't you?

BLACKMORE

It's only just gone six. We electricians, you know, we're the gentlemen on a mine: ours is gentlemen's work. But I'll bet Charles Holroyd was home before four.

MRS. HOLROYD (bitterly)

Ay, and gone again before five.

BLACKMORE

But mine's a lad's job, and I do nothing!—Where's he gone?

MRS. HOLROYD (contemptuously)

Dunno! He'd got a game on somewhere—toffed himself up to the nines, and skedaddled off as brisk as a turkey-cock. (She smirks in front of the mirror hanging on the chimney-piece, in imitation of a man brushing his hair and moustache and admiring himself)

BLACKMORE

Though turkey-cocks aren't brisk as a rule. Children playing?

MRS. HOLROYD (recovering herself, coldly)

Yes. And they ought to be in. (She continues placing the flannel garments before the fire, on the fender and on chair-backs, till the stove is hedged in with a steaming fence; then she takes a sheet in a bundle from the table, and going up to Blackmore, who stands watching her, says) Here, take hold, and help me fold it.

BLACKMORE

I shall swarf it up.

MRS. HOLROYD (snatching back the sheet)

Oh, you're as tiresome as everybody else.

BLACKMORE (putting down his basket and moving to door on right)

Well, I can soon wash my hands.

MRS. HOLROYD (ceasing to flap and fold pillowcases)

That roller-towel's ever so dirty. I'll get you another. (She goes to a drawer in the dresser, and then back toward the scullery, where is a sound of water)

BLACKMORE

Why, bless my life, I'm a lot dirtier than the towel. I don't want another.

MRS. HOLROYD (going into the scullery)

Here you are.

BLACKMORE (softly, now she is near him)

Why did you trouble now? Pride, you know, pride, nothing else.

MRS. HOLROYD (also playful)

It's nothing but decency.

BLACKMORE (softly)

Pride, pride, pride!

[A child of eight suddenly appears in the doorway.

JACK

Oo, how dark!

MRS. HOLROYD (hurrying agitated into the kitchen)

Why, where have you been—what have you been doing now?

JACK (surprised)

Why—I've only been out to play.

MRS. HOLROYD (still sharply)

And where's Minnie?

[A little girl of six appears by the door.

MINNIE

I'm here, mam, and what do you think—?

MRS. HOLROYD (softening, as she recovers equanimity)

Well, and what should I think?

JACK

Oh, yes, mam—you know my father—?

MRS. HOLROYD (ironically)

I should hope so.

MINNIE

We saw him dancing, mam, with a paper bonnet.

MRS. HOLROYD

What—?

JACK

There's some women at "New Inn," what's come from Nottingham—

MINNIE

An' he's dancin' with the pink one.

JACK

Shut up our Minnie. An' they've got paper bonnets on—

MINNIE

All colors, mam!

JACK (getting angry)

Shut up our Minnie! An' my dad's dancing with her.

MINNIE

With the pink-bonnet one, mam.

JACK

Up in the club-room over the bar.

MINNIE

An' she's a lot littler than him, mam.

JACK (piteously)

Shut up our Minnie—An' you can see 'em go past the window, 'cause there isn't no curtains up, an' my father's got the pink bonnet one—

MINNIE

An' there's a piano, mam—

JACK

An' lots of folks outside watchin', lookin' at my dad! He can dance, can't he, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD (she has been lighting the lamp, and holds the lamp-glass)

And who else is there?

MINNIE

Some more men—an' all the women with paper bonnets on.

JACK

There's about ten, I should think, an' they say they came in a brake from Nottingham.

[Mrs. Holroyd, trying to replace the lamp-glass over the flame, lets it drop on the floor with a smash.

JACK

There, now—now we 'll have to have a candle.

BLACKMORE (appearing in the scullery doorway with the towel) What's that—the lamp-glass?

JACK

I never knowed Mr. Blackmore was here.

BLACKMORE (to Mrs. Holroyd)

Have you got another?

MRS. HOLROYD

No. (There is silence for a moment) We can manage with a candle for to-night.

BLACKMORE (stepping forward and blowing out the smoky flame) I'll see if I can't get you one from the pit. I shan't be a minute.

MRS. HOLROYD

Don't—don't bother—I don't want you to.

[He, however, unscrews the burner and goes.

MINNIE

Did Mr. Blackmore come for tea, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

No; he's had no tea.

JACK

I bet he's hungry. Can I have some bread?

MRS. HOLROYD (she stands a lighted candle on the table) Yes, and you can get your boots off to go to bed.

JACK

It's not seven o'clock yet.

MRS. HOLROYD

It doesn't matter.

MINNIE

What do they wear paper bonnets for, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

Because they're brazen hussies.

JACK

I saw them having a glass of beer.

MRS. HOLROYD

A nice crew!

JACK

They say they are old pals of Mrs. Meakins. You could hear her screaming o' laughin', an' my dad says: "He-ah, missis—here—a dog's-nose for the Dachess—hopin' it'll smell samthing"—What's a dog's-nose?

MRS. HOLROYD (giving him a piece of bread and butter)

Don't ask me, child. How should I know?

MINNIE

Would she eat it, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

Eat what?

MINNIE

Her in the pink bonnet—eat the dog's nose?

MRS. HOLROYD

No, of course not. How should I know what a dog's-nose is?

JACK

I bet he'll never go to work to-morrow, mother—will he?

MRS. HOLROYD

Goodness knows. I'm sick of it—disgracing me. There'll be the whole place cackling this now. They've no sooner finished about him getting taken up for fighting than they begin on this. But I'll put a stop to it some road or other. It's not going on, if I know it: it isn't.

[She stops, hearing footsteps, and Blackmore enters.

BLACKMORE

Here we are then—got one all right.

MINNIE

Did they give it you, Mr. Blackmore?

BLACKMORE

No, I took it.

[He screws on the burner and proceeds to light the lamp. He is a tall, slender, mobile man of twenty-seven, brown-haired, dressed in blue overalls. Jack Holroyd is a big, dark, ruddy, lusty lad. Minnie is also big, but fair.

MINNIE

What do you wear blue trousers for, Mr. Blackmore?

BLACKMORE

They're to keep my other trousers from getting greasy.

MINNIE

Why don't you wear pit-breeches, like dad's?

JACK

'Cause he's a 'lectrician. Could you make me a little injun what would make electric light?

BLACKMORE

I will, some day.

JACK

When?

MINNIE

Why don't you come an' live here?

BLACKMORE (looking swiftly at Mrs. Holroyd)

Nay, you've got your own dad to live here.

MINNIE (plaintively)

Well, you could come as well. Dad shouts when we've gone to bed, an' thumps the table. He wouldn't if you was here.

JACK

He dursn't—

MRS. HOLROYD

Be quiet now, be quiet. Here, Mr. Blackmore. (She again gives him the sheet to fold)

BLACKMORE

Your hands are cold.

MRS. HOLROYD

Are they?—I didn't know.

[Blackmore puts his hand on hers.

MRS. HOLROYD (confusedly, looking aside)

You must want your tea.

BLACKMORE

I'm in no hurry.

MRS. HOLROYD

Selvidge to selvidge. You'll be quite a domestic man, if you go on.

BLACKMORE

Ay.

[They fold the two sheets.

BLACKMORE

They are white, your sheets!

MRS. HOLROYD

But look at the smuts on them—look! This vile hole! I'd never have come to live here, in all the thick of the pit-grime, and lonely, if it hadn't been for him, so that he shouldn't call in a public-house on his road home from work. And now he slinks past on the other side of the railway, and goes down to the New Inn instead of coming in for his dinner. I might as well have stopped in Bestwood.

BLACKMORE

Though I rather like this little place, standing by itself.

MRS. HOLROYD

Jack, can you go and take the stockings in for me? They're on the line just below the pigsty. The prop's near the apple-tree—mind it. Minnie, you take the peg-basket.

MINNIE

Will there be any rats, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

Rats—no. They'll be frightened when they hear you, if there are.

[The children go out.

BLACKMORE

Poor little beggars!

MRS. HOLROYD

Do you know, this place is fairly alive with rats. They run up that dirty vine in front of the house—I'm always at him to cut it down—and you can hear them at night overhead like a regiment of soldiers tramping. Really, you know, I hate them.

BLACKMORE

Well—a rat is a nasty thing!

MRS. HOLROYD

But I s'll get used to them. I'd give anything to be out of this place.

BLACKMORE

It is rotten, when you're tied to a life you don't like. But I should miss it if you weren't here. When I'm coming down the line to the pit in the morning—it's nearly dark at seven now—I watch the firelight in here—Sometimes I put my hand on the wall outside where the chimney runs up to feel it warm—There isn't much in Bestwood, is there?

MRS. HOLROYD

There's less than nothing if you can't be like the rest of them—as common as they're 'made.

BLACKMORE

It's a fact—particularly for a woman—But this place is cosy—God love me, I'm sick of lodgings.

MRS. HOLROYD

You'll have to get married—I'm sure there are plenty of nice girls about.

BLACKMORE

Are there? I never see 'em. (He laughs)

MRS. HOLROYD

Oh, come, you can't say that.

BLACKMORE

I've not seen a single girl—an unmarried girl—that I should want for more than a fortnight—not one.

MRS. HOLROYD

Perhaps you're very particular.

[She puts her two palms on the table and leans back. He draws near to her, dropping his head.

BLACKMORE

Look here!

[He has put his hand on the table near hers.

MRS. HOLROYD

Yes, I know you've got nice hands—but you needn't be vain of them.

BLACKMORE

No—it's not that—But don't they seem—(he glances swiftly at her; she turns her head aside; he laughs nervously)—they sort of go well with one another. (He laughs again)

MRS. HOLROYD

They do, rather—

[They stand still, near one another, with bent heads, for a moment. Suddenly she starts up and draws her hand away.

BLACKMORE

Why—what is it?

[She does not answer. The children come in—Jack with an armful of stockings, Minnie with the basket of pegs.

JACK

I believe it's freezing, mother.

MINNIE

Mr. Blackmore, could you shoot a rat an' hit it?

BLACKMORE (laughing)

Shoot the lot of 'em, like a wink.

MRS. HOLROYD

But you've had no tea. What an awful shame to keep you here!

BLACKMORE

Nay, I don't care. It never bothers me.

MRS. HOLROYD

Then you're different from most men.

BLACKMORE

All men aren't alike, you know.

MRS. HOLROYD

But do go and get some tea.

MINNIE (plaintively)

Can't you stop, Mr. Blackmore?

BLACKMORE

Why, Minnie?

MINNIE

So's we're not frightened. Yes, do. Will you?

BLACKMORE

Frightened of what?

MINNIE

'Cause there's noises, an' rats,—an' perhaps dad'll come home and shout.

BLACKMORE

But he'd shout more if I was here.

JACK

He doesn't when my uncle John's here. So you stop, an' perhaps he won't.

BLACKMORE

Don't you like him to shout when you're in bed?

[They do not answer, but look seriously at him.

CURTAIN

SCENE II

The same scene, two hours later. The clothes are folded in little piles on the table and the sofa. Mrs. Holroyd is folding a thick flannel undervest or singlet which her husband wears in the pit and which has just dried on the fender.

MRS. HOLROYD (to herself)

Now thank goodness they're all dried. It's only nine o'clock, so he won't be in for another two hours, the nuisance. (She sits on the sofa, letting her arms hang down in dejection. After a minute or two she jumps up, to begin rudely dropping the piles of washed clothes in the basket) I don't care, I'm not going to let him have it all his way—no! (She weeps a little, fiercely, drying her eyes on the edge of her white apron) Why should I put up with it all?—He can do what he likes. But I don't care, no, I don't—

[She flings down the full clothes-basket, sits suddenly in the rocking-chair, and weeps. There is the sound of coarse, bursting laughter, in vain subdued, and a man's deep guffaws. Footsteps draw near. Suddenly the door opens, and a little, plump, pretty woman of thirty, in a close-fitting dress and a giddy, frilled bonnet of pink paper, stands perkily in the doorway. Mrs. Holroyd springs up: her small, sensitive nose is inflamed with weeping, her eyes are wet and flashing. She fronts the other woman.

CLARA (with a pert smile and a jerk of the head)

Good evenin'!

MRS. HOLROYD

What do you want?

CLARA (she has a Yorkshire accent)

Oh, we've not come beggin'—this is a visit.

[She stuffs her handkerchief in front of her mouth in a little snorting burst of laughter. There is the sound of another woman behind going off into uncontrollable laughter, while a man guffaws.

MRS. HOLROYD (after a moment of impotence—tragically)

What—!

CLARA (faltering slightly, affecting a polite tone)

We thought we'd just call—

[She stuffs her handkerchief in front of her explosive laughter—the other woman shrieks again, beginning high, and running down the scale.

MRS. HOLROYD

What do you mean?—What do you want here?

CLARA (she bites her lip)

We don't want anything, thanks. We've just called. (She begins to laugh again—so does the other) Well, I don't think much of the manners in this part of the country. (She takes a few hesitating steps into the kitchen)

MRS. HOLROYD (trying to shut the door upon her)

No, you are not coming in.

CLARA (preventing her closing the door)

Dear me, what a to-do! (She struggles with the door. The other woman comes up to help; a man is seen in the background)

LAURA

My word, aren't we good enough to come in?

[Mrs. Holroyd, finding herself confronted by what seems to her excitement a crowd, releases the door and draws back a little—almost in tears of anger.

MRS. HOLROYD

You have no business here. What do you want?

CLARA (putting her bonnet straight and entering in brisk defiance) I tell you we've only come to see you. (She looks round the kitchen, then makes a gesture toward the armchair) Can I sit here? (She plumps herself down) Rest for the weary.

[A woman and a man have followed her into the room. Laura is highly colored, stout, some forty years old, wears a blue paper bonnet, and looks like the landlady of a public-house. Both she and Clara wear much jewellery. Laura is well dressed in a blue cloth dress. Holroyd is a big blond man. His cap is pushed back, and he looks rather tipsy and lawless. He has a heavy blond moustache. His jacket and trousers are black, his vest gray, and he wears a turn down collar with dark bow.

LAURA (sitting down in a chair on right, her hand on her bosom, panting) I've laughed till I feel fair bad.

CLARA

'Aven't you got a drop of nothink to offer us, mester? Come, you are slow. I should 'ave thought a gentleman like you would have been out with the glasses afore we could have got breaths to ask you.

HOLROYD (clumsily)

I dunna believe there's owt in th' 'ouse but a bottle of stout.

CLARA (putting her hand on her stomach)

It feels as if th' kettle's going to boil over.

[She stuffs her handkerchief in front of her mouth, throws back her head, and snorts with laughter, having now regained her confidence. Laura laughs in the last state of exhaustion, her hand on her breast.

HOLROYD

Shall ta ha'e it then?

CLARA

What do you say, Laura—are you having a drop?

LAURA (submissively, and naturally tongue-tied)

Well—I don't mind—I will if you do.

CLARA (recklessly)

I think we'll 'ave a drop, Charlie, an' risk it. It'll 'appen hold the rest down.

[There is a moment of silence, while Holroyd goes into the scullery. Clara surveys the room and the dramatic pose of Mrs. Holroyd curiously.

HOLROYD (suddenly)

Heh! What, come 'ere—!

[There is a smash of pots, and a rat careers out of the scullery. Laura, the first to see it, utters a scream, but is fastened to her chair, unable to move.

CLARA (jumps up to the table, crying)

It's a rat—Oh, save us! (She scrambles up, banging her head on the lamp, which swings violently)

MRS. HOLROYD (who, with a little shriek, jerks her legs up on to the sofa, where she was stiffly reclining, now cries in despairing falsetto, stretching forth her arms) The lamp—mind, the lamp!

[Clara steadies the lamp, and holds her hand to her head.

HOLROYD (coming from the scullery, a bottle of stout in his hand) Where is he?

CLARA

I believe he's gone under the sofa. My, an' he's a thumper, if you like, as big as a rabbit.

[Holroyd advances cautiously toward the sofa.

LAURA (springing suddenly into life)

Hi, hi, let me go—let me go—Don't touch him—Where is he? (She flees and scrambles onto Clara's armchair, catching hold of the latter's skirts)

CLARA

Hang off—do you want to have a body down—Mind, I tell you.

MRS. HOLROYD (bunched up on the sofa, with crossed hands holding her arms, fascinated, watches her husband as he approaches to stoop and attack the rat; she suddenly screams) Don't, he'll fly at you!

HOLROYD

He'll not get a chance.

MRS. HOLROYD

He will, he will—and they're poisonous! (She ends on a very high note. Leaning forward on the sofa as far as she dares, she stretches out her arms to keep back her husband, who is about to kneel and search under the sofa for the rat)

HOLROYD

Come off, I canna see him.

MRS. HOLROYD

I won't let you; he'll fly at you.

HOLROYD

I'll settle him—

MRS. HOLROYD

Open the door and let him go.

HOLROYD

I shonna. I'll settle him. Shut thy claver. He'll non come anigh thee.

[He kneels down and begins to creep to the sofa. With a great bound, Mrs. Holroyd flies to the door and flings it open. Then she rushes back to the couch.

CLARA

There he goes!

HOLROYD (simultaneously)

Hi!—Ussza! (He flings the bottle of stout out of the door)

LAURA (piteously)

Shut the door, do.

[Holroyd rises, dusting his trousers' knees, and closes the door. Laura heavily descends and drops in the chair.

CLARA

Here, come an' help us down, Charlie. Look at her; she's going off. (Though Laura is still purple red, she sinks back in the chair. Holroyd goes to the table. Clara places her hands on his shoulders and jumps lightly down. Then she pushes Holroyd with her elbow) Look sharp, get a glass of water.

[She unfastens Laura's collar and pulls off the paper bonnet. Mrs. Holroyd sits up, straightens her clothing, and tries to look cold and contemptuous. Holroyd brings a cup of water. Clara sprinkles her friend's face. Laura sighs and sighs again very deeply, then draws herself up painfully.

CLARA (tenderly)

Do you feel any better—shall you have a drink of water? (Laura mournfully shakes her head; Clara turns sharply to Holroyd) She'll 'ave a drop o' something. (Holroyd goes out. Clara meanwhile fans her friend with a handkerchief. Holroyd brings stout. She pours out the stout, smells the glass, smells the bottle—then finally the cork) Eh, mester, it's all of a work—it's had a foisty cork.

[At that instant the stair foot door opens slowly, revealing the children—the girl peering over the boy's shoulder—both in white nightgowns. Everybody starts. Laura gives a little cry, presses her hand on her bosom, and sinks back, gasping.

CLARA (appealing and anxious, to Mrs. Holroyd)

You don't 'appen to 'ave a drop of brandy for her, do you, missis?

[Mrs. Holroyd rises coldly without replying, and goes to the stair foot door where the children stand.

MRS. HOLROYD (sternly, to the children)

Go to bed!

JACK

What's a matter, mother?

MRS. HOLROYD

Never you mind, go to bed!

CLARA (appealingly)

Be quick, missis.

[Mrs. Holroyd, glancing round, sees Laura going purple, and runs past the children upstairs. The boy and girl sit on the lowest stair. Their father goes out of the house, shamefaced. Mrs. Holroyd runs downstairs with a little brandy in a large bottle.

CLARA

Thanks, awfully. (To Laura) Come on, try an' drink a drop, there's a dear.

[They administer brandy to Laura. The children sit watching, open-eyed. The girl stands up to look.

MINNIE (whispering)

I believe it's blue bonnet.

JACK (whispering)

It isn't—she's in a fit.

MINNIE (whispering)

Well, look under th' table—(Jack peers under)—there's 'er bonnet. (Jack creeps forward) Come back, our Jack.

JACK (returns with the bonnet)

It's all made of paper.

MINNIE

Let's have a look—it's stuck together, not sewed.

[She tries it on. Holroyd enters—he looks at the child.

MRS. HOLROYD (sharply, glancing round)

Take that off!

[Minnie hurriedly takes the bonnet from her head. Her father snatches it from her and puts it on the fire.

CLARA

There, you're coming round now, love.

[Mrs. Holroyd turns away. She sees Holroyd's eyes on the brandy-bottle, and immediately removes it, corking it up.

MRS. HOLROYD (to Clara)

You will not need this any more?

CLARA

No, thanks. I'm very much obliged.

MRS. HOLROYD (does not unbend, but speaks coldly to the children) Come, this is no place for you—come back to bed.

MINNIE

No, mam, I don't want to.

MRS. HOLROYD (contralto)

Come along!

MINNIE

I'm frightened, mam.

MRS. HOLROYD

Frightened, what of?

MINNIE

Oo, there was a row.

MRS. HOLROYD (taking Minnie in her arms)

Did they frighten you, my pet? (She kisses her)

JACK (in a high whisper)

Mother, it's pink bonnet and blue bonnet, what was dancing.

MINNIE (whimpering)

I don't want to go to bed, mam, I'm frightened.

CLARA (who has pulled off her pink bonnet and revealed a jug-handle coiffure) We're going now, duckie—you're not frightened of us, are you?

[Mrs. Holroyd takes the girl away before she can answer. Jack lingers behind.

HOLROYD

Now then, get off after your mother.

JACK (taking no notice of his father)

I say, what's a dog's-nose?

[Clara ups with her handkerchief and Laura responds with a faint giggle.

HOLROYD

Go thy ways upstairs.

CLARA

It's only a small whiskey with a spoonful of beer in it, my duck.

JACK

Oh!

CLARA

Come here, my duck, come on.

[Jack, curious, advances.

CLARA

You'll tell your mother we didn't mean no harm, won't you?

JACK (touching her earrings)

What are they made of?

CLARA

They're only earrings. Don't you like them?

JACK

Um! (He stands surveying her curiously. Then he touches a bracelet made of many little mosaic brooches) This is pretty, isn't it?

CLARA (pleased)

Do you like it?

[She takes it off. Suddenly Mrs. Holroyd is heard calling, "Jack, Jack!" Clara starts.

HOLROYD

Now then, get off!

CLARA (as Jack is reluctantly going)

Kiss me good-night, duckie, an' give this to your sister, shall you?

[She hands Jack the mosaic bracelet. He takes it doubtfully. She kisses him. Holroyd watches in silence.

LAURA (suddenly, pathetically)

Aren't you going to give me a kiss, an' all?

[Jack yields her his cheek, then goes.

CLARA (to Holroyd)

Aren't they nice children?

HOLROYD

Ay.

CLARA (briskly)

Oh, dear, you're very short, all of a sudden. Don't answer if it hurts you.

LAURA

My, isn't he different?

HOLROYD (laughing forcedly)

I'm no different.

CLARA

Yes, you are. You shouldn't 'ave brought us if you was going to turn funny over it.

HOLROYD

I'm not funny.

CLARA

No, you're not. (She begins to laugh. Laura joins in in spite of herself) You're about as solemn as a roast potato. (She flings up her hands, claps them down on her knees, and sways up and down as she laughs, Laura joining in, hand on breast) Are you ready to be mashed? (She goes off again—then suddenly wipes the laughter off her mouth and is solemn) But look 'ere, this'll never do. Now I'm going to be quiet. (She prims herself)

HOLROYD

Tha'd 'appen better.

CLARA

Oh, indeed! You think I've got to pull a mug to look decent? You'd have to pull a big un, at that rate.

[She bubbles off, uncontrollably—shaking herself in exasperation meanwhile. Laura joins in. Holroyd leans over close to her.

HOLROYD

Tha's got plenty o' fizz in thee, seemly.

CLARA (putting her hand on his face and pushing it aside, but leaving her hand over his cheek and mouth like a caress) Don't, you've been drinking. (She begins to laugh)

HOLROYD

Should we be goin' then?

CLARA

Where do you want to take us?

HOLROYD

Oh—you please yourself o' that! Come on wi' me.

CLARA (sitting up prim)

Oh, indeed!

HOLROYD (catching hold of her)

Come on, let's be movin'—(he glances apprehensively at the stairs)

CLARA

What's your hurry?

HOLROYD (persuasively)

Yi, come on wi' thee.

CLARA

I don't think. (She goes off, uncontrollably)

HOLROYD (sitting on the table, just above her)

What's use o' sittin' 'ere?

CLARA

I'm very comfy: I thank thee.

HOLROYD

Tha 'rt a baffling little 'ussy.

CLARA (running her hand along his thigh)

Aren't you havin' nothing, my dear? (Offers him her glass)

HOLROYD (getting down from the table and putting his hand forcibly on her shoulder) No. Come on, let's shift.

CLARA (struggling)

Hands off!

[She fetches him a sharp slap across the face. Mrs. Holroyd is heard coming downstairs. Clara, released, sits down, smoothing herself. Holroyd looks evil. He goes out to the door.

CLARA (to Mrs. Holroyd, penitently)

I don't know what you think of us, I'm sure.

MRS. HOLROYD

I think nothing at all.

CLARA (bubbling)

So you fix your thoughts elsewhere, do you? (Suddenly changing to seriousness) No, but I have been awful to-night.

MRS. HOLROYD (contralto, emphatic)

I don't want to know anything about you. I shall be glad when you'll go.

CLARA

Turning-out time, Laura.

LAURA (turtling)

I'm sorry, I'm sure.

CLARA

Never mind. But as true as I'm here, missis, I should never ha' come if I'd thought. But I had a drop—it all started with your husband sayin' he wasn't a married man.

LAURA (laughing and wiping her eyes)

I've never knowed her to go off like it—it's after the time she's had.

CLARA

You know, my husband was a brute to me—an' I was in bed three month after he died. He was a brute, he was. This is the first time I've been out; it's a'most the first laugh I've had for a year.

LAURA

It's true, what she says. We thought she'd go out of 'er mind. She never spoke a word for a fortnight.

CLARA

Though he's only been dead for two months, he was a brute to me. I was as nice a young girl as you could wish when I married him and went to the Fleece Inn—I was.

LAURA

Killed hisself drinking. An' she's that excitable, she is. We s'll 'ave an awful time with 'er to-morrow, I know.

MRS. HOLROYD (coldly)

I don't know why I should hear all this.

CLARA

I know I must 'ave seemed awful. An' them children—aren't they nice little things, Laura?

LAURA

They are that.

HOLROYD (entering from the door)

Hanna you about done theer?

CLARA

My word, if this is the way you treat a lady when she comes to see you. (She rises)

HOLROYD

I'll see you down th' line.

CLARA

You're not coming a stride with us.

LAURA

We've got no hat, neither of us.

CLARA

We've got our own hair on our heads, at any rate. (Drawing herself up suddenly in front of Mrs. Holroyd) An' I've been educated at a boarding school as good as anybody. I can behave myself either in the drawing-room or in the kitchen as is fitting and proper. But if you'd buried a husband like mine, you wouldn't feel you'd much left to be proud of—an' you might go off occasionally.

MRS. HOLROYD

I don't want to hear you.

CLARA (bobbing a curtsy)

Sorry I spoke.

[She goes out stiffly, followed by Laura.

HOLROYD (going forward)

You mun mind th' points down th' line.

CLARA'S VOICE

I thank thee, Charlie—mind thy own points.

[He hesitates at the door—returns and sits down. There is silence in the room. Holroyd sits with his chin in his hand. Mrs. Holroyd listens. The footsteps and voices of the two women die out. Then she closes the door. Holroyd begins to unlace his boots.

HOLROYD (ashamed yet defiant, withal anxious to apologize) Wheer's my slippers?

[Mrs. Holroyd sits on the sofa with face averted and does not answer.

HOLROYD

Dost hear? (He pulls off his boots, noisily, and begins to hunt under the sofa) I canna find the things. (No answer) Humph!—then I'll do be 'out 'em. (He stumps about in his stocking feet; going into the scullery, he brings out the loaf of bread; he returns into the scullery) Wheer's th' cheese? (No answer—suddenly) God blast it! (He hobbles into the kitchen) I've trod on that brokken basin, an' cut my foot open. (Mrs. Holroyd refuses to take any notice. He sits down and looks at his sole—pulls off his stocking and looks again) It's lamed me for life. (Mrs. Holroyd glances at the wound) Are 'na ter goin' ter get me öwt for it?

MRS. HOLROYD

Psh!

HOLROYD

Oh, a' right then. (He hops to the dresser, opens a drawer, and pulls out a white rag; he is about to tear it)

MRS. HOLROYD (snatching it from him)

Don't tear that!

HOLROYD (shouting)

Then what the deuce am I to do? (Mrs. Holroyd sits stonily) Oh, a' right then! (He hops back to his chair, sits down, and begins to pull on his stocking) A' right then—a' right then. (In a fever of rage he begins pulling on his boots) I'll go where I can find a bit o' rag.

MRS. HOLROYD

Yes, that's what you want! All you want is an excuse to be off again—"a bit of rag"!

HOLROYD (shouting)

An' what man'd want to stop in wi' a woman sittin' as fow as a jackass, an' canna get a word from 'er edgeways.

MRS. HOLROYD

Don't expect me to speak to you after to-night's show. How dare you bring them to my house, how dare you?

HOLROYD

They've non hurt your house, have they?

MRS. HOLROYD

I wonder you dare to cross the doorstep.

HOLROYD

I s'll do what the deuce I like. They're as good as you are.

MRS. HOLROYD (stands speechless, staring at him; then low) Don't you come near me again—

HOLROYD (suddenly shouting, to get his courage up)

She's as good as you are, every bit of it.

MRS. HOLROYD (blazing)

Whatever I was and whatever I may be, don't you ever come near me again.

HOLROYD

What! I'll show thee. What's the hurt to you if a woman comes to the house? They're women as good as yourself, every whit of it.

MRS. HOLROYD

Say no more. Go with them then, and don't come back.

HOLROYD

What! Yi, I will go, an' you s'll see. What! You think you're something, since your uncle left you that money, an' Blackymore puttin' you up to it. I can see your little game. I'm not as daft as you imagine. I'm no fool, I tell you.

MRS. HOLROYD

No, you're not. You're a drunken beast, that's all you are.

HOLROYD

What, what—I'm what? I'll show you who's gaffer, though. (He threatens her)

MRS. HOLROYD (between her teeth)

No, it's not going on. If you won't go, I will.

HOLROYD

Go then, for you've always been too big for your shoes, in my house—

MRS. HOLROYD

Yes—I ought never to have looked at you. Only you showed a fair face then.

HOLROYD

What! What! We'll see who's master i' this house. I tell you, I'm goin' to put a stop to it. (He brings his fist dawn on the table with a bang) It's going to stop. (He bangs the table again) I've put up with it long enough. Do you think I'm a dog in the house, an' not a man, do you—

MRS. HOLROYD

A dog would be better.

HOLROYD

Oh! Oh! Then we'll see. We'll see who's the dog and who isna. We're goin' to see. (He bangs the table)

MRS. HOLROYD

Stop thumping that table! You've wakened those children once, you and your trollops.

HOLROYD

I shall do what the deuce I like!

MRS. HOLROYD

No more, you won't, no more. I've stood this long enough. Now I'm going. As for you—you've got a red face where she slapped you. Now go to her.

HOLROYD

What? What?

MRS. HOLROYD

For I'm sick of the sights and sounds of you.

HOLROYD (bitterly)

By God, an' I've known it a long time.

MRS. HOLROYD

You have, and it's true.

HOLROYD

An' I know who it is th'rt hankerin' after.

MRS. HOLROYD

I only want to be rid of you.

HOLROYD

I know it mighty well. But I know him!

[Mrs. Holroyd, sinking down on the sofa, suddenly begins to sob half-hysterically. Holroyd watches her. As suddenly, she dries her eyes.

MRS. HOLROYD

Do you think I care about what you say? (Suddenly) Oh, I've had enough. I've tried, I've tried for years, for the children's sakes. Now I've had enough of your shame and disgrace.

HOLROYD

Oh, indeed!

MRS. HOLROYD (her voice is dull and inflexible)

I've had enough. Go out again after those trollops—leave me alone. I've had enough. (Holroyd stands looking at her) Go, I mean it, go out again. And if you never come back again, I'm glad. I've had enough. (She keeps her face averted, will not look at him, her attitude expressing thorough weariness)

HOLROYD

All right then!

[He hobbles, in unlaced boots, to the door. Then he turns to look at her. She turns herself still farther away, so that her back is toward him. He goes.

CURTAIN

THE SECOND ACT

The scene is the same, two hours later. The cottage is in darkness, save for the firelight. On the table is spread a newspaper. A cup and saucer, a plate, a piece of bacon in the frying tin are on the newspaper ready for the miner's breakfast. Mrs. Holroyd has gone to bed. There is a noise of heavy stumbling down the three steps outside.

BLACKMORE'S VOICE

Steady, now, steady. It's all in darkness. Missis!—Has she gone to bed?

[He tries the latch—shakes the door.

HOLROYD'S VOICE (he is drunk)

Her's locked me out. Let me smash that bloody door in. Come out—come out—ussza! (He strikes a heavy blow on the door. There is a scuffle)

BLACKMORE'S VOICE

Hold on a bit—what're you doing?

HOLROYD'S VOICE

I'm smashing that blasted door in.

MRS. HOLROYD (appearing and suddenly drawing the bolts, flinging the door open) What do you think you're doing?

HOLROYD (lurching into the room, snarling)

What? What? Tha thought tha'd play thy monkey tricks on me, did ter? (Shouting) But I'm going to show thee. (He lurches at her threateningly; she recoils)

BLACKMORE (seizing him by the arm)

Here, here,—! Come and sit down and be quiet.

HOLROYD (snarling at him)

What?—What? An' what's thäigh got ter do wi' it? (Shouting) What's thäigh got ter do wi' it?

BLACKMORE

Nothing—nothing; but it's getting late, and you want your supper.

HOLROYD (shouting)

I want nöwt. I'm allowed nöwt in this 'ouse. (Shouting louder) 'Er begrudges me ivry morsel I ha'e.

MRS. HOLROYD

Oh, what a story!

HOLROYD (shouting)

It's the truth, an' you know it.

BLACKMORE (conciliatory)

You'll rouse the children. You'll rouse the children, at this hour.

HOLROYD (suddenly quiet)

Not me—not if I know it. I shan't disturb 'em—bless 'em.

[He staggers to his armchair and sits heavily.

BLACKMORE

Shall I light the lamp?

MRS. HOLROYD

No, don't trouble. Don't stay any longer, there's no need.

BLACKMORE (quietly)

I'll just see it's all right.

[He proceeds in silence to light the lamp. Holroyd is seen dropping forward in his chair. He has a cut on his cheek. Mrs. Holroyd is in an old-fashioned dressing-gown. Blackmore has an overcoat buttoned up to his chin. There is a very large lump of coal on the red fire.

MRS. HOLROYD

Don't stay any longer.

BLACKMORE

I'll see it's all right.

MRS. HOLROYD

I shall be all right. He'll go to sleep now.

BLACKMORE

But he can't go like that.

MRS. HOLROYD

What has he done to his face?

BLACKMORE

He had a row with Jim Goodwin.

MRS. HOLROYD

What about?

BLACKMORE

I don't know.

MRS. HOLROYD

The beast!

BLACKMORE

By Jove, and isn't he a weight! He's getting fat, must be—

MRS. HOLROYD

He's big made—he has a big frame.

BLACKMORE

Whatever he is, it took me all my time to get him home. I thought I'd better keep an eye on him. I knew you'd be worrying. So I sat in the smoke room and waited for him. Though it's a dirty hole—and dull as hell.

MRS. HOLROYD

Why did you bother?

BLACKMORE

Well, I thought you'd be upset about him. I had to drink three whiskies—had to, in all conscience—(smiling)

MRS. HOLROYD

I don't want to be the ruin of you.

BLACKMORE (smiling)

Don't you? I thought he'd pitch forward onto the lines and crack his skull.

[Holroyd has been sinking farther and farther forward in drunken sleep. He suddenly jerks too far and is awakened. He sits upright, glaring fiercely and dazedly at the two, who instantly cease talking.

HOLROYD (to Blackmore)

What are thäigh doin' 'ere?

BLACKMORE

Why, I came along with you.

HOLROYD

Thou'rt a liar, I'm only just come in.

MRS. HOLROYD (coldly)

He is no liar at all. He brought you home because you were too drunk to come yourself.

HOLROYD (starting up)

Thou'rt a liar! I niver set eyes on him this night, afore now.

MRS. HOLROYD (with a "Pf" of contempt)

You don't know what you have done to-night.

HOLROYD (shouting)

I s'll not have it, I tell thee.

MRS. HOLROYD

Psh!

HOLROYD

I s'll not ha'e it. I s'll ha'e no carryin's on i' my 'ouse—

MRS. HOLROYD (shrugging her shoulders)

Talk when you've got some sense.

HOLROYD (fiercely)

I've as much sense as thäigh. Am I a fool? Canna I see? What's he doin' here then, answer me that. What—?

MRS. HOLROYD

Mr. Blackmore came to bring you home, because you were too drunk to find your own way. And this is the thanks he gets.

HOLROYD (contemptuously)

Blackymore, Blackymore. It's him tha cuts thy cloth by, is it?

MRS. HOLROYD (hotly)

You don't know what you're talking about, so keep your tongue still.

HOLROYD (bitingly)

I don't know what I'm talking about—I don't know what I'm talking about—don't I? An' what about him standing there then, if I don't know what I'm talking about?—What?

BLACKMORE

You've been to sleep, Charlie, an' forgotten I came in with you, not long since.

HOLROYD

I'm not daft, I'm not a fool. I've got eyes in my head, and sense. You needn't try to get over me. I know what you're up to.

BLACKMORE (flushing)

It's a bit off to talk to me like that, Charlie, I must say.

HOLROYD

I'm not good enough for 'er. She wants Mr. Blackymore. He's a gentleman, he is. Now we have it all; now we understand.

MRS. HOLROYD

I wish you understood enough to keep your tongue still.

HOLROYD

What? What? I'm to keep my tongue still, am I? An' what about Mr. Blackymore?

MRS. HOLROYD (fiercely)

Stop your mouth, you—you vulgar, low-minded brute.

HOLROYD

Am I? Am I? An' what are you? What tricks are you up to, an' all? But that's all right—that's all right. (Shouting) That's all right, if it's you.

BLACKMORE

I think I'd better go. You seem to enjoy—er—er—calumniating your wife.

HOLROYD (mockingly)

Calamniating—calamniating—I'll give you calamniating, you mealy-mouthed jockey: I'll give you calamniating.

BLACKMORE

I think you've said about enough.

HOLROYD

'Ave I, 'ave I? Yer flimsy jack—'ave I? (In a sudden burst) But I've not done wi' thee yet.

BLACKMORE (ironically)

No, and you haven't.

HOLROYD (shouting—pulling himself up from the armchair) I'll show thee—I'll show thee.

[Blackmore laughs.

HOLROYD

Yes!—yes, my young monkey. It's thäigh, is it?

BLACKMORE

Yes, it's me.

HOLROYD (shouting)

An' I'll ma'e thee wish it worn't, I will. What—? What—? Tha'd come slivin' round here, would ta? (He lurches forward at Blackmore with clenched fist)

MRS. HOLROYD

Drunken, drunken fool—oh, don't.

HOLROYD (turning to her)

What?

[She puts up her hands before her face. Blackmore seizes the upraised arm and swings Holroyd round.

BLACKMORE (in a towering passion)

Mind what tha'rt doing!

HOLROYD (turning fiercely on him—incoherent)

Wha'—wha'—!

[He aims a heavy blow. Blackmore evades it, so that he is struck on the side of the chest. Suddenly he shows his teeth. He raises his fists ready to strike Holroyd when the latter stands to advantage.

MRS. HOLROYD (rushing upon Blackmore)

No, no! Oh, no!

[She flies and opens the door, and goes out. Blackmore glances after her, then at Holroyd, who is preparing, like a bull, for another charge. The young man's face lights up.

HOLROYD

Wha'—wha'—!

[As he advances, Blackmore quickly retreats out-of-doors. Holroyd plunges upon him. Blackmore slips behind the door-jamb, puts out his foot, and trips Holroyd with a crash upon the brick yard.

MRS. HOLROYD

Oh, what has he done to himself?

BLACKMORE (thickly)

Tumbled over himself.

[Holroyd is seen struggling to rise, and is heard incoherently cursing.

MRS. HOLROYD

Aren't you going to get him up?

BLACKMORE

What for?

MRS. HOLROYD

But what shall we do?

BLACKMORE

Let him go to hell.

[Holroyd, who had subsided, begins to snarl and struggle again.

MRS. HOLROYD (in terror)

He's getting up.

BLACKMORE

All right, let him.

[Mrs. Holroyd looks at Blackmore, suddenly afraid of him also.

HOLROYD (in a last frenzy)

I'll show thee—I'll—

[He raises himself up, and is just picking his balance when Blackmore, with a sudden light kick, sends him sprawling again. He is seen on the edge of the light to collapse into stupor.

MRS. HOLROYD

He'll kill you, he'll kill you!

[Blackmore laughs short.

MRS. HOLROYD

Would you believe it! Oh, isn't it awful! (She begins to weep in a little hysteria; Blackmore stands with his back leaning on the doorway, grinning in a strained fashion) Is he hurt, do you think?

BLACKMORE

I don't know—I should think not.

MRS. HOLROYD

I wish he was dead; I do, with all my heart.

BLACKMORE

Do you? (He looks at her quickly; she wavers and shrinks; he begins to smile strainedly as before) You don't know what you wish, or what you want.

MRS. HOLROYD (troubled)

Do you think I could get past him to come inside?

BLACKMORE

I should think so.

[Mrs. Holroyd, silent and troubled, manœuvres in the doorway, stepping over her husband's feet, which lie on the threshold.

BLACKMORE

Why, you've got no shoes and stockings on!

MRS. HOLROYD

No. (She enters the house and stands trembling before the fire)

BLACKMORE (following her)

Are you cold?

MRS. HOLROYD

A little—with standing on the yard.

BLACKMORE

What a shame!

[She, uncertain of herself, sits down. He drops on one knee, awkwardly, and takes her feet in his hands.

MRS. HOLROYD

Don't—no, don't!

BLACKMORE

They are frightfully cold. (He remains, with head sunk, for some moments, then slowly rises) Damn him!

[They look at each other; then, at the same time, turn away.

MRS. HOLROYD

We can't leave him lying there.

BLACKMORE

No—no! I'll bring him in.

MRS. HOLROYD

But—!

BLACKMORE

He won't wake again. The drink will have got hold of him by now. (He hesitates) Could you take hold of his feet—he's so heavy.

MRS. HOLROYD

Yes.

[They go out and are seen stooping over Holroyd.

BLACKMORE

Wait, wait, till I've got him—half a minute.

[Mrs. Holroyd backs in first. They carry Holroyd in and lay him on the sofa.

MRS. HOLROYD

Doesn't he look awful?

BLACKMORE

It's more mark than mar. It isn't much, really.

[He is busy taking off Holroyd's collar and tie, unfastening the waistcoat, the braces and the waist buttons of the trousers; he then proceeds to unlace the drunken man's boots.

MRS. HOLROYD (who has been watching closely)

I shall never get him upstairs.

BLACKMORE

He can sleep here, with a rug or something to cover him. You don't want him—upstairs?

MRS. HOLROYD

Never again.

BLACKMORE (after a moment or two of silence)

He'll be all right down here. Have you got a rug?

MRS. HOLROYD

Yes.

[She goes upstairs. Blackmore goes into the scullery, returning with a lading can and towel. He gets hot water from the boiler. Then, kneeling down, he begins to wipe the drunken man's face lightly with the flannel, to remove the blood and dirt.

MRS. HOLROYD (returning)

What are you doing?

BLACKMORE

Only wiping his face to get the dirt out.

MRS. HOLROYD

I wonder if he'd do as much for you.

BLACKMORE

I hope not.

MRS. HOLROYD

Isn't he horrible, horrible—

BLACKMORE (looks up at her)

Don't look at him then.

MRS. HOLROYD

I can't take it in, it's too much.

BLACKMORE

He won't wake. I will stay with you.

MRS. HOLROYD (earnestly)

No—oh, no.

BLACKMORE

There will be the drawn sword between us. (He indicates the figure of Holroyd, which lies, in effect, as a barrier between them)

MRS. HOLROYD (blushing)

Don't!

BLACKMORE

I'm sorry.

MRS. HOLROYD (after watching him for a few moments lightly wiping the sleeping man's face with a towel) I wonder you can be so careful over him.

BLACKMORE (quietly)

It's only because he's helpless.

MRS. HOLROYD

But why should you love him ever so little?

BLACKMORE

I don't—only he's helpless. Five minutes since I could have killed him.

MRS. HOLROYD

Well, I don't understand you men.

BLACKMORE

Why?

MRS. HOLROYD

I don't know.

BLACKMORE

I thought as I stood in that doorway, and he was trying to get up—I wished as hard as I've ever wished anything in my life—

MRS. HOLROYD

What?

BLACKMORE

That I'd killed him. I've never wished anything so much in my life—if wishes were anything.

MRS. HOLROYD

Don't, it does sound awful.

BLACKMORE

I could have done it, too. He ought to be dead.

MRS. HOLROYD (pleading)

No, don't! You know you don't mean it, and you make me feel so awful.

BLACKMORE

I do mean it. It is simply true, what I say.

MRS. HOLROYD

But don't say it.

BLACKMORE

No?

MRS. HOLROYD

No, we've had enough.

BLACKMORE

Give me the rug.

[She hands it him, and he tucks Holroyd up.

MRS. HOLROYD