ERNEST has forestalled her at the oven. There issues a great puff of hot smoke. He draws back a little, and MAGGIE utters a quick, tremulous “Oh!”
BEATRICE (with concern): Hel-lo, Ernest! that smells a bit thick!
He pulls out the loaves one after another. There is one brown loaf much blackened, one in tolerable condition, and the white “cake” very much scorched on one side.
BEATRICE begins to laugh, in spite of her sympathy at the dismay; he is kneeling on the hearth, the oven door open, the oven-cloth in his hand, and the burnt bread toppled out of its tins on the hearth before him. MAGGIE is bending over his shoulder, in great concern. BEATRICE sputters with more laughter. ERNEST looks up at her, and the dismay and chagrin on his face change also to an irresistible troubled amusement at the mishap, and he laughs heartily. MAGGIE joins in, strainedly at first, then with natural shaking, and all three laugh with abandonment, BEATRICE putting her hand up over her face, and again doubling over till her head touches her knees.
ERNEST: No — no! Won’t Ma be wild, though! — What a beastly shame!
BEATRICE breaks out afresh, and he, though grieved, bubbles again into grudging laughter.
Another day and the rotten fire would burn slow, but to-night it’s ramped like —
BEATRICE: Hell, Ernie!
She goes off again into a wild tossing of laugher, hesitating a moment to watch him as he lugubriously picks up the worst loaf and eyes it over.
ERNEST (grimly): It’s black bread now, that they talk about. (He sniffs the loaf.)
BEATRICE resumes her mad, interrupted laughter. MAGGIE sits down on the sofa and laughs till the tears come.
ERNEST taps the loaf with his finger.
BEATRICE: Are you trying to see if it’s done, William? (From naïve irony she departs into laughter.)
ERNEST (answers, his lugubrious soul struggling with laughter, the girls laughing the while): No; I was listening if it sounded hollow. Hark!
They listen. Laughter.
It sounds cindery. I wonder how deep it goes. (In a spirit of curiosity, he rises and fetches a knife, and, pulling a newspaper over the hearth, begins to cut away the burnt crust. The bread-charcoal falls freely on the paper. He looks at the loaf.) By Jove, there is a lot! It’s like a sort of fine coke.
The girls laugh their final burst, and pant with exhaustion, their hands pressed in their sides.
It’s about done for, at any rate. (Puts it down and takes another brown loaf; taps it.) This is not so bad, really, is it? (Sadly.)It sounds a bit desiccated, though. Poor Ma! (He laughs.) She’ll say it’s your fault, Mag.
MAGGIE (with astonished, incredulous laughter): Me?
BEATRICE: She will, Mag, she will! She’ll say if you hadn’t been here making a fuss of him —
MAGGIE (still laughing): I’d better go before she comes.
BEATRICE: You want to scrape that with the nutmeg-grater, Ernest. Where is it? Here, give it me.
She takes the loaf, and ERNEST goes out and returns with the grater. She begins to grate the loaf.
MAGGIE takes up the white “cake” and feels the pale side, tapping the bottom.
MAGGIE (with decision): This isn’t done. It’s no good cutting it off till it’s all finished. I may as well put it in again. (She feels the heat of the two shelves, and puts the loaf on the upper.)
ERNEST picks up the ruined loaf.
ERNEST: What will she say when she sees this?
MAGGIE: Put it on the fire and have done with it.
They look at her in some astonishment at the vandalism of the remark.
ERNEST: But . . . (He looks at the loaf on all sides.)
MAGGIE: It’s no good, and it’ll only grieve their poor hearts if they see it. “What the heart doesn’t . . .”
BEATRICE: Ay, put it on, William. What’s it matter? Tell ‘em the cat ate it.
ERNEST (hesitating): Should I?
BEATRICE (nudging his elbow): Ay, go on.
He puts the loaf on the fire, which is not yet mended, and they stand watching the transparent flames lick it up.
ERNEST (half sad, whimsically, repentant): The Staff of Life — !
MAGGIE: It’s a faggot now, not a staff.
ERNEST: Ah, well! (He slides all the cinders and BEATRICE’S scrapings together in the newspaper and pours them in the fire.)
BEATRICE (holding up her scraped loaf): It doesn’t show, being brown. You want to wrap it in a damp cloth now. Have you got a cloth?
ERNEST: What? — a clean tea-towel?
BEATRICE: Ay, that’ll do. Come here; let’s go and wet it.
She goes out, and re-enters directly with the towel screwed up. She folds it round the loaf, the others watching. She sets the shrouded loaf on the table, and they all sit down. There is a little pause.
Have you given over coming down to chapel now, Maggie?
MAGGIE: N-no. I don’t know that I have. Why?
BEATRICE: You don’t often put in an appearance now.
MAGGIE (a trifle petulantly): Don’t I? Well, I don’t feel like it, I suppose.
BEATRICE: William, you have something to answer for, my boy. (She speaks portentously.)
ERNEST: Shall I? Ne’er mind; I’ll say “adsum” every time. Recording Angel: “Ernest Lambert.” — ”Adsum!”
BEATRICE: But you don’t know what the little Mas say about you, my lad.
ERNEST: The dear little Mas! They will be gossiping about —
BEATRICE (springing from her chair): Look out! there’s Nellie. Take that in th’ pantry, William. Come out!
She thrusts the towelled loaf into ERNEST’S hands, and he hurries away with it, while she hastily shoots the coal on the fire, and, putting down the dust-pan by the boiler, sits in her chair and looks “‘ormin’.”
Enter NELLIE LAMBERT and GERTIE COOMBER, blinking.
NELLIE (bending her head to shield her eyes): Hasn’t Ma come? I never saw her. Hullo, Maggie, you’ve not gone yet, you see. (She sniffs and goes straight to the oven.) Goodness, what a smell of burning! Have you been and forgotten the bread? (She kneels and looks in the oven.)
BEATRICE (very quietly and negligently): Ernest forgot that one. It’s only a bit caught.
NELLIE peeps in the panchion where the other loaves are — those baked by the mother.
NELLIE: He generally forgets if Maggie’s here.
BEATRICE bursts out laughing.
MAGGIE (rising, indignant): Why, Nellie, when has it ever been burnt before?
NELLIE (smiling a careless smile): Many a time.
MAGGIE: Not when I’ve been here.
NELLIE: Aren’t you going to sit down a bit, Gert?
GERTIE: No, I’m off. Our Frances’ll be wanting her ducks. (She laughs, but does not go.)
MAGGIE, her head hanging, goes to put on her hat and coat. The other girls smile, meaningly, at one another.
Are you going, then, Maggie?
MAGGIE (distantly): Yes, it’s getting late. I’ve a long walk, you see.
GERTIE: You have! I’m glad I’ve not got it. I often wonder how you dare go through those woods on a pitch-dark night.
BEATRICE: I daresn’t. (She laughs at herself.)
MAGGIE: I’d rather go through our wood than through Nottingham Road, with the people — !
BEATRICE: I’m glad you would, for I wouldn’t.
ERNEST LAMBERT pulls on his overcoat and his cap. He gathers certain books. He looks at MAGGIE, and she at him.
MAGGIE: Well, good night, everybody. I shall have to go. (She hesitates, finding it difficult to break away.)
BEATRICE AND NELLIE: Good night.
GERTIE: Good night, Maggie. I hope it won’t be too muddy for you.
MAGGIE laughs slightly.
NELLIE (as the two go through the door, loudly): And don’t be ever so late back, our Ernest!
They do not reply. As their steps are heard passing the wide window, BEATRICE flings up her arms and her feet in an ungraceful, exultant glee, flicking h
er fingers with noiseless venom.
BEATRICE (in an undertone): I gave her beans!
NELLIE (turning, with a smile, and lighting up): Did you? What did you say?
GERTIE (amused, giggling, but shamefaced): Did you?
BEATRICE (exultant): Oh, lum! I’ll bet her cheeks are warm!
END OF ACT II
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.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 736