The following morning — about 5 a.m. A candle is burning.
MINNIE sits by the fire in a dressing-gown. She is weeping. A knock, and MRS GASCOIGNE’S voice. MINNIE goes to open the door; re-enters with her mother-in-law, the latter with a big brown shawl over her head.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Is Luther a-whoam?
MINNIE: No — he’s not been in all night.
MRS GASCOIGNE: T-t-t-t! Now whereiver can they be? Joe’s not in neither.
MINNIE: Isn’t he?
MRS GASCOIGNE: No. He said he might be late, so I went to bed, and slept a bit uneasy-like till about four o’clock. Then I wakes up a’ of a sudden, an’ says: “I’m by mysen i’ th’ house!” It gave me such a turn I daresn’t shout. So I gets me up, an’ goes ter his room, an’ he’d niver bin i’ bed a’ night. Well, I went down, but no signs nowhere. An’ ‘im wi’ a broken arm. An’ I listened an’ I listened — an’ then methinks I heered a gun go off. I felt as if I should die if I stopped by mysen another minute. So I on’s wi’ my shawl an’ nips down here. There’s not a soul astir nowhere. I a’most dropped when I seed your light. Hasn’t Luther bin in a’ night, dost say?
MINNIE: He went out with you, and he never came in again. I went to bed, thinking perhaps he’d be sleeping on the sofa. And then I came down, and he wasn’t here.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I’ve seen nowt of him, for he never come up to our house. — Now I wonder what’s afoot wi’ th’ silly fools?
MINNIE: I thought he’d gone and left me.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s more like some o’ this strike work. When I heered that gun, I said: “Theer goes one o’ my lads!”
MINNIE: You don’t think they’re killed?
MRS GASCOIGNE: Heaven knows what they are. But I niver thought he’d ha’ served me this trick — left me by myself without telling me, and gone cutting off a’ th’ night through — an’ him wi’ a broken arm.
MINNIE: Where do you think they’ve gone?
MRS GASCOIGNE: The Lord above alone knows — but I’se warrant it’s one o’ these riotin’ tricks — stopping them blacklegs as wor goin’ down to see to th’ roads.
MINNIE: Do you think — ?
MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ll back anything. For I heered th’ winding engines plain as anything. Hark!
They listen.
MINNIE: I believe I can hear them.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Th’ ingines?
MINNIE: Yes.
MRS GASCOIGNE: They’re winding something down. Eh dear, what a dead world it seems, wi’ none o’ th’ pits chuffin’ an’ no steam wavin’ by day, an’ no lights shinin’ by night. You may back your life there was a gang of ’em going to stop that lot of blacklegs. And there’d be soldiers for a certainty. If I didn’t hear a shot, I heered summat much like one.
MINNIE: But they’d never shoot, would they?
MRS GASCOIGNE: Haven’t they shot men up an’ down th’ country? Didn’t I know them lads was pining to go an’ be shot at? I did. Methinks when I heard that gun, “They’d niver rest till this had happened.”
MINNIE: But they’re not shot, Mother. You exaggerate.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I niver said they wor. But if anything happens to a man, my lass, you may back your life, nine cases out o’ ten, it’s a spit on th’ women.
MINNIE: Oh, what a thing to say! Why, there are accidents.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yes, an’ men verily gets accidents, to pay us out, I do believe. They get huffed up, they bend down their faces, and they say to theirselves: “Now I’ll get myself hurt, an’ she’ll be sorry,” else: “Now I’ll get myself killed, an’ she’ll ha’e nobody to sleep wi’ ‘er, an’ nobody to nag at.” Oh, my lass, I’ve had a husband an’ six sons. Children they are, these men, but, my word, they’re revengeful children. Children men is a’ the days o’ their lives. But they’re master of us women when their dander’s up, an’ they pay us back double an’ treble — they do — an’ you mun allers expect it.
MINNIE: But if they went to stop the blacklegs, they wouldn’t be doing it to spite us.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Wouldn’t they! Yi, but they would. My lads ‘ud do it to spite me, an’ our Luther ‘ud do it to spite thee. Yes — and it’s trew. For they’d run theirselves into danger and lick their lips for joy, thinking, if I’m killed, then she maun lay me out. Yi — I seed it in our mester. He got killed a’ pit. An’ when I laid him out, his face wor that grim, an’ his body that stiff, an’ it said as plain as plain: “Nowthen, you’ve done for me.” For it’s risky work, handlin’ men, my lass, an’ niver thee pray for sons — Not but what daughters is any good. Th’ world is made o’ men, for me, lass — there’s only the men for me. An’ tha’rt similar. An’ so, tha’lt reap trouble by the peck, an’ sorrow by the bushel. For when a woman builds her life on men, either husbands or sons, she builds on summat as sooner or later brings the house down crash on her head — yi, she does.
MINNIE: But it depends how and what she builds.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It depends, it depends. An’ tha thinks tha can steer clear o’ what I’ve done. An’ perhaps tha can. But steer clear the whole length o’ th’ road, tha canna, an’ tha’lt see. Nay, a childt is a troublesome pleasure to a woman, but a man’s a trouble pure and simple.
MINNIE: I’m sure it depends what you make of him.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Maybe — maybe. But I’ve allers tried to do my best, i’ spite o’ what tha said against me this afternoon.
MINNIE: I didn’t mean it — I was in a rage.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi, tha meant it plain enow. But I’ve tried an’ tried my best for my lads, I have — an’ this is what owd age brings me — wi’ ‘em.
MINNIE: Nay, Mother — nay. See how fond they are of you.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi — an’ they go now i’ their mischief, yes, tryin’ to get killed, to spite me. Yi!
MINNIE: Nay. Nay.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s true. An’ tha can ha’e Luther. Tha’lt get him, an’ tha can ha’e him.
MINNIE: Do you think I shall?
MRS GASCOIGNE: I can see. Tha’lt get him — but tha’lt get sorrow wi’ ‘em, an’ wi’ th’ sons tha has. See if tha doesna.
MINNIE: But I don’t care. Only don’t keep him from me. It leaves me so — with nothing — not even trouble.
MRS GASCOIGNE: He’ll come to thee — an’ he’ll think no more o’ me as is his mother than he will o’ that poker.
MINNIE: Oh, no — oh, no.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi — I know well — an’ then that other.
There is a silence — the two women listening.
MINNIE: If they’d been hurt, we should ha’ known by now.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Happen we should. If they come, they’ll come together. An’ they’ll come to this house first.
A silence. MINNIE starts.
Did ter hear owt?
MINNIE: Somebody got over the stile.
MRS GASCOIGNE (listening): Yi.
MINNIE (listening): It is somebody.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ t’street.
MINNIE (starting up): Yes.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Comin’? It’s Luther. (Goes to the door.) An’ it’s on’y Luther.
Both women stand, the mother nearer the door. The door opens — a slight sluther. Enter LUTHER, with blood on his face — rather shaky and dishevelled.
My boy! my boy!
LUTHER: Mother! (He goes blindly.) Where’s Minnie?
MINNIE (with a cry): Oh!
MRS GASCOIGNE: Wheer’s Joe? — wheer’s our Joe?
LUTHER (to MINNIE, queer, stunned, almost polite): It worn’t ‘cause I wor mad wi’ thee I didna come whoam.
MRS GASCOIGNE (clutching him sternly): Where’s Joe?
LUTHER: He’s gone up street — he thought tha might ha’ wakkened.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Wakkened enow.
MRS GASCOIGNE goes out.
MINNIE: Oh, what have you done?
LUTHER: We’d promised not to tell nobody — else I should. We stopped them blacklegs — leastways — but it worn’t because I — I — (He stops to think.) I wor mad wi’ thee, as I didna come whoam.
MINNIE: What have you done to your head?
LUTHER: It wor a stone or summat catched it. It’s gev me a headache. Tha mun — tha mun tie a rag round it — if ter will. (He sways as he takes his cap off.)
She catches him in her arms. He leans on her as if he were tipsy.
Minnie —
MINNIE: My love — my love!
LUTHER: Minnie — I want thee ter ma’e what tha can o’ me. (He sounds almost sleepy.)
MINNIE (crying): My love — my love!
LUTHER: I know what tha says is true.
MINNIE: No, my love — it isn’t — it isn’t.
LUTHER: But if ter’lt ma’e what ter can o’ me — an’ then if ter has a childt — tha’lt happen ha’e enow.
MINNIE: No — no — it’s you. It’s you I want. It’s you.
LUTHER: But tha’s allers had me.
MINNIE: No, never — and it hurt so.
LUTHER: I thowt tha despised me.
MINNIE: Ah — my love!
LUTHER: Dunna say I’m mean, to me — an’ got no go.
MINNIE: I only said it because you wouldn’t let me love you.
LUTHER: Tha didna love me.
MINNIE: Ha! — it was you.
LUTHER: Yi. (He looses himself and sits down heavily.) I’ll ta’e my boots off. (He bends forward.)
MINNIE: Let me do them. (He sits up again.)
LUTHER: It’s started bleedin’. I’ll do ’em i’ ha’ef a minute.
MINNIE: No — trust me — trust yourself to me. Let me have you now for my own. (She begins to undo his boots.)
LUTHER: Dost want me?
MINNIE (she kisses his hands): Oh, my love! (She takes him in her arms.)
He suddenly begins to cry.
CURTAIN