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diff --git a/old/3638.txt b/old/3638.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6a7e106..0000000 --- a/old/3638.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3969 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Devil's Disciple, by George Bernard Shaw - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Devil's Disciple - -Author: George Bernard Shaw - -Posting Date: April 24, 2009 [EBook #3638] -Release Date: January, 2003 -First Posted: June 27, 2001 -Last Updated: July 15, 2015 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE *** - - - - -Produced by Eve Sobol. HTML version by Al Haines. - - - - - - - - - -THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE - - -Bernard Shaw - - - - -ACT I - -At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry morning in -the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New Hampshire, is sitting up in the -kitchen and general dwelling room of her farm house on the outskirts of -the town of Websterbridge. She is not a prepossessing woman. No woman -looks her best after sitting up all night; and Mrs. Dudgeon's face, -even at its best, is grimly trenched by the channels into which the -barren forms and observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter -temper and a fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard -and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sordid -home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and respectability among -her neighbors, to whom drink and debauchery are still so much more -tempting than religion and rectitude, that they conceive goodness -simply as self-denial. This conception is easily extended to -others--denial, and finally generalized as covering anything -disagreeable. So Mrs. Dudgeon, being exceedingly disagreeable, is held -to be exceedingly good. Short of flat felony, she enjoys complete -license except for amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently, -without knowing it, the most licentious woman in the parish on the -strength of never having broken the seventh commandment or missed a -Sunday at the Presbyterian church. - -The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused of the breaking -off of the American colonies from England, more by their own weight -than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, the shooting being -idealized to the English mind as suppression of rebellion and -maintenance of British dominion, and to the American as defence of -liberty, resistance to tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the -Rights of Man. Into the merits of these idealizations it is not here -necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they -have convinced both Americans and English that the most high minded -course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as -possible, and that military operations to that end are in full swing, -morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides -for the blessing of God on their arms. - -Under such circumstances many other women besides this disagreeable -Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night waiting for news. -Like her, too, they fall asleep towards morning at the risk of nodding -themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs. Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over -her head, and her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the -domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its -hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen -table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin -sconce. Her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and -unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally -moulded to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a chair of state. -The room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near -the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of -the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house -door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front -wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom -door. Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the -deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are -no hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window the clock -hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and -brass pendulum. Between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard, -locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery. - -On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a -shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall. An -inspection of its stridulous surface shows that Mrs. Dudgeon is not -alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it. She is a -wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin. Her -frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by -no means scrupulously clean. It hangs on her with a freedom which, -taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of -underclothing. - -Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to wake the -sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. Dudgeon a little. Finally -the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at once. - -MRS. DUDGEON (threateningly). Well, why don't you open the door? (She -sees that the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor of -heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me! Now this is-- (shaking her) -wake up, wake up: do you hear? - -THE GIRL (sitting up). What is it? - -MRS. DUDGEON. Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling sinful -girl, falling asleep like that, and your father hardly cold in his -grave. - -THE GIRL (half asleep still). I didn't mean to. I dropped off-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (cutting her short). Oh yes, you've plenty of excuses, I -daresay. Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking recommences.) Why -don't you get up and let your uncle in? after me waiting up all night -for him! (She pushes her rudely off the sofa.) There: I'll open the -door: much good you are to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit. - -The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on. Mrs. -Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the stuffy kitchen a -little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also -her second son Christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man -of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He hurries, -shivering, to the fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door. - -CHRISTY (at the fire). F--f--f! but it is cold. (Seeing the girl, and -staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you? - -THE GIRL (shyly). Essie. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Oh you may well ask. (To Essie.) Go to your room, child, -and lie down since you haven't feeling enough to keep you awake. Your -history isn't fit for your own ears to hear. - -ESSIE. I-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (peremptorily). Don't answer me, Miss; but show your -obedience by doing what I tell you. (Essie, almost in tears, crosses -the room to the door near the sofa.) And don't forget your prayers. -(Essie goes out.) She'd have gone to bed last night just as if nothing -had happened if I'd let her. - -CHRISTY (phlegmatically). Well, she can't be expected to feel Uncle -Peter's death like one of the family. - -MRS. DUDGEON. What are you talking about, child? Isn't she his -daughter--the punishment of his wickedness and shame? (She assaults her -chair by sitting down.) - -CHRISTY (staring). Uncle Peter's daughter! - -MRS. DUDGEON. Why else should she be here? D'ye think I've not had -enough trouble and care put upon me bringing up my own girls, let alone -you and your good-for-nothing brother, without having your uncle's -bastards-- - -CHRISTY (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door by -which Essie went out). Sh! She may hear you. - -MRS. DUDGEON (raising her voice). Let her hear me. People who fear God -don't fear to give the devil's work its right name. (Christy, -soullessly indifferent to the strife of Good and Evil, stares at the -fire, warming himself.) Well, how long are you going to stare there -like a stuck pig? What news have you for me? - -CHRISTY (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to hang -them up). The minister is to break the news to you. He'll be here -presently. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Break what news? - -CHRISTY (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat up, -though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking with -callous placidity, considering the nature of the announcement). -Father's dead too. - -MRS. DUDGEON (stupent). Your father! - -CHRISTY (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself again, -attending much more to the fire than to his mother). Well, it's not my -fault. When we got to Nevinstown we found him ill in bed. He didn't -know us at first. The minister sat up with him and sent me away. He -died in the night. - -MRS. DUDGEON (bursting into dry angry tears). Well, I do think this is -hard on me--very hard on me. His brother, that was a disgrace to us all -his life, gets hanged on the public gallows as a rebel; and your -father, instead of staying at home where his duty was, with his own -family, goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. -After sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (She plucks her -shawl vexedly over her ears.) It's sinful, so it is; downright sinful. - -CHRISTY (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause). I think it's -going to be a fine morning, after all. - -MRS. DUDGEON (railing at him). A fine morning! And your father newly -dead! Where's your feelings, child? - -CHRISTY (obstinately). Well, I didn't mean any harm. I suppose a man -may make a remark about the weather even if his father's dead. - -MRS. DUDGEON (bitterly). A nice comfort my children are to me! One son -a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's left his home to live with -smugglers and gypsies and villains, the scum of the earth! - -Someone knocks. - -CHRISTY (without moving). That's the minister. - -MRS. DUDGEON (sharply). Well, aren't you going to let Mr. Anderson in? - -Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries her face in -her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome with grief. -Christy opens the door, and admits the minister, Anthony Anderson, a -shrewd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine of about 50, with something -of the authority of his profession in his bearing. But it is an -altogether secular authority, sweetened by a conciliatory, sensible -manner not at all suggestive of a quite thoroughgoing -other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy man, too, with a thick, -sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy -corners. No doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of -making the most of this world, and perhaps a little apologetically -conscious of getting on better with it than a sound Presbyterian ought. - -ANDERSON (to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dudgeon whilst he -takes off his cloak). Have you told her? - -CHRISTY. She made me. (He shuts the door; yawns; and loafs across to -the sofa where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep.) - -Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he hangs his cloak -and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her eyes and looks up at him. - -ANDERSON. Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily upon you. - -MRS. DUDGEON (with intensely recalcitrant resignation). It's His will, -I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think it hard. What call had -Timothy to go to Springtown, and remind everybody that he belonged to a -man that was being hanged?--and (spitefully) that deserved it, if ever -a man did. - -ANDERSON (gently). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after we -were married: he had too much respect for me to insult me with such a -brother. Would such a selfish wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to -see Timothy hanged, do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I -must bear my cross as best I may: least said is soonest mended. - -ANDERSON (very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his back to -it). Your eldest son was present at the execution, Mrs. Dudgeon. - -MRS. DUDGEON (disagreeably surprised). Richard? - -ANDERSON (nodding). Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON (vindictively). Let it be a warning to him. He may end -that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless-- (she suddenly stops; -her voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread) Did Timothy see him? - -ANDERSON. Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON (holding her breath). Well? - -ANDERSON. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. (Mrs. -Dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at her -ease again.) Your husband was greatly touched and impressed by his -brother's awful death. (Mrs. Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to -demand with some indignation) Well, wasn't it only natural, Mrs. -Dudgeon? He softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent -for him to come to see him. - -MRS. DUDGEON (her alarm renewed). Sent for Richard! - -ANDERSON. Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent his father a -message; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked message--an awful message. - -MRS. DUDGEON. What was it? - -ANDERSON. That he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand against -his good parents, in this world and the next. - -MRS. DUDGEON (implacably). He will be punished for it. He will be -punished for it--in both worlds. - -ANDERSON. That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the -wicked shall be punished. Why should we do our duty and keep God's law -if there is to be no difference made between us and those who follow -their own likings and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their -Maker's word? - -ANDERSON. Well, Richard's earthly father has been merciful and his -heavenly judge is the father of us all. - -MRS. DUDGEON (forgetting herself). Richard's earthly father was a -softheaded-- - -ANDERSON (shocked). Oh! - -MRS. DUDGEON (with a touch of shame). Well, I am Richard's mother. If -I am against him who has any right to be for him? (Trying to conciliate -him.) Won't you sit down, Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; -but I'm so troubled. - -ANDERSON. Thank you-- (He takes a chair from beside the fireplace, and -turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. When he is seated -he adds, in the tone of a man who knows that he is opening a difficult -subject.) Has Christy told you about the new will? - -MRS. DUDGEON (all her fears returning). The new will! Did Timothy--? -(She breaks off, gasping, unable to complete the question.) - -ANDERSON. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind. - -MRS. DUDGEON (white with intense rage). And you let him rob me? - -ANDERSON. I had no power to prevent him giving what was his to his own -son. - -MRS. DUDGEON. He had nothing of his own. His money was the money I -brought him as my marriage portion. It was for me to deal with my own -money and my own son. He dare not have done it if I had been with him; -and well he knew it. That was why he stole away like a thief to take -advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. The -more shame on you, Mr. Anderson,--you, a minister of the gospel--to act -as his accomplice in such a crime. - -ANDERSON (rising). I will take no offence at what you say in the first -bitterness of your grief. - -MRS. DUDGEON (contemptuously). Grief! - -ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in your -heart to think that the better word. - -MRS. DUDGEON. My heart! My heart! And since when, pray, have you begun -to hold up our hearts as trustworthy guides for us? - -ANDERSON (rather guiltily). I--er-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (vehemently). Don't lie, Mr. Anderson. We are told that -the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. -My heart belonged, not to Timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of -his that has just ended his days with a rope round his neck--aye, to -Peter Dudgeon. You know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit -you succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, -told it you when he gave over our souls into your charge. He warned me -and strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing -man--as he thought. What else but that discipline has made me the woman -I am? And you, you who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk -to me of what I find in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man; and -leave me to my prayers. (She turns from him and leans with her elbows -on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of -him.) - -ANDERSON (willing enough to escape). The Lord forbid that I should come -between you and the source of all comfort! (He goes to the rack for his -coat and hat.) - -MRS. DUDGEON (without looking at him). The Lord will know what to -forbid and what to allow without your help. - -ANDERSON. And whom to forgive, I hope--Eli Hawkins and myself, if we -have ever set up our preaching against His law. (He fastens his cloak, -and is now ready to go.) Just one word--on necessary business, Mrs. -Dudgeon. There is the reading of the will to be gone through; and -Richard has a right to be present. He is in the town; but he has the -grace to say that he does not want to force himself in here. - -MRS. DUDGEON. He shall come here. Does he expect us to leave his -father's house for his convenience? Let them all come, and come -quickly, and go quickly. They shall not make the will an excuse to -shirk half their day's work. I shall be ready, never fear. - -ANDERSON (coming back a step or two). Mrs. Dudgeon: I used to have some -little influence with you. When did I lose it? - -MRS. DUDGEON (still without turning to him). When you married for love. -Now you're answered. - -ANDERSON. Yes: I am answered. (He goes out, musing.) - -MRS. DUDGEON (to herself, thinking of her husband). Thief! Thief!! (She -shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her -head; and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will, -beginning by replacing Anderson's chair against the wall, and pushing -back her own to the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving, -wrathful way) Christy. (No answer: he is fast asleep.) Christy. (She -shakes him roughly.) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of -yourself--sleeping, and your father dead! (She returns to the table; -puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a -red table cloth which she spreads.) - -CHRISTY (rising reluctantly). Well, do you suppose we are never going -to sleep until we are out of mourning? - -MRS. DUDGEON. I want none of your sulks. Here: help me to set this -table. (They place the table in the middle of the room, with Christy's -end towards the fireplace and Mrs. Dudgeon's towards the sofa. Christy -drops the table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his -mother to make the final adjustments of its position.) We shall have -the minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the -will before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that girl; and -then light the stove in the shed: you can't have your breakfast here. -And mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the -company. (She punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; -unlocking it; and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt -stood there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and -some glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green ware plates, -on one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. On the -other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, -and counting the rest.) Now mind: there are ten biscuits there: let -there be ten there when I come back after dressing myself. And keep -your fingers off the raisins in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I -suppose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without -breaking the glass? (She replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she -locks, pocketing the key carefully.) - -CHRISTY (lingering at the fire). You'd better put the inkstand instead, -for the lawyer. - -MRS. DUDGEON. That's no answer to make to me, sir. Go and do as you're -told. (Christy turns sullenly to obey.) Stop: take down that shutter -before you go, and let the daylight in: you can't expect me to do all -the heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling -about. - -Christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts it aside; then -opens the shutter, showing the grey morning. Mrs. Dudgeon takes the -sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the -snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the -purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf. - -CHRISTY (looking through the window). Here's the minister's wife. - -MRS. DUDGEON (displeased). What! Is she coming here? - -CHRISTY. Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON. What does she want troubling me at this hour, before I'm -properly dressed to receive people? - -CHRISTY. You'd better ask her. - -MRS. DUDGEON (threateningly). You'd better keep a civil tongue in your -head. (He goes sulkily towards the door. She comes after him, plying -him with instructions.) Tell that girl to come to me as soon as she's -had her breakfast. And tell her to make herself fit to be seen before -the people. (Christy goes out and slams the door in her face.) Nice -manners, that! (Someone knocks at the house door: she turns and cries -inhospitably.) Come in. (Judith Anderson, the minister's wife, comes -in. Judith is more than twenty years younger than her husband, though -she will never be as young as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper -and ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of -herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which -serves her instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in -her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams. -Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a child's vanity. -Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who knows how -rough a place the world is. One feels, on the whole, that Anderson -might have chosen worse, and that she, needing protection, could not -have chosen better.) Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs. Anderson? - -JUDITH (very politely--almost patronizingly). Yes. Can I do anything -for you, Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the place ready before they -come to read the will? - -MRS. DUDGEON (stiffly). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my house is always -ready for anyone to come into. - -MRS. ANDERSON (with complacent amiability). Yes, indeed it is. Perhaps -you had rather I did not intrude on you just now. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Oh, one more or less will make no difference this -morning, Mrs. Anderson. Now that you're here, you'd better stay. If you -wouldn't mind shutting the door! (Judith smiles, implying "How stupid -of me" and shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty -and becoming.) That's better. I must go and tidy myself a bit. I -suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive anyone that comes until -I'm ready. - -JUDITH (graciously giving her leave). Oh yes, certainly. Leave them to -me, Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. (She hangs her cloak and bonnet -on the rack.) - -MRS. DUDGEON (half sneering). I thought that would be more in your way -than getting the house ready. (Essie comes back.) Oh, here you are! -(Severely) Come here: let me see you. (Essie timidly goes to her. Mrs. -Dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the -results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself--results which show -little practice and less conviction.) Mm! That's what you call doing -your hair properly, I suppose. It's easy to see what you are, and how -you were brought up. (She throws her arms away, and goes on, -peremptorily.) Now you listen to me and do as you're told. You sit down -there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes don't dare -to speak until you're spoken to. (Essie creeps away to the fireplace.) -Your father's people had better see you and know you're there: they're -as much bound to keep you from starvation as I am. At any rate they -might help. But let me have no chattering and making free with them, as -if you were their equal. Do you hear? - -ESSIE. Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Well, then go and do as you're told. - -(Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest from -the door.) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson: you know who she is and what -she is. If she gives you any trouble, just tell me; and I'll settle -accounts with her. (Mrs. Dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the -door sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty -with a ruthless hand.) - -JUDITH (patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the table -more becomingly). You must not mind if your aunt is strict with you. -She is a very good woman, and desires your good too. - -ESSIE (in listless misery). Yes. - -JUDITH (annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled and edified, -and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark). You are not -going to be sullen, I hope, Essie. - -ESSIE. No. - -JUDITH. That's a good girl! (She places a couple of chairs at the table -with their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more -thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dudgeon.) Do you know any of your -father's relatives? - -ESSIE. No. They wouldn't have anything to do with him: they were too -religious. Father used to talk about Dick Dudgeon; but I never saw him. - -JUDITH (ostentatiously shocked). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: do you wish to be -a really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for -yourself here by steady good conduct? - -ESSIE (very half-heartedly). Yes. - -JUDITH. Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon--never -even think about him. He is a bad man. - -ESSIE. What has he done? - -JUDITH. You must not ask questions about him, Essie. You are too young -to know what it is to be a bad man. But he is a smuggler; and he lives -with gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he -wrestles and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church. Never -let him into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep -yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men. - -ESSIE. Yes. - -JUDITH (again displeased). I am afraid you say Yes and No without -thinking very deeply. - -ESSIE. Yes. At least I mean-- - -JUDITH (severely). What do you mean? - -ESSIE (almost crying). Only--my father was a smuggler; and-- (Someone -knocks.) - -JUDITH. They are beginning to come. Now remember your aunt's -directions, Essie; and be a good girl. (Christy comes back with the -stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, which he -places on the table.) Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the -door, please: the people have come. - -CHRISTY. Good morning. (He opens the house door.) - -The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Anderson, who is the -first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is accompanied by Lawyer -Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow -breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. He and Anderson are -allowed precedence as representing the learned professions. After them -comes the family, headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large, -shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His -clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a -prosperous man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little -terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both -free from the cares of the William household. - -Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest -the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He puts his hat on -the floor beside him, and produces the will. Uncle William comes to the -fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving Mrs. -William derelict near the door. Uncle Titus, who is the lady's man of -the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing -her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his -brother's. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with Judith. - -JUDITH. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait. (She taps at -the bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens it and -passes through.) - -ANDERSON (taking his place at the table at the opposite end to -Hawkins). Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. Are we -all here? - -CHRISTY (at the house door, which he has just shut). All except Dick. - -The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars on the -moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his head slowly and -repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath convulsively through her -nose. Her husband speaks. - -UNCLE TITUS. Well, I hope he will have the grace not to come. I hope so. - -The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes to the window -and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins smiles secretively as if -he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it. -Anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially -funereal ones, is not in his nature. Judith appears at the bedroom door. - -JUDITH (with gentle impressiveness). Friends, Mrs. Dudgeon. (She takes -the chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, -who comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her -eyes. All rise, except Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce -equally clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment.) - -UNCLE WILLIAM. Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a -prayer? - -UNCLE TITUS. Or sing a hymn? - -ANDERSON (rather hastily). I have been with our sister this morning -already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing. - -ALL (except Essie). Amen. - -They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. Dudgeon's -chair. - -JUDITH (to Essie). Essie: did you say Amen? - -ESSIE (scaredly). No. - -JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl. - -ESSIE. Amen. - -UNCLE WILLIAM (encouragingly). That's right: that's right. We know who -you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl -and deserve it. We are all equal before the Throne. - -This republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced -that the Throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often -questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded. - -CHRISTY (at the window). Here's Dick. - -Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a gleam of -interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy grins and gapes -expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified with the intensity of -their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting -Vice. The reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged -merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking member -of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner -defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only his -forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes -are the eyes of a fanatic. - -RICHARD (on the threshold, taking off his hat). Ladies and gentlemen: -your servant, your very humble servant. (With this comprehensive -insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a suddenness that makes him -jump like a negligent wicket keeper, and comes into the middle of the -room, where he turns and deliberately surveys the company.) How happy -you all look! how glad to see me! (He turns towards Mrs. Dudgeon's -chair; and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her -look of undisguised hatred.) Well, mother: keeping up appearances as -usual? that's right, that's right. (Judith pointedly moves away from -his neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt -instinctively as if to save it from contamination. Uncle Titus promptly -marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a -chair for her to sit down upon.) What! Uncle William! I haven't seen -you since you gave up drinking. (Poor Uncle William, shamed, would -protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding) you -have given it up, haven't you? (releasing him with a playful push) of -course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. (He turns away from -Uncle William and makes for the sofa.) And now, where is that upright -horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come forth. (He comes upon him -holding the chair as Judith sits down.) As usual, looking after the -ladies. - -UNCLE TITUS (indignantly). Be ashamed of yourself, sir-- - -RICHARD (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him). I am: -I am; but I am proud of my uncle--proud of all my relatives (again -surveying them) who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? -(Uncle Titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to -the table.) Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding -them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark. -Come! (with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the -decanter) clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times. - -ANDERSON. You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink before -dinner. - -RICHARD. You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used to drink before -breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons unction. (He smells the wine -and makes a wry face.) But do not begin on my mother's company sherry. -I stole some when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate man -ever since. (He puts the decanter down and changes the subject.) So I -hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife has a most ungodly -allowance of good looks. - -ANDERSON (quietly indicating Judith). Sir: you are in the presence of -my wife. (Judith rises and stands with stony propriety.) - -RICHARD (quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good -manners). Your servant, madam: no offence. (He looks at her earnestly.) -You deserve your reputation; but I'm sorry to see by your expression -that you're a good woman. - -(She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy -from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know that these -demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately -trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored.) All the same, -Pastor, I respect you more than I did before. By the way, did I hear, -or did I not, that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was -a father? - -UNCLE TITUS. He had only one irregular child, sir. - -RICHARD. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for you, Uncle -Titus. - -ANDERSON. Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her -grief. - -RICHARD. It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, what has become -of the irregular child? - -ANDERSON (pointing to Essie). There, sir, listening to you. - -RICHARD (shocked into sincerity). What! Why the devil didn't you tell -me that before? Children suffer enough in this house without-- (He -hurries remorsefully to Essie.) Come, little cousin! never mind me: it -was not meant to hurt you. (She looks up gratefully at him. Her -tearstained face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a -transport of wrath) Who has been making her cry? Who has been -ill-treating her? By God-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (rising and confronting him). Silence your blasphemous -tongue. I will hear no more of this. Leave my house. - -RICHARD. How do you know it's your house until the will is read? (They -look at one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she -sinks, checkmated, into her chair. Richard goes boldly up past Anderson -to the window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand.) Ladies and -gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head -of this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister Anderson: -by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the table for the head of -the family. (He places the chair at the table between the minister and -the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a -presidential air.) We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an -uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (He shakes his head -deploringly. The relatives freeze with horror.) That's right: pull your -longest faces (his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights -on Essie) provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child. -(Briskly.) Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: business, business. Get on with -the will, man. - -TITUS. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. Hawkins. - -HAWKINS (very politely and willingly). Mr. Dudgeon means no offence, I -feel sure. I will not keep you one second, Mr. Dudgeon. Just while I -get my glasses-- (he fumbles for them. The Dudgeons look at one another -with misgiving). - -RICHARD. Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. They are prepared -for the worst. A glass of wine to clear your voice before you begin. -(He pours out one for him and hands it; then pours one for himself.) - -HAWKINS. Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, sir. - -RICHARD. Yours, sir. (With the glass half way to his lips, he checks -himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, with quaint -intensity.) Will anyone oblige me with a glass of water? - -Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises -stealthily and slips out behind Mrs. Dudgeon through the bedroom door, -returning presently with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as -possible. - -HAWKINS. The will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology. - -RICHARD. No: my father died without the consolations of the law. - -HAWKINS. Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. (Preparing to read) Are -you ready, sir? - -RICHARD. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to receive, may the -Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead. - -HAWKINS (reading). "This is the last will and testament of me Timothy -Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the road from Springtown to -Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand -seven hundred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made -by me and declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am doing -and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections." - -RICHARD (glancing at his mother). Aha! - -HAWKINS (shaking his head). Bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. "I -give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son Christopher -Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to -Sarah Wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each -of his children up to the number of five." - -RICHARD. How if she won't have him? - -CHRISTY. She will if I have fifty pounds. - -RICHARD. Good, my brother. Proceed. - -HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dudgeon, born Annie -Primrose"--you see he did not know the law, Mr. Dudgeon: your mother -was not born Annie: she was christened so--"an annuity of fifty-two -pounds a year for life (Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds -herself convulsively rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own -money"--there's a way to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own money! - -MRS. DUDGEON. A very good way to put God's truth. It was every penny my -own. Fifty-two pounds a year! - -HAWKINS. "And I recommend her for her goodness and piety to the -forgiving care of her children, having stood between them and her as -far as I could to the best of my ability." - -MRS. DUDGEON. And this is my reward! (raging inwardly) You know what I -think, Mr. Anderson you know the word I gave to it. - -ANDERSON. It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We must take what comes to -us. (To Hawkins.) Go on, sir. - -HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath my house at Websterbridge with the land -belonging to it and all the rest of my property soever to my eldest son -and heir, Richard Dudgeon." - -RICHARD. Oho! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf. - -HAWKINS. "On these conditions--" - -RICHARD. The devil! Are there conditions? - -HAWKINS. "To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother Peter's -natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil life." - -RICHARD (emphatically, striking his fist on the table). Agreed. - -Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses her and -looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, seeing that -she has left the room without leave, closes her lips vengefully. - -HAWKINS. "Second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse Jim"-- -(again slacking his head) he should have written James, sir. - -RICHARD. James shall live in clover. Go on. - -HAWKINS. "--and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger Feston in his -service." - -RICHARD. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday. - -HAWKINS. "Third, that he make Christy a present on his marriage out of -the ornaments in the best room." - -RICHARD (holding up the stuffed birds). Here you are, Christy. - -CHRISTY (disappointed). I'd rather have the China peacocks. - -RICHARD. You shall have both. (Christy is greatly pleased.) Go on. - -HAWKINS. "Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his -mother as far as she will consent to it." - -RICHARD (dubiously). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins? - -HAWKINS (solemnly). "Finally I gave and bequeath my soul into my -Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, -and hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that I -have done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the -perplexity of my last hour in this strange place." - -ANDERSON. Amen. - -THE UNCLES AND AUNTS. Amen. - -RICHARD. My mother does not say Amen. - -MRS. DUDGEON (rising, unable to give up her property without a -struggle). Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will? Remember, I have his -rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me. - -HAWKINS. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, Mrs. -Dudgeon; though (turning politely to Richard) it contains in my -judgment an excellent disposal of his property. - -ANDERSON (interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort). That is not what -you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal will? - -HAWKINS. The courts will sustain it against the other. - -ANDERSON. But why, if the other is more lawfully worded? - -HAWKING. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man--and -that man the eldest son--against any woman, if they can. I warned you, -Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not -a wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, he would never -be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldn't take advice; and now Mr. -Richard is cock of the walk. (He takes his hat from the floor; rises; -and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.) - -This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson takes his -hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. Uncle Titus -fetches Judith her things from the rack. The three on the sofa rise and -chat with Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house, -stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it, -as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs -of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own -wormlike insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary -Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vindication -of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is -rescued from her apathy by Essie, who comes back with the jug full of -water. She is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her. - -MRS. DUDGEON (threatening her). Where have you been? (Essie, appalled, -tries to answer, but cannot.) How dare you go out by yourself after the -orders I gave you? - -ESSIE. He asked for a drink-- (she stops, her tongue cleaving to her -palate with terror). - -JUDITH (with gentler severity). Who asked for a drink? (Essie, -speechless, points to Richard.) - -RICHARD. What! I! - -JUDITH (shocked). Oh Essie, Essie! - -RICHARD. I believe I did. (He takes a glass and holds it to Essie to be -filled. Her hand shakes.) What! afraid of me? - -ESSIE (quickly). No. I-- (She pours out the water.) - -RICHARD (tasting it). Ah, you've been up the street to the market gate -spring to get that. (He takes a draught.) Delicious! Thank you. -(Unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of Judith's -face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident -attraction for Essie, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His -mocking expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass; -deliberately winds his arm round Essie's shoulders; and brings her into -the middle of the company. Mrs. Dudgeon being in Essie's way as they -come past the table, he says) By your leave, mother (and compels her to -make way for them). What do they call you? Bessie? - -ESSIE. Essie. - -RICHARD. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie? - -ESSIE (greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin at her -in this way) Yes. (She looks doubtfully at Judith.) I think so. I mean -I--I hope so. - -RICHARD. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil? - -ANDERSON (revolted). Shame on you, sir, with a mere child-- - -RICHARD. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your sermons: -do not you interrupt mine. (To Essie.) Do you know what they call me, -Essie? - -ESSIE. Dick. - -RICHARD (amused: patting her on the shoulder). Yes, Dick; but something -else too. They call me the Devil's Disciple. - -ESSIE. Why do you let them? - -RICHARD (seriously). Because it's true. I was brought up in the other -service; but I knew from the first that the Devil was my natural master -and captain and friend. I saw that he was in the right, and that the -world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to -him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in -this house of children's tears. I promised him my soul, and swore an -oath that I would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in -the next. (Solemnly) That promise and that oath made a man of me. From -this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it: this -hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark -evenings and be afraid. Now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you -good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of the -devil? - -JUDITH (coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about her). I -will. You should be burnt alive. - -ESSIE. But I don't want to. (She shrinks back, leaving Richard and -Judith face to face.) - -RICHARD (to Judith). Actually doesn't want to, most virtuous lady! - -UNCLE TITUS. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law-- - -RICHARD (turning threateningly on him). Have a care, you. In an hour -from this there will be no law here but martial law. I passed the -soldiers within six miles on my way here: before noon Major Swindon's -gallows for rebels will be up in the market place. - -ANDERSON (calmly). What have we to fear from that, sir? - -RICHARD. More than you think. He hanged the wrong man at Springtown: he -thought Uncle Peter was respectable, because the Dudgeons had a good -name. But his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he -can bring home a rebellious word. Well, we're all rebels; and you know -it. - -ALL THE MEN (except Anderson). No, no, no! - -RICHARD. Yes, you are. You haven't damned King George up hill and down -dale as I have; but you've prayed for his defeat; and you, Anthony -Anderson, have conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy -a pair of pistols. They mayn't hang me, perhaps; because the moral -effect of the Devil's Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn't help them. -But a Minister! (Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson) or a lawyer! -(Hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of himself) or an upright -horsedealer! (Uncle Titus snarls at him in rags and terror) or a -reformed drunkard (Uncle William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles -with fear) eh? Would that show that King George meant business--ha? - -ANDERSON (perfectly self-possessed). Come, my dear: he is only trying -to frighten you. There is no danger. (He takes her out of the house. -The rest crowd to the door to follow him, except Essie, who remains -near Richard.) - -RICHARD (boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of you will stay -with me; run up the American flag on the devil's house; and make a -fight for freedom? (They scramble out, Christy among them, hustling one -another in their haste.) Ha ha! Long live the devil! (To Mrs. Dudgeon, -who is following them) What mother! are you off too? - -MRS. DUDGEON (deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had -received a deathblow). My curse on you! My dying curse! (She goes out.) - -RICHARD (calling after her). It will bring me luck. Ha ha ha! - -ESSIE (anxiously). Mayn't I stay? - -RICHARD (turning to her). What! Have they forgotten to save your soul -in their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh yes: you may stay. (He -turns excitedly away again and shakes his fist after them. His left -fist, also clenched, hangs down. Essie seizes it and kisses it, her -tears falling on it. He starts and looks at it.) Tears! The devil's -baptism! (She falls on her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to -raise her, saying) Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like. - - - -ACT II - -Minister Anderson's house is in the main street of Websterbridge, not -far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth century New -Englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons; -but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at -about the same rent. The chief dwelling room has the same sort of -kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable -iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad -fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The -door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, -fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with -a latch. The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of -American cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. The tea service on -it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with -milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a -quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a -wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block -of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing the fire from the -opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament; -and the minister's house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing -that he is out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there. -His big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual -place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evolution of the -minister's kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate -apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of -our pampered period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons. - -But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs. Anderson -is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. To which Mrs. -Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no -children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and -sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at -fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in -short, that life is as easy at the minister's house as it is hard at -the farm. This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and -however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for making her home -happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and -visible signs of her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the -floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though -not upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are -represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a -copperplate of Raphael's St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo -presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of -miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and, -at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of the room -is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little -red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. There -is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed -back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole, -it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in -struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and -his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman -would have tolerated it fifty years ago. - -The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy -firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet -street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of -rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a -couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the -table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious -and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The -first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the -rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a -sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet -cloak. - -JUDITH (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last! (She -attempts to embrace him.) - -ANDERSON (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I'm wet. Wait till I -get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs -his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the -fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith.) Now! -(She flies into his arms.) I am not late, am I? The town clock struck -the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is -always fast. - -JUDITH. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad you're back. - -ANDERSON (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, my dear? - -JUDITH. A little. - -ANDERSON. Why, you've been crying. - -JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. (A bugle call is -heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats to the long -seat, listening.) What's that? - -ANDERSON (following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down -with him). Only King George, my dear. He's returning to barracks, or -having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or -saddling or something. Soldiers don't ring the bell or call over the -banisters when they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to -disturb the whole town. - -JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger? - -ANDERSON. Not the least in the world. - -JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it. - -ANDERSON. My dear: in this world there is always danger for those who -are afraid of it. There's a danger that the house will catch fire in -the night; but we shan't sleep any the less soundly for that. - -JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and you're quite right. Oh, -quite right: I know it. But--I suppose I'm not brave: that's all. My -heart shrinks every time I think of the soldiers. - -ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing -a little pain. - -JUDITH. Yes, I suppose so. (Embracing him again.) Oh how brave you are, -my dear! (With tears in her eyes.) Well, I'll be brave too: you shan't -be ashamed of your wife. - -ANDERSON. That's right. Now you make me happy. Well, well! (He rises -and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.) I called on Richard -Dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn't in. - -JUDITH (rising in consternation). You called on that man! - -ANDERSON (reassuring her). Oh, nothing happened, dearie. He was out. - -JUDITH (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to -her). But why did you go there? - -ANDERSON (gravely). Well, it is all the talk that Major Swindon is -going to do what he did in Springtown--make an example of some -notorious rebel, as he calls us. He pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the -worst character there; and it is the general belief that he will pounce -on Richard as the worst here. - -JUDITH. But Richard said-- - -ANDERSON (goodhumoredly cutting her short). Pooh! Richard said! He said -what he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear. He said -what perhaps (God forgive him!) he would like to believe. It's a -terrible thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that. I -felt that I must warn him. I left a message for him. - -JUDITH (querulously). What message? - -ANDERSON. Only that I should be glad to see him for a moment on a -matter of importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when -he was passing he would be welcome. - -JUDITH (aghast). You asked that man to come here! - -ANDERSON. I did. - -JUDITH (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). I hope he won't -come! Oh, I pray that he may not come! - -ANDERSON. Why? Don't you want him to be warned? - -JUDITH. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong to hate a -blasphemer and a villain? I do hate him! I can't get him out of my -mind: I know he will bring harm with him. He insulted you: he insulted -me: he insulted his mother. - -ANDERSON (quaintly). Well, dear, let's forgive him; and then it won't -matter. - -JUDITH. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; but-- - -ANDERSON (going over to her with humorous tenderness). Come, dear, -you're not so wicked as you think. The worst sin towards our fellow -creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that's -the essence of inhumanity. After all, my dear, if you watch people -carefully, you'll be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (She -starts, strangely touched--even appalled. He is amused at her.) Yes: -I'm quite in earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry -one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can't bear to -let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and -slave-owners than lovers. Think of those very same people with their -enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be -independent of one another, careful of how they speak of one -another--pooh! haven't you often thought that if they only knew it, -they were better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands -and wives? Come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of -Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. Eh? - -JUDITH. Oh, don't say that: don't say that, Tony, even in jest. You -don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me. - -ANDERSON (Laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He's a bad man; and -you hate him as he deserves. And you're going to make the tea, aren't -you? - -JUDITH (remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I've been keeping you waiting -all this time. (She goes to the fire and puts on the kettle.) - -ANDERSON (going to the press and taking his coat off). Have you -stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? - -JUDITH. Yes, dear. (She goes to the table, and sets about putting the -tea into the teapot from the caddy.) - -ANDERSON (as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the -press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). Did anyone -call when I was out? - -JUDITH. No, only-- (someone knocks at the door. With a start which -betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the -table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming) Who's -that? - -ANDERSON (going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder). -All right, pet, all right. He won't eat you, whoever he is. (She tries -to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. He goes to the door and opens -it. Richard is there, without overcoat or cloak.) You might have raised -the latch and come in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony with -us. (Hospitably.) Come in. (Richard comes in carelessly and stands at -the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose at -the mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her eyes on the tea -caddy.) Is it still raining? (He shuts the door.) - -RICHARD. Raining like the very (his eye catches Judith's as she looks -quickly and haughtily up)--I beg your pardon; but (showing that his -coat is wet) you see--! - -ANDERSON. Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a while: my -wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith: put in another spoonful of -tea for Mr. Dudgeon. - -RICHARD (eyeing him cynically). The magic of property, Pastor! Are even -YOU civil to me now that I have succeeded to my father's estate? - -Judith throws down the spoon indignantly. - -ANDERSON (quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his coat). I -think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you cannot have so -bad an opinion of it. Sit down. (With the coat in his hand, he points -to the railed seat. Richard, in his shirtsleeves, looks at him half -quarrelsomely for a moment; then, with a nod, acknowledges that the -minister has got the better of him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson -pushes his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and -hangs Richard's coat on the back in its place.) - -RICHARD. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left word you had -something important to tell me. - -ANDERSON. I have a warning which it is my duty to give you. - -RICHARD (quickly rising). You want to preach to me. Excuse me: I prefer -a walk in the rain. (He makes for his coat.) - -ANDERSON (stopping him). Don't be alarmed, sir; I am no great preacher. -You are quite safe. (Richard smiles in spite of himself. His glance -softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse. Anderson, seeing that he -has tamed him, now addresses him earnestly.) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in -danger in this town. - -RICHARD. What danger? - -ANDERSON. Your uncle's danger. Major Swindon's gallows. - -RICHARD. It is you who are in danger. I warned you-- - -ANDERSON (interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively). Yes, -yes, Mr. Dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town. And even if I -were in danger, I have duties here I must not forsake. But you are a -free man. Why should you run any risk? - -RICHARD. Do you think I should be any great loss, Minister? - -ANDERSON. I think that a man's life is worth saving, whoever it belongs -to. (Richard makes him an ironical bow. Anderson returns the bow -humorously.) Come: you'll have a cup of tea, to prevent you catching -cold? - -RICHARD. I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so pressing as you -are, Pastor. - -JUDITH (almost stifled with resentment, which she has been expecting -her husband to share and express for her at every insult of Richard's). -You are welcome for my husband's sake. (She brings the teapot to the -fireplace and sets it on the hob.) - -RICHARD. I know I am not welcome for my own, madam. (He rises.) But I -think I will not break bread here, Minister. - -ANDERSON (cheerily). Give me a good reason for that. - -RICHARD. Because there is something in you that I respect, and that -makes me desire to have you for my enemy. - -ANDERSON. That's well said. On those terms, sir, I will accept your -enmity or any man's. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will stay to tea. Sit down: it -will take a few minutes to draw by the fire. (Richard glances at him -with a troubled face; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a -convulsive swelling of his throat.) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. -Dudgeon, that enmity-- (she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at -him, doing both with an intensity that checks him at once) Well, well, -I mustn't tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse -friend--enemies, I mean. Judith is a great enemy of yours. - -RICHARD. If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson I should be the best -Christian in America. - -ANDERSON (gratified, patting her hand). You hear that, Judith? Mr. -Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment. - -The latch is lifted from without. - -JUDITH (starting). Who is that? - -Christy comes in. - -CHRISTY (stopping and staring at Richard). Oh, are YOU here? - -RICHARD. Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn't want the whole -family to tea at once. - -CHRISTY (coming further in). Mother's very ill. - -RICHARD. Well, does she want to see ME? - -CHRISTY. No. - -RICHARD. I thought not. - -CHRISTY. She wants to see the minister--at once. - -JUDITH (to Anderson). Oh, not before you've had some tea. - -ANDERSON. I shall enjoy it more when I come back, dear. (He is about to -take up his cloak.) - -CHRISTY. The rain's over. - -ANDERSON (dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from the fender). -Where is your mother, Christy? - -CHRISTY. At Uncle Titus's. - -ANDERSON. Have you fetched the doctor? - -CHRISTY. No: she didn't tell me to. - -ANDERSON. Go on there at once: I'll overtake you on his doorstep. -(Christy turns to go.) Wait a moment. Your brother must be anxious to -know the particulars. - -RICHARD. Psha! not I: he doesn't know; and I don't care. (Violently.) -Be off, you oaf. (Christy runs out. Richard adds, a little -shamefacedly) We shall know soon enough. - -ANDERSON. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself. -Judith: will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until I -return? - -JUDITH (white and trembling). Must I-- - -ANDERSON (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her -agitation). My dear: I can depend on you? - -JUDITH (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). Yes. - -ANDERSON (pressing her hand against his cheek). You will not mind two -old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) I shall not say good evening: -you will be here when I come back. (He goes out.) - -They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly, -quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the -first to pull himself together. - -RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the nature of your -sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude on you. Good evening. (Again -he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.) - -JUDITH (getting between him and the coat). No, no. Don't go: please -don't go. - -RICHARD (roughly). Why? You don't want me here. - -JUDITH. Yes, I-- (wringing her hands in despair) Oh, if I tell you the -truth, you will use it to torment me. - -RICHARD (indignantly). Torment! What right have you to say that? Do you -expect me to stay after that? - -JUDITH. I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an angry -child) it is not because I like you. - -RICHARD. Indeed! - -JUDITH. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me about that. I hate -and dread you; and my husband knows it. If you are not here when he -comes back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and drove you away. - -RICHARD (ironically). Whereas, of course, you have really been so kind -and hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go away out of -mere contrariness, eh? - -Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears. - -RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don't do that. (Putting his hand -to his breast as if to a wound.) He wrung my heart by being a man. Need -you tear it by being a woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, -like himself? (She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking -at him with a scared curiosity.) There: that's right. -(Sympathetically.) You're better now, aren't you? (He puts his hand -encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises haughtily, and -stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into his usual sardonic -tone.) Ah, that's better. You are yourself again: so is Richard. Well, -shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your -husband's return? - -JUDITH (rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I--I am sorry to -have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the plate of toast from -the fender.) - -RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am--what I am. Allow me. (He -takes the plate from her and goes with it to the table.) - -JUDITH (following with the teapot). Will you sit down? (He sits down at -the end of the table nearest the press. There is a plate and knife laid -there. The other plate is laid near it; but Judith stays at the -opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there, -drawing the tray towards her.) Do you take sugar? - -RICHARD. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some toast. (He puts -some on the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. The -action shows quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual -place so as to be as far from him as possible.) - -JUDITH (consciously). Thanks. (She gives him his tea.) Won't you help -yourself? - -RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she -pours out tea for herself.) - -JUDITH (observing that he tastes nothing). Don't you like it? You are -not eating anything. - -RICHARD. Neither are you. - -JUDITH (nervously). I never care much for my tea. Please don't mind me. - -RICHARD (Looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is all so strange -to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this home: I think I have -never been more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet I know -quite well I could never live here. It's not in my nature, I suppose, -to be domesticated. But it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. (He -muses a moment, and then laughs softly.) - -JUDITH (quickly). Why do you laugh? - -RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would -take us for man and wife. - -JUDITH (taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you are more my age -than he is. - -RICHARD (staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought of such a -thing. (Sardonic again.) I see there is another side to domestic joy. - -JUDITH (angrily). I would rather have a husband whom everybody respects -than--than-- - -RICHARD. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; but I daresay your -love helps him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad -one. - -JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He has forgiven you for -insulting him, and is trying to save you. Can you not forgive him for -being so much better than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting -yourself in his place? - -RICHARD. Did I? - -JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in they would take -us for man and-- (she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of soldiers -tramps past the window) The English soldiers! Oh, what do they-- - -RICHARD (listening). Sh! - -A VOICE (outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me. - -Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at Richard, -who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the -latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English sergeant walks into -the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. He comes -promptly to the table between them. - -THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony Anderson: I -arrest you in King George's name as a rebel. - -JUDITH (pointing at Richard). But that is not-- (He looks up quickly at -her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth hastily with the hand she -has raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly.) - -THE SERGEANT. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come along. - -RICHARD. Yes: I'll come. (He rises and takes a step towards his own -coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant, -moves his gaze slowly round the room without turning his head until he -sees Anderson's black coat hanging up on the press. He goes composedly -to it; takes it down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson -tickles him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then -smiles slyly at Judith, whose white face shows him that what she is -painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its -horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of -handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly) Did you ever arrest a -man of my cloth before, Sergeant? - -THE SERGEANT (instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, half to -Richard's good breeding). Well, no sir. At least, only an army -chaplain. (Showing the handcuffs.) I'm sorry, sir; but duty-- - -RICHARD. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of them: thank you -kindly for the apology. (He holds out his hands.) - -SERGEANT (not availing himself of the offer). One gentleman to another, -sir. Wouldn't you like to say a word to your missis, sir, before you go? - -RICHARD (smiling). Oh, we shall meet again before--eh? (Meaning "before -you hang me.") - -SERGEANT (loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). Oh, of course, of -course. No call for the lady to distress herself. Still-- (in a lower -voice, intended for Richard alone) your last chance, sir. - -They look at one another significantly for a moment. Than Richard -exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith. - -RICHARD (very distinctly). My love. (She looks at him, pitiably pale, -and tries to answer, but cannot--tries also to come to him, but cannot -trust herself to stand without the support of the table.) This gallant -gentleman is good enough to allow us a moment of leavetaking. (The -sergeant retires delicately and joins his men near the door.) He is -trying to spare you the truth; but you had better know it. Are you -listening to me? (She signifies assent.) Do you understand that I am -going to my death? (She signifies that she understands.) Remember, you -must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you understand? (She -signifies yes.) See that you get him safely out of harm's way. Don't -for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out, tell -him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and they would not -spare me. And tell him that I am steadfast in my religion as he is in -his, and that he may depend on me to the death. (He turns to go, and -meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. He -considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to Judith with -something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says) And now, -my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love me -like a wife unless you give one kiss before I go. - -He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the table and -almost falls into them. - -JUDITH (the words choking her). I ought to--it's murder-- - -RICHARD. No: only a kiss (softly to her) for his sake. - -JUDITH. I can't. You must-- - -RICHARD (folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion for her -distress). My poor girl! - -Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses him; -and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if the kiss -had killed her. - -RICHARD (going quickly to the sergeant). Now, Sergeant: quick, before -she comes to. The handcuffs. (He puts out his hands.) - -SERGEANT (pocketing them). Never mind, sir: I'll trust you. You're a -game one. You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Between them two, please. -(The soldiers place themselves one before Richard and one behind him. -The sergeant opens the door.) - -RICHARD (taking a last look round him). Goodbye, wife: goodbye, home. -Muffle the drums, and quick march! - -The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They file out -quickly. - - * * * * * - -When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon's he is astonished to find the -room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for the glow from -the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and the other is at its -last flicker. - -ANDERSON. Why, what on earth--? (Calling) Judith, Judith! (He listens: -there is no answer.) Hm! (He goes to the cupboard; takes a candle from -the drawer; lights it at the flicker of the expiring one on the table; -and looks wonderingly at the untasted meal by its light. Then he sticks -it in the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much -puzzled. This action causes him to look at the floor for the first -time; and there he sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. -He runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) Judith. - -JUDITH (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of exhaustion -after suffering). Yes. Did you call? What's the matter? - -ANDERSON. I've just come in and found you lying here with the candles -burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. What has happened? - -JUDITH (still astray). I don't know. Have I been asleep? I suppose-- -(she stops blankly) I don't know. - -ANDERSON (groaning). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with that -scoundrel. (Judith remembers. With an agonized cry, she clutches his -shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her. He clasps -her tenderly in his arms.) My poor pet! - -JUDITH (frantically clinging to him). What shall I do? Oh my God, what -shall I do? - -ANDERSON. Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my fault. -Come: you're safe now; and you're not hurt, are you? (He takes his arms -from her to see whether she can stand.) There: that's right, that's -right. If only you are not hurt, nothing else matters. - -JUDITH. No, no, no: I'm not hurt. - -ANDERSON. Thank Heaven for that! Come now: (leading her to the railed -seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and rest: you can -tell me about it to-morrow. Or, (misunderstanding her distress) you -shall not tell me at all if it worries you. There, there! (Cheerfully.) -I'll make you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. (He goes to -the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl.) - -JUDITH (in a strained tone). Tony. - -ANDERSON. Yes, dear? - -JUDITH. Do you think we are only in a dream now? - -ANDERSON (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, -though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the -pot). Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well dream a cup of tea when -you're about it. - -JUDITH. Oh, stop, stop. You don't know-- (Distracted she buries her -face in her knotted hands.) - -ANDERSON (breaking down and coming to her). My dear, what is it? I -can't bear it any longer: you must tell me. It was all my fault: I was -mad to trust him. - -JUDITH. No: don't say that. You mustn't say that. He--oh no, no: I -can't. Tony: don't speak to me. Take my hands--both my hands. (He takes -them, wondering.) Make me think of you, not of him. There's danger, -frightful danger; but it is your danger; and I can't keep thinking of -it: I can't, I can't: my mind goes back to his danger. He must be -saved--no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (She springs up as if to -do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) Oh, Heaven help me! - -ANDERSON (keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute -composure). Calmly, calmly, my pet. You're quite distracted. - -JUDITH. I may well be. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to -do. (Tearing her hands away.) I must save him. (Anderson rises in alarm -as she runs wildly to the door. It is opened in her face by Essie, who -hurries in, full of anxiety. The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith -that it brings her to her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she -demands) What do you want? - -ESSIE. I was to come to you. - -ANDERSON. Who told you to? - -ESSIE (staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). Are you here? - -JUDITH. Of course. Don't be foolish, child. - -ANDERSON. Gently, dearest: you'll frighten her. (Going between them.) -Come here, Essie. (She comes to him.) Who sent you? - -ESSIE. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to come here at once -and do whatever Mrs. Anderson told me. - -ANDERSON (enlightened). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! They have -arrested Richard. (Judith makes a gesture of despair.) - -ESSIE. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the soldier said you -had been taken-- - -ANDERSON. I! (Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an explanation.) - -JUDITH (coaxingly) All right, dear: I understand. (To Essie.) Thank -you, Essie, for coming; but I don't need you now. You may go home. - -ESSIE (suspicious) Are you sure Dick has not been touched? Perhaps he -told the soldier to say it was the minister. (Anxiously.) Mrs. -Anderson: do you think it can have been that? - -ANDERSON. Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She will learn it -from the first neighbor she meets in the street. (Judith turns away and -covers her eyes with her hands.) - -ESSIE (wailing). But what will they do to him? Oh, what will they do to -him? Will they hang him? (Judith shudders convulsively, and throws -herself into the chair in which Richard sat at the tea table.) - -ANDERSON (patting Essie's shoulder and trying to comfort her). I hope -not. I hope not. Perhaps if you're very quiet and patient, we may be -able to help him in some way. - -ESSIE. Yes--help him--yes, yes, yes. I'll be good. - -ANDERSON. I must go to him at once, Judith. - -JUDITH (springing up). Oh no. You must go away--far away, to some place -of safety. - -ANDERSON. Pooh! - -JUDITH (passionately). Do you want to kill me? Do you think I can bear -to live for days and days with every knock at the door--every -footstep--giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for nights and -nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to come and arrest you? - -ANDERSON. Do you think it would be better to know that I had run away -from my post at the first sign of danger? - -JUDITH (bitterly). Oh, you won't go. I know it. You'll stay; and I -shall go mad. - -ANDERSON. My dear, your duty-- - -JUDITH (fiercely). What do I care about my duty? - -ANDERSON (shocked). Judith! - -JUDITH. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. My duty is to get -you away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (Essie utters a cry of -distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing silently.) My -instinct is the same as hers--to save him above all things, though it -would be so much better for him to die! so much greater! But I know you -will take your own way as he took it. I have no power. (She sits down -sullenly on the railed seat.) I'm only a woman: I can do nothing but -sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save you--that I did my -best to save you. - -ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more of his own -danger than of mine. - -JUDITH. Stop; or I shall hate you. - -ANDERSON (remonstrating). Come, am I to leave you if you talk like -this! your senses. (He turns to Essie.) Essie. - -ESSIE (eagerly rising and drying her eyes). Yes? - -ANDERSON. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs. Anderson -is not well. (Essie looks doubtful.) Never fear: I'll come to you -presently; and I'll go to Dick. - -ESSIE. You are sure you will go to him? (Whispering.) You won't let her -prevent you? - -ANDERSON (smiling). No, no: it's all right. All right. (She goes.) -That's a good girl. (He closes the door, and returns to Judith.) - -JUDITH (seated--rigid). You are going to your death. - -ANDERSON (quaintly). Then I shall go in my best coat, dear. (He turns -to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) Where--? (He stares at -the empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; -strides across to it; and lifts Richard's coat.) Why, my dear, it seems -that he has gone in my best coat. - -JUDITH (still motionless). Yes. - -ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake? - -JUDITH. Yes: they made a mistake. - -ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was too upset, I -suppose. - -JUDITH. Yes: he might have told them. So might I. - -ANDERSON. Well, it's all very puzzling--almost funny. It's curious how -these little things strike us even in the most-- (he breaks off and -begins putting on Richard's coat) I'd better take him his own coat. I -know what he'll say-- (imitating Richard's sardonic manner) "Anxious -about my soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat." Eh? - -JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (Vacantly.) It -doesn't matter: I shall never see either of you again. - -ANDERSON (rallying her). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (He sits down beside -her.) Is this how you keep your promise that I shan't be ashamed of my -brave wife? - -JUDITH. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my promises to him: -why should I keep my promises to you? - -ANDERSON. Don't speak so strangely, my love. It sounds insincere to me. -(She looks unutterable reproach at him.) Yes, dear, nonsense is always -insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. Just nonsense. (Her face -darkens into dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her, and does -not look at him again, absorbed in Richard's fate. He scans her face; -sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making -no further effort to conceal his anxiety.) I wish I knew what has -frightened you so. Was there a struggle? Did he fight? - -JUDITH. No. He smiled. - -ANDERSON. Did he realise his danger, do you think? - -JUDITH. He realised yours. - -ANDERSON. Mine! - -JUDITH (monotonously). He said, "See that you get him safely out of -harm's way." I promised: I can't keep my promise. He said, "Don't for -your life let him know of my danger." I've told you of it. He said that -if you found it out, you could not save him--that they will hang him -and not spare you. - -ANDERSON (rising in generous indignation). And you think that I will -let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, when a few words -might make him die like a Christian? I'm ashamed of you, Judith. - -JUDITH. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; and -you may depend on him to the death. He said so. - -ANDERSON. God forgive him! What else did he say? - -JUDITH. He said goodbye. - -ANDERSON (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). Poor -fellow, poor fellow! You said goodbye to him in all kindness and -charity, Judith, I hope. - -JUDITH. I kissed him. - -ANDERSON. What! Judith! - -JUDITH. Are you angry? - -ANDERSON. No, no. You were right: you were right. Poor fellow, poor -fellow! (Greatly distressed.) To be hanged like that at his age! And -then did they take him away? - -JUDITH (wearily). Then you were here: that's the next thing I remember. -I suppose I fainted. Now bid me goodbye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint -again. I wish I could die. - -ANDERSON. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be -sensible. I am in no danger--not the least in the world. - -JUDITH (solemnly). You are going to your death, Tony--your sure death, -if God will let innocent men be murdered. They will not let you see -him: they will arrest you the moment you give your name. It was for you -the soldiers came. - -ANDERSON (thunderstruck). For me!!! (His fists clinch; his neck -thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes become -injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, transfigured into a -choleric and formidable man of war. Still, she does not come out of her -absorption to look at him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical -reflection of Richard's stead-fastness.) - -JUDITH. He took your place: he is dying to save you. That is why he -went in your coat. That is why I kissed him. - -ANDERSON (exploding). Blood an' owns! (His voice is rough and dominant, -his gesture full of brute energy.) Here! Essie, Essie! - -ESSIE (running in). Yes. - -ANDERSON (impetuously). Off with you as hard as you can run, to the -inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they have -(Judith rises breathless, and stares at him incredulously)--the -chestnut mare, if she's fresh--without a moment's delay. Go into the -stable yard and tell the black man there that I'll give him a silver -dollar if the horse is waiting for me when I come, and that I am close -on your heels. Away with you. (His energy sends Essie flying from the -room. He pounces on his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at -the fire; and begins pulling them on.) - -JUDITH (unable to believe such a thing of him). You are not going to -him! - -ANDERSON (busy with the boots). Going to him! What good would that do? -(Growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with a wrench) I'll -go to them, so I will. (To Judith peremptorily) Get me the pistols: I -want them. And money, money: I want money--all the money in the house. -(He stoops over the other boot, grumbling) A great satisfaction it -would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (He pulls on the -boot.) - -JUDITH. You are deserting him, then? - -ANDERSON. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols. (She goes to -the press and takes from it a leather belt with two pistols, a powder -horn, and a bag of bullets attached to it. She throws it on the table. -Then she unlocks a drawer in the press and takes out a purse. Anderson -grabs the belt and buckles it on, saying) If they took him for me in my -coat, perhaps they'll take me for him in his. (Hitching the belt into -its place) Do I look like him? - -JUDITH (turning with the purse in her hand). Horribly unlike him. - -ANDERSON (snatching the purse from her and emptying it on the table). -Hm! We shall see. - -JUDITH (sitting down helplessly). Is it of any use to pray, do you -think, Tony? - -ANDERSON (counting the money). Pray! Can we pray Swindon's rope off -Richard's neck? - -JUDITH. God may soften Major Swindon's heart. - -ANDERSON (contemptuously--pocketing a handful of money). Let him, then. -I am not God; and I must go to work another way. (Judith gasps at the -blasphemy. He throws the purse on the table.) Keep that. I've taken 25 -dollars. - -JUDITH. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister? - -ANDERSON. Minister be--faugh! My hat: where's my hat? (He snatches up -hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot haste.) Now listen, you. If you -can get a word with him by pretending you're his wife, tell him to hold -his tongue until morning: that will give me all the start I need. - -JUDITH (solemnly). You may depend on him to the death. - -ANDERSON. You're a fool, a fool, Judith (for a moment checking the -torrent of his haste, and speaking with something of his old quiet and -impressive conviction). You don't know the man you're married to. -(Essie returns. He swoops at her at once.) Well: is the horse ready? - -ESSIE (breathless). It will be ready when you come. - -ANDERSON. Good. (He makes for the door.) - -JUDITH (rising and stretching out her arms after him involuntarily). -Won't you say goodbye? - -ANDERSON. And waste another half minute! Psha! (He rushes out like an -avalanche.) - -ESSIE (hurrying to Judith). He has gone to save Richard, hasn't he? - -JUDITH. To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. He has gone to save -himself. Richard must die. - -Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her face. -Judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in front of her, at -the vision of Richard, dying. - - - -ACT III - -Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters in the -Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room, -and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad night, probably a rather -delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed -gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held. - -The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is -sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine figure of a -man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified, -in a respectful way, to console her. - -SERGEANT. You can have a quiet word with him here, mum. - -JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait? - -SERGEANT. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the Bridewell for the -night; and he's just been brought over here for the court martial. -Don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good -breakfast. - -JUDITH (incredulously). He is in good spirits! - -SERGEANT. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see him last night; -and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. He spent it among -us like the gentleman he is. Duty's duty, mum, of course; but you're -among friends here. (The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard -approaching.) There: I think he's coming. (Richard comes in, without a -sign of care or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the two -soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand. They -withdraw.) Your good lady, sir. - -RICHARD (going to her). What! My wife. My adored one. (He takes her -hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.) How long do -you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, Sergeant? - -SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you till the -court sits. - -RICHARD. But it has struck the hour. - -SERGEANT. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General Burgoyne's just -arrived--Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir--and he won't have done -finding fault with everything this side of half past. I know him, sir: -I served with him in Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir; -and by your leave I won't waste any more of them. (He goes out, locking -the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and turns to -Judith with considerate sincerity.) - -RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. And how are you -after last night? I had to leave you before you recovered; but I sent -word to Essie to go and look after you. Did she understand the message? - -JUDITH (breathless and urgent). Oh, don't think of me: I haven't come -here to talk about myself. Are they going to--to-- (meaning "to hang -you")? - -RICHARD (whimsically). At noon, punctually. At least, that was when -they disposed of Uncle Peter. (She shudders.) Is your husband safe? Is -he on the wing? - -JUDITH. He is no longer my husband. - -RICHARD (opening his eyes wide). Eh! - -JUDITH. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I expected him to come -here and save you. I wanted him to come here and save you. He ran away -instead. - -RICHARD. Well, that's what I meant him to do. What good would his -staying have done? They'd only have hanged us both. - -JUDITH (with reproachful earnestness). Richard Dudgeon: on your honour, -what would you have done in his place? - -RICHARD. Exactly what he has done, of course. - -JUDITH. Oh, why will you not be simple with me--honest and -straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, why did you let them -take you last night? - -RICHARD (gaily). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don't know. I've been -asking myself that question ever since; and I can find no manner of -reason for acting as I did. - -JUDITH. You know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more -worthy man than yourself. - -RICHARD (laughing). Oho! No: that's a very pretty reason, I must say; -but I'm not so modest as that. No: it wasn't for his sake. - -JUDITH (after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, -blushing painfully). Was it for my sake? - -RICHARD (gallantly). Well, you had a hand in it. It must have been a -little for your sake. You let them take me, at all events. - -JUDITH. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself that all night? -Your death will be at my door. (Impulsively, she gives him her hand, -and adds, with intense earnestness) If I could save you as you saved -him, I would do it, no matter how cruel the death was. - -RICHARD (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm's -length). I am very sure I shouldn't let you. - -JUDITH. Don't you see that I can save you? - -RICHARD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh? - -JUDITH (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it). Don't (meaning -"Don't jest"). No: by telling the Court who you really are. - -RICHARD (frowning). No use: they wouldn't spare me; and it would spoil -half of his chance of escaping. They are determined to cow us by making -an example of somebody on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by -showing that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the only -force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make America -a nation. - -JUDITH (impatiently). Oh, what does all that matter? - -RICHARD (laughing). True: what does it matter? what does anything -matter? You see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; and -women see the folly of them. - -JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through them. - -RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers. - -JUDITH (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise that you are going -to kill yourself? - -RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson. Don't be -concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (Smiling) -Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead? - -JUDITH. Dead! - -RICHARD. Of heart disease--in the night. Her last word to me was her -curse: I don't think I could have borne her blessing. My other -relatives will not grieve much on my account. Essie will cry for a day -or two; but I have provided for her: I made my own will last night. - -JUDITH (stonily, after a moment's silence). And I! - -RICHARD (surprised). You? - -JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all? - -RICHARD (gaily and bluntly). Not a scrap. Oh, you expressed your -feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. What happened may have -softened you for the moment; but believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don't -like a bone in my skin or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a -riddance at 12 today as I should have been at 12 yesterday. - -JUDITH (her voice trembling). What can I do to show you that you are -mistaken? - -RICHARD. Don't trouble. I'll give you credit for liking me a little -better than you did. All I say is that my death will not break your -heart. - -JUDITH (almost in a whisper). How do you know? (She puts her hands on -his shoulders and looks intently at him.) - -RICHARD (amazed--divining the truth). Mrs. Anderson!!! (The bell of the -town clock strikes the quarter. He collects himself, and removes her -hands, saying rather coldly) Excuse me: they will be here for me -presently. It is too late. - -JUDITH. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will never kill -you when they know how heroically you have acted. - -RICHARD (with some scorn). Indeed! But if I don't go through with it, -where will the heroism be? I shall simply have tricked them; and -they'll hang me for that like a dog. Serve me right too! - -JUDITH (wildly). Oh, I believe you WANT to die. - -RICHARD (obstinately). No I don't. - -JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you--listen. You -said just now that you saved him for my sake--yes (clutching him as he -recoils with a gesture of denial) a little for my sake. Well, save -yourself for my sake. And I will go with you to the end of the world. - -RICHARD (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from -him, looking steadily at her). Judith. - -JUDITH (breathless--delighted at the name). Yes. - -RICHARD. If I said--to please you--that I did what I did ever so little -for your sake, I lied as men always lie to women. You know how much I -have lived with worthless men--aye, and worthless women too. Well, they -could all rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in -love. (The word love comes from him with true Puritan scorn.) That has -taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out -red hot. What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so -much for your husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she droops, stricken) -as I do for myself. I had no motive and no interest: all I can tell you -is that when it came to the point whether I would take my neck out of -the noose and put another man's into it, I could not do it. I don't -know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could not and -I cannot. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own nature; -and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (She has slowly -raised her head and is now looking full at him.) I should have done the -same for any other man in the town, or any other man's wife. (Releasing -her.) Do you understand that? - -JUDITH. Yes: you mean that you do not love me. - -RICHARD (revolted--with fierce contempt). Is that all it means to you? - -JUDITH. What more--what worse--can it mean to me? - -(The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart.) Oh, one -moment more. (She throws herself on her knees.) I pray to you-- - -RICHARD. Hush! (Calling) Come in. (The sergeant unlocks the door and -opens it. The guard is with him.) - -SERGEANT (coming in). Time's up, sir. - -RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He attempts to raise -her.) - -JUDITH (clinging to him). Only one thing more--I entreat, I implore -you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen Major Swindon: he said -I should be allowed if you asked it. You will ask it. It is my last -request: I shall never ask you anything again. (She clasps his knee.) I -beg and pray it of you. - -RICHARD. If I do, will you be silent? - -JUDITH. Yes. - -RICHARD. You will keep faith? - -JUDITH. I will keep-- (She breaks down, sobbing.) - -RICHARD (taking her arm to lift her). Just--her other arm, Sergeant. - -They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men. - -Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial. It is a -large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall -canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram -G. R. In front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a -bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it. Several chairs are -set at the table. The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the -chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major -Swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about -45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. He -is alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner -which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his presence -felt rather heavily. - -SERGEANT. The General, sir. - -Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the sergeant goes out. -General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. He is a man of -fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an -elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies, -aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high -military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and -intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine -nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less -force than go to the making of a first rate general. Just now the eyes -are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense. - -BURGOYNE. Major Swindon, I presume. - -SWINDON. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. (They bow to one -another ceremoniously.) I am glad to have the support of your presence -this morning. It is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor -devil of a minister. - -BURGOYNE (throwing himself onto Swindon's chair). No, sir, it is not. -It is making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you -have done if he had been a member of the Church of England? Martyrdom, -sir, is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can -become famous without ability. However, you have committed us to -hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged the better. - -SWINDON. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing remains to be done -except to try him. - -BURGOYNE (looking at him with suppressed anger). Nothing--except to -save our own necks, perhaps. Have you heard the news from Springtown? - -SWINDON. Nothing special. The latest reports are satisfactory. - -BURGOYNE (rising in amazement). Satisfactory, sir! Satisfactory!! (He -stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim intensity) I am -glad you take that view of them. - -SWINDON (puzzled). Do I understand that in your opinion-- - -BURGOYNE. I do not express my opinion. I never stoop to that habit of -profane language which unfortunately coarsens our profession. If I did, -sir, perhaps I should be able to express my opinion of the news from -Springtown--the news which YOU (severely) have apparently not heard. -How soon do you get news from your supports here?--in the course of a -month eh? - -SWINDON (turning sulky). I suppose the reports have been taken to you, -sir, instead of to me. Is there anything serious? - -BURGOYNE (taking a report from his pocket and holding it up). -Springtown's in the hands of the rebels. (He throws the report on the -table.) - -SWINDON (aghast). Since yesterday! - -BURGOYNE. Since two o'clock this morning. Perhaps WE shall be in their -hands before two o'clock to-morrow morning. Have you thought of that? - -SWINDON (confidently). As to that, General, the British soldier will -give a good account of himself. - -BURGOYNE (bitterly). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the British officer -need not know his business: the British soldier will get him out of all -his blunders with the bayonet. In future, sir, I must ask you to be a -little less generous with the blood of your men, and a little more -generous with your own brains. - -SWINDON. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual eminence, -sir. I can only do my best, and rely on the devotion of my countrymen. - -BURGOYNE (suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). May I ask are you -writing a melodrama, Major Swindon? - -SWINDON (flushing). No, sir. - -BURGOYNE. What a pity! WHAT a pity! (Dropping his sarcastic tone and -facing him suddenly and seriously) Do you at all realize, sir, that we -have nothing standing between us and destruction but our own bluff and -the sheepishness of these colonists? They are men of the same English -stock as ourselves: six to one of us (repeating it emphatically), six -to one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians, Brunswickers, -German dragoons, and Indians with scalping knives. These are the -countrymen on whose devotion you rely! Suppose the colonists find a -leader! Suppose the news from Springtown should turn out to mean that -they have already found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh? - -SWINDON (sullenly). Our duty, sir, I presume. - -BURGOYNE (again sarcastic--giving him up as a fool). Quite so, quite -so. Thank you, Major Swindon, thank you. Now you've settled the -question, sir--thrown a flood of light on the situation. What a comfort -to me to feel that I have at my side so devoted and able an officer to -support me in this emergency! I think, sir, it will probably relieve -both our feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further -delay (he strikes the bell), especially as I am debarred by my -principles from the customary military vent for my feelings. (The -sergeant appears.) Bring your man in. - -SERGEANT. Yes, sir. - -BURGOYNE. And mention to any officer you may meet that the court cannot -wait any longer for him. - -SWINDON (keeping his temper with difficulty). The staff is perfectly -ready, sir. They have been waiting your convenience for fully half an -hour. PERFECTLY ready, sir. - -BURGOYNE (blandly). So am I. (Several officers come in and take their -seats. One of them sits at the end of the table furthest from the door, -and acts throughout as clerk to the court, making notes of the -proceedings. The uniforms are those of the 9th, 20th, 21st, 24th, 47th, -53rd, and 62nd British Infantry. One officer is a Major General of the -Royal Artillery. There are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles, -and of German dragoon and Brunswicker regiments.) Oh, good morning, -gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good of you to spare -us a few moments. - -SWINDON. Will you preside, sir? - -BURGOYNE (becoming additionally, polished, lofty, sarcastic and urbane -now that he is in public). No, sir: I feel my own deficiencies too -keenly to presume so far. If you will kindly allow me, I will sit at -the feet of Gamaliel. (He takes the chair at the end of the table next -the door, and motions Swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to -be seated before sitting himself.) - -SWINDON (greatly annoyed). As you please, sir. I am only trying to do -my duty under excessively trying circumstances. (He takes his place in -the chair of state.) - -Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, sits down and -begins to read the report with knitted brows and careworn looks, -reflecting on his desperate situation and Swindon's uselessness. -Richard is brought in. Judith walks beside him. Two soldiers precede -and two follow him, with the sergeant in command. They cross the room -to the wall opposite the door; but when Richard has just passed before -the chair of state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and -posts himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at the -wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her. - -BURGOYNE (looking up and seeing Judith). Who is that woman? - -SERGEANT. Prisoner's wife, sir. - -SWINDON (nervously). She begged me to allow her to be present; and I -thought-- - -BURGOYNE (completing the sentence for him ironically). You thought it -would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. (Blandly) Give the -lady a chair; and make her thoroughly comfortable. - -The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard. - -JUDITH. Thank you, sir. (She sits down after an awe-stricken curtsy to -Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of his head.) - -SWINDON (to Richard, sharply). Your name, sir? - -RICHARD (affable, but obstinate). Come: you don't mean to say that -you've brought me here without knowing who I am? - -SWINDON. As a matter of form, sir, give your name. - -RICHARD. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony Anderson, -Presbyterian minister in this town. - -BURGOYNE (interested). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, what do you -gentlemen believe? - -RICHARD. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. I cannot -undertake to complete your conversion in less than a fortnight. - -SWINDON (snubbing him). We are not here to discuss your views. - -BURGOYNE (with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate Swindon). I stand -rebuked. - -SWINDON (embarrassed). Oh, not you, I as-- - -BURGOYNE. Don't mention it. (To Richard, very politely) Any political -views, Mr. Anderson? - -RICHARD. I understand that that is just what we are here to find out. - -SWINDON (severely). Do you mean to deny that you are a rebel? - -RICHARD. I am an American, sir. - -SWINDON. What do you expect me to think of that speech, Mr. Anderson? - -RICHARD. I never expect a soldier to think, sir. - -Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost -reconciles him to the loss of America. - -SWINDON (whitening with anger). I advise you not to be insolent, -prisoner. - -RICHARD. You can't help yourself, General. When you make up your mind -to hang a man, you put yourself at a disadvantage with him. Why should -I be civil to you? I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. - -SWINDON. You have no right to assume that the court has made up its -mind without a fair trial. And you will please not address me as -General. I am Major Swindon. - -RICHARD. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the honor of addressing -Gentlemanly Johnny. - -Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow escape from a -guffaw. - -BURGOYNE (with extreme suavity). I believe I am Gentlemanly Johnny, -sir, at your service. My more intimate friends call me General -Burgoyne. (Richard bows with perfect politeness.) You will understand, -sir, I hope, since you seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit -in spite of your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang -you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and -military duty, without any personal ill-feeling. - -RICHARD. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in the world, of -course. - -They all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the younger officers -burst out laughing. - -JUDITH (her dread and horror deepening at every one of these jests and -compliments). How CAN you? - -RICHARD. You promised to be silent. - -BURGOYNE (to Judith, with studied courtesy). Believe me, madam, your -husband is placing us under the greatest obligation by taking this very -disagreeable business so thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman. -Sergeant: give Mr. Anderson a chair. (The sergeant does so. Richard -sits down.) Now, Major Swindon: we are waiting for you. - -SWINDON. You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of your obligations as -a subject of His Majesty King George the Third. - -RICHARD. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George the Third is -about to hang me because I object to Lord North's robbing me. - -SWINDON. That is a treasonable speech, sir. - -RICHARD (briefly). Yes. I meant it to be. - -BURGOYNE (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still polite). -Don't you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is rather--if you will excuse -the word--a vulgar line to take? Why should you cry out robbery because -of a stamp duty and a tea duty and so forth? After all, it is the -essence of your position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace. - -RICHARD. It is not the money, General. But to be swindled by a -pig-headed lunatic like King George. - -SWINDON (scandalised). Chut, sir--silence! - -SERGEANT (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). Silence! - -BURGOYNE (unruffled). Ah, that is another point of view. My position -does not allow of my going into that, except in private. But (shrugging -his shoulders) of course, Mr. Anderson, if you are determined to be -hanged (Judith flinches), there's nothing more to be said. An unusual -taste! however (with a final shrug)--! - -SWINDON (to Burgoyne). Shall we call witnesses? - -RICHARD. What need is there of witnesses? If the townspeople here had -listened to me, you would have found the streets barricaded, the houses -loopholed, and the people in arms to hold the town against you to the -last man. But you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the -talking stage; and then it was too late. - -SWINDON (severely). Well, sir, we shall teach you and your townspeople -a lesson they will not forget. Have you anything more to say? - -RICHARD. I think you might have the decency to treat me as a prisoner -of war, and shoot me like a man instead of hanging me like a dog. - -BURGOYNE (sympathetically). Now there, Mr. Anderson, you talk like a -civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. Have you any idea of the -average marksmanship of the army of His Majesty King George the Third? -If we make you up a firing party, what will happen? Half of them will -miss you: the rest will make a mess of the business and leave you to -the provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas we can hang you in a perfectly -workmanlike and agreeable way. (Kindly) Let me persuade you to be -hanged, Mr. Anderson? - -JUDITH (sick with horror). My God! - -RICHARD (to Judith). Your promise! (To Burgoyne) Thank you, General: -that view of the case did not occur to me before. To oblige you, I -withdraw my objection to the rope. Hang me, by all means. - -BURGOYNE (smoothly). Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr. Anderson? - -RICHARD. I shall be at your disposal then, General. - -BURGOYNE (rising). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. (They all rise.) - -JUDITH (rushing to the table). Oh, you are not going to murder a man -like that, without a proper trial--without thinking of what you are -doing--without-- (She cannot find words.) - -RICHARD. Is this how you keep your promise? - -JUDITH. If I am not to speak, you must. Defend yourself: save yourself: -tell them the truth. - -RICHARD (worriedly). I have told them truth enough to hang me ten times -over. If you say another word you will risk other lives; but you will -not save mine. - -BURGOYNE. My good lady, our only desire is to save unpleasantness. What -satisfaction would it give you to have a solemn fuss made, with my -friend Swindon in a black cap and so forth? I am sure we are greatly -indebted to the admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shown by your -husband. - -JUDITH (throwing the words in his face). Oh, you are mad. Is it nothing -to you what wicked thing you do if only you do it like a gentleman? Is -it nothing to you whether you are a murderer or not, if only you murder -in a red coat? (Desperately) You shall not hang him: that man is not my -husband. - -The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the Germans -asking their neighbors to explain what the woman has said. Burgoyne, -who has been visibly shaken by Judith's reproach, recovers himself -promptly at this new development. Richard meanwhile raises his voice -above the buzz. - -RICHARD. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to this. She will -not believe that she cannot save me. Break up the court. - -BURGOYNE (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence at -once). One moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment, gentlemen. (He resumes his -seat. Swindon and the officers follow his example.) Let me understand -you clearly, madam. Do you mean that this gentleman is not your -husband, or merely--I wish to put this with all delicacy--that you are -not his wife? - -JUDITH. I don't know what you mean. I say that he is not my -husband--that my husband has escaped. This man took his place to save -him. Ask anyone in the town--send out into the street for the first -person you find there, and bring him in as a witness. He will tell you -that the prisoner is not Anthony Anderson. - -BURGOYNE (quietly, as before). Sergeant. - -SERGEANT. Yes sir. - -BURGOYNE. Go out into the street and bring in the first townsman you -see there. - -SERGEANT (making for the door). Yes sir. - -BURGOYNE (as the sergeant passes). The first clean, sober townsman you -see. - -SERGEANT. Yes Sir. (He goes out.) - -BURGOYNE. Sit down, Mr. Anderson--if I may call you so for the present. -(Richard sits down.) Sit down, madam, whilst we wait. Give the lady a -newspaper. - -RICHARD (indignantly). Shame! - -BURGOYNE (keenly, with a half smile). If you are not her husband, sir, -the case is not a serious one--for her. (Richard bites his lip -silenced.) - -JUDITH (to Richard, as she returns to her seat). I couldn't help it. -(He shakes his head. She sits down.) - -BURGOYNE. You will understand of course, Mr. Anderson, that you must -not build on this little incident. We are bound to make an example of -somebody. - -RICHARD. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use in my explaining. - -BURGOYNE. I think we should prefer independent testimony, if you don't -mind. - -The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns conducting -Christy, who is much scared. - -SERGEANT (giving Burgoyne the packet). Dispatches, Sir. Delivered by a -corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard riding, sir. - -Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed in them. -They are so serious as to take his attention completely from the court -martial. - -SERGEANT (to Christy). Now then. Attention; and take your hat off. (He -posts himself in charge of Christy, who stands on Burgoyne's side of -the court.) - -RICHARD (in his usual bullying tone to Christy). Don't be frightened, -you fool: you're only wanted as a witness. They're not going to hang -YOU. - -SWINDON. What's your name? - -CHRISTY. Christy. - -RICHARD (impatiently). Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant idiot. Give -your full name. - -SWINDON. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt the witness. - -RICHARD. Very well. But I warn you you'll get nothing out of him unless -you shake it out of him. He has been too well brought up by a pious -mother to have any sense or manhood left in him. - -BURGOYNE (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a startling -voice). Where is the man who brought these? - -SERGEANT. In the guard-room, sir. - -Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging looks. - -SWINDON (to Christy). Do you know Anthony Anderson, the Presbyterian -minister? - -CHRISTY. Of course I do. (Implying that Swindon must be an ass not to -know it.) - -SWINDON. Is he here? - -CHRISTY (staring round). I don't know. - -SWINDON. Do you see him? - -CHRISTY. No. - -SWINDON. You seem to know the prisoner? - -CHRISTY. Do you mean Dick? - -SWINDON. Which is Dick? - -CHRISTY (pointing to Richard). Him. - -SWINDON. What is his name? - -CHRISTY. Dick. - -RICHARD. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What do they know about -Dick? - -CHRISTY. Well, you are Dick, ain't you? What am I to say? - -SWINDON. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be silent. Tell us who -the prisoner is. - -CHRISTY. He's my brother Dudgeon. - -SWINDON. Your brother! - -CHRISTY. Yes. - -SWINDON. You are sure he is not Anderson. - -CHRISTY. Who? - -RICHARD (exasperatedly). Me, me, me, you-- - -SWINDON. Silence, sir. - -SERGEANT (shouting). Silence. - -RICHARD (impatiently). Yah! (To Christy) He wants to know am I Minister -Anderson. Tell him, and stop grinning like a zany. - -CHRISTY (grinning more than ever). YOU Pastor Anderson! (To Swindon) -Why, Mr. Anderson's a minister---a very good man; and Dick's a bad -character: the respectable people won't speak to him. He's the bad -brother: I'm the good one, (The officers laugh outright. The soldiers -grin.) - -SWINDON. Who arrested this man? - -SERGEANT. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's house, sitting at -tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at home. If he isn't married -to her, he ought to be. - -SWINDON. Did he answer to the minister's name? - -SERGEANT. Yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. You ask the -chaplain, sir. - -SWINDON (to Richard, threateningly). So, sir, you have attempted to -cheat us. And your name is Richard Dudgeon? - -RICHARD. You've found it out at last, have you? - -SWINDON. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh? - -RICHARD. Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, was my uncle. - -SWINDON. Hm! (He compresses his lips and looks at Richard with -vindictive gravity.) - -CHRISTY. Are they going to hang you, Dick? - -RICHARD. Yes. Get out: they've done with you. - -CHRISTY. And I may keep the china peacocks? - -RICHARD (jumping up). Get out. Get out, you blithering baboon, you. -(Christy flies, panicstricken.) - -SWINDON (rising--all rise). Since you have taken the minister's place, -Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through with it. The execution will take -place at 12 o'clock as arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before -then you shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your man -out. - -JUDITH (distracted). No, no-- - -SWINDON (fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties). Take that -woman away. - -RICHARD (springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, and -seizing Swindon by the throat). You infernal scoundrel. - -The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers from the -other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his place. Swindon, who -has been thrown supine on the table, rises, arranging his stock. He is -about to speak, when he is anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just -appeared at the door with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a -blue dispatch. - -BURGOYNE (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). What is this? -What's happening? Mr. Anderson: I'm astonished at you. - -RICHARD. I am sorry I disturbed you, General. I merely wanted to -strangle your understrapper there. (Breaking out violently at Swindon) -Why do you raise the devil in me by bullying the woman like that? You -oatmeal faced dog, I'd twist your cursed head off with the greatest -satisfaction. (He puts out his hands to the sergeant) Here: handcuff -me, will you; or I'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him. - -The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to Burgoyne for -instructions. - -BURGOYNE. Have you addressed profane language to the lady, Major -Swindon? - -SWINDON (very angry). No, sir, certainly not. That question should not -have been put to me. I ordered the woman to be removed, as she was -disorderly; and the fellow sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am -perfectly able to take care of myself. - -RICHARD. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel with you. - -BURGOYNE. Mr. Anderson-- - -SWINDON. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. He is an impostor. - -BURGOYNE (brusquely). Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dudgeon at Springtown. - -RICHARD. It was my uncle, General. - -BURGOYNE. Oh, your uncle. (To Swindon, handsomely) I beg your pardon, -Major Swindon. (Swindon acknowledges the apology stiffly. Burgoyne -turns to Richard) We are somewhat unfortunate in our relations with -your family. Well, Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who -is (reading the name from the letter) William Maindeck Parshotter? - -RICHARD. He is the Mayor of Springtown. - -BURGOYNE. Is William--Maindeck and so on--a man of his word? - -RICHARD. Is he selling you anything? - -BURGOYNE. No. - -RICHARD. Then you may depend on him. - -BURGOYNE. Thank you, Mr.--'m Dudgeon. By the way, since you are not Mr. -Anderson, do we still--eh, Major Swindon? (meaning "do we still hang -him?") - -RICHARD. The arrangements are unaltered, General. - -BURGOYNE. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Good -morning, madam. - -RICHARD (interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is about to make -some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely). Not one word more. -Come. - -She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his determination. -They are marched out by the four soldiers: the sergeant, very sulky, -walking between Swindon and Richard, whom he watches as if he were a -dangerous animal. - -BURGOYNE. Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major Swindon: a word with -you. (The officers go out. Burgoyne waits with unruffled serenity until -the last of them disappears. Then he becomes very grave, and addresses -Swindon for the first time without his title.) Swindon: do you know -what this is (showing him the letter)? - -SWINDON. What? - -BURGOYNE. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia -to come here and arrange terms with us. - -SWINDON. Oh, they are giving in. - -BURGOYNE. They add that they are sending the man who raised Springtown -last night and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing -with an officer of importance. - -SWINDON. Pooh! - -BURGOYNE. He will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of--guess -what. - -SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope. - -BURGOYNE. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer us just six hours -to clear out. - -SWINDON. What monstrous impudence! - -BURGOYNE. What shall we do, eh? - -SWINDON. March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow at once. - -BURGOYNE (quietly). Hm! (Turning to the door) Come to the adjutant's -office. - -SWINDON. What for? - -BURGOYNE. To write out that safe-conduct. (He puts his hand to the door -knob to open it.) - -SWINDON (who has not budged). General Burgoyne. - -BURGOYNE (returning). Sir? - -SWINDON. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not consider the -threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our -giving way. - -BURGOYNE (imperturbable). Suppose I resign my command to you, what will -you do? - -SWINDON. I will undertake to do what we have marched south from Boston -to do, and what General Howe has marched north from New York to do: -effect a junction at Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united -forces. - -BURGOYNE (enigmatically). And will you wipe out our enemies in London, -too? - -SWINDON. In London! What enemies? - -BURGOYNE (forcibly). Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and Red Tape. -(He holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice) -I have just learnt, sir, that General Howe is still in New York. - -SWINDON (thunderstruck). Good God! He has disobeyed orders! - -BURGOYNE (with sardonic calm). He has received no orders, sir. Some -gentleman in London forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for -his holiday, I believe. To avoid upsetting his arrangements, England -will lose her American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at -Saratoga with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable -position. - -SWINDON (appalled). Impossible! - -BURGOYNE (coldly). I beg your pardon! - -SWINDON. I can't believe it! What will History say? - -BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we must send -the safe-conduct. (He goes out.) - -SWINDON (following distractedly). My God, my God! We shall be wiped out. - -As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. The gallows -which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such -minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping -post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched -up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, -has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who -stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge -townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has -spread that it is the devil's disciple and not the minister that the -Continentals (so they call Burgoyne's forces) are about to hang: -consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to -its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place -without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disappointment as -midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains -the only sign of preparation. But at last reassuring shouts of Here -they come: Here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with -fixed bayonets, half British infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly -into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides. - -SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Dress. (The soldiers change their column into a -square enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led -by the sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the -square out at the corners.) Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. -Some o' you'll get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square -there, will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin' German to them: -talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they'll -understand that. GET out of it, will you? (He comes upon Judith, -standing near the gallows.) Now then: YOU'VE no call here. - -JUDITH. May I not stay? What harm am I doing? - -SERGEANT. I want none of your argufying. You ought to be ashamed of -yourself, running to see a man hanged that's not your husband. And he's -no better than yourself. I told my major he was a gentleman; and then -he goes and tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a -lunatic. So out of it with you, double quick. - -JUDITH. Will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay? - -The sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks quickly and -furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his pocket. -Then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation. - -SERGEANT. ME take money in the execution of my duty! Certainly not. Now -I'll tell you what I'll do, to teach you to corrupt the King's officer. -I'll put you under arrest until the execution's over. You just stand -there; and don't let me see you as much as move from that spot until -you're let. (With a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the -square behind the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, -shouting) Now then dress up and keep 'em back, will you? - -Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the sound -of a military band, playing the Dead March from Saul, is heard. The -crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers, -hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered orders and -some stealthy hustling cause it to open and admit the funeral -procession, which is protected from the crowd by a double file of -soldiers. First come Burgoyne and Swindon, who, on entering the square, -glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by -wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on that side. -Then Mr. Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book -open in his hand, walking beside Richard, who is moody and disorderly. -He walks doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a -little in front of it. Behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart -soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following him, two soldiers haul a light -military waggon. Finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back -of the square, and finishes the Dead March. Judith, watching Richard -painfully, steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its -right post. During the conversation which follows, the two soldiers -place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point -backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and -places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he climbs the tall -ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which -the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the cart, -into which he steps as he descends. - -RICHARD (with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell). Look here, sir: -this is no place for a man of your profession. Hadn't you better go -away? - -SWINDON. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of decency -left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and pay due heed -to the solemnity of the occasion. - -THE CHAPLAIN (gently reproving Richard). Try to control yourself, and -submit to the divine will. (He lifts his book to proceed with the -service.) - -RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices -here (indicating Burgoyne and Swindon): I see little divinity about -them or you. You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of -hanging your enemies. Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (To -Swindon, more rudely) You've got up the solemnity of the occasion, as -you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity--Handel's -music and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! Do you suppose I -am going to help you? You've asked me to choose the rope because you -don't know your own trade well enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang -away and have done with it. - -SWINDON (to the chaplain). Can you do nothing with him, Mr. Brudenell? - -CHAPLAIN. I will try, sir. (Beginning to read) Man that is born of -woman hath-- - -RICHARD (fixing his eyes on him). "Thou shalt not kill." - -The book drops in Brudenell's hands. - -CHAPLAIN (confessing his embarrassment). What am I to say, Mr. Dudgeon? - -RICHARD. Let me alone, man, can't you? - -BURGOYNE (with extreme urbanity). I think, Mr. Brudenell, that as the -usual professional observations seem to strike Mr. Dudgeon as -incongruous under the circumstances, you had better omit them -until--er--until Mr. Dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by them. -(Brudenell, with a shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the -gallows.) YOU seem in a hurry, Mr. Dudgeon. - -RICHARD (with the horror of death upon him). Do you think this is a -pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? You've made up your mind -to commit murder: well, do it and have done with it. - -BURGOYNE. Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this-- - -RICHARD. Because you're paid to do it. - -SWINDON. You insolent-- (He swallows his rage.) - -BURGOYNE (with much charm of manner). Ah, I am really sorry that you -should think that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew what my commission cost me, -and what my pay is, you would think better of me. I should be glad to -part from you on friendly terms. - -RICHARD. Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that I like being -hanged, you're mistaken. I don't like it; and I don't mean to pretend -that I do. And if you think I'm obliged to you for hanging me in a -gentlemanly way, you're wrong there too. I take the whole business in -devilish bad part; and the only satisfaction I have in it is that -you'll feel a good deal meaner than I'll look when it's over. (He turns -away, and is striding to the cart when Judith advances and interposes -with her arms stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very little -will upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying) What are you -doing here? This is no place for you. (She makes a gesture as if to -touch him. He recoils impatiently.) No: go away, go away; you'll -unnerve me. Take her away, will you? - -JUDITH. Won't you bid me good-bye? - -RICHARD (allowing her to take his hand). Oh good-bye, good-bye. Now -go--go--quickly. (She clings to his hand--will not be put off with so -cold a last farewell--at last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws -herself on his breast in agony.) - -SWINDON (angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at Judith's movement, -has come from the back of the square to pull her back, and stopped -irresolutely on finding that he is too late). How is this? Why is she -inside the lines? - -SERGEANT (guiltily). I dunno, sir. She's that artful can't keep her -away. - -BURGOYNE. You were bribed. - -SERGEANT (protesting). No, Sir-- - -SWINDON (severely). Fall back. (He obeys.) - -RICHARD (imploringly to those around him, and finally to Burgoyne, as -the least stolid of them). Take her away. Do you think I want a woman -near me now? - -BURGOYNE (going to Judith and taking her hand). Here, madam: you had -better keep inside the lines; but stand here behind us; and don't look. - -Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him and -turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into it. The -executioner takes off his coat and pinions him. - -JUDITH (resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand away). No: I -must stay. I won't look. (She goes to the right of the gallows. She -tries to look at Richard, but turns away with a frightful shudder, and -falls on her knees in prayer. Brudenell comes towards her from the back -of the square.) - -BURGOYNE (nodding approvingly as she kneels). Ah, quite so. Do not -disturb her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very nicely. (Brudenell nods -also, and withdraws a little, watching her sympathetically. Burgoyne -resumes his former position, and takes out a handsome gold -chronometer.) Now then, are those preparations made? We must not detain -Mr. Dudgeon. - -By this time Richard's hands are bound behind him; and the noose is -round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of the wagon, ready to -pull it away. The executioner, standing in the cart behind Richard, -makes a sign to the sergeant. - -SERGEANT (to Burgoyne). Ready, sir. - -BURGOYNE. Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dudgeon? It wants two -minutes of twelve still. - -RICHARD (in the strong voice of a man who has conquered the bitterness -of death). Your watch is two minutes slow by the town clock, which I -can see from here, General. (The town clock strikes the first stroke of -twelve. Involuntarily the people flinch at the sound, and a subdued -groan breaks from them.) Amen! my life for the world's future! - -ANDERSON (shouting as he rushes into the market place). Amen; and stop -the execution. (He bursts through the line of soldiers opposite -Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.) I am Anthony Anderson, -the man you want. - -The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. Judith, half -rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose dearest -prayer has been granted. - -SWINDON. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your place on the -gallows. Arrest him. - -At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize -Anderson. - -ANDERSON (thrusting a paper under Swindon's nose). There's my -safe-conduct, sir. - -SWINDON (taken aback). Safe-conduct! Are you--! - -ANDERSON (emphatically). I am. (The two soldiers take him by the -elbows.) Tell these men to take their hands off me. - -SWINDON (to the men). Let him go. - -SERGEANT. Fall back. - -The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a cheer; and -begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of triumph as -they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies in the gate. - -ANDERSON (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his perspiring -brow with his handkerchief). Thank God, I was in time! - -BURGOYNE (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). Ample time, sir. -Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging any gentleman by an -American clock. (He puts up his watch.) - -ANDERSON. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, General. Now -tell them to take the rope from the neck of that American citizen. - -BURGOYNE (to the executioner in the cart--very politely). Kindly undo -Mr. Dudgeon. - -The executioner takes the rope from Richard's neck, unties his hands, -and helps him on with his coat. - -JUDITH (stealing timidly to Anderson). Tony. - -ANDERSON (putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her -affectionately). Well what do you think of your husband, NOW, -eh?--eh??--eh??? - -JUDITH. I am ashamed-- (She hides her face against his breast.) - -BURGOYNE (to Swindon). You look disappointed, Major Swindon. - -SWINDON. You look defeated, General Burgoyne. - -BURGOYNE. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad of it. (Richard -jumps down from the cart, Brudenell offering his hand to help him, and -runs to Anderson, whose left hand he shakes heartily, the right being -occupied by Judith.) By the way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite -understand. The safe-conduct was for a commander of the militia. I -understand you are a-- (he looks as pointedly as his good manners -permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard's coat, and adds) -a clergyman. - -ANDERSON (between Judith and Richard). Sir: it is in the hour of trial -that a man finds his true profession. This foolish young man (placing -his hand on Richard's shoulder) boasted himself the Devil's Disciple; -but when the hour of trial came to him, he found that it was his -destiny to suffer and be faithful to the death. I thought myself a -decent minister of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came -to me, I found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my -place was amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting. So I am -starting life at fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of the Springtown -militia; and the Devil's Disciple here will start presently as the -Reverend Richard Dudgeon, and wag his paw in my old pulpit, and give -good advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine (putting his -other hand on her shoulder. She steals a glance at Richard to see how -the prospect pleases him). Your mother told me, Richard, that I should -never have chosen Judith if I'd been born for the ministry. I am afraid -she was right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and I'll keep -yours. - -RICHARD. Minister--I should say Captain. I have behaved like a fool. - -JUDITH. Like a hero. - -RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps. (With some bitterness towards -himself) But no: if I had been any good, I should have done for you -what you did for me, instead of making a vain sacrifice. - -ANDERSON. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make a world--saints -as well as soldiers. (Turning to Burgoyne) And now, General, time -presses; and America is in a hurry. Have you realized that though you -may occupy towns and win battles, you cannot conquer a nation? - -BURGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot have an -aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my quarters. - -ANDERSON. At your service, sir. (To Richard) See Judith home for me, -will you, my boy? (He hands her over to him.) Now General. (He goes -busily up the market place towards the Town Hall, Leaving Judith and -Richard together. Burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks -himself and turns to Richard.) - -BURGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be glad to see you at -lunch at half-past one. (He pauses a moment, and adds, with politely -veiled slyness) Bring Mrs. Anderson, if she will be so good. (To -Swindon, who is fuming) Take it quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the -British soldier can stand up to anything except the British War Office. -(He follows Anderson.) - -SERGEANT (to Swindon). What orders, sir? - -SWINDON (savagely). Orders! What use are orders now? There's no army. -Back to quarters; and be d-- (He turns on his heel and goes.) - -SERGEANT (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of defeat). -'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and show 'em you don't care a -damn for 'em. Slope arms! Fours! Wheel! Quick march! - -The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up British -Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, and the English troops march -off defiantly to their quarters. The townsfolk press in behind, and -follow them up the market, jeering at them; and the town band, a very -primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who -comes in with them, runs to Richard. - -ESSIE. Oh, Dick! - -RICHARD (good-humoredly, but wilfully). Now, now: come, come! I don't -mind being hanged; but I will not be cried over. - -ESSIE. No, I promise. I'll be good. (She tries to restrain her tears, -but cannot.) I--I want to see where the soldiers are going to. (She -goes a little way up the market, pretending to look after the crowd.) - -JUDITH. Promise me you will never tell him. - -RICHARD. Don't be afraid. - -They shake hands on it. - -ESSIE (calling to them). They're coming back. They want you. - -Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again in wild -enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their shoulders, -cheering him. - -CURTAIN. - - - -NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE - -BURGOYNE - -General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the first time -(as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is not a conventional -stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is in the nature of -stage portraits to be. His objection to profane swearing is not -borrowed from Mr. Gilbert's H. M. S. Pinafore: it is taken from the -Code of Instructions drawn up by himself for his officers when he -introduced Light Horse into the English army. His opinion that English -soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome -to the military authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of -ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern -victims of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that -discredited sport. His military reports are very clever as criticisms, -and are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best -illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious, -that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground than that -of family influence. As a parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our -common expression "fighting an election" so very literally that he led -his supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in -each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, and -denounced by Junius, for the pistols. - -It is only within quite recent years that any general recognition has -become possible for the feeling that led Burgoyne, a professed enemy of -oppression in India and elsewhere, to accept his American command when -so many other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve in -a civil war against the Colonies. His biographer De Fonblanque, writing -in 1876, evidently regarded his position as indefensible. Nowadays, it -is sufficient to say that Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He sympathized -with the colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the disruption -of the Empire, he regarded that as a step backward in civilization. As -he put it to the House of Commons, "while we remember that we are -contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember -that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the British -Empire." Eighty-four years after his defeat, his republican conquerors -themselves engaged in a civil war for the integrity of their Union. In -1885 the Whigs who represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American -Independence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and made common -cause with their political opponents in defence of the Union between -England and Ireland. Only the other day England sent 200,000 men into -the field south of the equator to fight out the question whether South -Africa should develop as a Federation of British Colonies or as an -independent Afrikander United States. In all these cases the Unionists -who were detached from their parties were called renegades, as Burgoyne -was. That, of course, is only one of the unfortunate consequences of -the fact that mankind, being for the most part incapable of politics, -accepts vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether -Burgoyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, Mr. -Chamberlain or Mr. Leonard Courtney was in the right will never be -settled, because it will never be possible to prove that the government -of the victor has been better for mankind than the government of the -vanquished would have been. It is true that the victors have no doubt -on the point; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only -part of the human comedy. The American Unionist is often a Separatist -as to Ireland; the English Unionist often sympathizes with the Polish -Home Ruler; and both English and American Unionists are apt to be -Disruptionists as regards that Imperial Ancient of Days, the Empire of -China. Both are Unionists concerning Canada, but with a difference as -to the precise application to it of the Monroe doctrine. As for me, the -dramatist, I smile, and lead the conversation back to Burgoyne. - -Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that occasionally necessary -part of our British system, a scapegoat. The explanation of his defeat -given in the play is founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from -Fitzmaurice's Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: "Lord George Germain, -having among other peculiarities a particular dislike to be put out of -his way on any occasion, had arranged to call at his office on his way -to the country to sign the dispatches; but as those addressed to Howe -had not been faircopied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his -projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten -on his return home." These were the dispatches instructing Sir William -Howe, who was in New York, to effect a junction at Albany with -Burgoyne, who had marched from Boston for that purpose. Burgoyne got as -far as Saratoga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was -hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, Boer fashion, by -the American farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was pierced by a -bullet. The publicity of his defeat, however, was more than compensated -at home by the fact that Lord George's trip to Kent had not been -interfered with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the -dispatch. The policy of the English Government and Court for the next -two years was simply concealment of Germain's neglect. Burgoyne's -demand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of Commons by the court -party; and when he at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it -by a prorogation. When Burgoyne realized what had happened about the -instructions to Howe (the scene in which I have represented him as -learning it before Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn -on him until many months afterwards) the king actually took advantage -of his being a prisoner of war in England on parole, and ordered him to -return to America into captivity. Burgoyne immediately resigned all his -appointments; and this practically closed his military career, though -he was afterwards made Commander of the Forces in Ireland for the -purpose of banishing him from parliament. - -The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English sense of -honor when the privileges and prestige of the aristocracy are at stake. -Mr. Frank Harris said, after the disastrous battle of Modder River, -that the English, having lost America a century ago because they -preferred George III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day -because they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones. -Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a critical period -of the War of Independence, said that the Lords could not be expected -to lose their pheasant shooting for the sake of America. In the working -class, which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there -is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to "do a man out -of his job." At bottom, of course, this apparently shameless sacrifice -of great public interests to petty personal ones, is simply the -preference of the ordinary man for the things he can feel and -understand to the things that are beyond his capacity. It is stupidity, -not dishonesty. - -Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not only was he -thrown over, in spite of his high character and distinguished services, -to screen a court favorite who had actually been cashiered for -cowardice and misconduct in the field fifteen years before; but his -peculiar critical temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather -histrionic, and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit -and humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid -people because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long after his -death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of human character, but was -typically stupid in valuing and interpreting it, instinctively sneered -at him and exulted in his defeat. That sneer represents the common -English attitude towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the -critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both -temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all right," is popular -in England. But Burgoyne's failure was not the work of his own -temperament, but of the stupid temperament. What man could do under the -circumstances he did, and did handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his -ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but -because Sir George Germain overestimated the importance of his Kentish -holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of conquering those remote -and inferior creatures, the colonists. And King George and the rest of -the nation agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is a significant -point that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he -was admired and praised. The climate there is no doubt more favorable -to intellectual vivacity. - -I have described Burgoyne's temperament as rather histrionic; and the -reader will have observed that the Burgoyne of the Devil's Disciple is -a man who plays his part in life, and makes all its points, in the -manner of a born high comedian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with -all his comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like It -into a Beggar's Opera unconceived, I should still have painted the same -picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles of -capitulation proposed to him by his American conqueror General Gates. -Here they are: - -PROPOSITION. - -1. General Burgoyne's army being reduced by repeated defeats, by -desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions exhausted, their military -horses, tents and baggage taken or destroyed, their retreat cut off, -and their camp invested, they can only be allowed to surrender as -prisoners of war. - -ANSWER. - -1. Lieut.-General Burgoyne's army, however reduced, will never admit -that their retreat is cut off while they have arms in their hands. - -PROPOSITION. - -2. The officers and soldiers may keep the baggage belonging to them. -The generals of the United States never permit individuals to be -pillaged. - -ANSWER. - -2. Noted. - -PROPOSITION. - -3. The troops under his Excellency General Burgoyne will be conducted -by the most convenient route to New England, marching by easy marches, -and sufficiently provided for by the way. - -ANSWER. - -3. Agreed. - -PROPOSITION. - -4. The officers will be admitted on parole and will be treated with the -liberality customary in such cases, so long as they, by proper -behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those who are apprehended having -broke their parole, as some British officers have done, must expect to -be close confined. - -ANSWER. - -4. There being no officer in this army, under, or capable of being -under, the description of breaking parole, this article needs no answer. - -PROPOSITION. - -5. All public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages, horses, -etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries appointed to receive them. - -ANSWER. - -5. All public stores may be delivered, arms excepted. - -PROPOSITION. - -6. These terms being agreed to and signed, the troops under his -Excellency's, General Burgoyne's command, may be drawn up in their -encampments, where they will be ordered to ground their arms, and may -thereupon be marched to the river-side on their way to Bennington. - -ANSWER. - -6. This article is inadmissible in any extremity. Sooner than this army -will consent to ground their arms in their encampments, they will rush -on the enemy determined to take no quarter. - - -And, later on, "If General Gates does not mean to recede from the 6th -article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to a man proceed to any -act of desperation sooner than submit to that article." - -Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add that he had his own -way; and that when the actual ceremony of surrender came, he would have -played poor General Gates off the stage, had not that commander risen -to the occasion by handing him back his sword. - -In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping knives, who, -with the troops hired from Germany, made up about half Burgoyne's -force, I may mention that Burgoyne offered two of them a reward to -guide a Miss McCrea, betrothed to one of the English officers, into the -English lines. - -The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more sensitive of -them, as a protest against the unfairness of the other, tomahawked the -young lady. The usual retaliations were proposed under the popular -titles of justice and so forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would -certainly have followed suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian -frontier, Burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense -disgust of indignant Christendom. - -BRUDENELL - -Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery chaplain of that -name distinguished himself at Saratoga by reading the burial service -over Major Fraser under fire, and by a quite readable adventure, -chronicled by Burgoyne, with Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet's -husband achieved the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his -adversary, in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat of his -swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a pebble. Lady Harriet -then married the warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony Anderson in the -play, seems to have mistaken his natural profession. - -The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually occurred, like most -stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot produce any documents. -Major Swindon's name is invented; but the man, of course, is real. -There are dozens of him extant to this day. - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Devil's Disciple, by George Bernard Shaw - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE *** - -***** This file should be named 3638.txt or 3638.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/3/3638/ - -Produced by Eve Sobol. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.06/12/01*END* -[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart -and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] -[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales -of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or -software or any other related product without express permission.] - - - - - -This etext was produced by Eve Sobol, South Bend, Indiana, USA - - - - - -THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE - -Bernard Shaw - - - - -ACT I - -At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry -morning in the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New Hampshire, is -sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling room of her farm -house on the outskirts of the town of Websterbridge. She is not a -prepossessing woman. No woman looks her best after sitting up all -night; and Mrs. Dudgeon's face, even at its best, is grimly -trenched by the channels into which the barren forms and -observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter temper and a -fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard -and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her -sordid home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and -respectability among her neighbors, to whom drink and -debauchery are still so much more tempting than religion and -rectitude, that they conceive goodness simply as self-denial. -This conception is easily extended to others--denial, and finally -generalized as covering anything disagreeable. So Mrs. Dudgeon, -being exceedingly disagreeable, is held to be exceedingly good. -Short of flat felony, she enjoys complete license except for -amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently, without -knowing it, the most licentious woman in the parish on the -strength of never having broken the seventh commandment or missed -a Sunday at the Presbyterian church. - -The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused of the -breaking off of the American colonies from England, more by their -own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, the -shooting being idealized to the English mind as suppression of -rebellion and maintenance of British dominion, and to the -American as defence of liberty, resistance to tyranny, and -selfsacrifice on the altar of the Rights of Man. Into the merits -of these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire: -suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they have convinced -both Americans and English that the most high minded course for -them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as possible, and -that military operations to that end are in full swing, morally -supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides for -the blessing of God on their arms. - -Under such circumstances many other women besides this -disagreeable Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night -waiting for news. Like her, too, they fall asleep towards -morning at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. -Mrs. Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her feet on a -broad fender of iron laths, the step of the domestic altar of the -fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its hinged arm -above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen -table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in -a tin sconce. Her chair, like all the others in the room, is -uncushioned and unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and -a seat conventionally moulded to the sitter's curves, it is -comparatively a chair of state. The room has three doors, one on -the same side as the fireplace, near the corner, leading to the -best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of the opposite wall, -leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house door, with -its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, -between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom -door. Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to -the deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as -there are no hats or coats on them. On the other side of the -window the clock hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, -black iron weights, and brass pendulum. Between the clock and the -corner, a big cupboard, locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of -common crockery. - -On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the -corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against -the wall. An inspection of its stridulous surface shows that -Mrs. Dudgeon is not alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has -fallen asleep on it. She is a wild, timid looking creature with -black hair and tanned skin. Her frock, a scanty garment, is rent, -weatherstained, berrystained, and by no means scrupulously clean. -It hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her brown legs -and bare feet, suggests no great stock of underclothing. - -Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to -wake the sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. Dudgeon a -little. Finally the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at -once. - -MRS. DUDGEON (threateningly). Well, why don't you open the door? -(She sees that the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor -of heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me! Now this is-- -(shaking her) wake up, wake up: do you hear? - -THE GIRL (sitting up). What is it? - -MRS. DUDGEON. Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling -sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your father hardly -cold in his grave. - -THE GIRL (half asleep still). I didn't mean to. I dropped off-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (cutting her short). Oh yes, you've plenty of -excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking -recommences.) Why don't you get up and let your uncle in? after -me waiting up all night for him! (She pushes her rudely off the -sofa.) There: I'll open the door: much good you are to wait up. -Go and mend that fire a bit. - -The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on. -Mrs. Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the -stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the -chill of the dawn, also her second son Christy, a fattish, -stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man of about 22, muffled in a -plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He hurries, shivering, to the -fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door. - -CHRISTY (at the fire). F--f--f! but it is cold. (Seeing the girl, -and staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you? - -THE GIRL (shyly). Essie. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Oh you may well ask. (To Essie.) Go to your room, -child, and lie down since you haven't feeling enough to keep you -awake. Your history isn't fit for your own ears to hear. - -ESSIE. I-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (peremptorily). Don't answer me, Miss; but show your -obedience by doing what I tell you. (Essie, almost in tears, -crosses the room to the door near the sofa.) And don't forget -your prayers. (Essie goes out.) She'd have gone to bed last night -just as if nothing had happened if I'd let her. - -CHRISTY (phlegmatically). Well, she can't be expected to feel -Uncle Peter's death like one of the family. - -MRS. DUDGEON. What are you talking about, child? Isn't she his -daughter--the punishment of his wickedness and shame? (She -assaults her chair by sitting down.) - -CHRISTY (staring). Uncle Peter's daughter! - -MRS. DUDGEON. Why else should she be here? D'ye think I've not -had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing up my own girls, -let alone you and your good-for-nothing brother, without having -your uncle's bastards-- - -CHRISTY (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door -by which Essie went out). Sh! She may hear you. - -MRS. DUDGEON (raising her voice). Let her hear me. People who -fear God don't fear to give the devil's work its right name. -(Christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of Good and Evil, -stares at the fire, warming himself.) Well, how long are you -going to stare there like a stuck pig? What news have you for me? - -CHRISTY (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to -hang them up). The minister is to break the news to you. He'll be -here presently. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Break what news? - -CHRISTY (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat -up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking -with callous placidity, considering the nature of the -announcement). Father's dead too. - -MRS. DUDGEON (stupent). Your father! - -CHRISTY (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself -again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother). Well, -it's not my fault. When we got to Nevinstown we found him ill in -bed. He didn't know us at first. The minister sat up with him and -sent me away. He died in the night. - -MRS. DUDGEON (bursting into dry angry tears). Well, I do think -this is hard on me--very hard on me. His brother, that was a -disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public gallows as -a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at home where his -duty was, with his own family, goes after him and dies, leaving -everything on my shoulders. After sending this girl to me to take -care of, too! (She plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears.) It's -sinful, so it is; downright sinful. - -CHRISTY (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause). I -think it's going to be a fine morning, after all. - -MRS. DUDGEON (railing at him). A fine morning! And your father -newly dead! Where's your feelings, child? - -CHRISTY (obstinately). Well, I didn't mean any harm. I suppose a -man may make a remark about the weather even if his father's -dead. - -MRS. DUDGEON (bitterly). A nice comfort my children are to me! -One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's left his home -to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains, the scum of the -earth! - -Someone knocks. - -CHRISTY (without moving). That's the minister. - -MRS. DUDGEON (sharply). Well, aren't you going to let Mr. -Anderson in? - -Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries her face -in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome with -grief. Christy opens the door, and admits the minister, -Anthony Anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine -of about 50, with something of the authority of his profession in -his bearing. But it is an altogether secular authority, sweetened -by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at all suggestive of a -quite thoroughgoing other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy -man, too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful -mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. No doubt an excellent -parson, but still a man capable of making the most of this world, -and perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on -better with it than a sound Presbyterian ought. - -ANDERSON (to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dudgeon whilst -he takes off his cloak). Have you told her? - -CHRISTY. She made me. (He shuts the door; yawns; and loafs across -to the sofa where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep.) - -Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he hangs his -cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her eyes and looks -up at him. - -ANDERSON. Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily upon -you. - -MRS. DUDGEON (with intensely recalcitrant resignation). It's His -will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think it hard. -What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and remind everybody -that he belonged to a man that was being hanged?--and -(spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did. - -ANDERSON (gently). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after -we were married: he had too much respect for me to insult me with -such a brother. Would such a selfish wretch as Peter have come -thirty miles to see Timothy hanged, do you think? Not thirty -yards, not he. However, I must bear my cross as best I may: least -said is soonest mended. - -ANDERSON (very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his -back to it). Your eldest son was present at the execution, Mrs. -Dudgeon. - -MRS. DUDGEON (disagreeably surprised). Richard? - -ANDERSON (nodding). Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON (vindictively). Let it be a warning to him. He may -end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless--(she -suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with evident -dread) Did Timothy see him? - -ANDERSON. Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON (holding her breath). Well? - -ANDERSON. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. (Mrs. -Dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at -her ease again.) Your husband was greatly touched and impressed -by his brother's awful death. (Mrs. Dudgeon sneers. Anderson -breaks off to demand with some indignation) Well, wasn't it only -natural, Mrs. Dudgeon? He softened towards his prodigal son in -that moment. He sent for him to come to see him. - -MRS. DUDGEON (her alarm renewed). Sent for Richard! - -ANDERSON. Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent his father a -message; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked message--an awful -message. - -MRS. DUDGEON. What was it? - -ANDERSON. That he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand -against his good parents, in this world and the next. - -MRS. DUDGEON (implacably). He will be punished for it. He will be -punished for it--in both worlds. - -ANDERSON. That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We are told that -the wicked shall be punished. Why should we do our duty and keep -God's law if there is to be no difference made between us and -those who follow their own likings and dislikings, and make a -jest of us and of their Maker's word? - -ANDERSON. Well, Richard's earthly father has been merciful and -his heavenly judge is the father of us all. - -MRS. DUDGEON (forgetting herself). Richard's earthly father was a -softheaded-- - -ANDERSON (shocked). Oh! - -MRS. DUDGEON (with a touch of shame). Well, I am Richard's -mother. If I am against him who has any right to be for him? -(Trying to conciliate him.) Won't you sit down, Mr. Anderson? I -should have asked you before; but I'm so troubled. - -ANDERSON. Thank you-- (He takes a chair from beside the -fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the -fire. When he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who knows -that he is opening a difficult subject.) Has Christy told you -about the new will? - -MRS. DUDGEON (all her fears returning). The new will! Did -Timothy--? (She breaks off, gasping, unable to complete the -question.) - -ANDERSON. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind. - -MRS. DUDGEON (white with intense rage). And you let him rob me? - -ANDERSON. I had no power to prevent him giving what was his to -his own son. - -MRS. DUDGEON. He had nothing of his own. His money was the money -I brought him as my marriage portion. It was for me to deal with -my own money and my own son. He dare not have done it if I had -been with him; and well he knew it. That was why he stole away -like a thief to take advantage of the law to rob me by making a -new will behind my back. The more shame on you, Mr. Anderson,-- -you, a minister of the gospel--to act as his accomplice in such a -crime. - -ANDERSON (rising). I will take no offence at what you say in the -first bitterness of your grief. - -MRS. DUDGEON (contemptuously). Grief! - -ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in -your heart to think that the better word. - -MRS. DUDGEON. My heart! My heart! And since when, pray, have you -begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy guides for us? - -ANDERSON (rather guiltily). I--er-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (vehemently). Don't lie, Mr. Anderson. We are told -that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and -desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to Timothy, but to -that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his days -with a rope round his neck--aye, to Peter Dudgeon. You know it: -old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you succeeded, though -you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he -gave over our souls into your charge. He warned me and -strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing -man--as he thought. What else but that discipline has made me the -woman I am? And you, you who followed your heart in your -marriage, you talk to me of what I find in my heart. Go home to -your pretty wife, man; and leave me to my prayers. (She turns -from him and leans with her elbows on the table, brooding over -her wrongs and taking no further notice of him.) - -ANDERSON (willing enough to escape). The Lord forbid that I -should come between you and the source of all comfort! (He goes -to the rack for his coat and hat.) - -MRS. DUDGEON (without looking at him). The Lord will know what to -forbid and what to allow without your help. - -ANDERSON. And whom to forgive, I hope--Eli Hawkins and myself, if -we have ever set up our preaching against His law. (He fastens -his cloak, and is now ready to go.) Just one word--on necessary -business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There is the reading of the will to be -gone through; and Richard has a right to be present. He is in the -town; but he has the grace to say that he does not want to force -himself in here. - -MRS. DUDGEON. He shall come here. Does he expect us to leave his -father's house for his convenience? Let them all come, and come -quickly, and go quickly. They shall not make the will an excuse -to shirk half their day's work. I shall be ready, never fear. - -ANDERSON (coming back a step or two). Mrs. Dudgeon: I used to -have some little influence with you. When did I lose it? - -MRS. DUDGEON (still without turning to him). When you married for -love. Now you're answered. - -ANDERSON. Yes: I am answered. (He goes out, musing.) - -MRS. DUDGEON (to herself, thinking of her husband). Thief! -Thief!! (She shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws -back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the -room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing -Anderson's chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to -the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way) -Christy. (No answer: he is fast asleep.) Christy. (She shakes him -roughly.) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of yourself-- -sleeping, and your father dead! (She returns to the table; puts -the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a -red table cloth which she spreads.) - -CHRISTY (rising reluctantly). Well, do you suppose we are never -going to sleep until we are out of mourning? - -MRS. DUDGEON. I want none of your sulks. Here: help me to set -this table. (They place the table in the middle of the room, with -Christy's end towards the fireplace and Mrs. Dudgeon's towards -the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon as possible, and goes -to the fire, leaving his mother to make the final adjustments of -its position.) We shall have the minister back here with the -lawyer and all the family to read the will before you have done -toasting yourself. Go and wake that girl; and then light the -stove in the shed: you can't have your breakfast here. And mind -you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company. -(She punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking -it; and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood -there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and -some glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green ware -plates, on one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside -it. On the other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting -back one or two, and counting the rest.) Now mind: there are ten -biscuits there: let there be ten there when I come back after -dressing myself. And keep your fingers off the raisins in that -cake. And tell Essie the same. I suppose I can trust you to bring -in the case of stuffed birds without breaking the glass? (She -replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the -key carefully.) - -CHRISTY (lingering at the fire). You'd better put the inkstand -instead, for the lawyer. - -MRS. DUDGEON. That's no answer to make to me, sir. Go and do as -you're told. (Christy turns sullenly to obey.) Stop: take down -that shutter before you go, and let the daylight in: you can't -expect me to do all the heavy work of the house with a great -heavy lout like you idling about. - -Christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts it aside; -then opens the shutter, showing the grey morning. Mrs. Dudgeon -takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; -extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first -licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the -shelf. - -CHRISTY (looking through the window). Here's the minister's wife. - -MRS. DUDGEON (displeased). What! Is she coming here? - -CHRISTY. Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON. What does she want troubling me at this hour, -before I'm properly dressed to receive people? - -CHRISTY. You'd better ask her. - -MRS. DUDGEON (threateningly). You'd better keep a civil tongue in -your head. (He goes sulkily towards the door. She comes after -him, plying him with instructions.) Tell that girl to come to me -as soon as she's had her breakfast. And tell her to make herself -fit to be seen before the people. (Christy goes out and slams the -door in her face.) Nice manners, that! (Someone knocks at the -house door: she turns and cries inhospitably.) Come in. (Judith -Anderson, the minister's wife, comes in. Judith is more than -twenty years younger than her husband, though she will never be -as young as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper and -ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of -herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which -serves her instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, -and in her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character -formed by dreams. Even her little self-complacency is pretty, -like a child's vanity. Rather a pathetic creature to any -sympathetic observer who knows how rough a place the world is. -One feels, on the whole, that Anderson might have chosen worse, -and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better.) -Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs. Anderson? - -JUDITH (very politely--almost patronizingly). Yes. Can I do -anything for you, Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the place ready -before they come to read the will? - -MRS. DUDGEON (stiffly). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my house is -always ready for anyone to come into. - -MRS. ANDERSON (with complacent amiability). Yes, indeed it is. -Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you just now. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Oh, one more or less will make no difference this -morning, Mrs. Anderson. Now that you're here, you'd better stay. -If you wouldn't mind shutting the door! (Judith smiles, implying -"How stupid of me" and shuts it with an exasperating air of doing -something pretty and becoming.) That's better. I must go and tidy -myself a bit. I suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive -anyone that comes until I'm ready. - -JUDITH (graciously giving her leave). Oh yes, certainly. Leave -them to me, Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. (She hangs her -cloak and bonnet on the rack.) - -MRS. DUDGEON (half sneering). I thought that would be more in -your way than getting the house ready. (Essie comes back.) Oh, -here you are! (Severely) Come here: let me see you. (Essie -timidly goes to her. Mrs. Dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm -and pulls her round to inspect the results of her attempt to -clean and tidy herself--results which show little practice and -less conviction.) Mm! That's what you call doing your hair -properly, I suppose. It's easy to see what you are, and how you -were brought up. (She throws her arms away, and goes on, -peremptorily.) Now you listen to me and do as you're told. You -sit down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company -comes don't dare to speak until you're spoken to. (Essie creeps -away to the fireplace.) Your father's people had better see you -and know you're there: they're as much bound to keep you from -starvation as I am. At any rate they might help. But let me have -no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their -equal. Do you hear? - -ESSIE. Yes. - -MRS. DUDGEON. Well, then go and do as you're told. - -(Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest -from the door.) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson: you know who she -is and what she is. If she gives you any trouble, just tell me; -and I'll settle accounts with her. (Mrs. Dudgeon goes into the -bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as if even it had -to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand.) - -JUDITH (patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the -table more becomingly). You must not mind if your aunt is strict -with you. She is a very good woman, and desires your good too. - -ESSIE (in listless misery). Yes. - -JUDITH (annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled and -edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the -remark). You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie. - -ESSIE. No. - -JUDITH. That's a good girl! (She places a couple of chairs at the -table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of -being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dudgeon.) Do you -know any of your father's relatives? - -ESSIE. No. They wouldn't have anything to do with him: they were -too religious. Father used to talk about Dick Dudgeon; but I -never saw him. - -JUDITH (ostentatiously shocked). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: do you wish -to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place -for yourself here by steady good conduct? - -ESSIE (very half-heartedly). Yes. - -JUDITH. Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon-- -never even think about him. He is a bad man. - -ESSIE. What has he done? - -JUDITH. You must not ask questions about him, Essie. You are too -young to know what it is to be a bad man. But he is a smuggler; -and he lives with gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and -his family; and he wrestles and plays games on Sunday instead of -going to church. Never let him into your presence, if you can -help it, Essie; and try to keep yourself and all womanhood -unspotted by contact with such men. - -ESSIE. Yes. - -JUDITH (again displeased). I am afraid you say Yes and No without -thinking very deeply. - -ESSIE. Yes. At least I mean-- - -JUDITH (severely). What do you mean? - -ESSIE (almost crying). Only--my father was a smuggler; and-- -(Someone knocks.) - -JUDITH. They are beginning to come. Now remember your aunt's -directions, Essie; and be a good girl. (Christy comes back with -the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, -which he places on the table.) Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Will -you open the door, please: the people have come. - -CHRISTY. Good morning. (He opens the house door.) - -The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Anderson, who is -the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is accompanied -by Lawyer Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding -gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. -He and Anderson are allowed precedence as representing the -learned professions. After them comes the family, headed by the -senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large, shapeless man, -bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His clothes -are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a -prosperous man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little -terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, -both free from the cares of the William household. - -Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair -nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He -puts his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. -Uncle William comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warming -his coat tails, leaving Mrs. William derelict near the door. -Uncle Titus, who is the lady's man of the family, rescues her -by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, -where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his -brother's. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word -with Judith. - -JUDITH. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait. (She taps -at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens -it and passes through.) - -ANDERSON (taking his place at the table at the opposite end to -Hawkins). Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. -Are we all here? - -CHRISTY (at the house door, which he has just shut). All except -Dick. - -The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars on -the moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his head -slowly and repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath convulsively -through her nose. Her husband speaks. - -UNCLE TITUS. Well, I hope he will have the grace not to come. I -hope so. - -The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes to the -window and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins smiles -secretively as if he knew something that would change their tune -if they knew it. Anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family -councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his nature. Judith -appears at the bedroom door. - -JUDITH (with gentle impressiveness). Friends, Mrs. Dudgeon. (She -takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for Mrs. -Dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean -handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except Essie. Mrs. Titus and -Mrs. William produce equally clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is -an affecting moment.) - -UNCLE WILLIAM. Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer -up a prayer? - -UNCLE TITUS. Or sing a hymn? - -ANDERSON (rather hastily). I have been with our sister this -morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing. - -ALL (except Essie). Amen. - -They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. -Dudgeon's chair. - -JUDITH (to Essie). Essie: did you say Amen? - -ESSIE (scaredly). No. - -JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl. - -ESSIE. Amen. - -UNCLE WILLIAM (encouragingly). That's right: that's right. We -know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if you are -a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal before the Throne. - -This republican sentiment does not please the women, who are -convinced that the Throne is precisely the place where their -superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized -and rewarded. - -CHRISTY (at the window). Here's Dick. - -Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a gleam of -interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy grins and -gapes expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified with the -intensity of their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage by the -approach of flaunting Vice. The reprobate appears in the doorway, -graced beyond his alleged merits by the morning sunlight. He is -certainly the best looking member of the family; but his -expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant and -satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only his forehead -and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes are -the eyes of a fanatic. - -RICHARD (on the threshold, taking off his hat). Ladies and -gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. (With -this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a -suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, -and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and -deliberately surveys the company.) How happy you all look! -how glad to see me! (He turns towards Mrs. Dudgeon's chair; -and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her -look of undisguised hatred.) Well, mother: keeping up appearances -as usual? that's right, that's right. (Judith pointedly moves -away from his neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, -holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from -contamination. Uncle Titus promptly marks his approval of her -action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to -sit down upon.) What! Uncle William! I haven't seen you -since you gave up drinking. (Poor Uncle William, shamed, -would protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, -adding) you have given it up, haven't you? (releasing him with a -playful push) of course you have: quite right too; you overdid -it. (He turns away from Uncle William and makes for the sofa.) -And now, where is that upright horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle -Titus: come forth. (He comes upon him holding the chair as Judith -sits down.) As usual, looking after the ladies. - -UNCLE TITUS (indignantly). Be ashamed of yourself, sir-- - -RICHARD (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him). -I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle--proud of all my relatives -(again surveying them) who could look at them and not be proud -and joyful? (Uncle Titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the -sofa. Richard turns to the table.) Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the -good work, still shepherding them. Keep them up to the mark, -minister, keep them up to the mark. Come! (with a spring he seats -himself on the table and takes up the decanter) clink a glass -with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times. - -ANDERSON. You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink -before dinner. - -RICHARD. You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used to drink -before breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons unction. (He -smells the wine and makes a wry face.) But do not begin on my -mother's company sherry. I stole some when I was six years old; -and I have been a temperate man ever since. (He puts the decanter -down and changes the subject.) So I hear you are married, Pastor, -and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks. - -ANDERSON (quietly indicating Judith). Sir: you are in the -presence of my wife. (Judith rises and stands with stony -propriety.) - -RICHARD (quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive -good manners). Your servant, madam: no offence. (He looks at her -earnestly.) You deserve your reputation; but I'm sorry to see by -your expression that you're a good woman. - -(She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant -sympathy from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know -that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man -who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly -goodhumored.) All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than I did -before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our late -lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father? - -UNCLE TITUS. He had only one irregular child, sir. - -RICHARD. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for you, -Uncle Titus. - -ANDERSON. Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and -her grief. - -RICHARD. It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, what has -become of the irregular child? - -ANDERSON (pointing to Essie). There, sir, listening to you. - -RICHARD (shocked into sincerity). What! Why the devil didn't you -tell me that before? Children suffer enough in this house -without-- (He hurries remorsefully to Essie.) Come, little -cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. (She looks -up gratefully at him. Her tearstained face affects him violently, -and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath) Who has been making -her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? By God-- - -MRS. DUDGEON (rising and confronting him). Silence your -blasphemous tongue. I will hear no more of this. Leave my house. - -RICHARD. How do you know it's your house until the will is read? -(They look at one another for a moment with intense hatred; and -then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. Richard goes boldly -up past Anderson to the window, where he takes the railed chair -in his hand.) Ladies and gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late -father, and the unworthy head of this household, I bid you -welcome. By your leave, Minister Anderson: by your leave, Lawyer -Hawkins. The head of the table for the head of the family. (He -places the chair at the table between the minister and the -attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with -a presidential air.) We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father -dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (He shakes -his head deploringly. The relatives freeze with horror.) That's -right: pull your longest faces (his voice suddenly sweetens -gravely as his glance lights on Essie) provided only there is -hope in the eyes of the child. (Briskly.) Now then, Lawyer -Hawkins: business, business. Get on with the will, man. - -TITUS. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. Hawkins. - -HAWKINS (very politely and willingly). Mr. Dudgeon means no -offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second, Mr. -Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses--(he fumbles for them. The -Dudgeons look at one another with misgiving). - -RICHARD. Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. They are -prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear your voice -before you begin. (He pours out one for him and hands it; then -pours one for himself.) - -HAWKINS. Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, sir. - -RICHARD. Yours, sir. (With the glass half way to his lips, he -checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, -with quaint intensity.) Will anyone oblige me with a glass of -water? - -Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises -stealthily and slips out behind Mrs. Dudgeon through the bedroom -door, returning presently with a jug and going out of the house -as quietly as possible. - -HAWKINS. The will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology. - -RICHARD. No: my father died without the consolations of the law. - -HAWKINS. Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. (Preparing to read) -Are you ready, sir? - -RICHARD. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to receive, may -the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead. - -HAWKINS (reading). "This is the last will and testament of me -Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the road from -Springtown to Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of -September, one thousand seven hundred and seventy seven. I hereby -revoke all former wills made by me and declare that I am of sound -mind and know well what I am doing and that this is my real will -according to my own wish and affections." - -RICHARD (glancing at his mother). Aha! - -HAWKINS (shaking his head). Bad phraseology, sir, wrong -phraseology. "I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger -son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to him on the -day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if she will have him, and -ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to the number -of five." - -RICHARD. How if she won't have him? - -CHRISTY. She will if I have fifty pounds. - -RICHARD. Good, my brother. Proceed. - -HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dudgeon, born -Annie Primrose"--you see he did not know the law, Mr. Dudgeon: -your mother was not born Annie: she was christened so--"an -annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life (Mrs. Dudgeon, with -all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively rigid) to be paid out -of the interest on her own money"--there's a way to put it, Mr. -Dudgeon! Her own money! - -MRS. DUDGEON. A very good way to put God's truth. It was every -penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year! - -HAWKINS. "And I recommend her for her goodness and piety to the -forgiving care of her children, having stood between them and her -as far as I could to the best of my ability." - -MRS. DUDGEON. And this is my reward! (raging inwardly) You know -what I think, Mr. Anderson you know the word I gave to it. - -ANDERSON. It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We must take what -comes to us. (To Hawkins.) Go on, sir. - -HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath my house at Websterbridge with the -land belonging to it and all the rest of my property soever to my -eldest son and heir, Richard Dudgeon." - -RICHARD. Oho! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf. - -HAWKINS. "On these conditions--" - -RICHARD. The devil! Are there conditions? - -HAWKINS. "To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother Peter's -natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil life." - -RICHARD (emphatically, striking his fist on the table). Agreed. - -Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses her -and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, -seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her lips -vengefully. - -HAWKINS. "Second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse -Jim"--(again slacking his head) he should have written James, -sir. - -RICHARD. James shall live in clover. Go on. - -HAWKINS. "--and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger Feston in his -service." - -RICHARD. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday. - -HAWKINS. "Third, that he make Christy a present on his marriage -out of the ornaments in the best room." - -RICHARD (holding up the stuffed birds). Here you are, Christy. - -CHRISTY (disappointed). I'd rather have the China peacocks. - -RICHARD. You shall have both. (Christy is greatly pleased.) Go -on. - -HAWKINS. "Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with -his mother as far as she will consent to it." - -RICHARD (dubiously). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins? - -HAWKINS (solemnly). "Finally I gave and bequeath my soul into my -Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and -mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not -be said that I have done wrong in trusting to him rather than to -others in the perplexity of my last hour in this strange place." - -ANDERSON. Amen. - -THE UNCLES AND AUNTS. Amen. - -RICHARD. My mother does not say Amen. - -MRS. DUDGEON (rising, unable to give up her property without a -struggle). Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will? Remember, I have -his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to -me. - -HAWKINS. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, Mrs. -Dudgeon; though (turning politely to Richard) it contains in my -judgment an excellent disposal of his property. - -ANDERSON (interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort). That is -not what you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal will? - -HAWKINS. The courts will sustain it against the other. - -ANDERSON. But why, if the other is more lawfully worded? - -HAWKING. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a -man--and that man the eldest son--against any woman, if they can. -I warned you, Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other -will, that it was not a wise will, and that though you might make -him sign it, he would never be easy until he revoked it. But you -wouldn't take advice; and now Mr. Richard is cock of the walk. -(He takes his hat from the floor; rises; and begins pocketing his -papers and spectacles.) - -This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson -takes his hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. -Uncle Titus fetches Judith her things from the rack. The three -on the sofa rise and chat with Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now -an intruder in her own house, stands erect, crushed by the weight -of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to -accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of -the power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike -insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary Wollstonecraft -is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vindication of the -Rights of Women is still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is -rescued from her apathy by Essie, who comes back with the jug -full of water. She is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon -stops her. - -MRS. DUDGEON (threatening her). Where have you been? (Essie, -appalled, tries to answer, but cannot.) How dare you go out by -yourself after the orders I gave you? - -ESSIE. He asked for a drink--(she stops, her tongue cleaving to -her palate with terror). - -JUDITH (with gentler severity). Who asked for a drink? (Essie, -speechless, points to Richard.) - -RICHARD. What! I! - -JUDITH (shocked). Oh Essie, Essie! - -RICHARD. I believe I did. (He takes a glass and holds it to Essie -to be filled. Her hand shakes.) What! afraid of me? - -ESSIE (quickly). No. I-- (She pours out the water.) - -RICHARD (tasting it). Ah, you've been up the street to the market -gate spring to get that. (He takes a draught.) Delicious! Thank -you. (Unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of -Judith's face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of -his evident attraction for Essie, who is devouring him with her -grateful eyes. His mocking expression returns instantly. He puts -down the glass; deliberately winds his arm round Essie's -shoulders; and brings her into the middle of the company. Mrs. -Dudgeon being in Essie's way as they come past the table, he -says) By your leave, mother (and compels her to make way for -them). What do they call you? Bessie? - -ESSIE. Essie. - -RICHARD. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie? - -ESSIE (greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin -at her in this way) Yes. (She looks doubtfully at Judith.) I -think so. I mean I--I hope so. - -RICHARD. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil? - -ANDERSON (revolted). Shame on you, sir, with a mere child-- - -RICHARD. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your -sermons: do not you interrupt mine. (To Essie.) Do you know what -they call me, Essie? - -ESSIE. Dick. - -RICHARD (amused: patting her on the shoulder). Yes, Dick; but -something else too. They call me the Devil's Disciple. - -ESSIE. Why do you let them? - -RICHARD (seriously). Because it's true. I was brought up in the -other service; but I knew from the first that the Devil was my -natural master and captain and friend. I saw that he was in the -right, and that the world cringed to his conqueror only through -fear. I prayed secretly to him; and he comforted me, and saved me -from having my spirit broken in this house of children's tears. I -promised him my soul, and swore an oath that I would stand up for -him in this world and stand by him in the next. (Solemnly) That -promise and that oath made a man of me. From this day this house -is his home; and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his -altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings -and be afraid. Now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you -good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of -the devil? - -JUDITH (coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about her). -I will. You should be burnt alive. - -ESSIE. But I don't want to. (She shrinks back, leaving Richard -and Judith face to face.) - -RICHARD (to Judith). Actually doesn't want to, most virtuous -lady! - -UNCLE TITUS. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law-- - -RICHARD (turning threateningly on him). Have a care, you. In an -hour from this there will be no law here but martial law. I -passed the soldiers within six miles on my way here: before noon -Major Swindon's gallows for rebels will be up in the market -place. - -ANDERSON (calmly). What have we to fear from that, sir? - -RICHARD. More than you think. He hanged the wrong man at -Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respectable, because the -Dudgeons had a good name. But his next example will be the best -man in the town to whom he can bring home a rebellious word. -Well, we're all rebels; and you know it. - -ALL THE MEN (except Anderson). No, no, no! - -RICHARD. Yes, you are. You haven't damned King George up hill and -down dale as I have; but you've prayed for his defeat; and you, -Anthony Anderson, have conducted the service, and sold your -family bible to buy a pair of pistols. They mayn't hang me, -perhaps; because the moral effect of the Devil's Disciple dancing -on nothing wouldn't help them. But a Minister! (Judith, dismayed, -clings to Anderson) or a lawyer! (Hawkins smiles like a man able -to take care of himself) or an upright horsedealer! (Uncle Titus -snarls at him in rags and terror) or a reformed drunkard (Uncle -William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? Would -that show that King George meant business--ha? - -ANDERSON (perfectly self-possessed). Come, my dear: he is only -trying to frighten you. There is no danger. (He takes her out of -the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, except -Essie, who remains near Richard.) - -RICHARD (boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of you will -stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil's house; and -make a fight for freedom? (They scramble out, Christy among them, -hustling one another in their haste.) Ha ha! Long live the devil! -(To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is following them) What mother! are you off -too? - -MRS. DUDGEON (deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she -had received a deathblow). My curse on you! My dying curse! (She -goes out.) - -RICHARD (calling after her). It will bring me luck. Ha ha ha! - -ESSIE (anxiously). Mayn't I stay? - -RICHARD (turning to her). What! Have they forgotten to save your -soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh yes: you may -stay. (He turns excitedly away again and shakes his fist after -them. His left fist, also clenched, hangs down. Essie seizes it -and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He starts and looks at -it.) Tears! The devil's baptism! (She falls on her knees, -sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, saying) Oh yes, -you may cry that way, Essie, if you like. - - - -ACT II - -Minister Anderson's house is in the main street of Websterbridge, -not far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth century -New Englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the -Dudgeons; but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent -would let both at about the same rent. The chief dwelling room -has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster -hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed to the hob, -hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which stand a -kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The door, between the -fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor -handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. -The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of -American cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. The tea -service on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the -plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough -to contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the -middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, -and a square half pound block of butter in a crock. The big oak -press facing the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for -use and storage, not for ornament; and the minister's house coat -hangs on a peg from its door, showing that he is out; for when he -is in it is his best coat that hangs there. His big riding boots -stand beside the press, evidently in their usual place, and -rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evolution of the -minister's kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three -separate apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the -point of view of our pampered period, he is no better off than -the Dudgeons. - -But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs. -Anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. -To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that Mrs. -Anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor -cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent -on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a -tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the -minister's house as it is hard at the farm. This is true; but to -explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs. -Anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has -certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and visible signs of -her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the floor, a -plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though not -upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are -represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, -a copperplate of Raphael's St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo -presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of -miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, -and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of -the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, -with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve -as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near -the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate -two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the sort of room -that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back -to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and his disciples in -domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have -tolerated it fifty years ago. - -The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the -cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window -in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless -downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith -comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, -and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the -morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened. She goes to the -window and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there -is her husband, hurrying here through the rain. She gives a -little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns -to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak. - -JUDITH (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last! (She -attempts to embrace him.) - -ANDERSON (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I'm wet. Wait -till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to the -fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat -and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands -outstretched to Judith.) Now! (She flies into his arms.) I am not -late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I came in at the -front door. And the town clock is always fast. - -JUDITH. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad you're back. - -ANDERSON (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, my dear? - -JUDITH. A little. - -ANDERSON. Why, you've been crying. - -JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. (A bugle -call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats -to the long seat, listening.) What's that? - -ANDERSON (following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit -down with him). Only King George, my dear. He's returning to -barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or -booting or saddling or something. Soldiers don't ring the bell or -call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy -out with a bugle to disturb the whole town. - -JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger? - -ANDERSON. Not the least in the world. - -JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it. - -ANDERSON. My dear: in this world there is always danger for those -who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the house will catch -fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the less soundly for -that. - -JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and you're quite right. -Oh, quite right: I know it. But--I suppose I'm not brave: that's -all. My heart shrinks every time I think of the soldiers. - -ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for -costing a little pain. - -JUDITH. Yes, I suppose so. (Embracing him again.) Oh how brave -you are, my dear! (With tears in her eyes.) Well, I'll be brave -too: you shan't be ashamed of your wife. - -ANDERSON. That's right. Now you make me happy. Well, well! (He -rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.) I called -on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn't in. - -JUDITH (rising in consternation). You called on that man! - -ANDERSON (reassuring her). Oh, nothing happened, dearie. He was -out. - -JUDITH (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal -humiliation to her). But why did you go there? - -ANDERSON (gravely). Well, it is all the talk that Major Swindon -is going to do what he did in Springtown--make an example of some -notorious rebel, as he calls us. He pounced on Peter Dudgeon as -the worst character there; and it is the general belief that he -will pounce on Richard as the worst here. - -JUDITH. But Richard said-- - -ANDERSON (goodhumoredly cutting her short). Pooh! Richard said! -He said what he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my -dear. He said what perhaps (God forgive him!) he would like to -believe. It's a terrible thing to think of what death must mean -for a man like that. I felt that I must warn him. I left a -message for him. - -JUDITH (querulously). What message? - -ANDERSON. Only that I should be glad to see him for a moment on a -matter of importance to himself; and that if he would look in -here when he was passing he would be welcome. - -JUDITH (aghast). You asked that man to come here! - -ANDERSON. I did. - -JUDITH (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). I hope he -won't come! Oh, I pray that he may not come! - -ANDERSON. Why? Don't you want him to be warned? - -JUDITH. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong to hate a -blasphemer and a villain? I do hate him! I can't get him out of -my mind: I know he will bring harm with him. He insulted you: he -insulted me: he insulted his mother. - -ANDERSON (quaintly). Well, dear, let's forgive him; and then it -won't matter. - -JUDITH. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; but-- - -ANDERSON (going over to her with humorous tenderness). Come, -dear, you're not so wicked as you think. The worst sin towards -our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent -to them: that's the essence of inhumanity. After all, my dear, if -you watch people carefully, you'll be surprised to find how like -hate is to love. (She starts, strangely touched--even appalled. -He is amused at her.) Yes: I'm quite in earnest. Think of how -some of our married friends worry one another, tax one another, -are jealous of one another, can't bear to let one another out of -sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than -lovers. Think of those very same people with their enemies, -scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent -of one another, careful of how they speak of one another--pooh! -haven't you often thought that if they only knew it, they were -better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and -wives? Come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of -Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. Eh? - -JUDITH. Oh, don't say that: don't say that, Tony, even in jest. -You don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me. - -ANDERSON (Laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He's a bad man; -and you hate him as he deserves. And you're going to make the -tea, aren't you? - -JUDITH (remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I've been keeping you -waiting all this time. (She goes to the fire and puts on the -kettle.) - -ANDERSON (going to the press and taking his coat off). Have you -stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? - -JUDITH. Yes, dear. (She goes to the table, and sets about putting -the tea into the teapot from the caddy.) - -ANDERSON (as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the -press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). Did -anyone call when I was out? - -JUDITH. No, only--(someone knocks at the door. With a start which -betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end -of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, -exclaiming) Who's that? - -ANDERSON (going to her and patting her encouragingly on the -shoulder). All right, pet, all right. He won't eat you, whoever -he is. (She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. He goes -to the door and opens it. Richard is there, without overcoat or -cloak.) You might have raised the latch and come in, Mr. Dudgeon. -Nobody stands on much ceremony with us. (Hospitably.) Come in. -(Richard comes in carelessly and stands at the table, looking -round the room with a slight pucker of his nose at the -mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her eyes on the tea -caddy.) Is it still raining? (He shuts the door.) - -RICHARD. Raining like the very (his eye catches Judith's as she -looks quickly and haughtily up)--I beg your pardon; but (showing -that his coat is wet) you see--! - -ANDERSON. Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire -a while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith: put in -another spoonful of tea for Mr. Dudgeon. - -RICHARD (eyeing him cynically). The magic of property, Pastor! -Are even YOU civil to me now that I have succeeded to my father's -estate? - -Judith throws down the spoon indignantly. - -ANDERSON (quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his -coat). I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you -cannot have so bad an opinion of it. Sit down. (With the coat in -his hand, he points to the railed seat. Richard, in his -shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment; then, -with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of -him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson pushes his cloak into a -heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs Richard's -coat on the back in its place.) - -RICHARD. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left word you -had something important to tell me. - -ANDERSON. I have a warning which it is my duty to give you. - -RICHARD (quickly rising). You want to preach to me. Excuse me: I -prefer a walk in the rain. (He makes for his coat.) - -ANDERSON (stopping him). Don't be alarmed, sir; I am no great -preacher. You are quite safe. (Richard smiles in spite of -himself. His glance softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse. -Anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now addresses him -earnestly.) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in danger in this town. - -RICHARD. What danger? - -ANDERSON. Your uncle's danger. Major Swindon's gallows. - -RICHARD. It is you who are in danger. I warned you-- - -ANDERSON (interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively). -Yes, yes, Mr. Dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town. And -even if I were in danger, I have duties here I must not forsake. -But you are a free man. Why should you run any risk? - -RICHARD. Do you think I should be any great loss, Minister? - -ANDERSON. I think that a man's life is worth saving, whoever it -belongs to. (Richard makes him an ironical bow. Anderson returns -the bow humorously.) Come: you'll have a cup of tea, to prevent -you catching cold? - -RICHARD. I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so pressing as -you are, Pastor. - -JUDITH (almost stifled with resentment, which she has been -expecting her husband to share and express for her at every -insult of Richard's). You are welcome for my husband's sake. (She -brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.) - -RICHARD. I know I am not welcome for my own, madam. (He rises.) -But I think I will not break bread here, Minister. - -ANDERSON (cheerily). Give me a good reason for that. - -RICHARD. Because there is something in you that I respect, and -that makes me desire to have you for my enemy. - -ANDERSON. That's well said. On those terms, sir, I will accept -your enmity or any man's. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will stay to tea. -Sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by the fire. -(Richard glances at him with a troubled face; then sits down with -his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of his throat.) I -was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon, that enmity--(she grasps -his hand and looks imploringly at him, doing both with an -intensity that checks him at once) Well, well, I mustn't tell -you, I see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse friend-- -enemies, I mean. Judith is a great enemy of yours. - -RICHARD. If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson I should be -the best Christian in America. - -ANDERSON (gratified, patting her hand). You hear that, Judith? -Mr. Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment. - -The latch is lifted from without. - -JUDITH (starting). Who is that? - -Christy comes in. - -CHRISTY (stopping and staring at Richard). Oh, are YOU here? - -RICHARD. Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn't want the -whole family to tea at once. - -CHRISTY (coming further in). Mother's very ill. - -RICHARD. Well, does she want to see ME? - -CHRISTY. No. - -RICHARD. I thought not. - -CHRISTY. She wants to see the minister--at once. - -JUDITH (to Anderson). Oh, not before you've had some tea. - -ANDERSON. I shall enjoy it more when I come back, dear. (He is -about to take up his cloak.) - -CHRISTY. The rain's over. - -ANDERSON (dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from the -fender). Where is your mother, Christy? - -CHRISTY. At Uncle Titus's. - -ANDERSON. Have you fetched the doctor? - -CHRISTY. No: she didn't tell me to. - -ANDERSON. Go on there at once: I'll overtake you on his doorstep. -(Christy turns to go.) Wait a moment. Your brother must be -anxious to know the particulars. - -RICHARD. Psha! not I: he doesn't know; and I don't care. -(Violently.) Be off, you oaf. (Christy runs out. Richard adds, a -little shamefacedly) We shall know soon enough. - -ANDERSON. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news -myself. Judith: will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and keep him -here until I return? - -JUDITH (white and trembling). Must I-- - -ANDERSON (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her -agitation). My dear: I can depend on you? - -JUDITH (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). Yes. - -ANDERSON (pressing her hand against his cheek). You will not mind -two old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) I shall not say -good evening: you will be here when I come back. (He goes out.) - -They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other -dumbly, quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver of her -lips, is the first to pull himself together. - -RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the nature of -your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude on you. Good -evening. (Again he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.) - -JUDITH (getting between him and the coat). No, no. Don't go: -please don't go. - -RICHARD (roughly). Why? You don't want me here. - -JUDITH. Yes, I--(wringing her hands in despair) Oh, if I tell you -the truth, you will use it to torment me. - -RICHARD (indignantly). Torment! What right have you to say that? -Do you expect me to stay after that? - -JUDITH. I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an -angry child) it is not because I like you. - -RICHARD. Indeed! - -JUDITH. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me about that. -I hate and dread you; and my husband knows it. If you are not -here when he comes back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and -drove you away. - -RICHARD (ironically). Whereas, of course, you have really been so -kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go -away out of mere contrariness, eh? - -Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into -tears. - -RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don't do that. (Putting -his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) He wrung my heart by -being a man. Need you tear it by being a woman? Has he not raised -you above my insults, like himself? (She stops crying, and -recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared -curiosity.) There: that's right. (Sympathetically.) You're better -now, aren't you? (He puts his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. -She instantly rises haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. He at -once drops into his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that's better. You -are yourself again: so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like -a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband's return? - -JUDITH (rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I--I am sorry -to have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the plate of -toast from the fender.) - -RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am--what I am. Allow -me. (He takes the plate from her and goes with it to the table.) - -JUDITH (following with the teapot). Will you sit down? (He sits -down at the end of the table nearest the press. There is a plate -and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; but Judith -stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes -her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) Do you take -sugar? - -RICHARD. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some toast. (He -puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, with the -knife. The action shows quietly how well he knows that she has -avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him as possible.) - -JUDITH (consciously). Thanks. (She gives him his tea.) Won't you -help yourself? - -RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and -she pours out tea for herself.) - -JUDITH (observing that he tastes nothing). Don't you like it? You -are not eating anything. - -RICHARD. Neither are you. - -JUDITH (nervously). I never care much for my tea. Please don't -mind me. - -RICHARD (Looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is all so -strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this home: I -think I have never been more at rest in my life than at this -moment; and yet I know quite well I could never live here. It's -not in my nature, I suppose, to be domesticated. But it's very -beautiful: it's almost holy. (He muses a moment, and then laughs -softly.) - -JUDITH (quickly). Why do you laugh? - -RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he -would take us for man and wife. - -JUDITH (taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you are more -my age than he is. - -RICHARD (staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought of -such a thing. (Sardonic again.) I see there is another side to -domestic joy. - -JUDITH (angrily). I would rather have a husband whom everybody -respects than--than-- - -RICHARD. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; but I daresay -your love helps him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me -to be a bad one. - -JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He has forgiven you -for insulting him, and is trying to save you. Can you not forgive -him for being so much better than you are? How dare you belittle -him by putting yourself in his place? - -RICHARD. Did I? - -JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in they would -take us for man and--(she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of -soldiers tramps past the window) The English soldiers! Oh, what -do they-- - -RICHARD (listening). Sh! - -A VOICE (outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me. - -Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at -Richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his -tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English -sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who post -themselves at the door. He comes promptly to the table between -them. - -THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony Anderson: -I arrest you in King George's name as a rebel. - -JUDITH (pointing at Richard). But that is not-- (He looks up -quickly at her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth hastily -with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands staring -affrightedly.) - -THE SERGEANT. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come along. - -RICHARD. Yes: I'll come. (He rises and takes a step towards his -own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back to the -sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without turning -his head until he sees Anderson's black coat hanging up on the -press. He goes composedly to it; takes it down; and puts it on. -The idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he looks down at the -black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at Judith, whose -white face shows him that what she is painfully struggling to -grasp is not the humor of the situation but its horror. He turns -to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of handcuffs -hidden behind him, and says lightly) Did you ever arrest a man of -my cloth before, Sergeant? - -THE SERGEANT (instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, -half to Richard's good breeding). Well, no sir. At least, only an -army chaplain. (Showing the handcuffs.) I'm sorry, air; but -duty-- - -RICHARD. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of them: thank -you kindly for the apology. (He holds out his hands.) - -SERGEANT (not availing himself of the offer). One gentleman to -another, sir. Wouldn't you like to say a word to your missis, -sir, before you go? - -RICHARD (smiling). Oh, we shall meet again before--eh? (Meaning -"before you hang me.") - -SERGEANT (loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). Oh, of course, -of course. No call for the lady to distress herself. Still--(in a -lower voice, intended for Richard alone) your last chance, sir. - -They look at one another significantly for a moment. Than Richard -exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith. - -RICHARD (very distinctly). My love. (She looks at him, pitiably -pale, and tries to answer, but cannot--tries also to come to him, -but cannot trust herself to stand without the support of the -table.) This gallant gentleman is good enough to allow us a -moment of leavetaking. (The sergeant retires delicately and joins -his men near the door.) He is trying to spare you the truth; but -you had better know it. Are you listening to me? (She signifies -assent.) Do you understand that I am going to my death? (She -signifies that she understands.) Remember, you must find our -friend who was with us just now. Do you understand? (She -signifies yes.) See that you get him safely out of harm's way. -Don't for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it -out, tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and -they would not spare me. And tell him that I am steadfast in my -religion as he is in his, and that he may depend on me to the -death. (He turns to go, and meets the eye of the sergeant, who -looks a little suspicious. He considers a moment, and then, -turning roguishly to Judith with something of a smile breaking -through his earnestness, says) And now, my dear, I am afraid the -sergeant will not believe that you love me like a wife unless you -give one kiss before I go. - -He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the table and -almost falls into them. - -JUDITH (the words choking her). I ought to--it's murder-- - -RICHARD. No: only a kiss (softly to her) for his sake. - -JUDITH. I can't. You must-- - -RICHARD (folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion -for her distress). My poor girl! - -Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses -him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if -the kiss had killed her. - -RICHARD (going quickly to the sergeant). Now, Sergeant: quick, -before she comes to. The handcuffs. (He puts out his hands.) - -SERGEANT (pocketing them). Never mind, sir: I'll trust you. -You're a game one. You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Between -them two, please. (The soldiers place themselves one before -Richard and one behind him. The sergeant opens the door.) - -RICHARD (taking a last look round him). Goodbye, wife: goodbye, -home. Muffle the drums, and quick march! - -The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They file out -quickly. - -***************************************************************** - -When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon's he is astonished to -find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for -the glow from the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and -the other is at its last flicker. - -ANDERSON. Why, what on earth--? (Calling) Judith, Judith! (He -listens: there is no answer.) Hm! (He goes to the cupboard; takes -a candle from the drawer; lights it at the flicker of the -expiring one on the table; and looks wonderingly at the untasted -meal by its light. Then he sticks it in the candlestick; takes -off his hat; and scratches his head, much puzzled. This action -causes him to look at the floor for the first time; and there he -sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. He runs to her -and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) Judith. - -JUDITH (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of -exhaustion after suffering). Yes. Did you call? What's the -matter? - -ANDERSON. I've just come in and found you lying here with the -candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. What has -happened? - -JUDITH (still astray). I don't know. Have I been asleep? I -suppose--(she stops blankly) I don't know. - -ANDERSON (groaning). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with -that scoundrel. (Judith remembers. With an agonized cry, she -clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises -with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms.) My poor pet! - -JUDITH (frantically clinging to him). What shall I do? Oh my God, -what shall I do? - -ANDERSON. Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my -fault. Come: you're safe now; and you're not hurt, are you? (He -takes his arms from her to see whether she can stand.) There: -that's right, that's right. If only you are not hurt, nothing -else matters. - -JUDITH. No, no, no: I'm not hurt. - -ANDERSON. Thank Heaven for that! Come now: (leading her to the -railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and -rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. Or, (misunderstanding -her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it worries you. -There, there! (Cheerfully.) I'll make you some fresh tea: that -will set you up again. (He goes to the table, and empties the -teapot into the slop bowl.) - -JUDITH (in a strained tone). Tony. - -ANDERSON. Yes, dear? - -JUDITH. Do you think we are only in a dream now? - -ANDERSON (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of -anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh -tea into the pot). Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well dream a -cup of tea when you're about it. - -JUDITH. Oh, stop, stop. You don't know-- (Distracted she buries -her face in her knotted hands.) - -ANDERSON (breaking down and coming to her). My dear, what is it? -I can't bear it any longer: you must tell me. It was all my -fault: I was mad to trust him. - -JUDITH. No: don't say that. You mustn't say that. He--oh no, no: -I can't. Tony: don't speak to me. Take my hands--both my hands. -(He takes them, wondering.) Make me think of you, not of him. -There's danger, frightful danger; but it is your danger; and I -can't keep thinking of it: I can't, I can't: my mind goes back to -his danger. He must be saved--no: you must be saved: you, you, -you. (She springs up as if to do something or go somewhere, -exclaiming) Oh, Heaven help me! - -ANDERSON (keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute -composure). Calmly, calmly, my pet. You're quite distracted. - -JUDITH. I may well be. I don't know what to do. I don't know what -to do. (Tearing her hands away.) I must save him. (Anderson rises -in alarm as she runs wildly to the door. It is opened in her face -by Essie, who hurries in, full of anxiety. The surprise is so -disagreeable to Judith that it brings her to her senses. Her tone -is sharp and angry as she demands) What do you want? - -ESSIE. I was to come to you. - -ANDERSON. Who told you to? - -ESSIE (staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). -Are you here? - -JUDITH. Of course. Don't be foolish, child. - -ANDERSON. Gently, dearest: you'll frighten her. (Going between -them.) Come here, Essie. (She comes to him.) Who sent you? - -ESSIE. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to come here at -once and do whatever Mrs. Anderson told me. - -ANDERSON (enlightened). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! They -have arrested Richard. (Judith makes a gesture of despair.) - -ESSIE. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the soldier said -you had been taken-- - -ANDERSON. I! (Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an explanation.) - -JUDITH (coaxingly) All right, dear: I understand. (To Essie.) -Thank you, Essie, for coming; but I don't need you now. You may -go home. - -ESSIE (suspicious) Are you sure Dick has not been touched? -Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister. -(Anxiously.) Mrs. Anderson: do you think it can have been that? - -ANDERSON. Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She will learn -it from the first neighbor she meets in the street. (Judith turns -away and covers her eyes with her hands.) - -ESSIE (wailing). But what will they do to him? Oh, what will they -do to him? Will they hang him? (Judith shudders convulsively, and -throws herself into the chair in which Richard sat at the tea -table.) - -ANDERSON (patting Essie's shoulder and trying to comfort her). I -hope not. I hope not. Perhaps if you're very quiet and patient, -we may be able to help him in some way. - -ESSIE. Yes--help him--yes, yes, yes. I'll be good. - -ANDERSON. I must go to him at once, Judith. - -JUDITH (springing up). Oh no. You must go away--far away, to some -place of safety. - -ANDERSON. Pooh! - -JUDITH (passionately). Do you want to kill me? Do you think I can -bear to live for days and days with every knock at the door-- -every footstep--giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for -nights and nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to -come and arrest you? - -ANDERSON. Do you think it would be better to know that I had run -away from my post at the first sign of danger? - -JUDITH (bitterly). Oh, you won't go. I know it. You'll stay; and -I shall go mad. - -ANDERSON. My dear, your duty-- - -JUDITH (fiercely). What do I care about my duty? - -ANDERSON (shocked). Judith! - -JUDITH. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. My duty is -to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (Essie -utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, -sobbing silently.) My instinct is the same as hers--to save him -above all things, though it would be so much better for him to -die! so much greater! But I know you will take your own way as he -took it. I have no power. (She sits down sullenly on the railed -seat.) I'm only a woman: I can do nothing but sit here and -suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save you--that I did my best to -save you. - -ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more of his -own danger than of mine. - -JUDITH. Stop; or I shall hate you. - -ANDERSON (remonstrating). Come, am I to leave you if you talk -like this! your senses. (He turns to Essie.) Essie. - -ESSIE (eagerly rising and drying her eyes). Yes? - -ANDERSON. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs. -Anderson is not well. (Essie looks doubtful.) Never fear: I'll -come to you presently; and I'll go to Dick. - -ESSIE. You are sure you will go to him? (Whispering.) You won't -let her prevent you? - -ANDERSON (smiling). No, no: it's all right. All right. (She -goes.) That's a good girl. (He closes the door, and returns to -Judith.) - -JUDITH (seated--rigid). You are going to your death. - -ANDERSON (quaintly). Then I shall go in my best coat, dear. (He -turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) Where--? (He -stares at the empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round -to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts Richard's coat.) -Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in my best coat. - -JUDITH (still motionless). Yes. - -ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake? - -JUDITH. Yes: they made a mistake. - -ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was too upset, -I suppose. - -JUDITH. Yes: he might have told them. So might I. - -ANDERSON. Well, it's all very puzzling--almost funny. It's -curious how these little things strike us even in the most-- -(he breaks of and begins putting on Richard's coat) I'd -better take him his own coat. I know what he'll say--(imitating -Richard's sardonic manner) "Anxious about my soul, Pastor, and -also about your best coat." Eh? - -JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (Vacantly.) It -doesn't matter: I shall never see either of you again. - -ANDERSON (rallying her). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (He sits down -beside her.) Is this how you keep your promise that I shan't be -ashamed of my brave wife? - -JUDITH. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my promises to -him: why should I keep my promises to you? - -ANDERSON. Don't speak so strangely, my love. It sounds insincere -to me. (She looks unutterable reproach at him.) Yes, dear, -nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. -Just nonsense. (Her face darkens into dumb obstinacy. She stares -straight before her, and does not look at him again, absorbed in -Richard's fate. He scans her face; sees that his rallying has -produced no effect; and gives it up, making no further effort to -conceal his anxiety.) I wish I knew what has frightened you so. -Was there a struggle? Did he fight? - -JUDITH. No. He smiled. - -ANDERSON. Did he realise his danger, do you think? - -JUDITH. He realised yours. - -ANDERSON. Mine! - -JUDITH (monotonously). He said, "See that you get him safely out -of harm's way." I promised: I can't keep my promise. He said, -"Don't for your life let him know of my danger." I've told you of -it. He said that if you found it out, you could not save him-- -that they will hang him and not spare you. - -ANDERSON (rising in generous indignation). And you think that I -will let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, when a -few words might make him die like a Christian? I'm ashamed of -you, Judith. - -JUDITH. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; -and you may depend on him to the death. He said so. - -ANDERSON. God forgive him! What else did he say? - -JUDITH. He said goodbye. - -ANDERSON (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). Poor -fellow, poor fellow! You said goodbye to him in all kindness and -charity, Judith, I hope. - -JUDITH. I kissed him. - -ANDERSON. What! Judith! - -JUDITH. Are you angry? - -ANDERSON. No, no. You were right: you were right. Poor fellow, -poor fellow! (Greatly distressed.) To be hanged like that at his -age! And then did they take him away? - -JUDITH (wearily). Then you were here: that's the next thing I -remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me goodbye, Tony. Perhaps -I shall faint again. I wish I could die. - -ANDERSON. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be -sensible. I am in no danger--not the least in the world. - -JUDITH (solemnly). You are going to your death, Tony--your sure -death, if God will let innocent men be murdered. They will not -let you see him: they will arrest you the moment you give your -name. It was for you the soldiers came. - -ANDERSON (thunderstruck). For me!!! (His fists clinch; his neck -thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes -become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, -transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. Still, -she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes -are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of Richard's stead- -fastness.) - -JUDITH. He took your place: he is dying to save you. That is why -he went in your coat. That is why I kissed him. - -ANDERSON (exploding). Blood an' owns! (His voice is rough and -dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) Here! Essie, Essie! - -ESSIE (running in). Yes. - -ANDERSON (impetuously). Off with you as hard as you can run, to -the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they -have (Judith rises breathless, and stares at him incredulously)-- -the chestnut mare, if she's fresh--without a moment's delay. Go -into the stable yard and tell the black man there that I'll give -him a silver dollar if the horse is waiting for me when I come, -and that I am close on your heels. Away with you. (His energy -sends Essie flying from the room. He pounces on his riding boots; -rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins pulling -them on.) - -JUDITH (unable to believe such a thing of him). You are not going -to him! - -ANDERSON (busy with the boots). Going to him! What good would -that do? (Growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with a -wrench) I'll go to them, so I will. (To Judith peremptorily) Get -me the pistols: I want them. And money, money: I want money--all -the money in the house. (He stoops over the other boot, -grumbling) A great satisfaction it would be to him to have my -company on the gallows. (He pulls on the boot.) - -JUDITH. You are deserting him, then? - -ANDERSON. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols. (She -goes to the press and takes from it a leather belt with two -pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached to it. She -throws it on the table. Then she unlocks a drawer in the press -and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs the belt and buckles it on, -saying) If they took him for me in my coat, perhaps they'll take -me for him in his. (Hitching the belt into its place) Do I look -like him? - -JUDITH (turning with the purse in her hand). Horribly unlike him. - -ANDERSON (snatching the purse from her and emptying it on the -table). Hm! We shall see. - -JUDITH (sitting down helplessly). Is it of any use to pray, do -you think, Tony? - -ANDERSON (counting the money). Pray! Can we pray Swindon's rope -off Richard's neck? - -JUDITH. God may soften Major Swindon's heart. - -ANDERSON (contemptuously--pocketing a handful of money). Let him, -then. I am not God; and I must go to work another way. (Judith -gasps at the blasphemy. He throws the purse on the table.) Keep -that. I've taken 25 dollars. - -JUDITH. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister? - -ANDERSON. Minister be--faugh! My hat: where's my hat? (He -snatches up hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot haste.) Now -listen, you. If you can get a word with him by pretending you're -his wife, tell him to hold his tongue until morning: that will -give me all the start I need. - -JUDITH (solemnly). You may depend on him to the death. - -ANDERSON. You're a fool, a fool, Judith (for a moment checking -the torrent of his haste, and speaking with something of his old -quiet and impressive conviction). You don't know the man you're -married to. (Essie returns. He swoops at her at once.) Well: is -the horse ready? - -ESSIE (breathless). It will be ready when you come. - -ANDERSON. Good. (He makes for the door.) - -JUDITH (rising and stretching out her arms after him -involuntarily). Won't you say goodbye? - -ANDERSON. And waste another half minute! Psha! (He rushes out -like an avalanche.) - -ESSIE (hurrying to Judith). He has gone to save Richard, hasn't -he? - -JUDITH. To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. He has gone -to save himself. Richard must die. - -Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her -face. Judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in -front of her, at the vision of Richard, dying. - - - -ACT III - -Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters in -the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled -waiting room, and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad -night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality -of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her -attention is not strongly held. - -The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is -sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine figure -of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially -qualified, in a respectful way, to console her. - -SERGEANT. You can have a quiet word with him here, mum. - -JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait? - -SERGEANT. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the Bridewell for -the night; and he's just been brought over here for the court -martial. Don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, and has made a -rare good breakfast. - -JUDITH (incredulously). He is in good spirits! - -SERGEANT. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see him last -night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. He -spent it among us like the gentleman he is. Duty's duty, mum, of -course; but you're among friends here. (The tramp of a couple of -soldiers is heard approaching.) There: I think he's coming. -(Richard comes in, without a sign of care or captivity in his -bearing. The sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shows them -the key of the room in his hand. They withdraw.) Your good lady, -sir. - -RICHARD (going to her). What! My wife. My adored one. (He takes -her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.) How -long do you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, -Sergeant? - -SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you till -the court sits. - -RICHARD. But it has struck the hour. - -SERGEANT. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General Burgoyne's -just arrived--Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir--and he won't -have done finding fault with everything this side of half past. I -know him, sir: I served with him in Portugal. You may count on -twenty minutes, sir; and by your leave I won't waste any more of -them. (He goes out, locking the door. Richard immediately drops -his raffish manner and turns to Judith with considerate -sincerity.) - -RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. And how -are you after last night? I had to leave you before you -recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look after you. Did -she understand the message? - -JUDITH (breathless and urgent). Oh, don't think of me: I haven't -come here to talk about myself. Are they going to--to--(meaning -"to hang you")? - -RICHARD (whimsically). At noon, punctually. At least, that was -when they disposed of Uncle Peter. (She shudders.) Is your -husband safe? Is he on the wing? - -JUDITH. He is no longer my husband. - -RICHARD (opening his eyes wide). Eh! - -JUDITH. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I expected him to -come here and save you. I wanted him to come here and save you. -He ran away instead. - -RICHARD. Well, that's what I meant him to do. What good would his -staying have done? They'd only have hanged us both. - -JUDITH (with reproachful earnestness). Richard Dudgeon: on your -honour, what would you have done in his place? - -RICHARD. Exactly what he has done, of course. - -JUDITH. Oh, why will you not be simple with me--honest and -straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, why did you let -them take you last night? - -RICHARD (gaily). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don't know. I've -been asking myself that question ever since; and I can find no -manner of reason for acting as I did. - -JUDITH. You know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more -worthy man than yourself. - -RICHARD (laughing). Oho! No: that's a very pretty reason, I must -say; but I'm not so modest as that. No: it wasn't for his sake. - -JUDITH (after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at -him, blushing painfully). Was it for my sake? - -RICHARD (gallantly). Well, you had a hand in it. It must have -been a little for your sake. You let them take me, at all events. - -JUDITH. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself that all -night? Your death will be at my door. (Impulsively, she gives him -her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness) If I could save you -as you saved him, I would do it, no matter how cruel the death -was. - -RICHARD (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at -arm's length). I am very sure I shouldn't let you. - -JUDITH. Don't you see that I can save you? - -RICHARD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh? - -JUDITH (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it). Don't -(meaning "Don't jest"). No: by telling the Court who you really -are. - -RICHARD (frowning). No use: they wouldn't spare me; and it would -spoil half of his chance of escaping. They are determined to cow -us by making an example of somebody on that gallows to-day. Well, -let us cow them by showing that we can stand by one another to -the death. That is the only force that can send Burgoyne back -across the Atlantic and make America a nation. - -JUDITH (impatiently). Oh, what does all that matter? - -RICHARD (laughing). True: what does it matter? what does anything -matter? You see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; -and women see the folly of them. - -JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through them. - -RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers. - -JUDITH (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise that you are -going to kill yourself? - -RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson. -Don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my -death. (Smiling) Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard -that my mother is dead? - -JUDITH. Dead! - -RICHARD. Of heart disease--in the night. Her last word to me was -her curse: I don't think I could have borne her blessing. My -other relatives will not grieve much on my account. Essie will -cry for a day or two; but I have provided for her: I made my own -will last night. - -JUDITH (stonily, after a moment's silence). And I! - -RICHARD (surprised). You? - -JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all? - -RICHARD (gaily and bluntly). Not a scrap. Oh, you expressed your -feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. What happened may -have softened you for the moment; but believe me, Mrs. Anderson, -you don't like a bone in my skin or a hair on my head. I shall be -as good a riddance at 12 today as I should have been at 12 -yesterday. - -JUDITH (her voice trembling). What can I do to show you that you -are mistaken? - -RICHARD. Don't trouble. I'll give you credit for liking me a -little better than you did. All I say is that my death will not -break your heart. - -JUDITH (almost in a whisper). How do you know? (She puts her -hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.) - -RICHARD (amazed--divining the truth). Mrs. Anderson!!! (The bell -of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects himself, and -removes her hands, saying rather coldly) Excuse me: they will be -here for me presently. It is too late. - -JUDITH. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will never -kill you when they know how heroically you have acted. - -RICHARD (with some scorn). Indeed! But if I don't go through with -it, where will the heroism be? I shall simply have tricked them; -and they'll hang me for that like a dog. Serve me right too! - -JUDITH (wildly). Oh, I believe you WANT to die. - -RICHARD (obstinately). No I don't. - -JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you--listen. -You said just now that you saved him for my sake--yes (clutching -him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) a little for my sake. -Well, save yourself for my sake. And I will go with you to the -end of the world. - -RICHARD (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way -from him, looking steadily at her). Judith. - -JUDITH (breathless--delighted at the name). Yes. - -RICHARD. If I said--to please you--that I did what I did ever so -little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to women. You know -how much I have lived with worthless men--aye, and worthless -women too. Well, they could all rise to some sort of goodness and -kindness when they were in love. (The word love comes from him -with true Puritan scorn.) That has taught me to set very little -store by the goodness that only comes out red hot. What I did -last night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so much for your -husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she droops, stricken) as I do -for myself. I had no motive and no interest: all I can tell you -is that when it came to the point whether I would take my neck -out of the noose and put another man's into it, I could not do -it. I don't know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; -but I could not and I cannot. I have been brought up standing by -the law of my own nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or -no gallows. (She has slowly raised her head and is now looking -full at him.) I should have done the same for any other man in -the town, or any other man's wife. (Releasing her.) Do you -understand that? - -JUDITH. Yes: you mean that you do not love me. - -RICHARD (revolted--with fierce contempt). Is that all it means to -you? - -JUDITH. What more--what worse--can it mean to me? - -(The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart.) -Oh, one moment more. (She throws herself on her knees.) I pray to -you-- - -RICHARD. Hush! (Calling) Come in. (The sergeant unlocks the door -and opens it. The guard is with him.) - -SERGEANT (coming in). Time's up, sir. - -RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He attempts to -raise her.) - -JUDITH (clinging to him). Only one thing more--I entreat, I -implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen Major -Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you asked it. You will -ask it. It is my last request: I shall never ask you anything -again. (She clasps his knee.) I beg and pray it of you. - -RICHARD. If I do, will you be silent? - -JUDITH. Yes. - -RICHARD. You will keep faith? - -JUDITH. I will keep-- (She breaks down, sobbing.) - -RICHARD (taking her arm to lift her). Just--her other arm, -Sergeant. - -They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men. - -Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial. It -is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under -a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the -royal monogram G. R. In front of the chair is a table, also -draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing -materials on it. Several chairs are set at the table. The door is -at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of state when it -has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major Swindon, a pale, -sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about 45, sits at -the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. He is -alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued -manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his -presence felt rather heavily. - -SERGEANT. The General, sir. - -Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the sergeant goes -out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. He is a man -of fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage -by an elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies, -aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of -high military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant, -apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: -without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather -more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a -first rate general. Just now the eyes are angry and tragic, and -the mouth and nostrils tense. - -BURGOYNE. Major Swindon, I presume. - -SWINDON. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. (They bow to -one another ceremoniously.) I am glad to have the support of your -presence this morning. It is not particularly lively business, -hanging this poor devil of a minister. - -BURGOYNE (throwing himself onto Swindon's chair). No, sir, it is -not. It is making too much of the fellow to execute him: what -more could you have done if he had been a member of the Church of -England? Martyrdom, sir, is what these people like: it is the -only way in which a man can become famous without ability. -However, you have committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he -is hanged the better. - -SWINDON. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing remains to -be done except to try him. - -BURGOYNE (looking at him with suppressed anger). Nothing--except -to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you heard the news from -Springtown? - -SWINDON. Nothing special. The latest reports are satisfactory. - -BURGOYNE (rising in amazement). Satisfactory, sir! Satisfactory!! -(He stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim -intensity) I am glad you take that view of them. - -SWINDON (puzzled). Do I understand that in your opinion--- - -BURGOYNE. I do not express my opinion. I never stoop to that -habit of profane language which unfortunately coarsens our -profession. If I did, sir, perhaps I should be able to express my -opinion of the news from Springtown--the news which YOU -(severely) have apparently not heard. How soon do you get news -from your supports here?--in the course of a month eh? - -SWINDON (turning sulky). I suppose the reports have been taken to -you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything serious? - -BURGOYNE (taking a report from his pocket and holding it up). -Springtown's in the hands of the rebels. (He throws the report on -the table.) - -SWINDON (aghast). Since yesterday! - -BURGOYNE. Since two o'clock this morning. Perhaps WE shall be in -their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morning. Have you -thought of that? - -SWINDON (confidently). As to that, General, the British soldier -will give a good account of himself. - -BURGOYNE (bitterly). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the British -officer need not know his business: the British soldier will get -him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. In future, sir, I -must ask you to be a little less generous with the blood of your -men, and a little more generous with your own brains. - -SWINDON. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual -eminence, sir. I can only do my best, and rely on the devotion of -my countrymen. - -BURGOYNE (suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). May I ask are you -writing a melodrama, Major Swindon? - -SWINDON (flushing). No, sir. - -BURGOYNE. What a pity! WHAT a pity! (Dropping his sarcastic tone -and facing him suddenly and seriously) Do you at all realize, -sir, that we have nothing standing between us and destruction but -our own bluff and the sheepishness of these colonists? They are -men of the same English stock as ourselves: six to one of us -(repeating it emphatically), six to one, sir; and nearly half our -troops are Hessians, Brunswickers, German dragoons, and Indians -with scalping knives. These are the countrymen on whose devotion -you rely! Suppose the colonists find a leader! Suppose the news -from Springtown should turn out to mean that they have already -found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh? - -SWINDON (sullenly). Our duty, sir, I presume. - -BURGOYNE (again sarcastic--giving him up as a fool). Quite so, -quite so. Thank you, Major Swindon, thank you. Now you've settled -the question, sir--thrown a flood of light on the situation. What -a comfort to me to feel that I have at my side so devoted and -able an officer to support me in this emergency! I think, sir, it -will probably relieve both our feelings if we proceed to hang -this dissenter without further delay (he strikes the bell), -especially as I am debarred by my principles from the customary -military vent for my feelings. (The sergeant appears.) Bring your -man in. - -SERGEANT. Yes, sir. - -BURGOYNE. And mention to any officer you may meet that the court -cannot wait any longer for him. - -SWINDON (keeping his temper with difficulty). The staff is -perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your convenience for -fully half an hour. PERFECTLY ready, sir. - -BURGOYNE (blandly). So am I. (Several officers come in and take -their seats. One of them sits at the end of the table furthest -from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the court, -making notes of the proceedings. The uniforms are those of -the 9th, 20th, 21st, 24th, 47th, 53rd, and 62nd British Infantry. -One officer is a Major General of the Royal Artillery. There -are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles, and of German -dragoon and Brunswicker regiments.) Oh, good morning, gentlemen. -Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good of you to spare us a -few moments. - -SWINDON. Will you preside, sir? - -BURGOYNE (becoming additionally, polished, lofty, sarcastic -and urbane now that he is in public). No, sir: I feel my own -deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. If you will kindly -allow me, I will sit at the feet of Gamaliel. (He takes the -chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions Swindon -to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated before -sitting himself.) - -SWINDON (greatly annoyed). As you please, sir. I am only trying -to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances. (He takes -his place in the chair of state.) - -Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, sits down -and begins to read the report with knitted brows and careworn -looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and Swindon's -uselessness. Richard is brought in. Judith walks beside him. Two -soldiers precede and two follow him, with the sergeant in -command. They cross the room to the wall opposite the door; but -when Richard has just passed before the chair of state the -sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts himself -behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at the wall. The -four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her. - -BURGOYNE (looking up and seeing Judith). Who is that woman? - -SERGEANT. Prisoner's wife, sir. - -SWINDON (nervously). She begged me to allow her to be present; -and I thought-- - -BURGOYNE (completing the sentence for him ironically). You -thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. -(Blandly) Give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly -comfortable. - -The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard. - -JUDITH. Thank you, sir. (She sits down after an awe-stricken -curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of -his head.) - -SWINDON (to Richard, sharply). Your name, sir? - -RICHARD (affable, but obstinate). Come: you don't mean to say -that you've brought me here without knowing who I am? - -SWINDON. As a matter of form, sir, give your name. - -RICHARD. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony Anderson, -Presbyterian minister in this town. - -BURGOYNE (interested). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, what do you -gentlemen believe? - -RICHARD. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. I -cannot undertake to complete your conversion in less than a -fortnight. - -SWINDON (snubbing him). We are not here to discuss your views. - -BURGOYNE (with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate Swindon). I -stand rebuked. - -SWINDON (embarrassed). Oh, not you, I as-- - -BURGOYNE. Don't mention it. (To Richard, very politely) Any -political views, Mr. Anderson? - -RICHARD. I understand that that is just what we are here to find -out. - -SWINDON (severely). Do you mean to deny that you are a rebel? - -RICHARD. I am an American, sir. - -SWINDON. What do you expect me to think of that speech, Mr. -Anderson? - -RICHARD. I never expect a soldier to think, sir. - -Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost -reconciles him to the loss of America. - -SWINDON (whitening with anger). I advise you not to be insolent, -prisoner. - -RICHARD. You can't help yourself, General. When you make up your -mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a disadvantage with him. -Why should I be civil to you? I may as well be hanged for a sheep -as a lamb. - -SWINDON. You have no right to assume that the court has made up -its mind without a fair trial. And you will please not address me -as General. I am Major Swindon. - -RICHARD. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the honor of -addressing Gentlemanly Johnny. - -Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow escape -from a guffaw. - -BURGOYNE (with extreme suavity). I believe I am Gentlemanly -Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate friends call me -General Burgoyne. (Richard bows with perfect politeness.) You -will understand, sir, I hope, since you seem to be a gentleman -and a man of some spirit in spite of your calling, that if we -should have the misfortune to hang you, we shall do so as a mere -matter of political necessity and military duty, without any -personal ill-feeling. - -RICHARD. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in the -world, of course. - -They all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the younger -officers burst out laughing. - -JUDITH (her dread and horror deepening at every one of these -jests and compliments). How CAN you? - -RICHARD. You promised to be silent. - -BURGOYNE (to Judith, with studied courtesy). Believe me, madam, -your husband is placing us under the greatest obligation by -taking this very disagreeable business so thoroughly in the -spirit of a gentleman. Sergeant: give Mr. Anderson a chair. (The -sergeant does so. Richard sits down.) Now, Major Swindon: we are -waiting for you. - -SWINDON. You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of your -obligations as a subject of His Majesty King George the Third. - -RICHARD. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George the Third -is about to hang me because I object to Lord North's robbing me. - -SWINDON. That is a treasonable speech, sir. - -RICHARD (briefly). Yes. I meant it to be. - -BURGOYNE (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still -polite). Don't you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is rather--if -you will excuse the word--a vulgar line to take? Why should you -cry out robbery because of a stamp duty and a tea duty and so -forth? After all, it is the essence of your position as a -gentleman that you pay with a good grace. - -RICHARD. It is not the money, General. But to be swindled by a -pig-headed lunatic like King George. - -SWINDON (scandalised). Chut, sir--silence! - -SERGEANT (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). Silence! - -BURGOYNE (unruffled). Ah, that is another point of view. My -position does not allow of my going into that, except in private. -But (shrugging his shoulders) of course, Mr. Anderson, if you are -determined to be hanged (Judith flinches), there's nothing more -to be said. An unusual taste! however (with a final shrug)--! - -SWINDON (to Burgoyne). Shall we call witnesses? - -RICHARD. What need is there of witnesses? If the townspeople here -had listened to me, you would have found the streets barricaded, -the houses loopholed, and the people in arms to hold the town -against you to the last man. But you arrived, unfortunately, -before we had got out of the talking stage; and then it was too -late. - -SWINDON (severely). Well, sir, we shall teach you and your -townspeople a lesson they will not forget. Have you anything more -to say? - -RICHARD. I think you might have the decency to treat me as a -prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead of hanging me -like a dog. - -BURGOYNE (sympathetically). Now there, Mr. Anderson, you talk -like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. Have you any -idea of the average marksmanship of the army of His Majesty King -George the Third? If we make you up a firing party, what will -happen? Half of them will miss you: the rest will make a mess of -the business and leave you to the provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas -we can hang you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. -(Kindly) Let me persuade you to be hanged, Mr. Anderson? - -JUDITH (sick with horror). My God! - -RICHARD (to Judith). Your promise! (To Burgoyne) Thank you, -General: that view of the case did not occur to me before. To -oblige you, I withdraw my objection to the rope. Hang me, by all -means. - -BURGOYNE (smoothly). Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr. Anderson? - -RICHARD. I shall be at your disposal then, General. - -BURGOYNE (rising). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. (They all -rise.) - -JUDITH (rushing to the table). Oh, you are not going to murder a -man like that, without a proper trial--without thinking of what -you are doing--without-- (She cannot find words.) - -RICHARD. Is this how you keep your promise? - -JUDITH. If I am not to speak, you must. Defend yourself: save -yourself: tell them the truth. - -RICHARD (worriedly). I have told them truth enough to hang me ten -times over. If you say another word you will risk other lives; -but you will not save mine. - -BURGOYNE. My good lady, our only desire is to save -unpleasantness. What satisfaction would it give you to have a -solemn fuss made, with my friend Swindon in a black cap and so -forth? I am sure we are greatly indebted to the admirable tact -and gentlemanly feeling shown by your husband. - -JUDITH (throwing the words in his face). Oh, you are mad. Is it -nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only you do it like a -gentleman? Is it nothing to you whether you are a murderer or -not, if only you murder in a red coat? (Desperately) You shall -not hang him: that man is not my husband. - -The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the -Germans asking their neighbors to explain what the woman has -said. Burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken by Judith's reproach, -recovers himself promptly at this new development. Richard -meanwhile raises his voice above the buzz. - -RICHARD. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to this. She -will not believe that she cannot save me. Break up the court. - -BURGOYNE (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence -at once). One moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment, gentlemen. (He -resumes his seat. Swindon and the officers follow his example.) -Let me understand you clearly, madam. Do you mean that this -gentleman is not your husband, or merely--I wish to put this with -all delicacy--that you are not his wife? - -JUDITH. I don't know what you mean. I say that he is not my -husband--that my husband has escaped. This man took his place to -save him. Ask anyone in the town--send out into the street for -the first person you find there, and bring him in as a witness. -He will tell you that the prisoner is not Anthony Anderson. - -BURGOYNE (quietly, as before). Sergeant. - -SERGEANT. Yes sir. - -BURGOYNE. Go out into the street and bring in the first townsman -you see there. - -SERGEANT (making for the door). Yes sir. - -BURGOYNE (as the sergeant passes). The first clean, sober -townsman you see. - -SERGEANT. Yes Sir. (He goes out.) - -BURGOYNE. Sit down, Mr. Anderson--if I may call you so for the -present. (Richard sits down.) Sit down, madam, whilst we wait. -Give the lady a newspaper. - -RICHARD (indignantly). Shame! - -BURGOYNE (keenly, with a half smile). If you are not her husband, -sir, the case is not a serious one--for her. (Richard bites his -lip silenced.) - -JUDITH (to Richard, as she returns to her seat). I couldn't help -it. (He shakes his head. She sits down.) - -BURGOYNE. You will understand of course, Mr. Anderson, that you -must not build on this little incident. We are bound to make an -example of somebody. - -RICHARD. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use in my -explaining. - -BURGOYNE. I think we should prefer independent testimony, if you -don't mind. - -The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns -conducting Christy, who is much scared. - -SERGEANT (giving Burgoyne the packet). Dispatches, Sir. Delivered -by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard riding, sir. - -Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed in -them. They are so serious as to take his attention completely -from the court martial. - -SERGEANT (to Christy). Now then. Attention; and take your hat -off. (He posts himself in charge of Christy, who stands on -Burgoyne's side of the court.) - -RICHARD (in his usual bullying tone to Christy). Don't be -frightened, you fool: you're only wanted as a witness. They're -not going to hang YOU. - -SWINDON. What's your name? - -CHRISTY. Christy. - -RICHARD (impatiently). Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant idiot. -Give your full name. - -SWINDON. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt the witness. - -RICHARD. Very well. But I warn you you'll get nothing out of him -unless you shake it out of him. He has been too well brought up -by a pious mother to have any sense or manhood left in him. - -BURGOYNE (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a -startling voice). Where is the man who brought these? - -SERGEANT. In the guard-room, sir. - -Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging -looks. - -SWINDON (to Christy). Do you know Anthony Anderson, the -Presbyterian minister? - -CHRISTY. Of course I do. (Implying that Swindon must be an ass -not to know it.) - -SWINDON. Is he here? - -CHRISTY (staring round). I don't know. - -SWINDON. Do you see him? - -CHRISTY. No. - -SWINDON. You seem to know the prisoner? - -CHRISTY. Do you mean Dick? - -SWINDON. Which is Dick? - -CHRISTY (pointing to Richard). Him. - -SWINDON. What is his name? - -CHRISTY. Dick. - -RICHARD. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What do they know -about Dick? - -CHRISTY. Well, you are Dick, ain't you? What am I to say? - -SWINDON. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be silent. Tell -us who the prisoner is. - -CHRISTY. He's my brother Dudgeon. - -SWINDON. Your brother! - -CHRISTY. Yes. - -SWINDON. You are sure he is not Anderson. - -CHRISTY. Who? - -RICHARD (exasperatedly). Me, me, me, you-- - -SWINDON. Silence, sir. - -SERGEANT (shouting). Silence. - -RICHARD (impatiently). Yah! (To Christy) He wants to know am I -Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grinning like a zany. - -CHRISTY (grinning more than ever). YOU Pastor Anderson! (To -Swindon) Why, Mr. Anderson's a minister---a very good man; and -Dick's a bad character: the respectable people won't speak to -him. He's the bad brother: I'm the good one, (The officers laugh -outright. The soldiers grin.) - -SWINDON. Who arrested this man? - -SERGEANT. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's house, -sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at home. If -he isn't married to her, he ought to be. - -SWINDON. Did he answer to the minister's name? - -SERGEANT. Yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. You ask the -chaplain, sir. - -SWINDON (to Richard, threateningly). So, sir, you have attempted -to cheat us. And your name is Richard Dudgeon? - -RICHARD. You've found it out at last, have you? - -SWINDON. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh? - -RICHARD. Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, was my uncle. - -SWINDON. Hm! (He compresses his lips and looks at Richard with -vindictive gravity.) - -CHRISTY. Are they going to hang you, Dick? - -RICHARD. Yes. Get out: they've done with you. - -CHRISTY. And I may keep the china peacocks? - -RICHARD (jumping up). Get out. Get out, you blithering baboon, -you. (Christy flies, panicstricken.) - -SWINDON (rising--all rise). Since you have taken the minister's -place, Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through with it. The -execution will take place at 12 o'clock as arranged; and unless -Anderson surrenders before then you shall take his place on the -gallows. Sergeant: take your man out. - -JUDITH (distracted). No, no-- - -SWINDON (fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties). Take -that woman away. - -RICHARD (springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, and -seizing Swindon by the throat). You infernal scoundrel. - -The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers -from the other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his -place. Swindon, who has been thrown supine on the table, rises, -arranging his stock. He is about to speak, when he is anticipated -by Burgoyne, who has just appeared at the door with two papers in -his hand: a white letter and a blue dispatch. - -BURGOYNE (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). What is -this? What's happening? Mr. Anderson: I'm astonished at you. - -RICHARD. I am sorry I disturbed you, General. I merely wanted to -strangle your understrapper there. (Breaking out violently at -Swindon) Why do you raise the devil in me by bullying the woman -like that? You oatmeal faced dog, I'd twist your cursed head off -with the greatest satisfaction. (He puts out his hands to the -sergeant) Here: handcuff me, will you; or I'll not undertake to -keep my fingers off him. - -The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to Burgoyne -for instructions. - -BURGOYNE. Have you addressed profane language to the lady, Major -Swindon? - -SWINDON (very angry). No, sir, certainly not. That question -should not have been put to me. I ordered the woman to be -removed, as she was disorderly; and the fellow sprang at me. Put -away those handcuffs. I am perfectly able to take care of myself. - -RICHARD. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel with you. - -BURGOYNE. Mr. Anderson-- - -SWINDON. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. He is an -impostor. - -BURGOYNE (brusquely). Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dudgeon at -Springtown. - -RICHARD. It was my uncle, General. - -BURGOYNE. Oh, your uncle. (To Swindon, handsomely) I beg your -pardon, Major Swindon. (Swindon acknowledges the apology stiffly. -Burgoyne turns to Richard) We are somewhat unfortunate in our -relations with your family. Well, Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to -ask you is this: Who is (reading the name from the letter) -William Maindeck Parshotter? - -RICHARD. He is the Mayor of Springtown. - -BURGOYNE. Is William--Maindeck and so on--a man of his word? - -RICHARD. Is he selling you anything? - -BURGOYNE. No. - -RICHARD. Then you may depend on him. - -BURGOYNE. Thank you, Mr.--'m Dudgeon. By the way, since you are -not Mr. Anderson, do we still--eh, Major Swindon? (meaning "do we -still hang him?") - -RICHARD. The arrangements are unaltered, General. - -BURGOYNE. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Good -morning, madam. - -RICHARD (interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is about to -make some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely). Not one -word more. Come. - -She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his -determination. They are marched out by the four soldiers: the -sergeant, very sulky, walking between Swindon and Richard, whom -he watches as if he were a dangerous animal. - -BURGOYNE. Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major Swindon: a -word with you. (The officers go out. Burgoyne waits with -unruffled serenity until the last of them disappears. Then he -becomes very grave, and addresses Swindon for the first time -without his title.) Swindon: do you know what this is (showing -him the letter)? - -SWINDON. What? - -BURGOYNE. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their -militia to come here and arrange terms with us. - -SWINDON. Oh, they are giving in. - -BURGOYNE. They add that they are sending the man who raised -Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we may know that -we are dealing with an officer of importance. - -SWINDON. Pooh! - -BURGOYNE. He will be fully empowered to arrange the terms -of--guess what. - -SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope. - -BURGOYNE. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer us just six -hours to clear out. - -SWINDON. What monstrous impudence! - -BURGOYNE. What shall we do, eh? - -SWINDON. March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow at once. - -BURGOYNE (quietly). Hm! (Turning to the door) Come to the -adjutant's office. - -SWINDON. What for? - -BURGOYNE. To write out that safe-conduct. (He puts his hand to -the door knob to open it.) - -SWINDON (who has not budged). General Burgoyne. - -BURGOYNE (returning). Sir? - -SWINDON. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not consider -the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason -for our giving way. - -BURGOYNE (imperturbable). Suppose I resign my command to you, -what will you do? - -SWINDON. I will undertake to do what we have marched south from -Boston to do, and what General Howe has marched north from New -York to do: effect a junction at Albany and wipe out the rebel -army with our united forces. - -BURGOYNE (enigmatically). And will you wipe out our enemies in -London, too? - -SWINDON. In London! What enemies? - -BURGOYNE (forcibly). Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and Red -Tape. (He holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his -face and voice) I have just learnt, sir, that General Howe is -still in New York. - -SWINDON (thunderstruck). Good God! He has disobeyed orders! - -BURGOYNE (with sardonic calm). He has received no orders, sir. -Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving -town for his holiday, I believe. To avoid upsetting his -arrangements, England will lose her American colonies; and in a -few days you and I will be at Saratoga with 5,000 men to face -16,000 rebels in an impregnable position. - -SWINDON (appalled). Impossible! - -BURGOYNE (coldly). I beg your pardon! - -SWINDON. I can't believe it! What will History say? - -BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we must -send the safe-conduct. (He goes out.) - -SWINDON (following distractedly). My God, my God! We shall be -wiped out. - -As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. -The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of -evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as -the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope -attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out -of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been brought out and -placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it -from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge townsfolk are -present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread -that it is the devil's disciple and not the minister that the -Continentals (so they call Burgoyne's forces) are about to hang: -consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving -as to its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to -take place without a struggle. There is even some fear of a -disappointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle -with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. But at last -reassuring shouts of Here they come: Here they are, are heard; -and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half British -infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the -market place, driving the crowd to the sides. - -SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Dress. (The soldiers change their column -into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, -energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the persons who find -themselves inside the square out at the corners.) Now then! Out -of it with you: out of it. Some o' you'll get strung up -yourselves presently. Form that square there, will you, you -damned Hoosians. No use talkin' German to them: talk to their -toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they'll understand that. -GET out of it, will you? (He comes upon Judith, standing near the -gallows.) Now then: YOU'VE no call here. - -JUDITH. May I not stay? What harm am I doing? - -SERGEANT. I want none of your argufying. You ought to be ashamed -of yourself, running to see a man hanged that's not your husband. -And he's no better than yourself. I told my major he was a -gentleman; and then he goes and tries to strangle him, and calls -his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out of it with you, double -quick. - -JUDITH. Will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay? - -The sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks quickly and -furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his -pocket. Then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation. - -SERGEANT. ME take money in the execution of my duty! Certainly -not. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, to teach you to corrupt the -King's officer. I'll put you under arrest until the execution's -over. You just stand there; and don't let me see you as much as -move from that spot until you're let. (With a swift wink at her -he points to the corner of the square behind the gallows on his -right, and turns noisily away, shouting) Now then dress up and -keep 'em back, will you? - -Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the -sound of a military band, playing the Dead March from Saul, is -heard. The crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and -petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square, with a few -whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to open and -admit the funeral procession, which is protected from the crowd -by a double file of soldiers. First come Burgoyne and Swindon, -who, on entering the square, glance with distaste at the gallows, -and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to the right and -stationing themselves on that side. Then Mr. Brudenell, the -chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book open in his hand, -walking beside Richard, who is moody and disorderly. He walks -doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a -little in front of it. Behind him comes the executioner, a -stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following him, two soldiers -haul a light military waggon. Finally comes the band, which posts -itself at the back of the square, and finishes the Dead March. -Judith, watching Richard painfully, steals down to the gallows, -and stands leaning against its right post. During the -conversation which follows, the two soldiers place the cart under -the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point backwards. The -executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and places it -ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he climbs the tall ladder -which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which -the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the -cart, into which he steps as he descends. - -RICHARD (with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell). Look here, -sir: this is no place for a man of your profession. Hadn't you -better go away? - -SWINDON. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of -decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and -pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion. - -THE CHAPLAIN (gently reproving Richard). Try to control yourself, -and submit to the divine will. (He lifts his book to proceed with -the service.) - -RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your -accomplices here (indicating Burgoyne and Swindon): I see little -divinity about them or you. You talk to me of Christianity when -you are in the act of hanging your enemies. Was there ever such -blasphemous nonsense! (To Swindon, more rudely) You've got up the -solemnity of the occasion, as you call it, to impress the people -with your own dignity--Handel's music and a clergyman to make -murder look like piety! Do you suppose I am going to help you? -You've asked me to choose the rope because you don't know your -own trade well enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang away and -have done with it. - -SWINDON (to the chaplain). Can you do nothing with him, Mr. -Brudenell? - -CHAPLAIN. I will try, sir. (Beginning to read) Man that is born -of woman hath-- - -RICHARD (fixing his eyes on him). "Thou shalt not kill." - -The book drops in Brudenell's hands. - -CHAPLAIN (confessing his embarrassment). What am I to say, Mr. -Dudgeon? - -RICHARD. Let me alone, man, can't you? - -BURGOYNE (with extreme urbanity). I think, Mr. Brudenell, that as -the usual professional observations seem to strike Mr. Dudgeon as -incongruous under the circumstances, you had better omit them -until--er--until Mr. Dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by -them. (Brudenell, with a shrug, shuts his book and retires behind -the gallows.) YOU seem in a hurry, Mr. Dudgeon. - -RICHARD (with the horror of death upon him). Do you think this is -a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? You've made up -your mind to commit murder: well, do it and have done with it. - -BURGOYNE. Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this-- - -RICHARD. Because you're paid to do it. - -SWINDON. You insolent-- (He swallows his rage.) - -BURGOYNE (with much charm of manner). Ah, I am really sorry that -you should think that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew what my -commission cost me, and what my pay is, you would think better of -me. I should be glad to part from you on friendly terms. - -RICHARD. Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that I like -being hanged, you're mistaken. I don't like it; and I don't mean -to pretend that I do. And if you think I'm obliged to you for -hanging me in a gentlemanly way, you're wrong there too. I take -the whole business in devilish bad part; and the only -satisfaction I have in it is that you'll feel a good deal meaner -than I'll look when it's over. (He turns away, and is striding to -the cart when Judith advances and interposes with her arms -stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very little will -upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying) What are you -doing here? This is no place for you. (She makes a gesture as if -to touch him. He recoils impatiently.) No: go away, go away; -you'll unnerve me. Take her away, will you? - -JUDITH. Won't you bid me good-bye? - -RICHARD (allowing her to take his hand). Oh good-bye, good-bye. -Now go--go--quickly. (She clings to his hand--will not be put off -with so cold a last farewell--at last, as he tries to disengage -himself, throws herself on his breast in agony.) - -SWINDON (angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at Judith's -movement, has come from the back of the square to pull her back, -and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is too late). How is -this? Why is she inside the lines? - -SERGEANT (guiltily). I dunno, sir. She's that artful can't keep -her away. - -BURGOYNE. You were bribed. - -SERGEANT (protesting). No, Sir-- - -SWINDON (severely). Fall back. (He obeys.) - -RICHARD (imploringly to those around him, and finally to -Burgoyne, as the least stolid of them). Take her away. Do you -think I want a woman near me now? - -BURGOYNE (going to Judith and taking her hand). Here, madam: you -had better keep inside the lines; but stand here behind us; and -don't look. - -Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him -and turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts -into it. The executioner takes off his coat and pinions him. - -JUDITH (resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand -away). No: I must stay. I won't look. (She goes to the -right of the gallows. She tries to look at Richard, but turns -away with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer. -Brudenell comes towards her from the back of the square.) - -BURGOYNE (nodding approvingly as she kneels). Ah, quite so. Do -not disturb her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very nicely. -(Brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watching her -sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes his former position, and takes -out a handsome gold chronometer.) Now then, are those -preparations made? We must not detain Mr. Dudgeon. - -By this time Richard's hands are bound behind him; and the noose -is round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of the wagon, -ready to pull it away. The executioner, standing in the cart -behind Richard, makes a sign to the sergeant. - -SERGEANT (to Burgoyne). Ready, sir. - -BURGOYNE. Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dudgeon? It wants -two minutes of twelve still. - -RICHARD (in the strong voice of a man who has conquered the -bitterness of death). Your watch is two minutes slow by the town -clock, which I can see from here, General. (The town clock -strikes the first stroke of twelve. Involuntarily the people -flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan breaks from them.) Amen! -my life for the world's future! - -ANDERSON (shouting as he rushes into the market place). Amen; and -stop the execution. (He bursts through the line of soldiers -opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.) I am -Anthony Anderson, the man you want. - -The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. Judith, -half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose -dearest prayer has been granted. - -SWINDON. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your place on -the gallows. Arrest him. - -At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize -Anderson. - -ANDERSON (thrusting a paper under Swindon's nose). There's my -safe-conduct, sir. - -SWINDON (taken aback). Safe-conduct! Are you--! - -ANDERSON (emphatically). I am. (The two soldiers take him by the -elbows.) Tell these men to take their hands off me. - -SWINDON (to the men). Let him go. - -SERGEANT. Fall back. - -The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a cheer; -and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of -triumph as they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies in -the gate. - -ANDERSON (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his -perspiring brow with his handkerchief). Thank God, I was in time! - -BURGOYNE (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). Ample time, -sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging any -gentleman by an American clock. (He puts up his watch.) - -ANDERSON. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, General. -Now tell them to take the rope from the neck of that American -citizen. - -BURGOYNE (to the executioner in the cart--very politely). Kindly -undo Mr. Dudgeon. - -The executioner takes the rope from Richard's neck, unties has -hands, and helps him on with his coat. - -JUDITH (stealing timidly to Anderson). Tony. - -ANDERSON (putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her -affectionately). Well what do you think of you husband, NOW, -eh?--eh??--eh??? - -JUDITH. I am ashamed-- (She hides her face against his breast.) - -BURGOYNE (to Swindon). You look disappointed, Major Swindon. - -SWINDON. You look defeated, General Burgoyne. - -BURGOYNE. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad -of it. (Richard jumps down from the cart, Brudenell offering his -hand to help him, and runs to Anderson, whose left hand he shakes -heartily, the right being occupied by Judith.) By the way, Mr. -Anderson, I do not quite understand. The safe-conduct was for a -commander of the militia. I understand you are a--(he looks as -pointedly as his good manners permit at the riding boots, the -pistols, and Richard's coat, and adds) a clergyman. - -ANDERSON (between Judith and Richard). Sir: it is in the hour of -trial that a man finds his true profession. This foolish young -man (placing his hand on Richard's shoulder) boasted himself the -Devil's Disciple; but when the hour of trial came to him, he -found that it was his destiny to suffer and be faithful to the -death. I thought myself a decent minister of the gospel of peace; -but when the hour of trial came to me, I found that it was my -destiny to be a man of action and that my place was amid the -thunder of the captains and the shouting. So I am starting life -at fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of the Springtown militia; -and the Devil's Disciple here will start presently as the -Reverend Richard Dudgeon, and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and -give good advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine -(putting his other hand on her shoulder. She steals a glance at -Richard to see how the prospect pleases him). Your mother told -me, Richard, that I should never have chosen Judith if I'd been -born for the ministry. I am afraid she was right; so, by your -leave, you may keep my coat and I'll keep yours. - -RICHARD. Minister--I should say Captain. I have behaved like a -fool. - -JUDITH. Like a hero. - -RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps. (With some bitterness -towards himself) But no: if I had been any good, I should have -done for you what you did for me, instead of making a vain -sacrifice. - -ANDERSON. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make a world ---saints as well as soldiers. (Turning to Burgoyne) And now, -General, time presses; and America is in a hurry. Have you -realized that though you may occupy towns and win battles, you -cannot conquer a nation? - -BURGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot have an -aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my quarters. - -ANDERSON. At your service, sir. (To Richard) See Judith home for -me, will you, my boy? (He hands her over to him.) Now General. -(He goes busily up the market place towards the Town Hall, -Leaving Judith and Richard together. Burgoyne follows him a step -or two; then checks himself and turns to Richard.) - -BURGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be glad to see you -at lunch at half-past one. (He pauses a moment, and adds, with -politely veiled slyness) Bring Mrs. Anderson, if she will be so -good. (To Swindon, who is fuming) Take it quietly, Major Swindon: -your friend the British soldier can stand up to anything except -the British War Office. (He follows Anderson.) - -SERGEANT (to Swindon). What orders, sir? - -SWINDON (savagely). Orders! What use are orders now? There's no -army. Back to quarters; and be d-- (He turns on his heel and -goes.) - -SERGEANT (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of -defeat). 'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and show 'em you -don't care a damn for 'em. Slope arms! Fours! Wheel! Quick march! - -The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up -British Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, and the English -troops march off defiantly to their quarters. The townsfolk press -in behind, and follow them up the market, jeering at them; and -the town band, a very primitive affair, brings up the rear, -playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who comes in with them, runs to -Richard. - -ESSIE. Oh, Dick! - -RICHARD (good-humoredly, but wilfully). Now, now: come, come! I -don't mind being hanged; but I will not be cried over. - -ESSIE. No, I promise. I'll be good. (She tries to restrain her -tears, but cannot.) I--I want to see where the soldiers are going -to. (She goes a little way up the market, pretending to look -after the crowd.) - -JUDITH. Promise me you will never tell him. - -RICHARD. Don't be afraid. - -They shake hands on it. - -ESSIE (calling to them). They're coming back. They want you. - -Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again in wild -enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their shoulders, -cheering him. - -CURTAIN. - - - -NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE - -BURGOYNE - -General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the -first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is not a -conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is -in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection to profane -swearing is not borrowed from Mr. Gilbert's H. M. S. Pinafore: it -is taken from the Code of Instructions drawn up by himself for -his officers when he introduced Light Horse into the English -army. His opinion that English soldiers should be treated as -thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome to the military -authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of ordering a -soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern victims -of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that -discredited sport. His military reports are very clever as -criticisms, and are humane and enlightened within certain -aristocratic limits, best illustrated perhaps by his declaration, -which now sounds so curious, that he should blush to ask for -promotion on any other ground than that of family influence. As a -parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our common expression -"fighting an election" so very literally that he led his -supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in -each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, -and denounced by Junius, for the pistols. - -It is only within quite recent years that any general recognition -has become possible for the feeling that led Burgoyne, a -professed enemy of oppression in India and elsewhere, to accept -his American command when so many other officers threw up their -commissions rather than serve in a civil war against the -Colonies. His biographer De Fonblanque, writing in 1876, -evidently regarded his position as indefensible. Nowadays, it is -sufficient to say that Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He -sympathized with the colonists; but when they proposed as a -remedy the disruption of the Empire, he regarded that as a step -backward in civilization. As he put it to the House of Commons, -"while we remember that we are contending against brothers and -fellow subjects, we must also remember that we are contending in -this crisis for the fate of the British Empire." Eighty-four -years after his defeat, his republican conquerors themselves -engaged in a civil war for the integrity of their Union. In 1886 -the Whigs who represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American -Independence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and made -common cause with their political opponents in defence of the -Union between England and Ireland. Only the other day England -sent 200,000 men into the field south of the equator to fight out -the question whether South Africa should develop as a Federation -of British Colonies or as an independent Afrikander United -States. In all these cases the Unionists who were detached from -their parties were called renegades, as Burgoyne was. That, of -course, is only one of the unfortunate consequences of the fact -that mankind, being for the most part incapable of politics, -accepts vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether -Burgoyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, -Mr. Chamberlain or Mr. Leonard Courtney was in the right will -never be settled, because it will never be possible to prove that -the government of the victor has been better for mankind than the -government of the vanquished would have been. It is true that the -victors have no doubt on the point; but to the dramatist, that -certainty of theirs is only part of the human comedy. The -American Unionist is often a Separatist as to Ireland; the -English Unionist often sympathizes with the Polish Home Ruler; -and both English and American Unionists are apt to be -Disruptionists as regards that Imperial Ancient of Days, the -Empire of China. Both are Unionists concerning Canada, but with a -difference as to the precise application to it of the Monroe -doctrine. As for me, the dramatist, I smile, and lead the -conversation back to Burgoyne. - -Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that occasionally -necessary part of our British system, a scapegoat. The -explanation of his defeat given in the play is founded on a -passage quoted by De Fonblanque from Fitzmaurice's Life of Lord -Shelburne, as follows: "Lord George Germain, having among other -peculiarities a particular dislike to be put out of his way on -any occasion, had arranged to call at his office on his way to -the country to sign the dispatches; but as those addressed to -Howe had not been faircopied, and he was not disposed to be -balked of his projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then -and were forgotten on his return home." These were the dispatches -instructing Sir William Howe, who was in New York, to effect a -junction at Albany with Burgoyne, who had marched from Boston for -that purpose. Burgoyne got as far as Saratoga, where, failing the -expected reinforcement, he was hopelessly outnumbered, and his -officers picked off, Boer fashion, by the American -farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was pierced by a bullet. The -publicity of his defeat, however, was more than compensated at -home by the fact that Lord George's trip to Kent had not been -interfered with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the -dispatch. The policy of the English Government and Court for the -next two years was simply concealment of Germain's neglect. -Burgoyne's demand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of -Commons by the court party; and when he at last obtained a -committee, the king got rid of it by a prorogation. When Burgoyne -realized what had happened about the instructions to Howe (the -scene in which I have represented him as learning it before -Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn on him until -many months afterwards) the king actually took advantage of his -being a prisoner of war in England on parole, and ordered him to -return to America into captivity. Burgoyne immediately resigned -all his appointments; and this practically closed his military -career, though he was afterwards made Commander of the Forces in -Ireland for the purpose of banishing him from parliament. - -The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English -sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of the -aristocracy are at stake. Mr. Frank Harris said, after the -disastrous battle of Modder River, that the English, having lost -America a century ago because they preferred George III, were -quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day because they preferred -aristocratic commanders to successful ones. Horace Walpole, when -the parliamentary recess came at a critical period of the War of -Independence, said that the Lords could not be expected to lose -their pheasant shooting for the sake of America. In the working -class, which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, -there is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to -"do a man out of his job." At bottom, of course, this apparently -shameless sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal -ones, is simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things -he can feel and understand to the things that are beyond his -capacity. It is stupidity, not dishonesty. - -Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not only -was he thrown over, in spite of his high character and -distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who had -actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct in the field -fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical temperament and -talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic, and his -fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and humanity, -were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid people -because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long after his death, -Thackeray, who had an intense sense of human character, but was -typically stupid in valuing and interpreting it, instinctively -sneered at him and exulted in his defeat. That sneer represents -the common English attitude towards the Burgoyne type. Every -instance in which the critical genius is defeated, and the stupid -genius (for both temperaments have their genius) "muddles through -all right," is popular in England. But Burgoyne's failure was not -the work of his own temperament, but of the stupid temperament. -What man could do under the circumstances he did, and did -handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his ideal empire was -dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but because Sir -George Germain overestimated the importance of his Kentish -holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of conquering those -remote and inferior creatures, the colonists. And King George and -the rest of the nation agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is -a significant point that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy -and an invader, he was admired and praised. The climate there is -no doubt more favorable to intellectual vivacity. - -I have described Burgoyne's temperament as rather histrionic; and -the reader will have observed that the Burgoyne of the Devil's -Disciple is a man who plays his part in life, and makes all its -points, in the manner of a born high comedian. If he had been -killed at Saratoga, with all his comedies unwritten, and his plan -for turning As You Like It into a Beggar's Opera unconceived, I -should still have painted the same picture of him on the strength -of his reply to the articles of capitulation proposed to him by -his American conqueror General Gates. Here they are: - -PROPOSITION. - -1. General Burgoyne's army being reduced by repeated defeats, by -desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions exhausted, their -military horses, tents and baggage taken or destroyed, their -retreat cut off, and their camp invested, they can only be -allowed to surrender as prisoners of war. - -ANSWER. - -1. Lieut.-General Burgoyne's army, however reduced, will never -admit that their retreat is cut off while they have arms in -their hands. - -PROPOSITION. - -2. The officers and soldiers may keep the baggage belonging to -them. The generals of the United States never permit -individuals to be pillaged. - -ANSWER. - -2. Noted. - -PROPOSITION. - -3. The troops under his Excellency General Burgoyne will be -conducted by the most convenient route to New England, -marching by easy marches, and sufficiently provided for by the -way. - -ANSWER. - -3. Agreed. - -PROPOSITION. - -4. The officers will be admitted on parole and will be treated -with the liberality customary in such cases, so long as they, -by proper behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those who are -apprehended having broke their parole, as some British -officers have done, must expect to be close confined. - -ANSWER. - -4. There being no officer in this army, under, or capable of -being under, the description of breaking parole, this article -needs no answer. - -PROPOSITION. - -5. All public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages, -horses, etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries appointed -to receive them. - -ANSWER. - -5. All public stores may be delivered, arms excepted. - -PROPOSITION. - -6. These terms being agreed to and signed, the troops under his -Excellency's, General Burgoyne's command, may be drawn up in -their encampments, where they will be ordered to ground their -arms, and may thereupon be marched to the river-side on their -way to Bennington. - -ANSWER. - -6. This article is inadmissible in any extremity. Sooner than -this army will consent to ground their arms in their -encampments, they will rush on the enemy determined to take no -quarter. - - -And, later on, "If General Gates does not mean to recede from the -6th article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to a man -proceed to any act of desperation sooner than submit to that -article." - -Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add that he had -his own way; and that when the actual ceremony of surrender came, -he would have played poor General Gates off the stage, had not -that commander risen to the occasion by handing him back his -sword. - -In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping knives, -who, with the troops hired from Germany, made up about half -Burgoyne's force, I may mention that Burgoyne offered two of them -a reward to guide a Miss McCrea, betrothed to one of the English -officers, into the English lines. - -The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more -sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the -other, tomahawked the young lady. The usual retaliations were -proposed under the popular titles of justice and so forth; but as -the tribe of the slayer would certainly have followed suit by a -massacre of whites on the Canadian frontier, Burgoyne was -compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense disgust of -indignant Christendom. - -BRUDENELL - -Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery chaplain -of that name distinguished himself at Saratoga by reading the -burial service over Major Fraser under fire, and by a quite -readable adventure, chronicled by Burgoyne, with Lady Harriet -Ackland. Lady Harriet's husband achieved the remarkable feat of -killing himself, instead of his adversary, in a duel. He -overbalanced himself in the heat of his swordsmanship, and fell -with his head against a pebble. Lady Harriet then married the -warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony Anderson in the play, seems -to have mistaken his natural profession. - -The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually occurred, like -most stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot produce any -documents. Major Swindon's name is invented; but the man, of -course, is real. There are dozens of him extant to this day. - - - - - -End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Devil's Disciple, by Bernard Shaw - diff --git a/old/tdvld10.zip b/old/tdvld10.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 019821a..0000000 --- a/old/tdvld10.zip +++ /dev/null |