and two brothers all broken men by it.
[She hears Mary on the stairs, and they are silent.]
Ann. 'Ere's yer pretty dress, Mary.
Mary. Ay.... Thankye, Tom.
Tom. 'Twill be lovely for ye, my dear, an' grand. 'Tis a fine day fur yer weddin', my dear....
Mary. I'll be sorry to go, Tom.
Tom. An' sorry we'll be to lose ye....
Mary. I'll put the dress on.
[She throws the frock over her arm and goes out with it.]
Ann. Another girl would 'a' wedded him years ago in the first foolishness of it. But Mary, for all she says so little, 'as long, long thoughts that never comes to the likes o' you and me.... Another girl, when the day 'ad come at last, would 'a' been wild wi' the joy an' the fear o' it.... But Mary, she's sat on the fells under the stars, an' windin' among the sheep. D' ye mind the nights she's been out like an old shepherd wi' t' sheep? D' ye mind the nights when she was but a lile 'un an' we found 'er out in the dawn sleepin' snug again the side o' a fat ewe?
Tom. 'Tis not like a weddin' day for 'er.... If she'd 'ad a new dress, now—
Ann. I said to 'er would she like a new dress; but she would have only the old 'un cut an' shaped to be in the fashion.... Et 'as been a strange coortin', an' 'twill be a strange life for 'em both, I'm thinkin', for there seems no gladness in 'er, nor never was, for she never was foolish an' she never was young; but she was always like there was a great weight on 'er, so as she must be about the world alone, but always she 'ave turned to the little things an' the weak, an' always she 'ad some poor sick beast for tendin' or another woman's babe to 'old to 'er breast, an' I think sometimes that 'tis only because Bill is a poor sick beast wi' a poor sick soul that she be so set on 'im.
Tom. 'E be a sodden beast wi' never a soul to be saved or damned—
Ann. 'Cept for the drink, 'e've been a good son to 'is old mother when the others 'ud 'a' left 'er to rot i' the ditch, an' 'e was the on'y one as 'ud raise a finger again his father when the owd man, God rest him, was on to 'er like a madman. Drunk or sober 'e always was on 'is mother's side.
Tom. 'Twas a fearful 'ouse that.
Ann. 'Twas wonderful that for all they did to 'er, that wild old man wi' 'is wild young sons, she outlived 'em all, but never a one could she save from the curse that was on them, an', sober, they was the likeliest men 'n Troutbeck....
Tom. 'Tis when the rain comes and t' clouds come low an' black on the fells and the cold damp eats into a man's bones that the fearful thoughts come to 'im that must be drowned or 'im go mad—an' only the foreigners like me or them as 'as foreign blood new in 'em can 'old out again it; 'tis the curse o' livin' too long between two lines o' 'ills.
Ann. An' what that owd woman could never do, d'ye think our Mary'll do it? 'Im a Troutbeck man an' she a Troutbeck girl?
Tom. She've 'eld to 'er bargain an' brought 'im to it.
Ann. There's things that a maid can do that a wife cannot an' that's truth, an' shame it is to the men. [Comes a knock at the door.] 'Tisn't time for t' weddin' folk.
[Tom goes to the window.]
Tom. Gorm. 'Tis Mrs. Airey.
Ann. T' owd woman. She that 'as not been further than 'er garden-gate these ten years?
[She goes to the door, opens it to admit Mrs. Airey, an old gaunt woman just beginning to be bent with age.]
Mrs. A. Good day to you, Tom Davis.
Tom. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey.
Mrs. A. Good day to you, Ann Davis.
Ann. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. Will ye sit down?
[She dusts a chair and Mrs. Airey sits by the fireside. She sits silent for a long while. Tom and Ann look uneasily at her and at each other.]
Mrs. A. So 'tis all ready for Bill's wedding.
Tom. Ay. 'Tis a fine day, an' the folks bid, and the sharry-bang got for to drive to Coniston, all the party of us. Will ye be coming, Mrs. Airey?
Mrs. A. I'll not. [Mrs. Airey sits silent again for long.] Is Mary in the 'ouse?
Ann. She be upstairs puttin' on 'er weddin' dress.
Mrs. A. 'Tis the sad day of 'er life.... They're a rotten lot an' who should know et better than me? Bill's the best of 'em, but Bill's rotten.... Six months is not enough, nor six years nor sixty, not while 'er stays in Troutbeck rememberin' all that 'as been an' all the trouble that was in the 'ouse along o' it, and so I've come for to say it.
Ann. She growed up lovin' Bill, and 'tis a set thing. She've waited long years. 'Tis done now, an' what they make for theirselves they make, an' 'tis not for us to go speirin' for the trouble they may make for theirselves, but only to pray that it may pass them by....
Mrs. A. But 'tis certain.... Six months is not enough, nor six years, nor sixty—
Ann. And are ye come for to tell Mary this...?
Mrs. A. This and much more....
Tom. And what 'ave ye said to Bill?
Mrs. A. Nowt. There never was a son would give 'eed to 'is mother.... 'Tisn't for 'im I'm thinkin', but for t' children that she's bear 'im. I 'oped, and went on 'opin' till there was no 'ope left in me, and I lived to curse the day that each one of my sons was born. John and Peter are dead an' left no child behind, and it were better for Bill also to leave no child behind. There's a day and 'alf a day o' peace and content for a woman with such a man, and there's long, long years of thinkin' on the peace and content that's gone. There's long, long years of watching the child that you've borne and suckled turn rotten, an' I say that t' birth-pangs are nowt to t' pangs that ye 'ave from the childer of such a man as Bill or Bill's father.... She's a strong girl an' a good girl; but there's this that is stronger than 'er.
[Mary comes again, very pretty in her blue dress. She is at once sensible of the strangeness in Tom and Ann. She stands looking from one to the other. Mrs. Airey sits gazing into the fire.]
Mary. Why, mother ... 'tis kind of you to come on this morning.
Mrs. A. Ay, 'tis kind of me. [Ann steals away upstairs and Tom, taking the lead from her, goes out into the road.] Come 'ere, my pretty.
[Mary goes and stands by her.]
Mary. The sun is shining and the bees all out and busy to gather in the honey.
Mrs. A. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people to work away in t' dark when t' sun is hidden, and to work away in t' sun when 'tis bright and light. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people that takes their men an' kills 'em for the 'arm that they may do, and it's us that's the foolish ones to make soft the way of our men an' let them strut before us and lie; and 'tis us that's the foolish ones ever to give a thought to their needs that give never a one to ours.
Mary. 'Tis
