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diff --git a/old/gplay10.txt b/old/gplay10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f36fad2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gplay10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42370 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext of The Complete Plays of John Galsworthy +#36 in our series by John Galsworthy + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before distributing this or any other +Project Gutenberg file. + +We encourage you to keep this file, exactly as it is, on your +own disk, thereby keeping an electronic path open for future +readers. Please do not remove this. + +This header should be the first thing seen when anyone starts to +view the etext. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.10/04/01*END* + + + + + +This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF JOHN GALSWORTHY + + +CONTENTS: + + First Series: + The Silver Box + Joy + Strife + + Second Series: + The Eldest Son + The Little Dream + Justice + + Third Series: + The Fugitive + The Pigeon + The Mob + + Fourth Series: + A Bit O' Love + The Foundations + The Skin Game + + Six Short Plays: + The First and The Last + The Little Man + Hall-marked + Defeat + The Sun + Punch and Go + + + + +FIRST SERIES + THE SILVER BOX + JOY + STRIFE + + +THE SILVER BOX + +A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +JOHN BARTHWICK, M.P., a wealthy Liberal +MRS. BARTHWICK, his wife +JACK BARTHWICK, their son +ROPER, their solicitor +MRS. JONES, their charwoman +MARLOW, their manservant +WHEELER, their maidservant +JONES, the stranger within their gates +MRS. SEDDON, a landlady +SNOW, a detective +A POLICE MAGISTRATE +AN UNKNOWN LADY, from beyond +TWO LITTLE GIRLS, homeless +LIVENS, their father +A RELIEVING OFFICER +A MAGISTRATE'S CLERK +AN USHER +POLICEMEN, CLERKS, AND OTHERS + + +TIME: The present. The action of the first two Acts takes place on +Easter Tuesday; the action of the third on Easter Wednesday week. + + +ACT I. + SCENE I. Rockingham Gate. John Barthwick's dining-room. + SCENE II. The same. + SCENE III. The same. + +ACT II. + SCENE I. The Jones's lodgings, Merthyr Street. + SCENE II. John Barthwick's dining-room. + +ACT III. A London police court. + + + + +ACT I + +SCENE I + + The curtain rises on the BARTHWICK'S dining-room, large, + modern, and well furnished; the window curtains drawn. + Electric light is burning. On the large round dining-table is + set out a tray with whisky, a syphon, and a silver + cigarette-box. It is past midnight. + + A fumbling is heard outside the door. It is opened suddenly; + JACK BARTHWICK seems to fall into the room. He stands holding + by the door knob, staring before him, with a beatific smile. + He is in evening dress and opera hat, and carries in his hand a + sky-blue velvet lady's reticule. His boyish face is freshly + coloured and clean-shaven. An overcoat is hanging on his arm. + + +JACK. Hello! I've got home all ri----[Defiantly.] Who says I sh +'d never 've opened th' door without 'sistance. [He staggers in, +fumbling with the reticule. A lady's handkerchief and purse of +crimson silk fall out.] Serve her joll' well right--everything +droppin' out. Th' cat. I 've scored her off--I 've got her bag. +[He swings the reticule.] Serves her joly' well right. [He takes a +cigarette out of the silver box and puts it in his mouth.] Never +gave tha' fellow anything! [He hunts through all his pockets and +pulls a shilling out; it drops and rolls away. He looks for it.] +Beastly shilling! [He looks again.] Base ingratitude! Absolutely +nothing. [He laughs.] Mus' tell him I've got absolutely nothing. + + [He lurches through the door and down a corridor, and presently + returns, followed by JONES, who is advanced in liquor. JONES, + about thirty years of age, has hollow cheeks, black circles + round his eyes, and rusty clothes: He looks as though he might + be unemployed, and enters in a hang-dog manner.] + +JACK. Sh! sh! sh! Don't you make a noise, whatever you do. Shu' +the door, an' have a drink. [Very solemnly.] You helped me to open +the door--I 've got nothin, for you. This is my house. My father's +name's Barthwick; he's Member of Parliament--Liberal Member of +Parliament: I've told you that before. Have a drink! [He pours out +whisky and drinks it up.] I'm not drunk [Subsiding on a sofa.] +Tha's all right. Wha's your name? My name's Barthwick, so's my +father's; I'm a Liberal too--wha're you? + +JONES. [In a thick, sardonic voice.] I'm a bloomin' Conservative. +My name's Jones! My wife works 'ere; she's the char; she works +'ere. + +JACK. Jones? [He laughs.] There's 'nother Jones at College with +me. I'm not a Socialist myself; I'm a Liberal--there's ve--lill +difference, because of the principles of the Lib--Liberal Party. +We're all equal before the law--tha's rot, tha's silly. [Laughs.] +Wha' was I about to say? Give me some whisky. + + [JONES gives him the whisky he desires, together with a squirt + of syphon.] + +Wha' I was goin' tell you was--I 've had a row with her. [He waves +the reticule.] Have a drink, Jonessh 'd never have got in without +you--tha 's why I 'm giving you a drink. Don' care who knows I've +scored her off. Th' cat! [He throws his feet up on the sofa.] +Don' you make a noise, whatever you do. You pour out a drink--you +make yourself good long, long drink--you take cigarette--you take +anything you like. Sh'd never have got in without you. [Closing +his eyes.] You're a Tory--you're a Tory Socialist. I'm Liberal +myself--have a drink--I 'm an excel'nt chap. + + [His head drops back. He, smiling, falls asleep, and JONES + stands looking at him; then, snatching up JACK's glass, he + drinks it off. He picks the reticule from off JACK'S + shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.] + +JONES. Been on the tiles and brought 'ome some of yer cat's fur. +[He stuffs it into JACK's breast pocket.] + +JACK. [Murmuring.] I 've scored you off! You cat! + + [JONES looks around him furtively; he pours out whisky and + drinks it. From the silver box he takes a cigarette, puffs at + it, and drinks more whisky. There is no sobriety left in him.] + +JONES. Fat lot o' things they've got 'ere! [He sees the crimson +purse lying on the floor.] More cat's fur. Puss, puss! [He +fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at JACK.] Calf! Fat +calf! [He sees his own presentment in a mirror. Lifting his hands, +with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at JACK, +clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face. +Suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks +it. With cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets +them.] I 'll score you off too, that 's wot I 'll do! + + [He gives a little snarling laugh and lurches to the door. His + shoulder rubs against the switch; the light goes out. There is + a sound as of a closing outer door.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +The curtain rises again at once. + +SCENE II + + In the BARTHWICK'S dining-room. JACK is still asleep; the + morning light is coming through the curtains. The time is + half-past eight. WHEELER, brisk person enters with a dust-pan, + and MRS. JONES more slowly with a scuttle. + +WHEELER. [Drawing the curtains.] That precious husband of yours +was round for you after you'd gone yesterday, Mrs. Jones. Wanted +your money for drink, I suppose. He hangs about the corner here +half the time. I saw him outside the "Goat and Bells" when I went +to the post last night. If I were you I would n't live with him. I +would n't live with a man that raised his hand to me. I wouldn't +put up with it. Why don't you take your children and leave him? If +you put up with 'im it'll only make him worse. I never can see why, +because a man's married you, he should knock you about. + +MRS. JONES. [Slim, dark-eyed, and dark-haired; oval-faced, and with +a smooth, soft, even voice; her manner patient, her way of talking +quite impersonal; she wears a blue linen dress, and boots with +holes.] It was nearly two last night before he come home, and he +wasn't himself. He made me get up, and he knocked me about; he +didn't seem to know what he was saying or doing. Of course I would +leave him, but I'm really afraid of what he'd do to me. He 's such +a violent man when he's not himself. + +WHEELER. Why don't you get him locked up? You'll never have any +peace until you get him locked up. If I were you I'd go to the +police court tomorrow. That's what I would do. + +MRS. JONES. Of course I ought to go, because he does treat me so +badly when he's not himself. But you see, Bettina, he has a very +hard time--he 's been out of work two months, and it preys upon his +mind. When he's in work he behaves himself much better. It's when +he's out of work that he's so violent. + +WHEELER. Well, if you won't take any steps you 'll never get rid of +him. + +MRS. JONES. Of course it's very wearing to me; I don't get my sleep +at nights. And it 's not as if I were getting help from him, +because I have to do for the children and all of us. And he throws +such dreadful things up at me, talks of my having men to follow me +about. Such a thing never happens; no man ever speaks to me. And +of course, it's just the other way. It's what he does that's wrong +and makes me so unhappy. And then he 's always threatenin' to cut +my throat if I leave him. It's all the drink, and things preying on +his mind; he 's not a bad man really. Sometimes he'll speak quite +kind to me, but I've stood so much from him, I don't feel it in me +to speak kind back, but just keep myself to myself. And he's all +right with the children too, except when he's not himself. + +WHEELER. You mean when he's drunk, the beauty. + +MRS. JONES. Yes. [Without change of voice] There's the young +gentleman asleep on the sofa. + + [They both look silently at Jack.] + +MRS. JONES. [At last, in her soft voice.] He does n't look quite +himself. + +WHEELER. He's a young limb, that's what he is. It 's my belief he +was tipsy last night, like your husband. It 's another kind of +bein' out of work that sets him to drink. I 'll go and tell Marlow. +This is his job. + + [She goes.] + + [Mrs. Jones, upon her knees, begins a gentle sweeping.] + +JACK. [Waking.] Who's there? What is it? + +MRS. JONES. It's me, sir, Mrs. Jones. + +JACK. [Sitting up and looking round.] Where is it--what--what time +is it? + +MRS. JONES. It's getting on for nine o'clock, sir. + +JACK. For nine! Why--what! [Rising, and loosening his tongue; +putting hands to his head, and staring hard at Mrs. Jones.] Look +here, you, Mrs.----Mrs. Jones--don't you say you caught me asleep +here. + +MRS. JONES. No, sir, of course I won't sir. + +JACK. It's quite an accident; I don't know how it happened. I must +have forgotten to go to bed. It's a queer thing. I 've got a most +beastly headache. Mind you don't say anything, Mrs. Jones. + + [Goes out and passes MARLOW in the doorway. MARLOW is young + and quiet; he is cleanshaven, and his hair is brushed high from + his forehead in a coxcomb. Incidentally a butler, he is first + a man. He looks at MRS. JONES, and smiles a private smile.] + +MARLOW. Not the first time, and won't be the last. Looked a bit +dicky, eh, Mrs. Jones? + +MRS. JONES. He did n't look quite himself. Of course I did n't +take notice. + +MARLOW. You're used to them. How's your old man? + +MRS. JONES. [Softly as throughout.] Well, he was very bad last +night; he did n't seem to know what he was about. He was very late, +and he was most abusive. But now, of course, he's asleep. + +MARLOW. That's his way of finding a job, eh? + +MRS. JONES. As a rule, Mr. Marlow, he goes out early every morning +looking for work, and sometimes he comes in fit to drop--and of +course I can't say he does n't try to get it, because he does. +Trade's very bad. [She stands quite still, her fan and brush before +her, at the beginning and the end of long vistas of experience, +traversing them with her impersonal eye.] But he's not a good +husband to me--last night he hit me, and he was so dreadfully +abusive. + +MARLOW. Bank 'oliday, eh! He 's too fond of the "Goat and Bells," +that's what's the matter with him. I see him at the corner late +every night. He hangs about. + +MRS. JONES. He gets to feeling very low walking about all day after +work, and being refused so often, and then when he gets a drop in +him it goes to his head. But he shouldn't treat his wife as he +treats me. Sometimes I 've had to go and walk about at night, when +he wouldn't let me stay in the room; but he's sorry for it +afterwards. And he hangs about after me, he waits for me in the +street; and I don't think he ought to, because I 've always been a +good wife to him. And I tell him Mrs. Barthwick wouldn't like him +coming about the place. But that only makes him angry, and he says +dreadful things about the gentry. Of course it was through me that +he first lost his place, through his not treating me right; and +that's made him bitter against the gentry. He had a very good place +as groom in the country; but it made such a stir, because of course +he did n't treat me right. + +MARLOW. Got the sack? + +MRS. JONES. Yes; his employer said he couldn't keep him, because +there was a great deal of talk; and he said it was such a bad +example. But it's very important for me to keep my work here; I +have the three children, and I don't want him to come about after me +in the streets, and make a disturbance as he sometimes does. + +MARLOW. [Holding up the empty decanter.] Not a drain! Next time +he hits you get a witness and go down to the court---- + +MRS. JONES. Yes, I think I 've made up my mind. I think I ought +to. + +MARLOW. That's right. Where's the ciga----? + + [He searches for the silver box; he looks at MRS. JONES, who is + sweeping on her hands and knees; he checks himself and stands + reflecting. From the tray he picks two half-smoked cigarettes, + and reads the name on them.] + +Nestor--where the deuce----? + + [With a meditative air he looks again at MRS. JONES, and, + taking up JACK'S overcoat, he searches in the pockets. + WHEELER, with a tray of breakfast things, comes in.] + +MARLOW. [Aside to WHEELER.] Have you seen the cigarette-box? + +WHEELER. No. + +MARLOW. Well, it's gone. I put it on the tray last night. And +he's been smoking. [Showing her the ends of cigarettes.] It's not +in these pockets. He can't have taken it upstairs this morning! +Have a good look in his room when he comes down. Who's been in +here? + +WHEELER. Only me and Mrs. Jones. + +MRS. JONES. I 've finished here; shall I do the drawing-room now? + +WHEELER. [Looking at her doubtfully.] Have you seen----Better do +the boudwower first. + + [MRS. JONES goes out with pan and brush. MARLOW and WHEELER + look each other in the face.] + +MARLOW. It'll turn up. + +WHEELER. [Hesitating.] You don't think she---- +[Nodding at the door.] + +MARLOW. [Stoutly.] I don't----I never believes anything of +anybody. + +WHEELER. But the master'll have to be told. + +MARLOW. You wait a bit, and see if it don't turn up. Suspicion's +no business of ours. I set my mind against it. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + The curtain rises again at once. + + + +SCENE III + + BARTHWICK and MRS. BARTHWICK are seated at the breakfast table. + He is a man between fifty and sixty; quietly important, with a + bald forehead, and pince-nez, and the "Times" in his hand. She + is a lady of nearly fifty, well dressed, with greyish hair, + good features, and a decided manner. They face each other. + +BARTHWICK. [From behind his paper.] The Labour man has got in at +the by-election for Barnside, my dear. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Another Labour? I can't think what on earth the +country is about. + +BARTHWICK. I predicted it. It's not a matter of vast importance. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Not? How can you take it so calmly, John? To me +it's simply outrageous. And there you sit, you Liberals, and +pretend to encourage these people! + +BARTHWICK. [Frowning.] The representation of all parties is +necessary for any proper reform, for any proper social policy. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I've no patience with your talk of reform--all that +nonsense about social policy. We know perfectly well what it is +they want; they want things for themselves. Those Socialists and +Labour men are an absolutely selfish set of people. They have no +sense of patriotism, like the upper classes; they simply want what +we've got. + +BARTHWICK. Want what we've got! [He stares into space.] My dear, +what are you talking about? [With a contortion.] I 'm no alarmist. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Cream? Quite uneducated men! Wait until they +begin to tax our investments. I 'm convinced that when they once +get a chance they will tax everything--they 've no feeling for the +country. You Liberals and Conservatives, you 're all alike; you +don't see an inch before your noses. You've no imagination, not a +scrap of imagination between you. You ought to join hands and nip +it in the bud. + +BARTHWICK. You 're talking nonsense! How is it possible for +Liberals and Conservatives to join hands, as you call it? That +shows how absurd it is for women----Why, the very essence of a +Liberal is to trust in the people! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Now, John, eat your breakfast. As if there were +any real difference between you and the Conservatives. All the +upper classes have the same interests to protect, and the same +principles. [Calmly.] Oh! you're sitting upon a volcano, John. + +BARTHWICK. What! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I read a letter in the paper yesterday. I forget +the man's name, but it made the whole thing perfectly clear. You +don't look things in the face. + +BARTHWICK. Indeed! [Heavily.] I am a Liberal! Drop the subject, +please! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Toast? I quite agree with what this man says: +Education is simply ruining the lower classes. It unsettles them, +and that's the worst thing for us all. I see an enormous difference +in the manner of servants. + +BARTHWICK, [With suspicious emphasis.] I welcome any change that +will lead to something better. [He opens a letter.] H'm! This is +that affair of Master Jack's again. "High Street, Oxford. Sir, We +have received Mr. John Barthwick, Senior's, draft for forty pounds!" +Oh! the letter's to him! "We now enclose the cheque you cashed with +us, which, as we stated in our previous letter, was not met on +presentation at your bank. We are, Sir, yours obediently, Moss and +Sons, Tailors." H 'm! [Staring at the cheque.] A pretty business +altogether! The boy might have been prosecuted. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Come, John, you know Jack did n't mean anything; he +only thought he was overdrawing. I still think his bank ought to +have cashed that cheque. They must know your position. + +BARTHWICK. [Replacing in the envelope the letter and the cheque.] +Much good that would have done him in a court of law. + + [He stops as JACK comes in, fastening his waistcoat and + staunching a razor cut upon his chin.] + +JACK. [Sitting down between them, and speaking with an artificial +joviality.] Sorry I 'm late. [He looks lugubriously at the +dishes.] Tea, please, mother. Any letters for me? [BARTHWICK +hands the letter to him.] But look here, I say, this has been +opened! I do wish you would n't---- + +BARTHWICK. [Touching the envelope.] I suppose I 'm entitled to +this name. + +JACK. [Sulkily.] Well, I can't help having your name, father! [He +reads the letter, and mutters.] Brutes! + +BARTHWICK. [Eyeing him.] You don't deserve to be so well out of +that. + +JACK. Haven't you ragged me enough, dad? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Yes, John, let Jack have his breakfast. + +BARTHWICK. If you hadn't had me to come to, where would you have +been? It's the merest accident--suppose you had been the son of a +poor man or a clerk. Obtaining money with a cheque you knew your +bank could not meet. It might have ruined you for life. I can't +see what's to become of you if these are your principles. I never +did anything of the sort myself. + +JACK. I expect you always had lots of money. If you've got plenty +of money, of course---- + +BARTHWICK. On the contrary, I had not your advantages. My father +kept me very short of money. + +JACK. How much had you, dad? + +BARTHWICK. It's not material. The question is, do you feel the +gravity of what you did? + +JACK. I don't know about the gravity. Of course, I 'm very sorry +if you think it was wrong. Have n't I said so! I should never have +done it at all if I had n't been so jolly hard up. + +BARTHWICK. How much of that forty pounds have you got left, Jack? + +JACK. [Hesitating.] I don't know--not much. + +BARTHWICK. How much? + +JACK. [Desperately.] I have n't got any. + +BARTHWICK. What? + +JACK. I know I 've got the most beastly headache. + + [He leans his head on his hand.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Headache? My dear boy! Can't you eat any +breakfast? + +JACK. [Drawing in his breath.] Too jolly bad! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I'm so sorry. Come with me; dear; I'll give you +something that will take it away at once. + + [They leave the room; and BARTHWICK, tearing up the letter, + goes to the fireplace and puts the pieces in the fire. While + he is doing this MARLOW comes in, and looking round him, is + about quietly to withdraw.] + +BARTHWICK. What's that? What d 'you want? + +MARLOW. I was looking for Mr. John, sir. + +BARTHWICK. What d' you want Mr. John for? + +MARLOW. [With hesitation.] I thought I should find him here, sir. + +BARTHWICK. [Suspiciously.] Yes, but what do you want him for? + +MARLOW. [Offhandedly.] There's a lady called--asked to speak to +him for a minute, sir. + +BARTHWICK. A lady, at this time in the morning. What sort of a +lady? + +MARLOW. [Without expression in his voice.] I can't tell, sir; no +particular sort. She might be after charity. She might be a Sister +of Mercy, I should think, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Is she dressed like one? + +MARLOW. No, sir, she's in plain clothes, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Did n't she say what she wanted? + +MARLOW. No sir. + +BARTHWICK. Where did you leave her? + +MARLOW. In the hall, sir. + +BARTHWICK. In the hall? How do you know she's not a thief--not got +designs on the house? + +MARLOW. No, sir, I don't fancy so, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Well, show her in here; I'll see her myself. + + [MARLOW goes out with a private gesture of dismay. He soon + returns, ushering in a young pale lady with dark eyes and + pretty figure, in a modish, black, but rather shabby dress, a + black and white trimmed hat with a bunch of Parma violets + wrongly placed, and fuzzy-spotted veil. At the Sight of MR. + BARTHWICK she exhibits every sign of nervousness. MARLOW goes + out.] + +UNKNOWN LADY. Oh! but--I beg pardon there's some mistake--I [She +turns to fly.] + +BARTHWICK. Whom did you want to see, madam? + +UNKNOWN. [Stopping and looking back.] It was Mr. John Barthwick I +wanted to see. + +BARTHWICK. I am John Barthwick, madam. What can I have the +pleasure of doing for you? + +UNKNOWN. Oh! I--I don't [She drops her eyes. BARTHWICK +scrutinises her, and purses his lips.] + +BARTHWICK. It was my son, perhaps, you wished to see? + +UNKNOWN. [Quickly.] Yes, of course, it's your son. + +BARTHWICK. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to? + +UNKNOWN. [Appeal and hardiness upon her face.] My name is----oh! +it does n't matter--I don't want to make any fuss. I just want to +see your son for a minute. [Boldly.] In fact, I must see him. + +BARTHWICK. [Controlling his uneasiness.] My son is not very well. +If necessary, no doubt I could attend to the matter; be so kind as +to let me know---- + +UNKNOWN. Oh! but I must see him--I 've come on purpose--[She bursts +out nervously.] I don't want to make any fuss, but the fact is, +last--last night your son took away--he took away my [She stops.] + +BARTHWICK. [Severely.] Yes, madam, what? + +UNKNOWN. He took away my--my reticule. + +BARTHWICK. Your reti----? + +UNKNOWN. I don't care about the reticule; it's not that I want--I +'m sure I don't want to make any fuss--[her face is quivering]--but- +-but--all my money was in it! + +BARTHWICK. In what--in what? + +UNKNOWN. In my purse, in the reticule. It was a crimson silk +purse. Really, I wouldn't have come--I don't want to make any fuss. +But I must get my money back--mustn't I? + +BARTHWICK. Do you tell me that my son----? + +UNKNOWN. Oh! well, you see, he was n't quite I mean he was + + [She smiles mesmerically.] + +BARTHWICK. I beg your pardon. + +UNKNOWN. [Stamping her foot.] Oh! don't you see--tipsy! We had a +quarrel. + +BARTHWICK. [Scandalised.] How? Where? + +UNKNOWN. [Defiantly.] At my place. We'd had supper at the----and +your son---- + +BARTHWICK. [Pressing the bell.] May I ask how you knew this house? +Did he give you his name and address? + +UNKNOWN. [Glancing sidelong.] I got it out of his overcoat. + +BARTHWICK. [Sardonically.] Oh! you got it out of his overcoat. +And may I ask if my son will know you by daylight? + +UNKNOWN. Know me? I should jolly--I mean, of course he will! + [MARLOW comes in.] + +BARTHWICK. Ask Mr. John to come down. + + [MARLOW goes out, and BARTHWICK walks uneasily about.] + +And how long have you enjoyed his acquaintanceship? + +UNKNOWN. Only since--only since Good Friday. + +BARTHWICK. I am at a loss--I repeat I am at a---- + + [He glances at this unknown lady, who stands with eyes cast + down, twisting her hands And suddenly Jack appears. He stops + on seeing who is here, and the unknown lady hysterically + giggles. There is a silence.] + +BARTHWICK. [Portentously.] This young--er--lady says that last +night--I think you said last night madam--you took away---- + +UNKNOWN. [Impulsively.] My reticule, and all my money was in a +crimson silk purse. + +JACK. Reticule. [Looking round for any chance to get away.] I +don't know anything about it. + +BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] Come, do you deny seeing this young lady +last night? + +JACK. Deny? No, of course. [Whispering.] Why did you give me +away like this? What on earth did you come here for? + +UNKNOWN. [Tearfully.] I'm sure I didn't want to--it's not likely, +is it? You snatched it out of my hand--you know you did--and the +purse had all my money in it. I did n't follow you last night +because I did n't want to make a fuss and it was so late, and you +were so---- + +BARTHWICK. Come, sir, don't turn your back on me--explain! + +JACK. [Desperately.] I don't remember anything about it. [In a +low voice to his friend.] Why on earth could n't you have written? + +UNKNOWN. [Sullenly.] I want it now; I must have, it--I 've got to +pay my rent to-day. [She looks at BARTHWICK.] They're only too glad +to jump on people who are not--not well off. + +JACK. I don't remember anything about it, really. I don't remember +anything about last night at all. [He puts his hand up to his +head.] It's all--cloudy, and I 've got such a beastly headache. + +UNKNOWN. But you took it; you know you did. You said you'd score +me off. + +JACK. Well, then, it must be here. I remember now--I remember +something. Why did I take the beastly thing? + +BARTHWICK. Yes, why did you take the beastly----[He turns abruptly +to the window.] + +UNKNOWN. [With her mesmeric smile.] You were n't quite were you? + +JACK. [Smiling pallidly.] I'm awfully sorry. If there's anything +I can do---- + +BARTHWICK. Do? You can restore this property, I suppose. + +JACK. I'll go and have a look, but I really don't think I 've got +it. + + [He goes out hurriedly. And BARTHWICK, placing a chair, + motions to the visitor to sit; then, with pursed lips, he + stands and eyes her fixedly. She sits, and steals a look at + him; then turns away, and, drawing up her veil, stealthily + wipes her eyes. And Jack comes back.] + +JACK. [Ruefully holding out the empty reticule.] Is that the +thing? I 've looked all over--I can't find the purse anywhere. Are +you sure it was there? + +UNKNOWN. [Tearfully.] Sure? Of course I'm sure. A crimson silk +purse. It was all the money I had. + +JACK. I really am awfully sorry--my head's so jolly bad. I 've +asked the butler, but he has n't seen it. + +UNKNOWN. I must have my money---- + +JACK. Oh! Of course--that'll be all right; I'll see that that's +all right. How much? + +UNKNOWN. [Sullenly.] Seven pounds-twelve--it's all I 've got in +the world. + +JACK. That'll be all right; I'll--send you acheque. + +UNKNOWN. [Eagerly.] No; now, please. Give me what was in my +purse; I've got to pay my rent this morning. They won't' give me +another day; I'm a fortnight behind already. + +JACK. [Blankly.] I'm awfully sorry; I really have n't a penny in +my pocket. + + [He glances stealthily at BARTHWICK.] + +UNKNOWN. [Excitedly.] Come I say you must--it's my money, and you +took it. I 'm not going away without it. They 'll turn me out of +my place. + +JACK. [Clasping his head.] But I can't give you what I have n't +got. Don't I tell you I have n't a beastly cent. + +UNKNOWN. [Tearing at her handkerchief.] Oh! do give it me! [She +puts her hands together in appeal; then, with sudden fierceness.] +If you don't I'll summons you. It's stealing, that's what it is! + +BARTHWICK. [Uneasily.] One moment, please. As a matter of---er- +principle, I shall settle this claim. [He produces money.] Here is +eight pounds; the extra will cover the value of the purse and your +cab fares. I need make no comment--no thanks are necessary. + + [Touching the bell, he holds the door ajar in silence. The + unknown lady stores the money in her reticule, she looks from + JACK to BARTHWICK, and her face is quivering faintly with a + smile. She hides it with her hand, and steals away. Behind + her BARTHWICK shuts the door.] + +BARTHWICK. [With solemnity.] H'm! This is nice thing to happen! + +JACK. [Impersonally.] What awful luck! + +BARTHWICK. So this is the way that forty pounds has gone! One +thing after another! Once more I should like to know where you 'd +have been if it had n't been for me! You don't seem to have any +principles. You--you're one of those who are a nuisance to society; +you--you're dangerous! What your mother would say I don't know. +Your conduct, as far as I can see, is absolutely unjustifiable. +It's--it's criminal. Why, a poor man who behaved as you've done---- +d' you think he'd have any mercy shown him? What you want is a good +lesson. You and your sort are--[he speaks with feeling]--a nuisance +to the community. Don't ask me to help you next time. You're not +fit to be helped. + +JACK. [Turning upon his sire, with unexpected fierceness.] All +right, I won't then, and see how you like it. You would n't have +helped me this time, I know, if you had n't been scared the thing +would get into the papers. Where are the cigarettes? + +BARTHWICK. [Regarding him uneasily.] Well I 'll say no more about +it. [He rings the bell.] I 'll pass it over for this once, but---- +[MARLOW Comes in.] You can clear away. + + [He hides his face behind the "Times."] + +JACK. [Brightening.] I say, Marlow, where are the cigarettes? + +MARLOW. I put the box out with the whisky last night, sir, but this +morning I can't find it anywhere. + +JACK. Did you look in my room? + +MARLOW. Yes, sir; I've looked all over the house. I found two +Nestor ends in the tray this morning, so you must have been smokin' +last night, sir. [Hesitating.] I 'm really afraid some one's +purloined the box. + +JACK. [Uneasily.] Stolen it! + +BARTHWICK. What's that? The cigarette-box! Is anything else +missing? + +MARLOW. No, sir; I 've been through the plate. + +BARTHWICK. Was the house all right this morning? None of the +windows open? + +MARLOW. No, sir. [Quietly to JACK.] You left your latch-key in +the door last night, sir. + + [He hands it back, unseen by BARTHWICK] + +JACK. Tst! + +BARTHWICK. Who's been in the room this morning? + +MARLOW. Me and Wheeler, and Mrs. Jones is all, sir, as far as I +know. + +BARTHWICK. Have you asked Mrs. Barthwick? + +[To JACK.] Go and ask your mother if she's had it; ask her to look +and see if she's missed anything else. + + [JACK goes upon this mission.] + +Nothing is more disquieting than losing things like this. + +MARLOW. No, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Have you any suspicions? + +MARLOW, No, sir. + +BARTHWICK. This Mrs. Jones--how long has she been working here? + +MARLOW. Only this last month, sir. + +BARTHWICK. What sort of person? + +MARLOW. I don't know much about her, sir; seems a very quiet, +respectable woman. + +BARTHWICK. Who did the room this morning? + +MARLOW. Wheeler and Mrs. Jones, Sir. + +BARTHWICK. [With his forefinger upraised.] Now, was this Mrs. +Jones in the room alone at any time? + +MARLOW. [Expressionless.] Yes, Sir. + +BARTHWICK. How do you know that? + +MARLOW. [Reluctantly.] I found her here, sir. + +BARTHWICK. And has Wheeler been in the room alone? + +MARLOW. No, sir, she's not, sir. I should say, sir, that Mrs. +Jones seems a very honest---- + +BARTHWICK. [Holding up his hand.] I want to know this: Has this +Mrs. Jones been here the whole morning? + +MARLOW. Yes, sir--no, sir--she stepped over to the greengrocer's +for cook. + +BARTHWICK. H'm! Is she in the house now? + +MARLOW. Yes, Sir. + +BARTHWICK. Very good. I shall make a point of clearing this up. +On principle I shall make a point of fixing the responsibility; it +goes to the foundations of security. In all your interests---- + +MARLOW. Yes, Sir. + +BARTHWICK. What sort of circumstances is this Mrs. Jones in? Is +her husband in work? + +MARLOW. I believe not, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Very well. Say nothing about it to any one. Tell +Wheeler not to speak of it, and ask Mrs. Jones to step up here. + +MARLOW. Very good, sir. + + [MARLOW goes out, his face concerned; and BARTHWICK stays, his + face judicial and a little pleased, as befits a man conducting + an inquiry. MRS. BARTHWICK and hey son come in.] + +BARTHWICK. Well, my dear, you've not seen it, I suppose? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. No. But what an extraordinary thing, John! +Marlow, of course, is out of the question. I 'm certain none of the +maids as for cook! + +BARTHWICK. Oh, cook! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Of course! It's perfectly detestable to me to +suspect anybody. + +BARTHWICK. It is not a question of one's feelings. It's a question +of justice. On principle---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I should n't be a bit surprised if the charwoman +knew something about it. It was Laura who recommended her. + +BARTHWICK. [Judicially.] I am going to have Mrs. Jones up. Leave +it to me; and--er--remember that nobody is guilty until they're +proved so. I shall be careful. I have no intention of frightening +her; I shall give her every chance. I hear she's in poor +circumstances. If we are not able to do much for them we are bound +to have the greatest sympathy with the poor. [MRS. JONES comes in.] +[Pleasantly.] Oh! good morning, Mrs. Jones. + +MRS. JONES. [Soft, and even, unemphatic.] Good morning, sir! Good +morning, ma'am! + +BARTHWICK. About your husband--he's not in work, I hear? + +MRS. JONES. No, sir; of course he's not in work just now. + +BARTHWICK. Then I suppose he's earning nothing. + +MRS. JONES. No, sir, he's not earning anything just now, sir. + +BARTHWICK. And how many children have you? + +MRS. JONES. Three children; but of course they don't eat very much +sir. [A little silence.] + +BARTHWICK. And how old is the eldest? + +MRS. JONES. Nine years old, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Do they go to school? + +MRS. JONES, Yes, sir, they all three go to school every day. + +BARTHWICK. [Severely.] And what about their food when you're out +at work? + +MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have to give them their dinner to take +with them. Of course I 'm not always able to give them anything; +sometimes I have to send them without; but my husband is very good +about the children when he's in work. But when he's not in work of +course he's a very difficult man. + +BARTHWICK. He drinks, I suppose? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir. Of course I can't say he does n't drink, +because he does. + +BARTHWICK. And I suppose he takes all your money? + +MRS. JONES. No, sir, he's very good about my money, except when +he's not himself, and then, of course, he treats me very badly. + +BARTHWICK. Now what is he--your husband? + +MRS. JONES. By profession, sir, of course he's a groom. + +BARTHWICK. A groom! How came he to lose his place? + +MRS. JONES. He lost his place a long time ago, sir, and he's never +had a very long job since; and now, of course, the motor-cars are +against him. + +BARTHWICK. When were you married to him, Mrs. Jones? + +MRS. JONES. Eight years ago, sir that was in---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] Eight? You said the eldest child was +nine. + +MRS. JONES. Yes, ma'am; of course that was why he lost his place. +He did n't treat me rightly, and of course his employer said he +couldn't keep him because of the example. + +BARTHWICK. You mean he--ahem---- + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir; and of course after he lost his place he +married me. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. You actually mean to say you--you were---- + +BARTHWICK. My dear---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Indignantly.] How disgraceful! + +BARTHWICK. [Hurriedly.] And where are you living now, Mrs. Jones? + +MRS. JONES. We've not got a home, sir. Of course we've been +obliged to put away most of our things. + +BARTHWICK. Put your things away! You mean to--to--er--to pawn +them? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, to put them away. We're living in Merthyr +Street--that is close by here, sir--at No. 34. We just have the one +room. + +BARTHWICK. And what do you pay a week? + +MRS. JONES. We pay six shillings a week, sir, for a furnished room. + +BARTHWICK. And I suppose you're behind in the rent? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, we're a little behind in the rent. + +BARTHWICK. But you're in good work, aren't you? + +MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have a day in Stamford Place Thursdays. +And Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays I come here. But to-day, of +course, is a half-day, because of yesterday's Bank Holiday. + +BARTHWICK. I see; four days a week, and you get half a crown a day, +is that it? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, and my dinner; but sometimes it's only half +a day, and that's eighteen pence. + +BARTHWICK. And when your husband earns anything he spends it in +drink, I suppose? + +MRS. JONES. Sometimes he does, sir, and sometimes he gives it to me +for the children. Of course he would work if he could get it, sir, +but it seems there are a great many people out of work. + +BARTHWICK. Ah! Yes. We--er--won't go into that. +[Sympathetically.] And how about your work here? Do you find it +hard? + +MRS. JONES. Oh! no, sir, not very hard, sir; except of course, +when I don't get my sleep at night. + +BARTHWICK. Ah! And you help do all the rooms? And sometimes, I +suppose, you go out for cook? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir. + +BARTHWICK. And you 've been out this morning? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I had to go to the greengrocer's. + +BARTHWICK. Exactly. So your husband earns nothing? And he's a bad +character. + +MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I don't say that, sir. I think there's a +great deal of good in him; though he does treat me very bad +sometimes. And of course I don't like to leave him, but I think I +ought to, because really I hardly know how to stay with him. He +often raises his hand to me. Not long ago he gave me a blow here +[touches her breast] and I can feel it now. So I think I ought to +leave him, don't you, sir? + +BARTHWICK. Ah! I can't help you there. It's a very serious thing +to leave your husband. Very serious thing. + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I 'm afraid of what he might do to +me if I were to leave him; he can be so very violent. + +BARTHWICK. H'm! Well, that I can't pretend to say anything about. +It's the bad principle I'm speaking of---- + +MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir; I know nobody can help me. I know I must +decide for myself, and of course I know that he has a very hard +life. And he's fond of the children, and its very hard for him to +see them going without food. + +BARTHWICK. [Hastily.] Well--er--thank you, I just wanted to hear +about you. I don't think I need detain you any longer, Mrs. Jones. + +MRS. JONES. No, sir, thank you, sir. + +BARTHWICK. Good morning, then. + +MRS. JONES. Good morning, sir; good morning, ma'am. + +BARTHWICK. [Exchanging glances with his wife.] By the way, Mrs. +Jones--I think it is only fair to tell you, a silver cigarette-box +--er--is missing. + +MRS. JONES. [Looking from one face to the other.] I am very sorry, +sir. + +BARTHWICK. Yes; you have not seen it, I suppose? + +MRS. JONES. [Realising that suspicion is upon her; with an uneasy +movement.] Where was it, sir; if you please, sir? + +BARTHWICK. [Evasively.] Where did Marlow say? Er--in this room, +yes, in this room. + +MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I have n't seen it--of course if I 'd seen it +I should have noticed it. + +BARTHWICK. [Giving hey a rapid glance.] You--you are sure of that? + +MRS. JONES. [Impassively.] Yes, Sir. [With a slow nodding of her +head.] I have not seen it, and of course I don't know where it is. + + [She turns and goes quietly out.] + +BARTHWICK. H'm! + + [The three BARTHWICKS avoid each other's glances.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT II + +SCENE I + + The JONES's lodgings, Merthyr Street, at half-past two o'clock. + + The bare room, with tattered oilcloth and damp, distempered + walls, has an air of tidy wretchedness. On the bed lies JONES, + half-dressed; his coat is thrown across his feet, and muddy + boots are lying on the floor close by. He is asleep. The door + is opened and MRS. JONES comes in, dressed in a pinched black + jacket and old black sailor hat; she carries a parcel wrapped + up in the "Times." She puts her parcel down, unwraps an apron, + half a loaf, two onions, three potatoes, and a tiny piece of + bacon. Taking a teapot from the cupboard, she rinses it, + shakes into it some powdered tea out of a screw of paper, puts + it on the hearth, and sitting in a wooden chair quietly begins + to cry. + +JONES. [Stirring and yawning.] That you? What's the time? + +MRS. JONES. [Drying her eyes, and in her usual voice.] Half-past +two. + +JONES. What you back so soon for? + +MRS. JONES. I only had the half day to-day, Jem. + +JONES. [On his back, and in a drowsy voice.] Got anything for +dinner? + +MRS. JONES. Mrs. BARTHWICK's cook gave me a little bit of bacon. +I'm going to make a stew. [She prepares for cooking.] There's +fourteen shillings owing for rent, James, and of course I 've only +got two and fourpence. They'll be coming for it to-day. + +JONES. [Turning towards her on his elbow.] Let 'em come and find +my surprise packet. I've had enough o' this tryin' for work. Why +should I go round and round after a job like a bloomin' squirrel in +a cage. "Give us a job, sir"--"Take a man on"--"Got a wife and +three children." Sick of it I am! I 'd sooner lie here and rot. +"Jones, you come and join the demonstration; come and 'old a flag, +and listen to the ruddy orators, and go 'ome as empty as you came." +There's some that seems to like that--the sheep! When I go seekin' +for a job now, and see the brutes lookin' me up an' down, it's like +a thousand serpents in me. I 'm not arskin' for any treat. A man +wants to sweat hisself silly and not allowed that's a rum start, +ain't it? A man wants to sweat his soul out to keep the breath in +him and ain't allowed--that's justice that's freedom and all the +rest of it! [He turns his face towards the wall.] You're so milky +mild; you don't know what goes on inside o' me. I'm done with the +silly game. If they want me, let 'em come for me! + + [MRS. JONES stops cooking and stands unmoving at the table.] + +I've tried and done with it, I tell you. I've never been afraid of +what 's before me. You mark my words--if you think they've broke my +spirit, you're mistook. I 'll lie and rot sooner than arsk 'em +again. What makes you stand like that--you long-sufferin', Gawd- +forsaken image--that's why I can't keep my hands off you. So now +you know. Work! You can work, but you have n't the spirit of a +louse! + +MRS. JONES. [Quietly.] You talk more wild sometimes when you're +yourself, James, than when you 're not. If you don't get work, how +are we to go on? They won't let us stay here; they're looking to +their money to-day, I know. + +JONES. I see this BARTHWICK o' yours every day goin' down to +Pawlyment snug and comfortable to talk his silly soul out; an' I see +that young calf, his son, swellin' it about, and goin' on the +razzle-dazzle. Wot 'ave they done that makes 'em any better than +wot I am? They never did a day's work in their lives. I see 'em +day after day. + +MRS. JONES. And I wish you wouldn't come after me like that, and +hang about the house. You don't seem able to keep away at all, and +whatever you do it for I can't think, because of course they notice +it. + +JONES. I suppose I may go where I like. Where may I go? The other +day I went to a place in the Edgware Road. "Gov'nor," I says to the +boss, "take me on," I says. "I 'aven't done a stroke o' work not +these two months; it takes the heart out of a man," I says; "I 'm +one to work; I 'm not afraid of anything you can give me!" "My good +man," 'e says, "I 've had thirty of you here this morning. I took +the first two," he says, "and that's all I want." "Thank you, then +rot the world!" I says. "Blasphemin'," he says, "is not the way to +get a job. Out you go, my lad!" [He laughs sardonically.] Don't +you raise your voice because you're starvin'; don't yer even think +of it; take it lyin' down! Take it like a sensible man, carn't you? +And a little way down the street a lady says to me: [Pinching his +voice] "D' you want to earn a few pence, my man?" and gives me her +dog to 'old outside a shop-fat as a butler 'e was--tons o' meat had +gone to the makin' of him. It did 'er good, it did, made 'er feel +'erself that charitable, but I see 'er lookin' at the copper +standin' alongside o' me, for fear I should make off with 'er +bloomin' fat dog. [He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a boot +on. Then looking up.] What's in that head o' yours? [Almost +pathetically.] Carn't you speak for once? + + [There is a knock, and MRS. SEDDON, the landlady, appears, an + anxious, harassed, shabby woman in working clothes.] + +MRS. SEDDON. I thought I 'eard you come in, Mrs. Jones. I 've +spoke to my 'usband, but he says he really can't afford to wait +another day. + +JONES. [With scowling jocularity.] Never you mind what your +'usband says, you go your own way like a proper independent woman. +Here, jenny, chuck her that. + + [Producing a sovereign from his trousers pocket, he throws it + to his wife, who catches it in her apron with a gasp. JONES + resumes the lacing of his boots.] + +MRS. JONES. [Rubbing the sovereign stealthily.] I'm very sorry +we're so late with it, and of course it's fourteen shillings, so if +you've got six that will be right. + + [MRS. SEDDON takes the sovereign and fumbles for the change.] + +JONES. [With his eyes fixed on his boots.] Bit of a surprise for +yer, ain't it? + +MRS. SEDDON. Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged. [She +does indeed appear surprised.] I 'll bring you the change. + +JONES. [Mockingly.] Don't mention it. + +MRS. SEDDON. Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged. [She +slides away.] + + [MRS. JONES gazes at JONES who is still lacing up his boots.] + +JONES. I 've had a bit of luck. [Pulling out the crimson purse and +some loose coins.] Picked up a purse--seven pound and more. + +MRS. JONES. Oh, James! + +JONES. Oh, James! What about Oh, James! I picked it up I tell +you. This is lost property, this is! + +MRS. JONES. But is n't there a name in it, or something? + +JONES. Name? No, there ain't no name. This don't belong to such +as 'ave visitin' cards. This belongs to a perfec' lidy. Tike an' +smell it. [He pitches her the purse, which she puts gently to her +nose.] Now, you tell me what I ought to have done. You tell me +that. You can always tell me what I ought to ha' done, can't yer? + +MRS. JONES. [Laying down the purse.] I can't say what you ought to +have done, James. Of course the money was n't yours; you've taken +somebody else's money. + +JONES. Finding's keeping. I 'll take it as wages for the time I +'ve gone about the streets asking for what's my rights. I'll take +it for what's overdue, d' ye hear? [With strange triumph.] I've +got money in my pocket, my girl. + + [MRS. JONES goes on again with the preparation of the meal, + JONES looking at her furtively.] + +Money in my pocket! And I 'm not goin' to waste it. With this 'ere +money I'm goin' to Canada. I'll let you have a pound. + + [A silence.] + +You've often talked of leavin' me. You 've often told me I treat +you badly--well I 'ope you 'll be glad when I 'm gone. + +MRS. JONES. [Impassively.] You have, treated me very badly, James, +and of course I can't prevent your going; but I can't tell whether I +shall be glad when you're gone. + +JONES. It'll change my luck. I 've 'ad nothing but bad luck since +I first took up with you. [More softly.] And you've 'ad no +bloomin' picnic. + +MRS. JONES. Of course it would have been better for us if we had +never met. We were n't meant for each other. But you're set +against me, that's what you are, and you have been for a long time. +And you treat me so badly, James, going after that Rosie and all. +You don't ever seem to think of the children that I 've had to bring +into the world, and of all the trouble I 've had to keep them, and +what 'll become of them when you're gone. + +JONES. [Crossing the room gloomily.] If you think I want to leave +the little beggars you're bloomin' well mistaken. + +MRS. JONES. Of course I know you're fond of them. + +JONES. [Fingering the purse, half angrily.] Well, then, you stow +it, old girl. The kids 'll get along better with you than when I 'm +here. If I 'd ha' known as much as I do now, I 'd never ha' had one +o' them. What's the use o' bringin' 'em into a state o' things like +this? It's a crime, that's what it is; but you find it out too late; +that's what's the matter with this 'ere world. + + [He puts the purse back in his pocket.] + +MRS. JONES. Of course it would have been better for them, poor +little things; but they're your own children, and I wonder at you +talkin' like that. I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose +them. + +JONES. [Sullenly.] An' you ain't the only one. If I make money +out there--[Looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat--in a +changed voice.] Leave that coat alone! + + [The silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the + cigarettes upon the bed. Taking up the box she stares at it; + he rushes at her and snatches the box away.] + +MRS. JONES. [Cowering back against the bed.] Oh, Jem! oh, Jem! + +JONES. [Dropping the box onto the table.] You mind what you're +sayin'! When I go out I 'll take and chuck it in the water along +with that there purse. I 'ad it when I was in liquor, and for what +you do when you 're in liquor you're not responsible-and that's +Gawd's truth as you ought to know. I don't want the thing--I won't +have it. I took it out o' spite. I 'm no thief, I tell you; and +don't you call me one, or it'll be the worse for you. + +MRS. JONES. [Twisting her apron strings.] It's Mr. Barthwick's! +You've taken away my reputation. Oh, Jem, whatever made you? + +JONES. What d' you mean? + +MRS. JONES. It's been missed; they think it's me. Oh! whatever +made you do it, Jem? + +JONES. I tell you I was in liquor. I don't want it; what's the +good of it to me? If I were to pawn it they'd only nab me. I 'm no +thief. I 'm no worse than wot that young Barthwick is; he brought +'ome that purse that I picked up--a lady's purse--'ad it off 'er in +a row, kept sayin' 'e 'd scored 'er off. Well, I scored 'im off. +Tight as an owl 'e was! And d' you think anything'll happen to him? + +MRS. JONES. [As though speaking to herself.] Oh, Jem! it's the +bread out of our mouths! + +JONES. Is it then? I'll make it hot for 'em yet. What about that +purse? What about young BARTHWICK? + +[MRS. JONES comes forward to the table and tries to take the box; +JONES prevents her.] What do you want with that? You drop it, I +say! + +MRS. JONES. I 'll take it back and tell them all about it. [She +attempts to wrest the box from him.] + +JONES. Ah, would yer? + + [He drops the box, and rushes on her with a snarl. She slips + back past the bed. He follows; a chair is overturned. The + door is opened; Snow comes in, a detective in plain clothes and + bowler hat, with clipped moustaches. JONES drops his arms, + MRS. JONES stands by the window gasping; SNOW, advancing + swiftly to the table, puts his hand on the silver box.] + +SNOW. Doin' a bit o' skylarkin'? Fancy this is what I 'm after. +J. B., the very same. [He gets back to the door, scrutinising the +crest and cypher on the box. To MRS. JONES.] I'm a police officer. +Are you Mrs. Jones? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir. + +SNOW. My instructions are to take you on a charge of stealing this +box from J. BARTHWICK, Esquire, M.P., of 6, Rockingham Gate. +Anything you say may be used against you. Well, Missis? + +MRS. JONES. [In her quiet voice, still out of breath, her hand +upon. her breast.] Of course I did not take it, sir. I never have +taken anything that did n't belong to me; and of course I know +nothing about it. + +SNOW. You were at the house this morning; you did the room in which +the box was left; you were alone in the room. I find the box 'ere. +You say you did n't take it? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I say I did not take it, because I +did not. + +SNOW. Then how does the box come to be here? + +MRS. JONES. I would rather not say anything about it. + +SNOW. Is this your husband? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, this is my husband, sir. + +SNOW. Do you wish to say anything before I take her? + + [JONES remains silent, with his head bend down.] + +Well then, Missis. I 'll just trouble you to come along with me +quietly. + +MRS. JONES. [Twisting her hands.] Of course I would n't say I had +n't taken it if I had--and I did n't take it, indeed I did n't. Of +course I know appearances are against me, and I can't tell you what +really happened: But my children are at school, and they'll be +coming home--and I don't know what they'll do without me. + +SNOW. Your 'usband'll see to them, don't you worry. [He takes the +woman gently by the arm.] + +JONES. You drop it--she's all right! [Sullenly.] I took the thing +myself. + +SNOW. [Eyeing him] There, there, it does you credit. Come along, +Missis. + +JONES. [Passionately.] Drop it, I say, you blooming teck. She's +my wife; she 's a respectable woman. Take her if you dare! + +SNOW. Now, now. What's the good of this? Keep a civil tongue, and +it'll be the better for all of us. + + [He puts his whistle in his mouth and draws the woman to the + door.] + +JONES. [With a rush.] Drop her, and put up your 'ands, or I 'll +soon make yer. You leave her alone, will yer! Don't I tell yer, I +took the thing myself. + +SNOW. [Blowing his whistle.] Drop your hands, or I 'll take you +too. Ah, would you? + + [JONES, closing, deals him a blow. A Policeman in uniform + appears; there is a short struggle and JONES is overpowered. + MRS. JONES raises her hands avid drops her face on them.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE II + + The BARTHWICKS' dining-room the same evening. The BARTHWICKS + are seated at dessert. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. John! [A silence broken by the cracking of nuts.] +John! + +BARTHWICK. I wish you'd speak about the nuts they're uneatable. +[He puts one in his mouth.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. It's not the season for them. I called on the +Holyroods. + + [BARTHWICK fills his glass with port.] + +JACK. Crackers, please, Dad. + + [BARTHWICK passes the crackers. His demeanour is reflective.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Lady Holyrood has got very stout. I 've noticed it +coming for a long time. + +BARTHWICK. [Gloomily.] Stout? [He takes up the crackers--with +transparent airiness.] The Holyroods had some trouble with their +servants, had n't they? + +JACK. Crackers, please, Dad. + +BARTHWICK. [Passing the crackers.] It got into the papers. The +cook, was n't it? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. No, the lady's maid. I was talking it over with +Lady Holyrood. The girl used to have her young man to see her. + +BARTHWICK. [Uneasily.] I'm not sure they were wise---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. My dear John, what are you talking about? How +could there be any alternative? Think of the effect on the other +servants! + +BARTHWICK. Of course in principle--I wasn't thinking of that. + +JACK. [Maliciously.] Crackers, please, Dad. + + [BARTHWICK is compelled to pass the crackers.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Lady Holyrood told me: "I had her up," she said; "I +said to her, 'You'll leave my house at once; I think your conduct +disgraceful. I can't tell, I don't know, and I don't wish to know, +what you were doing. I send you away on principle; you need not +come to me for a character.' And the girl said: 'If you don't give +me my notice, my lady, I want a month's wages. I'm perfectly +respectable. I've done nothing.'"'--Done nothing! + +BARTHWICK. H'm! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Servants have too much license. They hang together +so terribly you never can tell what they're really thinking; it's as +if they were all in a conspiracy to keep you in the dark. Even with +Marlow, you feel that he never lets you know what's really in his +mind. I hate that secretiveness; it destroys all confidence. I +feel sometimes I should like to shake him. + +JACK. Marlow's a most decent chap. It's simply beastly every one +knowing your affairs. + +BARTHWICK. The less you say about that the better! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. It goes all through the lower classes. You can not +tell when they are speaking the truth. To-day when I was shopping +after leaving the Holyroods, one of these unemployed came up and +spoke to me. I suppose I only had twenty yards or so to walk to the +carnage, but he seemed to spring up in the street. + +BARTHWICK. Ah! You must be very careful whom you speak to in these +days. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I did n't answer him, of course. But I could see +at once that he wasn't telling the truth. + +BARTHWICK. [Cracking a nut.] There's one very good rule--look at +their eyes. + +JACK. Crackers, please, Dad. + +BARTHWICK. [Passing the crackers.] If their eyes are straight- +forward I sometimes give them sixpence. It 's against my +principles, but it's most difficult to refuse. If you see that +they're desperate, and dull, and shifty-looking, as so many of them +are, it's certain to mean drink, or crime, or something +unsatisfactory. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. This man had dreadful eyes. He looked as if he +could commit a murder. "I 've 'ad nothing to eat to-day," he said. +Just like that. + +BARTHWICK. What was William about? He ought to have been waiting. + +JACK. [Raising his wine-glass to his nose.] Is this the '63, Dad? + + [BARTHWICK, holding his wine-glass to his eye, lowers it and + passes it before his nose.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I hate people that can't speak the truth. [Father +and son exchange a look behind their port.] It 's just as easy to +speak the truth as not. I've always found it easy enough. It makes +it impossible to tell what is genuine; one feels as if one were +continually being taken in. + +BARTHWICK. [Sententiously.] The lower classes are their own +enemies. If they would only trust us, they would get on so much +better. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. But even then it's so often their own fault. Look +at that Mrs. Jones this morning. + +BARTHWICK. I only want to do what's right in that matter. I had +occasion to see Roper this afternoon. I mentioned it to him. He's +coming in this evening. It all depends on what the detective says. +I've had my doubts. I've been thinking it over. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. The woman impressed me most unfavourably. She +seemed to have no shame. That affair she was talking about--she and +the man when they were young, so immoral! And before you and Jack! +I could have put her out of the room! + +BARTHWICK. Oh! I don't want to excuse them, but in looking at +these matters one must consider---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Perhaps you'll say the man's employer was wrong in +dismissing him? + +BARTHWICK. Of course not. It's not there that I feel doubt. What +I ask myself is---- + +JACK. Port, please, Dad. + +BARTHWICK. [Circulating the decanter in religious imitation of the +rising and setting of the sun.] I ask myself whether we are +sufficiently careful in making inquiries about people before we +engage them, especially as regards moral conduct. + +JACK. Pass the-port, please, Mother! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Passing it.] My dear boy, are n't you drinking +too much? + + [JACK fills his glass.] + +MARLOW. [Entering.] Detective Snow to see you, Sir. + +BARTHWICK. [Uneasily.] Ah! say I'll be with him in a minute. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Without turning.] Let him come in here, Marlow. + + [SNOW enters in an overcoat, his bowler hat in hand.] + +BARTHWICK. [Half-rising.] Oh! Good evening! + +SNOW. Good evening, sir; good evening, ma'am. I 've called round to +report what I 've done, rather late, I 'm afraid--another case took +me away. [He takes the silver box out o f his pocket, causing a +sensation in the BARTHWICK family.] This is the identical article, +I believe. + +BARTHWICK. Certainly, certainly. + +SNOW. Havin' your crest and cypher, as you described to me, sir, I +'d no hesitation in the matter. + +BARTHWICK. Excellent. Will you have a glass of [he glances at the +waning port]--er--sherry-[pours out sherry]. Jack, just give Mr. +Snow this. + + [JACK rises and gives the glass to SNOW; then, lolling in his + chair, regards him indolently.] + +SNOW. [Drinking off wine and putting down the glass.] After seeing +you I went round to this woman's lodgings, sir. It's a low +neighborhood, and I thought it as well to place a constable below-- +and not without 'e was wanted, as things turned out. + +BARTHWICK. Indeed! + +SNOW. Yes, Sir, I 'ad some trouble. I asked her to account for the +presence of the article. She could give me no answer, except to +deny the theft; so I took her into custody; then her husband came +for me, so I was obliged to take him, too, for assault. He was very +violent on the way to the station--very violent--threatened you and +your son, and altogether he was a handful, I can till you. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. What a ruffian he must be! + +SNOW. Yes, ma'am, a rough customer. + +JACK. [Sipping his mine, bemused.] Punch the beggar's head. + +SNOW. Given to drink, as I understand, sir. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. It's to be hoped he will get a severe punishment. + +SNOW. The odd thing is, sir, that he persists in sayin' he took the +box himself. + +BARTHWICK. Took the box himself! [He smiles.] What does he think +to gain by that? + +SNOW. He says the young gentleman was intoxicated last night + + [JACK stops the cracking of a nut, and looks at SNOW.] + + [BARTHWICK, losing his smile, has put his wine-glass down; + there is a silence--SNOW, looking from face to face, remarks] + +--took him into the house and gave him whisky; and under the +influence of an empty stomach the man says he took the box. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. The impudent wretch! + +BARTHWICK. D' you mean that he--er--intends to put this forward +to-morrow? + +SNOW. That'll be his line, sir; but whether he's endeavouring to +shield his wife, or whether [he looks at JACK] there's something in +it, will be for the magistrate to say. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Haughtily.] Something in what? I don't +understand you. As if my son would bring a man like that into the +house! + +BARTHWICK. [From the fireplace, with an effort to be calm.] My son +can speak for himself, no doubt. Well, Jack, what do you say? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] What does he say? Why, of course, he +says the whole story's stuff! + +JACK. [Embarrassed.] Well, of course, I--of course, I don't know +anything about it. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I should think not, indeed! [To Snow.] The man is +an audacious ruffian! + +BARTHWICK. [Suppressing jumps.] But in view of my son's saying +there's nothing in this--this fable--will it be necessary to proceed +against the man under the circumstances? + +SNOW. We shall have to charge him with the assault, sir. It would +be as well for your son to come down to the Court. There'll be a +remand, no doubt. The queer thing is there was quite a sum of money +found on him, and a crimson silk purse. + + [BARTHWICK starts; JACK rises and sits dozen again.] + +I suppose the lady has n't missed her purse? + +BARTHWICK. [Hastily.] Oh, no! Oh! No! + +JACK. No! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Dreamily.] No! [To SNOW.] I 've been inquiring +of the servants. This man does hang about the house. I shall feel +much safer if he gets a good long sentence; I do think we ought to +be protected against such ruffians. + +BARTHWICK. Yes, yes, of course, on principle but in this case we +have a number of things to think of. [To SNOW.] I suppose, as you +say, the man must be charged, eh? + +SNOW. No question about that, sir. + +BARTHWICK. [Staring gloomily at JACK.] This prosecution goes very +much against the grain with me. I have great sympathy with the +poor. In my position I 'm bound to recognise the distress there is +amongst them. The condition of the people leaves much to be +desired. D' you follow me? I wish I could see my way to drop it. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] John! it's simply not fair to other +people. It's putting property at the mercy of any one who likes to +take it. + +BARTHWICK. [Trying to make signs to her aside.] I 'm not defending +him, not at all. I'm trying to look at the matter broadly. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Nonsense, John, there's a time for everything. + +SNOW. [Rather sardonically.] I might point out, sir, that to +withdraw the charge of stealing would not make much difference, +because the facts must come out [he looks significantly at JACK] in +reference to the assault; and as I said that charge will have to go +forward. + +BARTHWICK. [Hastily.] Yes, oh! exactly! It's entirely on the +woman's account--entirely a matter of my own private feelings. + +SNOW. If I were you, sir, I should let things take their course. +It's not likely there'll be much difficulty. These things are very +quick settled. + +BARTHWICK. [Doubtfully.] You think so--you think so? + +JACK. [Rousing himself.] I say, what shall I have to swear to? + +SNOW. That's best known to yourself, sir. [Retreating to the +door.] Better employ a solicitor, sir, in case anything should +arise. We shall have the butler to prove the loss of the article. +You'll excuse me going, I 'm rather pressed to-night. The case may +come on any time after eleven. Good evening, sir; good evening, +ma'am. I shall have to produce the box in court to-morrow, so if +you'll excuse me, sir, I may as well take it with me. + + [He takes the silver box and leaves them with a little bow.] + + [BARTHWICK makes a move to follow him, then dashing his hands + beneath his coat tails, speaks with desperation.] + +BARTHWICK. I do wish you'd leave me to manage things myself. You +will put your nose into matters you know nothing of. A pretty mess +you've made of this! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Coldly.] I don't in the least know what you're +talking about. If you can't stand up for your rights, I can. I 've +no patience with your principles, it's such nonsense. + +BARTHWICK. Principles! Good Heavens! What have principles to do +with it for goodness sake? Don't you know that Jack was drunk last +night! + +JACK. Dad! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [In horror rising.] Jack! + +JACK. Look here, Mother--I had supper. Everybody does. I mean to +say--you know what I mean--it's absurd to call it being drunk. At +Oxford everybody gets a bit "on" sometimes---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Well, I think it's most dreadful! If that is +really what you do at Oxford? + +JACK. [Angrily.] Well, why did you send me there? One must do as +other fellows do. It's such nonsense, I mean, to call it being +drunk. Of course I 'm awfully sorry. I 've had such a beastly +headache all day. + +BARTHWICK. Tcha! If you'd only had the common decency to remember +what happened when you came in. Then we should know what truth +there was in what this fellow says--as it is, it's all the most +confounded darkness. + +JACK. [Staring as though at half-formed visions.] I just get a-- +and then--it 's gone---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Oh, Jack! do you mean to say you were so tipsy you +can't even remember---- + +JACK. Look here, Mother! Of course I remember I came--I must have +come---- + +BARTHWICK. [Unguardedly, and walking up and down.] Tcha!--and that +infernal purse! Good Heavens! It'll get into the papers. Who on +earth could have foreseen a thing like this? Better to have lost a +dozen cigarette-boxes, and said nothing about it. [To his wife.] +It's all your doing. I told you so from the first. I wish to +goodness Roper would come! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] I don't know what you're talking about, +John. + +BARTHWICK. [Turning on her.] No, you--you--you don't know +anything! [Sharply.] Where the devil is Roper? If he can see a +way out of this he's a better man than I take him for. I defy any +one to see a way out of it. I can't. + +JACK. Look here, don't excite Dad--I can simply say I was too +beastly tired, and don't remember anything except that I came in and +[in a dying voice] went to bed the same as usual. + +BARTHWICK. Went to bed? Who knows where you went--I 've lost all +confidence. For all I know you slept on the floor. + +JACK. [Indignantly.] I did n't, I slept on the---- + +BARTHWICK. [Sitting on the sofa.] Who cares where you slept; what +does it matter if he mentions the--the--a perfect disgrace? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. What? [A silence.] I insist on knowing. + +JACK. Oh! nothing. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Nothing? What do you mean by nothing, Jack? +There's your father in such a state about it! + +JACK. It's only my purse. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Your purse! You know perfectly well you have n't +got one. + +JACK. Well, it was somebody else's--it was all a joke--I did n't +want the beastly thing. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Do you mean that you had another person's purse, +and that this man took it too? + +BARTHWICK. Tcha! Of course he took it too! A man like that Jones +will make the most of it. It'll get into the papers. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I don't understand. What on earth is all the fuss +about? [Bending over JACK, and softly.] Jack now, tell me dear! +Don't be afraid. What is it? Come! + +JACK. Oh, don't Mother! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. But don't what, dear? + +JACK. It was pure sport. I don't know how I got the thing. Of +course I 'd had a bit of a row--I did n't know what I was doing--I +was--I Was--well, you know--I suppose I must have pulled the bag out +of her hand. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Out of her hand? Whose hand? What bag--whose bag? + +JACK. Oh! I don't know--her bag--it belonged to--[in a desperate +and rising voice] a woman. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. A woman? Oh! Jack! No! + +JACK. [Jumping up.] You would have it. I did n't want to tell +you. It's not my fault. + + [The door opens and MARLOW ushers in a man of middle age, + inclined to corpulence, in evening dress. He has a ruddy, thin + moustache, and dark, quick-moving little eyes. His eyebrows + aye Chinese.] + +MARLOW. Mr. Roper, Sir. [He leaves the room.] + +ROPER. [With a quick look round.] How do you do? + + [But neither JACK nor MRS. BARTHWICK make a sign.] + +BARTHWICK. [Hurrying.] Thank goodness you've come, Roper. You +remember what I told you this afternoon; we've just had the +detective here. + +ROPER. Got the box? + +BARTHWICK. Yes, yes, but look here--it was n't the charwoman at +all; her drunken loafer of a husband took the things--he says that +fellow there [he waves his hand at JACK, who with his shoulder +raised, seems trying to ward off a blow] let him into the house last +night. Can you imagine such a thing. + + [Roper laughs. ] + +BARTHWICK. [With excited emphasis.]. It's no laughing matter, +Roper. I told you about that business of Jack's too--don't you see +the brute took both the things--took that infernal purse. It'll get +into the papers. + +ROPER. [Raising his eyebrows.] H'm! The purse! Depravity in high +life! What does your son say? + +BARTHWICK. He remembers nothing. D--n! Did you ever see such a +mess? It 'll get into the papers. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [With her hand across hey eyes.] Oh! it's not +that---- + + [BARTHWICK and ROPER turn and look at her.] + +BARTHWICK. It's the idea of that woman--she's just heard---- + + [ROPER nods. And MRS. BARTHWICK, setting her lips, gives a + slow look at JACK, and sits down at the table.] + +What on earth's to be done, Roper? A ruffian like this Jones will +make all the capital he can out of that purse. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I don't believe that Jack took that purse. + +BARTHWICK. What--when the woman came here for it this morning? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Here? She had the impudence? Why was n't I told? + + [She looks round from face to face--no one answers hey, there + is a pause.] + +BARTHWICK. [Suddenly.] What's to be done, Roper? + +ROPER. [Quietly to JACK.] I suppose you did n't leave your latch- +key in the door? + +JACK. [Sullenly.] Yes, I did. + +BARTHWICK. Good heavens! What next? + +MRS. BARTHWICK. I 'm certain you never let that man into the house, +Jack, it's a wild invention. I'm sure there's not a word of truth +in it, Mr. Roper. + +ROPER. [Very suddenly.] Where did you sleep last night? + +JACK. [Promptly.] On the sofa, there--[hesitating]--that is--I---- + +BARTHWICK. On the sofa? D' you mean to say you did n't go to bed? + +JACK.[Sullenly.] No. + +BARTHWICK. If you don't remember anything, how can you remember +that? + +JACK. Because I woke up there in the morning. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Oh, Jack! + +BARTHWICK. Good Gracious! + +JACK. And Mrs. Jones saw me. I wish you would n't bait me so. + +ROPER. Do you remember giving any one a drink? + +JACK. By Jove, I do seem to remember a fellow with--a fellow with +[He looks at Roper.] I say, d' you want me----? + +ROPER. [Quick as lightning.] With a dirty face? + +JACK. [With illumination.] I do--I distinctly remember his---- + + [BARTHWICK moves abruptly; MRS. BARTHWICK looks at ROPER + angrily, and touches her son's arm.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. You don't remember, it's ridiculous! I don't +believe the man was ever here at all. + +BARTHWICK. You must speak the truth, if it is the truth. But if +you do remember such a dirty business, I shall wash my hands of you +altogether. + +JACK. [Glaring at them.] Well, what the devil---- + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Jack! + +JACK. Well, Mother, I--I don't know what you do want. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. We want you to speak the truth and say you never +let this low man into the house. + +BARTHWICK. Of course if you think that you really gave this man +whisky in that disgraceful way, and let him see what you'd been +doing, and were in such a disgusting condition that you don't +remember a word of it---- + +ROPER. [Quick.] I've no memory myself--never had. + +BARTHWICK. [Desperately.] I don't know what you're to say. + +ROPER. [To JACK.] Say nothing at all! Don't put yourself in a +false position. The man stole the things or the woman stole the +things, you had nothing to do with it. You were asleep on the sofa. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Your leaving the latch-key in the door was quite +bad enough, there's no need to mention anything else. [Touching his +forehead softly.] My dear, how hot your head is! + +JACK. But I want to know what I 'm to do. [Passionately.] I won't +be badgered like this. + + [MRS. BARTHWICK recoils from him.] + +ROPER. [Very quickly.] You forget all about it. You were asleep. + +JACK. Must I go down to the Court to-morrow? + +ROPER. [Shaking his head.] No. + +BARTHWICK. [In a relieved voice.] Is that so? + +ROPER. Yes. + +BARTHWICK. But you'll go, Roper. + +ROPER. Yes. + +JACK. [With wan cheerfulness.] Thanks, awfully! So long as I +don't have to go. [Putting his hand up to his head.] I think if +you'll excuse me--I've had a most beastly day. [He looks from his +father to his mother.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Turning quickly.] Goodnight, my boy. + +JACK. Good-night, Mother. + + [He goes out. MRS. BARTHWICK heaves a sigh. There is a + silence.] + +BARTHWICK. He gets off too easily. But for my money that woman +would have prosecuted him. + +ROPER. You find money useful. + +BARTHWICK. I've my doubts whether we ought to hide'the truth---- + +ROPER. There'll be a remand. + +BARTHWICK. What! D' you mean he'll have to appear on the remand. + +ROPER. Yes. + +BARTHWICK. H'm, I thought you'd be able to----Look here, Roper, +you must keep that purse out of the papers. + + [ROPER fixes his little eyes on him and nods.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Mr. Roper, don't you think the magistrate ought to +be told what sort of people these Jones's are; I mean about their +immorality before they were married. I don't know if John told you. + +ROPER. Afraid it's not material. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Not material? + +ROPER. Purely private life! May have happened to the magistrate. + +BARTHWICK. [With a movement as if to shift a burden.] Then you'll +take the thing into your hands? + +ROPER. If the gods are kind. [He holds his hand out.] + +BARTHWICK. [Shaking it dubiously.] Kind eh? What? You going? + +ROPER. Yes. I've another case, something like yours--most +unexpected. + + [He bows to MRS. BARTHWICK, and goes out, followed by + BARTHWICK, talking to the last. MRS. BARTHWICK at the table + bursts into smothered sobs. BARTHWICK returns.] + +BARTHWICK. [To himself.] There'll be a scandal! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Disguising her grief at once.] I simply can't +imagine what Roper means by making a joke of a thing like that! + +BARTHWICK. [Staring strangely.] You! You can't imagine anything! +You've no more imagination than a fly! + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Angrily.] You dare to tell me that I have no +imagination. + +BARTHWICK. [Flustered.] I--I 'm upset. From beginning to end, the +whole thing has been utterly against my principles. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. Rubbish! You have n't any! Your principles are +nothing in the world but sheer fright! + +BARTHWICK. [Walking to the window.] I've never been frightened in +my life. You heard what Roper said. It's enough to upset one when +a thing like this happens. Everything one says and does seems to +turn in one's mouth--it's--it's uncanny. It's not the sort of thing +I've been accustomed to. [As though stifling, he throws the window +open. The faint sobbing of a child comes in.] What's that? + + [They listen.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] I can't stand that crying. I must send +Marlow to stop it. My nerves are all on edge. [She rings the +bell.] + +BARTHWICK. I'll shut the window; you'll hear nothing. [He shuts +the window. There is silence.] + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] That's no good! It's on my nerves. +Nothing upsets me like a child's crying. + + [MARLOW comes in.] + +What's that noise of crying, Marlow? It sounds like a child. + +BARTHWICK. It is a child. I can see it against the railings. + +MARLOW. [Opening the window, and looking out quietly.] It's Mrs. +Jones's little boy, ma'am; he came here after his mother. + +MRS. BARTHWICK. [Moving quickly to the window.] Poor little chap! +John, we ought n't to go on with this! + +BARTHWICK. [Sitting heavily in a chair.] Ah! but it's out of our +hands! + + [MRS. BARTHWICK turns her back to the window. There is an + expression of distress on hey face. She stands motionless, + compressing her lips. The crying begins again. BARTHWICK + coveys his ears with his hands, and MARLOW shuts the window. + The crying ceases.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT III + + Eight days have passed, and the scene is a London Police Court + at one o'clock. A canopied seat of Justice is surmounted by + the lion and unicorn. Before the fire a worn-looking + MAGISTRATE is warming his coat-tails, and staring at two little + girls in faded blue and orange rags, who are placed before the + dock. Close to the witness-box is a RELIEVING OFFICER in an + overcoat, and a short brown beard. Beside the little girls + stands a bald POLICE CONSTABLE. On the front bench are sitting + BARTHWICK and ROPER, and behind them JACK. In the railed + enclosure are seedy-looking men and women. Some prosperous + constables sit or stand about. + +MAGISTRATE. [In his paternal and ferocious voice, hissing his s's.] +Now let us dispose of these young ladies. + +USHER. Theresa Livens, Maud Livens. + + [The bald CONSTABLE indicates the little girls, who remain + silent, disillusioned, inattentive.] + +Relieving Officer! + + [The RELIEVING OFFICER Steps into the witness-box.] + +USHER. The evidence you give to the Court shall be the truth, the +whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God! Kiss the +book! + + [The book is kissed.] + +RELIEVING OFFICER. [In a monotone, pausing slightly at each +sentence end, that his evidence may be inscribed.] About ten +o'clock this morning, your Worship, I found these two little girls +in Blue Street, Fulham, crying outside a public-house. Asked where +their home was, they said they had no home. Mother had gone away. +Asked about their father. Their father had no work. Asked where +they slept last night. At their aunt's. I 've made inquiries, your +Worship. The wife has broken up the home and gone on the streets. +The husband is out of work and living in common lodging-houses. The +husband's sister has eight children of her own, and says she can't +afford to keep these little girls any longer. + +MAGISTRATE. [Returning to his seat beneath the canopy of justice.] +Now, let me see. You say the mother is on the streets; what +evidence have you of that? + +RELIEVING OFFICER. I have the husband here, your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well; then let us see him. + + [There are cries of "LIVENS." The MAGISTRATE leans forward, + and stares with hard compassion at the little girls. LIVENS + comes in. He is quiet, with grizzled hair, and a muffler for a + collar. He stands beside the witness-box.] + +And you, are their father? Now, why don't you keep your little +girls at home. How is it you leave them to wander about the streets +like this? + +LIVENS. I've got no home, your Worship. I'm living from 'and to +mouth. I 've got no work; and nothin' to keep them on. + +MAGISTRATE. How is that? + +LIVENS. [Ashamedly.] My wife, she broke my 'ome up, and pawned the +things. + +MAGISTRATE. But what made you let her? + +LEVINS. Your Worship, I'd no chance to stop 'er, she did it when I +was out lookin' for work. + +MAGISTRATE. Did you ill-treat her? + +LIVENS. [Emphatically.] I never raised my 'and to her in my life, +your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. Then what was it--did she drink? + +LIVENS. Yes, your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. Was she loose in her behaviour? + +LIVENS. [In a low voice.] Yes, your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. And where is she now? + +LIVENS. I don't know your Worship. She went off with a man, and +after that I---- + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes. Who knows anything of her? [To the bald +CONSTABLE.] Is she known here? + +RELIEVING OFFICER. Not in this district, your Worship; but I have +ascertained that she is well known---- + +MAGISTRATE. Yes--yes; we'll stop at that. Now [To the Father] you +say that she has broken up your home, and left these little girls. +What provision can you make for them? You look a strong man. + +LIVENS. So I am, your Worship. I'm willin' enough to work, but for +the life of me I can't get anything to do. + +MAGISTRATE. But have you tried? + +LIVENS. I've tried everything, your Worship--I 've tried my +'ardest. + +MAGISTRATE. Well, well---- [There is a silence.] + +RELIEVING OFFICER. If your Worship thinks it's a case, my people are +willing to take them. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes, I know; but I've no evidence that this man is +not the proper guardian for his children. + + [He rises oval goes back to the fire.] + +RELIEVING OFFICER. The mother, your Worship, is able to get access +to them. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes; the mother, of course, is an improper person +to have anything to do with them. [To the Father.] Well, now what +do you say? + +LIVENS. Your Worship, I can only say that if I could get work I +should be only too willing to provide for them. But what can I do, +your Worship? Here I am obliged to live from 'and to mouth in these +'ere common lodging-houses. I 'm a strong man--I'm willing to work +--I'm half as alive again as some of 'em--but you see, your Worship, +my 'airs' turned a bit, owing to the fever--[Touches his hair]--and +that's against me; and I don't seem to get a chance anyhow. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes-yes. [Slowly.] Well, I think it 's a case. +[Staring his hardest at the little girls.] Now, are you willing +that these little girls should be sent to a home. + +LIVENS. Yes, your Worship, I should be very willing. + +MAGISTRATE. Well, I'll remand them for a week. Bring them again +to-day week; if I see no reason against it then, I 'll make an +order. + +RELIEVING OFFICER. To-day week, your Worship. + + [The bald CONSTABLE takes the little girls out by the + shoulders. The father follows them. The MAGISTRATE, returning + to his seat, bends over and talks to his CLERK inaudibly.] + +BARTHWICK. [Speaking behind his hand.] A painful case, Roper; very +distressing state of things. + +ROPER. Hundreds like this in the Police Courts. + +BARTHWICK. Most distressing! The more I see of it, the more +important this question of the condition of the people seems to +become. I shall certainly make a point of taking up the cudgels in +the House. I shall move---- + + [The MAGISTRATE ceases talking to his CLERK.] + +CLERK. Remands! + + [BARTHWICK stops abruptly. There is a stir and MRS. JONES + comes in by the public door; JONES, ushered by policemen, comes + from the prisoner's door. They file into the dock.] + +CLERK. James Jones, Jane Jones. + +USHER. Jane Jones! + +BARTHWICK. [In a whisper.] The purse--the purse must be kept out +of it, Roper. Whatever happens you must keep that out of the +papers. + + [ROPER nods.] + +BALD CONSTABLE. Hush! + + [MRS. JONES, dressed in hey thin, black, wispy dress, and black + straw hat, stands motionless with hands crossed on the front + rail of the dock. JONES leans against the back rail of the + dock, and keeps half turning, glancing defiantly about him. He + is haggard and unshaven.] + +CLERK. [Consulting with his papers.] This is the case remanded +from last Wednesday, Sir. Theft of a silver cigarette-box and +assault on the police; the two charges were taken together. Jane +Jones! James Jones! + +MAGISTRATE. [Staring.] Yes, yes; I remember. + +CLERK. Jane Jones. + +MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. Do you admit stealing a silver cigarette-box valued at five +pounds, ten shillings, from the house of John BARTHWICK, M.P., +between the hours of 11 p.m. on Easter Monday and 8.45 a.m. on +Easter Tuesday last? Yes, or no? + +MRS. JONES. [In a logy voice.] No, Sir, I do not, sir. + +CLERK. James Jones? Do you admit stealing a silver cigarette-box +valued at five pounds, ten shillings, from the house of John +BARTHWICK, M.P., between the hours of 11 p.m. on Easter Monday and +8.45 A.M. on Easter Tuesday last. And further making an assault on +the police when in the execution of their duty at 3 p.m. on Easter +Tuesday? Yes or no? + +JONES. [Sullenly.] Yes, but I've got a lot to say about it. + +MAGISTRATE. [To the CLERK.] Yes--yes. But how comes it that these +two people are charged with the same offence? Are they husband and +wife? + +CLERK. Yes, Sir. You remember you ordered a remand for further +evidence as to the story of the male prisoner. + +MAGISTRATE. Have they been in custody since? + +CLERK. You released the woman on her own recognisances, sir. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes, this is the case of the silver box; I +remember now. Well? + +CLERK. Thomas Marlow. + + [The cry of "THOMAS MARLOW" is repeated MARLOW comes in, and + steps into the witness-box.] + +USHER. The evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the +whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. Kiss the +book. + + [The book is kissed. The silver box is handed up, and placed + on the rail.] + +CLERK. [Reading from his papers.] Your name is Thomas Marlow? Are +you, butler to John BARTHWICK, M.P., of 6, Rockingham Gate? + +MARLOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. Is that the box? + +MARLOW. Yes Sir. + +CLERK. And did you miss the same at 8.45 on the following morning, +on going to remove the tray? + +MARLOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. Is the female prisoner known to you? + + [MARLOW nods.] + +Is she the charwoman. employed at 6, Rockingham Gate? + + [Again MARLOW nods.] + +Did you at the time of your missing the box find her in the room +alone? + +MARLOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. Did you afterwards communicate the loss to your employer, +and did he send you to the police station? + +MARLOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. [To MRS. JONES.] Have you anything to ask him? + +MRS. JONES. No, sir, nothing, thank you, sir. + +CLERK. [To JONES.] James Jones, have you anything to ask this +witness? + +JONES. I don't know 'im. + +MAGISTRATE. Are you sure you put the box in the place you say at +the time you say? + +MARLOW. Yes, your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well; then now let us have the officer. + + [MARLOW leaves the box, and Snow goes into it.] + +USHER. The evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the +whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. [The book +is kissed.] + +CLERK. [Reading from his papers.] Your name is Robert Allow? You +are a detective in the X. B. division of the Metropolitan police +force? According to instructions received did you on Easter Tuesday +last proceed to the prisoner's lodgings at 34, Merthyr Street, St. +Soames's? And did you on entering see the box produced, lying on +the table? + +SNOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. Is that the box? + +Snow. [Fingering the box.] Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. And did you thereupon take possession of it, and charge the +female prisoner with theft of the box from 6, Rockingham Gate? And +did she deny the same? + +SNOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. Did you take her into custody? + +Snow. Yes, Sir. + +MAGISTRATE. What was her behaviour? + +SNOW. Perfectly quiet, your Worship. She persisted in the denial. +That's all. + +MAGISTRATE. DO you know her? + +SNOW. No, your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. Is she known here? + +BALD CONSTABLE. No, your Worship, they're neither of them known, +we 've nothing against them at all. + +CLERK. [To MRS. JONES.] Have you anything to ask the officer? + +MRS. JONES. No, sir, thank you, I 've nothing to ask him. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well then--go on. + +CLERK. [Reading from his papers.] And while you were taking the +female prisoner did the male prisoner interpose, and endeavour to +hinder you in the execution of your duty, and did he strike you a +blow? + +SNOW. Yes, Sir. + +CLERK. And did he say, "You, let her go, I took the box myself"? + +SNOW. He did. + +CLERK. And did you blow your whistle and obtain the assistance of +another constable, and take him into custody? + +SNOW. I did. + +CLERK. Was he violent on the way to the station, and did he use bad +language, and did he several times repeat that he had taken the box +himself? + + [Snow nods.] + +Did you thereupon ask him in what manner he had stolen the box? And +did you understand him to say he had entered the house at the +invitation of young Mr. BARTHWICK + + [BARTHWICK, turning in his seat, frowns at ROPER.] + +after midnight on Easter Monday, and partaken of whisky, and that +under the influence of the whisky he had taken the box? + +SNOW. I did, sir. + +CLERK. And was his demeanour throughout very violent? + +SNOW. It was very violent. + +JONES. [Breaking in.] Violent---of course it was! You put your +'ands on my wife when I kept tellin' you I took the thing myself. + +MAGISTRATE. [Hissing, with protruded neck.] Now--you will have +your chance of saying what you want to say presently. Have you +anything to ask the officer? + +JONES. [Sullenly.] No. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well then. Now let us hear what the female +prisoner has to say first. + +MRS. JONES. Well, your Worship, of course I can only say what I 've +said all along, that I did n't take the box. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, but did you know that it was taken? + +MRS. JONES. No, your Worship. And, of course, to what my husband +says, your Worship, I can't speak of my own knowledge. Of course, I +know that he came home very late on the Monday night. It was past +one o'clock when he came in, and he was not himself at all. + +MAGISTRATE. Had he been drinking? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, your Worship. + +MAGISTRATE. And was he drunk? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, your Worship, he was almost quite drunk. + +MAGISTRATE. And did he say anything to you? + +MRS. JONES. No, your Worship, only to call me names. And of course +in the morning when I got up and went to work he was asleep. And I +don't know anything more about it until I came home again. Except +that Mr. BARTHWICK--that 's my employer, your Worship--told me the +box was missing. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes. + +MRS. JONES. But of course when I was shaking out my husband's coat +the cigarette-box fell out and all the cigarettes were scattered on +the bed. + +MAGISTRATE. You say all the cigarettes were scattered on the bed? +[To SNOW.] Did you see the cigarettes scattered on the bed? + +SNOW. No, your Worship, I did not. + +MAGISTRATE. You see he says he did n't see them. + +JONES. Well, they were there for all that. + +SNOW. I can't say, your Worship, that I had the opportunity of +going round the room; I had all my work cut out with the male +prisoner. + +MAGISTRATE. [To MRS. JONES.] Well, what more have you to say? + +MRS. JONES. Of course when I saw the box, your Worship, I was +dreadfully upset, and I could n't think why he had done such a +thing; when the officer came we were having words about it, because +it is ruin to me, your Worship, in my profession, and I have three +little children dependent on me. + +MAGISTRATE. [Protruding his neck]. Yes--yes--but what did he say +to you? + +MRS. JONES. I asked him whatever came over him to do such a thing- +and he said it was the drink. He said he had had too much to drink, +and something came over him. And of course, your Worship, he had +had very little to eat all day, and the drink does go to the head +when you have not had enough to eat. Your Worship may not know, but +it is the truth. And I would like to say that all through his +married life, I have never known him to do such a thing before, +though we have passed through great hardships and [speaking with +soft emphasis] I am quite sure he would not have done it if he had +been himself at the time. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes. But don't you know that that is no excuse? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, your Worship. I know that it is no excuse. + + [The MAGISTRATE leans over and parleys with his CLERK.] + +JACK. [Leaning over from his seat behind.] I say, Dad---- + +BARTHWICK. Tsst! [Sheltering his mouth he speaks to ROPER.] +Roper, you had better get up now and say that considering the +circumstances and the poverty of the prisoners, we have no wish to +proceed any further, and if the magistrate would deal with the case +as one of disorder only on the part of---- + +BALD CONSTABLE. HSSShh! + + [ROPER shakes his head.] + +MAGISTRATE. Now, supposing what you say and what your husband says +is true, what I have to consider is--how did he obtain access to +this house, and were you in any way a party to his obtaining access? +You are the charwoman employed at the house? + +MRS. JONES. Yes, your Worship, and of course if I had let him into +the house it would have been very wrong of me; and I have never done +such a thing in any of the houses where I have been employed. + +MAGISTRATE. Well--so you say. Now let us hear what story the male +prisoner makes of it. + +JONES. [Who leans with his arms on the dock behind, speaks in a +slow, sullen voice.] Wot I say is wot my wife says. I 've never +been 'ad up in a police court before, an' I can prove I took it when +in liquor. I told her, and she can tell you the same, that I was +goin' to throw the thing into the water sooner then 'ave it on my +mind. + +MAGISTRATE. But how did you get into the HOUSE? + +JONES. I was passin'. I was goin' 'ome from the "Goat and Bells." + +MAGISTRATE. The "Goat and Bells,"--what is that? A public-house? + +JONES. Yes, at the corner. It was Bank 'oliday, an' I'd 'ad a drop +to drink. I see this young Mr. BARTHWICK tryin' to find the keyhole +on the wrong side of the door. + +MAGISTRATE. Well? + +JONES. [Slowly and with many pauses.] Well---I 'elped 'im to find +it--drunk as a lord 'e was. He goes on, an' comes back again, and +says, I 've got nothin' for you, 'e says, but come in an' 'ave a +drink. So I went in just as you might 'ave done yourself. We 'ad a +drink o' whisky just as you might have 'ad, 'nd young Mr. BARTHWICK +says to me, "Take a drink 'nd a smoke. Take anything you like, 'e +says." And then he went to sleep on the sofa. I 'ad some more +whisky--an' I 'ad a smoke--and I 'ad some more whisky--an' I carn't +tell yer what 'appened after that. + +MAGISTRATE. Do you mean to say that you were so drunk that you can +remember nothing? + +JACK. [Softly to his father.] I say, that's exactly what---- + +BARTHWICK. TSSh! + +JONES. That's what I do mean. + +MAGISTRATE. And yet you say you stole the box? + +JONES. I never stole the box. I took it. + +MAGISTRATE. [Hissing with protruded neck.] You did not steal it-- +you took it. Did it belong to you--what is that but stealing? + +JONES. I took it. + +MAGISTRATE. You took it--you took it away from their house and you +took it to your house---- + +JONES. [Sullenly breaking in.] I ain't got a house. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well, let us hear what this young man Mr.--Mr. +BARTHWICK has to say to your story. + + [SNOW leaves the witness-box. The BALD CONSTABLE beckons JACK, + who, clutching his hat, goes into the witness-box. ROPER moves + to the table set apart for his profession.] + +SWEARING CLERK. The evidence you give to the court shall be the +truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. +Kiss the book. + + [The book is kissed.] + +ROPER. [Examining.] What is your name? + +JACK. [In a low voice.] John BARTHWICK, Junior. + + [The CLERK writes it down.] + +ROPER. Where do you live? + +JACK. At 6, Rockingham Gate. + + [All his answers are recorded by the Clerk.] + +ROPER. You are the son of the owner? + +JACK. [In a very low voice.] Yes. + +ROPER. Speak up, please. Do you know the prisoners? + +JACK. [Looking at the JONESES, in a low voice.] I 've seen Mrs. +Jones. I [in a loud voice] don't know the man. + +JONES. Well, I know you! + +BALD CONSTABLE. HSSh! + +ROPER. Now, did you come in late on the night of Easter Monday? + +JACK. Yes. + +ROPER. And did you by mistake leave your latch key in the door? + +JACK. Yes. + +MAGISTRATE. Oh! You left your latch-key in the door? + +ROPER. And is that all you can remember about your coming in? + +JACK. [In a loud voice.] Yes, it is. + +MAGISTRATE. Now, you have heard the male prisoner's story, what do +you say to that? + +JACK. [Turning to the MAGISTRATE, speaks suddenly in a confident, +straight-forward voice.] The fact of the matter is, sir, that I 'd +been out to the theatre that night, and had supper afterwards, and I +came in late. + +MAGISTRATE. Do you remember this man being outside when you came +in? + +JACK. No, Sir. [He hesitates.] I don't think I do. + +MAGISTRATE. [Somewhat puzzled.] Well, did he help you to open the +door, as he says? Did any one help you to open the door? + +JACK. No, sir--I don't think so, sir--I don't know. + +MAGISTRATE. You don't know? But you must know. It is n't a usual +thing for you to have the door opened for you, is it? + +JACK. [With a shamefaced smile.] No. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well, then---- + +JACK. [Desperately.] The fact of the matter is, sir, I'm afraid +I'd had too much champagne that night. + +MAGISTRATE. [Smiling.] Oh! you'd had too much champagne? + +JONES. May I ask the gentleman a question? + +MAGISTRATE. Yes--yes--you may ask him what questions you like. + +JONES. Don't you remember you said you was a Liberal, same as your +father, and you asked me wot I was? + +JACK. [With his hand against his brow.] I seem to remember---- + +JONES. And I said to you, "I'm a bloomin' Conservative," I said; +an' you said to me, "You look more like one of these 'ere +Socialists. Take wotever you like," you said. + +JACK. [With sudden resolution.] No, I don't. I don't remember +anything of the sort. + +JONES. Well, I do, an' my word's as good as yours. I 've never +been had up in a police court before. Look 'ere, don't you remember +you had a sky-blue bag in your 'and [BARTHWICK jumps.] + +ROPER. I submit to your worship that these questions are hardly to +the point, the prisoner having admitted that he himself does not +remember anything. [There is a smile on the face of Justice.] It +is a case of the blind leading the blind. + +JONES. [Violently.] I've done no more than wot he 'as. I'm a poor +man; I've got no money an' no friends--he 's a toff--he can do wot I +can't. + +MAGISTRATE: Now, now? All this won't help you--you must be quiet. +You say you took this box? Now, what made you take it? Were you +pressed for money? + +JONES. I'm always pressed for money. + +MAGISTRATE. Was that the reason you took it? + +JONES. No. + +MAGISTRATE. [To SNOW.] Was anything found on him? + +SNOW. Yes, your worship. There was six pounds twelve shillin's +found on him, and this purse. + + [The red silk purse is handed to the MAGISTRATE. BARTHWICK + rises his seat, but hastily sits down again.] + +MAGISTRATE. [Staring at the purse.] Yes, yes--let me see [There is +a silence.] No, no, I 've nothing before me as to the purse. How +did you come by all that money? + +JONES. [After a long pause, suddenly.] I declines to say. + +MAGISTRATE. But if you had all that money, what made you take this +box? + +JONES. I took it out of spite. + +MAGISTRATE. [Hissing, with protruded neck.] You took it out of +spite? Well now, that's something! But do you imagine you can go +about the town taking things out of spite? + +JONES. If you had my life, if you'd been out of work---- + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes; I know--because you're out of work you think +it's an excuse for everything. + +JONES. [Pointing at JACK.] You ask 'im wot made 'im take the---- + +ROPER. [Quietly.] Does your Worship require this witness in the +box any longer? + +MAGISTRATE. [Ironically.] I think not; he is hardly profitable. + + [JACK leaves the witness-box, and hanging his head, resumes his + seat.] + +JONES. You ask 'im wot made 'im take the lady's---- + + [But the BALD CONSTABLE catches him by the sleeve.] + +BALD CONSTABLE. SSSh! + +MAGISTRATE. [Emphatically.] Now listen to me. + +I 've nothing to do with what he may or may not have taken. Why did +you resist the police in the execution of their duty? + +JONES. It war n't their duty to take my wife, a respectable woman, +that 'ad n't done nothing. + +MAGISTRATE. But I say it was. What made you strike the officer a +blow? + +JONES. Any man would a struck 'im a blow. I'd strike 'im again, I +would. + +MAGISTRATE. You are not making your case any better by violence. +How do you suppose we could get on if everybody behaved like you? + +JONES. [Leaning forward, earnestly.] Well, wot, about 'er; who's +to make up to 'er for this? Who's to give 'er back 'er good name? + +MRS. JONES. Your Worship, it's the children that's preying on his +mind, because of course I 've lost my work. And I've had to find +another room owing to the scandal. + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes, I know--but if he had n't acted like this +nobody would have suffered. + +JONES. [Glaring round at JACK.] I 've done no worse than wot 'e +'as. Wot I want to know is wot 's goin' to be done to 'im. + + [The BALD CONSTABLE again says "HSSh"] + +ROPER. Mr. BARTHWICK wishes it known, your Worship, that +considering the poverty of the prisoners, he does not press the +charge as to the box. Perhaps your Worship would deal with the case +as one of disorder. + +JONES. I don't want it smothered up, I want it all dealt with fair- +-I want my rights---- + +MAGISTRATE. [Rapping his desk.] Now you have said all you have to +say, and you will be quiet. + + [There is a silence; the MAGISTRATE bends over and parleys with + his CLERK.] + +Yes, I think I may discharge the woman. [In a kindly voice he +addresses MRS. JONES, who stands unmoving with her hands crossed on +the rail.] It is very unfortunate for you that this man has behaved +as he has. It is not the consequences to him but the consequences +to you. You have been brought here twice, you have lost your work-- +[He glares at JONES]--and this is what always happens. Now you may +go away, and I am very sorry it was necessary to bring you here at +all. + +MRS. JONES. [Softly.] Thank you very much, your Worship. + + [She leaves the dock, and looking back at JONES, twists her + fingers and is still.] + +MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes, but I can't pass it over. Go away, there's a +good woman. + + [MRS. JONES stands back. The MAGISTRATE leans his head on his + hand; then raising it he speaks to JONES.] + +Now, listen to me. Do you wish the case to be settled here, or do +you wish it to go before a jury? + +JONES. [Muttering.] I don't want no jury. + +MAGISTRATE. Very well then, I will deal with it here. [After a +pause.] You have pleaded guilty to stealing this box---- + +JONES. Not to stealin'---- + +BALD CONSTABLE. HSSShh! + +MAGISTRATE. And to assaulting the police---- + +JONES. Any man as was a man---- + +MAGISTRATE. Your conduct here has been most improper. You give the +excuse that you were drunk when you stole the box. I tell you that +is no excuse. If you choose to get drunk and break the law +afterwards you must take the consequences. And let me tell you that +men like you, who get drunk and give way to your spite or whatever +it is that's in you, are--are--a nuisance to the community. + +JACK. [Leaning from his seat.] Dad! that's what you said to me! + +BARTHWICK. TSSt! + + [There is a silence, while the MAGISTRATE consults his CLERK; + JONES leans forward waiting.] + +MAGISTRATE. This is your first offence, and I am going to give you +a light sentence. [Speaking sharply, but without expression.] One +month with hard labour. + + [He bends, and parleys with his CLERK. The BALD CONSTABLE and + another help JONES from the dock.] + +JONES. [Stopping and twisting round.] Call this justice? What +about 'im? 'E got drunk! 'E took the purse--'e took the purse but +[in a muffled shout] it's 'is money got 'im off--JUSTICE! + + [The prisoner's door is shut on JONES, and from the seedy- + looking men and women comes a hoarse and whispering groan.] + +MAGISTRATE. We will now adjourn for lunch! [He rises from his +seat.] + + [The Court is in a stir. ROPER gets up and speaks to the + reporter. JACK, throwing up his head, walks with a swagger to + the corridor; BARTHWICK follows.] + +MRS. JONES. [Turning to him zenith a humble gesture.] Oh! sir! + + [BARTHWICK hesitates, then yielding to his nerves, he makes a + shame-faced gesture of refusal, and hurries out of court. MRS. + JONES stands looking after him.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE SILVER BOX +by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +JOY + +A PLAY ON THE LETTER "I" + +IN THREE ACTS + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +COLONEL HOPE, R.A., retired +MRS. HOPE, his wife +MISS BEECH, their old governess +LETTY, their daughter +ERNEST BLUNT, her husband +MRS. GWYN, their niece +JOY, her daughter +DICK MERTON, their young friend +HON. MAURICE LEVER, their guest +ROSE, their parlour-maid + + + +TIME: The present. The action passes throughout midsummer day on the +lawn of Colonel Hope's house, near the Thames above Oxford. + + +ACT I + + The time is morning, and the scene a level lawn, beyond which + the river is running amongst fields. A huge old beech tree + overshadows everything, in the darkness of whose hollow many + things are hidden. A rustic seat encircles it. A low wall + clothed in creepers, with two openings, divides this lawn from + the flowery approaches to the house. Close to the wall there is + a swing. The sky is clear and sunny. COLONEL HOPE is seated in + a garden-chair, reading a newspaper through pince-nez. He is + fifty-five and bald, with drooping grey moustaches and a + weather-darkened face. He wears a flannel suit and a hat from + Panama; a tennis racquet leans against his chair. MRS. HOPE + comes quickly through the opening of the wall, with roses in her + hands. She is going grey; she wears tan gauntlets, and no hat. + Her manner is decided, her voice emphatic, as though aware that + there is no nonsense in its owner's composition. Screened from + sight, MISS BEECH is seated behind the hollow tree; and JOY is + perched on a lower branch hidden by foliage. + + +MRS. HOPE. I told Molly in my letter that she'd have to walk up, +Tom. + +COLONEL. Walk up in this heat? My dear, why didn't you order +Benson's fly? + +MRS. HOPE. Expense for nothing! Bob can bring up her things in the +barrow. I've told Joy I won't have her going down to meet the train. +She's so excited about her mother's coming there's no doing anything +with her. + +COLONEL. No wonder, after two months. + +MRS. HOPE. Well, she's going home to-morrow; she must just keep +herself fresh for the dancing tonight. I'm not going to get people +in to dance, and have Joy worn out before they begin. + +COLONEL. [Dropping his paper.] I don't like Molly's walking up. + +MRS. HOPE. A great strong woman like Molly Gwyn! It isn't half a +mile. + +COLONEL. I don't like it, Nell; it's not hospitable. + +MRS. HOPE. Rubbish! If you want to throw away money, you must just +find some better investment than those wretched 3 per cents. of +yours. The greenflies are in my roses already! Did you ever see +anything so disgusting? [They bend over the roses they have grown, +and lose all sense of everything.] Where's the syringe? I saw you +mooning about with it last night, Tom. + +COLONEL. [Uneasily.] Mooning! + + [He retires behind his paper. MRS. HOPE enters the hollow of + the tree.] + +There's an account of that West Australian swindle. Set of ruffians! +Listen to this, Nell! "It is understood that amongst the share- +holders are large numbers of women, clergymen, and Army officers." +How people can be such fools! + + [Becoming aware that his absorption is unobserved, he drops his + glasses, and reverses his chair towards the tree.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Reappearing with a garden syringe. I simply won't have +Dick keep his fishing things in the tree; there's a whole potful of +disgusting worms. I can't touch them. You must go and take 'em out, +Tom. + + [In his turn the COLONEL enters the hollow of the tree.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Personally.] What on earth's the pleasure of it? I +can't see! He never catches anything worth eating. + + [The COLONEL reappears with a paint pot full of worms; he holds + them out abstractedly.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Jumping.] Don't put them near me! + +MISS BEECH. [From behind the tree.] Don't hurt the poor creatures. + +COLONEL. [Turning.] Hallo, Peachey? What are you doing round +there? + + [He puts the worms down on the seat.] + +MRS. HOPE. Tom, take the worms off that seat at once! + +COLONEL. [Somewhat flurried.] Good gad! I don't know what to do +with the beastly worms! + +MRS. HOPE. It's not my business to look after Dick's worms. Don't +put them on the ground. I won't have them anywhere where they can +crawl about. [She flicks some greenflies off her roses.] + +COLONEL. [Looking into the pot as though the worms could tell him +where to put them.] Dash! + +MISS BEECH. Give them to me. + +MRS. HOPE. [Relieved.] Yes, give them to Peachey. + + [There comes from round the tree Miss BEECH, old-fashioned, + barrel-shaped, balloony in the skirts. She takes the paint pot, + and sits beside it on the rustic seat.] + +MISS BEECH. Poor creatures! + +MRS. HOPE. Well, it's beyond me how you can make pets of worms- +wriggling, crawling, horrible things! + + [ROSE, who is young and comely, in a pale print frock, comes + from the house and places letters before her on a silver + salver.] + + [Taking the letters.] + +What about Miss joy's frock, Rose? + +ROSE. Please, 'm, I can't get on with the back without Miss Joy. + +MRS. HOPE. Well, then you must just find her. I don't know where +she is. + +ROSE. [In a slow, sidelong manner.] If you please, Mum, I think +Miss Joy's up in the---- + + [She stops, seeing Miss BEECH signing to her with both hands.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Sharply.] What is it, Peachey? + +MISS BEECH. [Selecting a finger.] Pricked meself! + +MRS. HOPE. Let's look! + + [She bends to look, but Miss BEECH places the finger in her + mouth.] + +ROSE. [Glancing askance at the COLONEL.] If you please, Mum, it's +below the waist; I think I can manage with the dummy. + +MRS. HOPE. Well, you can try. [Opening her letter as ROSE retires.] +Here's Molly about her train. + +MISS BEECH. Is there a letter for me? + +MRS. HOPE. No, Peachey. + +MISS BEECH. There never is. + +COLONEL. What's that? You got four by the first post. + +MISS BEECH. Exceptions! + +COLONEL. [Looking over his glasses.] Why! You know, you get 'em +every day! + +MRS. HOPE. Molly says she'll be down by the eleven thirty. [In an +injured voice.] She'll be here in half an hour! [Reading with +disapproval from the letter.] "MAURICE LEVER is coming down by the +same train to see Mr. Henty about the Tocopala Gold Mine. Could you +give him a bed for the night?" + + [Silence, slight but ominous.] + +COLONEL. [Calling into his aid his sacred hospitality.] Of course +we must give him a bed! + +MRS. HOPE. Just like a man! What room I should like to know! + +COLONEL. Pink. + +MRS. HOPE. As if Molly wouldn't have the pink! + +COLONEL. [Ruefully.] I thought she'd have the blue! + +MRS. HOPE. You know perfectly well it's full of earwigs, Tom. I +killed ten there yesterday morning. + +MISS BEECH. Poor creatures! + +MRS. HOPE. I don't know that I approve of this Mr. Lever's dancing +attendance. Molly's only thirty-six. + +COLONEL. [In a high voice.] You can't refuse him a bed; I never +heard of such a thing. + +MRS. HOPE. [Reading from the letter.] "This gold mine seems to be a +splendid chance. [She glances at the COLONEL.] I've put all my +spare cash into it. They're issuing some Preference shares now; if +Uncle Tom wants an investment"--[She pauses, then in a changed, +decided voice ]--Well, I suppose I shall have to screw him in +somehow. + +COLONEL. What's that about gold mines? Gambling nonsense! Molly +ought to know my views. + +MRS. HOPE. [Folding the letter away out of her consciousness.] Oh! +your views! This may be a specially good chance. + +MISS BEECH. Ahem! Special case! + +MRS. HOPE. [Paying no attention.] I 'm sick of these 3 per cent. +dividends. When you've only got so little money, to put it all into +that India Stock, when it might be earning 6 per cent. at least, +quite safely! There are ever so many things I want. + +COLONEL. There you go! + +MRS. HOPE. As to Molly, I think it's high time her husband came home +to look after her, instead of sticking out there in that hot place. +In fact + + [Miss BEECH looks up at the tree and exhibits cerebral + excitement] + +I don't know what Geoff's about; why doesn't he find something in +England, where they could live together. + +COLONEL. Don't say anything against Molly, Nell! + +MRS. HOPE. Well, I don't believe in husband and wife being +separated. That's not my idea of married life. + + [The COLONEL whistles quizzically.] + +Ah, yes, she's your niece, not mime! Molly's very---- + +MISS BEECH. Ouch! [She sucks her finger.] + +MRS. HOPE. Well, if I couldn't sew at your age, Peachey, without +pricking my fingers! Tom, if I have Mr. Lever here, you'll just +attend to what I say and look into that mine! + +COLONEL. Look into your grandmother! I have n't made a study of +geology for nothing. For every ounce you take out of a gold mine, +you put an ounce and a half in. Any fool knows that, eh, Peachey? + +MISS BEECH. I hate your horrid mines, with all the poor creatures +underground. + +MRS. HOPE. Nonsense, Peachey! As if they'd go there if they did n't +want to! + +COLONEL. Why don't you read your paper, then you'd see what a lot of +wild-cat things there are about. + +MRS. HOPE. [Abstractedly.] I can't put Ernest and Letty in the blue +room, there's only the single bed. Suppose I put Mr. Lever there, +and say nothing about the earwigs. I daresay he'll never notice. + +COLONEL. Treat a guest like that! + +MRS. HOPE. Then where am I to put him for goodness sake? + +COLONEL. Put him in my dressing-room, I'll turn out. + +MRS. HOPE. Rubbish, Tom, I won't have you turned out, that's flat. +He can have Joy's room, and she can sleep with the earwigs. + +JOY. [From her hiding-place upon a lower branch of the hollow tree.] +I won't. + + [MRS. HOPE and the COLONEL jump.] + +COLONEL. God bless my soul! + +MRS. HOPE. You wretched girl! I told you never to climb that tree +again. Did you know, Peachey? [Miss BEECH smiles.] She's always up +there, spoiling all her frocks. Come down now, Joy; there's a good +child! + +JOY. I don't want to sleep with earwigs, Aunt Nell. + +MISS BEECH. I'll sleep with the poor creatures. + +MRS. HOPE, [After a pause.] Well, it would be a mercy if you would +for once, Peachey. + +COLONEL. Nonsense, I won't have Peachey---- + +MRS. HOPE. Well, who is to sleep there then? + +JOY. [Coaxingly.] Let me sleep with Mother, Aunt Nell, do! + +MRS. HOPE. Litter her up with a great girl like you, as if we'd only +one spare room! Tom, see that she comes down--I can't stay here, I +must manage something. [She goes away towards the house.] + +COLONEL. [Moving to the tree, and looking up.] You heard what your +aunt said? + +JOY. [Softly.] Oh, Uncle Tom! + +COLONEL. I shall have to come up after you. + +JOY. Oh, do, and Peachey too! + +COLONEL. [Trying to restrain a smile.] Peachey, you talk to her. +[Without waiting for MISS BEECH, however, he proceeds.] What'll your +aunt say to me if I don't get you down? + +MISS BEECH. Poor creature! + +JOY. I don't want to be worried about my frock. + +COLONEL. [Scratching his bald head.] Well, I shall catch it. + +JOY. Oh, Uncle Tom, your head is so beautiful from here! [Leaning +over, she fans it with a leafy twig.] + +MISS BEECH. Disrespectful little toad! + +COLONEL. [Quickly putting on his hat.] You'll fall out, and a +pretty mess that'll make on--[he looks uneasily at the ground]--my +lawn! + + [A voice is heard calling "Colonel! Colonel!]" + +JOY. There's Dick calling you, Uncle Tom. + + [She disappears.] + +DICK. [Appearing in the opening of the wall.] Ernie's waiting to +play you that single, Colonel! + + [He disappears.] + +JOY. Quick, Uncle Tom! Oh! do go, before he finds I 'm up here. + +MISS. BEECH. Secret little creature! + + [The COLONEL picks up his racquet, shakes his fist, and goes + away.] + +JOY. [Calmly.] I'm coming down now, Peachey. + + [Climbing down.] + +Look out! I'm dropping on your head. + +MISS BEECH. [Unmoved.] Don't hurt yourself! + + [Joy drops on the rustic seat and rubs her shin. Told you so!] + + [She hunts in a little bag for plaster.] + +Let's see! + +JOY. [Seeing the worms.] Ugh! + +MISS BEECH. What's the matter with the poor creatures? + +JOY. They're so wriggly! + + [She backs away and sits down in the swing. She is just + seventeen, light and slim, brown-haired, fresh-coloured, and + grey-eyed; her white frock reaches to her ankles, she wears a + sunbonnet.] Peachey, how long were you Mother's governess. + +MISS BEECH. Five years. + +JOY. Was she as bad to teach as me? + +MISS BEECH. Worse! + + [Joy claps her hands.] + +She was the worst girl I ever taught. + +JOY. Then you weren't fond of her? + +MISS BEECH. Oh! yes, I was. + +JOY. Fonder than of me? + +MISS BEECH. Don't you ask such a lot of questions. + +JOY. Peachey, duckie, what was Mother's worst fault? + +MISS BEECH. Doing what she knew she oughtn't. + +JOY. Was she ever sorry? + +MISS BEECH. Yes, but she always went on doin' it. + +JOY. I think being sorry 's stupid! + +MISS BEECH. Oh, do you? + +JOY. It isn't any good. Was Mother revengeful, like me? + +MISS BEECH. Ah! Wasn't she? + +JOY. And jealous? + +MISS BEECH. The most jealous girl I ever saw. + +JOY. [Nodding.] I like to be like her. + +MISS BEECH. [Regarding her intently.] Yes! you've got all your +troubles before you. + +JOY. Mother was married at eighteen, wasn't she, Peachey? Was she-- +was she much in love with Father then? + +MISS BEECH. [With a sniff.] About as much as usual. [She takes the +paint pot, and walking round begins to release the worms.] + +JOY. [Indifferently.] They don't get on now, you know. + +MISS BEECH. What d'you mean by that, disrespectful little creature? + +JOY. [In a hard voice.] They haven't ever since I've known them. +MISS BEECH. [Looks at her, and turns away again.] Don't talk about +such things. + +JOY. I suppose you don't know Mr. Lever? [Bitterly.] He's such a +cool beast. He never loses his temper. + +MISS BEECH. Is that why you don't like him? + +JOY. [Frowning.] No--yes--I don't know. + +MISS BEECH. Oh! perhaps you do like him? + +JOY. I don't; I hate him. + +MISS BEECH. [Standing still.] Fie! Naughty Temper! + +JOY. Well, so would you! He takes up all Mother's time. + +MISS BEECH. [In a peculiar voice.] Oh! does he? + +JOY. When he comes I might just as well go to bed. [Passionately.] +And now he's chosen to-day to come down here, when I haven't seen her +for two months! Why couldn't he come when Mother and I'd gone home. +It's simply brutal! + +MISS BEECH. But your mother likes him? + +JOY. [Sullenly.] I don't want her to like him. + +MISS BEECH. [With a long look at Joy.] I see! + +JOY. What are you doing, Peachey? + +MISS BEECH. [Releasing a worm.] Letting the poor creatures go. + +JOY. If I tell Dick he'll never forgive you. + +MISS BEECH. [Sidling behind the swing and plucking off Joy's +sunbonnet. With devilry.] Ah-h-h! You've done your hair up; so +that's why you wouldn't come down! + +JOY. [Springing up, anal pouting.] I didn't want any one to see +before Mother. You are a pig, Peachey! + +MISS BEECH. I thought there was something! + +JOY. [Twisting round.] How does it look? + +MISS BEECH. I've seen better. + +JOY. You tell any one before Mother comes, and see what I do! + +MISS BEECH. Well, don't you tell about my worms, then! + +JOY. Give me my hat! [Backing hastily towards the tree, and putting +her finger to her lips.] Look out! Dick! + +MISS BEECH. Oh! dear! + + [She sits down on the swing, concealing the paint pot with her + feet and skirts.] + +JOY. [On the rustic seat, and in a violent whisper.] I hope the +worms will crawl up your legs! + + [DICK, in flannels and a hard straw hat comes in. He is a quiet + and cheerful boy of twenty. His eyes are always fixed on joy.] + +DICK. [Grimacing.] The Colonel's getting licked. Hallo! Peachey, +in the swing? + +JOY. [Chuckling.] Swing her, Dick! + +MISS BEECH. [Quivering with emotion.] Little creature! + +JOY. Swing her! + + [DICK takes the ropes.] + +MISS BEECH. [Quietly.] It makes me sick, young man. + +DICK. [Patting her gently on the back.] All right, Peachey. + +MISS BEECH. [Maliciously.] Could you get me my sewing from the +seat? Just behind Joy. + +JOY. [Leaning her head against the tree.] If you do, I won't dance +with you to-night. + + [DICK stands paralysed. Miss BEECH gets off the swing, picks up + the paint pot, and stands concealing it behind her.] + +JOY. Look what she's got behind her, sly old thing! + +MISS BEECH. Oh! dear! + +JOY. Dance with her, Dick! + +MISS BEECH. If he dare! + +JOY. Dance with her, or I won't dance with you to-night. +[She whistles a waltz.] + +DICK. [Desperately.] Come on then, Peachey. We must. + +JOY. Dance, dance! + + [DICK seizes Miss BEECH by the waist. She drops the paint pot. + They revolve.] [Convulsed.] + +Oh, Peachey, Oh! + + [Miss BEECH is dropped upon the rustic seat. DICK seizes joy's + hands and drags her up.] + +No, no! I won't! + +MISS BEECH. [Panting.] Dance, dance with the poor young man! [She +moves her hands.] La la-la-la la-la la la! + + [DICK and JOY dance.] + +DICK. By Jove, Joy! You've done your hair up. I say, how jolly! +You do look---- + +JOY. [Throwing her hands up to her hair.] I did n't mean you to +see! + +DICK. [In a hurt voice.] Oh! didn't you? I'm awfully sorry! + +JOY. [Flashing round.] Oh, you old Peachey! + + [She looks at the ground, and then again at DICK.] + +MISS BEECH. [Sidling round the tree.] Oh! dear! + +JOY. [Whispering.] She's been letting out your worms. +[Miss BEECH disappears from view.] +Look! + +DICK. [Quickly.] Hang the worms! Joy, promise me the second and +fourth and sixth and eighth and tenth and supper, to-night. Promise! +Do! + + [Joy shakes her head.] + +It's not much to ask. + +JOY. I won't promise anything. + +DICK. Why not? + +JOY. Because Mother's coming. I won't make any arrangements. + +DICK. [Tragically.] It's our last night. + +JOY. [Scornfully.] You don't understand! [Dancing and clasping her +hands.] Mother's coming, Mother's coming! + +DICK. [Violently.] I wish----Promise, Joy! + +JOY. [Looking over her shoulder.] Sly old thing! If you'll pay +Peachey out, I'll promise you supper! + +MISS BEECH. [From behind the tree.] I hear you. + +JOY. [Whispering.] Pay her out, pay her out! She's let out all +your worms! + +DICK. [Looking moodily at the paint pot.] I say, is it true that +Maurice Lever's coming with your mother? I've met him playing +cricket, he's rather a good sort. + +JOY. [Flashing out.] I hate him. + +DICK. [Troubled.] Do you? Why? I thought--I didn't know--if I'd +known of course, I'd have---- + + [He is going to say "hated him too!" But the voices of ERNEST + BLUNT and the COLONEL are heard approaching, in dispute.] + +JOY. Oh! Dick, hide me, I don't want my hair seen till Mother +comes. + + [She springs into the hollow tree. The COLONEL and ERNEST + appear in the opening of the wall.] + +ERNEST. The ball was out, Colonel. + +COLONEL. Nothing of the sort. + +ERNEST. A good foot out. + +COLONEL. It was not, sir. I saw the chalk fly. + + [ERNEST is twenty-eight, with a little moustache, and the + positive cool voice of a young man who knows that he knows + everything. He is perfectly calm.] + +ERNEST. I was nearer to it than you. + +COLONEL. [In a high, hot voice.] I don't care where you were, I +hate a fellow who can't keep cool. + +MISS BEECH. [From behind the hollow tree.] Fie! Fie! + +ERNEST. We're two to one, Letty says the ball was out. + +COLONEL. Letty's your wife, she'd say anything. + +ERNEST. Well, look here, Colonel, I'll show you the very place it +pitched. + +COLONEL. Gammon! You've lost your temper, you don't know what +you're talking about. + +ERNEST. [coolly.] I suppose you'll admit the rule that one umpires +one's own court. + +COLONEL. [Hotly.] Certainly not, in this case! + +MISS BEECH. [From behind the hollow tree.] Special case! + +ERNEST. [Moving chin in collar--very coolly.] Well, of course if +you won't play the game! + +COLONEL. [In a towering passion.] If you lose your temper like +this, I 'll never play with you again. + + [To LETTY, a pretty soul in a linen suit, approaching through + the wall.] + +Do you mean to say that ball was out, Letty? + +LETTY. Of course it was, Father. + +COLONEL. You say that because he's your husband. [He sits on the +rustic seat.] If your mother'd been there she'd have backed me up! + +LETTY. Mother wants Joy, Dick, about her frock. + +DICK. I--I don't know where she is. + +MISS BEECH. [From behind the hollow tree.] Ahem! + +LETTY. What's the matter, Peachey? + +MISS BEECH. Swallowed a fly. Poor creature! + +ERNEST. [Returning to his point.] Why I know the ball was out, +Colonel, was because it pitched in a line with that arbutus tree. + +COLONEL. [Rising.] Arbutus tree! [To his daughter.] Where's your +mother? + +LETTY. In the blue room, Father. + +ERNEST. The ball was a good foot out; at the height it was coming +when it passed me. + +COLONEL. [Staring at him.] You're a--you're aa theorist! From +where you were you could n't see the ball at all. [To LETTY.] +Where's your mother? + +LETTY. [Emphatically.] In the blue room, Father! + + [The COLONEL glares confusedly, and goes away towards the blue + room.] + +ERNEST. [In the swing, and with a smile.] Your old Dad'll never be +a sportsman! + +LETTY. [Indignantly.] I wish you wouldn't call Father old, Ernie! +What time's Molly coming, Peachey? + + [ROSE has come from the house, and stands waiting for a chance + to speak.] + +ERNEST. [Breaking in.] Your old Dad's only got one fault: he can't +take an impersonal view of things. + +MISS BEECH. Can you find me any one who can? + +ERNEST. [With a smile.] Well, Peachey! + +MISS BEECH. [Ironically.] Oh! of course, there's you! + +ERNEST. I don't know about that! But---- + +ROSE. [To LETTY,] Please, Miss, the Missis says will you and Mr. +Ernest please to move your things into Miss Peachey's room. + +ERNEST. [Vexed.] Deuce of a nuisance havin' to turn out for this +fellow Lever. What did Molly want to bring him for? + +MISS BEECH. Course you've no personal feeling in the matter! + +ROSE. [Speaking to Miss BEECH.] The Missis says you're to please +move your things into the blue room, please Miss. + +LETTY. Aha, Peachey! That settles you! Come on, Ernie! + + [She goes towards the house. ERNEST, rising from the swing, + turns to Miss BEECH, who follows.] + +ERNEST. [Smiling, faintly superior.] Personal, not a bit! I only +think while Molly 's out at grass, she oughtn't to---- + +MISS BEECH. [Sharply.] Oh! do you? + + [She hustles ERNEST out through the wall, but his voice is heard + faintly from the distance: "I think it's jolly thin."] + +ROSE. [To DICK.] The Missis says you're to take all your worms and +things, Sir, and put them where they won't be seen. + +DICK. [Shortly.] Have n't got any! + +ROSE. The Missis says she'll be very angry if you don't put your +worms away; and would you come and help kill earwigs in the blue----? + +DICK. Hang! [He goes, and ROSE is left alone.] + +ROSE. [Looking straight before her.] Please, Miss Joy, the Missis +says will you go to her about your frock. + + [There is a little pause, then from the hollow tree joy's voice + is heard.] + +JOY. No-o! + +ROSE. If you did n't come, I was to tell you she was going to put +you in the blue. + + [Joy looks out of the tree.] + + [Immovable, but smiling.] + +Oh, Miss joy, you've done your hair up! [Joy retires into the tree.] +Please, Miss, what shall I tell the Missis? + +JOY. [Joy's voice is heard.] Anything you like. + +ROSE. [Over her shoulder.] I shall be drove to tell her a story, +Miss. + +JOY. All right! Tell it. + + [ROSE goes away, and JOY comes out. She sits on the rustic seat + and waits. DICK, coming softly from the house, approaches her.] + +DICK. [Looking at her intently.] Joy! I wanted to say something + + [Joy does not look at him, but twists her fingers.] + +I shan't see you again you know after to-morrow till I come up for +the 'Varsity match. + +JOY. [Smiling.] But that's next week. + +DICK. Must you go home to-morrow? + + [Joy nods three times.] + + [Coming closer.] + +I shall miss you so awfully. You don't know how I---- + + [Joy shakes her head.] + +Do look at me! [JOY steals a look.] Oh! Joy! + + [Again joy shakes her head.] + +JOY. [Suddenly.] Don't! + +DICK. [Seizing her hand.] Oh, Joy! Can't you---- + +JOY. [Drawing the hand away.] Oh! don't. + +DICK. [Bending his head.] It's--it's--so---- + +JOY. [Quietly.] Don't, Dick! + +DICK. But I can't help it! It's too much for me, Joy, I must tell +you---- + + [MRS. GWYN is seen approaching towards the house.] + +JOY. [Spinning round.] It's Mother--oh, Mother! +[She rushes at her.] + + [MRS. GWYN is a handsome creature of thirty-six, dressed in a + muslin frock. She twists her daughter round, and kisses her.] + +MRS. GWYN. How sweet you look with your hair up, Joy! Who 's this? +[Glancing with a smile at DICK.] + +JOY. Dick Merton--in my letters you know. + + [She looks at DICK as though she wished him gone.] + +MRS. GWYN. How do you do? + +DICK. [Shaking hands.] How d 'you do? I think if you'll excuse me +--I'll go in. + + [He goes uncertainly. + +MRS. GWYN. What's the matter with him? + +JOY. Oh, nothing! [Hugging her.] Mother! You do look such a duck. +Why did you come by the towing-path, was n't it cooking? + +MRS. GWYN. [Avoiding her eyes.] Mr. Lever wanted to go into Mr. +Henty's. + + [Her manner is rather artificially composed.] + +JOY. [Dully.] Oh! Is he-is he really coming here, Mother? + +MRS. GWYN. [Whose voice has hardened just a little.] If Aunt Nell's +got a room for him--of course--why not? + +JOY. [Digging her chin into her mother's shoulder.] + + [Why couldn't he choose some day when we'd gone? I wanted you + all to myself.] + +MRS. GWYN. You are a quaint child--when I was your age---- + +JOY. [Suddenly looking up.] Oh! Mother, you must have been a +chook! + +MRS. GWYN. Well, I was about twice as old as you, I know that. + +JOY. Had you any--any other offers before you were married, Mother? + +MRS. GWYN. [Smilingly.] Heaps! + +JOY. [Reflectively.] Oh! + +MRS. GWYN. Why? Have you been having any? + +JOY. [Glancing at MRS. GWYN, and then down.] N-o, of course not! + +MRS. GWYN. Where are they all? Where's Peachey? + +JOY. Fussing about somewhere; don't let's hurry! Oh! you duckie-- +duckie! Aren't there any letters from Dad? + +MRS. GWYN. [In a harder voice.] Yes, one or two. + +JOY. [Hesitating.] Can't I see? + +MRS. GWYN. I didn't bring them. [Changing the subject obviously.] +Help me to tidy--I'm so hot I don't know what to do. + + [She takes out a powder-puff bag, with a tiny looking-glass.] + +JOY. How lovely it'll be to-morrow-going home! + +MRS. GWYN. [With an uneasy look.] London's dreadfully stuffy, Joy. +You 'll only get knocked up again. + +JOY. [With consternation.] Oh! but Mother, I must come. + +MRS. GWYN. (Forcing a smile.) Oh, well, if you must, you must! + + [Joy makes a dash at her.] + +Don't rumple me again. Here's Uncle Tom. + +JOY. [Quickly.] Mother, we're going to dance tonight; promise to +dance with me--there are three more girls than men, at least--and +don't dance too much with--with--you know--because I'm--[dropping her +voice and very still]--jealous. + +MRS. GWYN. [Forcing a laugh.] You are funny! + +JOY. [Very quickly.] I haven't made any engagements because of you. + + [The COLONEL approaches through the wall.] + +MRS. GWYN. Well, Uncle Tom? + +COLONEL. [Genially.] Why, Molly! [He kisses her.] What made you +come by the towing-path? + +JOY. Because it's so much cooler, of course. + +COLONEL. Hallo! What's the matter with you? Phew! you've got your +hair up! Go and tell your aunt your mother's on the lawn. Cut +along! + + [Joy goes, blowing a kiss.] + +Cracked about you, Molly! Simply cracked! We shall miss her when +you take her off to-morrow. [He places a chair for her.] Sit down, +sit down, you must be tired in this heat. I 've sent Bob for your +things with the wheelbarrow; what have you got?--only a bag, I +suppose. + +MRS. GWYN. [Sitting, with a smile.] That's all, Uncle Tom, except-- +my trunk and hat-box. + +COLONEL. Phew! And what's-his-name brought a bag, I suppose? + +MRS. GWYN. They're all together. I hope it's not too much, Uncle +Tom. + +COLONEL. [Dubiously.] Oh! Bob'll manage! I suppose you see a good +deal of--of--Lever. That's his brother in the Guards, isn't it? + +MRS. GWYN. Yes. + +COLONEL. Now what does this chap do? + +MRS. GWYN. What should he do, Uncle Tom? He's a Director. + +COLONEL. Guinea-pig! [Dubiously.] Your bringing him down was a +good idea. + + [MRS. GWYN, looking at him sidelong, bites her lips.] + +I should like to have a look at him. But, I say, you know, Molly-- +mines, mines! There are a lot of these chaps about, whose business +is to cook their own dinners. Your aunt thinks---- + +MRS. GWYN. Oh! Uncle Tom, don't tell me what Aunt Nell thinks! + +COLONEL. Well-well! Look here, old girl! It's my experience never +to--what I mean is--never to trust too much to a man who has to do +with mining. I've always refused to have anything to do with mines. +If your husband were in England, of course, I'd say nothing. + +MRS. GWYN. [Very still.] We'd better keep him out of the question, +had n't we? + +COLONEL. Of course, if you wish it, my dear. + +MRS. GWYN. Unfortunately, I do. + +COLONEL. [Nervously.] Ah! yes, I know; but look here, Molly, your +aunt thinks you're in a very delicate position-in fact, she thinks +you see too much of young Lever. + +MRS. GWYN. [Stretching herself like an angry cat.] Does she? And +what do you think? + +COLONEL. I? I make a point of not thinking. I only know that here +he is, and I don't want you to go burning your fingers, eh? + + [MRS. GWYN sits with a vindictive smile.] + +A gold mine's a gold mine. I don't mean he deliberately--but they +take in women and parsons, and--and all sorts of fools. [Looking +down.] And then, you know, I can't tell your feelings, my dear, and +I don't want to; but a man about town 'll compromise a woman as soon +as he'll look at her, and [softly shaking his head] I don't like +that, Molly! It 's not the thing! + + [MRS. GWYN sits unmoved, smiling the same smile, and the COLONEL + gives her a nervous look.] + +If--if you were any other woman I should n't care--and if--if you +were a plain woman, damme, you might do what you liked! I know you +and Geoff don't get on; but here's this child of yours, devoted to +you, and--and don't you see, old girl? Eh? + +MRS. GWYN. [With a little hard laugh.] Thanks! Perfectly! I +suppose as you don't think, Uncle Tom, it never occurred to you that +I have rather a lonely time of it. + +COLONEL. [With compunction.] Oh! my dear, yes, of course I know it +must be beastly. + +MRS. GWYN. [Stonily.] It is. + +COLONEL. Yes, yes! [Speaking in a surprised voice.] I don't know +what I 'm talking like this for! It's your aunt! She goes on at me +till she gets on my nerves. What d' you think she wants me to do +now? Put money into this gold mine! Did you ever hear such folly? + +MRS. GWYN. [Breaking into laughter.] Oh! Uncle Tom! + +COLONEL. All very well for you to laugh, Molly! + +MRS. GWYN. [Calmly.] And how much are you going to put in? + +COLONEL. Not a farthing! Why, I've got nothing but my pension and +three thousand India stock! + +MRS. GWYN. Only ninety pounds a year, besides your pension! D' you +mean to say that's all you've got, Uncle Tom? I never knew that +before. What a shame! + +COLONEL. [Feelingly.] It is a, d--d shame! I don't suppose there's +another case in the army of a man being treated as I've been. + +MRS. GWYN. But how on earth do you manage here on so little? + +COLONEL. [Brooding.] Your aunt's very funny. She's a born manager. +She 'd manage the hind leg off a donkey; but if I want five shillings +for a charity or what not, I have to whistle for it. And then all of +a sudden, Molly, she'll take it into her head to spend goodness knows +what on some trumpery or other and come to me for the money. If I +have n't got it to give her, out she flies about 3 per cent., and +worries me to invest in some wild-cat or other, like your friend's +thing, the Jaco what is it? I don't pay the slightest attention to +her. + +MRS. HOPE. [From the direction of the house.] Tom! + +COLONEL. [Rising.] Yes, dear! [Then dropping his voice.] I say, +Molly, don't you mind what I said about young Lever. I don't want +you to imagine that I think harm of people--you know I don't--but so +many women come to grief, and--[hotly]--I can't stand men about town; +not that he of course---- + +MRS. HOPE, [Peremptorily.] Tom! + +COLONEL. [In hasty confidence.] I find it best to let your aunt run +on. If she says anything---- + +MRS. HOPE. To-om! + +COLONEL. Yes, dear! + + [He goes hastily. MRS. GWYN sits drawing circles on the ground + with her charming parasol. Suddenly she springs to her feet, + and stands waiting like an animal at bay. The COLONEL and MRS. + HOPE approach her talking.] + +MRS. HOPE. Well, how was I to know? + +COLONEL. Did n't Joy come and tell you? + +MRS. HOPE. I don't know what's the matter with that child? Well, +Molly, so here you are. You're before your time--that train's always +late. + +MRS. GWYN. [With faint irony.] I'm sorry, Aunt Nell! + + [They bob, seem to take fright, and kiss each other gingerly.] + +MRS. HOPE. What have you done with Mr. Lever? I shall have to put +him in Peachey's room. Tom's got no champagne. + +COLONEL. They've a very decent brand down at the George, Molly, I'll +send Bob over---- + +MRS. HOPE. Rubbish, Tom! He'll just have to put up with what he can +get! + +MRS. GWYN. Of course! He's not a snob! For goodness sake, Aunt +Nell, don't put yourself out! I'm sorry I suggested his coming. + +COLONEL. My dear, we ought to have champagne in the house--in case +of accident. + +MRS. GWYN. [Shaking him gently by the coat.] No, please, Uncle +Tom! + +MRS. HOPE. [Suddenly.] Now, I've told your uncle, Molly, that he's +not to go in for this gold mine without making certain it's a good +thing. Mind, I think you've been very rash. I'm going to give you a +good talking to; and that's not all--you ought n't to go about like +this with a young man; he's not at all bad looking. I remember him +perfectly well at the Fleming's dance. + + [On MRS. GWYN's lips there comes a little mocking smile.] + +COLONEL. [Pulling his wife's sleeve.] Nell! + +MRS. HOPE. No, Tom, I'm going to talk to Molly; she's old enough to +know better. + +MRS. GWYN. Yes? + +MRS. HOPE. Yes, and you'll get yourself into a mess; I don't approve +of it, and when I see a thing I don't approve of---- + +COLONEL. [Walking about, and pulling his moustache.] Nell, I won't +have it, I simply won't have it. + +MRS. HOPE. What rate of interest are these Preference shares to pay? + +MRS. GWYN. [Still smiling.] Ten per cent. + +MRS. HOPE. What did I tell you, Tom? And are they safe? + +MRS. GWYN. You'd better ask Maurice. + +MRS. HOPE. There, you see, you call him Maurice! Now supposing your +uncle went in for some of them---- + +COLONEL. [Taking off his hat-in a high, hot voice] I'm not going in +for anything of the sort. + +MRS. HOPE. Don't swing your hat by the brim! Go and look if you can +see him coming! + + [The COLONEL goes.] + +[In a lower voice.] Your uncle's getting very bald. I 've only +shoulder of lamb for lunch, and a salad. It's lucky it's too hot to +eat. + + [MISS BEECH has appeared while she is speaking.] + +Here she is, Peachey! + +MISS BEECH. I see her. [She kisses MRS. GWYN, and looks at her +intently.] + +MRS. GWYN. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Well, Peachey! What d 'you +make of me? + +COLONEL. [Returning from his search.] There's a white hat crossing +the second stile. Is that your friend, Molly? + + [MRS. GWYN nods.] + +MRS. HOPE. Oh! before I forget, Peachey--Letty and Ernest can move +their things back again. I'm going to put Mr. Lever in your room. +[Catching sight o f the paint pot on the ground.] There's that +disgusting paint pot! Take it up at once, Tom, and put it in the +tree. + + [The COLONEL picks up the pot and bears it to the hollow tree + followed by MRS. HOPE; he enters.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Speaking into the tree.] Not there! + +COLONEL. [From within.] Well, where then? + +MRS. HOPE. Why--up--oh! gracious! + + [MRS. GWYN, standing alone, is smiling. LEVER approaches from + the towing-path. He is a man like a fencer's wrist, supple and + steely. A man whose age is difficult to tell, with a quick, + good-looking face, and a line between his brows; his darkish + hair is flecked with grey. He gives the feeling that he has + always had to spurt to keep pace with his own life.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Also entering the hollow tree.] No-oh! + +COLONEL. [From the depths, in a high voice.] Well, dash it then! +What do you want? + +MRS. GWYN. Peachey, may I introduce Mr. Lever to you? Miss Beech, +my old governess. + + [They shake each other by the hand.] + +LEVER. How do you do? [His voice is pleasant, his manner easy.] + +MISS BEECH. Pleased to meet you. + + [Her manner is that of one who is not pleased. She watches.] + +MRS. GWYN. [Pointing to the tree-maliciously.] This is my uncle and +my aunt. They're taking exercise, I think. + + [The COLONEL and MRS. HOPE emerge convulsively. They are very + hot. LEVER and MRS. GWYN are very cool.] + +MRS. HOPE. [Shaking hands with him.] So you 've got here! Are n't +you very hot?--Tom! + +COLONEL. Brought a splendid day with you! Splendid! + + [As he speaks, Joy comes running with a bunch of roses; seeing + LEVER, she stops and stands quite rigid.] + +MISS BEECH. [Sitting in the swing.] Thunder! + +COLONEL. Thunder? Nonsense, Peachey, you're always imagining +something. Look at the sky! + +MISS BEECH. Thunder! + + [MRS. GWYN's smile has faded. ] + +MRS. HOPE. [Turning.] Joy, don't you see Mr. Lever? + + [Joy, turning to her mother, gives her the roses. With a forced + smile, LEVER advances, holding out his hand.] + +LEVER. How are you, Joy? Have n't seen you for an age! + +JOY. [Without expression.] I am very well, thank you. + + [She raises her hand, and just touches his. MRS. GWYN'S eyes + are fixed on her daughter. Miss BEECH is watching them + intently. MRS. HOPE is buttoning the COLONEL'S coat.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +ACT II + + It is afternoon, and at a garden-table placed beneath the hollow + tree, the COLONEL is poring over plans. Astride of a garden- + chair, LEVER is smoking cigarettes. DICK is hanging Chinese + lanterns to the hollow tree. + +LEVER. Of course, if this level [pointing with his cigarette] +peters out to the West we shall be in a tightish place; you know what +a mine is at this stage, Colonel Hope. + +COLONEL. [Absently.] Yes, yes. [Tracing a line.] What is there to +prevent its running out here to the East? + +LEVER. Well, nothing, except that as a matter of fact it doesn't. + +COLONEL. [With some excitement.] I'm very glad you showed me these +papers, very glad! I say that it's a most astonishing thing if the +ore suddenly stops there. [A gleam of humour visits LEVER'S face.] +I'm not an expert, but you ought to prove that ground to the East +more thoroughly. + +LEVER. [Quizzically.] Of course, sir, if you advise that---- + +COLONEL. If it were mine, I'd no more sit down under the belief that +the ore stopped there than I 'd---There's a harmony in these things. + +NEVER. I can only tell you what our experts say. + +COLONEL. Ah! Experts! No faith in them--never had! Miners, +lawyers, theologians, cowardly lot--pays them to be cowardly. When +they have n't their own axes to grind, they've got their theories; a +theory's a dangerous thing. [He loses himself in contemplation of +the papers.] Now my theory is, you 're in strata here of what we +call the Triassic Age. + +LEVER. [Smiling faintly.] Ah! + +COLONEL. You've struck a fault, that's what's happened. The ore may +be as much as thirty or forty yards out; but it 's there, depend on +it. + +LEVER. Would you back that opinion, sir? + +COLONEL. [With dignity.] I never give an opinion that I'm not +prepared to back. I want to get to the bottom of this. What's to +prevent the gold going down indefinitely? + +LEVER. Nothing, so far as I know. + +COLONEL. [With suspicion.] Eh! + +LEVER. All I can tell you is: This is as far as we've got, and we +want more money before we can get any farther. + +COLONEL. [Absently.] Yes, yes; that's very usual. + +LEVER. If you ask my personal opinion I think it's very doubtful +that the gold does go down. + +COLONEL. [Smiling.] Oh! a personal opinion a matter of this sort! + +LEVER. [As though about to take the papers.] Perhaps we'd better +close the sitting, sir; sorry to have bored you. + +COLONEL. Now, now! Don't be so touchy! If I'm to put money in, I'm +bound to look at it all round. + +LEVER. [With lifted brows.] Please don't imagine that I want you to +put money in. + +COLONEL. Confound it, sir! D 'you suppose I take you for a Company +promoter? + +LEVER. Thank you! + +COLONEL. [Looking at him doubtfully.] You've got Irish blood in +you--um? You're so hasty! + +LEVER. If you 're really thinking of taking shares--my advice to you +is, don't! + +COLONEL. [Regretfully.] If this were an ordinary gold mine, I +wouldn't dream of looking at it, I want you to understand that. +Nobody has a greater objection to gold mines than I. + +LEVER. [Looks down at his host with half-closed eyes.] But it is a +gold mine, Colonel Hope. + +COLONEL. I know, I know; but I 've been into it for myself; I've +formed my opinion personally. Now, what 's the reason you don't want +me to invest? + +LEVER. Well, if it doesn't turn out as you expect, you'll say it's +my doing. I know what investors are. + +COLONEL. [Dubiously.] If it were a Westralian or a Kaffir I would +n't touch it with a pair of tongs! It 's not as if I were going to +put much in! [He suddenly bends above the papers as though +magnetically attracted.] I like these Triassic formations! + + [DICK, who has hung the last lantern, moodily departs.] + +LEVER. [Looking after him.] That young man seems depressed. + +COLONEL. [As though remembering his principles.] I don't like +mines, never have! [Suddenly absorbed again.] I tell you what, +Lever--this thing's got tremendous possibilities. You don't seem to +believe in it enough. No mine's any good without faith; until I see +for myself, however, I shan't commit myself beyond a thousand. + +LEVER. Are you serious, sir? + +COLONEL. Certainly! I've been thinking it over ever since you told +me Henty had fought shy. I 've a poor opinion of Henty. He's one of +those fellows that says one thing and does another. An opportunist! + +LEVER. [Slowly.] I'm afraid we're all that, more or less. [He sits +beneath the hollow tree.] + +COLONEL. A man never knows what he is himself. There 's my wife. +She thinks she 's----By the way, don't say anything to her about +this, please. And, Lever [nervously], I don't think, you know, this +is quite the sort of thing for my niece. + +LEVER. [Quietly.] I agree. I mean to get her out of it. + +COLONEL. [A little taken aback.] Ah! You know, she--she's in a +very delicate position, living by herself in London. [LEVER looks at +him ironically.] You [very nervously] see a good deal of her? If +it had n't been for Joy growing so fast, we shouldn't have had the +child down here. Her mother ought to have her with her. Eh! Don't +you think so? + +LEVER. [Forcing a smile.] Mrs. Gwyn always seems to me to get on +all right. + +COLONEL. [As though making a discovery.] You know, I've found that +when a woman's living alone and unprotected, the very least thing +will set a lot of hags and jackanapes talking. [Hotly.] The more +unprotected and helpless a woman is, the more they revel in it. If +there's anything I hate in this world, it's those wretched creatures +who babble about their neighbours' affairs. + +LEVER. I agree with you. + +COLONEL. One ought to be very careful not to give them--that is---- +[checks himself confused; then hurrying on]--I suppose you and Joy +get on all right? + +LEVER. [Coolly.] Pretty well, thanks. I'm not exactly in Joy's +line; have n't seen very much of her, in fact. + + [Miss BEECH and JOY have been approaching from the house. But + seeing LEVER, JOY turns abruptly, hesitates a moment, and with + an angry gesture goes away.] + +COLONEL [Unconscious.] Wonderfully affectionate little thing! Well, +she'll be going home to-morrow! + +MISS BEECH. [Who has been gazing after JOY.] Talkin' business, poor +creatures? + +LEVER. Oh, no! If you'll excuse me, I'll wash my hands before tea. + + [He glances at the COLONEL poring over papers, and, shrugging + his shoulders, strolls away.] + +MISS BEECH. [Sitting in the swing.] I see your horrid papers. + +COLONEL. Be quiet, Peachey! + +MISS BEECH. On a beautiful summer's day, too. + +COLONEL. That'll do now. + +MISS BEECH. [Unmoved.] For every ounce you take out of a gold mine +you put two in. + +COLONEL. Who told you that rubbish? + +MISS BEECH. [With devilry.] You did! + +COLONEL. This is n't an ordinary gold mine. + +MISS BEECH. Oh! quite a special thing. + + [COLONEL stares at her, but subsiding at hey impassivity, he + pores again over the papers.] + + [Rosy has approached with a tea cloth.] + +ROSE. If you please, sir, the Missis told me to lay the tea. + +COLONEL. Go away! Ten fives fifty. Ten 5 16ths, Peachey? + +MISS BEECH. I hate your nasty sums! + + [ROSE goes away. The COLONEL Writes. MRS. HOPE'S voice is + heard, "Now then, bring those chairs, you two. Not that one, + Ernest." ERNEST arid LETTY appear through the openings of the + wall, each with a chair.] + +COLONEL. [With dull exasperation.] What do you want? + +LETTY. Tea, Father. + + [She places her chair arid goes away.] + +ERNEST. That Johnny-bird Lever is too cocksure for me, Colonel. +Those South American things are no good at all. I know all about +them from young Scrotton. There's not one that's worth a red cent. +If you want a flutter---- + +COLONEL. [Explosively.] Flutter! I'm not a gambler, sir! + +ERNEST. Well, Colonel [with a smile], I only don't want you to chuck +your money away on a stiff 'un. If you want anything good you should +go to Mexico. + +COLONEL. [Jumping up and holding out the map.] Go to [He stops in +time.] What d'you call that, eh? M-E-X---- + +ERNEST. [Not to be embarrassed.] It all depend on what part. + +COLONEL. You think you know everything--you think nothing's right +unless it's your own idea! Be good enough to keep your advice to +yourself. + +ERNEST. [Moving with his chair, and stopping with a smile.] If you +ask me, I should say it wasn't playing the game to put Molly into a +thing like that. + +COLONEL. What do you mean, sir? + +ERNEST. Any Juggins can see that she's a bit gone on our friend. + +COLONEL. [Freezingly.] Indeed! + +ERNEST. He's not at all the sort of Johnny that appeals to me. + +COLONEL. Really? + +ERNEST. [Unmoved.] If I were you, Colonel, I should tip her the +wink. He was hanging about her at Ascot all the time. It 's a bit +thick! + + [MRS. HOPE followed by ROSE appears from the house.] + +COLONEL. [Stammering with passion.] Jackanapes! + +MRS. HOPE. Don't stand there, Tom; clear those papers, and let Rose +lay the table. Now, Ernest, go and get another chair. + + [The COLONEL looks wildly round and sits beneath the hollow + tree, with his head held in his hands. ROSE lays the cloth.] + +MRS. BEECH. [Sitting beside the COLONEL.] Poor creature! + +ERNEST. [Carrying his chair about with him.] Ask any Johnny in the +City, he 'll tell you Mexico's a very tricky country--the people are +awful rotters + +MRS. HOPE. Put that chair down, Ernest. + + [ERNEST looks at the chair, puts it down, opens his mouth, and + goes away. ROSE follows him.] + +What's he been talking about? You oughtn't to get so excited, Tom; +is your head bad, old man? Here, take these papers! [She hands the +papers to the COLONEL.] Peachey, go in and tell them tea 'll be +ready in a minute, there 's a good soul? Oh! and on my dressing +table you'll find a bottle of Eau de Cologne. + +MRS. BEECH. Don't let him get in a temper again. That 's three +times to-day! + + [She goes towards the house. ] + +COLONEL. Never met such a fellow in my life, the most opinionated, +narrow-minded--thinks he knows everything. Whatever Letty could see +in him I can't think. Pragmatical beggar! + +MRS. HOPE. Now Tom! What have you been up to, to get into a state +like this? + +COLONEL. [Avoiding her eyes.] I shall lose my temper with him one +of these days. He's got that confounded habit of thinking nobody can +be right but himself. + +MRS. HOPE. That's enough! I want to talk to you seriously! Dick's +in love. I'm perfectly certain of it. + +COLONEL. Love! Who's he in love with--Peachey? + +MRS. HOPE. You can see it all over him. If I saw any signs of Joy's +breaking out, I'd send them both away. I simply won't have it. + +COLONEL. Why, she's a child! + +MRS. HOPE. [Pursuing her own thoughts.] But she isn't--not yet. +I've been watching her very carefully. She's more in love with her +Mother than any one, follows her about like a dog! She's been quite +rude to Mr. Lever. + +COLONEL. [Pursuing his own thoughts.] I don't believe a word of it. + + [He rises and walks about] + +MRS. HOPE. Don't believe a word of what? + + [The COLONEL is Silent.] + + [Pursuing his thoughts with her own.] + +If I thought there was anything between Molly and Mr. Lever, d 'you +suppose I'd have him in the house? + + [The COLONEL stops, and gives a sort of grunt.] + +He's a very nice fellow; and I want you to pump him well, Tom, and +see what there is in this mine. + +COLONEL. [Uneasily.] Pump! + +MRS. HOPE. [Looking at him curiously.] Yes, you 've been up to +something! Now what is it? + +COLONEL. Pump my own guest! I never heard of such a thing! + +MRS. HOPE. There you are on your high horse! I do wish you had a +little common-sense, Tom! + +COLONEL. I'd as soon you asked me to sneak about eavesdropping! +Pump! + +MRS. HOPE. Well, what were you looking at these papers for? It does +drive me so wild the way you throw away all the chances you have of +making a little money. I've got you this opportunity, and you do +nothing but rave up and down, and talk nonsense! + +COLONEL. [In a high voice] Much you know about it! I 've taken a +thousand shares in this mine + + [He stops dead. There is a silence. ] + +MRS. HOPE. You 've--WHAT? Without consulting me? Well, then, +you 'll just go and take them out again! + +COLONEL. You want me to----? + +MRS. HOPE. The idea! As if you could trust your judgment in a thing +like that! You 'll just go at once and say there was a mistake; then +we 'll talk it over calmly. + +COLONEL. [Drawing himself up.] Go back on what I 've said? Not if I +lose every penny! First you worry me to take the shares, and then +you worry me not--I won't have it, Nell, I won't have it! + +MRS. HOPE. Well, if I'd thought you'd have forgotten what you said +this morning and turned about like this, d'you suppose I'd have +spoken to you at all? Now, do you? + +COLONEL. Rubbish! If you can't see that this is a special +opportunity! + + [He walks away followed by MRS. HOPE, who endeavors to make him + see her point of view. ERNEST and LETTY are now returning from + the house armed with a third chair.] + +LETTY. What's the matter with everybody? Is it the heat? + +ERNEST. [Preoccupied and sitting in the swing.] That sportsman, +Lever, you know, ought to be warned off. + +LETTY. [Signing t0 ERNEST.] Where's Miss Joy, Rose? + +ROSE. Don't know, Miss. + + [Putting down the tray, she goes.] + + + [ROSE, has followed with the tea tray.] + +LETTY. Ernie, be careful, you never know where Joy is. + +ERNEST. [Preoccupied with his reflections.] Your old Dad 's as mad +as a hatter with me. + +LETTY. Why? + +ERNEST. Well, I merely said what I thought, that Molly ought to look +out what's she's doing, and he dropped on me like a cartload of +bricks. + +LETTY. The Dad's very fond of Molly. + +ERNEST. But look here, d'you mean to tell me that she and Lever +are n't---- + +LETTY. Don't! Suppose they are! If joy were to hear it'd be simply +awful. I like Molly. I 'm not going to believe anything against +her. I don't see the use of it. If it is, it is, and if it is n't, +it is n't. + +ERNEST. Well, all I know is that when I told her the mine was +probably a frost she went for me like steam. + +LETTY. Well, so should I. She was only sticking up for her friends. + +ERNEST. Ask the old Peachey-bird. She knows a thing or two. Look +here, I don't mind a man's being a bit of a sportsman, but I think +Molly's bringin' him down here is too thick. Your old Dad's got one +of his notions that because this Josser's his guest, he must keep him +in a glass case, and take shares in his mine, and all the rest of it. + +LETTY. I do think people are horrible, always thinking things. It's +not as if Molly were a stranger. She's my own cousin. I 'm not +going to believe anything about my own cousin. I simply won't. + +ERNEST. [Reluctantly realising the difference that this makes.] I +suppose it does make a difference, her bein' your cousin. + +LETTY. Of course it does! I only hope to goodness no one will make +Joy suspect---- + + [She stops and buts her finger to her lips, for JOY is coming + towards them, as the tea-bell sounds. She is followed by DICK + and MISS BEECH with the Eau de Cologne. The COLONEL and MRS. + HOPE are also coming back, discussing still each other's point + of view.] + +JOY. Where 's Mother? Isn't she here? + +MRS. HOPE. Now Joy, come and sit down; your mother's been told tea's +ready; if she lets it get cold it's her lookout. + +DICK. [Producing a rug, and spreading it beneath the tree.] Plenty +of room, Joy. + +JOY. I don't believe Mother knows, Aunt Nell. + + [MRS. GWYN and LEVER appear in the opening of the wall.] + +LETTY. [Touching ERNEST's arm.] Look, Ernie! Four couples and +Peachey---- + +ERNEST. [Preoccupied.] What couples? + +JOY. Oh! Mums, here you are! + + [Seizing her, she turns her back on LEVER. They sit in various + seats, and MRS. HOPE pours out the tea.] + +MRS. HOPE. Hand the sandwiches to Mr. Lever, Peachey. It's our own +jam, Mr. Lever. + +LEVER. Thanks. [He takes a bite.] It's splendid! + +MRS. GWYN. [With forced gaiety.] It's the first time I've ever seen +you eat jam. + +LEVER. [Smiling a forced smile.] Really! But I love it. + +MRS. GWYN. [With a little bow.] You always refuse mine. + +JOY. [Who has been staring at her enemy, suddenly.] I'm all burnt +up! Are n't you simply boiled, Mother? + + [She touches her Mother's forehead.] + +MRS. GWYN. Ugh! You're quite clammy, Joy. + +JOY. It's enough to make any one clammy. + + [Her eyes go back to LEVER'S face as though to stab him.] + +ERNEST. [From the swing.] I say, you know, the glass is going down. + +LEVER. [Suavely.] The glass in the hall's steady enough. + +ERNEST. Oh, I never go by that; that's a rotten old glass. + +COLONEL. Oh! is it? + +ERNEST. [Paying no attention.] I've got a little ripper--never puts +you in the cart. Bet you what you like we have thunder before +tomorrow night. + +MISS BEECH. [Removing her gaze from JOY to LEVER.] You don't think +we shall have it before to-night, do you? + +LEVER. [Suavely.] I beg your pardon; did you speak to me? + +MISS BEECH. I said, you don't think we shall have the thunder before +to-night, do you? + + [She resumes her watch on joy.] + +LEVER. [Blandly.] Really, I don't see any signs of it. + + [Joy, crossing to the rug, flings herself down. And DICK sits + cross-legged, with his eyes fast fixed on her.] + +MISS BEECH. [Eating.] People don't often see what they don't want +to, do they? + + [LEVER only lifts his brows.] + +MRS. GWYN. [Quickly breaking ivy.] What are you talking about? The +weather's perfect. + +MISS BEECH. Isn't it? + +MRS. HOPE. You'd better make a good tea, Peachey; nobody'll get +anything till eight, and then only cold shoulder. You must just put +up with no hot dinner, Mr. Lever. + +LEVER. [Bowing.] Whatever is good enough for Miss Beech is good +enough for me. + +MISS BEECH. [Sardonically-taking another sandwich.] So you think! + +MRS. GWYN. [With forced gaiety.] Don't be so absurd, Peachey. + + [MISS BEECH, grunts slightly.] + +COLONEL. [Once more busy with his papers.] I see the name of your +engineer is Rodriguez--Italian, eh? + +LEVER. Portuguese. + +COLONEL. Don't like that! + +LEVER. I believe he was born in England. + +COLONEL. [Reassured.] Oh, was he? Ah! + +ERNEST. Awful rotters, those Portuguese! + +COLONEL. There you go! + +LETTY. Well, Father, Ernie only said what you said. + +MRS. HOPE. Now I want to ask you, Mr. Lever, is this gold mine safe? +If it isn't--I simply won't allow Tom to take these shares; he can't +afford it. + +LEVER. It rather depends on what you call safe, Mrs. Hope. + +MRS. HOPE. I don't want anything extravagant, of course; if they're +going to pay their 10 per cent, regularly, and Tom can have his money +out at any time--[There is a faint whistle from the swing.] I only +want to know that it's a thoroughly genuine thing. + +MRS. GWYN. [Indignantly.] As if Maurice would be a Director if it +was n't? + +MRS. HOPE. Now Molly, I'm simply asking---- + +MRS. GWYN. Yes, you are! + +COLONEL. [Rising.] I'll take two thousand of those shares, Lever. +To have my wife talk like that--I 'm quite ashamed. + +LEVER. Oh, come, sir, Mrs. Hope only meant---- + + [MRS. GWYN looks eagerly at LEVER.] + +DICK. [Quietly.] Let's go on the river, Joy. + + [JOY rises, and goes to her Mother's chair.] + +MRS. HOPE. Of course! What rubbish, Tom! As if any one ever +invested money without making sure! + +LEVER. [Ironically.] It seems a little difficult to make sure in +this case. There isn't the smallest necessity for Colonel Hope to +take any shares, and it looks to me as if he'd better not. + + [He lights a cigarette.] + +MRS. HOPE. Now, Mr. Lever, don't be offended! I'm very anxious for +Tom to take the shares if you say the thing's so good. + +LEVER. I 'm afraid I must ask to be left out, please. + +JOY. [Whispering.] Mother, if you've finished, do come, I want to +show you my room. + +MRS. HOPE. I would n't say a word, only Tom's so easily taken in. + +MRS. GWYN. [Fiercely.] Aunt Nell, how can't you? [Joy gives a +little savage laugh.] + +LETTY. [Hastily.] Ernie, will you play Dick and me? Come on, Dick! + + [All three go out towards the lawn.] + +MRS. HOPE. You ought to know your Uncle by this time, Molly. He's +just like a child. He'd be a pauper to-morrow if I did n't see to +things. + +COLONEL. Understand once for all that I shall take two thousand +shares in this mine. I 'm--I 'm humiliated. [He turns and goes +towards the house.] + +MRS. HOPE. Well, what on earth have I said? + + [She hurries after him. ] + +MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice as she passes.] You need n't insult my +friends! + + [LEVER, shrugging his shoulders, has strolled aside. JOY, with + a passionate movement seen only by Miss BEECH, goes off towards + the house. MISS BEECH and MRS. GWYN aye left alone beside the + remnants of the feast.] + +MISS BEECH. Molly! + + [MRS. GWYN looks up startled.] + +Take care, Molly, take care! The child! Can't you see? +[Apostrophising LEVER.] Take care, Molly, take care! + +LEVER. [Coming back.] Awfully hot, is n't it? + +MISS BEECH. Ah! and it'll be hotter if we don't mind. + +LEVER. [Suavely.] Do we control these things? + + [MISS BEECH looking from face to face, nods her head repeatedly; + then gathering her skirts she walks towards the house. MRS. + GWYN sits motionless, staying before her.] + +Extraordinary old lady! [He pitches away his cigarette.] What's the +matter with her, Molly? + +MRS. GWYN, [With an effort.] Oh! Peachey's a character! + +LEVER. [Frowning.] So I see! [There is a silence.] + +MRS. GWYN. Maurice! + +LEVER. Yes. + +MRS. GWYN. Aunt Nell's hopeless, you mustn't mind her. + +LEVER. [In a dubious and ironic voice.] My dear girl, I 've too +much to bother me to mind trifles like that. + +MRS. GWYN. [Going to him suddenly.] Tell me, won't you? + + [LEVER shrugs his shoulders.] + +A month ago you'd have told me soon enough! + +LEVER. Now, Molly! + +MRS. GWYN. Ah! [With a bitter smile.] The Spring's soon over. + +LEVER. It 's always Spring between us. + +MRS. GWYN. Is it? + +LEVER. You did n't tell me what you were thinking about just now +when you sat there like stone. + +MRS. GWYN. It does n't do for a woman to say too much. + +LEVER. Have I been so bad to you that you need feel like that, +Molly? + +MRS. GWYN. [With a little warm squeeze of his arm.] Oh! my dear, +it's only that I'm so--- + +[She stops.] + +LEVER. [Gently]. So what? + +MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] It's hateful here. + +LEVER. I didn't want to come. I don't understand why you suggested +it. [MRS. GWYN is silent.] It's been a mistake. + +MRS. GWYN. [Her eyes fixed on the ground.] Joy comes home to- +morrow. I thought if I brought you here--I should know---- + +LEVER. [Vexedly.] Um! + +MRS. GWYN. [Losing her control.] Can't you SEE? It haunts me? How +are we to go on? I must know--I must know! + +LEVER. I don't see that my coming---- + +MRS. GWYN. I thought I should have more confidence; I thought I +should be able to face it better in London, if you came down here +openly--and now--I feel I must n't speak or look at you. + +LEVER. You don't think your Aunt---- + +MRS. GWYN. [Scornfully.] She! It's only Joy I care about. + +LEVER. [Frowning.] We must be more careful, that's all. We mustn't +give ourselves away again, as we were doing just now. + +MRS. GWYN. When any one says anything horrid to you, I can't help +it. + + [She puts her hand on the label of his coat.] + +LEVER. My dear child, take care! + + [MRS. GWYN drops her hand. She throws her head back, and her + throat is seen to work as though she were gulping down a bitter + draught. She moves away.] + +[Following hastily.] Don't dear, don't! I only meant--Come, Molly, +let's be sensible. I want to tell you something about the mine. + +MRS. GWYN. [With a quavering smile.] Yes-let 's talk sensibly, and +walk properly in this sensible, proper place. + + [LEVER is seen trying to soothe her, and yet to walk properly. + As they disappear, they are viewed by JOY, who, like the shadow + parted from its figure, has come to join it again. She stands + now, foiled, a carnation in her hand; then flings herself on a + chair, and leans her elbows on the table.] + +JOY. I hate him! Pig! + +ROSE. [Who has come to clear the tea things.] Did you call, Miss? + +JOY. Not you! + +ROSE. [Motionless.] No, Miss! + +JOY. [Leaning back and tearing the flower.] Oh! do hurry up, Rose! + +ROSE. [Collects the tea things.] Mr. Dick's coming down the path! +Aren't I going to get you to do your frock, Miss Joy? + +JOY. No. + +ROSE. What will the Missis say? + +JOY. Oh, don't be so stuck, Rose! + + [ROSE goes, but DICK has come.] + +DICK. Come on the river, Joy, just for half an hour, as far as the +kingfishers--do! [Joy shakes her head.] Why not? It 'll be so +jolly and cool. I'm most awfully sorry if I worried you this +morning. I didn't mean to. I won't again, I promise. [Joy slides a +look at him, and from that look he gains a little courage.] Do come! +It'll be the last time. I feel it awfully, Joy. + +JOY. There's nothing to hurt you! + +DICK. [Gloomily.] Isn't there--when you're like this? + +JOY. [In a hard voice.] If you don't like me, why do you follow me +about? + +DICK. What is the matter? + +JOY. [Looking up, as if for want of air.] Oh! Don't! + +DICK. Oh, Joy, what is the matter? Is it the heat? + +JOY. [With a little laugh.] Yes. + +DICK. Have some Eau de Cologne. I 'll make you a bandage. [He +takes the Eau de Cologne, and makes a bandage with his handkerchief.] +It's quite clean. + +JOY. Oh, Dick, you are so funny! + +DICK. [Bandaging her forehead.] I can't bear you to feel bad; it +puts me off completely. I mean I don't generally make a fuss about +people, but when it 's you---- + +JOY. [Suddenly.] I'm all right. + +DICK. Is that comfy? + +JOY. [With her chin up, and her eyes fast closed.] Quite. + +DICK. I'm not going to stay and worry you. You ought to rest. +Only, Joy! Look here! If you want me to do anything for you, any +time---- + +JOY. [Half opening her eyes.] Only to go away. + + [DICK bites his lips and walks away.] + +Dick--[softly]--Dick! + + [DICK stops.] + +I didn't mean that; will you get me some water-irises for this +evening? + +DICK. Won't I? [He goes to the hollow tree and from its darkness +takes a bucket and a boat-hook.] I know where there are some +rippers! + + [JOY stays unmoving with her eyes half closed.] + +Are you sure you 're all right. Joy? You 'll just rest here in the +shade, won't you, till I come back?--it 'll do you no end of good. I +shan't be twenty minutes. + + [He goes, but cannot help returning softly, to make sure.] + +You're quite sure you 're all right? + + [JOY nods. He goes away towards the river. But there is no + rest for JOY. The voices of MRS. GWYN and LEVER are heard + returning.] + +JOY. [With a gesture of anger.] Hateful! Hateful! + + [She runs away.] + + [MRS. GWYN and LEVER are seen approaching; they pass the tree, + in conversation.] + +MRS. GWYN. But I don't see why, Maurice. + +LEVER. We mean to sell the mine; we must do some more work on it, +and for that we must have money. + +MRS. GWYN. If you only want a little, I should have thought you +could have got it in a minute in the City. + +LEVER. [Shaking his head.] No, no; we must get it privately. + +MRS. GWYN. [Doubtfully.] Oh! [She slowly adds.] Then it isn't +such a good thing! + + [And she does not look at him.] + +LEVER. Well, we mean to sell it. + +MRS. GWYN. What about the people who buy? + +LEVER. [Dubiously regarding her.] My dear girl, they've just as +much chance as we had. It 's not my business to think of them. +There's YOUR thousand pounds---- + +MRS. GWYN. [Softly.] Don't bother about my money, Maurice. I don't +want you to do anything not quite---- + +LEVER. [Evasively.] Oh! There's my brother's and my sister's too. +I 'm not going to let any of you run any risk. When we all went in +for it the thing looked splendid; it 's only the last month that we +'ve had doubts. What bothers me now is your Uncle. I don't want him +to take these shares. It looks as if I'd come here on purpose. + +MRS. GWYN. Oh! he mustn't take them! + +LEVER. That 's all very well; but it 's not so simple. + +MRS. GWYN. [Shyly.] But, Maurice, have you told him about the +selling? + +LEVER. [Gloomily, under the hollow tree.] It 's a Board secret. +I'd no business to tell even you. + +MRS. GWYN. But he thinks he's taking shares in a good--a permanent +thing. + +LEVER. You can't go into a mining venture without some risk. + +MRS. GWYN. Oh yes, I know--but--but Uncle Tom is such a dear! + +LEVER. [Stubbornly.] I can't help his being the sort of man he is. +I did n't want him to take these shares; I told him so in so many +words. Put yourself in my place, Molly: how can I go to him and say, +"This thing may turn out rotten," when he knows I got you to put your +money into it? + + [But JOY, the lost shadow, has come back. She moves forward + resolutely. They are divided from her by the hollow tree; she + is unseen. She stops.] + +MRS. GWYN. I think he ought to be told about the selling; it 's not +fair. + +LEVER. What on earth made him rush at the thing like that? I don't +understand that kind of man. + +MRS. GWYN. [Impulsively.] I must tell him, Maurice; I can't let him +take the shares without---- + + [She puts her hand on his arm.] + + [Joy turns, as if to go back whence she came, but stops once + more.] + +LEVER. [Slowly and very quietly.] I did n't think you'd give me +away, Molly. + +MRS. GWYN. I don't think I quite understand. + +LEVER. If you tell the Colonel about this sale the poor old chap +will think me a man that you ought to have nothing to do with. Do +you want that? + + [MRS. GWYN, giving her lover a long look, touches his sleeve. + JOY, slipping behind the hollow tree, has gone.] + +You can't act in a case like this as if you 'd only a principle to +consider. It 's the--the special circumstances. + +MRS. GWYN. [With a faint smile.] But you'll be glad to get the +money won't you? + +LEVER. By George! if you're going to take it like this, Molly + +MRS. GWYN. Don't! + +LEVER. We may not sell after all, dear, we may find it turn out +trumps. + +MRS. GWYN. [With a shiver.] I don't want to hear any more. I know +women don't understand. [Impulsively.] It's only that I can't bear +any one should think that you---- + +LEVER. [Distressed.] For goodness sake don't look like that, Molly! +Of course, I'll speak to your Uncle. I'll stop him somehow, even if +I have to make a fool of myself. I 'll do anything you want---- + +MRS. GWYN. I feel as if I were being smothered here. + +LEVER. It 's only for one day. + +MRS. GWYN. [With sudden tenderness.] It's not your fault, dear. I +ought to have known how it would be. Well, let's go in! + + [She sets her lips, and walks towards the house with LEVER + following. But no sooner has she disappeared than JOY comes + running after; she stops, as though throwing down a challenge. + Her cheeks and ears are burning.] + +JOY. Mother! + + [After a moment MRS. GWYN reappears in the opening of the wall.] + +MRS. GWYN. Oh! here you are! + +JOY. [Breathlessly.] Yes. + +MRS. GWYN. [Uncertainly.] Where--have you been? You look +dreadfully hot; have you been running? + +JOY. Yes----no. + +MRS. GWYN. [Looking at her fixedly.] What's the matter--you 're +trembling! [Softly.] Are n't you well, dear? + +JOY. Yes--I don't know. + +MRS. GWYN. What is it, darling? + +JOY. [Suddenly clinging to her.] Oh! Mother! + +MRS. GWYN. I don't understand. + +JOY. [Breathlessly.] Oh, Mother, let me go back home with you now +at once---- +MRS. GWYN. [Her face hardening.] Why? What on earth---- + +JOY. I can't stay here. + +MRS. GWYN. But why? + +JOY. I want to be with you--Oh! Mother, don't you love me? + +MRS. GWYN. [With a faint smile.] Of course I love you, Joy. + +JOY. Ah! but you love him more. + +MRS. GWYN. Love him--whom? + +JOY. Oh! Mother, I did n't--[She tries to take her Mother's hand, +but fails.] Oh! don't. + +MRS. GWYN. You'd better explain what you mean, I think. + +JOY. I want to get you to--he--he 's--he 'snot----! + +MRS. GWYN. [Frigidly.] Really, Joy! + +JOY. [Passionately.] I'll fight against him, and I know there's +something wrong about---- + + [She stops.] + +MRS. GWYN. About what? + +JOY. Let's tell Uncle Tom, Mother, and go away. + +MRS. GWYN. Tell Uncle--Tom--what? + +JOY. [Looking down and almost whispering.] About--about--the mine. + +MRS. GWYN. What about the mine? What do you mean? [Fiercely.] +Have you been spying on me? + +JOY. [Shrinking.] No! oh, no! + +MRS. GWYN. Where were you? + +JOY. [Just above her breath.] I--I heard something. + +MRS. GWYN. [Bitterly.] But you were not spying? + +JOY. I was n't--I wasn't! I didn't want--to hear. I only heard a +little. I couldn't help listening, Mother. + +MRS. GWYN. [With a little laugh.] Couldn't help listening? + +JOY. [Through her teeth.] I hate him. I didn't mean to listen, but +I hate him. + +MRS. GWYN. I see. Why do you hate him? + + [There is a silence.] + +JOY. He--he----[She stops.] + + +MRS. GWYN. Yes? + +JOY. [With a sort of despair.] I don't know. Oh! I don't know! +But I feel---- + +MRS. GWYN. I can't reason with you. As to what you heard, it 's-- +ridiculous. + +JOY. It 's not that. It 's--it 's you! + +MRS. GWYN. [Stonily.] I don't know what you mean. + +JOY. [Passionately.] I wish Dad were here! + +MRS. GWYN. Do you love your Father as much as me? + +JOY. Oh! Mother, no-you know I don't. + +MRS. GWYN. [Resentfully.] Then why do you want him? + +JOY. [Almost under her breath.] Because of that man. + +MRS. GWYN. Indeed! + +JOY. I will never--never make friends with him. + +MRS. GWYN. [Cuttingly.] I have not asked you to. + +JOY. [With a blind movement of her hand.] Oh, Mother! + + [MRS. GWYN half turns away.] + +Mother--won't you? Let's tell Uncle Tom and go away from him? + +MRS. GWYN. If you were not, a child, Joy, you wouldn't say such +things. + +JOY. [Eagerly.] I'm not a child, I'm--I'm a woman. I am. + +MRS. GWYN. No! You--are--not a woman, Joy. + + [She sees joy throw up her arms as though warding off a blow, + and turning finds that LEVER is standing in the opening of the + wall.] + +LEVER. [Looking from face to face.] What's the matter? [There is +no answer.] What is it, Joy? + +JOY. [Passionately.] I heard you, I don't care who knows. I'd +listen again. + +LEVER. [Impassively.] Ah! and what did I say that was so very +dreadful? + +JOY. You're a--a--you 're a--coward! + +MRS. GWYN. [With a sort of groan.] Joy! + +LEVER. [Stepping up to JOY, and standing with his hands behind him-- +in a low voice.] Now hit me in the face--hit me--hit me as hard as +you can. Go on, Joy, it'll do you good. + + [Joy raises her clenched hand, but drops it, and hides her + face.] + +Why don't you? I'm not pretending! + + [Joy makes no sign.] + +Come, joy; you'll make yourself ill, and that won't help, will it? + + [But joy still makes no sign.] + +[With determination.] What's the matter? now come--tell me! + +JOY. [In a stifled, sullen voice.] Will you leave my mother alone? + +MRS. GWYN. Oh! my dear Joy, don't be silly! + +JOY. [Wincing; then with sudden passion.] I defy you--I defy you! +[She rushes from their sight.] + +MRS. GWYN. [With a movement of distress.] Oh! + +LEVER. [Turning to MRS. GWYN with a protecting gesture.] Never +mind, dear! It'll be--it'll be all right! + + [But the expression of his face is not the expression of his + words.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +ACT III + + It is evening; a full yellow moon is shining through the + branches of the hollow tree. The Chinese lanterns are alight. + There is dancing in the house; the music sounds now loud, now + soft. MISS BEECH is sitting on the rustic seat in a black + bunchy evening dress, whose inconspicuous opening is inlaid with + white. She slowly fans herself. + + DICK comes from the house in evening dress. He does not see + Miss BEECH. + + +DICK. Curse! [A short silence.] Curse! + +MISS BEECH. Poor young man! + +DICK. [With a start.] Well, Peachey, I can't help it +[He fumbles off his gloves.] + +MISS BEECH. Did you ever know any one that could? + +DICK. [Earnestly.] It's such awfully hard lines on Joy. I can't get +her out of my head, lying there with that beastly headache while +everybody's jigging round. + +MISS BEECH. Oh! you don't mind about yourself--noble young man! + +DICK. I should be a brute if I did n't mind more for her. + +MISS BEECH. So you think it's a headache, do you? + +DICK. Did n't you hear what Mrs. Gwyn said at dinner about the sun? +[With inspiration.] I say, Peachey, could n't you--could n't you +just go up and give her a message from me, and find out if there 's +anything she wants, and say how brutal it is that she 's seedy; it +would be most awfully decent of you. And tell her the dancing's no +good without her. Do, Peachey, now do! Ah! and look here! + + [He dives into the hollow of the tree, and brings from out of it + a pail of water in which are placed two bottles of champagne, + and some yellow irises--he takes the irises.] + +You might give her these. I got them specially for her, and I have +n't had a chance. + +MISS BEECH. [Lifting a bottle.] What 's this? + +DICK. Fizz. The Colonel brought it from the George. It 's for +supper; he put it in here because of--[Smiling faintly]--Mrs. Hope, +I think. Peachey, do take her those irises. + +MISS. BEECH. D' you think they'll do her any good? + +DICK. [Crestfallen.] I thought she'd like--I don't want to worry +her--you might try. + + [MISS BEECH shakes her head.] + +Why not? + +MISS BEECH. The poor little creature won't let me in. + +DICK. You've been up then! + +MISS BEECH. [Sharply.] Of course I've been up. I've not got a +stone for my heart, young man! + +DICK. All right! I suppose I shall just have to get along somehow. + +MISS BEECH. [With devilry.] That's what we've all got to do. + +DICK. [Gloomily.] But this is too brutal for anything! + +MISS BEECH. Worse than ever happened to any one! + +DICK. I swear I'm not thinking of myself. + +MISS BEECH. Did y' ever know anybody that swore they were? + +DICK. Oh! shut up! + +MISS BEECH. You'd better go in and get yourself a partner. + +DICK. [With pale desperation.] Look here, Peachey, I simply loathe +all those girls. + +MISS BEECH. Ah-h! [Ironically.] Poor lot, are n't they? + +DICK. All right; chaff away, it's good fun, isn't it? It makes me +sick to dance when Joy's lying there. Her last night, too! + +MISS BEECH. [Sidling to him.] You're a good young man, and you 've +got a good heart. + + [She takes his hand, and puts it to her cheek.] + +DICK. Peachey--I say, Peachey d' you think there 's--I mean d' you +think there'll ever be any chance for me? + +MISS BEECH. I thought that was coming! I don't approve of your +making love at your time of life; don't you think I 'm going to +encourage you. + +DICK. But I shall be of age in a year; my money's my own, it's not +as if I had to ask any one's leave; and I mean, I do know my own +mind. + +MISS BEECH. Of course you do. Nobody else would at your age, but +you do. + +DICK. I would n't ask her to promise, it would n't be fair when +she 's so young, but I do want her to know that I shall never change. + +MISS BEECH. And suppose--only suppose--she's fond of you, and says +she'll never change. + +DICK. Oh! Peachey! D' you think there's a chance of that--do you? + +MISS BEECH. A-h-h! + +DICK. I wouldn't let her bind herself, I swear I wouldn't. +[Solemnly.] I'm not such a selfish brute as you seem to think. + +MISS BEECH. [Sidling close to him and in a violent whisper.] Well-- +have a go! + +DICK. Really? You are a brick, Peachey! + + [He kisses her.] + +MISS BEACH. [Yielding pleasurably; then remembering her principles.] +Don't you ever say I said so! You're too young, both of you. + +DICK. But it is exceptional--I mean in my case, is n't it? + + [The COLONEL and MRS. GWYN are coming down the lawn.] + +MISS BEECH. Oh! very! + + [She sits beneath the tree and fans herself.] + +COLONEL. The girls are all sitting out, Dick! I've been obliged to +dance myself. Phew! + + [He mops his brow.] + + [DICK swinging round goes rushing off towards the house.] + +[Looking after him.] Hallo! What's the matter with him? Cooling +your heels, Peachey? By George! it's hot. Fancy the poor devils in +London on a night like this, what? [He sees the moon.] It's a full +moon. You're lucky to be down here, Molly. + +MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] Very! + +MISS BEECH. Oh! so you think she's lucky, do you? + +COLONEL. [Expanding his nostrils.] Delicious scent to-night! Hay +and roses--delicious. + + [He seats himself between them.] + +A shame that poor child has knocked up like this. Don't think it was +the sun myself--more likely neuralgic--she 's subject to neuralgia, +Molly. + +MRS. GWYN. [Motionless.] I know. + +COLONEL. Got too excited about your coming. I told Nell not to keep +worrying her about her frock, and this is the result. But your Aunt +--you know--she can't let a thing alone! + +MISS BEECH. Ah! 't isn't neuralgia. + + [MRS. GWYN looks at her quickly and averts her eyes.] + +COLONEL. Excitable little thing. You don't understand her, Peachey. + +MISS BEECH. Don't I? + +COLONEL. She's all affection. Eh, Molly? I remember what I was +like at her age, a poor affectionate little rat, and now look at me! + +MISS BEECH. [Fanning herself.] I see you. + +COLONEL. [A little sadly.] We forget what we were like when we were +young. She's been looking forward to to-night ever since you wrote; +and now to have to go to bed and miss the, dancing. Too bad! + +MRS. GWYN. Don't, Uncle Tom! + +COLONEL. [Patting her hand.] There, there, old girl, don't think +about it. She'll be all right tomorrow. + +MISS BEECH. If I were her mother I'd soon have her up. + +COLONEL. Have her up with that headache! What are you talking +about, Peachey? + +MISS BEECH. I know a remedy. + +COLONEL. Well, out with it. + +MISS BEECH. Oh! Molly knows it too! + +MRS. GWYN. [Staring at the ground.] It's easy to advise. + +COLONEL. [Fidgetting.] Well, if you're thinking of morphia for her, +don't have anything to do with it. I've always set my face against +morphia; the only time I took it was in Burmah. I'd raging neuralgia +for two days. I went to our old doctor, and I made him give me some. +"Look here, doctor," I said, "I hate the idea of morphia, I 've never +taken it, and I never want to." + +MISS BEECH. [Looking at MRS. GWYN.] When a tooth hurts, you should +have it out. It 's only puttin' off the evil day. + +COLONEL. You say that because it was n't your own. + +MISS BEECH. Well, it was hollow, and you broke your principles! + +COLONEL. Hollow yourself, Peachey; you're as bad as any one! + +MISS BEECH [With devilry.] Well, I know that! [She turns to MRS. +GWYN.] He should have had it out! Shouldn't he, Molly? + +MRS. GWYN. I--don't--judge for other people. + + [She gets up suddenly, as though deprived of air.] + +COLONEL. [Alarmed.] Hallo, Molly! Are n't you feeling the thing, +old girl? + +MISS BEECH. Let her get some air, poor creature! + +COLONEL. [Who follows anxiously.] Your Aunt's got some first-rate +sal volatile. + +MRS. GWYN. It's all right, Uncle Tom. I felt giddy, it's nothing, +now. + +COLONEL. That's the dancing. [He taps his forehead.] I know what +it is when you're not used to it. + +MRS. GWYN. [With a sudden bitter outburst.] I suppose you think I +'m a very bad mother to be amusing myself while joy's suffering. + +COLONEL. My dear girl, whatever put such a thought into your head? +We all know if there were anything you could do, you'd do it at once, +would n't she, Peachey? + + [MISS BEECH turns a slow look on MRS. GWYN.] + +MRS. GWYN. Ah! you see, Peachey knows me better. + +COLONEL. [Following up his thoughts.] I always think women are +wonderful. There's your Aunt, she's very funny, but if there's +anything the matter with me, she'll sit up all night; but when she's +ill herself, and you try to do anything for her, out she raps at +once. + +MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] There's always one that a woman will +do anything for. + +COLONEL. Exactly what I say. With your Aunt it's me, and by George! +Molly, sometimes I wish it was n't. + +MISS BEECH, [With meaning.] But is it ever for another woman! + +COLONEL. You old cynic! D' you mean to say Joy wouldn't do anything +on earth for her Mother, or Molly for Joy? You don't know human +nature. What a wonderful night! Have n't seen such a moon for +years, she's like a great, great lamp! + + [MRS. GWYN hiding from Miss BEECH's eyes, rises and slips her + arm through his; they stand together looking at the moon.] + +Don't like these Chinese lanterns, with that moon-tawdry! eh! By +Jove, Molly, I sometimes think we humans are a rubbishy lot--each of +us talking and thinking of nothing but our own petty little affairs; +and when you see a great thing like that up there--[Sighs.] But +there's your Aunt, if I were to say a thing like that to her she 'd-- +she'd think me a lunatic; and yet, you know, she 's a very good +woman. + +MRS. GWYN. [Half clinging to him.] Do you think me very selfish, +Uncle Tom? + +COLONEL. My dear--what a fancy! Think you selfish--of course I +don't; why should I? + +MRS. GWYN. [Dully.] I don't know. + +COLONEL. [Changing the subject nervously.] I like your friend, +Lever, Molly. He came to me before dinner quite distressed about +your Aunt, beggin' me not to take those shares. She 'll be the first +to worry me, but he made such a point of it, poor chap--in the end I +was obliged to say I wouldn't. I thought it showed very' nice +feeling. [Ruefully.] It's a pretty tight fit to make two ends meet +on my income--I've missed a good thing, all owing to your Aunt. +[Dropping his voice.] I don't mind telling you, Molly, I think +they've got a much finer mine there than they've any idea of. + + [MRS. GWYN gives way to laughter that is very near to sobs.] + +[With dignity.] I can't see what there is to laugh at. + +MRS. GWYN. I don't know what's the matter with me this evening. + +MISS BEECH. [In a low voice.] I do. + +COLONEL. There, there! Give me a kiss, old girl! [He kisses her on +the brow.] Why, your forehead's as hot as fire. I know--I know-you +'re fretting about Joy. Never mind--come! [He draws her hand +beneath his arm.] Let's go and have a look at the moon on the river. +We all get upset at times; eh! [Lifting his hand as if he had been +stung.] Why, you 're not crying, Molly! I say! Don't do that, old +girl, it makes me wretched. Look here, Peachey. [Holding out the +hand on which the tear has dropped.] This is dreadful! + +MRS. GWYN. [With a violent effort.] It's all right, Uncle Tom! + + [MISS BEECH wipes her own eyes stealthily. From the house is + heard the voice of MRS. HOPE, calling "Tom."] + +MISS BEECH. Some one calling you. + +COLONEL. There, there, my dear, you just stay here, and cool +yourself--I 'll come back--shan't be a minute. [He turns to go.] + + [MRS. HOPE'S voice sounds nearer.] + +[Turning back.] And Molly, old girl, don't you mind anything I said. +I don't remember what it was--it must have been something, I suppose. + + [He hastily retreats.] + +MRS. GWYN. [In a fierce low voice.] Why do you torture me? + +MISS BEECH. [Sadly.] I don't want to torture you. + +MRS. GWYN, But you do. D' you think I haven't seen this coming--all +these weeks. I knew she must find out some time! But even a day +counts---- + +MISS BEECH. I don't understand why you brought him down here. + +MRS. GWYN. [After staring at her, bitterly.] When day after day and +night after night you've thought of nothing but how to keep them +both, you might a little want to prove that it was possible, mightn't +you? But you don't understand--how should you? You've never been a +mother! [And fiercely.] You've never had a lov---- + + [MISS BEECH raises her face-it is all puckered.] + +[Impulsively.] Oh, I did n't mean that, Peachey! + +MISS BEECH. All right, my dear. + +MRS. GWYN. I'm so dragged in two! [She sinks into a chair.] I knew +it must come. + +MISS BEECH. Does she know everything, Molly? + +MRS. GWYN. She guesses. + +MISS BEECH. [Mournfully.] It's either him or her then, my dear; one +or the other you 'll have to give up. + +MRS. GWYN. [Motionless.] Life's very hard on women! + +MISS BEECH. Life's only just beginning for that child, Molly. + +MRS. GWYN. You don't care if it ends for me! + +MISS BEECH. Is it as bad as that? + +MRS. GWYN. Yes. + +MISS BEECH. [Rocking hey body.] Poor things! Poor things! + +MRS. GWYN. Are you still fond of me? + +MISS BEECH. Yes, yes, my dear, of course I am. + +MRS. GWYN. In spite of my-wickedness? + + [She laughs.] + +MISS BEECH. Who am I to tell what's wicked and what is n't? God +knows you're both like daughters to me! + +MRS. GWYN. [Abruptly.] I can't. + +MISS BEECH. Molly. + +MRS. GWYN. You don't know what you're asking. + +MISS BEECH. If I could save you suffering, my dear, I would. I hate +suffering, if it 's only a fly, I hate it. + +MRS. GWYN. [Turning away from her.] Life is n't fair. Peachey, go +in and leave me alone. + + [She leans back motionless.] + + [Miss BEECH gets off her seat, and stroking MRS. GWYN's arm in + passing goes silently away. In the opening of the wall she + meets LEVER who is looking for his partner. They make way for + each other.] + +LEVER. [Going up to MRS. GWYN--gravely.] The next is our dance, +Molly. + +MRS. GWYN. [Unmoving.] Let's sit it out here, then. + + [LEVER sits down.] + +LEVER. I've made it all right with your Uncle. + +MRS. GWYN. [Dully.] Oh? + +LEVER. I spoke to him about the shares before dinner. + +MRS. GWYN. Yes, he told me, thank you. + +LEVER. There 's nothing to worry over, dear. + +MRS. GWYN. [Passionately.] What does it matter about the wretched +shares now? I 'm stifling. + + [She throws her scarf off.] + +LEVER. I don't understand what you mean by "now." + +MRS. GWYN. Don't you? + +LEVER. We were n't--Joy can't know--why should she? I don't believe +for a minute---- + +MRS. GWYN. Because you don't want to. + +LEVER. Do you mean she does? + +MRS. GWYN. Her heart knows. + + [LEVER makes a movement of discomfiture; suddenly MRS. GWYN + looks at him as though to read his soul.] + +I seem to bring you nothing but worry, Maurice. Are you tired of me? + +LEVER. [Meeting her eyes.] No, I am not. + +MRS. GWYN. Ah, but would you tell me if you were? + +LEVER. [Softly.] Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. + + [MRS. GWYN struggles to look at him, then covers her face with + her hands.] + +MRS. GWYN. If I were to give you up, you'd forget me in a month. + +LEVER. Why do you say such things? + +MRS. GWYN. If only I could believe I was necessary to you! + +LEVER. [Forcing the fervour of his voice.] But you are! + +MRS. GWYN. Am I? [With the ghost of a smile.] Midsummer day! + + [She gives a laugh that breaks into a sob.] + + [The music o f a waltz sounds from the house.] + +LEVER. For God's sake, don't, Molly--I don't believe in going to +meet trouble. + +MRS. GWYN. It's staring me in the face. + +LEVER. Let the future take care of itself! + + [MRS. GWYN has turned away her face, covering it with her + hands.] + +Don't, Molly! [Trying to pull her hands away.] Don't! + +MRS. GWYN. Oh! what shall I do? + + [There is a silence; the music of the waltz sounds louder from + the house.] + +[Starting up.] Listen! One can't sit it out and dance it too. +Which is it to be, Maurice, dancing--or sitting out? It must be one +or the other, must n't it? + +LEVER. Molly! Molly! + +MRS. GWYN. Ah, my dear! [Standing away from him as though to show +herself.] How long shall I keep you? This is all that 's left of +me. It 's time I joined the wallflowers. [Smiling faintly.] It's +time I played the mother, is n't it? [In a whisper.] It'll be all +sitting out then. + +LEVER. Don't! Let's go and dance, it'll do you good. + + [He puts his hands on her arms, and in a gust of passion kisses + her lips and throat.] + +MRS. GWYN. I can't give you up--I can't. Love me, oh! love me! + + [For a moment they stand so; then, with sudden remembrance of + where they are, they move apart.] + +LEVER. Are you all right now, darling? + +MRS. GWYN. [Trying to smile.] Yes, dear--quite. + +LEVER. Then let 's go, and dance. [They go.] + +[For a few seconds the hollow tree stands alone; then from the house +ROSE comes and enters it. She takes out a bottle of champagne, wipes +it, and carries it away; but seeing MRS. GWYN's scarf lying across +the chair, she fingers it, and stops, listening to the waltz. +Suddenly draping it round her shoulders, she seizes the bottle of +champagne, and waltzes with abandon to the music, as though avenging +a long starvation of her instincts. Thus dancing, she is surprised +by DICK, who has come to smoke a cigarette and think, at the spot +where he was told to "have a go." ROSE, startled, stops and hugs the +bottle.] + +DICK. It's not claret, Rose, I should n't warm it. + + [ROSE, taking off the scarf, replaces it on the chair; then with + the half-warmed bottle, she retreats. DICK, in the swing, sits + thinking of his fate. Suddenly from behind the hollow tree he + sees Joy darting forward in her day dress with her hair about + her neck, and her skirt all torn. As he springs towards her, + she turns at bay.] + +DICK. Joy! + +JOY. I want Uncle Tom. + +DICK. [In consternation.] But ought you to have got up--I thought +you were ill in bed; oughtn't you to be lying down? + +JOY. If have n't been in bed. Where's Uncle Tom? + +DICK. But where have you been?-your dress is all torn. Look! [He +touches the torn skirt.] + +JOY. [Tearing it away.] In the fields. Where's Uncle Tom? + +DICK. Are n't you really ill then? + + [Joy shakes her head.] + +DICK, [showing her the irises.] Look at these. They were the best I +could get. + +JOY. Don't! I want Uncle Tom! + +DICK. Won't you take them? + +JOY. I 've got something else to do. + +DICK. [With sudden resolution.] What do you want the Colonel for? + +JOY. I want him. + +DICK. Alone? + +JOY. Yes. + +DICK. Joy, what is the matter? + +JOY. I 've got something to tell him. + +DICK. What? [With sudden inspiration.] Is it about Lever? + +JOY. [In a low voice.] The mine. + +DICK. The mine? + +JOY. It 's not--not a proper one. + +DICK. How do you mean, Joy? + +JOY. I overheard. I don't care, I listened. I would n't if it had +been anybody else, but I hate him. + +DICK. [Gravely.] What did you hear? + +JOY. He 's keeping back something Uncle Tom ought to know. + +DICK. Are you sure? + + [Joy makes a rush to pass him.] + +[Barring the way.] No, wait a minute--you must! Was it something +that really matters?--I don't want to know what. + +JOY. Yes, it was. + +DICK. What a beastly thing--are you quite certain, Joy? + +JOY. [Between her teeth.] Yes. + +DICK. Then you must tell him, of course, even if you did overhear. +You can't stand by and see the Colonel swindled. Whom was he talking +to? + +JOY. I won't tell you. + +DICK. [Taking her wrist.] Was it was it your Mother? + + [Joy bends her head.] + +But if it was your Mother, why does n't she---- + +JOY. Let me go! + +DICK. [Still holding her.] I mean I can't see what---- + +JOY. [Passionately.] Let me go! + +DICK. [Releasing her.] I'm thinking of your Mother, Joy. She would +never---- + +JOY. [Covering her face.] That man! + +DICK. But joy, just think! There must be some mistake. It 's so +queer--it 's quite impossible! + +JOY. He won't let her. + +DICK. Won't let her--won't let her? But [Stopping dead, and in a +very different voice.] Oh! + +JOY. [Passionately.] Why d' you look at me like that? Why can't +you speak? + + [She waits for him to speak, but he does not.] + +I'm going to show what he is, so that Mother shan't speak to him +again. I can--can't I--if I tell Uncle Tom?--can't I----? + +DICK. But Joy--if your Mother knows a thing like--that---- + +JOY. She wanted to tell--she begged him--and he would n't. + +DICK. But, joy, dear, it means---- + +JOY. I hate him, I want to make her hate him, and I will. + +DICK. But, Joy, dear, don't you see--if your Mother knows a thing +like that, and does n't speak of it, it means that she--it means that +you can't make her hate him--it means----If it were anybody else-- +but, well, you can't give your own Mother away! + +JOY. How dare you! How dare you! [Turning to the hollow tree.] It +is n't true--Oh! it is n't true! + +DICK. [In deep distress.] Joy, dear, I never meant, I didn't +really! + + [He tries to pull her hands down from her face.] + +JOY. [Suddenly.] Oh! go away, go away! + + [MRS. GWYN is seen coming back. JOY springs into the tree. + DICK quickly steals away. MRS. GWYN goes up to the chair and + takes the scarf that she has come for, and is going again when + JOY steals out to her.] + +Mother! + + [MRS. GWYN stands looking at her with her teeth set on her lower + lip.] + +Oh! Mother, it is n't true? + +MRS. GWYN. [Very still.] What is n't true? + +JOY. That you and he are---- + + [Searching her Mother's face, which is deadly still. In a + whisper.] + +Then it is true. Oh! + +MRS. GWYN. That's enough, Joy! What I am is my affair--not yours-- +do you understand? + +JOY. [Low and fierce.] Yes, I do. + +MRS. GWYN. You don't. You're only a child. + +JOY. [Passionately.] I understand that you've hurt [She stops.] + +MRS. GWYN. Do you mean your Father? + +JOY. [Bowing her head.] Yes, and--and me. [She covers her face.] +I'm--I'm ashamed. + +MRS. GWYN. I brought you into the world, and you say that to me? +Have I been a bad mother to you? + +JOY. [In a smothered voice.] Oh! Mother! + +MRS. GWYN. Ashamed? Am I to live all my life like a dead woman +because you're ashamed? Am I to live like the dead because you 're a +child that knows nothing of life? Listen, Joy, you 'd better +understand this once for all. Your Father has no right over me and +he knows it. We 've been hateful to each other for years. Can you +understand that? Don't cover your face like a child--look at me. + + [Joy drops her hands, and lifts her face. MRS. GWYN looks back + at her, her lips are quivering; she goes on speaking with + stammering rapidity.] + +D' you think--because I suffered when you were born and because I 've +suffered since with every ache you ever had, that that gives you the +right to dictate to me now? [In a dead voice.] I've been unhappy +enough and I shall be unhappy enough in the time to come. [Meeting +the hard wonder in Joy's face.] Oh! you untouched things, you're as +hard and cold as iron! + +JOY. I would do anything for you, Mother. + +MRS. GWYN. Except--let me live, Joy. That's the only thing you won't +do for me, I quite understand. + +JOY. Oh! Mother, you don't understand--I want you so; and I seem to +be nothing to you now. + +MRS. GWYN. Nothing to me? [She smiles.] + +JOY. Mother, darling, if you're so unhappy let's forget it all, +let's go away and I 'll be everything to you, I promise. + +MRS. GWYN. [With the ghost of a laugh.] Ah, Joy! + +JOY. I would try so hard. + +MRS. GWYN. [With the same quivering smile.] My darling, I know you +would, until you fell in love yourself. + +JOY. Oh, Mother, I wouldn't, I never would, I swear it. + +MRS. GWYN. There has never been a woman, joy, that did not fall in +love. + +JOY. [In a despairing whisper.] But it 's wrong of you it's wicked! + +MRS. GWYN. If it's wicked, I shall pay for it, not you! + +JOY. But I want to save you, Mother! + +MRS. GWYN. Save me? [Breaking into laughter.] + +JOY. I can't bear it that you--if you 'll only--I'll never leave +you. You think I don't know what I 'm saying, but I do, because even +now I--I half love somebody. Oh, Mother! [Pressing her breast.] +I feel--I feel so awful--as if everybody knew. + +MRS. GWYN. You think I'm a monster to hurt you. Ah! yes! You'll +understand better some day. + +JOY. [In a sudden outburst of excited fear.] I won't believe it-- +I--I--can't--you're deserting me, Mother. + +MRS. GWYN. Oh, you untouched things! You---- + + [Joy' looks up suddenly, sees her face, and sinks down on her + knees.] + +JOY. Mother--it 's for me! + +GWYN. Ask for my life, JOY--don't be afraid. + + [Joy turns her face away. MRS. GWYN bends suddenly and touches + her daughter's hair; JOY shrinks from that touch.] + +[Recoiling as though she had been stung.] I forgot--I 'm deserting +you. + + [And swiftly without looking back she goes away. Joy, left alone + under the hollow tree, crouches lower, and her shoulders shake. + Here DICK finds her, when he hears no longer any sound o f + voices. He falls on his knees beside her.] + +DICK. Oh! Joy; dear, don't cry. It's so dreadful to see you! I 'd +do anything not to see you cry! Say something. + + [Joy is still for a moment, then the shaking of the shoulders + begins again.] + +Joy, darling! It's so awful, you 'll make yourself ill, and it is +n't worth it, really. I 'd do anything to save you pain--won't you +stop just for a minute? + + [Joy is still again.] + +Nothing in the world 's worth your crying, Joy. Give me just a +little look! + +JOY. [Looking; in a smothered voice.] Don't! + +DICK. You do look so sweet! Oh, Joy, I'll comfort you, I'll take it +all on myself. I know all about it. + + [Joy gives a sobbing laugh] + +I do. I 've had trouble too, I swear I have. It gets better, it +does really. + +JOY. You don't know--it's--it's---- + +DICK. Don't think about it! No, no, no! I know exactly what it's +like. [He strokes her arm.] + +JOY. [Shrinking, in a whisper.] You mustn't. + + [The music of a waltz is heard again.] + +DICK. Look here, joy! It's no good, we must talk it over calmly. + +JOY. You don't see! It's the--it 's the disgrace---- + +DICK. Oh! as to disgrace--she's your Mother, whatever she does; I'd +like to see anybody say anything about her--[viciously]--I'd punch +his head. + +JOY. [Gulping her tears.] That does n't help. + +DICK. But if she doesn't love your Father---- + +JOY. But she's married to him! + +DICK. [Hastily.] Yes, of course, I know, marriage is awfully +important; but a man understands these things. + + [Joy looks at him. Seeing the impression he has made, he tries + again.] + +I mean, he understands better than a woman. I've often argued about +moral questions with men up at Oxford. + +JOY. [Catching at a straw.] But there's nothing to argue about. + +DICK. [Hastily.] Of course, I believe in morals. + + [They stare solemnly at each other.] + +Some men don't. But I can't help seeing marriage is awfully +important. + +JOY. [Solemnly.] It's sacred. + +DICK. Yes, I know, but there must be exceptions, Joy. + +Joy. [Losing herself a little in the stress of this discussion.] +How can there be exceptions if a thing 's sacred? + +DICK. [Earnestly.] All rules have exceptions; that's true, you +know; it's a proverb. + +JOY. It can't be true about marriage--how can it when----? + +DICK. [With intense earnestness.] But look here, Joy, I know a +really clever man--an author. He says that if marriage is a failure +people ought to be perfectly free; it isn't everybody who believes +that marriage is everything. Of course, I believe it 's sacred, but +if it's a failure, I do think it seems awful--don't you? + +JOY. I don't know--yes--if--[Suddenly] But it's my own Mother! + +DICK. [Gravely.] I know, of course. I can't expect you to see it +in your own case like this. [With desperation.] But look here, Joy, +this'll show you! If a person loves a person, they have to decide, +have n't they? Well, then, you see, that 's what your Mother's done. + +JOY. But that does n't show me anything! + +DICK. But it does. The thing is to look at it as if it was n't +yourself. If it had been you and me in love, Joy, and it was wrong, +like them, of course [ruefully] I know you'd have decided right. +[Fiercely.] But I swear I should have decided wrong. +[Triumphantly.] That 's why I feel I understand your Mother. + +JOY. [Brushing her sleeve across her eyes.] Oh, Dick, you are so +sweet--and--and--funny! + +DICK. [Sliding his arm about her.] I love you, Joy, that 's why, +and I 'll love you till you don't feel it any more. I will. I'll +love you all day and every day; you shan't miss anything, I swear it. +It 's such a beautiful night--it 's on purpose. Look' [JOY looks; he +looks at her.] But it 's not so beautiful as you. + +JOY. [Bending her head.] You mustn't. I don't know--what's coming? + +DICK. [Sidling closer.] Are n't your knees tired, darling? I--I +can't get near you properly. + +JOY. [With a sob.] Oh! Dick, you are a funny--comfort! + +DICK. We'll stick together, Joy, always; nothing'll matter then. + + [They struggle to their feet-the waltz sounds louder.] + +You're missing it all! I can't bear you to miss the dancing. It +seems so queer! Couldn't we? Just a little turn? + +JOY. No, no? + +DICK. Oh! try! + + [He takes her gently by the waist, she shrinks back.] + +JOY. [Brokenly.] No-no! Oh! Dick-to-morrow 'll be so awful. + +DICK. To-morrow shan't hurt you, Joy; nothing shall ever hurt you +again. + + [She looks at him, and her face changes; suddenly she buries it + against his shoulder.] + +[They stand so just a moment in the moon light; then turning to the +river move slowly out of sight. Again the hollow tree is left alone. +The music of the waltz has stopped. The voices of MISS BEECH and the +COLONEL are heard approaching from the house. They appear in the +opening of the wall. The COLONEL carries a pair of field glasses +with which to look at the Moon.] + +COLONEL. Charming to see Molly dance with Lever, their steps go so +well together! I can always tell when a woman's enjoying herself, +Peachey. + +MISS BEECH. [Sharply.] Can you? You're very clever. + +COLONEL. Wonderful, that moon! I'm going to have a look at her! +Splendid glasses these, Peachy [he screws them out], not a better +pair in England. I remember in Burmah with these glasses I used to +be able to tell a man from a woman at two miles and a quarter. And +that's no joke, I can tell you. [But on his way to the moon, he has +taken a survey of the earth to the right along the river. In a low +but excited voice] I say, I say--is it one of the maids--the +baggage! Why! It's Dick! By George, she's got her hair down, +Peachey! It's Joy! + + [MISS BEECH goes to look. He makes as though to hand the + glasses to her, but puts them to his own eyes instead-- + excitedly.] + +It is! What about her headache? By George, they're kissing. I say, +Peachey! I shall have to tell Nell! + +MISS BEECH. Are you sure they're kissing? Well, that's some +comfort. + +COLONEL. They're at the stile now. Oughtn't I to stop them, eh? +[He stands on tiptoe.] We must n't spy on them, dash it all. [He +drops the glasses.] They're out of sight now. + +MISS BEECH. [To herself.] He said he wouldn't let her. + +COLONEL. What! have you been encouraging them! + +MISS BEECH. Don't be in such a hurry! + + [She moves towards the hollow tree.] + +COLONEL. [Abstractedly.] By George, Peachey, to think that Nell and +I were once--Poor Nell! I remember just such a night as this + + [He stops, and stares before him, sighing.] + +MISS BEECH, [Impressively.] It's a comfort she's got that good young +man. She's found out that her mother and this Mr. Lever are--you +know. + +COLONEL. [Losing all traces of his fussiness, and drawing himself up +as though he were on parade.] You tell me that my niece? + +MISS BEECH. Out of her own mouth! + +COLONEL. [Bowing his head.] I never would have believed she'd have +forgotten herself. + +MISS BEECH. [Very solemnly.] Ah, my dear! We're all the same; +we're all as hollow as that tree! When it's ourselves it's always a +special case! + + [The COLONEL makes a movement of distress, and Miss BEECH goes + to him.] + +Don't you take it so to heart, my dear! + + [A silence.] + +COLONEL. [Shaking his head.] I couldn't have believed Molly would +forget that child. + +MISS BEECH. [Sadly.] They must go their own ways, poor things! She +can't put herself in the child's place, and the child can't put +herself in Molly's. A woman and a girl--there's the tree of life +between them! + +COLONEL. [Staring into the tree to see indeed if that were the tree +alluded to.] It's a grief to me, Peachey, it's a grief! [He sinks +into a chair, stroking his long moustaches. Then to avenge his +hurt.] Shan't tell Nell--dashed if I do anything to make the trouble +worse! + +MISS BEECH. [Nodding.] There's suffering enough, without adding to +it with our trumpery judgments! If only things would last between +them! + +COLONEL. [Fiercely.] Last! By George, they'd better---- + + [He stops, and looking up with a queer sorry look.] + +I say, Peachey Life's very funny! + +MISS BEECH. Men and women are! [Touching his forehead tenderly.] +There, there--take care of your poor, dear head! Tsst! The blessed +innocents! + + [She pulls the COLONEL'S sleeve. They slip away towards the + house, as JOY and DICK come back. They are still linked + together, and stop by the hollow tree.] + +JOY. [In a whisper.] Dick, is love always like this? + +DICK. [Putting his arms around her, with conviction.] It's never +been like this before. It's you and me! + + [He kisses her on the lips.] + + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of JOY, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +STRIFE + +A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +JOHN ANTHONY, Chairman of the Trenartha Tin Plate Works +EDGAR ANTHONY, his Son + +FREDERIC H. WILDER, | +WILLIAM SCANTLEBURY,| Directors Of the same +OLIVER WANKLIN, | + +HENRY TENCH, Secretary of the same +FRANCIS UNDERWOOD, C.E., Manager of the same +SIMON HARNESS, a Trades Union official + +DAVID ROBERTS, | +JAMES GREEN, | +JOHN BULGIN, | the workmen's committee +HENRY THOMAS, | +GEORGE ROUS, | + +HENRY ROUS, | +LEWIS, | +JAGO, | +EVANS, | workman at the Trenartha Tin Plate Works +A BLACKSMITH, | +DAVIES, | +A RED-HAIRED YOUTH. | +BROWN | + +FROST, valet to John Anthony +ENID UNDERWOOD, Wife of Francis Underwood, daughter of John Anthony +ANNIE ROBERTS, wife of David Roberts +MADGE THOMAS, daughter of Henry Thomas +MRS. ROUS, mother of George and Henry Rous +MRS. BULGIN, wife of John Bulgin +MRS. YEO, wife of a workman +A PARLOURMAID to the Underwoods +JAN, Madge's brother, a boy of ten +A CROWD OF MEN ON STRIKE + + + + + +ACT I. The dining-room of the Manager's house. + +ACT II, + SCENE I. The kitchen of the Roberts's cottage near the works. + SCENE II. A space outside the works. + +ACT III. The drawing-room of the Manager's house. + + + +The action takes place on February 7th between the hours of noon and +six in the afternoon, close to the Trenartha Tin Plate Works, on the +borders of England and Wales, where a strike has been in progress +throughout the winter. + + + + + +ACT I + + + It is noon. In the Underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is + burning. On one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading + to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the + hall. In the centre of the room a long dining-table without a + cloth is set out as a Board table. At the head of it, in the + Chairman's seat, sits JOHN ANTHONY, an old man, big, clean- + shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick dark + eyebrows. His movements are rather slow and feeble, but his + eyes are very much alive. There is a glass of water by his + side. On his right sits his son EDGAR, an earnest-looking man + of thirty, reading a newspaper. Next him WANKLIN, a man with + jutting eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending + over transfer papers. TENCH, the Secretary, a short and rather + humble, nervous man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. On + WANKLIN'S right sits UNDERWOOD, the Manager, a quiet man, with + along, stiff jaw, and steady eyes. Back to the fire is + SCANTLEBURY, a very large, pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, + rather bald. Between him and the Chairman are two empty chairs. + +WILDER. [Who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping +grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] I say, this fire's the +devil! Can I have a screen, Tench? + +SCANTLEBURY. A screen, ah! + +TENCH. Certainly, Mr. Wilder. [He looks at UNDERWOOD.] That is-- +perhaps the Manager--perhaps Mr. Underwood---- + +SCANTLEBURY. These fireplaces of yours, Underwood---- + +UNDERWOOD. [Roused from studying some papers.] A screen? Rather! +I'm sorry. [He goes to the door with a little smile.] We're not +accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now. + + [He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly, + ironically.] + +WILDER. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm! + + [UNDERWOOD goes out.] + +SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils! + +WILDER. It's their own fault, Scantlebury. + +EDGAR. [Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them, +according to the Trenartha News. + +WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views. +They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought +to be shot. + +EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the +Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would +condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing +amongst their work-people during this strike----" + +WILDER. Well, we have come. + +EDGAR. [Continuing.] "We cannot believe that even their leg-of- +mutton hearts would remain untouched." + + [WANKLIN takes the paper from him.] + +WILDER. Ruffian! I remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to +his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black- +guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself. + + [ANTHONY says something that is not heard.] + +WILDER. What does your father say? + +EDGAR. He says "The kettle and the pot." + +WILDER. H'm! + + [He sits down next to SCANTLEBURY.] + +SCANTLEBURY. [Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don't get +that screen. + + [UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before + the fire. ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is + twenty-eight years old.] + +ENID. Put it closer, Frank. Will that do, Mr. Wilder? It's the +highest we've got. + +WILDER. Thanks, capitally. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah! Merci, +Madame! + +ENID. Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his +head.] Edgar--anything? + +EDGAR. You might give me a "J" nib, old girl. + +ENID. There are some down there by Mr. Scantlebury. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses +"J's." What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.] +What does your husband use, Mrs. Underwood? + +UNDERWOOD. A quill! + +SCANTLEBURY. The homely product of the goose. [He holds out +quills.] + +UNDERWOOD. [Drily.] Thanks, if you can spare me one. [He takes a +quill.] What about lunch, Enid? + +ENID. [Stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] We're going +to have lunch here, in the drawing-room, so you need n't hurry with +your meeting. + + [WANKLIN and WILDER bow, and she goes out.] + +SCANTLEBURY. [Rousing himself, suddenly.] Ah! Lunch! That hotel-- +Dreadful! Did you try the whitebait last night? Fried fat! + +WILDER. Past twelve! Are n't you going to read the minutes, Tench? + +TENCH. [Looking for the CHAIRMAN'S assent, reads in a rapid and +monotonous voice.] "At a Board Meeting held the 31st of January at +the Company's Offices, 512, Cannon Street, E.C. Present--Mr. Anthony +in the chair, Messrs. F. H. Wilder, William Scantlebury, Oliver +Wanklin, and Edgar Anthony. Read letters from the Manager dated +January 20th, 23d, 25th, 28th, relative to the strike at the +Company's Works. Read letters to the Manager of January 21st, 24th, +26th, 29th. Read letter from Mr. Simon Harness, of the Central +Union, asking for an interview with the Board. Read letter from the +Men's Committee, signed David Roberts, James Green, John Bulgin, +Henry Thomas, George Rous, desiring conference with the Board; and it +was resolved that a special Board Meeting be called for February 7th +at the house of the Manager, for the purpose of discussing the +situation with Mr. Simon Harness and the Men's Committee on the spot. +Passed twelve transfers, signed and sealed nine certificates and one +balance certificate." + +[He pushes the book over to the CHAIRMAN.] + +ANTHONY. [With a heavy sigh.] If it's your pleasure, sign the same. + + [He signs, moving the pen with difficulty. ] + +WANKLIN. What's the Union's game, Tench? They have n't made up +their split with the men. What does Harness want this interview for? + +TENCH. Hoping we shall come to a compromise, I think, sir; he's +having a meeting with the men this afternoon. + +WILDER. Harness! Ah! He's one of those cold-blooded, cool-headed +chaps. I distrust them. I don't know that we didn't make a mistake +to come down. What time'll the men be here? + +UNDERWOOD. Any time now. + +WILDER. Well, if we're not ready, they'll have to wait--won't do +them any harm to cool their heels a bit. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Slowly.] Poor devils! It's snowing. What weather! + +UNDERWOOD. [With meaning slowness.] This house'll be the warmest +place they've been in this winter. + +WILDER. Well, I hope we're going to settle this business in time for +me to catch the 6.30. I've got to take my wife to Spain to-morrow. +[Chattily.] My old father had a strike at his works in '69 ; just +such a February as this. They wanted to shoot him. + +WANKLIN. What! In the close season? + +WILDER. By George, there was no close season for employers then! He +used to go down to his office with a pistol in his pocket. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Faintly alarmed.] Not seriously? + +WILDER. [With finality.] Ended in his shootin' one of 'em in the +legs. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Unavoidably feeling his thigh.] No? Which? + +ANTHONY. [Lifting the agenda paper.] To consider the policy of the +Board in relation to the strike. [There is a silence.] + +WILDER. It's this infernal three-cornered duel--the Union, the men, +and ourselves. + +WANKLIN. We need n't consider the Union. + +WILDER. It's my experience that you've always got to, consider the +Union, confound them! If the Union were going to withdraw their +support from the men, as they've done, why did they ever allow them +to strike at all? + +EDGAR. We've had that over a dozen times. + +WILDER. Well, I've never understood it! It's beyond me. They talk +of the engineers' and furnace-men's demands being excessive--so they +are--but that's not enough to make the Union withdraw their support. +What's behind it? + +UNDERWOOD. Fear of strikes at Harper's and Tinewell's. + +WILDER. [With triumph.] Afraid of other strikes--now, that's a +reason! Why could n't we have been told that before? + +UNDERWOOD. You were. + +TENCH. You were absent from the Board that day, sir. + +SCANTLEBURY. The men must have seen they had no chance when the +Union gave them up. It's madness. + +UNDERWOOD. It's Roberts! + +WILDER. Just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like +Roberts for leader. [A pause.] + +WANKLIN. [Looking at ANTHONY.] Well? + +WILDER. [Breaking in fussily.] It's a regular mess. I don't like +the position we're in; I don't like it; I've said so for a long time. +[Looking at WANKLIN.] When Wanklin and I came down here before +Christmas it looked as if the men must collapse. You thought so too, +Underwood. + +UNDERWOOD. Yes. + +WILDER. Well, they haven't! Here we are, going from bad to worse +losing our customers--shares going down! + +SCANTLEBURY. [Shaking his head.] M'm! M'm! + +WANKLIN. What loss have we made by this strike, Tench? + +TENCH. Over fifty thousand, sir! + +SCANTLEBURY, [Pained.] You don't say! + +WILDER. We shall never got it back. + +TENCH. No, sir. + +WILDER. Who'd have supposed the men were going to stick out like +this--nobody suggested that. [Looking angrily at TENCH.] + +SCANTLEBURY. [Shaking his head.] I've never liked a fight--never +shall. + +ANTHONY. No surrender! [All look at him.] + +WILDER. Who wants to surrender? [ANTHONY looks at him.] I--I want +to act reasonably. When the men sent Roberts up to the Board in +December--then was the time. We ought to have humoured him; instead +of that the Chairman--[Dropping his eyes before ANTHONY'S]--er--we +snapped his head off. We could have got them in then by a little +tact. + +ANTHONY. No compromise! + +WILDER. There we are! This strike's been going on now since +October, and as far as I can see it may last another six months. +Pretty mess we shall be in by then. The only comfort is, the men'll +be in a worse! + +EDGAR. [To UNDERWOOD.] What sort of state are they really in, +Frank? + +UNDERWOOD. [Without expression.] Damnable! + +WILDER. Well, who on earth would have thought they'd have held on +like this without support! + +UNDERWOOD. Those who know them. + +WILDER. I defy any one to know them! And what about tin? Price +going up daily. When we do get started we shall have to work off our +contracts at the top of the market. + +WANKLIN. What do you say to that, Chairman? + +ANTHONY. Can't be helped! + +WILDER. Shan't pay a dividend till goodness knows when! + +SCANTLEBURY. [With emphasis.] We ought to think of the +shareholders. [Turning heavily.] Chairman, I say we ought to think +of the shareholders. [ANTHONY mutters.] + +SCANTLEBURY. What's that? + +TENCH. The Chairman says he is thinking of you, sir. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Sinking back into torpor.] Cynic! + +WILDER. It's past a joke. I don't want to go without a dividend for +years if the Chairman does. We can't go on playing ducks and drakes +with the Company's prosperity. + +EDGAR. [Rather ashamedly.] I think we ought to consider the men. + + [All but ANTHONY fidget in their seats.] + +SCANTLEBURY. [With a sigh.] We must n't think of our private +feelings, young man. That'll never do. + +EDGAR. [Ironically.] I'm not thinking of our feelings. I'm +thinking of the men's. + +WILDER. As to that--we're men of business. + +WANKLIN. That is the little trouble. + +EDGAR. There's no necessity for pushing things so far in the face of +all this suffering--it's--it's cruel. + + [No one speaks, as though EDGAR had uncovered something whose + existence no man prizing his self-respect could afford to + recognise.] + +WANKLIN. [With an ironical smile.] I'm afraid we must n't base our +policy on luxuries like sentiment. + +EDGAR. I detest this state of things. + +ANTHONY. We did n't seek the quarrel. + +EDGAR. I know that sir, but surely we've gone far enough. + +ANTHONY. No. [All look at one another.] + +WANKLIN. Luxuries apart, Chairman, we must look out what we're +doing. + +ANTHONY. Give way to the men once and there'll be no end to it. + +WANKLIN. I quite agree, but---- + + [ANTHONY Shakes his head] + +You make it a question of bedrock principle? + + [ANTHONY nods.] + +Luxuries again, Chairman! The shares are below par. + +WILDER. Yes, and they'll drop to a half when we pass the next +dividend. + +SCANTLEBURY. [With alarm.] Come, come! Not so bad as that. + +WILDER. [Grimly.] You'll see! [Craning forward to catch ANTHONY'S +speech.] I didn't catch---- + +TENCH. [Hesitating.] The Chairman says, sir, "Fais que--que--devra." + +EDGAR. [Sharply.] My father says: "Do what we ought--and let things +rip." + +WILDER. Tcha! + +SCANTLEBURY. [Throwing up his hands.] The Chairman's a Stoic--I +always said the Chairman was a Stoic. + +WILDER. Much good that'll do us. + +WANKLIN. [Suavely.] Seriously, Chairman, are you going to let the +ship sink under you, for the sake of--a principle? + +ANTHONY. She won't sink. + +SCANTLEBURY. [With alarm.] Not while I'm on the Board I hope. + +ANTHONY. [With a twinkle.] Better rat, Scantlebury. + +SCANTLEBURY. What a man! + +ANTHONY. I've always fought them; I've never been beaten yet. + +WANKLIN. We're with you in theory, Chairman. But we're not all made +of cast-iron. + +ANTHONY. We've only to hold on. + +WILDER. [Rising and going to the fire.] And go to the devil as fast +as we can! + +ANTHONY. Better go to the devil than give in! + +WILDER. [Fretfully.] That may suit you, sir, but it does n't suit +me, or any one else I should think. + + [ANTHONY looks him in the face-a silence.] + +EDGAR. I don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this +means starvation to the men's wives and families. + + [WILDER turns abruptly to the fire, and SCANTLEBURY puts out a + hand to push the idea away.] + +WANKLIN. I'm afraid again that sounds a little sentimental. + +EDGAR. Men of business are excused from decency, you think? + +WILDER. Nobody's more sorry for the men than I am, but if they +[lashing himself] choose to be such a pig-headed lot, it's nothing +to do with us; we've quite enough on our hands to think of ourselves +and the shareholders. + +EDGAR. [Irritably.] It won't kill the shareholders to miss a +dividend or two; I don't see that that's reason enough for knuckling +under. + +SCANTLEBURY. [With grave discomfort.] You talk very lightly of your +dividends, young man; I don't know where we are. + +WILDER. There's only one sound way of looking at it. We can't go on +ruining ourselves with this strike. + +ANTHONY. No caving in! + +SCANTLEBURY. [With a gesture of despair.] Look at him! + + [ANTHONY'S leaning back in his chair. They do look at him.] + +WILDER. [Returning to his seat.] Well, all I can say is, if that's +the Chairman's view, I don't know what we've come down here for. + +ANTHONY. To tell the men that we've got nothing for them---- +[Grimly.] They won't believe it till they hear it spoken in plain +English. + +WILDER. H'm! Shouldn't be a bit surprised if that brute Roberts had +n't got us down here with the very same idea. I hate a man with a +grievance. + +EDGAR. [Resentfully.] We didn't pay him enough for his discovery. +I always said that at the time. + +WILDER. We paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three +years later. If that's not enough! What does he want, for goodness' +sake? + +TENCH. [Complainingly.] Company made a hundred thousand out of his +brains, and paid him seven hundred--that's the way he goes on, sir. + +WILDER. The man's a rank agitator! Look here, I hate the Unions. +But now we've got Harness here let's get him to settle the whole +thing. + +ANTHONY. No! [Again they look at him.] + +UNDERWOOD. Roberts won't let the men assent to that. + +SCANTLEBURY. Fanatic! Fanatic! + +WILDER. [Looking at ANTHONY.] And not the only one! [FROST enters +from the hall.] + +FROST. [To ANTHONY.] Mr. Harness from the Union, waiting, sir. The +men are here too, sir. + + [ANTHONY nods. UNDERWOOD goes to the door, returning with + HARNESS, a pale, clean-shaven man with hollow cheeks, quick + eyes, and lantern jaw--FROST has retired.] + +UNDERWOOD. [Pointing to TENCH'S chair.] Sit there next the +Chairman, Harness, won't you? + + [At HARNESS'S appearance, the Board have drawn together, as it + were, and turned a little to him, like cattle at a dog.] + +HARNESS. [With a sharp look round, and a bow.] Thanks! [He sits--- +his accent is slightly nasal.] Well, gentlemen, we're going to do +business at last, I hope. + +WILDER. Depends on what you call business, Harness. Why don't you +make the men come in? + +HARNESS. [Sardonically.] The men are far more in the right than you +are. The question with us is whether we shan't begin to support them +again. + + [He ignores them all, except ANTHONY, to whom he turns in + speaking.] + +ANTHONY. Support them if you like; we'll put in free labour and have +done with it. + +HARNESS. That won't do, Mr. Anthony. You can't get free labour, and +you know it. + +ANTHONY. We shall see that. + +HARNESS. I'm quite frank with you. We were forced to withhold our +support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of +current rates. I expect to make them withdraw those demands to-day: +if they do, take it straight from me, gentlemen, we shall back them +again at once. Now, I want to see something fixed upon before I go +back to-night. Can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war +business? What good's it doing you? Why don't you recognise once +for all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's +good for them just as you want what's good for you [Bitterly.] Your +motor-cars, and champagne, and eight-course dinners. + +ANTHONY. If the men will come in, we'll do something for them. + +HARNESS. [Ironically.] Is that your opinion too, sir--and yours-- +and yours? [The Directors do not answer.] Well, all I can say is: +It's a kind of high and mighty aristocratic tone I thought we'd grown +out of--seems I was mistaken. + +ANTHONY. It's the tone the men use. Remains to be seen which can +hold out longest--they without us, or we without them. + +HARNESS. As business men, I wonder you're not ashamed of this waste +of force, gentlemen. You know what it'll all end in. + +ANTHONY. What? + +HARNESS. Compromise--it always does. + +SCANTLEBURY. Can't you persuade the men that their interests are the +same as ours? + +HARNESS. [Turning, ironically.] I could persuade them of that, sir, +if they were. + +WILDER. Come, Harness, you're a clever man, you don't believe all +the Socialistic claptrap that's talked nowadays. There 's no real +difference between their interests and ours. + +HARNESS. There's just one very simple question I'd like to put to +you. Will you pay your men one penny more than they force you to pay +them? + + [WILDER is silent.] + +WANKLIN. [Chiming in.] I humbly thought that not to pay more than +was necessary was the A B C of commerce. + +HARNESS. [With irony.] Yes, that seems to be the A B C of commerce, +sir; and the A B C of commerce is between your interests and the +men's. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Whispering.] We ought to arrange something. + +HARNESS. [Drily.] Am I to understand then, gentlemen, that your +Board is going to make no concessions? + + [WANKLIN and WILDER bend forward as if to speak, but stop.] + +ANTHONY. [Nodding.] None. + + [WANKLIN and WILDER again bend forward, and SCANTLEBURY gives an + unexpected grunt.] + +HARNESS. You were about to say something, I believe? + + [But SCANTLEBURY says nothing.] + +EDGAR. [Looking up suddenly.] We're sorry for the state of the men. + +HARNESS. [Icily.] The men have no use for your pity, sir. What +they want is justice. + +ANTHONY. Then let them be just. + +HARNESS. For that word "just" read "humble," Mr. Anthony. Why +should they be humble? Barring the accident of money, are n't they +as good men as you? + +ANTHONY. Cant! + +HARNESS. Well, I've been five years in America. It colours a man's +notions. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Suddenly, as though avenging his uncompleted grunt.] +Let's have the men in and hear what they've got to say! + + [ANTHONY nods, and UNDERWOOD goes out by the single door.] + +HARNESS. [Drily.] As I'm to have an interview with them this +afternoon, gentlemen, I 'll ask you to postpone your final decision +till that's over. + + [Again ANTHONY nods, and taking up his glass drinks.] + + [UNDERWOOD comes in again, followed by ROBERTS, GREEN, BULGIN, + THOMAS, ROUS. They file in, hat in hand, and stand silent in a + row. ROBERTS is lean, of middle height, with a slight stoop. + He has a little rat-gnawn, brown-grey beard, moustaches, high + cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, small fiery eyes. He wears an old + and grease-stained blue serge suit, and carries an old bowler + hat. He stands nearest the Chairman. GREEN, next to him, has a + clean, worn face, with a small grey goatee beard and drooping + moustaches, iron spectacles, and mild, straightforward eyes. He + wears an overcoat, green with age, and a linen collar. Next to + him is BULGIN, a tall, strong man, with a dark moustache, and + fighting jaw, wearing a red muffler, who keeps changing his cap + from one hand to the other. Next to him is THOMAS, an old man + with a grey moustache, full beard, and weatherbeaten, bony face, + whose overcoat discloses a lean, plucked-looking neck. On his + right, ROUS, the youngest of the five, looks like a soldier; he + has a glitter in his eyes.] + +UNDERWOOD. [Pointing.] There are some chairs there against the +wall, Roberts; won't you draw them up and sit down? + +ROBERTS. Thank you, Mr. Underwood--we'll stand in the presence of +the Board. [He speaks in a biting and staccato voice, rolling his +r's, pronouncing his a's like an Italian a, and his consonants short +and crisp.] How are you, Mr. Harness? Did n't expect t' have the +pleasure of seeing you till this afternoon. + +HARNESS. [Steadily.] We shall meet again then, Roberts. + +ROBERTS. Glad to hear that; we shall have some news for you to take +to your people. + +ANTHONY. What do the men want? + +ROBERTS. [Acidly.] Beg pardon, I don't quite catch the Chairman's +remark. + +TENCH. [From behind the Chairman's chair.] The Chairman wishes to +know what the men have to say. + +ROBERTS. It's what the Board has to say we've come to hear. It's +for the Board to speak first. + +ANTHONY. The Board has nothing to say. + +ROBERTS. [Looking along the line of men.] In that case we're +wasting the Directors' time. We'll be taking our feet off this +pretty carpet. + + [He turns, the men move slowly, as though hypnotically + influenced.] + +WANKLIN: [Suavely.] Come, Roberts, you did n't give us this long +cold journey for the pleasure of saying that. + +THOMAS. [A pure Welshman.] No, sir, an' what I say iss---- + +ROBERTS.[Bitingly.] Go on, Henry Thomas, go on. You 're better able +to speak to the--Directors than me. [THOMAS is silent.] + +TENCH. The Chairman means, Roberts, that it was the men who asked +for the conference, the Board wish to hear what they have to say. + +ROBERTS. Gad! If I was to begin to tell ye all they have to say, I +wouldn't be finished to-day. And there'd be some that'd wish they'd +never left their London palaces. + +HARNESS. What's your proposition, man? Be reasonable. + +ROBERTS. You want reason Mr. Harness? Take a look round this +afternoon before the meeting. [He looks at the men; no sound escapes +them.] You'll see some very pretty scenery. + +HARNESS. All right my friend; you won't put me off. + +ROBERTS. [To the men.] We shan't put Mr. Harness off. Have some +champagne with your lunch, Mr. Harness; you'll want it, sir. + +HARNESS. Come, get to business, man! + +THOMAS. What we're asking, look you, is just simple justice. + +ROBERTS. [Venomously.] Justice from London? What are you talking +about, Henry Thomas? Have you gone silly? [THOMAS is silent.] We +know very well what we are--discontented dogs--never satisfied. What +did the Chairman tell me up in London? That I did n't know what I +was talking about. I was a foolish, uneducated man, that knew +nothing of the wants of the men I spoke for, + +EDGAR. Do please keep to the point. + +ANTHONY. [Holding up his hand.] There can only be one master, +Roberts. + +ROBERTS. Then, be Gad, it'll be us. + + [There is a silence; ANTHONY and ROBERTS stare at one another.] + +UNDERWOOD. If you've nothing to say to the Directors, Roberts, +perhaps you 'll let Green or Thomas speak for the men. + + [GREEN and THOMAS look anxiously at ROBERTS, at each other, and + the other men.] + +GREEN. [An Englishman.] If I'd been listened to, gentlemen---- + +THOMAS. What I'fe got to say iss what we'fe all got to say---- + +ROBERTS. Speak for yourself, Henry Thomas. + +SCANTLEBURY. [With a gesture of deep spiritual discomfort.] Let the +poor men call their souls their own! + +ROBERTS. Aye, they shall keep their souls, for it's not much body +that you've left them, Mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word +were an offence] Scantlebury! [To the men.] Well, will you speak, +or shall I speak for you? + +ROUS. [Suddenly.] Speak out, Roberts, or leave it to others. + +ROBERTS. [Ironically.] Thank you, George Rous. [Addressing himself +to ANTHONY.] The Chairman and Board of Directors have honoured us by +leaving London and coming all this way to hear what we've got to say; +it would not be polite to keep them any longer waiting. + +WILDER. Well, thank God for that! + +ROBERTS. Ye will not dare to thank Him when I have done, Mr. Wilder, +for all your piety. May be your God up in London has no time to +listen to the working man. I'm told He is a wealthy God; but if he +listens to what I tell Him, He will know more than ever He learned in +Kensington. + +HARNESS. Come, Roberts, you have your own God. Respect the God of +other men. + +ROBERTS. That's right, sir. We have another God down here; I doubt +He is rather different to Mr. Wilder's. Ask Henry Thomas; he will +tell you whether his God and Mr. Wilder's are the same. + + [THOMAS lifts his hand, and cranes his head as though to + prophesy.] + +WANKLIN. For goodness' sake, let 's keep to the point, Roberts. + +ROBERTS. I rather think it is the point, Mr. Wanklin. If you can +get the God of Capital to walk through the streets of Labour, and pay +attention to what he sees, you're a brighter man than I take you for, +for all that you're a Radical. + +ANTHONY. Attend to me, Roberts! [Roberts is silent.] You are here +to speak for the men, as I am here to speak for the Board. + + [He looks slowly round.] + + [WILDER, WANKLIN, and SCANTLEBURY make movements of uneasiness, + and EDGAR gazes at the floor. A faint smile comes on HARNESS'S + face.] + +Now then, what is it? + +ROBERTS. Right, Sir! + + [Throughout all that follows, he and ANTHONY look fixedly upon + each other. Men and Directors show in their various ways + suppressed uneasiness, as though listening to words that they + themselves would not have spoken.] + +The men can't afford to travel up to London; and they don't trust you +to believe what they say in black and white. They know what the post +is [he darts a look at UNDERWOOD and TENCH], and what Directors' +meetings are: "Refer it to the manager--let the manager advise us on +the men's condition. Can we squeeze them a little more?" + +UNDERWOOD. [In a low voice.] Don't hit below the belt, Roberts! + +ROBERTS. Is it below the belt, Mr. Underwood? The men know. When I +came up to London, I told you the position straight. An' what came +of it? I was told I did n't know what I was talkin' about. I can't +afford to travel up to London to be told that again. + +ANTHONY. What have you to say for the men? + +ROBERTS. I have this to say--and first as to their condition. Ye +shall 'ave no need to go and ask your manager. Ye can't squeeze them +any more. Every man of us is well-nigh starving. [A surprised +murmur rises from the men. ROBERTS looks round.] Ye wonder why I +tell ye that? Every man of us is going short. We can't be no worse +off than we've been these weeks past. Ye need n't think that by +waiting yell drive us to come in. We'll die first, the whole lot of +us. The men have sent for ye to know, once and for all, whether ye +are going to grant them their demands. I see the sheet of paper in +the Secretary's hand. [TENCH moves nervously.] That's it, I think, +Mr. Tench. It's not very large. + +TENCH. [Nodding.] Yes. + +ROBERTS. There's not one sentence of writing on that paper that we +can do without. + + [A movement amongst the men. ROBERTS turns on them sharply.] + +Isn't that so? + + [The men assent reluctantly. ANTHONY takes from TENCH the paper + and peruses it.] + +Not one single sentence. All those demands are fair. We have not. +asked anything that we are not entitled to ask. What I said up in +London, I say again now: there is not anything on that piece of paper +that a just man should not ask, and a just man give. + + [A pause.] + +ANTHONY. There is not one single demand on this paper that we will +grant. + + [In the stir that follows on these words, ROBERTS watches the + Directors and ANTHONY the men. WILDER gets up abruptly and goes + over to the fire.] + +ROBERTS. D' ye mean that? + +ANTHONY. I do. + + [WILDER at the fire makes an emphatic movement of disgust.] + +ROBERTS. [Noting it, with dry intensity.] Ye best know whether the +condition of the Company is any better than the condition of the men. +[Scanning the Directors' faces.] Ye best know whether ye can afford +your tyranny--but this I tell ye: If ye think the men will give way +the least part of an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever +made. [He fixes his eyes on SCANTLEBURY.] Ye think because the +Union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that we'll be coming +on our knees to you one fine morning. Ye think because the men have +got their wives an' families to think of--that it's just a question +of a week or two---- + +ANTHONY. It would be better if you did not speculate so much on what +we think. + +ROBERTS. Aye! It's not much profit to us! I will say this for you, +Mr. Anthony--ye know your own mind! [Staying at ANTHONY.] I can +reckon on ye! + +ANTHONY. [Ironically.] I am obliged to you! + +ROBERTS. And I know mine. I tell ye this: The men will send their +wives and families where the country will have to keep them; an' they +will starve sooner than give way. I advise ye, Mr. Anthony, to +prepare yourself for the worst that can happen to your Company. We +are not so ignorant as you might suppose. We know the way the cat is +jumping. Your position is not all that it might be--not exactly! + +ANTHONY. Be good enough to allow us to judge of our position for +ourselves. Go back, and reconsider your own. + +ROBERTS. [Stepping forward.] Mr. Anthony, you are not a young man +now; from the time I remember anything ye have been an enemy to every +man that has come into your works. I don't say that ye're a mean +man, or a cruel man, but ye've grudged them the say of any word in +their own fate. Ye've fought them down four times. I've heard ye +say ye love a fight--mark my words--ye're fighting the last fight +yell ever fight + + [TENCH touches ROBERTS'S sleeve.] + +UNDERWOOD. Roberts! Roberts! + +ROBERTS. Roberts! Roberts! I must n't speak my mind to the +Chairman, but the Chairman may speak his mind to me! + +WILDER. What are things coming to? + +ANTHONY, [With a grim smile at WILDER.] Go on, Roberts; say what you +like! + +ROBERTS. [After a pause.] I have no more to say. + +ANTHONY. The meeting stands adjourned to five o'clock. + +WANKLIN. [In a low voice to UNDERWOOD.] We shall never settle +anything like this. + +ROBERTS. [Bitingly.] We thank the Chairman and Board of Directors +for their gracious hearing. + + [He moves towards the door; the men cluster together stupefied; + then ROUS, throwing up his head, passes ROBERTS and goes out. + The others follow.] + +ROBERTS. [With his hand on the door--maliciously.] Good day, +gentlemen! [He goes out.] + +HARNESS. [Ironically.] I congratulate you on the conciliatory +spirit that's been displayed. With your permission, gentlemen, I'll +be with you again at half-past five. Good morning! + + [He bows slightly, rests his eyes on ANTHONY, who returns his + stare unmoved, and, followed by UNDERWOOD, goes out. There is a + moment of uneasy silence. UNDERWOOD reappears in the doorway.] + +WILDER. [With emphatic disgust.] Well! + + [The double-doors are opened.] + +ENID. [Standing in the doorway.] Lunch is ready. + + [EDGAR, getting up abruptly, walks out past his sister.] + +WILDER. Coming to lunch, Scantlebury? + +SCANTLEBURY. [Rising heavily.] I suppose so, I suppose so. It's +the only thing we can do. + + [They go out through the double-doors.] + +WANKLIN. [In a low voice.] Do you really mean +to fight to a finish, Chairman? + + [ANTHONY nods.] + +WANKLIN. Take care! The essence of things is to know when to stop. + + [ANTHONY does not answer.] + +WANKLIN. [Very gravely.] This way disaster lies. The ancient +Trojans were fools to your father, Mrs. Underwood. [He goes out +through the double-doors.] + +ENID. I want to speak to father, Frank. + + [UNDERWOOD follows WANKLIN Out. TENCH, passing round the table, + is restoring order to the scattered pens and papers.] + +ENID. Are n't you coming, Dad? + + [ANTHONY Shakes his head. ENID looks meaningly at TENCH.] + +ENID. Won't you go and have some lunch, Mr. Tench? + +TENCH. [With papers in his hand.] Thank you, ma'am, thank you! [He +goes slowly, looking back.] + +ENID. [Shutting the doors.] I do hope it's settled, Father! + +ANTHONY. No! + +ENID. [Very disappointed.] Oh! Have n't you done anything! + + [ANTHONY shakes his head.] + +ENID. Frank says they all want to come to a compromise, really, +except that man Roberts. + +ANTHONY. I don't. + +ENID. It's such a horrid position for us. If you were the wife of +the manager, and lived down here, and saw it all. You can't realise, +Dad! + +ANTHONY. Indeed? + +ENID. We see all the distress. You remember my maid Annie, who +married Roberts? [ANTHONY nods.] It's so wretched, her heart's +weak; since the strike began, she has n't even been getting proper +food. I know it for a fact, Father. + +ANTHONY. Give her what she wants, poor woman! + +ENID. Roberts won't let her take anything from us. + +ANTHONY. [Staring before him.] I can't be answerable for the men's +obstinacy. + +ENID. They're all suffering. Father! Do stop it, for my sake! + +ANTHONY. [With a keen look at her.] You don't understand, my dear. + +ENID. If I were on the Board, I'd do something. + +ANTHONY. What would you do? + +ENID. It's because you can't bear to give way. It's so---- + +ANTHONY. Well? + +ENID. So unnecessary. + +ANTHONY. What do you know about necessity? Read your novels, play +your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the +bottom of a struggle like this. + +ENID. I live down here, and see it. + +ANTHONY. What d' you imagine stands between you and your class and +these men that you're so sorry for? + +ENID. [Coldly.] I don't know what you mean, Father. + +ANTHONY. In a few years you and your children would be down in the +condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things +as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves. + +ENID. You don't know the state the men are in. + +ANTHONY. I know it well enough. + +ENID. You don't, Father; if you did, you would n't + +ANTHONY. It's you who don't know the simple facts of the position. +What sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between +you and the continual demands of labour? This sort of mercy-- +[He puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] First would go +your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would +be going all the time! + +ENID. I don't believe in barriers between classes. + +ANTHONY. You--don't--believe--in--barriers--between the classes? + +ENID. [Coldly.] And I don't know what that has to do with this +question. + +ANTHONY. It will take a generation or two for you to understand. + +ENID. It's only you and Roberts, Father, and you know it! + + [ANTHONY thrusts out his lower lip.] + +It'll ruin the Company. + +ANTHONY. Allow me to judge of that. + +ENID. [Resentfully.] I won't stand by and let poor Annie Roberts +suffer like this! And think of the children, Father! I warn you. + +ANTHONY. [With a grim smile.] What do you propose to do? + +ENID. That's my affair. + + [ANTHONY only looks at her.] + +ENID. [In a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] Father, you know +you oughtn't to have this strain on you--you know what Dr. Fisher +said! + +ANTHONY. No old man can afford to listen to old women. + +ENID. But you have done enough, even if it really is such a matter +of principle with you. + +ANTHONY. You think so? + +ENID. Don't Dad! [Her face works.] You--you might think of us! + +ANTHONY. I am. + +ENID. It'll break you down. + +ANTHONY. [Slowly.] My dear, I am not going to funk; on that you may +rely. + + [Re-enter TENCH with papers; he glances at them, then plucking + up courage.] + +TENCH. Beg pardon, Madam, I think I'd rather see these papers were +disposed of before I get my lunch. + + [ENID, after an impatient glance at him, looks at her father, + turns suddenly, and goes into the drawing-room.] + +TENCH. [Holding the papers and a pen to ANTHONY, very nervously.] +Would you sign these for me, please sir? + + [ANTHONY takes the pen and signs.] + +TENCH. [Standing with a sheet of blotting-paper behind EDGAR'S +chair, begins speaking nervously.] I owe my position to you, sir. + +ANTHONY. Well? + +TENCH. I'm obliged to see everything that's going on, sir; I--I +depend upon the Company entirely. If anything were to happen to it, +it'd be disastrous for me. [ANTHONY nods.] And, of course, my +wife's just had another; and so it makes me doubly anxious just now. +And the rates are really terrible down our way. + +ANTHONY. [With grim amusement.] Not more terrible than they are up +mine. + +TENCH. No, Sir? [Very nervously.] I know the Company means a great +deal to you, sir. + +ANTHONY. It does; I founded it. + +TENCH. Yes, Sir. If the strike goes on it'll be very serious. I +think the Directors are beginning to realise that, sir. + +ANTHONY. [Ironically.] Indeed? + +TENCH. I know you hold very strong views, sir, and it's always your +habit to look things in the face; but I don't think the Directors-- +like it, sir, now they--they see it. + +ANTHONY. [Grimly.] Nor you, it seems. + +TENCH. [With the ghost of a smile.] No, sir; of course I've got my +children, and my wife's delicate; in my position I have to think of +these things. + + [ANTHONY nods.] + +It was n't that I was going to say, sir, if you'll excuse me---- +[hesitates] + +ANTHONY. Out with it, then! + +TENCH. I know--from my own father, sir, that when you get on in life +you do feel things dreadfully---- + +ANTHONY. [Almost paternally.] Come, out with it, Trench! + +TENCH. I don't like to say it, sir. + +ANTHONY. [Stonily.] You Must. + +TENCH. [After a pause, desperately bolting it out.] I think the +Directors are going to throw you over, sir. + +ANTHONY. [Sits in silence.] Ring the bell! + + [TENCH nervously rings the bell and stands by the fire.] + +TENCH. Excuse me for saying such a thing. I was only thinking of +you, sir. + + [FROST enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table, + and looks at ANTHONY; TENCH coveys his nervousness by arranging + papers.] + +ANTHONY. Bring me a whiskey and soda. + +FROST. Anything to eat, sir? + + [ANTHONY shakes his head. FROST goes to the sideboard, and + prepares the drink.] + +TENCH. [In a low voice, almost supplicating.] If you could see your +way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed. +[He looks up at ANTHONY, who has not moved.] It does make me so very +anxious. I haven't slept properly for weeks, sir, and that's a fact. + + [ANTHONY looks in his face, then slowly shakes his head.] + +[Disheartened.] No, Sir? [He goes on arranging papers.] + + [FROST places the whiskey and salver and puts it down by + ANTHONY'S right hand. He stands away, looking gravely at + ANTHONY.] + +FROST. Nothing I can get you, sir? + + [ANTHONY shakes his head.] + +You're aware, sir, of what the doctor said, sir? + +ANTHONY. I am. + + [A pause. FROST suddenly moves closer to him, and speaks in a + low voice.] + +FROST. This strike, sir; puttin' all this strain on you. Excuse me, +sir, is it--is it worth it, sir? + + [ANTHONY mutters some words that are inaudible.] + +Very good, sir! + + [He turns and goes out into the hall. TENCH makes two attempts + to speak; but meeting his Chairman's gaze he drops his eyes, + and, turning dismally, he too goes out. ANTHONY is left alone. + He grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it + down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his + chair.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +ACT II + +SCENE I + + It is half-past three. In the kitchen of Roberts's cottage a + meagre little fire is burning. The room is clean and tidy, very + barely furnished, with a brick floor and white-washed walls, + much stained with smoke. There is a kettle on the fire. A door + opposite the fireplace opens inward from a snowy street. On the + wooden table are a cup and saucer, a teapot, knife, and plate of + bread and cheese. Close to the fireplace in an old arm-chair, + wrapped in a rug, sits MRS. ROBERTS, a thin and dark-haired + woman about thirty-five, with patient eyes. Her hair is not + done up, but tied back with a piece of ribbon. By the fire, + too, is MRS. YEO; a red-haired, broad-faced person. Sitting + near the table is MRS. ROUS, an old lady, ashen-white, with + silver hair; by the door, standing, as if about to go, is MRS. + BULGIN, a little pale, pinched-up woman. In a chair, with her + elbows resting on the table, avid her face resting in her hands, + sits MADGE THOMAS, a good-looking girl, of twenty-two, with high + cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark untidy hair. She is + listening to the talk, but she neither speaks nor moves. + + +MRS. YEO. So he give me a sixpence, and that's the first bit o' +money I seen this week. There an't much 'eat to this fire. Come and +warm yerself Mrs. Rous, you're lookin' as white as the snow, you are. + +MRS. ROUS. [Shivering--placidly.] Ah! but the winter my old man +was took was the proper winter. Seventy-nine that was, when none of +you was hardly born--not Madge Thomas, nor Sue Bulgin. [Looking at +them in turn.] Annie Roberts, 'ow old were you, dear? + +MRS ROBERTS. Seven, Mrs. Rous. + +MRS. ROUS. Seven--well, there! A tiny little thing! + +MRS. YEO. [Aggressively.] Well, I was ten myself, I remembers it. + +MRS. Rous. [Placidly.] The Company hadn't been started three years. +Father was workin' on the acid, that's 'ow he got 'is pisoned-leg. +I kep' sayin' to 'im, "Father, you've got a pisoned leg." "Well," 'e +said, "Mother, pison or no pison, I can't afford to go a-layin' up." +An' two days after, he was on 'is back, and never got up again. It +was Providence! There was n't none o' these Compensation Acts then. + +MRS. YEO. Ye had n't no strike that winter! [With grim humour.] +This winter's 'ard enough for me. Mrs. Roberts, you don't want no +'arder winter, do you? Wouldn't seem natural to 'ave a dinner, would +it, Mrs. Bulgin? + +MRS. BULGIN. We've had bread and tea last four days. + +MRS. YEO. You got that Friday's laundry job? + +MRS. BULGIN. [Dispiritedly.] They said they'd give it me, but when +I went last Friday, they were full up. I got to go again next week. + +MRS. YEO. Ah! There's too many after that. I send Yeo out on the +ice to put on the gentry's skates an' pick up what 'e can. Stops 'im +from broodin' about the 'ouse. + +MRS. BULGIN. [In a desolate, matter-of-fact voice.] Leavin' out the +men--it's bad enough with the children. I keep 'em in bed, they +don't get so hungry when they're not running about; but they're that +restless in bed they worry your life out. + +MRS. YEO. You're lucky they're all so small. It 's the goin' to +school that makes 'em 'ungry. Don't Bulgin give you anythin'? + +MRS. BULGIN. [Shakes her head, then, as though by afterthought.] +Would if he could, I s'pose. + +MRS. YEO. [Sardonically.] What! 'Ave n't 'e got no shares in the +Company? + +MRS. ROUS. [Rising with tremulous cheerfulness.] Well, good-bye, +Annie Roberts, I'm going along home. + +MRS. ROBERTS. Stay an' have a cup of tea, Mrs. Rous? + +MRS. ROUS. [With the faintest smile.] Roberts 'll want 'is tea when +he comes in. I'll just go an' get to bed; it's warmer there than +anywhere. + + [She moves very shakily towards the door.] + +MRS. YEO. [Rising and giving her an arm.] Come on, Mother, take my +arm; we're all going' the same way. + +MRS. ROUS. [Taking the arm.]Thank you, my dearies! + + [THEY go out, followed by MRS. BULGIN.] + +MADGE. [Moving for the first time.] There, Annie, you see that! I +told George Rous, "Don't think to have my company till you've made an +end of all this trouble. You ought to be ashamed," I said, "with +your own mother looking like a ghost, and not a stick to put on the +fire. So long as you're able to fill your pipes, you'll let us +starve." "I 'll take my oath, Madge," he said, "I 've not had smoke +nor drink these three weeks!" "Well, then, why do you go on with +it?" "I can't go back on Roberts!" . . . That's it! Roberts, +always Roberts! They'd all drop it but for him. When he talks it's +the devil that comes into them. + + [A silence. MRS. ROBERTS makes a movement of pain.] + +Ah! You don't want him beaten! He's your man. With everybody like +their own shadows! [She makes a gesture towards MRS. ROBERTS.] If +ROUS wants me he must give up Roberts. If he gave him up--they all +would. They're only waiting for a lead. Father's against him-- +they're all against him in their hearts. + +MRS. ROBERTS. You won't beat Roberts! + + [They look silently at each other.] + +MADGE. Won't I? The cowards--when their own mothers and their own +children don't know where to turn. + +MRS. ROBERTS. Madge! + +MADGE. [Looking searchingly at MRS. ROBERTS.] I wonder he can look +you in the face. [She squats before the fire, with her hands out to +the flame.] Harness is here again. They'll have to make up their +minds to-day. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [In a soft, slow voice, with a slight West-country +burr.] Roberts will never give up the furnace-men and engineers. +'T wouldn't be right. + +MADGE. You can't deceive me. It's just his pride. + + [A tapping at the door is heard, the women turn as ENID enters. + She wears a round fur cap, and a jacket of squirrel's fur. She + closes the door behind her.] + +ENID. Can I come in, Annie? + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Flinching.] Miss Enid! Give Mrs. Underwood a chair, +Madge! + + [MADGE gives ENID the chair she has been sitting on.] + +ENID. Thank you! + +ENID. Are you any better? + +MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm; thank you, M'm. + +ENID. [Looking at the sullen MADGE as though requesting her +departure.] Why did you send back the jelly? I call that really +wicked of you! + +MRS. ROBERTS. Thank you, M'm, I'd no need for it. + +ENID. Of course! It was Roberts's doing, wasn't it? How can he let +all this suffering go on amongst you? + +MADGE. [Suddenly.] What suffering? + +ENID. [Surprised.] I beg your pardon! + +MADGE. Who said there was suffering? + +MRS. ROBERTS. Madge! + +MADGE. [Throwing her shawl over her head.] Please to let us keep +ourselves to ourselves. We don't want you coming here and spying on +us. + +ENID. [Confronting her, but without rising.] I did n't speak to +you. + +MADGE. [In a low, fierce voice.] Keep your kind feelings to +yourself. You think you can come amongst us, but you're mistaken. +Go back and tell the Manager that. + +ENID. [Stonily.] This is not your house. + +MADGE. [Turning to the door.] No, it is not my house; keep clear of +my house, Mrs. Underwood. + + [She goes out. ENID taps her fingers on the table.] + +MRS. ROBERTS. Please to forgive Madge Thomas, M'm; she's a bit upset +to-day. + + [A pause.] + +ENID. [Looking at her.] Oh, I think they're so stupid, all of them. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a faint smile]. Yes, M'm. + +ENID. Is Roberts out? + +MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm. + +ENID. It is his doing, that they don't come to an agreement. Now is +n't it, Annie? + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Softly, with her eyes on ENID, and moving the fingers +of one hand continually on her breast.] They do say that your +father, M'm---- + +ENID. My father's getting an old man, and you know what old men are. + +MRS. ROBERTS. I am sorry, M'm. + +ENID. [More softly.] I don't expect you to feel sorry, Annie. I +know it's his fault as well as Roberts's. + +MRS. ROBERTS. I'm sorry for any one that gets old, M'm; it 's +dreadful to get old, and Mr. Anthony was such a fine old man, I +always used to think. + +ENID. [Impulsively.] He always liked you, don't you remember? Look +here, Annie, what can I do? I do so want to know. You don't get +what you ought to have. [Going to the fire, she takes the kettle +off, and looks for coals.] And you're so naughty sending back the +soup and things. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a faint smile.] Yes, M'm? + +ENID. [Resentfully.] Why, you have n't even got coals? + +MRS. ROBERTS. If you please, M'm, to put the kettle on again; +Roberts won't have long for his tea when he comes in. He's got to +meet the men at four. + +ENID. [Putting the kettle on.] That means he'll lash them into a +fury again. Can't you stop his going, Annie? + + [MRS. ROBERTS smiles ironically.] + +Have you tried? + + [A silence.] + +Does he know how ill you are? + +MRS. ROBERTS. It's only my weak 'eard, M'm. + +ENID. You used to be so well when you were with us. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Stiffening.] Roberts is always good to me. + +ENID. But you ought to have everything you want, and you have +nothing! + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Appealingly.] They tell me I don't look like a dyin' +woman? + +ENID. Of course you don't; if you could only have proper--- Will you +see my doctor if I send him to you? I'm sure he'd do you good. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With faint questioning.] Yes, M'm. + +ENID. Madge Thomas ought n't to come here; she only excites you. As +if I did n't know what suffering there is amongst the men! I do feel +for them dreadfully, but you know they have gone too far. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Continually moving her fingers.] They say there's no +other way to get better wages, M'm. + +ENID. [Earnestly.] But, Annie, that's why the Union won't help +them. My husband's very sympathetic with the men, but he says they +are not underpaid. + +MRS. ROBERTS. No, M'm? + +ENID. They never think how the Company could go on if we paid the +wages they want. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With an effort.] But the dividends having been so +big, M'm. + +ENID. [Takes aback.] You all seem to think the shareholders are +rich men, but they're not--most of them are really no better off than +working men. + + [MRS. ROBERTS smiles.] + +They have to keep up appearances. + +MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm? + +ENID. You don't have to pay rates and taxes, and a hundred other +things that they do. If the men did n't spend such a lot in drink +and betting they'd be quite well off! + +MRS. ROBERTS. They say, workin' so hard, they must have some +pleasure. + +ENID. But surely not low pleasure like that. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [A little resentfully.] Roberts never touches a drop; +and he's never had a bet in his life. + +ENID. Oh! but he's not a com----I mean he's an engineer---- +a superior man. + +MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm. Roberts says they've no chance of other +pleasures. + +ENID. [Musing.] Of course, I know it's hard. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a spice of malice.] And they say gentlefolk's +just as bad. + +ENID. [With a smile.] I go as far as most people, Annie, but you +know, yourself, that's nonsense. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With painful effort.] A lot 'o the men never go near +the Public; but even they don't save but very little, and that goes +if there's illness. + +ENID. But they've got their clubs, have n't they? + +MRS. ROBERTS. The clubs only give up to eighteen shillin's a week, +M'm, and it's not much amongst a family. Roberts says workin' folk +have always lived from hand to mouth. Sixpence to-day is worth more +than a shillin' to-morrow, that's what they say. + +ENID. But that's the spirit of gambling. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a sort of excitement.] Roberts says a working +man's life is all a gamble, from the time 'e 's born to the time 'e +dies. + + [ENID leans forward, interested. MRS. ROBERTS goes on with a + growing excitement that culminates in the personal feeling of + the last words.] + +He says, M'm, that when a working man's baby is born, it's a toss-up +from breath to breath whether it ever draws another, and so on all +'is life; an' when he comes to be old, it's the workhouse or the +grave. He says that without a man is very near, and pinches and +stints 'imself and 'is children to save, there can't be neither +surplus nor security. That's why he wouldn't have no children [she +sinks back], not though I wanted them. + +ENID. Yes, yes, I know! + +MRS. ROBERTS. No you don't, M'm. You've got your children, and +you'll never need to trouble for them. + +ENID. [Gently.] You oughtn't to be talking so much, Annie. [Then, +in spite of herself.] But Roberts was paid a lot of money, was n't +he, for discovering that process? + +MRS. ROBERTS. [On the defensive.] All Roberts's savin's have gone. +He 's always looked forward to this strike. He says he's no right to +a farthing when the others are suffering. 'T is n't so with all o' +them! Some don't seem to care no more than that--so long as they get +their own. + +ENID. I don't see how they can be expected to when they 're +suffering like this. [In a changed voice.] But Roberts ought to +think of you! It's all terrible----! The kettle's boiling. Shall I +make the tea? [She takes the teapot and, seeing tea there, pours +water into it.] Won't you have a cup? + +MRS. ROBERTS. No, thank you, M'm. [She is listening, as though for +footsteps.] I'd--sooner you did n't see Roberts, M'm, he gets so +wild. + +ENID. Oh! but I must, Annie; I'll be quite calm, I promise. + +MRS. ROBERTS. It's life an' death to him, M'm. + +ENID. [Very gently.] I'll get him to talk to me outside, we won't +excite you. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Faintly.] No, M'm. + + [She gives a violent start. ROBERTS has come in, unseen.] + +ROBERTS. [Removing his hat--with subtle mockery.] Beg pardon for +coming in; you're engaged with a lady, I see. + +ENID. Can I speak to you, Mr. Roberts? + +ROBERTS. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing, Ma'am? + +ENID. But surely you know me! I 'm Mrs. Underwood. + +ROBERTS. [With a bow of malice.] The daughter of our Chairman. + +ENID. [Earnestly.] I've come on purpose to speak to you; will you +come outside a minute? + + [She looks at MRS. ROBERTS.] + +ROBERTS. [Hanging up his hat.] I have nothing to say, Ma'am. + +ENID. But I must speak to you, please. + + [She moves towards the door.] + +ROBERTS. [With sudden venom.] I have not the time to listen! + +MRS. ROBERTS. David! + +ENID. Mr. Roberts, please! + +ROBERTS. [Taking off his overcoat.] I am sorry to disoblige a lady- +Mr. Anthony's daughter. + +ENID. [Wavering, then with sudden decision.] Mr. Roberts, I know +you've another meeting of the men. + + [ROBERTS bows.] + +I came to appeal to you. Please, please, try to come to some +compromise; give way a little, if it's only for your own sakes! + +ROBERTS. [Speaking to himself.] The daughter of Mr. Anthony begs me +to give way a little, if it's only for our own sakes! + +ENID. For everybody's sake; for your wife's sake. + +ROBERTS. For my wife's sake, for everybody's sake--for the sake of +Mr. Anthony. + +ENID. Why are you so bitter against my father? He has never done +anything to you. + +ROBERTS. Has he not? + +ENID. He can't help his views, any more than you can help yours. + +ROBERTS. I really did n't know that I had a right to views! + +ENID. He's an old man, and you---- + + [Seeing his eyes fixed on her, she stops.] + +ROBERTS. [Without raising his voice.] If I saw Mr. Anthony going to +die, and I could save him by lifting my hand, I would not lift the +little finger of it. + +ENID. You--you----[She stops again, biting her lips.] + +ROBERTS. I would not, and that's flat! + +ENID. [Coldly.] You don't mean what you say, and you know it! + +ROBERTS. I mean every word of it. + +ENID. But why? + +ROBERTS. [With a flash.] Mr. Anthony stands for tyranny! That's +why! + +ENID. Nonsense! + + [MRS. ROBERTS makes a movement as if to rise, but sinks back in + her chair.] + +ENID. [With an impetuous movement.] Annie! + +ROBERTS. Please not to touch my wife! + +ENID. [Recoiling with a sort of horror.] I believe--you are mad. + +ROBERTS. The house of a madman then is not the fit place for a lady. + +ENID. I 'm not afraid of you. + +ROBERTS. [Bowing.] I would not expect the daughter of Mr. Anthony +to be afraid. Mr. Anthony is not a coward like the rest of them. + +ENID. [Suddenly.] I suppose you think it brave, then, to go on with +the struggle. + +ROBERTS. Does Mr. Anthony think it brave to fight against women and +children? Mr. Anthony is a rich man, I believe; does he think it +brave to fight against those who have n't a penny? Does he think it +brave to set children crying with hunger, an' women shivering with +cold? + +ENID. [Putting up her hand, as though warding off a blow.] My +father is acting on his principles, and you know it! + +ROBERTS. And so am I! + +ENID. You hate us; and you can't bear to be beaten! + +ROBERTS. Neither can Mr. Anthony, for all that he may say. + +ENID. At any rate you might have pity on your wife. + + [MRS. ROBERTS who has her hand pressed to her heart, takes it + away, and tries to calm her breathing.] + +ROBERTS. Madam, I have no more to say. + + [He takes up the loaf. There is a knock at the door, and + UNDERWOOD comes in. He stands looking at them, ENID turns to + him, then seems undecided.] + +UNDERWOOD. Enid! + +ROBERTS. [Ironically.] Ye were not needing to come for your wife, +Mr. Underwood. We are not rowdies. + +UNDERWOOD. I know that, Roberts. I hope Mrs. Roberts is better. + + [ROBERTS turns away without answering. Come, Enid!] + +ENID. I make one more appeal to you, Mr. Roberts, for the sake of +your wife. + +ROBERTS. [With polite malice.] If I might advise ye, Ma'am--make it +for the sake of your husband and your father. + + [ENID, suppressing a retort, goes out. UNDERWOOD opens the door + for her and follows. ROBERTS, going to the fire, holds out his + hands to the dying glow.] + +ROBERTS. How goes it, my girl? Feeling better, are you? + + [MRS. ROBERTS smiles faintly. He brings his overcoat and wraps + it round her.] + +[Looking at his watch.] Ten minutes to four! [As though inspired.] +I've seen their faces, there's no fight in them, except for that one +old robber. + +MRS. ROBERTS. Won't you stop and eat, David? You've 'ad nothing all +day! + +ROBERTS. [Putting his hand to his throat.] Can't swallow till those +old sharks are out o' the town: [He walks up and down.] I shall have +a bother with the men--there's no heart in them, the cowards. Blind +as bats, they are--can't see a day before their noses. + +MRS. ROBERTS. It's the women, David. + +ROBERTS. Ah! So they say! They can remember the women when their +own bellies speak! The women never stop them from the drink; but +from a little suffering to themselves in a sacred cause, the women +stop them fast enough. + +MRS. ROBERTS. But think o' the children, David. + +ROBERTS. Ah! If they will go breeding themselves for slaves, +without a thought o' the future o' them they breed---- + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Gasping.] That's enough, David; don't begin to talk +of that--I won't--I can't---- + +ROBERTS. [Staring at her.] Now, now, my girl! + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Breathlessly.] No, no, David--I won't! + +ROBERTS. There, there! Come, come! That's right! [Bitterly.] Not +one penny will they put by for a day like this. Not they! Hand to +mouth--Gad!--I know them! They've broke my heart. There was no +holdin' them at the start, but now the pinch 'as come. + +MRS. ROBERTS. How can you expect it, David? They're not made of +iron. + +ROBERTS. Expect it? Wouldn't I expect what I would do meself? +Wouldn't I starve an' rot rather than give in? What one man can do, +another can. + +MRS. ROBERTS. And the women? + +ROBERTS. This is not women's work. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a flash of malice.] No, the women may die for +all you care. That's their work. + +ROBERTS. [Averting his eyes.] Who talks of dying? No one will die +till we have beaten these---- + + [He meets her eyes again, and again turns his away. Excitedly.] + +This is what I've been waiting for all these months. To get the old +robbers down, and send them home again without a farthin's worth o' +change. I 've seen their faces, I tell you, in the valley of the +shadow of defeat. + + [He goes to the peg and takes down his hat.] + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Following with her eyes-softly.] Take your overcoat, +David; it must be bitter cold. + +ROBERTS. [Coming up to her-his eyes are furtive.] No, no! There, +there, stay quiet and warm. I won't be long, my girl. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With soft bitterness.] You'd better take it. + + [She lifts the coat. But ROBERTS puts it back, and wraps it + round her. He tries to meet her eyes, but cannot. MRS. + ROBERTS stays huddled in the coat, her eyes, that follow him + about, are half malicious, half yearning. He looks at his watch + again, and turns to go. In the doorway he meets JAN THOMAS, a + boy of ten in clothes too big for him, carrying a penny + whistle.] + +ROBERTS. Hallo, boy! + + [He goes. JAN stops within a yard of MRS. ROBERTS, and stares + at her without a word.] + +MRS. ROBERTS. Well, Jan! + +JAN. Father 's coming; sister Madge is coming. + + [He sits at the table, and fidgets with his whistle; he blows + three vague notes; then imitates a cuckoo.] + + [There is a tap on the door. Old THOMAS comes in.] + +THOMAS. A very coot tay to you, Ma'am. It is petter that you are. + +MRS. ROBERTS. Thank you, Mr. Thomas. + +THOMAS. [Nervously.] Roberts in? + +MRS. ROBERTS. Just gone on to the meeting, Mr. Thomas. + +THOMAS. [With relief, becoming talkative.] This is fery +unfortunate, look you! I came to tell him that we must make terms +with London. It is a fery great pity he is gone to the meeting. He +will be kicking against the pricks, I am thinking. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Half rising.] He'll never give in, Mr. Thomas. + +THOMAS. You must not be fretting, that is very pat for you. Look +you, there iss hartly any mans for supporting him now, but the +engineers and George Rous. [Solemnly.] This strike is no longer +Going with Chapel, look you! I have listened carefully, an' I have +talked with her. + + [JAN blows.] + +Sst! I don't care what th' others say, I say that Chapel means us to +be stopping the trouple, that is what I make of her; and it is my +opinion that this is the fery best thing for all of us. If it was +n't my opinion, I ton't say but it is my opinion, look you. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Trying to suppress her excitement.] I don't know +what'll come to Roberts, if you give in. + +THOMAS. It iss no disgrace whateffer! All that a mortal man coult +do he hass tone. It iss against Human Nature he hass gone; fery +natural any man may do that; but Chapel has spoken and he must not go +against her. + + [JAN imitates the cuckoo.] + +Ton't make that squeaking! [Going to the door.] Here iss my +daughter come to sit with you. A fery goot day, Ma'am--no fretting +--rememper! + + [MADGE comes in and stands at the open door, watching the + street.] + +MADGE. You'll be late, Father; they're beginning. [She catches him +by the sleeve.] For the love of God, stand up to him, Father--this +time! + +THOMAS. [Detaching his sleeve with dignity.] Leave me to do what's +proper, girl! + + [He goes out. MADGE, in the centre of. the open doorway, + slowly moves in, as though before the approach of some one.] + +ROUS. [Appearing in the doorway.] Madge! + + [MADGE stands with her back to MRS. ROBERTS, staring at him with + her head up and her hands behind her.] + +ROUS. [Who has a fierce distracted look.] Madge! I'm going to the +meeting. + + [MADGE, without moving, smiles contemptuously.] + +D' ye hear me? + + [They speak in quick low voices.] + +MADGE. I hear! Go, and kill your own mother, if you must. + +[ROUS seizes her by both her arms. She stands rigid, with her head +bent back. He releases her, and he too stands motionless.] + +ROUS. I swore to stand by Roberts. I swore that! Ye want me to go +back on what I've sworn. + +MADGE. [With slow soft mockery.] You are a pretty lover! + +ROUS. Madge! + +MADGE. [Smiling.] I've heard that lovers do what their girls ask +them-- + + [JAN sounds the cuckoo's notes] + +--but that's not true, it seems! + +ROUS. You'd make a blackleg of me! + +MADGE. [With her eyes half-closed.] Do it for me! + +ROUS. [Dashing his hand across his brow.] Damn! I can't! + +MADGE. [Swiftly.] Do it for me! + +ROUS. [Through his teeth.] Don't play the wanton with me! + +MADGE. [With a movement of her hand towards JAN--quick and low.] +I would be that for the children's sake! + +ROUS. [In a fierce whisper.] Madge! Oh, Madge! + +MADGE. [With soft mockery.] But you can't break your word for me! + +ROUS. [With a choke.] Then, Begod, I can! + + [He turns and rushes off.] + + [MADGE Stands, with a faint smile on her face, looking after + him. She turns to MRS. ROBERTS.] + +MADGE. I have done for Roberts! + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Scornfully.] Done for my man, with that----! +[She sinks back.] + +MADGE. [Running to her, and feeling her hands.] You're as cold as a +stone! You want a drop of brandy. Jan, run to the "Lion"; say, I +sent you for Mrs. Roberts. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a feeble movement.] I'll just sit quiet, Madge. +Give Jan--his--tea. + +MADGE. [Giving JAN a slice of bread.] There, ye little rascal. +Hold your piping. [Going to the fire, she kneels.] It's going out. + +MRS. ROBERTS. [With a faint smile.] 'T is all the same! + + [JAN begins to blow his whistle.] + +MADGE. Tsht! Tsht!--you + + [JAN Stops.] + +MRS. ROBERTS. [Smiling.] Let 'im play, Madge. + +MADGE. [On her knees at the fire, listening.] Waiting an' waiting. +I've no patience with it; waiting an' waiting--that's what a woman +has to do! Can you hear them at it--I can! + + [JAN begins again to play his whistle; MADGE gets up; half + tenderly she ruffles his hair; then, sitting, leans her elbows + on the table, and her chin on her hands. Behind her, on MRS. + ROBERTS'S face the smile has changed to horrified surprise. She + makes a sudden movement, sitting forward, pressing her hands + against her breast. Then slowly she sinks' back; slowly her + face loses the look of pain, the smile returns. She fixes her + eyes again on JAN, and moves her lips and finger to the tune.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE II + + It is past four. In a grey, failing light, an open muddy space + is crowded with workmen. Beyond, divided from it by a barbed- + wire fence, is the raised towing-path of a canal, on which is + moored a barge. In the distance are marshes and snow-covered + hills. The "Works" high wall runs from the canal across the + open space, and ivy the angle of this wall is a rude platform of + barrels and boards. On it, HARNESS is standing. ROBERTS, a + little apart from the crowd, leans his back against the wall. + On the raised towing-path two bargemen lounge and smoke + indifferently. + +HARNESS. [Holding out his hand.] Well, I've spoken to you straight. +If I speak till to-morrow I can't say more. + +JAGO. [A dark, sallow, Spanish-looking man with a short, thin +beard.] Mister, want to ask you! Can they get blacklegs? + +BULGIN. [Menacing.] Let 'em try. + + [There are savage murmurs from the crowd.] + +BROWN. [A round-faced man.] Where could they get 'em then? + +EVANS. [A small, restless, harassed man, with a fighting face.] +There's always blacklegs; it's the nature of 'em. There's always men +that'll save their own skins. + + [Another savage murmur. There is a movement, and old THOMAS, + joining the crowd, takes his stand in front.] + +HARNESS. [Holding up his hand.] They can't get them. But that +won't help you. Now men, be reasonable. Your demands would have +brought on us the burden of a dozen strikes at a time when we were +not prepared for them. The Unions live by justice, not to one, but +all. Any fair man will tell you--you were ill-advised! I don't say +you go too far for that which you're entitled to, but you're going +too far for the moment; you've dug a pit for yourselves. Are you to +stay there, or are you to climb out? Come! + +LEWIS. [A clean-cut Welshman with a dark moustache.] You've hit it, +Mister! Which is it to be? + + [Another movement in the crowd, and ROUS, coming quickly, takes + his stand next THOMAS.] + +HARNESS. Cut your demands to the right pattern, and we 'll see you +through; refuse, and don't expect me to waste my time coming down +here again. I 'm not the sort that speaks at random, as you ought to +know by this time. If you're the sound men I take you for--no matter +who advises you against it--[he fixes his eyes on ROBERTS] you 'll +make up your minds to come in, and trust to us to get your terms. +Which is it to be? Hands together, and victory--or--the starvation +you've got now? + + [A prolonged murmur from the crowd.] + +JAGO. [Sullenly.] Talk about what you know. + +HARNESS. [Lifting his voice above the murmur.] Know? [With cold +passion.] All that you've been through, my friend, I 've been +through--I was through it when I was no bigger than [pointing to a +youth] that shaver there; the Unions then were n't what they are +now. What's made them strong? It's hands together that 's made them +strong. I 've been through it all, I tell you, the brand's on my +soul yet. I know what you 've suffered--there's nothing you can tell +me that I don't know; but the whole is greater than the part, and you +are only the part. Stand by us, and we will stand by you. + + [Quartering them with his eyes, he waits. The murmuring swells; + the men form little groups. GREEN, BULGIN, and LEWIS talk + together.] + +LEWIS. Speaks very sensible, the Union chap. + +GREEN. [Quietly.] Ah! if I 'd a been listened to, you'd 'ave 'eard +sense these two months past. + + [The bargemen are seen laughing. ] + +LEWIS. [Pointing.] Look at those two blanks over the fence there! + +BULGIN. [With gloomy violence.] They'd best stop their cackle, or I +'ll break their jaws. + +JAGO. [Suddenly.] You say the furnace men's paid enough? + +HARNESS. I did not say they were paid enough; I said they were paid +as much as the furnace men in similar works elsewhere. + +EVANS. That's a lie! [Hubbub.] What about Harper's? + +HARNESS. [With cold irony.] You may look at home for lies, my man. +Harper's shifts are longer, the pay works out the same. + +HENRY ROUS. [A dark edition of his brother George.] Will ye support +us in double pay overtime Saturdays? + +HARNESS. Yes, we will. + +JAGO. What have ye done with our subscriptions? + +HARNESS. [Coldly.] I have told you what we will do with them. + +EVANS. Ah! will, it's always will! Ye'd have our mates desert us. +[Hubbub.] + +BULGIN. [Shouting.] Hold your row! + + [EVANS looks round angrily.] + +HARNESS. [Lifting his voice.] Those who know their right hands from +their lefts know that the Unions are neither thieves nor traitors. +I 've said my say. Figure it out, my lads; when you want me you know +where I shall be. + + [He jumps down, the crowd gives way, he passes through them, and + goes away. A BARGEMAN looks after him jerking his pipe with a + derisive gesture. The men close up in groups, and many looks + are cast at ROBERTS, who stands alone against the wall.] + +EVANS. He wants ye to turn blacklegs, that's what he wants. He +wants ye to go back on us. Sooner than turn blackleg--I 'd starve, I +would. + +BULGIN. Who's talkin' o' blacklegs--mind what you're saying, will +you? + +BLACKSMITH. [A youth with yellow hair and huge arms.] What about +the women? + +EVANS. They can stand what we can stand, I suppose, can't they? + +BLACKSMITH. Ye've no wife? + +EVANS. An' don't want one! + +THOMAS. [Raising his voice.] Aye! Give us the power to come to +terms with London, lads. + +DAVIES. [A dark, slow-fly, gloomy man.] Go up the platform, if you +got anything to say, go up an' say it. + + [There are cries of "Thomas!" He is pushed towards the + platform; he ascends it with difficulty, and bares his head, + waiting for silence. A hush.] + +RED-HAIRED YOUTH. [suddenly.] Coot old Thomas! + + [A hoarse laugh; the bargemen exchange remarks; a hush again, + and THOMAS begins speaking.] + +THOMAS. We are all in the tepth together, and it iss Nature that has +put us there. + +HENRY ROUS. It's London put us there! + +EVANS. It's the Union. + +THOMAS. It iss not Lonton; nor it iss not the Union--it iss Nature. +It iss no disgrace whateffer to a potty to give in to Nature. For +this Nature iss a fery pig thing; it is pigger than what a man is. +There iss more years to my hett than to the hett of any one here. +It is fery pat, look you, this Going against Nature. It is pat to +make other potties suffer, when there is nothing to pe cot py it. + + [A laugh. THOMAS angrily goes on.] + +What are ye laughing at? It is pat, I say! We are fighting for a +principle; there is no potty that shall say I am not a peliever in +principle. Putt when Nature says "No further," then it is no coot +snapping your fingers in her face. + + [A laugh from ROBERTS, and murmurs of approval.] + +This Nature must pe humort. It is a man's pisiness to pe pure, +honest, just, and merciful. That's what Chapel tells you. [To +ROBERTS, angrily.] And, look you, David Roberts, Chapel tells you ye +can do that without Going against Nature. + +JAGO. What about the Union? + +THOMAS. I ton't trust the Union; they haf treated us like tirt. +"Do what we tell you," said they. I haf peen captain of the furnace- +men twenty years, and I say to the Union--[excitedly]--"Can you tell +me then, as well as I can tell you, what iss the right wages for the +work that these men do?" For fife and twenty years I haf paid my +moneys to the Union and--[with great excitement]--for nothings! What +iss that but roguery, for all that this Mr. Harness says! + +EVANS. Hear, hear. + +HENRY ROUS. Get on with you! Cut on with it then! + +THOMAS. Look you, if a man toes not trust me, am I going to trust +him? + +JAGO. That's right. + +THOMAS. Let them alone for rogues, and act for ourselves. + + [Murmurs.] + +BLACKSMITH. That's what we been doin', haven't we? + +THOMAS. [With increased excitement.] I wass brought up to do for +meself. I wass brought up to go without a thing, if I hat not moneys +to puy it. There iss too much, look you, of doing things with other +people's moneys. We haf fought fair, and if we haf peen beaten, it +iss no fault of ours. Gif us the power to make terms with London for +ourself; if we ton't succeed, I say it iss petter to take our peating +like men, than to tie like togs, or hang on to others' coat-tails to +make them do our pisiness for us! + +EVANS. [Muttering.] Who wants to? + +THOMAS. [Craning.] What's that? If I stand up to a potty, and he +knocks me town, I am not to go hollering to other potties to help me; +I am to stand up again; and if he knocks me town properly, I am to +stay there, is n't that right? + + [Laughter.] + +JAGO. No Union! + +HENRY ROUS. Union! + + [Murmurs.] + + [Others take up the shout.] + +EVANS. Blacklegs! + + + [BULGIN and the BLACKSMITH shake their fists at EVANS.] + +THOMAS. [With a gesture.] I am an olt man, look you. + + [A sudden silence, then murmurs again.] + +LEWIS. Olt fool, with his "No Union!" + +BULGIN. Them furnace chaps! For twopence I 'd smash the faces o' +the lot of them. + +GREEN. If I'd a been listened to at the first! + +THOMAS. [Wiping his brow.] I'm comin' now to what I was going to +say---- + +DAVIES. [Muttering.] An' time too! + +THOMAS. [Solemnly.] Chapel says: Ton't carry on this strife! Put +an end to it! + +JAGO. That's a lie! Chapel says go on! + +THOMAS. [Scornfully.] Inteet! I haf ears to my head. + +RED-HAIRED YOUTH. Ah! long ones! + + [A laugh.] + +JAGO. Your ears have misbeled you then. + +THOMAS. [Excitedly.] Ye cannot be right if I am, ye cannot haf it +both ways. + +RED-HAIRED YOUTH. Chapel can though! + + ["The Shaver" laughs; there are murmurs from the crowd.] + +THOMAS. [Fixing his eyes on "The Shaver."] Ah! ye 're Going the +roat to tamnation. An' so I say to all of you. If ye co against +Chapel I will not pe with you, nor will any other Got-fearing man. + + [He steps down from the platform. JAGO makes his way towards + it. There are cries of "Don't let 'im go up!"] + +JAGO. Don't let him go up? That's free speech, that is. [He goes +up.] I ain't got much to say to you. Look at the matter plain; ye +'ve come the road this far, and now you want to chuck the journey. +We've all been in one boat; and now you want to pull in two. We +engineers have stood by you; ye 're ready now, are ye, to give us the +go-by? If we'd aknown that before, we'd not a-started out with you +so early one bright morning! That's all I 've got to say. Old man +Thomas a'n't got his Bible lesson right. If you give up to London, +or to Harness, now, it's givin' us the chuck--to save your skins--you +won't get over that, my boys; it's a dirty thing to do. + + [He gets down; during his little speech, which is ironically + spoken, there is a restless discomfort in the crowd. ROUS, + stepping forward, jumps on the platform. He has an air of + fierce distraction. Sullen murmurs of disapproval from the + crowd.] + +ROUS. [Speaking with great excitement.] I'm no blanky orator, +mates, but wot I say is drove from me. What I say is yuman nature. +Can a man set an' see 'is mother starve? Can 'e now? + +ROBERTS. [Starting forward.] Rous! + +ROUS. [Staring at him fiercely.] Sim 'Arness said fair! I've +changed my mind! + +ROBERTS. Ah! Turned your coat you mean! + + [The crowd manifests a great surprise.] + +LEWIS. [Apostrophising Rous.] Hallo! What's turned him round? + +ROUS. [Speaking with intense excitement.] 'E said fair. "Stand by +us," 'e said, "and we'll stand by you." That's where we've been +makin' our mistake this long time past; and who's to blame fort? [He +points at ROBERTS] That man there! "No," 'e said, "fight the +robbers," 'e said, "squeeze the breath out o' them!" But it's not the +breath out o' them that's being squeezed; it's the breath out of us +and ours, and that's the book of truth. I'm no orator, mates, it's +the flesh and blood in me that's speakin', it's the heart o' me. +[With a menacing, yet half-ashamed movement towards ROBERTS.] He'll +speak to you again, mark my words, but don't ye listen. [The crowd +groans.] It's hell fire that's on that man's tongue. [ROBERTS is +seen laughing.] Sim 'Arness is right. What are we without the +Union--handful o' parched leaves--a puff o' smoke. I'm no orator, +but I say: Chuck it up! Chuck it up! Sooner than go on starving the +women and the children. + + [The murmurs of acquiescence almost drown the murmurs of + dissent.] + +EVANS. What's turned you to blacklegging? + +ROUS. [With a furious look.] Sim 'Arness knows what he's talking +about. Give us power to come to terms with London; I'm no orator, +but I say--have done wi' this black misery! + + [He gives his muter a twist, jerks his head back, and jumps off + the platform. The crowd applauds and surges forward. Amid + cries of "That's enough!" "Up Union!" "Up Harness!" ROBERTS + quietly ascends the platform. There is a moment of silence.] + +BLACKSMITH. We don't want to hear you. Shut it! + +HENRY Rous. Get down! + + [Amid such cries they surge towards the platform.] + +EVANS. [Fiercely.] Let 'im speak! Roberts! Roberts! + +BULGIN. [Muttering.] He'd better look out that I don't crack his +skull. + + [ROBERTS faces the crowd, probing them with his eyes till they + gradually become silent. He begins speaking. One of the + bargemen rises and stands.] + +ROBERTS. You don't want to hear me, then? You'll listen to Rous and +to that old man, but not to me. You'll listen to Sim Harness of the +Union that's treated you so fair; maybe you'll listen to those men +from London? Ah! You groan! What for? You love their feet on your +necks, don't you? [Then as BULGIN elbows his way towards the +platform, with calm bathos.] You'd like to break my jaw, John +Bulgin. Let me speak, then do your smashing, if it gives you +pleasure. [BULGIN Stands motionless and sullen.] Am I a liar, a +coward, a traitor? If only I were, ye'd listen to me, I'm sure. +[The murmurings cease, and there is now dead silence.] Is there a +man of you here that has less to gain by striking? Is there a man of +you that had more to lose? Is there a man of you that has given up +eight hundred pounds since this trouble here began? Come now, is +there? How much has Thomas given up--ten pounds or five, or what? +You listened to him, and what had he to say? "None can pretend," he +said, "that I'm not a believer in principle--[with biting irony]--but +when Nature says: 'No further, 't es going agenst Nature.'" I tell +you if a man cannot say to Nature: "Budge me from this if ye can!"-- +[with a sort of exaltation]his principles are but his belly. "Oh, +but," Thomas says, "a man can be pure and honest, just and merciful, +and take off his hat to Nature! "I tell you Nature's neither pure +nor honest, just nor merciful. You chaps that live over the hill, +an' go home dead beat in the dark on a snowy night--don't ye fight +your way every inch of it? Do ye go lyin' down an' trustin' to the +tender mercies of this merciful Nature? Try it and you'll soon know +with what ye've got to deal. 'T es only by that--[he strikes a blow +with his clenched fist]--in Nature's face that a man can be a man. +"Give in," says Thomas, "go down on your knees; throw up your foolish +fight, an' perhaps," he said, "perhaps your enemy will chuck you down +a crust." + +JAGO. Never! + +EVANS. Curse them! + +THOMAS. I nefer said that. + +ROBERTS. [Bitingly.] If ye did not say it, man, ye meant it. +An' what did ye say about Chapel? "Chapel's against it," ye said. +"She 's against it!" Well, if Chapel and Nature go hand in hand, +it's the first I've ever heard of it. That young man there-- +[pointing to ROUS]--said I 'ad 'ell fire on my tongue. If I had I +would use it all to scorch and wither this talking of surrender. +Surrendering 's the work of cowards and traitors. + +HENRY ROUS. [As GEORGE ROUS moves forward.] Go for him, George-- +don't stand his lip! + +ROBERTS. [Flinging out his finger.] Stop there, George Rous, it's +no time this to settle personal matters. [ROUS stops.] But there +was one other spoke to you--Mr. Simon Harness. We have not much to +thank Mr. Harness and the Union for. They said to us "Desert your +mates, or we'll desert you." An' they did desert us. + +EVANS. They did. + +ROBERTS. Mr. Simon Harness is a clever man, but he has come too +late. [With intense conviction.] For all that Mr. Simon Harness +says, for all that Thomas, Rous, for all that any man present here +can say--We've won the fight! + + [The crowd sags nearer, looking eagerly up.] + +[With withering scorn.] You've felt the pinch o't in your bellies. +You've forgotten what that fight 'as been; many times I have told +you; I will tell you now this once again. The fight o' the country's +body and blood against a blood-sucker. The fight of those that spend +themselves with every blow they strike and every breath they draw, +against a thing that fattens on them, and grows and grows by the law +of merciful Nature. That thing is Capital! A thing that buys the +sweat o' men's brows, and the tortures o' their brains, at its own +price. Don't I know that? Wasn't the work o' my brains bought for +seven hundred pounds, and has n't one hundred thousand pounds been +gained them by that seven hundred without the stirring of a finger. +It is a thing that will take as much and give you as little as it +can. That's Capital! A thing that will say--"I'm very sorry for +you, poor fellows--you have a cruel time of it, I know," but will not +give one sixpence of its dividends to help you have a better time. +That's Capital! Tell me, for all their talk, is there one of them +that will consent to another penny on the Income Tax to help the +poor? That's Capital! A white-faced, stony-hearted monster! Ye +have got it on its knees; are ye to give up at the last minute to +save your miserable bodies pain? When I went this morning to those +old men from London, I looked into their very 'earts. One of them +was sitting there--Mr. Scantlebury, a mass of flesh nourished on us: +sittin' there for all the world like the shareholders in this +Company, that sit not moving tongue nor finger, takin' dividends a +great dumb ox that can only be roused when its food is threatened. +I looked into his eyes and I saw he was afraid--afraid for himself +and his dividends; afraid for his fees, afraid of the very +shareholders he stands for; and all but one of them's afraid--like +children that get into a wood at night, and start at every rustle of +the leaves. I ask you, men--[he pauses, holding out his hand till +there is utter silence]--give me a free hand to tell them: "Go you +back to London. The men have nothing for you!" [A murmuring.] Give +me that, an' I swear to you, within a week you shall have from London +all you want. + +EVANS, JAGO, and OTHERS. A free hand! Give him a free hand! Bravo- +bravo! + +ROBERTS. 'T is not for this little moment of time we're fighting +[the murmuring dies], not for ourselves, our own little bodies, and +their wants, 't is for all those that come after throughout all time. +[With intense sadness.] Oh! men--for the love o' them, don't roll +up another stone upon their heads, don't help to blacken the sky, an' +let the bitter sea in over them. They're welcome to the worst that +can happen to me, to the worst that can happen to us all, are n't +they--are n't they? If we can shake [passionately] that white-faced +monster with the bloody lips, that has sucked the life out of +ourselves, our wives, and children, since the world began. [Dropping +the note of passion but with the utmost weight and intensity.] If we +have not the hearts of men to stand against it breast to breast, and +eye to eye, and force it backward till it cry for mercy, it will go +on sucking life; and we shall stay forever what we are [in almost a +whisper], less than the very dogs. + + [An utter stillness, and ROBERTS stands rocking his body + slightly, with his eyes burning the faces of the crowd.] + +EVANS and JAGO. [Suddenly.] Roberts! [The shout is taken up.] + + [There is a slight movement in the crowd, and MADGE passing + below the towing-path, stops by the platform, looking up at + ROBERTS. A sudden doubting silence.] + +ROBERTS. "Nature," says that old man, "give in to Nature." I tell +you, strike your blow in Nature's face--an' let it do its worst! + + [He catches sight of MADGE, his brows contract, he looks away.] + +MADGE. [In a low voice-close to the platform.] Your wife's dying! + + [ROBERTS glares at her as if torn from some pinnacle of + exaltation.] + +ROBERTS. [Trying to stammer on.] I say to you--answer them--answer +them---- + + [He is drowned by the murmur in the crowd.] + +THOMAS. [Stepping forward.] Ton't you hear her, then? + +ROBERTS. What is it? [A dead silence.] + +THOMAS. Your wife, man! + + [ROBERTS hesitates, then with a gesture, he leaps down, and goes + away below the towing-path, the men making way for him. The + standing bargeman opens and prepares to light a lantern. + Daylight is fast failing.] + +MADGE. He need n't have hurried! Annie Roberts is dead. [Then in +the silence, passionately.] You pack of blinded hounds! How many +more women are you going to let to die? + + [The crowd shrinks back from her, and breaks up in groups, with + a confused, uneasy movement. MADGE goes quickly away below the + towing-path. There is a hush as they look after her.] + +LEWIS. There's a spitfire, for ye! + +BULGIN. [Growling.] I'll smash 'er jaw. + +GREEN. If I'd a-been listened to, that poor woman---- + +THOMAS. It's a judgment on him for going against Chapel. I tolt him +how 't would be! + +EVANS. All the more reason for sticking by 'im. [A cheer.] Are you +goin' to desert him now 'e 's down? Are you going to chuck him over, +now 'e 's lost 'is wife? + + [The crowd is murmuring and cheering all at once.] + +ROUS. [Stepping in front of platform.] Lost his wife! Aye! Can't +ye see? Look at home, look at your own wives! What's to save them? +Ye'll have the same in all your houses before long! + +LEWIS. Aye, aye! + +HENRY ROUS. Right! George, right! + + [There are murmurs of assent.] + +ROUS. It's not us that's blind, it's Roberts. How long will ye put +up with 'im! + +HENRY, ROUS, BULGIN, DAVIES. Give 'im the chuck! + + [The cry is taken up.] + +EVANS. [Fiercely.] Kick a man that's down? Down? + +HENRY ROUS. Stop his jaw there! + + [EVANS throws up his arm at a threat from BULGIN. The bargeman, + who has lighted the lantern, holds it high above his head.] + +ROUS. [Springing on to the platform.] What brought him down then, +but 'is own black obstinacy? Are ye goin' to follow a man that can't +see better than that where he's goin'? + +EVANS. He's lost 'is wife. + +ROUS. An' who's fault's that but his own. 'Ave done with 'im, I +say, before he's killed your own wives and mothers. + +DAVIES. Down 'im! + +HENRY ROUS. He's finished! + +BROWN. We've had enough of 'im! + +BLACKSMITH. Too much! + + [The crowd takes up these cries, excepting only EVANS, JAGO, and + GREEN, who is seen to argue mildly with the BLACKSMITH.] + +ROUS. [Above the hubbub.] We'll make terms with the Union, lads. + + + [Cheers.] + +EVANS. [Fiercely.] Ye blacklegs! + +BULGIN. [Savagely-squaring up to him.] Who are ye callin' +blacklegs, Rat? + + [EVANS throws up his fists, parries the blow, and returns it. + They fight. The bargemen are seen holding up the lantern and + enjoying the sight. Old THOMAS steps forward and holds out his + hands.] + +THOMAS. Shame on your strife! + + [The BLACKSMITH, BROWN, LEWIS, and the RED-HAIRED YOUTH pull + EVANS and BULGIN apart. The stage is almost dark.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT III + + It is five o'clock. In the UNDERWOODS' drawing-room, which is + artistically furnished, ENID is sitting on the sofa working at a + baby's frock. EDGAR, by a little spindle-legged table in the + centre of the room, is fingering a china-box. His eyes are + fixed on the double-doors that lead into the dining-room. + +EDGAR. [Putting down the china-box, and glancing at his watch.] +Just on five, they're all in there waiting, except Frank. Where's +he? + +ENID. He's had to go down to Gasgoyne's about a contract. Will you +want him? + +EDGAR. He can't help us. This is a director's job. [Motioning +towards a single door half hidden by a curtain.] Father in his room? + +ENID. Yes. + +EDGAR. I wish he'd stay there, Enid. + + [ENID looks up at him. This is a beastly business, old girl?] + + [He takes up the little box again and turns it over and over.] + +ENID. I went to the Roberts's this afternoon, Ted. + +EDGAR. That was n't very wise. + +ENID. He's simply killing his wife. + +EDGAR. We are you mean. + +ENID. [Suddenly.] Roberts ought to give way! + +EDGAR. There's a lot to be said on the men's side. + +ENID. I don't feel half so sympathetic with them as I did before I +went. They just set up class feeling against you. Poor Annie was +looking dread fully bad--fire going out, and nothing fit for her to +eat. + + [EDGAR walks to and fro.] + +But she would stand up for Roberts. When you see all this +wretchedness going on and feel you can do nothing, you have to shut +your eyes to the whole thing. + +EDGAR. If you can. + +ENID. When I went I was all on their side, but as soon as I got +there I began to feel quite different at once. People talk about +sympathy with the working classes, they don't know what it means to +try and put it into practice. It seems hopeless. + +EDGAR. Ah! well. + +ENID. It's dreadful going on with the men in this state. I do hope +the Dad will make concessions. + +EDGAR. He won't. [Gloomily.] It's a sort of religion with him. +Curse it! I know what's coming! He'll be voted down. + +ENID. They would n't dare! + +EDGAR. They will--they're in a funk. + +ENID. [Indignantly.] He'd never stand it! + +EDGAR. [With a shrug.] My dear girl, if you're beaten in a vote, +you've got to stand it. + +ENID. Oh! [She gets up in alarm.] But would he resign? + +EDGAR. Of course! It goes to the roots of his beliefs. + +ENID. But he's so wrapped up in this company, Ted! There'd be +nothing left for him! It'd be dreadful! + + [EDGAR shrugs his shoulders.] + +Oh, Ted, he's so old now! You must n't let them! + +EDGAR. [Hiding his feelings in an outburst.] My sympathies in this +strike are all on the side of the men. + +ENID. He's been Chairman for more than thirty years! He made the +whole thing! And think of the bad times they've had; it's always +been he who pulled them through. Oh, Ted, you must! + +EDGAR. What is it you want? You said just now you hoped he'd make +concessions. Now you want me to back him in not making them. This +is n't a game, Enid! + +ENID. [Hotly.] It is n't a game to me that the Dad's in danger of +losing all he cares about in life. If he won't give way, and he's +beaten, it'll simply break him down! + +EDGAR. Did n't you say it was dreadful going on with the men in this +state? + +ENID. But can't you see, Ted, Father'll never get over it! You must +stop them somehow. The others are afraid of him. If you back him +up---- + +EDGAR. [Putting his hand to his head.] Against my convictions-- +against yours! The moment it begins to pinch one personally---- + +ENID. It is n't personal, it's the Dad! + +EDGAR. Your family or yourself, and over goes the show! + +ENID. [Resentfully.] If you don't take it seriously, I do. + +EDGAR. I am as fond of him as you are; that's nothing to do with it. + +ENID. We can't tell about the men; it's all guess-work. But we know +the Dad might have a stroke any day. D' you mean to say that he +isn't more to you than---- + +EDGAR. Of course he is. + +ENID. I don't understand you then. + +EDGAR. H'm! + +ENID. If it were for oneself it would be different, but for our own +Father! You don't seem to realise. + +EDGAR. I realise perfectly. + +ENID. It's your first duty to save him. + +EDGAR. I wonder. + +ENID. [Imploring.] Oh, Ted? It's the only interest he's got left; +it'll be like a death-blow to him! + +EDGAR. [Restraining his emotion.] I know. + +ENID. Promise! + +EDGAR. I'll do what I can. + + [He turns to the double-doors.] + + [The curtained door is opened, and ANTHONY appears. EDGAR opens + the double-doors, and passes through.] + + [SCANTLEBURY'S voice is faintly heard: "Past five; we shall + never get through--have to eat another dinner at that hotel!" + The doors are shut. ANTHONY walks forward.] + +ANTHONY. You've been seeing Roberts, I hear. + +ENID. Yes. + +ANTHONY. Do you know what trying to bridge such a gulf as this is +like? + + [ENID puts her work on the little table, and faces him.] + +Filling a sieve with sand! + +ENID. Don't! + +ANTHONY. You think with your gloved hands you can cure the trouble +of the century. + + [He passes on. ] + +ENID. Father! + + [ANTHONY Stops at the double doors.] + +I'm only thinking of you! + +ANTHONY. [More softly.] I can take care of myself, my dear. + +ENID. Have you thought what'll happen if you're beaten-- +[she points]--in there? + +ANTHONY. I don't mean to be. + +ENID. Oh! Father, don't give them a chance. You're not well; need +you go to the meeting at all? + +ANTHONY. [With a grim smile.] Cut and run? + +ENID. But they'll out-vote you! + +ANTHONY. [Putting his hand on the doors.] We shall see! + +ENID. I beg you, Dad! Won't you? + + [ANTHONY looks at her softly.] + + [ANTHONY shakes his head. He opens the doors. A buzz of voices + comes in.] + +SCANTLEBURY. Can one get dinner on that 6.30 train up? + +TENCH. No, Sir, I believe not, sir. + +WILDER. Well, I shall speak out; I've had enough of this. + +EDGAR. [Sharply.] What? + + [It ceases instantly. ANTHONY passes through, closing the doors + behind him. ENID springs to them with a gesture of dismay. She + puts her hand on the knob, and begins turning it; then goes to + the fireplace, and taps her foot on the fender. Suddenly she + rings the bell. FROST comes in by the door that leads into the + hall.] + +FROST. Yes, M'm? + +ENID. When the men come, Frost, please show them in here; the +hall 's cold. + +FROST. I could put them in the pantry, M'm. + +ENID. No. I don't want to--to offend them; they're so touchy. + +FROST. Yes, M'm. [Pause.] Excuse me, Mr. Anthony's 'ad nothing to +eat all day. + +ENID. I know Frost. + +FROST. Nothin' but two whiskies and sodas, M'm. + +ENID. Oh! you oughtn't to have let him have those. + +FROST. [Gravely.] Mr. Anthony is a little difficult, M'm. It's not +as if he were a younger man, an' knew what was good for 'im; he will +have his own way. + +ENID. I suppose we all want that. + +FROST. Yes, M'm. [Quietly.] Excuse me speakin' about the strike. +I'm sure if the other gentlemen were to give up to Mr. Anthony, and +quietly let the men 'ave what they want, afterwards, that'd be the +best way. I find that very useful with him at times, M'm. + + [ENID shakes hey head.] + +If he's crossed, it makes him violent. [with an air of discovery], +and I've noticed in my own case, when I'm violent I'm always sorry +for it afterwards. + +ENID. [With a smile.] Are you ever violent, Frost? + +FROST. Yes, M'm; oh! sometimes very violent. + +ENID. I've never seen you. + +FROST. [Impersonally.] No, M'm; that is so. + + [ENID fidgets towards the back of the door.] + +[With feeling.] Bein' with Mr. Anthony, as you know, M'm, ever since +I was fifteen, it worries me to see him crossed like this at his age. +I've taken the liberty to speak to Mr. Wanklin [dropping his voice]-- +seems to be the most sensible of the gentlemen--but 'e said to me: +"That's all very well, Frost, but this strike's a very serious +thing," 'e said. "Serious for all parties, no doubt," I said, "but +yumour 'im, sir," I said, "yumour 'im. It's like this, if a man +comes to a stone wall, 'e does n't drive 'is 'ead against it, 'e gets +over it." "Yes," 'e said, "you'd better tell your master that." +[FROST looks at his nails.] That's where it is, M'm. I said to Mr. +Anthony this morning: "Is it worth it, sir?" "Damn it," he said to +me, "Frost! Mind your own business, or take a month's notice!" Beg +pardon, M'm, for using such a word. + +ENID. [Moving to the double-doors, and listening.] Do you know that +man Roberts, Frost? + +FROST. Yes, M'm; that's to say, not to speak to. But to look at 'im +you can tell what he's like. + +ENID. [Stopping.] Yes? + +FROST. He's not one of these 'ere ordinary 'armless Socialists. +'E's violent; got a fire inside 'im. What I call "personal." A man +may 'ave what opinions 'e likes, so long as 'e 's not personal; when +'e 's that 'e 's not safe. + +ENID. I think that's what my father feels about Roberts. + +FROST. No doubt, M'm, Mr. Anthony has a feeling against him. + + [ENID glances at him sharply, but finding him in perfect + earnest, stands biting her lips, and looking at the double- + doors.] + +It 's, a regular right down struggle between the two. I've no +patience with this Roberts, from what I 'ear he's just an ordinary +workin' man like the rest of 'em. If he did invent a thing he's no +worse off than 'undreds of others. My brother invented a new kind o' +dumb-waiter--nobody gave him anything for it, an' there it is, bein' +used all over the place. + + [ENID moves closer to the double-doors.] + +There's a kind o' man that never forgives the world, because 'e +wasn't born a gentleman. What I say is--no man that's a gentleman +looks down on another because 'e 'appens to be a class or two above +'im, no more than if 'e 'appens to be a class or two below. + +ENID. [With slight impatience.] Yes, I know, Frost, of course. +Will you please go in and ask if they'll have some tea; say I sent +you. + +FROST. Yes, M'm. + + [He opens the doors gently and goes in. There is a momentary + sound of earnest, gather angry talk.] + +WILDER. I don't agree with you. + +WANKLIN. We've had this over a dozen times. + +EDGAR. [Impatiently.] Well, what's the proposition? + +SCANTLEBURY. Yes, what does your father say? Tea? Not for me, not +for me! + +WANKLIN. What I understand the Chairman to say is this---- + + [FROST re-enters closing the door behind him.] + +ENID. [Moving from the door.] Won't they have any tea, Frost? + + [She goes to the little table, and remains motionless, looking + at the baby's frock.] + + [A parlourmaid enters from the hall.] + +PARLOURMAID. A Miss Thomas, M'm + +ENID. [Raising her head.] Thomas? What Miss Thomas--d' you +mean a----? + +PARLOURMAID. Yes, M'm. + +ENID. [Blankly.] Oh! Where is she? + +PARLOURMAID. In the porch. + +ENID. I don't want----[She hesitates.] + +FROST. Shall I dispose of her, M'm? + +ENID. I 'll come out. No, show her in here, Ellen. + + [The PARLOUR MAID and FROST go out. ENID pursing her lips, sits + at the little table, taking up the baby's frock. The + PARLOURMAID ushers in MADGE THOMAS and goes out; MADGE stands by + the door.] + +ENID. Come in. What is it. What have you come for, please? + +MADGE. Brought a message from Mrs. Roberts. + +ENID. A message? Yes. + +MADGE. She asks you to look after her mother. + +ENID. I don't understand. + +MADGE. [Sullenly.] That's the message. + +ENID. But--what--why? + +MADGE. Annie Roberts is dead. + + [There is a silence.] + +ENID. [Horrified.] But it's only a little more than an hour since I +saw her. + +MADGE. Of cold and hunger. + +ENID. [Rising.] Oh! that's not true! the poor thing's heart---- +What makes you look at me like that? I tried to help her. + +MADGE. [With suppressed savagery.] I thought you'd like to know. + +ENID. [Passionately.] It's so unjust! Can't you see that I want to +help you all? + +MADGE. I never harmed any one that had n't harmed me first. + +ENID. [Coldly.] What harm have I done you? Why do you speak to me +like that? + +MADGE. [With the bitterest intensity.] You come out of your comfort +to spy on us! A week of hunger, that's what you want! + +ENID. [Standing her ground.] Don't talk nonsense! + +MADGE. I saw her die; her hands were blue with the cold. + +ENID. [With a movement of grief.] Oh! why wouldn't she let me help +her? It's such senseless pride! + +MADGE. Pride's better than nothing to keep your body warm. + +ENID. [Passionately.] I won't talk to you! How can you tell what I +feel? It's not my fault that I was born better off than you. + +MADGE. We don't want your money. + +ENID. You don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go +away! + +MADGE. [Balefully.] You've killed her, for all your soft words, you +and your father + +ENID. [With rage and emotion.] That's wicked! My father is +suffering himself through this wretched strike. + +MADGE. [With sombre triumph.] Then tell him Mrs. Roberts is dead! +That 'll make him better. + +ENID. Go away! + +MADGE. When a person hurts us we get it back on them. + + [She makes a sudden and swift movement towards ENID, fixing her + eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. ENID + snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. They + stand a yard apart, crossing glances.] + +MADGE. [Pointing to the frock with a little smile.] Ah! You felt +that! Lucky it's her mother--not her children--you've to look after, +is n't it. She won't trouble you long! + +ENID. Go away! + +MADGE. I've given you the message. + + [She turns and goes out into the hall. ENID, motionless till + she has gone, sinks down at the table, bending her head over the + frock, which she is still clutching to her. The double-doors + are opened, and ANTHONY comes slowly in; he passes his daughter, + and lowers himself into an arm-chair. He is very flushed.] + +ENID. [Hiding her emotion-anxiously.] What is it, Dad? + + [ANTHONY makes a gesture, but does not speak.] + +Who was it? + + [ANTHONY does not answer. ENID going to the double-doors meets + EDGAR Coming in. They speak together in low tones.] + +What is it, Ted? + +EDGAR. That fellow Wilder! Taken to personalities! He was +downright insulting. + +ENID. What did he say? + +EDGAR. Said, Father was too old and feeble to know what he was +doing! The Dad's worth six of him! + +ENID. Of course he is. + + [They look at ANTHONY.] + + [The doors open wider, WANKLIN appears With SCANTLEBURY.] + +SCANTLEBURY. [Sotto voce.] I don't like the look of this! + +WANKLIN. [Going forward.] Come, Chairman! Wilder sends you his +apologies. A man can't do more. + + [WILDER, followed by TENCH, comes in, and goes to ANTHONY.] + +WILDER. [Glumly.] I withdraw my words, sir. I'm sorry. + + [ANTHONY nods to him.] + +ENID. You have n't come to a decision, Mr. Wanklin? + + [WANKLIN shakes his head.] + +WANKLIN. We're all here, Chairman; what do you say? Shall we get on +with the business, or shall we go back to the other room? + +SCANTLEBURY. Yes, yes; let's get on. We must settle something. + + [He turns from a small chair, and settles himself suddenly in + the largest chair with a sigh of comfort.] + + [WILDER and WANKLIN also sit; and TENCH, drawing up a straight- + backed chair close to his Chairman, sits on the edge of it with + the minute-book and a stylographic pen.] + +ENID. [Whispering.] I want to speak to you a minute, Ted. + + [They go out through the double-doors.] + +WANKLIN. Really, Chairman, it's no use soothing ourselves with a +sense of false security. If this strike's not brought to an end +before the General Meeting, the shareholders will certainly haul us +over the coals. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Stirring.] What--what's that? + +WANKLIN. I know it for a fact. + +ANTHONY. Let them! + +WILDER. And get turned out? + +WANKLIN. [To ANTHONY.] I don't mind martyrdom for a policy in which +I believe, but I object to being burnt for some one else's +principles. + +SCANTLEBURY. Very reasonable--you must see that, Chairman. + +ANTHONY. We owe it to other employers to stand firm. + +WANKLIN. There's a limit to that. + +ANTHONY. You were all full of fight at the start. + +SCANTLEBURY. [With a sort of groan.] We thought the men would give +in, but they-have n't! + +ANTHONY. They will! + +WILDER. [Rising and pacing up and down.] I can't have my reputation +as a man of business destroyed for the satisfaction of starving the +men out. [Almost in tears.] I can't have it! How can we meet the +shareholders with things in the state they are? + +SCANTLEBURY. Hear, hear--hear, hear! + +WILDER. [Lashing himself.] If any one expects me to say to them +I've lost you fifty thousand pounds and sooner than put my pride in +my pocket I'll lose you another. [Glancing at ANTHONY.] It's--it's +unnatural! I don't want to go against you, sir. + +WANKLIN. [Persuasively.] Come Chairman, we 're not free agents. +We're part of a machine. Our only business is to see the Company +earns as much profit as it safely can. If you blame me for want of +principle: I say that we're Trustees. Reason tells us we shall never +get back in the saving of wages what we shall lose if we continue +this struggle--really, Chairman, we must bring it to an end, on the +best terms we can make. + +ANTHONY. No. + + [There is a pause of general dismay.] + +WILDER. It's a deadlock then. [Letting his hands drop with a sort +of despair.] Now I shall never get off to Spain! + +WANKLIN. [Retaining a trace of irony.] You hear the consequences of +your victory, Chairman? + +WILDER. [With a burst of feeling.] My wife's ill! + +SCANTLEBURY. Dear, dear! You don't say so. + +WILDER. If I don't get her out of this cold, I won't answer for the +consequences. + + [Through the double-doors EDGAR comes in looking very grave.] + +EDGAR. [To his Father.] Have you heard this, sir? Mrs. Roberts is +dead! + + [Every one stages at him, as if trying to gauge the importance + of this news.] + +Enid saw her this afternoon, she had no coals, or food, or anything. +It's enough! + + [There is a silence, every one avoiding the other's eyes, except + ANTHONY, who stares hard at his son.] + +SCANTLEBURY. You don't suggest that we could have helped the poor +thing? + +WILDER. [Flustered.] The woman was in bad health. Nobody can say +there's any responsibility on us. At least--not on me. + +EDGAR. [Hotly.] I say that we are responsible. + +ANTHONY. War is war! + +EDGAR. Not on women! + +WANKLIN. It not infrequently happens that women are the greatest +sufferers. + +EDGAR. If we knew that, all the more responsibility rests on us. + +ANTHONY. This is no matter for amateurs. + +EDGAR. Call me what you like, sir. It's sickened me. We had no +right to carry things to such a length. + +WILDER. I don't like this business a bit--that Radical rag will +twist it to their own ends; see if they don't! They'll get up some +cock and bull story about the poor woman's dying from starvation. I +wash my hands of it. + +EDGAR. You can't. None of us can. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Striking his fist on the arm of his chair.] But I +protest against this! + +EDGAR. Protest as you like, Mr. Scantlebury, it won't alter facts. + +ANTHONY. That's enough. + +EDGAR. [Facing him angrily.] No, sir. I tell you exactly what I +think. If we pretend the men are not suffering, it's humbug; and if +they're suffering, we know enough of human nature to know the women +are suffering more, and as to the children--well--it's damnable! + + [SCANTLEBURY rises from his chair.] + +I don't say that we meant to be cruel, I don't say anything of the +sort; but I do say it's criminal to shut our eyes to the facts. We +employ these men, and we can't get out of it. I don't care so much +about the men, but I'd sooner resign my position on the Board than go +on starving women in this way. + + [All except ANTHONY are now upon their feet, ANTHONY sits + grasping the arms of his chair and staring at his son.] + +SCANTLEBURY. I don't--I don't like the way you're putting it, young +sir. + +WANKLIN. You're rather overshooting the mark. + +WILDER. I should think so indeed! + +EDGAR. [Losing control.] It's no use blinking things! If you want +to have the death of women on your hands--I don't! + +SCANTLEBURY. Now, now, young man! + +WILDER. On our hands? Not on mine, I won't have it! + +EDGAR. We are five members of this Board; if we were four against +it, why did we let it drift till it came to this? You know perfectly +well why--because we hoped we should starve the men out. Well, all +we've done is to starve one woman out! + +SCANTLEBURY. [Almost hysterically.] I protest, I protest! I'm a +humane man--we're all humane men! + +EDGAR. [Scornfully.] There's nothing wrong with our humanity. It's +our imaginations, Mr. Scantlebury. + +WILDER. Nonsense! My imagination's as good as yours. + +EDGAR. If so, it is n't good enough. + +WILDER. I foresaw this! + +EDGAR. Then why didn't you put your foot down! + +WILDER. Much good that would have done. + + [He looks at ANTHONY.] + +EDGAR. If you, and I, and each one of us here who say that our +imaginations are so good-- + +SCANTLEBURY. [Flurried.] I never said so. + +EDGAR. [Paying no attention.]--had put our feet down, the thing +would have been ended long ago, and this poor woman's life wouldn't +have been crushed out of her like this. For all we can tell there +may be a dozen other starving women. + +SCANTLEBURY. For God's sake, sir, don't use that word at a--at a +Board meeting; it's--it's monstrous. + +EDGAR. I will use it, Mr. Scantlebury. + +SCANTLEBURY. Then I shall not listen to you. I shall not listen! +It's painful to me. + + [He covers his ears.] + +WANKLIN. None of us are opposed to a settlement, except your Father. + +EDGAR. I'm certain that if the shareholders knew---- + +WANKLIN. I don't think you'll find their imaginations are any better +than ours. Because a woman happens to have a weak heart---- + +EDGAR. A struggle like this finds out the weak spots in everybody. +Any child knows that. If it hadn't been for this cut-throat policy, +she need n't have died like this; and there would n't be all this +misery that any one who is n't a fool can see is going on. + + [Throughout the foregoing ANTHONY has eyed his son; he now moves + as though to rise, but stops as EDGAR speaks again.] + +I don't defend the men, or myself, or anybody. + +WANKLIN. You may have to! A coroner's jury of disinterested +sympathisers may say some very nasty things. We mustn't lose sight +of our position. + +SCANTLEBURY. [Without uncovering his ears.] Coroner's jury! No, +no, it's not a case for that! + +EDGAR. I 've had enough of cowardice. + +WANKLIN. Cowardice is an unpleasant word, Mr. Edgar Anthony. It +will look very like cowardice if we suddenly concede the men's +demands when a thing like this happens; we must be careful! + +WILDER. Of course we must. We've no knowledge of this matter, +except a rumour. The proper course is to put the whole thing into +the hands of Harness to settle for us; that's natural, that's what we +should have come to any way. + +SCANTLEBURY. [With dignity.] Exactly! [Turning to EDGAR.] And as +to you, young sir, I can't sufficiently express my--my distaste for +the way you've treated the whole matter. You ought to withdraw! +Talking of starvation, talking of cowardice! Considering what our +views are! Except your own is--is one of goodwill--it's most +irregular, it's most improper, and all I can say is it's--it's given +me pain---- + + [He places his hand over his heart.] + +EDGAR. [Stubbornly.] I withdraw nothing. + + [He is about to say mote when SCANTLEBURY once more coveys up + his ears. TENCH suddenly makes a demonstration with the minute- + book. A sense of having been engaged in the unusual comes over + all of them, and one by one they resume their seats. EDGAR + alone remains on his feet.] + +WILDER. [With an air of trying to wipe something out.] I pay no +attention to what young Mr. Anthony has said. Coroner's jury! The +idea's preposterous. I--I move this amendment to the Chairman's +Motion: That the dispute be placed at once in the hands of Mr. Simon +Harness for settlement, on the lines indicated by him this morning. +Any one second that? + + [TENCH writes in his book.] + +WANKLIN. I do. + +WILDER. Very well, then; I ask the Chairman to put it to the Board. + +ANTHONY. [With a great sigh-slowly.] We have been made the subject +of an attack. [Looking round at WILDER and SCANTLEBURY with ironical +contempt.] I take it on my shoulders. I am seventy-six years old. +I have been Chairman of this Company since its inception two-and- +thirty years ago. I have seen it pass through good and evil report. +My connection with it began in the year that this young man was born. + + [EDGAR bows his head. ANTHONY, gripping his chair, goes on.] + +I have had do to with "men" for fifty years; I've always stood up to +them; I have never been beaten yet. I have fought the men of this +Company four times, and four times I have beaten them. It has been +said that I am not the man I was. [He looks at Wilder.] However +that may be, I am man enough to stand to my guns. + + [His voice grows stronger. The double-doors are opened. ENID + slips in, followed by UNDERWOOD, who restrains her.] + +The men have been treated justly, they have had fair wages, we have +always been ready to listen to complaints. It has been said that +times have changed; if they have, I have not changed with them. +Neither will I. It has been said that masters and men are equal! +Cant! There can only be one master in a house! Where two men meet +the better man will rule. It has been said that Capital and Labour +have the same interests. Cant! Their interests are as wide asunder +as the poles. It has been said that the Board is only part of a +machine. Cant! We are the machine; its brains and sinews; it is for +us to lead and to determine what is to be done, and to do it without +fear or favour. Fear of the men! Fear of the shareholders! Fear of +our own shadows! Before I am like that, I hope to die. + + [He pauses, and meeting his son's eyes, goes on.] + +There is only one way of treating "men"--with the iron hand. This +half and half business, the half and half manners of this generation, +has brought all this upon us. Sentiment and softness, and what this +young man, no doubt, would call his social policy. You can't eat +cake and have it! This middle-class sentiment, or socialism, or +whatever it may be, is rotten. Masters are masters, men are men! +Yield one demand, and they will make it six. They are [he smiles +grimly] like Oliver Twist, asking for more. If I were in their +place I should be the same. But I am not in their place. Mark my +words: one fine morning, when you have given way here, and given way +there--you will find you have parted with the ground beneath your +feet, and are deep in the bog of bankruptcy; and with you, +floundering in that bog, will be the very men you have given way to. +I have been accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of +my pride--I am thinking of the future of this country, threatened +with the black waters of confusion, threatened with mob government, +threatened with what I cannot see. If by any conduct of mine I help +to bring this on us, I shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the +face. + + [ANTHONY stares before him, at what he cannot see, and there is + perfect stillness. FROST comes in from the hall, and all but + ANTHONY look round at him uneasily.] + +FROST. [To his master.] The men are here, sir. [ANTHONY makes a +gesture of dismissal.] Shall I bring them in, sir? + +ANTHONY. Wait! + + [FROST goes out, ANTHONY turns to face his son.] + +I come to the attack that has been made upon me. + + [EDGAR, with a gesture of deprecation, remains motionless with + his head a little bowed.] + +A woman has died. I am told that her blood is on my hands; I am told +that on my hands is the starvation and the suffering of other women +and of children. + +EDGAR. I said "on our hands," sir. + +ANTHONY. It is the same. [His voice grows stronger and stronger, +his feeling is more and more made manifest.] I am not aware that if +my adversary suffer in a fair fight not sought by me, it is my fault. +If I fall under his feet--as fall I may--I shall not complain. That +will be my look-out--and this is--his. I cannot separate, as I +would, these men from their women and children. A fair fight is a +fair fight! Let them learn to think before they pick a quarrel! + +EDGAR. [In a low voice.] But is it a fair fight, Father? Look at +them, and look at us! They've only this one weapon! + +ANTHONY. [Grimly.] And you're weak-kneed enough to teach them how +to use it! It seems the fashion nowadays for men to take their +enemy's side. I have not learnt that art. Is it my fault that they +quarrelled with their Union too? + +EDGAR. There is such a thing as Mercy. + +ANTHONY. And justice comes before it. + +EDGAR. What seems just to one man, sir, is injustice to another. + +ANTHONY. [With suppressed passion.] You accuse me of injustice--of +what amounts to inhumanity--of cruelty? + + [EDGAR makes a gesture of horror--a general frightened + movement.] + +WANKLIN. Come, come, Chairman. + +ANTHONY. [In a grim voice.] These are the words of my own son. +They are the words of a generation that I don't understand; the words +of a soft breed. + + [A general murmur. With a violent effort ANTHONY recovers his + control.] + +EDGAR. [Quietly.] I said it of myself, too, Father. + + [A long look is exchanged between them, and ANTHONY puts out his + hand with a gesture as if to sweep the personalities away; then + places it against his brow, swaying as though from giddiness. + There is a movement towards him. He moves them back.] + +ANTHONY. Before I put this amendment to the Board, I have one more +word to say. [He looks from face to face.] If it is carried, it +means that we shall fail in what we set ourselves to do. It means +that we shall fail in the duty that we owe to all Capital. It means +that we shall fail in the duty that we owe ourselves. It means that +we shall be open to constant attack to which we as constantly shall +have to yield. Be under no misapprehension--run this time, and you +will never make a stand again! You will have to fly like curs before +the whips of your own men. If that is the lot you wish for, you will +vote for this amendment. + + [He looks again, from face to face, finally resting his gaze on + EDGAR; all sit with their eyes on the ground. ANTHONY makes a + gesture, and TENCH hands him the book. He reads.] + +"Moved by Mr. Wilder, and seconded by Mr. Wanklin: 'That the men's +demands be placed at once in the hands of Mr. Simon Harness for +settlement on the lines indicated by him this morning.'" [With +sudden vigour.] Those in favour: Signify the same in the usual way! + + [For a minute no one moves; then hastily, just as ANTHONY is + about to speak, WILDER's hand and WANKLIN'S are held up, then + SCANTLEBURY'S, and last EDGAR'S who does not lift his head.] + + [ANTHONY lifts his own hand.] + +[In a clear voice.] The amendment is carried. I resign my position +on this Board. + + [ENID gasps, and there is dead silence. ANTHONY sits + motionless, his head slowly drooping; suddenly he heaves as + though the whole of his life had risen up within him.] + +Contrary? + +Fifty years! You have disgraced me, gentlemen. Bring in the men! + + [He sits motionless, staring before him. The Board draws + hurriedly together, and forms a group. TENCH in a frightened + manner speaks into the hall. UNDERWOOD almost forces ENID from + the room.] + +WILDER. [Hurriedly.] What's to be said to them? Why isn't Harness +here? Ought we to see the men before he comes? I don't---- + +TENCH. Will you come in, please? + + [Enter THOMAS, GREEN, BULGIN, and ROUS, who file up in a row + past the little table. TENCH sits down and writes. All eyes + are foxed on ANTHONY, who makes no sign.] + +WANKLIN. [Stepping up to the little table, with nervous cordiality.] +Well, Thomas, how's it to be? What's the result of your meeting? + +ROUS. Sim Harness has our answer. He'll tell you what it is. We're +waiting for him. He'll speak for us. + +WANKLIN. Is that so, Thomas? + +THOMAS. [Sullenly.] Yes. Roberts will not pe coming, his wife is +dead. + +SCANTLEBURY. Yes, yes! Poor woman! Yes! Yes! + +FROST. [Entering from the hall.] Mr. Harness, Sir! + + [As HARNESS enters he retires.] + + [HARNESS has a piece of paper in his hand, he bows to the + Directors, nods towards the men, and takes his stand behind the + little table in the very centre of the room.] + +HARNESS. Good evening, gentlemen. + + [TENCH, with the paper he has been writing, joins him, they + speak together in low tones.] + +WILDER. We've been waiting for you, Harness. Hope we shall come to +some---- + +FROST. [Entering from the hall.] Roberts! + + [He goes.] + + [ROBERTS comes hastily in, and stands staring at ANTHONY. His + face is drawn and old.] + +ROBERTS. Mr. Anthony, I am afraid I am a little late, I would have +been here in time but for something that--has happened. [To the +men.] Has anything been said? + +THOMAS. No! But, man, what made ye come? + +ROBERTS. Ye told us this morning, gentlemen, to go away and +reconsider our position. We have reconsidered it; we are here to +bring you the men's answer. [To ANTHONY.] Go ye back to London. We +have nothing for you. By no jot or tittle do we abate our demands, +nor will we until the whole of those demands are yielded. + + [ANTHONY looks at him but does not speak. There is a movement + amongst the men as though they were bewildered.] + +HARNESS. Roberts! + +ROBERTS. [Glancing fiercely at him, and back to ANTHONY.] Is that +clear enough for ye? Is it short enough and to the point? Ye made a +mistake to think that we would come to heel. Ye may break the body, +but ye cannot break the spirit. Get back to London, the men have +nothing for ye? + + [Pausing uneasily he takes a step towards the unmoving ANTHONY.] + +EDGAR. We're all sorry for you, Roberts, but---- + +ROBERTS. Keep your sorrow, young man. Let your father speak! + +HARNESS. [With the sheet of paper in his hand, speaking from behind +the little table.] Roberts! + +ROBERT. [TO ANTHONY, with passionate intensity.] Why don't ye +answer? + +HARNESS. Roberts! + +ROBERTS. [Turning sharply.] What is it? + +HARNESS. [Gravely.] You're talking without the book; things have +travelled past you. + + [He makes a sign to TENCH, who beckons the Directors. They + quickly sign his copy of the terms.] + +Look at this, man! [Holding up his sheet of paper.] "Demands +conceded, with the exception of those relating to the engineers and +furnace-men. Double wages for Saturday's overtime. Night-shifts as +they are." These terms have been agreed. The men go back to work +again to-morrow. The strike is at an end. + +ROBERTS. [Reading the paper, and turning on the men. They shrink +back from him, all but ROUS, who stands his ground. With deadly +stillness.] Ye have gone back on me? I stood by ye to the death; ye +waited for that to throw me over! + + [The men answer, all speaking together.] + +ROUS. It's a lie! + +THOMAS. Ye were past endurance, man. + +GREEN. If ye'd listen to me! + +BULGIN. (Under his breath.) Hold your jaw! + +ROBERTS. Ye waited for that! + +HARNESS. [Taking the Director's copy of the terms, and handing his +own to TENCH.] That's enough, men. You had better go. + + [The men shuffle slowly, awkwardly away.] + +WILDER. [In a low, nervous voice.] There's nothing to stay for now, +I suppose. [He follows to the door.] I shall have a try for that +train! Coming, Scantlebury? + +SCANTLEBURY. [Following with WANKLIN.] Yes, yes; wait for me. [He +stops as ROBERTS speaks.] + +ROBERTS. [To ANTHONY.] But ye have not signed them terms! They +can't make terms without their Chairman! Ye would never sign them +terms! [ANTHONY looks at him without speaking.] Don't tell me ye +have! for the love o' God! [With passionate appeal.] I reckoned on +ye! + +HARNESS. [Holding out the Director's copy of the teems.] The Board +has signed! + + [ROBERTS looks dully at the signatures--dashes the paper from + him, and covers up his eyes.] + +SCANTLEBURY. [Behind his hand to TENCH.] Look after the Chairman! +He's not well; he's not well--he had no lunch. If there's any fund +started for the women and children, put me down for--for twenty +pounds. + + [He goes out into the hall, in cumbrous haste; and WANKLIN, who + has been staring at ROBERTS and ANTHONY With twitchings of his + face, follows. EDGAR remains seated on the sofa, looking at the + ground; TENCH, returning to the bureau, writes in his minute-- + book. HARNESS stands by the little table, gravely watching + ROBERTS.] + +ROBERTS. Then you're no longer Chairman of this Company! [Breaking +into half-mad laughter.] Ah! ha-ah, ha, ha! They've thrown ye over +thrown over their Chairman: Ah-ha-ha! [With a sudden dreadful calm.] +So--they've done us both down, Mr. Anthony? + + [ENID, hurrying through the double-doors, comes quickly to her + father.] + +ANTHONY. Both broken men, my friend Roberts! + +HARNESS. [Coming down and laying his hands on ROBERTS'S sleeve.] +For shame, Roberts! Go home quietly, man; go home! + +ROBERTS. [Tearing his arm away.] Home? [Shrinking together--in a +whisper.] Home! + +ENID. [Quietly to her father.] Come away, dear! Come to your room + + [ANTHONY rises with an effort. He turns to ROBERTS who looks at + him. They stand several seconds, gazing at each other fixedly; + ANTHONY lifts his hand, as though to salute, but lets it fall. + The expression of ROBERTS'S face changes from hostility to + wonder. They bend their heads in token of respect. ANTHONY + turns, and slowly walks towards the curtained door. Suddenly + he sways as though about to fall, recovers himself, and is + assisted out by EDGAR and ENID; UNDERWOOD follows, but stops at + the door. ROBERTS remains motionless for several seconds, + staring intently after ANTHONY, then goes out into the hall.] + +TENCH. [Approaching HARNESS.] It's a great weight off my mind, Mr. +Harness! But what a painful scene, sir! [He wipes his brow.] + + [HARNESS, pale and resolute, regards with a grim half-smile the + quavering.] + +TENCH. It's all been so violent! What did he mean by: "Done us both +down?" If he has lost his wife, poor fellow, he oughtn't to have +spoken to the Chairman like that! + +HARNESS. A woman dead; and the two best men both broken! + +TENCH. [Staring at him-suddenly excited.] D'you know, sir--these +terms, they're the very same we drew up together, you and I, and put +to both sides before the fight began? All this--all this--and--and +what for? + +HARNESS. [In a slow grim voice.] That's where the fun comes in! + + [UNDERWOOD without turning from the door makes a gesture of + assent.] + + + The curtain falls. + +THE END + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of STRIFE, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 + +THE ELDEST SON + +BY JOHN GALSWORTHY + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet +LADY CHESHIRE, his wife +BILL, their eldest son +HAROLD, their second son +RONALD KEITH(in the Lancers), their son-in-law +CHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughter +DOT, their second daughter +JOAN, their third daughter +MABEL LANFARNE, their guest +THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan +OLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeper +FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid +YOUNG DUNNING, the under-keeper +ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl +JACKSON, the butler +CHARLES, a footman + + +TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8 at the +Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. + +ACT I SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. + SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. + +ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. + +ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. + + A night elapses between Acts I. and II. + + + + + + ACT I + +SCENE I + + The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with + an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The + dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and + under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In + a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins + on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against + the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty, + pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, + is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white + roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A + door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress, + comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, + rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, + whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He + speaks before he reaches the bottom. + +SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for? + +FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, Sir +William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening. + +SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Your +father coming up to-night? + +FREDA. Yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him +here after dinner, will you? + +FREDA. Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if +he's got it. + + He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly + tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of + skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a + nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress. + +CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU? + +FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine--Mrs. Keith, I mean. +My lady told me to give you these. + +CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother! + +FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. +My lady thought white would suit her better. + +CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress. + + [FREDA lowers the roses quickly.] + +What do you think of Joan's engagement? + +FREDA. It's very nice for her. + +CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals? + +FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing. + +CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. +Any news? + +FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, +won't marry Rose Taylor, after all. + +CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there +was--she was--I mean---- + +FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say. + +CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's +come? + +FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty. + + RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in + evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and + the air of a horseman. + +KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed +a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. +Where's that litter of little foxes? + +FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith. + +KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What? + +CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here +since the flood. + +KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat--eh, Freda? + +CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young +Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny. + +KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never +keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Bill +come? + + As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's + evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale + young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, + and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod. + HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three + steps at a time. + +HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have a +sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet? + +FREDA. No, Mr. Harold. + + HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the + drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a + voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her + head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes. + +JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot! + +FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan. + + DOT's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. + She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a + rebel. + +DOT. You little being! + +JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door] +Oh! Dot! You're pinching! + + As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL LANFARNE, a tall + girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down. And + at sight of her FREDA's whole figure becomes set and meaning- + full. + +FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady. + +MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet! +[Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda? + +FREDA. Very well, thank you. + +MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the +guns again. + +FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure. + +MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face-last time. + +FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr. +Harold, or Captain Keith? + +MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day. + +FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best. + + A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a rather + inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. Left alone + without the roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming of a + door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the + stairs. BILL runs down, and comes on her suddenly. He is a + tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn + look of veiled choler. + +BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what's the +matter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away +from her] Aren't you glad to see me? + +FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. After dinner. + +BILL. Mister----? + + She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands + frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the + drawing-room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and MISS LANFARNE + come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER, + and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By + herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking + woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at + once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the + dining-room. + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Bill. + +MABEL. How do you do? + +KEITH. How are you, old chap? + +DOT. [gloomily] Do you know your part? + +HAROLD. Hallo, old man! + +CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause and +look at him shyly without speech. + +BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN's shoulder] Good luck, you two! +Well mother? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What a +long time! + + She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the + dining-room. + + The curtain falls. + + The curtain rises again at once. + + + + +SCENE II + + CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE, + and JOAN, are returning to the hall after dinner. + +CHRISTINE. [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about young Dunning +and Rose Taylor? + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear. + +CHRISTINE. But can't they be---- + +DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent.] My child, I'm +not the young person. + +CHRISTINE. No, of course not--only--[nodding towards JOAN and +Mable]. + +DOT. Look here! This is just an instance of what I hate. + +LADY CHESHIRE. My dear? Another one? + +DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand, +because you know you do. + +CHRISTINE. Instance? Of what? + +JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire. + +DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he's +tired of her? + +CHRISTINE. [Ironically] Well! If your imagination doesn't carry you +as far as that! + +DOT. When people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love with +each other? + +CHRISTINE. [With a shrug] That's not the point. + +DOT. Oh? Were you in love with Ronny? + +CHRISTINE. Don't be idiotic! + +DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't been? + +CHRISTINE. Of course not! + +JOAN. Dot! You are!---- + +DOT. Hallo! my little snipe! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Dot, dear! + +DOT. Don't shut me up, mother! [To JOAN.] Are you in love with +John? [JOAN turns hurriedly to the fire.] Would you be going to +marry him if you were not? + +CHRISTINE. You are a brute, Dot. + +DOT. Is Mabel in love with--whoever she is in love with? + +MABEL. And I wonder who that is. + +DOT. Well, would you marry him if you weren't? + +MABEL. No, I would not. + +DOT. Now, mother; did you love father? + +CHRISTINE. Dot, you really are awful. + +DOT. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick, perhaps. + +JOAN. Dot! + +DOT. Well, mother, did you--I mean quite calmly? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, quite calmly. + +DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes +her head] Then we're all agreed! + +MABEL. Except yourself. + +DOT. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might think himself lucky if I +married him. + +MABEL. Indeed, and I'm not so sure. + +DOT. [Making a face at her] What I was going to---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd better not? + +DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but what I do say +is--Why the devil---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. Quite so, Dot! + +DOT. [A little disconcerted.] If they're tired of each other, they +ought not to marry, and if father's going to make them---- + +CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least. It's for the sake of +the---- + +DOT. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching infant! God bless +it! + + There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and LATTER are seen coming + from the dining-room. + +LATTER. That must be so, Ronny. + +KEITH. No, John; not a bit of it! + +LATTER. You don't think! + +KEITH. Good Gad, who wants to think after dinner! + +DOT. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the billiard-room +door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is directly after breakfast; +from "Eccles enters breathless" to the end. + +MABEL. Whatever made you choose "Caste," DOT? You know it's awfully +difficult. + +DOT. Because it's the only play that's not too advanced. [The girls +all go into the billiard-room.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. Where's Bill, Ronny? + +KEITH. [With a grimace] I rather think Sir William and he are in +Committee of Supply--Mem-Sahib. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! + + She looks uneasily at the dining-room; then follows the girls + out. + +LATTER. [In the tone of one resuming an argument] There can't be +two opinions about it, Ronny. Young Dunning's refusal is simply +indefensible. + +KEITH. I don't agree a bit, John. + +LATTER. Of course, if you won't listen. + +KEITH. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear chap. We've had +the whole thing over twice at least. + +LATTER. My point is this---- + +KEITH. [Regarding LATTER quizzically with his halfclosed eyes] +I know--I know--but the point is, how far your point is simply +professional. + +LATTER. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right her again. +There's no answer to that. + +KEITH. It all depends. + +LATTER. That's rank opportunism. + +KEITH. Rats! Look here--Oh! hang it, John, one can't argue this out +with a parson. + +LATTER. [Frigidly] Why not? + +HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pull +baker! + +KEITH. Shut up, Harold! + +LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even of the Army. + +KEITH. Exactly, but what is the game? + +LATTER. What else can it be in this case? + +KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You can't help it--line +of country laid down for you. All drag-huntin'! What! + +LATTER. [With concentration] Look here! + +HAROLD. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse's head] +'Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!' + +KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me, old chap. You +don't see where you'd land us all. [He smokes calmly] + +LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? From precisely this +sort of thing of young Dunning's. + +KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought, John. I admit that +I don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl in the lurch; but I don't see +the use in drawin' hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em. +Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, +willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be the +deuce to pay in a year's time. You can take a horse to the water, +you can't make him drink. + +LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you. + +HAROLD. Good old John! + +LATTER. At all events we know where your principles take you. + +KEITH. [Rather dangerously] Where, please? [HAROLD turns up his +eyes, and points downwards] Dry up, Harold! + +LATTER. Did you ever hear the story of Faust? + +KEITH. Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, and +all the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes. + +LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny--of all the rude boors----[He turns +towards the billiard-room.] + +KEITH. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap. + + LATTER passes out. There comes a mingled sound through the + opened door, of female voices, laughter, and the click of + billiard balls, dipped of by the sudden closing of the door. + +KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a parson puts one's back +up! Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought to +play the game; and I hope Sir William'll make him. + + The butler JACKSON has entered from the door under the stairs + followed by the keeper STUDDENHAM, a man between fifty and + sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, + and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face, + with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once + been red. + +KEITH. Hullo! Studdenham! + +STUDDENHAM. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', Captain Keith. + +JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with Mr. Bill, sir? + +HAROLD. [With a grimace] He is, Jackson. + + JACKSON goes out to the dining-room. + +KEITH. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham? + +STUDDENHAM. No, Sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' the spinneys and +the home covert while you're down. + +KEITH. I say, talkin' of spinneys---- + + He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD into the + billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters from the dining-room, + applying a gold toothpick to his front teeth. + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Studdenham. Bad business this, about young +Dunning! + +STUDDENHAM. Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. He definitely refuses to marry her? + +STUDDENHAM. He does that. + +SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What reason does he give? + +STUDDENHAM. Won't say other than that he don't want no more to do +with her. + +SIR WILLIAM. God bless me! That's not a reason. I can't have a +keeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this. +[Turning to LADY CHESHIRE, who has come in from the billiard-room] +That affair of young Dunning's, my dear. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studdenham. The poor girl! + +STUDDENHAM. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling she's not his +equal, now, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has made her his +superior. + +SIR WILLIAM. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I was just telling +Studdenham the fellow must set the matter straight. We can't have +open scandals in the village. If he wants to keep his place he must +marry her at once. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To her husband in a low voice] Is it right to force +them? Do you know what the girl wishes, Studdenham? + +STUDDENHAM. Shows a spirit, my lady--says she'll have him--willin' +or not. + +LADY CHESHIRE. A spirit? I see. If they marry like that they're +sure to be miserable. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! Doesn't follow at all. Besides, my dear, you +ought to know by this time, there's an unwritten law in these +matters. They're perfectly well aware that when there are +consequences, they have to take them. + +STUDDENHAM. Some o' these young people, my lady, they don't put two +and two together no more than an old cock pheasant. + +SIR WILLIAM. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he remains obstinate, +he'll have to go; he'll get no character, Studdenham. Let him know +what I've said. I like the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't want +to lose him. But this sort of thing I won't have. He must toe the +mark or take himself off. Is he up here to-night? + +STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will you have him in? + +SIR WILLIAM. [Hesitating] Yes--yes. I'll see him. + +STUDDENHAM. Good-night to you, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Freda's not looking well, Studdenham. + +STUDDENHAM. She's a bit pernickitty with her food, that's where it +is. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I must try and make her eat. + +SIR WILLIAM. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the home covert first. +What did we get last year? + +STUDDENHAM. [Producing the game-book; but without reference to it] +Two hundred and fifty-three pheasants, eleven hares, fifty-two +rabbits, three woodcock, sundry. + +SIR WILLIAM. Sundry? Didn't include a fox did it? [Gravely] I was +seriously upset this morning at Warnham's spinney---- + +SUDDENHAM. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir William; that +four-year-old he du look a handful! + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well enough what I mean. + +STUDDENHAM. [Unmoved] Shall I send young Dunning, Sir William? + + SIR WILLIAM gives a short, sharp nod, and STUDDENHAM retires by + the door under the stairs. + +SIR WILLIAM. Old fox! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be too hard on Dunning. He's very young. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't understand young +fellows, how should you? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With her faint irony] A husband and two sons not +counting. [Then as the door under the stairs is opened] Bill, now +do---- + +SIR WILLIAM. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply] Come in! + + LADY CHESHIRE retires to the billiard-room. She gives a look + back and a half smile at young DUNNING, a fair young man dressed + in broom cords and leggings, and holding his cap in his hand; + then goes out. + +SIR WILLIAM. Evenin', Dunning. + +DUNNING. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want to see you about? + +DUNNING. Yes, Sir. + +SIR WILLIAM. The thing's in your hands. Take it or leave it. I +don't put pressure on you. I simply won't have this sort of thing on +my estate. + +DUNNING. I'd like to say, Sir William, that she [He stops]. + +SIR WILLIAM. Yes, I daresay-Six of one and half a dozen of the +other. Can't go into that. + +DUNNING. No, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your first place. If +you leave here you'll get no character. + +DUNNING. I never meant any harm, sir. + +SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom of the country. + +DUNNING. Yes, Sir William, but---- + +SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you leaped. I'm not +forcing you. If you refuse you must go, that's all. + +DUNNING. Yes. Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day to think it over. + + BILL, who has sauntered moody from the diningroom, stands by the + stairs listening. Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his + hand to his forelock. + +DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fumbles, and turns +again] My old mother's dependent on me---- + +SIR WILLIAM. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say. + [Dunning goes sadly away under the stairs.] + +SIR WILLIAM. [Following] And look here! Just understand this + [He too goes out....] + + BILL, lighting a cigarette, has approached the writing-table. + He looks very glum. The billiard-room door is flung open. + MABEL LANFARNE appears, and makes him a little curtsey. + +MABEL. Against my will I am bidden to bring you in to pool. + +BILL. Sorry! I've got letters. + +MABEL. You seem to have become very conscientious. + +BILL. Oh! I don't know. + +MABEL. Do you remember the last day of the covert shooting? + +BITS. I do. + +MABEL. [Suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Studdenham's grown! + +BILL. Has she? + +MABEL. "She walks in beauty." + +BILL. Really? Hadn't noticed. + +MABEL. Have you been taking lessons in conversation? + +BILL. Don't think so. + +MABEL. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! + +BILL. Miss Lanfarne! + +MABEL. What's the matter with you? Aren't you rather queer, +considering that I don't bite, and was rather a pal! + +BILL. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. + + Then seeing that his mother has came in from the billiard-room, + he sits down at the writing-table. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. Won't you play too, +Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's too terrible? + +BILL. Thanks. I've got these letters. + +MABEL taking the cue passes back into the billiard-room, whence comes +out the sound of talk and laughter. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind her son's chair] +Anything wrong, darling? + +BILL. Nothing, thanks. [Suddenly] I say, I wish you hadn't asked +that girl here. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel! Why? She's wanted for rehearsals. I thought +you got on so well with her last Christmas. + +BILL. [With a sort of sullen exasperation.] A year ago. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your father; personally I +must say I think she's rather nice and Irish. + +BILL. She's all right, I daresay. + + He looks round as if to show his mother that he wishes to be + left alone. But LADY CHESHIRE, having seen that he is about to + look at her, is not looking at him. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been talking to you, Bill. + +BILL. He has. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Debts? Do try and make allowances. [With a faint +smile] Of course he is a little---- + +BILL. He is. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I wish I could---- + +BILL. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It seems almost a pity that you told him. + +BILL. He wrote and asked me point blank what I owed. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a casual voice] +I happen to have a little money, Bill--I think it would be simpler +if---- + +BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that before. I can't help +spending money, I never shall be able, unless I go to the Colonies, +or something of the kind. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't talk like that, dear! + +BILL. I would, for two straws! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father thinks such a lot of +the place, and the name, and your career. The Cheshires are all like +that. They've been here so long; they're all--root. + +BILL. Deuced funny business my career will be, I expect! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Fluttering, but restraining herself lest he should +see] But, Bill, why must you spend more than your allowance? + +BILL. Why--anything? I didn't make myself. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid we did that. It was inconsiderate, +perhaps. + +BILL. Yes, you'd better have left me out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so--Only a little fuss about money! + +BILL. Ye-es. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from me, are you? + +BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliberately to the +writing things, and takes up a pen] I must write these letters, +please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me, +won't you? + +BILL. There's nothing whatever. + + He suddenly gets up and walks about. LADY CHESHIRE, too, moves + over to the fireplace, and after an uneasy look at him, turns to + the fire. Then, as if trying to switch of his mood, she changes + the subject abruptly. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Isn't it a pity about young Dunning? I'm so sorry +for Rose Taylor. + + There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase FREDA has + entered, and seeing only BILL, advances to speak to him. + +BILL. [Suddenly] Oh! well,--you can't help these things in the +country. + + As he speaks, FREDA stops dead, perceiving that he is not alone; + BILL, too, catching sight of her, starts. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Still speaking to the fire] It seems dreadful to +force him. I do so believe in people doing things of their own +accord. [Then seeing FREDA standing so uncertainly by the stairs] Do +you want me, Freda? + +FREDA. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I--begin it? + + At this moment SIR WILLIAM enters from the drawing-room. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another five minutes, Bill? +[Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll come directly, my dear. + + FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back whence she came; and + LADY CHESHIRE goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room. + +SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short shrift. [He moves +over to the fireplace and divides hip coat-tails] Now, about you, +Bill! I don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but you +know, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay them +this time unless I see a disposition to change your mode of life. +[A pause] You get your extravagance from your mother. She's very +queer--[A pause]--All the Winterleighs are like that about money.... + +BILL. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what you mean. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Drily] We will put it that way. [A pause] At the +present moment you owe, as I understand it, eleven hundred pounds. + +BILL. About that. + +SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a proposition to make. + +BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir? + +SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your motto in life. + +BILL. Thanks! + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [BILL looks at him in +silence] It's time you took your position seriously, instead of +hanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not. + +BILL. Go ahead! + + At something dangerous in his voice, SIR WILLIAM modifies his + attitude. + +SIR, WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I can't suppose +anything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but +[drily] I mention it. Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for +the division; you can have the Dower House and fifteen hundred a +year, and I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're elected +I'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up the +constituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpetbagger +against you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if you +don't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. You can +take Rocketer and that four-year-old--he's well up to your weight, +fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want one other. +And if Miss--if your wife means to hunt---- + +BILL. You've chosen my wife, then? + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've some girl in +your mind. + +BILL. Ah! + +SIR WILLIAM: Used not to be unnatural at your age. I married your +mother at twenty-eight. Here you are, eldest son of a family that +stands for something. The more I see of the times the more I'm +convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and +save the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, and +prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under to +this infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's very +serious. We're threatened in a hundred ways. If you mean business, +you'll want a wife. When I came into the property I should have been +lost without your mother. + +BILL. I thought this was coming. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain geniality] My dear fellow, I don't +want to put a pistol to your head. You've had a slack rein so far. +I've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats-so long as you- +-er--[Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden movement] Short of +that--at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. I can only +judge by the--er--pecuniary evidence you've been good enough to +afford me from time to time. I imagine you've lived like a good many +young men in your position--I'm not blaming you, but there's a time +for all things. + +BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry Mabel +Lanfarne? + +SITS WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good family--got a +little money--rides well. Isn't she good-looking enough for you, or +what? + +BILL. Quite, thanks. + +SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were on +good terms. + +BILL. Please don't drag mother into it. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps you'll be good +enough to state your objections. + +BILL. Must we go on with this? + +SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything for me before; I +expect you to pay attention now. I've no wish to dragoon you into +this particular marriage. If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry +a girl you're fond of. + +BILL. I refuse. + +SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With a +sudden rush of choler] You young.... [He checks himself and stands +glaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that +you've got some entanglement or other. + +BILL. Suppose what you like, sir. + +SITS WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the blackguard---- + +BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning. + + Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the + billiard-room. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it? + +SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse! Go away, Dorothy. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for two months. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well--we must talk it over again. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both of you! Bill, do +finish those letters! + + With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM toward the + billiard-room, and glances back at BILL before going out, but he + has turned to the writing-table. When the door is closed, BILL + looks into the drawing-room, them opens the door under the + stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down + there, and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evidently been + waiting, comes in and stands by the table. + +BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know. + +FREDA. Yes--but I must. + +BILL. Well, then--[With natural recklessness] Aren't you going to +kiss me? + + Without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry. + +BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks? + +FREDA. Quite--long enough--for you to have forgotten. + +BILL. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. + +FREDA. No? + +BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda? + +FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. + +BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean? + +FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out of +her dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer. + +BILL. Now, look here + +FREDA. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in a hurry. + +BILL. Freda! + +FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's all you really +loved me in. + +BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear---- + +FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me. + +BILL. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times--nothing's changed. + [FREDA looks at him and smiles.] + +BILL. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself miserable. + +FREDA. Everybody will be pleased. + +BILL. At what? + +FREDA. When you marry her. + +BILL. This is too bad. + +FREDA. It's what always happens--even when it's not a--gentleman. + +BILL. That's enough. + +FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn't +be afraid I'll say anything when--it comes. That's what I had to +tell you. + +BILL. What! + +FREDA. I can keep a secret. + +BILL. Do you mean this? [She bows her head.] + +BILL. Good God! + +FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine. Like the puppies when +they hold them up by their tails. [With a sudden break in her voice] +Oh! Bill! + +BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaks +away from her towards the fire] Good God! + + She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away + by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to + speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He + walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece. + +BILL. By Jove! This is----! + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + + ACT II + + + The scene is LADY CHESHIRE's morning room, at ten o'clock on the + following day. It is a pretty room, with white panelled walls; + and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow + window overlooks the park under a sou'-westerly sky. A piano + stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's correspondence + is scattered on a writing-table. Doors opposite each other lead + to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is + standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, + which FREDA is holding out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just give it up! + +FREDA. I don't like to be beaten. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way, +I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up. +Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you had +better put that cloak away. + +FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting doom at her writing-table] Very well. + + FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the + corridor. + +JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young woman from the +village, says you wanted to see her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in. Oh! and Jackson +the car for the meet please at half-past ten. + + JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY CHESHIRE rises with + worked signs of nervousness, which she has only just suppressed, + when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands + waiting by the door. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in! + [ROSE advances perhaps a couple of steps.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice. +Your engagement with Dunning's broken off, isn't it? + +ROSE. Yes--but I've told him he's got to marry me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing? + +ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of him still. + +ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it. + +LADY CHESHIRE: And--do you think he's quite lost his affection for +you? + +ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. He's +after that--that--He didn't ought to treat me as if I was dead. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, no--of course. But you will think it all well +over, won't you? + +ROSE. I've a--got nothing to think over, except what I know of. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both t0 marry in that spirit! You know +it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready to +help you. + +ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, my lady, but I +think he ought to marry me. I've told him he ought. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted to say. It's a +question of your self-respect; I can't give you any real advice. But +just remember that if you want a friend---- + +ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to do +what's right by me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrow--gently] Yes, +yes--I see. + +ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meeting the servants. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As they +reach the door, DOT comes in.] + +DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldy +rehearsal, Mother? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here. + + Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT, + with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according + to a diagram. + +DOT. Chair--chair--table--chair--Dash! Table--piano--fire--window! +[Producing a pocket comb] Comb for Eccles. Cradle?--Cradle--[She +viciously dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into +it] Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter Eccles +breathless. Esther and Polly rise-Esther puts on lid of bandbox." +Bandbox! + +Searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens the +workroom door. + +DOT. Freda? + + FREDA comes in. + +DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down. + [FREDA does not answer.] + +DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately. + +FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot. + +DOT. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic? + +FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet. + +DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse] +What is it, Freda? + +FREDA. Nothing. + +DOT. [Switching of on a different line of thought] Are you very busy +this morning? + +FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady. + +DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if I +can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind? + +FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot. + +DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see--what did I want? + + JOAN has come in. + +JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene. I'm sure I +ought to make more of it. + +DOT. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by one +ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try! + +JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have for +the baby? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggest +something, Freda? + +FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don't +count much. + +JOAN. Freda, how horrible! + +DOT. [Dropping the footstool back into the basket] You'll just put +up with what you're given. + + Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE Come in, FREDA turns + abruptly and goes out. + +DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and find +them, mouse-cat. + + But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are already in the + doorway. They come in, and LATTER, stumbling over the + waste-paper basket, takes it up to improve its position. + +DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the footstool out of it] +Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points to +the workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the +piano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage! +Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise." Wait a +minute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a +bandbox. + +HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, you know, you +feel such a fool. + +DOT. [With her bandbox-gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when you +have begun. [To BILL, who is staring into the workroom] Shut the +door. Now. [BILL shuts the door.] + +LATTER. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear up a point of +psychology before we start. + +DOT. Good Lord! + +LATTER. When I bring in the milk--ought I to bring it in seriously-- +as if I were accustomed--I mean, I maintain that if I'm---- + +JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should---- + +DOT. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin! +Bill! + +LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But I think you +underrate the importance of my entrance altogether. + +MABEL. Oh! no, Mr. Latter! + +LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the balance of the +scene, but I do want to be clear about the spirit. What is the +spirit? + +DOT. [With gloom] Rollicking! + +LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk, with +this play, if we rollick. + +DOT. Shall we? Now look here----! + +MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire! + +BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on! + +DOT. [Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin! At last! + [But JACKSON has came in.] + +JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, Mm, if the young ladies +want to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round. + +JOAN. [Starting up] Oh! come 'on, John! + [She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER.] + +DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You---- + [CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past.] + +DOT. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] Pigs! Devils! + [She rushes after them. BILL and MABEL are left alone.] + +MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups? + +BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroom +door] Can't keep a dog in town. You can have one, if you like. The +breeding's all right. + +MABEL. Sixth Pick? + +BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy they +want 'em. + +Mann. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] You +know, you remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're not +nearly so polite. I don't understand you English-lords of the soil. +The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden change +of voice] What was the matter with you last night? [Softly] Won't +you tell me? + +BILL. Nothing to tell. + +MABEL. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. + +BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice--then sullenly] Worried, I +suppose. + +MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it? + +BILL. Don't chaff me, please. + +MABEL. You really are rather formidable. + +BILL. Thanks. + +MABEL, But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull. + +BILL. Really! Very interesting. + +MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She moves +back as he advances] And overturning people on the journey. + +BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful? + +MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. And +then straight from that hedge into the opposite one. + +BILL. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morning of all +mornings? + +MABEL. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must be dull for poor +Freda working in there with all this fun going on? + +BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it? + +MABEL, To go back to you,--now--Mr. Cheshire. + +BILL. No. + +MABEL, You always make me feel so Irish. Is it because you're so +English, d'you think? Ah! I can see him moving his ears. Now he's +pawing the ground--He's started! + +BILL. Miss Lanfarne! + +MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her +eyes and smile] You can't help coming after me! [Then with a sudden +change to a sort of sierra gravity] Can you? You'll feel that when +I've gone. + + They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and + FREDA, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them. + +MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Monsieur le taureau! + + She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through, + leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and + see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand. + +BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept all night. + +FREDA. No? + +BILL. Have you been thinking it over? + [FREDA gives a bitter little laugh.] + +BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't let +you suffer. I swear I won't. + +FREDA. That will be clever. + +BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess. + +FREDA. I shall be--all--right, thank you. + +BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuse +me--say something! Don't look like that! + +FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me? + +BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your hands. + + She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her + face. + +BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then as +she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him] +There, there! + + There is a click of a door handle. They start away from each + other, and see LADY CHESHIRE regarding them. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon. + + She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but + suddenly turning, stands, with lips pressed together, waiting. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes? + + FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his + mother. + +BILL. Don't say anything against her! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails--then to FREDA] +Please-go! + +BILL. [Taking FREDA's arm] No. + + LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation, herself moves + towards the door. + +BILL. Stop, mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not. + +BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though from a blow] It's +a d---d shame! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It is. + +BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engaged +to be married to her. + + [FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I don't think +I--quite--understand. + +BILL. [With the brutality of his mortification] What I said was +plain enough. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true? + + [FREDA gulps and remains silent.] + +BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me, mother. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table] Give me a +chair, please. [BILL gives her a chair.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too. + + FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now! + +BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. When? + +BILL. In the summer. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Ah! + +BILL. It wasn't her fault. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No? + +BILL. [With a sort of menace] Mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You say +that you--are engaged? + +BILL. Yes. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an engagement have occurred +to you, I suppose? [With a sudden change of tone] Bill! what does it +mean? + +BILL. If you think she's trapped me into this---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she has been trapped. +I think nothing. I understand nothing. + +BILL. [Grimly] Good! + +LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this-engagement lasted? + +BILL. [After a silence] Two months. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is-this is quite impossible. + +BILL. You'll find it isn't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery. + +BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in there, Freda. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her? + + FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob. + +BILL. Of course I am. + + FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE rises suddenly, + forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean? [BILL, +looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not in +love with her now. It's no good telling me you are. + +BILL. I am. + +LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were. + +BILL. She's in love with me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so. + +BILL. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, or mean woman? + +BILL. Mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life--and--your father's--and--all of +us. I want to understand--I must understand. Have you realised what +an awful thins this would be for us all? It's quite impossible that +it should go on. + +BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She and +I'll take good care not to be in the way. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything! + +BILL. I have. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill. + +BILL. What's the good of these questions? + +LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away--I see! + +BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're engaged, we shall +be married quietly, and--and--go to Canada. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that to tell you'd be in +love with her now. + +BILL. I've told you that I am. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I know--I know +there's more behind. + +BILL. There--is--nothing. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your love +for her has been just what it might have been for a lady? + +BILL. [Bitterly] Why not? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so as a rule. + +BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word against +Freda. This isn't the moment to begin, please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end in wretchedness. +You haven't a taste or tradition in common. You don't know what +marriage is. Day after day, year after year. It's no use being +sentimental--for people brought up as we are to have different +manners is worse than to have different souls. Besides, it's +poverty. Your father will never forgive you, and I've practically +nothing. What can you do? You have no profession. How are you +going to stand it; with a woman who--? It's the little things. + +BILL. I know all that, thanks. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been through it. Marriage +is hard enough when people are of the same class. [With a sudden +movement towards him] Oh! my dear-before it's too late! + +BILL. [After a struggle] It's no good. + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery. + +BILL. Leave that to me, please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence] Only the very +finest can do such things. And you don't even know what trouble's +like. + +BILL. Drop it, please, mother. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your +own free will? + +BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any more. + [He goes out into the workroom.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do? + + In her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the + workroom door, and opens it. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda. + + After a seconds pause, FREDA, white and trembling, appears in + the doorway, followed by BILL. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to her alone. + + BILL, does not move. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. + + BILL hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches FREDA's + arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. There + is silence. + +LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about? + +FREDA. I don't know, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again, +whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there] +I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry. +But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to her +breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things. +That's natural. But it's not only you is it? Does any one guess? + +FREDA. No. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head] There's +nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a +man's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me! + +FREDA. I can't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come! + +FREDA. I--won't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give him away? Both of +you the same. What's the use of that with me? Look at me! Wasn't +he with you when you went for your holiday this summer? + +FREDA. He's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man you mean! + +FREDA. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so. + + LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the + room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you. It's simple +madness! It can't, and shan't go on. + +FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I am--somebody. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of rights with a +sudden steeliness] Does he love you now? + +FREDA. That's not fair--it's not fair. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. If +you've lost him it's been your own fault. + +FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking down, and speaking rapidly] Listen to me. +I love my son, but I know him--I know all his kind of man. I've +lived with one for thirty years. I know the way their senses work. +When they want a thing they must have it, and then--they're sorry. + +FREDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you both over +everything?.... You know it isn't. + +FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there'd be no trouble before +either of you. You'll make him hate you. + +FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him happy--out there. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to say all the things +you must know. I only ask you to try and put yourself in our +position. + +FREDA. Ah, yes! + +LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purely +selfish. + +FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my position? + +LADY CHESHIRE. What! + +FREDA. Yes. Just like Rose. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh! + + There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks + straight into FREDA's eyes. + +FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes--it's the truth. [Then to Bill +who has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant to +tell. + +BILL. Well, are you satisfied? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible! + +BILL. The Governor had better know. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! no; not yet! + +BILL. Waiting won't cure it! + + The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRISTINE and DOT run + in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that + something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his + mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom. + LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window. + +JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter? + +DOT. Shut up! + + SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling + "Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, passing her handkerchief over her + face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress: + well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. + +SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially] +Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved right +hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff! + + FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE arid the girls watching + in hypnotic silence. + +SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to be +first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse +--best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish +you were cumin' out, Joan. + + He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the + chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the + workroom. + +CHRISTINE. Mother! What----? + + But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter, + and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is + heard. + +JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started--! Chris! What is +it? Dot? + +DOT. Bill, and her! + +JOAN. But what? + +DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this. + +JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit. + +DOT. I think not. + +JOAN. Chris? + +CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us. + +JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good. + +DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten! + +CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Runny hadn't +gone. + +JOAN. Shall I fetch John? + +DOT. John! + +CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows. + +JOAN. He went out with Studdenham. + +DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and +humbug! That awful old man! + +JOAN. Dot! + +CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that! + +DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven +help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a German +regiment than a woman. + +JOAN. Dot, you're awful. + +DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet! + +CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women! + +DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of these +terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking for +John? No good, my dear; lath and plaster. + +JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's Mabel! + +DOT. Heavens, and the waters under the earth! + +CHRISTINE. If we only knew! + + MABEL comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes + fixed on their books. + +MABEL. The silent company. + +DOT. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for to-day. + +MABEL. What's the matter? + +CHRISTINE. Oh! nothing. + +DOT. Something's happened. + +MABEL. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad enough for me to +go? + +CHRISTINE. Oh! no, Mabel! + +DOT. [Sardonically] I should think very likely. + + While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the + workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and + looks stolidly at the four girls. + +BILL. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lanfarne, I'm engaged to +my mother's maid. + + No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL LANFARNE goes towards + him, holding out her hand. BILL does not take her hand, but + bows. Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces MABEL goes + out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at + their brother. + +BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know. + [He, too, goes out into the corridor.] + +CHRISTINE. Great heavens! + +JOAN. How awful! + +CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as that. + +JOAN. Oh! Chris! Something must be done! + +DOT. [Suddenly to herself] Ha! When Father went up to have his +glove buttoned! + + There is a sound, JACKSON has came in from the corridor. + +JACKSON. [To Dot] If you please, Miss, Studdenham's brought up the +other two pups. He's just outside. Will you kindly take a look at +them, he says? + + There is silence. + +DOT. [Suddenly] We can't. + +CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson. + +JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, Mm? + + DOT shakes her head violently. But STUDDENHAM is seen already + standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either + side-pocket. He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting behind + him. + +STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes the +right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a, proper greedy +one--takes after his father. + + The girls stare at him in silence. + +DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. + +STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet. + +CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course. + +STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's got +a white chest; she's a lady. + + [He protrudes the left-hand pocket.] + +DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. + +STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. +You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] +My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do +without. + +DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her. + +STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He +turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle +out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON.] + +CHRISTINE. How ghastly! + +DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!" + [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + + ACT III + + It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the + smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old + steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high + ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are + not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is + burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard- + room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and doom; + HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with + commiseration. + +BILL. What's the time? + +HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any +consolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he +ate the man. + +BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of +me, Harold. + +HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any +better by marrying her? + + [Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.] + +BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. + +HAROLD. No, old man. + +BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think +it! + +HAROLD. My dear old chap! + +BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I +suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so +high. I see it now that--I've got over the attack. + +HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do +apply your reason, old boy. + + There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen. + +BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the +thing. + +HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! + +BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leave +her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd +soon see! + +HAROLD. Poor old chap! + +BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a +soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I +can't think. I never meant---- + +HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your +head, old man! + +BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the +country. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who's +that knocking the balls about? + +HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases.] + +BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that! + + As LATTER appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out. + +LATTER. Was that Bill? + +HAROLD. Yes. + +LATTER. Well? + +HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool to +him. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! What +price your argument with Runny now? Well, it's not too late for you +luckily. + +LATTER. What do you mean? + +HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family! + +LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold. + +HAROLD. Good! + +LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters. + +HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poor +mother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn't +done, pretty mess I shall be in. + +LATTER. How? + +HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all +come to me. + +LATTER. Oh! + +HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral! +Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop. + +LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's behaved +disgracefully. + +HAROLD. [Warningly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'd +never dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means. + +LATTER. Perfectly disgusting! + +HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you +know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard. + +LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's +an idiot, or worse. + +HAROLD. H'm! [With a grin] You're not allowed tobacco. In the +good old days no one would hive thought anything of this. My +great-grandfather---- + +LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather. + +HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been +through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because +Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up. + +LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the beginning? + +HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this +happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he--? Why didn't +she--? What's to be done--that's the point! + +LATTER. Of course he'll have to----. + +HAROLD. Ha! + +LATTER. What do you mean by--that? + +HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll +be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything! +Now don't you? + +LATTER. The whole thing is--is most unfortunate. + +HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was! + + As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH Come in from the billiard-room. + He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally + weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and + sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come + stealing in. + +CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny. + +JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful. + +HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man? + +KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes. + +DOT. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of +discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram. + +HAROLD. Phew! + +DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened. + +HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny. + + KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing + his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away with him into the + billiard-room. + +KEITH. Dot? + +DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel. + +KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since? + +DOT. Yes. + +HAROLD. Well? + +DOT. She's just sitting there. + +CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. + +DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could only +feel----! + +KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. + +DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina, +and some one jigging it! + + They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a + tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence + the FOOTMAN puts the tray down. + +HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH +nods] What point? + +KEITH. Eight mile. + +FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir? + +KEITH. No, thanks, Charles! + + In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look + after him. + +HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it! + +KEITH. What's our line of country to be? + +CHRISTINE. All depends on father. + +KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it +strikes me. + +CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. + +KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons +on Sunday forbids son to---- + +CHRISTINE, Ronny! + +KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's +got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take +up that position. + +DOT. Awfully funny! + +CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot? + +DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other! + +CHRISTINE. Rubbish! + +HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill. + +KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help +the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a---- + [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.] + +HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you +girls, I should think. + +CHRISTINE and DOT. Of course not! + +KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it? + +DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady as +most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada? It's what +he's really fit for. + +HAROLD. Steady on, Dot! + +DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if +he stays here--jolly for the country! + +CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill. + +DOT. Me cynical! + +CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny! + +KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl. + +DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her! + +HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor +old Dad! + +CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold! + +DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations by +marriage! + +KEITH. Thanks! + +CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous--monstrous! It's fantastic! + +HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's +in! + + They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE + coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise + and DOT puts an arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his + chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny! + [She sits down.] + +DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur? + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear! + +DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny? + +KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straight +line. + +LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse? + +KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting +his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib! + +CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father? Ronny thinks it +all depends on her. Can't you use your influence? [LADY CHESHIRE +shakes her head.] + +CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate. + +DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn't +beg her to let us off! + +CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart, +mother? + +DOT. Leave mother alone! + +CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never. + +DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect? + +CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh! +mother do speak to her! You know it'll be misery for both of them. +[LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her +head.] + +CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake? + +DOT. Chris! + +CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! We +ought all to go on our knees to him. + +LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now. + +HAROLD. Poor old Bill! + +CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! That wretched +girl! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Chris! + +CHRISTINE. There are limits! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control. + +CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall--Something must be +done! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he gets +his head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do. + +CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if +you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't +affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Do +back me up, all of you! It's the only way! + + Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been + urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who + looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical + pain. + +CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother! + + LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room + door, listening. They all follow her eyes. She sits down + again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters. + His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. + He walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands + looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE + steals away. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done? + +SIR WILLIAM. You there! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense! + +SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had a +blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard he would not be +what you call a fool. + +SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Very +well! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too +terrible. + +SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear. + [She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire.] + +SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a +thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands +and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. +Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've known +this--piece of news since this morning. I've known it ten minutes. +Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the +girl? + +LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is he +about? + +LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him? + +SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire +and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth +century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh +at everything--they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, and +I don't .... Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! I +don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm +not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With +sudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad +enough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d Socialists and +Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the +bowels to sees a--tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and +me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the +children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's +past--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. They're--they're +himself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it? + +SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop. + +SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law! + +SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to] +You're thinking of young--young----[Shortly] I don't see the +connection. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do +what's loyal--and we--his father and mother----! + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I +must think this out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that--it doesn't +help. + +SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of +the house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindness +from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and +decency--she lured him on, I haven't a doubt! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the +deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Go +out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to +any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of +business nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to that +other matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--Why, my own +grandfather----! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help? + +SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence-suddenly] You must go to +the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her--I said +all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill. + +SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [Then +as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress.] If he marries her, I've +done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The +title--I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden fire] You've no right to put such an +alternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent this +marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees. + +SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no +consideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d---d! + +LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect.... + +SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't +get it out. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the only +chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away.] + +SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've +never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn +you--I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself. + + With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the + corridor. + +SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day! + + He takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks + with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace. + While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock. + +SIR WILLIAM. Come in! + + FREDA enters from the corridor. + +SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in order +that--[pointing to chair]--You may sit down. + + But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit + down. + +SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business. + +FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before +him] I--er--are you attached to my son? + +FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turns +away from her and speaks to the fire.] I sent for you--to--ask-- +[quickly] How old are you? + +FREDA. Twenty-two. + +SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such a +mad idea as a marriage? + +FREDA. I don't expect anything. + +SIR WILLIAM. You know--you haven't earned the right to be considered. + +FREDA. Not yet! + +SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now +brace yourself up, and listen to me! + + She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at + her; and his glance gradually wavers. + +SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like a +scamp. + +FREDA. Oh! no! + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same, time--What +made you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know. + +FREDA. No. + +SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expect +me to--It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is? + +FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to--to put it to +you--as a--as a--what! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, +looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] +I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, and +wait! + + LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes + into the billiard-room to wait. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Your +mother and I have spoken of this--calamity. I imagine that even you +have some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell +you this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll +receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only due +to the position our family has always held here. Your brother will +take your place. We shall--get on as best we can without you. [There +is a dead silence till he adds sharply] Well! + +BILL. I shall marry her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love-without anything! + +BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man, +sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter +in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head +yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns +round to go out] Let the d---d thing off! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch. + +SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted to +persuade you to. + +BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could +have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you +wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, +that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences. + +SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position? + +BILK. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have none--not the +faintest, brought up as you've been. + +BILL. I didn't bring myself up. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son +responds] You--ungrateful young dog! + +LADY CHESHIRE. How can you--both? +[They drop their eyes, and stand silent.] + +SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am speaking under the +stress of very great pain--some consideration is due to me. This is +a disaster which I never expected to have to face. It is a matter +which I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down +to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortune +all my life to believe in our position here--to believe that we +counted for something--that the country wanted us. I have tried to +do my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone-- +smoke--gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To countenance +this marriage would be unnatural. + +BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this--I don't see any +other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for +you---- + + He stops, seeing that JACKSON has route in, and is standing + there waiting. + +JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William? It's about +young Dunning. + + After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler + withdraws. + +BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told. + +SIR WILLIAM. He shall be. + + STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a + comprehensive gesture. + +STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir William! + +STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the +proper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up +next Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in +turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Beg +pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf! + +BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you, +Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married at +once. + +STUDDENHAM. I--don't--understand you--sir. + +BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it +straight. + +STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say--my daughter? + +SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Studdenham. It's a +thunderbolt--young Dunning's case over again. + +STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's--You've--! I must see my +daughter. Have the goodness to send for her, m'lady. + + LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come + here, please." + +STUDDENHAM. [TO SIR WILLIAM] YOU tell me that my daughter's in the +position of that girl owing to your son? Men ha' been shot for less. + +BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome. + +STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this +sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years, +Sir William; but this is man to man--this is! + +SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham. + +STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No--'twouldn't be +very easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage? + +SIR WILLIAM. You did. + +STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well--that's something! [Moving his +hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights +o' this. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you, +Studdenham. + + Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with + his hands. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of horror] Don't, +Studdenham! Please! + +STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your--your--hands. + + While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing + in the doorway, like a black ghost. + +STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her +father] When did you start this? + +FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her! + +STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from side to side as if +pain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA, +but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about--what's come +to you? + +FREDA. Last night. + +STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young--! [He makes a +convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose +grip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] I want to +clear me mind a bit--I don't see it plain at all. [Without looking +at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage? + +BILL. I've made it, I stick to it. + +STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the +pith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William? + +SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you. + +STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady? + + LADY CHESHIRE is silent. + +STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was--was good enough for any man. +It's not for him that's--that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] You +hear the handsome offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistens +her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak a +word, we won't get much forrarder. I'd like for you to say what's in +your mind, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. I--If my son marries her he'll have to make his own +way. + +STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to that. + +SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studdenham. It appears to +rest with your daughter. [He suddenly takes out his handkerchief, +and puts it to his forehead] Infernal fires they make up here! + +LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intense +cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering. + +STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for. +[To FREDA] Speak up, now. + + FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily + raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY + CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if + she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL, + standing rigid, with his jaw set. + +FREDA. I want--[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns +from him] No! + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! + + At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have + been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all + his emotion turned into sheer angry pride. + +STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you! +She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha' +slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have +no charity marriage in my family. + +SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham! + +STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, +as a blind man can see by the looks of him--she's not for him! + +BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her. + +STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks +around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since +the world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away! + +Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door. + +SIR WILLIAM. D---n 'it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something! + +STUDDENHAM. [Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of +smiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things that +can't be undone! + + He follows FREDA Out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S Calm + gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as + though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following + FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY + CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the + billiard-room is opened, and DOT appears. With a glance round, + she crosses quickly to her mother. + +DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almost +whispering] Where's Freda? Is it--Has she really had the pluck? + + LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes," goes out into the + billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing + there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her + father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying + smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE ELDEST SON, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +THE LITTLE DREAM + +An Allegory in six scenes + + + +CHARACTERS + +SEELCHEN, a mountain girl +LAMOND, a climber +FELSMAN, a glide + + + +CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM + +THE GREAT HORN | +THE COW HORN | mountains +THE WINE HORN | + +THE EDELWEISS | +THE ALPENROSE | flowers +THE GENTIAN | +THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION | + + + +VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM + +COWBELLS +MOUNTAIN AIR +FAR VIEW OF ITALY +DISTANT FLUME OF STEAM +THINGS IN BOOKS +MOTH CHILDREN +THREE DANCING YOUTHS +THREE DANCING GIRLS +THE FORMS OF WORKERS +THE FORMS OF WHAT IS MADE BY WORK +DEATH BY SLUMBER +DEATH BY DROWNING +FLOWER CHILDREN +GOATHERD +GOAT BOYS +GOAT GOD +THE FORMS OF SLEEP + + + + +SCENE I + + It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene is a + room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches. + and a low broad window seat. Through this window three rocky + peaks are seen by the light of a moon which is slowly whitening + the last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. SEELCHEN, a + mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and + putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and + glasses. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice. + square-cut at the neck and partly filled in with a gay + handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the + alpen-rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster + beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened. + white linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn + skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are + crossed, and turned round her head. As she puts away the last + bowl, there is a knock; and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is + young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and + carries a plaid, a ruck-sack, and an ice-axe. + +LAMOND. Good evening! + +SEELCHEN. Good evening, gentle Sir! + +LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I fear. + +SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here? + +LAMOND. Please. + +SEELCHEN. All the beds are full--it is a pity. I will call Mother. + +LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at sunrise. + +SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is impossible. + +LAMOND. I am going to try that. + +SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow Horn. + +LAMOND. I have climbed them. + +SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous--it is perhaps--death. + +LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance. + +SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is only +Mans Felsman. + +LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman? + +SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with admiration] Are you +that Herr Lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year? + +LAMOND. All but that big fellow. + +SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father's +foot? + +LAMOND. Ah! no. I must go back home to-morrow. + +SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry. + +LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas! + +SEELCHEN. Are you from London? Is it very big? + +LAMOND. Six million souls. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen Cortina twice. + +LAMOND. Do you live here all the year? + +SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley. + +LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world? + +SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls softly] Hans! +[Then pointing to another door] There are seven German gentlemen +asleep in there! + +LAMOND. Oh God! + +SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sunrise. [She picks up +a little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have read +several books. + +LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry +here, and dream dreams, among your mountains? + +SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See! It is the full moon. + + While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters + a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden. + +SEELCHEN. Hans! + +FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me? + +SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him] +It is the celebrated London one. + +FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible. + +LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman? + +FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn. + +SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years! + +LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I +sleep here? + +SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps-- + + [She runs out up some stairs] + +FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on +the window seat] So! + + As he goes out into the air. SEELCHEN comes slipping in again + with a lighted candle. + +SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you. + +LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right. + +SEELCHEN. To please me! + +LAMOND. May I ask your name? + +SEELCHEN. Seelchen. + +LAMOND. Little soul, that means--doesn't it? To please you I would +sleep with seven German gentlemen. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! no; it is not necessary. + +LAMOND. [With. a grave bow] At your service, then. +[He prepares to go] + +SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World, where you come +from? + +LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would be +there. + +SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me but I am always +here. + +LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. + +SEELCHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly] In the towns +there are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and--dancing, +and--churches--and trains--and all the things in books--and-- + +LAMOND. Misery. + +SEELCHEN. But there is life. + +LAMOND. And there is death. + +SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back? + +LAMOND. No. + +SEELCHEN. You have all the world; and I have nothing. + +LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains. + +SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread. + +LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat you! + +SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big wants--like the cheese +with holes. + +LAMOND. I shall come again. + +SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains left to climb. And +if it is not exciting, you do not care. + +LAMOND. O wise little soul! + +SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always aching. + +LAMOND. For the moon? + +SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will +remember? + +LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world so +sweet as this. + +SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself. + +LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night? + + She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, + suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away. + +LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul. + +SEELCHEN. That's all right! + +LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Goodnight! + +SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night! + +FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold--it +will be fine. + + LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits + for him to pass. + +SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. I +thought. + + He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and + kisses her hungrily. + +SEELCHEN. Art thou angry? + + He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner + room. + + SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in + full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her, she + snuggles doom on the window seat. + +SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me--both. [She sleeps] + + The scene falls quite dark + + + + +SCENE II + + The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN is still + lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and + hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep + for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has + vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains + veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. There, as the peaks + of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces! + + The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth. + The face of THE COW HORN is that of a mountain shepherd. + solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. + Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high. + beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, + serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks. + above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little + heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUNTAIN + DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of + their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE + FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring. + +All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky. + +EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you? +Ah! ha! + +GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging +enviously] Oo-oo-oo! + + From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS + and MOUNTAIN AIR: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF + ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember the things in books!" + + And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS + ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a + sighing: + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as + of one unaccustomed. + +THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am +silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and +the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes. +love me alone! + +SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman +and the mountains. It is the half of my heart! + + THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows. +My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The +lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running +of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood +hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity. + +SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong! + + The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + +THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me +under the stars! + +SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid. + + And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's + voice. + +THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the +streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the +chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my +incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and +passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of +lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves. +and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in +the sunshine. + + THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry: + + "We know them!" + +THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of +pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths +of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little +soul, you starve and die, + +SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of +the Town. It pulls my heart. + +THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your +meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drink +the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I never +dull! + + The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN + BOOKS are heard calling out together: + + "I am Italy, Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember, remember!" + +THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours. +I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart! + +SEELCHEN. He is honey! + + THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry: + + "Bitter! Bitter!" + + +THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal +air. + + The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + And THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake +you! + + The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM and THINGS IN + BOOKS chant softly: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember, remember!" + + And THE FLOWERS moan. + +SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn! + +THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets. +and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the +thistle-down. + +M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster! + +THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea. + +GENTIAN. My blue is deeper! + +THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes. + +ALPENROSE. I can blush redder! + +THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! Silk! Velvet! + +EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet! + +THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags! + +THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none. + +SEELCHEN. He has all things. + +THE COW HORN. Mine are the clouds with the dark silvered wings; mine +are the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler than +pearls. Away from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, +little soul. + +THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance! + + THE FLOWERS ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry: + + "We too, smell sweet." + + But the voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS + IN BOOKS cry out: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember! remember!" + +SEELCHEN. [Distracted] Oh! it is hard! + +THE COW HORN. I will never desert thee. + +THE WINE HORN. A hundred times I will desert you, a hundred times +come back, and kiss you. + +SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Peace for my heart! + +THE COW HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme. + + THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers. + + THE FLOWERS moan. + +THE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine. + +THE COW HORN. I will give thee new milk. + +THE WINE HORN. Hear my song! + + From far away comes the sound as of mandolins. + +SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart--it is leaving me! + +THE COW HORN. Hear my song! + + From the distance floats the piping of a Shepherd's reed. + +SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The piping! Ah! + +THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! + +THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! + +THE COW HORN. I give thee certainty! + +THE WINE HORN. I give you chance! + +THE COW HORN. I give thee peace. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you change. + +THE COW HORN. I give thee stillness. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you voice. + +THE COW HORN. I give thee one love. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you many. + +SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both--I +will love! + + And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks. + +THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shalt love, little soul! Thou shalt +lie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities with +Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the +mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings. +small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem +as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the +other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in +turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a +tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half +courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change. +Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thou +pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me at +last, my little soul! + + THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out. + + SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight + and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep. + + + + +SCENE III + +The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with her +hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane +tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of +an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon. +Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the +face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and +singing: + + "Little star soul + Through the frost fields of night + Roaming alone, disconsolate-- + From out the cold + I call thee in + Striking my dark mandolin + Beneath this moon of gold." + + From the Inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of + dancing. + +SEELCHEN: [Whispering] It is the big world! + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings On: + + "Pretty grey moth, + Where the strange candles shine, + Seeking for warmth, so desperate-- + Ah! fluttering dove + I bid thee win + Striking my dark mandolin + The crimson flame of love." + +SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing! + + As SHE speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and + fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then + wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward. + +SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings are +windy. + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on; + + "Lips of my song, + To the white maiden's heart + Go ye, and whisper, passionate. + These words that burn + 'O listening one! + Love that flieth past is gone + Nor ever may return!'" + + SEELCHEN runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has + become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth- + children--but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn + stands LAMOND in a dark cloak. + +SEELCHEN. It is you! + +LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out his +arms to her] + +SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe? + +LAMOND. What is safety? Are you safe in your mountains? + +SEELCHEN. Where am I, here? + +LAMOND. The Town. + + Smiling, he points to the doorway. And silent as shadows there + come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. The + first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first + youth in black velvet. The second girl is in rags, and a shawl; + and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance + gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. + +SEELCHEN. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance together. Do they +never change partners? + +LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor. +But see! + + A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs. + a flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the + youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other. + but the other girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious + medley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the + first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from + each other as before. + +SEELCHEN. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like that? + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He + strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound + the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the + couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown + dark. + +SEELCHEN. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let me see. + +LAMOND. Will you not come, then, little soul? + +SEELCHEN. Always to dance? + +LAMOND: Not so! + + THE SHUTTERS of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. In a + lighted room on one aide of the Inn are seen two pale men and a + woman, amongst many clicking machines. On the other side of the + Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half + clothed, making chains. + +SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look +--all! What are they making? + + In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is + seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in + gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, + holding in one hand a glass of golden wine. + +SEELCHEN. It is beautiful. What is it? + +LAMOND. Luxury. + +SEELCHEN. What is it standing on? I cannot see. + + Unseen, THE WINE HORN'S mandolin twangs out. + +LAMOND. For that do not look, little soul. + +SEELCHEN. Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all they +make here with their sadness? + + But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the + houses; the door of the Inn grows dark. + +LAMOND. What is it, then, you would have? Is it learning? There +are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars! +[But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is religion so deep that no man +knows what it means. [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is +religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We have +everything. + +SEELCHEN. Is God here? + +LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes +her head] What then do you want? + +SEELCHEN. Life. + + The mandolin twangs out. + +LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life. + +SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love. + +LAMOND. When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown? +When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. If +darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To live +is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she draws +nearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the +little grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown--again +you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you must +crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not +there--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its +wings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, your +cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--Ah! little +heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes--there it +is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will +reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall +you grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [His voice +dies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms] + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come. + +LAMOND. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me! + +SEELCHEN. I love! + + The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all + glamorous; and they pass through. Illumined by the glimmer of + the lamp the Youth of THE WINE Hour is seen again. And slowly + to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing: + + "The windy hours through darkness fly + Canst hear them little heart? + New loves are born, and old loves die, + And kissing lips must part. + + "The dusky bees of passing years + Canst see them, soul of mine-- + From flower and flower supping tears, + And pale sweet honey wine? + + [His voice grown strange and passionate] + + "O flame that treads the marsh of time. + Flitting for ever low. + Where, through the black enchanted slime. + We, desperate, following go + Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! + Into dark air above. + The golden gipsy thins away-- + So has it been with love!" + + While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. It falls + dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands. + But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp + goes out--THE WINE HORN becomes shadow. Then from the doorway + of the Inn, in the shrill grey light SEELCHEN comes forth. She + is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the + powdery whiteness of her face. + +SEELCHEN. My heart is old. + + But as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of + COWBELLS; and while she stands listening, LAMOND appears in the + doorway of the Inn. + +LAMOND. Little soul! + +SEELCHEN. You! Always you! + +LAMOND. I have new wonders. + +SEELCHEN. [Mournfully] No. + +LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never the +same? It cannot be. + +SEELCHEN. Listen! + + The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again. + +LAMOND. [Jealously] The music' of dull sleep! Has life, then, with +me been sorrow? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + +LAMOND. Come! + +SEELCHEN. [Pointing-to her breast] The bird is tired with flying. +[Touching her lips] The flowers have no dew. + +LAMOND. Would you leave me? + +SEELCHEN. See! + + There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen + the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain + cloak. + +LAMOND. What is it? + +SEELCHEN. He! + +LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you the +marvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life. +If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are +sweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning! + +The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn come +forth the shadowy forms. DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING. +who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN. +stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away. + +SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and sweet. + + While she moves towards the Inn. LAMOND'S face becomes + transfigured with joy. But just as she reaches the doorway. + there is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and + the Shepherd of THE COW HORN sings: + + "To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar + Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads + Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, + And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. + To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned + With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; + To the silent sky, and the wistful sound + Of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!" + + While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEELCHEN has turned. + with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of + death have vanished. + +SEELCHEN. I come. + +LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like a +gnat when the sun goes down? Without you I am nothing. + +SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself] Poor heart--I am gone! + +LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his cloak]. + + Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, there is + blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there + rises a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, and Flower + Bells, and Pipes. + + + + + +SCENE IV + + The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. + SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but + blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a + low rock sits a brown faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the + four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white. + and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing. + as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and + each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts + them to her lips and eyes. + +SEELCHEN. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] Goatherd! + + But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away he has + vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The + veils of mist are rising. + +SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the +rock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with his arms folded] Thou! + +FELSMAN. So thou hast come--like a sick heifer to be healed. Was it +good in the Town--that kept thee so long? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + +FELSMAN. Why then return? + +SEELCHEN. I was tired. + +FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me! + +SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep me? + +FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus. + +SEELCHEN. I have known Change--I am no timid maid. + +FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow +--thou art white-faced. + +SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou here that shall keep +me? + +FELSMAN. The sun. + +SEELCHEN. To burn me. + +FELSMAN. The air. + + There is a faint wailing of wind. + +SEELCHEN. To freeze me. + +FELSMAN. The silence. + + The noise of the wind dies away. + +SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely. + +FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee. + + And to a ringing of their bells. THE FLOWERS come dancing; + till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling + asleep. + +SEELCHEN. See! Even they grow sleepy here! + +FELSMAN. I will call the goats to wake them. + + THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on his rock and + piping. And there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked + Boys, with Goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of + The Sleeping Flowers; and THE FLOWERS wake, spring up, and fly. + Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and THE + GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his + rock. + +FELSMAN. Love me! + +SEELCHEN. Thou art rude! + +FELSMAN. Love me! + +SEELCHEN. Thou art grim! + +FELSMAN. Aye. I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice. +[Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawn +to the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] And +the wings of the birds shall be still. + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see +the wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are they +always fierce? + +FELSMAN. Never--to look on thee, my flower. + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluck +flowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD is +lying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But +THE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue. +[Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer me +here. + +FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one? + +SEELCHEN. Thou? + + [The scene darkens with evening] + +See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already. + + There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb + garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her. + +SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep! + + Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her + swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It + is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly + grown bright. Then on his rock, to a faint gaping THE GOATHERD + sings: + + "My goat, my little speckled one. + My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. + Let moon and wind and golden sun + And stars beyond all telling + Make, every day, a sweeter grass. + And multiply thy leaping! + And may the mountain foxes pass + And never scent thee sleeping! + Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far. + And let me find sweet water! + No hawk nor udder-seeking jar + Come near thee, little daughter! + May fiery rocks defend, at noon, + Thy tender feet from slipping! + Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon-- + Great Master, Goat-God--skipping!" + + There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a + long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon + fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the + false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of + the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the + rock stands the Shepherd of THE COW HORN in his dock. + +SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit is hungry. [Then as +she sees the Shepherd of THE COW HORN standing there] I know thee +now--Life of the earth--the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the +taste of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and gone by. +[She moves away] + +FELSMAN. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go? + +SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world. + +FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me! + + [But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against + solidity] + +SEELCHEN. Friend! The time is on me. + +FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I too dull? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen suddenly standing opposite + the motionless Shepherd of THE COW HORN; and his mandolin twangs + out. + +FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt +go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see. + +SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward. + +FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without thee +love is dead, and I must die. + +SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone. + +FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold. + + At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE COW HORN stretches + forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE + HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving. + +SEELCHEN. Companions. I must go. In a moment it will be dawn. + + In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces. + The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark. + + + + +SCENE V + + Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE + GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either aide of + that path of light, like shadows. THE COW HORN and THE WINE + HORN stand with cloaked heads. + +SEELCHEN. Great One! I come! + + The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a far-away voice, growing, + with the light, clearer and stronger. + + Wandering flame, thou restless fever + Burning all things, regretting none; + The winds of fate are stilled for ever-- + Thy little generous life is done. + And all its wistful wonderings cease! + Thou traveller to the tideless sea, + Where light and dark, and change and peace, + Are One--Come, little soul, to MYSTERY! + + SEELCHEN falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The + glow slowly fades till the scene is black. + + + + +SCENE VI + +Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn +filtering through the window of the mountain hut. LAMOND and FELSMAN +are seen standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on the +window seat. + +FELSMAN. [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a moment it will be +dawn. + + She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring. + +LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming. + + FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face. + Then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she + speaks, pass out. + +SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with +ecstasy] Great One. I come! [Waking, she looks around, and +struggles to her feet] My little dream! + + Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky. + There is a sound of goat-bells passing. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE LITTLE DREAM, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +JUSTICE + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +JAMES HOW, solicitor +WALTER HOW, solicitor +ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk +WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk +SWEEDLE, their office-boy +WISTER, a detective +COWLEY, a cashier +MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge +HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate +HECTOR FROME, a young advocate +CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor +THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain +EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor +WOODER, a chief warder +MOANEY, convict +CLIFTON, convict +O'CLEARY, convict +RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman +A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, +JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS + + + + +TIME: The Present. + + +ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. + +ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. + +ACT III. A prison. December. + SCENE I. The Governor's office. + SCENE II. A corridor. + SCENE III. A cell. + +ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. + March, two years later. + + + + +CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION + +AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 + +James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE +Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE +Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN +Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE +The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE +The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER +The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON +The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT +The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE +The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT +The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY +The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN +The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON +Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD +Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN +Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE +O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE +Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE + + + + + +ACT I + + The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James + and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, + furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with + tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them + are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two + doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the + managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; + and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be + seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of + the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to + the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the + partners' room. + + The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up + figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. + He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a + bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a + well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. + +COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, +twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the +page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, +twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. + + He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and + SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. + He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. + +COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. + +SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry +two. Send him to Morris's. What name? + +SWEEDLE. Honeywill. + +COKESON. What's his business? + +SWEEDLE. It's a woman. + +COKESON. A lady? + +SWEEDLE. No, a person. + +COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes +the pass-book.] + +SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? + + RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years + old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an + ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a + natural dignity of pose and gesture. + + SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. + +COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. +[Suspiciously] State your business, please. + +RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight +West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. + +COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a +message? + +RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. + + She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. + +COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my +friends here to see me! It'd never do! + +RUTH. No, sir. + +COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting +to see a junior clerk! + +RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. + +COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged +interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. + +RUTH. He's not there. + +COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? + +RUTH. No, sir. + +COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no +affair of the office. + +RUTH. But what am I to do? + +COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. + + SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes + through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully + leaving the door an inch or two open. + +COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this +won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! + + An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer + door of the outer office. + +SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. + +RUTH. They're mine, please. + +SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? + +RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] + +COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk +short as it is. + +RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. + +COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! + +SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. + + FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, + good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He + moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there + irresolute. + +COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. + + Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' + room. + +RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He +tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children +before he was awake. I went round to you. + +FALDER. I've changed my digs. + +RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? + +FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. +For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with +tragic intensity] Ruth! + +RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? + +FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? + +RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one +bag. I can't go near home again. + +FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. +How much must you have? + +RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. + +FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When +I get out there I mean to forget it all. + +RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take +you against your will. + +FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll +have you. + +RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. + +FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 +to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! + +RUTH. Kiss me! + + They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as + COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the + outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and + seats himself. + +COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. + +FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. + +COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. + +FALDER. Yes, sir. + +COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, +having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a +drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the +Home." It's a well-written thing. + +FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. + +COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you +finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? + +FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. + +COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, +Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't +mention about the party having called, but---- + +FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. + + COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; + then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when + WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather + refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost + apologetic voice. + +WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. + +COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. + +WALTER. My father here? + +COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who +might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. + +WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. + +COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be +expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to +send it to counsel? + +WALTER. What does my father say? + +COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. + +WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. + +COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought +you'd do it yourself. + +WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. + +COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you +like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. + +WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit +of common ground. + +COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the +law. + +WALTER. I don't like it, + +COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves +up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. + + As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is + a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, + shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. + +JAMES. Morning, Walter. + +WALTER. How are you, father? + +COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though +deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young +Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] + +WALTER. About that right-of-way case? + +JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me +yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. + +WALTER. So it is. + +JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no +recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. + + WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a + cheque-book. + +JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, +seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, +seventy-one. Tally? + +WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four +hundred. + +JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons +the counterfoils] What's this ninety? + +WALTER. Who drew it? + +JAMES. You. + +WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went +down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back +on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I +drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It +just covered all but half a crown. + +JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the +cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all +right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that +nine-pound cheque? + +WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. +Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. + +JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? + +WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this +doesn't. + +JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. +Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you +remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day +he went to Trenton? + +COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. + +JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] + +COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of +course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the +bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you +wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous +compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. + + He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. + +WALTER. Afraid not. + +COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. + +JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on +Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! +there's some mistake. + +JAMES. I hope so. + +COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the +twenty-nine years I've been here. + +JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever +bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, +Walter. + +WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that +afternoon. + +COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. + +JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of +swindling. What was Davis's ship? + +WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. + +JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be +there yet. + +COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh +dear! In this office! + +WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? + +JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. + +WALTER. Really? + + He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He + stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the + knees of his trousers. + +JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? + +COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take +you, sir. + +JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't +know you. + +COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry +for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. + +JAMES. A nasty business! + +COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing +like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. + +JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? + +COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had +temptation. + +JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. + +COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. + [He broods.] + +JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. + +COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty +yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. + +JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, +Cokeson. + + He goes towards the door of the partners' room. + +SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped +up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. + +COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her +away! + +JAMES. What's that? + +COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come +myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the +partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just +now. + +RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? + +COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait +about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. + +RUTH. Yes, sir. + + WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the + outer office. + +COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] +Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. + + WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. + +COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm +quite ashamed to have to trouble you. + +COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] +Seemed in perfect order. + +COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing +like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open +and jolly together. + +COWLEY. Quite so. + +COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] +Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- +leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. + +COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. + +COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a +matter of fact. + + JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. + +JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, +you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It +was none of us, I take it. + + The cashier shakes his head with a smile. + +JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in +conversation, will you? + + He goes toward FALDER'S room. + +COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. + +JAMES. Well? + +COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? +He's a nervous young feller. + +JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of +Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. + +COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's +been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. + +JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a +thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. + + He opens the door of FALDER'S room. + +JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? + +COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? + + The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. + +COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare +me, I suppose? + + At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to + see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on + COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. + +FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! + +JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. + +FALDER. Do you want me, sir? + +JAMES. No, thanks! + + FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the + door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the + cashier nods. + +JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. + +COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that +room? + +COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a +basement. + + The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with + his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. + +JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? + +FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. + +JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about +this lease. + +FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] + +COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed +the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my +lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip +of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! + +JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! + +COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. + +COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. + + The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down + in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the + morass of his feelings. + +WALTER. What are you going to do? + +JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. + +COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- + +JAMES. We shall see. + +WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? + +JAMES. Call him in! + +COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; +hoarsely] Step in here a minute. + +FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? + +JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know +this cheque, Falder? + +FALDER. No, sir. + +JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. + +FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. + +JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? + +FALDER. Yes, sir. + +JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? + +FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. + +JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? + +FALDER. No, sir--ninety. + +JAMES. Nine, Falder. + +FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. + +JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; +whether by you or Davis is the question. + +FALDER. I--I + +COKESON. Take your time, take your time. + +FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. + +JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one +o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. + +COKESON. I couldn't leave it. + +JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was +cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects +it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. + +FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were +giving him a farewell luncheon. + +JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? + +FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. + + WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him + in a low voice. + +JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? + +COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing +faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the +Monday. + +JAMES. Was he, Falder? + +FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. + +JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this +nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? + +COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? + + FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, + but he has gone all to pieces. + +JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book +remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on +Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that +you altered both cheque and counterfoil? + +FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. + +COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to +do! + +FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was +doing. + +COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! + +FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was +just a minute of madness. + +JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days +at least. + +FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, +and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the +money back--I will, I promise. + +JAMES. Go into your room. + + FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. + There is silence. + +JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. + +COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! + +WALTER. What's to be done? + +JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. + +WALTER. It's his first offence. + +JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a +piece of swindling altogether. + +COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. + +JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. + +COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. +James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. + +WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? + +COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier +circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. + +WALTER. How do you know? + +COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were +outside the office. + +JAMES. A real bad egg. + +WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. + +JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way be went to work-- +counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. +It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. + +WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't +time. + +JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean +mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep +his hands off when there's money about. + +WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. + +JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows +in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of +harm's way. They've got a blind spat. + +WALTER. It's penal servitude. + +COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. + +JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out +of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua +non'. + +COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. + +JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people +who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. + +WALTER. But to brand him like this? + +JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another +chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. + +COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. + +JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way +to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If +that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what +is. + +WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. + +JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever +prosecute. + +WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. + +COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have +protection. + +JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. + + He moves towards the partners' room. + +WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. + +JAMES. You ask too much of me. + +WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. + +JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this +sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't +nothing'll make him. + +WALTER. He'll never do it again. + +COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We +don't want to be hard on the young man. + +JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into +the partners' room.] + +COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I +don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. + +WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know +you feel---- + +COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. + +WALTER. We shall regret it. + +COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. + +WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." + +COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must +try and see it sensible. + +SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. + +COKESON. Put it down! + + While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the + detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one + there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized + man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong + boots. + +COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? + +WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant +Blister. + +WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. + + He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. + +JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] +I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. +[SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. + + As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a + sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. + +FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! + +WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. + +JAMES. I charge him with felony. + +FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be +till to-morrow. + + JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER + becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the + detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, + rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the + outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared + COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer + office. + +COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? + + There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the + sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits + down, and stares blankly at his lunch. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +ACT II + +A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with +barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in +the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, +placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and +unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to +the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems +unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the +counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle +age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, +the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a +very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their +evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, +the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. + +CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! + + Gathering his robes together, he sits down. + +FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship +and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that +the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you +evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you +would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his +actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did +this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, +caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. +Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call +before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to +this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances +of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has +inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a +miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from +whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, +saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in +love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her +from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But +we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to +remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a +drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, +as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable +a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear +that her husband is guilty. + +JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? + +FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your +lordship that directly. + +JUDGE. Very well. + +FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? +She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her +life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, +gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would +have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such +a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her +either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is +now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to +support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor +Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. + +JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. + +FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. + +JUDGE. Let us hope so. + +FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up +to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, +that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on +himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She +saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where +they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This +was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, +an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were +constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, +and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation +possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer +to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part +of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of +these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into +their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her +distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so +devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- +reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of +course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual +events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, +the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility +--I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the +lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes +up a sheet of paper, and waits.] + + COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, + holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. + +FROME. What is your name? + +COKESON. Robert Cokeson. + +FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ +the prisoner? + +COKESON. Ye-es. + +FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? + +COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. + +FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? + +COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. + +FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about +his general character during those two years. + +COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised +at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no +fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise +to me when he did a thing like that. + +FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? + +COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. + +FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua +non'. + +FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? + +COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly +and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. + +FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on +which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his +demeanour that morning? + +COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite +compos when he did it. + +THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? + +COKESON. Not compos. + +THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. + +FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the +JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will +understand my meaning. + +FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? + +COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a +chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as +Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went +into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other +clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up +and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, +Falder." + +FROME. Do you remember what he answered? + +COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. + +FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? + +COKESON. I did. + +FROME. What was that? + +COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be +neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." + +FROME. And what did he answer? + +COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. + +THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? + +COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my +meaning--it was funny. + +FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? + +COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We +can't have anything eccentric in our profession. + +THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? + +COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about +prime facey evidence. + +FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? + +COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. + +FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. +Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the +forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that +morning? + +COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. + +FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean +before the discovery--that caught your attention? + +COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. + +THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? + +FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the +prisoner committed this act, my lord. + +THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the +act. + +FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. + +THE JUDGE. Well! + +FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? + +COKESON. Ye-es. + +FROME. What for? + +COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. + +FROME. Did you see her? + +COKESON. I did. + +FROME. Did she come alone? + +COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. +I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. + +FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- + +COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to +me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put +to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." + +THE JUDGE. What are? What were? + +COKESON. Her children. They were outside. + +THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? + +COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell +you what I was told--and that'd never do. + +THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. + +COKESON. Egg-zactly. + +FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course +of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you +specially remember? + +COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the +sentence] A leetle more, sir. + +FROME. Or did she not? + +COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the +answer. + +FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it +was? + +COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." + +FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? + +COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said +to you. + +FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was +there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? + +COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. + +FROME. Well, is she there now? + +COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! + +FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] + +CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the +prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by +that word? + +COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever +seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once +with his eyes. + +CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them +"funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? + +COKESON. Ye-es, funny. + +COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not +be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or +fierce, or what? + +COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you +want me to give you another. + +CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? + +CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- + +CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was +it a hot day? + +COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. + +CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? + +COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. + +CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? + + He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is + left gaping. + +FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled +state before? + +COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. + +FROME. That will do, thank you. + + COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel + for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; + arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing + further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next + to JAMES and WALTER. + +FROME. Ruth Honeywill. + + RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the + witness-box. She is sworn. + +FROME. What is your name, please? + +RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. + +FROME. How old are you? + +RUTH. Twenty-six. + +FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little +louder. + +RUTH. No, sir; not since July. + +FROME. Have you any children? + +RUTH. Yes, sir, two. + +FROME. Are they living with you? + +RUTH. Yes, sir. + +FROME. You know the prisoner? + +RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. + +FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? + +RUTH. We were friends. + +THE JUDGE. Friends? + +RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. + +THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? + +RUTH. We love each other. + +THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- + +RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. + +THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! + +FROME. What is your husband? + +RUTH. Traveller. + +FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? + +RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. + +FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? + +RUTH. Ever since my first was born. + +FROME. In what way? + +RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. + +THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. + +RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. +We were going to South America. + +FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? + +RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly +broke my heart. + +FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? + +RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing +to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. + +FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. Why? + +RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. + +THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! + +RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. + +FROME. With his hands, or----? + +RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to +my friend. It was eight o'clock. + +THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence +of liquor then? + +RUTH. It wasn't always that. + +FROME. In what condition were you? + +RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half +choking. + +FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? + +RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. + +FROME. It upset him? + +RUTH. Dreadfully. + +FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? + +RUTH. Never. + +FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. When was that? + +RUTH. On Saturday. + +FROME. The 8th? + +RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to +start. + +FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? + +RUTH. What, sir? + +FROME. That he had money to give you. + +Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me +my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told +me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. + +FROME. And when did you last see him? + +RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to +have started. + +FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at +all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his +manner then? + +RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. + +FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? + +RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. + +FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? + +RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. + +FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? + +RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. + +FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and +unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his +actions? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. His reason, even? + +RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. + +FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly +calm? + +RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. + +FROME. Do you still love him? + +RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. + +FROME. Thank you. + + He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness- + box. + +CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning +of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I +suppose? + +RUTH. No, sir. + +CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. + +RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the +same for him; I would indeed. + +THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy +one? Faults on both sides? + +RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I +should, sir, not to a man like that. + +THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? + +RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep +things nice. + +THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? + +RUTH. No; even after that. + +THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this +affection of yours for the prisoner. + +RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. + +THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. + + RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her + seat among the witnesses. + +FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. + + FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly + sworn. + +FROME. What is your name? + +FALDER. William Falder. + +FROME. And age? + +FALDER. Twenty-three. + +FROME. You are not married? + + FALDER shakes his head + +FROME. How long have you known the last witness? + +FALDER. Six months. + +FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? + +FALDER. Yes. + +FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? + +FALDER. Yes. + +THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? + +FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. + +THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? + +FALDER. I didn't seem able to. + + The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. + +FROME. How did you come to know her? + +FALDER. Through my married sister. + +FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? + +FALDER. It was trouble all the time. + +FROME. You knew her husband? + +FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. + +THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not +present. + +FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit +altering this cheque? + +FALDER bows his head. + +FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the +7th, and tell the jury what happened. + +FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she +came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem +to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round +her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes +dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I +felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd +seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the +same, I know. + +FROME. Yes? + +FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was +out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I +could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply +couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed +to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the +cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. +You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my +hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if +I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her +away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then +Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I +did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. +I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what +I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under +a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for +it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I +took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and +all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I +keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I +can't have it all again to do differently! + + FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. + +FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? + +FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. + +FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed +the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? + +FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all +the way. + +FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? + +FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. + +FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' + +FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. + + FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. + +CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? + +FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. + +CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. + +CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting +over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. + +FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. + +CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were +so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the +cashier? + +FALDER. It was an accident. + +CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which +day did you alter the counterfoil? + +FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. + +CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No. + +CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? + +FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. + +CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great +excitement when you did that? + +FALDER. I was haunted. + +CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? + +FALDER. [Very low] Yes. + +THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do +was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? + +FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] + +CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of +taking this woman away? + +FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for +nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself +into the river. + +CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England +--didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion +would fall on him? + +FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. + +CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? + +FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would +have repaid the money. + +THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have +been prosecuted. + +FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought +there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. + +FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the +cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the +discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have +left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, +from the beginning. + +THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion +would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did +you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis +had sailed? + +FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- + +THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! + +FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. + +THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. + + [FROME bows to the JUDGE] + +CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. + +CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that +afternoon? + +FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. + +CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen +for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't +remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] + +FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. + +FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? + +FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. + +FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's +going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect +nothing during those four minutes? + +FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. + +FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you +were doing? + +FALDER. No, Sir. + +FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? + +FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. + +FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or +notes?" + +FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too +late. + +FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my +lord. + + The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. + +FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen +of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition +to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am +free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence +has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in +a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not +responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral +vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he +had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has +alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest +this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have +merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life +which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the +commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized +age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange +way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when +we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think +of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the +prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the +comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with +equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was +devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a +strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort +of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have +heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word +"funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of +those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which +could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental +irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all +sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man +who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved +from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and +frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible +condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent +and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might +well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a +case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. +You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four +fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's +face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is +absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection +[legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came +here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is +impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he +committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress +can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a +moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, +or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, +gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter +impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was +altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes +--the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy +before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great +cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His +further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the +counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of +deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from +which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of +the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a +man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? +Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law +for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, +and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as +though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in +all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that +may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, +Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the +starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to +pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of +weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man +those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his +voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to +be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will +come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, +as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, +stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a +criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither +the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. +Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has +undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in +prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever +to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. +He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of +the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided +to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you +permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. + + He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his + hand, and sits dozen. + +The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards +the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot +that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then +towards the jury. + +CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen +of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the +defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I +don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the +evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I +daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what +shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative +would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had +pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to +his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and +hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to +show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in +fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I +think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a +certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of +motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would +not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped +that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With +good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't +put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every +reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that +the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he +were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the +moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the +managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some +difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, +though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, +gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque +was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate +that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the +words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, +therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have +remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was +certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the +plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at +fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the +consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of +time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am +not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your +own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a +great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, +temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the +offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious +known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such +as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow- +clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render +it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. +I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in +the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. + + Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he + sits down. + +THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a +business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the +comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues +you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of +this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is +that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the +crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence +of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. +If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the +prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him +guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what +you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short +of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the +testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very +carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before +and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, +of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. +And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the +prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought +did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to +him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his +subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the +question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is +very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or +temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before +you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and +thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would +have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, +then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, +adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. + + The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends + over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly + to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn + speaks to FROME. + +FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should +ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to +disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these +proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences +might be extremely serious to her. + +THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. +Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her +here. + +FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have +brought out the full facts in any other way? + +THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. + +FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. + +THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. + +FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your +lordship that I am not exaggerating. + +THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name +of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, +who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, +who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll +consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that +she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. + +FROME. Your lordship, I really---- + +THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. +Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. + + As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the + box. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? + +FOREMAN. We are. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? + +FOREMAN. Guilty. + + The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at + FALDER, who stands motionless. + +FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in +mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can +add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the +prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. + +THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. + +FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your +lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] + +THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. + +THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have +you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you +judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] + +THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found +guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; +then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you +were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing +this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to +bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you +succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality +making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course +enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that +direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He +claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a +criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a +passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march +of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing +the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should +allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into +account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your +offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the +counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to +my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the +necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the +other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have +hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe +your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some +emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every +wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the +community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what +are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your +case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious +element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on +the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the +crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It +is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The +story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. +Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were +in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young +man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an +attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge- +-had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit +was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an +attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he +describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can +express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent +that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral +design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my +conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. +It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for +the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an +attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a +defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that +to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not +follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic +edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. +I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have +committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with +my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You +will go to penal servitude for three years. + + FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him + steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts + up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a + bustle in court. + +THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I +think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. + + The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who + is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do + you understand, your name will not be mentioned? + +COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. + + RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. + +THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. + + To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + + A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred + windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in + yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are + seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, + walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete + floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked + caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has + distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking + books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on + the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is + Christmas Eve. + + The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair + moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding + from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table + looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. + The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are + missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military- + looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, + monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking +affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? + +WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for +two years now. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? + +WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his +thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] + +THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? +Moaney! An old hand, I think? + +WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like +him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] +Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all +they think about. + +THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? + +WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. + +WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star +class--and next him old Clipton. + +THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about +his eyes. + +WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of +these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a +regular wave going through them just now. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to +look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! + +WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this +morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole +lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. + +THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run +right through cavalry lines. + + The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic + man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped + face and slow, cultured speech. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? + +THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. + +THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and +opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and +metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. +Wooder. + +WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] + +THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, +Miller? Seems going through the whole place. + +THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. + +THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? + +THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. + +THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at +the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man +who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the +cupboard again] + +THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. +Nothing to be done till it's broken. + +THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard +for golf? + + WOODER comes in again. + +WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. +I told him it wasn't usual. + +THE GOVERNOR. What about? + +WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? + +THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, +Miller. + +WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in +withdraws. + + The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to + the knees, woollen gloves, arid carries a top hat. + +COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young +man. + +THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. + +COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it +to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the +law. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you +want to see me about, sir? + +COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a +sight! + +THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is +being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! + +COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I +wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. +[Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His +sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some +distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says +he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an +invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in +him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like +to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. + +THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. + +COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them +about working together. + +THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their +three months here in separate confinement, sir. + +COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite +downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the +others. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, +Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about +him, perhaps. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, +it would seem, sir. + +COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. +I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about +with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said +--like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a +month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell +thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I +can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. +COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the +tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. + +THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, +isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? + +COKESON. No. + +THE CHAPLAIN. I know. + +THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be +good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes +out] Let's see, he's not married? + +COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much +attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. + +THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison +might be closed. + +COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I +wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let +her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me +questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow +a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid +it's made him worse. + +THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? + +COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a +husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our +young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he +was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for +him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a +month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: +"I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no +friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my +husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. +And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a +painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a +wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a +little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--" I don't +like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." +Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't +like to persuade her not to. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. + +COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow +dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years +to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares +your view, I'm afraid. + +COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by +himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't +like to see a man cry. + +THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. + +COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] +I keep dogs. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? + +COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all +by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a +sense of right and wrong. + +COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. + +COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness +they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes +'em savage. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little +more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. + +COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for +years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of +consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there +shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him +harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. +COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the +wall." It's not nice. + + During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a + medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. + He stands leaning against the window. + +THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on +Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, +Doctor Clements? + +THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. + +COKESON. But he's told me. + +THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's +lost no weight since he's been here. + +COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. + +THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather +melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him +carefully. + +COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are +able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my +special standpoint. + +COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be +unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. + +THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. + +COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him +every day you wouldn't notice it. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health +shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully +provided for. [He rises] + +COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see +doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on +my mind. + +THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. + +COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. +I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding +to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. + + As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, + but their faces wear peculiar expressions. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. + +COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just +one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him +see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about +her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe +in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? + +THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an +exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes +to a convict prison. + +COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. +[He again goes out] + +THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor +fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? + + + He and the DOCTOR go out talking. + + The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a + pen. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE II + + Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are + coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green + about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are + whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is + filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors + of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round + peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round + disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On + the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board + with the prisoner's name, number, and record. + + Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and + second-floor corridors. + + The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an + apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the + cells. + +INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have +another bit for you when that's finished. + +O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. + +INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I +s'pose. + +O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. + + Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of + approaching footsteps. + +INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! + + He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. + + The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by + WOODER. + +THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? + +INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind +with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. + + The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR + goes away. + +THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? + + He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door + of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, + athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in + the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about + fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, + staring, steel-coloured eyes. + +WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes +to the door] + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up +the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] +Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! + +MOANEY. It passed the time. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? + +MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than +this. + +MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against +the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my +time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue +warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, +after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm +out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got +mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes +on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no +harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a, bit of all +right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread +and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself +in your place. + +THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you +give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the +cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the +window-bars] + +THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? + +MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do +in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have +something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but +I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a +gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work +would have done it. + +THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. +Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while +they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? + +MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' +cells-bread and water. + +MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. + + He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. + + The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER + closes and locks the cell door. + +THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. + + WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on + a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He + is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and + smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets + up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his + visitors. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. + + CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the + corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs + to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. + +THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? + +CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He +makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's +just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd +ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. + +THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. + +CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With +contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here +with us. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when +there's a cell vacant. + +CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. +I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening +too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. +Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. + + WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though + extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into + his cell. + +WOODER. All right, sir. + + THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. + +THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? + +WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. + + He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. + +THE GOVERNOR. Open. + + WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a + little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands + at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, + middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little + holes under his high cheek-bones. + +THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? + +O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. + +THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? + +O'CLEARY. Oh! that! + +THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. + +O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. + +THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? + +O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. + +THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. + +O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. + +THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. + +O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same +steady man. + +THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? + +O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me +head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. +[Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise +--a terrible little wud ease me. + +THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the +shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. + +O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? + +O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your +door. + +O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. + +O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. + + He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the +poor blackguard. + +WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come +here, Mr. Wooder. + + WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. + + The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his + uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering + it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising + the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is + standing against it, lurches forward. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle +down, Falder? + +FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head +against a stone wall, is it? + +FALDER. No, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. + +FALDER. I try, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? + +FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst +time. + +THE GOVERNOR. How's that? + +FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I +was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such +a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. + +THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. + +FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. + +THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? + +FALDER. They're used to it. + +THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, +just as you're doing now. + +FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with +you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're +still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. + +FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? + +FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's +no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my +cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? + +FALDER. Yes. + +THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. + +FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? + + He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR + approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. + +FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes +back into his cell.] + +THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. + + The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, + nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. + +WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. +Very contented lot of men, on the whole. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? + +WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. + +THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! + +WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? + +THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! + + He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with + a sort of pained anxiety. + +WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd +like us to have more holly? + +THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. + +WOODER. Very good, sir. + + The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR + beckons to him. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well? + +THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of +course. + +THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, +Doctor. + +THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; +but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better +in the shops, there's no doubt. + +THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? + +THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing +tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for +instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from +physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I +don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing +wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. + +THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? + +THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but +if I do I ought to report on others. + +THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor +devil must just stick it then. + + As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. + +WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? + + For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and + walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? + +WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of +that. + + He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE III + + FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven + deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is + of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, + with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In + the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a + corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two + sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular + wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional + books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black + hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner + is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark + ventilator under the window, and another over the door. + FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is + hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which + the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by + the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering + the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and + a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set + under the window. + + In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen + standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, + listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged + feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying + harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is + going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a + sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy + sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his + head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so + lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to + life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving + his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the + door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it + with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the + iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards + the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line + of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the + window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into + it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out + of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the + silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the + stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he + seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a + sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has + been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen + gasping for breath. + + A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick + metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to + bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some + great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it + seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch + nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to + cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as + if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound + swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly + raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself + at his door, and beats on it. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT IV + + The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a + March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. + SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the + offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes + to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in + the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in + through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems + a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual + impassivity. + +SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand +with a bang] Hello! It's you! + +RUTH. Yes. + +SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying +down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the +pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with +yourself? + +RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. + +SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S +chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] +I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these +three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about +that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. + +RUTH. He did. + +SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge +ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human +nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] + +SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten +you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I +know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes +his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the +governor---- + + But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with + east wind, and decidedly greyer. + +COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then +motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must +be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit +down! Family well? + +RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. + +COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at +home. + +RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. + +COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry +if you'd done anything rash. + +RUTH. I've kept the children with me. + +COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had +hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the +young man, I suppose, since he came out? + +RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. + +COKESON. I hope he's well. + +RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's +dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. + +COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. +[On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was +up? + +RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. + +COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like +to be snubby. + +RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. + +COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations +aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, +till he finds his feet. + +RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. + +COKESON. I don't understand. + +RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. + +COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want +to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. + +RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but +they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, +Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I +married him. I thought the world of him, of course . . . he used +to come travelling to our farm. + +COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after +you saw me. + +RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I +lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I +couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. + +COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a +stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? + +RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- +[There is silence] + +COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And +what did you do then? + +RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., +making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I +never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and +working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept +at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I +wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. + +COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. + +RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd +always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is +silent] + +COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? + +RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever +since. + +COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. + +RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. +[Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back +of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just +a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and +he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another +chance. + +COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! +What a horrible position! + +RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out +about him! + +COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. + +RUTH. I've no one else to go to. + +COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take +him, under the circumstances. I don't really. + +RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to +the window.] + +COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's +sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a +vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. + +RUTH. It would be the saving of him. + +COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell +him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your +address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on +blotting-paper] Good-morning. + +RUTH. Thank you. + + She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, + and goes away. + +COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton +handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he +sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] + +COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the +clerk's place? + +SWEEDLE. Yes. + +COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. + +SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? + +COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't +stump him off altogether. + +SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? + +COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. + +SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? + +COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be +having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat +you in a similar position. + +SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. + +COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't +necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you +in life. It's sound policy. + +SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? + +COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one +having entered the outer office] Who's there? + +SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. + +COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to +call again. I don't want---- + + He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, + his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn + and loose. + + SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. + +COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep +things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. +[He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. + + FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the + partners' door. + +COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the +aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are +here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking +at him over his spectacles] How's your health? + +FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. +I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. +I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I +promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my +word. + +FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a +thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I +weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't +weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, +and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there +was nothing in here at all. + +COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? + +FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. + +COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? + +FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. +I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a +sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. +COKESON, I couldn't, sir. + +COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! + +FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. + +COKESON. How was that? + +FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I +seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't +explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it +grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; +but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me +afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. + + He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. + +COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to +do anything for you? + +FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- + +COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with +you. + +FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to +give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What +have you come for? "Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't +you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look +here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an +understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. +I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I +said-"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." +Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. + +COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? +[Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without +prejudice; I meant it kindly. + +FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. + +COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the +thing. + +FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns +aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man +this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best +thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's +queer, isn't it? + +COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. + +FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. +[With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with +criminals! + +COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never +did a man any good. Put a face on it. + +FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're +independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about +giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. + +COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't +made a Socialist of you. + + FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he + utters a peculiar laugh. + +COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really +you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. + +FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but +they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as +though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden +impersonality] I know it is. + +COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try +and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now +leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're +jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] + +COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] +I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with +this young man. I think you'll remember him. + +JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? + +WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you +again, Falder. + +FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank +you, sir. + +COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the +clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. +Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a +little family. + + FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. + +COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's +quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not +seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's +very trying to go without your dinner. + +JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? + +COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all +about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, +but I'm keeping him in the air. + +JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. + +WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never +got that out of my head. + +JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's +he been doing since he came out? + +COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's +sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. + +JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. +"Weak character"'s written all over him. + +WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. + +JAMES. He brought it all on himself. + +WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in +these days. + +JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all +that, my boy. + +WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. + +JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. + +COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something +[spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. + +JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one +uncommonly like her outside as we came in. + +COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met +her. + +JAMES. Is she with her husband? + +COKESON. No. + +JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? + +COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I +don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. + +JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. + +COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the +party here this morning. + +JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too +shady altogether! + +COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see +that. + +WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with +his private life. + +JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come +here. + +WALTER. Poor devil! + +COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can +get him to see reason. + +JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. + +WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning +FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. + +FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a +steady front. + +JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another +chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first +place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion +that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play +fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society +didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that +the better. + +FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? + +JAMES. Well? + +FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] + +COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. + +FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that +if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under +somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a +quarter of us would ever have got there. + +JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, +Falder. + +FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. + +JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. + +FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. + +JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. + +FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked +me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what +I was. + +JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. + +COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. + +FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his +feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. + +JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the +future. + +FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what +prison is. It's here it gets you. + + He grips his chest. + +COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. + +WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's +merciful. + +FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. + +JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to +put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady +reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you +were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done +with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're +going to begin your future with such a relationship. + +FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But +sir . . . but sir . . . it's the one thing I looked forward to +all that time. And she too . . . I couldn't find her before last +night. + + During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more + uneasy. + +JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that +it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. +Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come +back--not otherwise. + +FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I +couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! + + I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. + +JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the +benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this +connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. + +FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting +broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it +for her. + +JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for +herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a +prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. + +FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him +--she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from +the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER] . . . If anybody +would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. + +COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I +don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. + +FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause +since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. + +WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be +managed. + +FALDER. Oh, sir! + +He goes to the window and looks down into the street. + +COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my +reasons. + +FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? +I can beckon to her from here. + + WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. + +JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. + +FALDER beckons from the window. + +COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. +She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young +man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to +swindle the Law. + + FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a + sort of awed silence. + +FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from +one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent +it . . . . What I said at the trial was true. And last night we +only just sat in the Park. + +SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. + +COKESON. What is it? + +SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] + +JAMES. Show her in. + + RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one + side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON + turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden + of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed + groove. + +JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] +We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be +faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder +again. + +RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. + +JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. +I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. +[Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, +ma'am. + +RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of +her as though prescient of disaster. + +FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to +get you a divorce. + + RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. + +JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. + +FALDER. But, Sir----! + +JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. + +RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. + + She looks miserably at FALDER. + +JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? + +RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. + +JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. + +FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. +There's been nothing between us, has there? + +RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. + +FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help +us--we promise. + +JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see +what I mean? + +RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. + +COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. + +JAMES. The situation is impossible. + +RUTH. Must I, Sir? + +JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His +future is in your hands. + +RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. + +JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! + +FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after +all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I +swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. + +JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. + +FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who +is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as +the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been + +WALTER. Father! + +JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll +give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with +yourselves, that's all. + +FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? + + RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. + There is silence. + +COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in +here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. + + He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer + office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. + He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably + into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, + seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON + shuts the door. + +JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it +is. + +SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective- +Sergeant blister. + + The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. + +WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years +and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. + +JAMES. What about him? + +WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. +[There is an awkward silence] + +COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible +for his movements; you know that. + +JAMES. What do you want with him? + +WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. + +WALTER. How d'you mean? + +WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. + +WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? + +WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say +we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. +But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment +with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must +have him. + + Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at + JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. + +COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could +make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. + +JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike +peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you +must find him without us. + + As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the + table, and his face contracts. + +WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to +warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a +convict, and sheltering a convict. + +JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask +questions which it's not my business to answer. + +WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. + +COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite +understand, don't you? Good-morning! + + WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the + outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. + +COKESON. The other door.... the other door! + + WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, + do!" and FALDER,'S: "I can't !" There is a little pause; then, + with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" + + WISTER has gone in. + + The three men look aghast at the door. + +WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! + + He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The + latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. + +WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! + +WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. + +FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! + + Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes + out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. + +WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever +now. + + SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are + sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull + thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. + +JAMES. What's that? + + SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There + is dead silence. + +WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's +fainting! + + He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the + clerks' room. + +COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! + +WALTER. Have you any brandy? + +COKESON. I've got sherry. + +WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! + + He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. + +COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to +force the sherry between her lips.] + + There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. + + The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying + some burden. + +JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? + + They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and + all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. + +WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. + +WALTER. Good God! + +WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip +like that. And what was it--just a few months! + +WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? + +JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] +Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An +ambulance! + + WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and + horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards + the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. + +WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! + + The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into + COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. + +RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She +crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! + + In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. + +RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! + + [The figures of the men shrink back] + +COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor +dear woman! + + At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. + +COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with +gentle Jesus! + + RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at + COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as + one would to a lost dog. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of JUSTICE, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SERIES 3 + + +THE FUGITIVE + +A Play in Four Acts + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +GEORGE DEDMOND, a civilian +CLARE, his wife +GENERAL SIR CHARLES DEDMOND, K.C.B., his father. +LADY DEDMOND, his mother +REGINALD HUNTINGDON, Clare's brother +EDWARD FULLARTON, her friend +DOROTHY FULLARTON, her friend +PAYNTER, a manservant +BURNEY, a maid +TWISDEN, a solicitor +HAYWOOD, a tobacconist +MALISE, a writer +MRS. MILER, his caretaker +THE PORTER at his lodgings +A BOY messenger +ARNAUD, a waiter at "The Gascony" +MR. VARLEY, manager of "The Gascony" +TWO LADIES WITH LARGE HATS, A LADY AND GENTLEMAN, A LANGUID LORD, + HIS COMPANION, A YOUNG MAN, A BLOND GENTLEMAN, A DARK GENTLEMAN. + + + + +ACT I. George Dedmond's Flat. Evening. + +ACT II. The rooms of Malise. Morning. + +ACT III. SCENE I. The rooms of Malice. Late afternoon. + + SCENE II. The rooms of Malise. Early Afternoon. + +ACT IV. A small supper room at "The Gascony." + + + + +Between Acts I and II three nights elapse. + +Between Acts II and Act III, Scene I, three months. + +Between Act III, Scene I, and Act III, Scene II, three months. + +Between Act III, Scene II, and Act IV, six months. + + + + + "With a hey-ho chivy + Hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!" + + + + +ACT I + + The SCENE is the pretty drawing-room of a flat. There are two + doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained. + Through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet + drawn, the towers of Westminster can be seen darkening in a + summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner. The + man-servant PAYNTER, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two + tables for Bridge. + + BURNEY, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery Botticellian + faces only met with in England, comes in through the curtained + door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white + wall. PAYNTER looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an + expression of concern. + +PAYNTER. Where's she gone? + +BURNEY. Just walks about, I fancy. + +PAYNTER. She and the Governor don't hit it! One of these days +she'll flit--you'll see. I like her--she's a lady; but these +thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths. They'll go till +they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but +jib--jib--jib. How was it down there before she married him? + +BURNEY. Oh! Quiet, of course. + +PAYNTER. Country homes--I know 'em. What's her father, the old +Rector, like? + +BURNEY. Oh! very steady old man. The mother dead long before I took +the place. + +PAYNTER. Not a penny, I suppose? + +BURNEY. [Shaking her head] No; and seven of them. + +PAYNTER. [At sound of the hall door] The Governor! + + BURNEY withdraws through the curtained door. + + GEORGE DEDMOND enters from the hall. He is in evening dress, + opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily + shaved, but with neat moustaches. His eyes, clear, small, and + blue-grey, have little speculation. His hair is well brushed. + +GEORGE. [Handing PAYNTER his coat and hat] Look here, Paynter! +When I send up from the Club for my dress things, always put in a +black waistcoat as well. + +PAYNTER. I asked the mistress, sir. + +GEORGE. In future--see? + +PAYNTER. Yes, sir. [Signing towards the window] Shall I leave the +sunset, sir? + + But GEORGE has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and + says: "Clare!" Receiving no answer, he goes in. PAYNTER + switches up the electric light. His face, turned towards the + curtained door, is apprehensive. + +GEORGE. [Re-entering] Where's Mrs. Dedmond? + +PAYNTER. I hardly know, sir. + +GEORGE. Dined in? + +PAYNTER. She had a mere nothing at seven, sir. + +GEORGE. Has she gone out, since? + +PAYNTER. Yes, sir--that is, yes. The--er--mistress was not dressed +at all. A little matter of fresh air, I think; sir. + +GEORGE. What time did my mother say they'd be here for Bridge? + +PAYNTER. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond were coming at half-past nine; +and Captain Huntingdon, too--Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton might be a bit +late, sir. + +GEORGE. It's that now. Your mistress said nothing? + +PAYNTER. Not to me, sir. + +GEORGE. Send Burney. + +PAYNTER. Very good, sir. [He withdraws.] + + GEORGE stares gloomily at the card tables. BURNEY comes in + front the hall. + +GEORGE. Did your mistress say anything before she went out? + +BURNEY. Yes, sir. + +GEORGE. Well? + +BURNEY. I don't think she meant it, sir. + +GEORGE. I don't want to know what you don't think, I want the fact. + +BURNEY. Yes, sir. The mistress said: "I hope it'll be a pleasant +evening, Burney!" + +GEORGE. Oh!--Thanks. + +BURNEY. I've put out the mistress's things, sir. + +GEORGE. Ah! + +BURNEY. Thank you, sir. [She withdraws.] + +GEORGE. Damn! + + He again goes to the curtained door, and passes through. + PAYNTER, coming in from the hall, announces: "General Sir + Charles and Lady Dedmond." SIR CHARLES is an upright, well- + groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a + keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains. LADY + DEDMOND has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision, + not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had + faced many situations in many parts of the world. She is fifty + five. + + PAYNTER withdraws. + +SIR CHARLES. Hullo! Where are they? H'm! + + As he speaks, GEORGE re-enters. + +LADY DEDMOND. [Kissing her son] Well, George. Where's Clare? + +GEORGE. Afraid she's late. + +LADY DEDMOND. Are we early? + +GEORGE. As a matter of fact, she's not in. + +LADY DEDMOND. Oh? + +SIR CHARLES. H'm! Not--not had a rumpus? + +GEORGE. Not particularly. [With the first real sign of feeling] +What I can't stand is being made a fool of before other people. +Ordinary friction one can put up with. But that---- + +SIR CHARLES. Gone out on purpose? What! + +LADY DEDMOND. What was the trouble? + +GEORGE. I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge. +Appears she'd asked that fellow Malise, for music. + +LADY DEDMOND. Without letting you know? + +GEORGE. I believe she did tell me. + +LADY DEDMOND. But surely---- + +GEORGE. I don't want to discuss it. There's never anything in +particular. We're all anyhow, as you know. + +LADY DEDMOND. I see. [She looks shrewdly at her son] My dear, +I should be rather careful about him, I think. + +SIR CHARLES. Who's that? + +LADY DEDMOND. That Mr. Malise. + +SIR CHARLES. Oh! That chap! + +GEORGE. Clare isn't that sort. + +LADY DEDMOND. I know. But she catches up notions very easily. I +think it's a great pity you ever came across him. + +SIR CHARLES. Where did you pick him up? + +GEORGE. Italy--this Spring--some place or other where they couldn't +speak English. + +SIR CHARLES. Um! That's the worst of travellin'. + +LADY DEDMOND. I think you ought to have dropped him. These literary +people---[Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't +very far, George. + +SIR CHARLES. We'll make him play Bridge. Do him good, if he's that +sort of fellow. + +LADY DEDMOND. Is anyone else coming? + +GEORGE. Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons. + +LADY DEDMOND. [Softly] You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to +speak to you for a long time. It is such a pity you and Clare--What +is it? + +GEORGE. God knows! I try, and I believe she does. + +SIR CHARLES. It's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow-- +distressin'. + +LADY DEDMOND. I know it's been going on for a long time. + +GEORGE. Oh! leave it alone, mother. + +LADY DEDMOND. But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a +point--put ideas into her head. + +GEORGE. You can't dislike him more than I do. But there's nothing +one can object to. + +LADY DEDMOND. Could Reggie Huntingdon do anything, now he's home? +Brothers sometimes---- + +GEORGE. I can't bear my affairs being messed about---- + +LADY DEDMOND. Well! it would be better for you and Clare to be +supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone. Go +quietly into the dining-room and wait for her. + +SIR CHARLES. Good! Leave your mother to make up something. She'll +do it! + +LADY DEDMOND. That may be he. Quick! + + [A bell sounds.] + + GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his + haste. LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!" PAYNTER + enters. + +LADY DEDMOND. Don't say anything about your master and mistress +being out. I'll explain. + +PAYNTER. The master, my lady? + +LADY DEDMOND. Yes, I know. But you needn't say so. Do you +understand? + +PAYNTER. [In polite dudgeon] Just so, my lady. + + [He goes out.] + +SIR CHARLES. By Jove! That fellow smells a rat! + +LADY DEDMOND. Be careful, Charles! + +SIR CHARLES. I should think so. + +LADY DEDMOND. I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're +not to wait Bridge for them. + +SIR CHARLES. [Listening] He's having a palaver with that man of +George's. + + PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon." SIR + CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief. + +LADY DEDMOND. Ah! It's you, Reginald! + +HUNTINGDON. [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do? How are +you, sir? What's the matter with their man? + +SHE CHARLES. What! + +HUNTINGDON. I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar; +and he said: "Not in there, sir. The master's there, but my +instructions are to the effect that he's not." + +SHE CHARLES. I knew that fellow---- + +LADY DEDMOND. The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is +waiting for her. It's so important people shouldn't---- + +HUNTINGDON. Rather! + + They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of + members of their families. + +LADY DEDMOND. It's getting serious, Reginald. I don't know what's +to become of them. You don't think the Rector--you don't think your +father would speak to Clare? + +HUNTINGDON. Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough. He takes +anything of that sort to heart so--especially Clare. + +SIR CHARLES. Can't you put in a word yourself? + +HUNTINGDON. Don't know where the mischief lies. + +SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very +steady-goin' fellow, old George. + +HUNTINGDON. Oh, yes; George is all right, sir. + +LADY DEDMOND. They ought to have had children. + +HUNTINGDON. Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. I really +don't know what to say, ma'am. + +SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often +noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and +rice puddin'. + +LADY DEDMOND. [With a clear look] Charles! + +SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids? + +HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of +course, when her monkey was up. + +SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't +got, is there? + +HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so. + +SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too +matter of fact for her. H'm? + + [A short silence.] + +LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget +if you know him. + +HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel. + +LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You--you don't +think he--puts--er--ideas into her head? + +HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a +bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare---- + +LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be +encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices. +Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The +door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect. + +SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say? + +HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for +them. + +SIR CHARLES. Good! + + The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise." + MALISE enters. He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a + strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which + seem to have needles in their pupils. His thick hair is rather + untidy, and his dress clothes not too new. + +LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very +sorry. They'll be here directly. + + [MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.] + +SIR CHARLES. [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir? + +HUNTINGDON. We've met, I think. + + He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn + the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. MALISE'S eyes + sparkle. + +LADY DEDMOND. Clare will be so grieved. One of those invitations + +MALISE. On the spur of the moment. + +SIR CHARLES. You play Bridge, sir? + +MALISE. Afraid not! + +SIR CHARLES. Don't mean that? Then we shall have to wait for 'em. + +LADY DEDMOND. I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you? + +MALISE. Such is my weakness. + +LADY DEDMOND. Delightful profession. + +SIR CHARLES. Doesn't tie you! What! + +MALISE. Only by the head. + +SIR CHARLES. I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences. + +MALISE. Indeed! + +[There is the sound of a door banged.] + +SIR CHARLES. [Hastily] You smoke, Mr. MALISE? + +MALISE. Too much. + +SIR CHARLES. Ah! Must smoke when you think a lot. + +MALISE. Or think when you smoke a lot. + +SIR CHARLES. [Genially] Don't know that I find that. + +LADY DEDMOND. [With her clear look at him] Charles! + + The door is opened. CLARE DEDMOND in a cream-coloured evening + frock comes in from the hall, followed by GEORGE. She is rather + pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown + hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of + those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of + voice and manner. + +LADY DEDMOND. Well, my dear! + +SIR CHARLES. Ah! George. Good dinner? + +GEORGE. [Giving his hand to MALISE] How are you? Clare! Mr. +MALISE! + +CLARE. [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp] +Yes, we met on the door-mat. [Pause.] + +SIR CHARLES. Deuce you did! [An awkward pause.] + +LADY DEDMOND. [Acidly] Mr. Malise doesn't play Bridge, it appears. +Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music. + +SIR CHARLES. What! Aren't we goin' to get a game? [PAYNTER has +entered with a tray.] + +GEORGE. Paynter! Take that table into the dining room. + +PAYNTER. [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door] Yes, +sir. + +MALISE. Let me give you a hand. + + PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE + making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE. + +SIR CHARLES. Very fine sunset! + + Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh. All look at her first with + surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. GEORGE is + about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off. + +HUNTINGDON. Bring the tray along, old man. + + GEORGE takes up the tray, stops to look at CLARE, then allows + HUNTINGDON to shepherd him out. + +LADY DEDMOND. [Without looking at CLARE] Well, if we're going to +play, Charles? [She jerks his sleeve.] + +SIR CHARLES. What? [He marches out.] + +LADY DEDMOND. [Meeting MALISE in the doorway] Now you will be able +to have your music. + + [She follows the GENERAL out] + + [CLARE stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.] + +MALISE. Delicious! + +CLARE. [In her level, clipped voice] Perfectly beastly of me! I'm +so sorry. I simply can't help running amok to-night. + +MALISE. Never apologize for being fey. It's much too rare. + +CLARE. On the door-mat! And they'd whitewashed me so beautifully! +Poor dears! I wonder if I ought----[She looks towards the door.] + +MALISE. Don't spoil it! + +CLARE. I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three +hours. One does get desperate sometimes. + +MALISE. Thank God for that! + +CLARE. Only makes it worse afterwards. It seems so frightful to +them, too. + +MALISE. [Softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the +right words] Blessed be the respectable! May they dream of--me! +And blessed be all men of the world! May they perish of a surfeit +of--good form! + +CLARE. I like that. Oh, won't there be a row! [With a faint +movement of her shoulders] And the usual reconciliation. + +MALISE. Mrs. Dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours. Why +don't you spread your wings? + +CLARE. My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and +I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm +supposed to set a good example. Then, I've no money, and I can't do +anything for a living, except serve in a shop. I shouldn't be free, +either; so what's the good? Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I +wasn't going to be happy. You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or +ill-treated. It's only---- + +MALISE. Prison. Break out! + +CLARE. [Turning to the window] Did you see the sunset? That white +cloud trying to fly up? + + [She holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.] + +MALISE. [Admiring her] Ah-h-h! [Then, as she drops her arms +suddenly] Play me something. + +CLARE. [Going to the piano] I'm awfully grateful to you. You don't +make me feel just an attractive female. I wanted somebody like that. +[Letting her hands rest on the notes] All the same, I'm glad not to +be ugly. + +MALISE. Thank God for beauty! + +PAYNTER. [Opening the door] Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton. + +MALISE. Who are they? + +CLARE. [Rising] She's my chief pal. He was in the Navy. + + She goes forward. MRS. FULLERTON is a rather tall woman, with + dark hair and a quick eye. He, one of those clean-shaven naval + men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from + their susceptibility. + +MRS. FULLARTON. [Kissing CLARE, and taking in both MALISE and her +husband's look at CLARE] We've only come for a minute. + +CLARE. They're playing Bridge in the dining-room. Mr. Malise +doesn't play. Mr. Malise--Mrs. Fullarton, Mr. Fullarton. + + [They greet.] + +FULLARTON. Most awfully jolly dress, Mrs. Dedmond. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Yes, lovely, Clare. [FULLARTON abases eyes which +mechanically readjust themselves] We can't stay for Bridge, my dear; +I just wanted to see you a minute, that's all. [Seeing HUNTINGDON +coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband] Edward, I want +to speak to Clare. How d'you do, Captain Huntingdon? + +MALISE. I'll say good-night. + + He shakes hands with CLARE, bows to MRS. FULLARTON, and makes + his way out. HUNTINGDON and FULLERTON foregather in the + doorway. + +MRS. FULLARTON. How are things, Clare? [CLARE just moves her +shoulders] Have you done what I suggested? Your room? + +CLARE. No. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Why not? + +CLARE. I don't want to torture him. If I strike--I'll go clean. I +expect I shall strike. + +MRS. FULLARTON. My dear! You'll have the whole world against you. + +CLARE. Even you won't back me, Dolly? + +MRS. FULLARTON. Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I +can't invent things. + +CLARE. You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find +my feet? + + MRS. FULLARTON, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at + FULLARTON automatically gazing at CLARE while he talks with + HUNTINGDON. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Of course--the only thing is that---- + +CLARE. [With a faint smile] It's all right, Dolly. I'm not coming. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! don't do anything desperate, Clare--you are so +desperate sometimes. You ought to make terms--not tracks. + +CLARE. Haggle? [She shakes her head] What have I got to make terms +with? What he still wants is just what I hate giving. + +MRS. FULLARTON. But, Clare---- + +CLARE. No, Dolly; even you don't understand. All day and every day +--just as far apart as we can be--and still--Jolly, isn't it? If +you've got a soul at all. + +MRS. FULLARTON. It's awful, really. + +CLARE. I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on +with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that--comes +to an end. Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever. + + She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to + bits. It is the only sign of emotion she has given. + +MRS. FULLARTON. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won't do. You +must get a rest. Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit? + +CLARE. [Shaking her head] Reggie lives on his pay. + +MRS. FULLARTON. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise, +then? + +FULLARTON. [Coming towards them] I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't +sing me that little song you sang the other night, [He hums] "If I +might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"? Remember? + +MRS. FULLARTON. "The falling dew," Edward. We simply must go, +Clare. Good-night. [She kisses her.] + +FULLARTON. [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE] It suits +you down to the ground-that dress. + +CLARE. Good-night. + + HUNTINGDON sees them out. Left alone CLARE clenches her hands, + moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out. + +HUNTINGDON. [Returning] Look here, Clare! + +CLARE. Well, Reggie? + +HUNTINGDON. This is working up for a mess, old girl. You can't do +this kind of thing with impunity. No man'll put up with it. If +you've got anything against George, better tell me. [CLARE shakes +her head] You ought to know I should stick by you. What is it? +Come? + +CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong +person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that +your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know. + +HUNTINGDON. My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a +bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels. + +CLARE. Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried. + +HUNTINGDON. I mean, you--you chose him yourself. No one forced you +to marry him. + +CLARE. It does seem monstrous, doesn't it? + +HUNTINGDON. My dear child, do give us a reason. + +CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers] +If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah, +Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one +cared where or what it was--beautiful like that! Apply that to every +--every--everything. + +HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old +girl, if that's all---- + +CLARE. It's not all--it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie--it's +not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell; +it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming--never +anything coming again-never anything. + +HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get +into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it. + +CLARE. When every day and every night!--Oh! I know it's my fault +for having married him, but that doesn't help. + +HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent +chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent +on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep +going. + +CLARE. I know. + +HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would +be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it +awfully. + +CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home +long ago. + +HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it--but +it simply won't. + +CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not. + +HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit? + +CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it. + +HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go +sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on +the lookout. + +CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why? + +HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's +not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New +Woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it. + +CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive--don't +wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be +going, Reggie. + + [HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.] + +HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless +you! Good-night. + + CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, + holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of + emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table, + leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite + calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him. + +CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home, +and the maids can go to bed. + +PAYNTER. We are much obliged, ma'am. + +CLARE. I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to. + +PAYNTER. Naturally, ma'am! + +CLARE. Good-night. + +PAYNTER. I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am? + +CLARE. No, thank you. + +PAYNTER. No, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am. + + [He withdraws.] + +GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that +wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with +yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow +MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough! + +CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but +I couldn't help it, really! + +GEORGE. Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? My God! You were +brought up as well as I was. + +CLARE. Alas! + +GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one +word for it--Disgusting! + +CLARE. I know. + +GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in +heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way? + +CLARE. I'm sorry. + +GEORGE. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me! + +CLARE. No--Really! Only--I must break out sometimes. + +GEORGE. There are things one does not do. + +CLARE. I came in because I was sorry. + +GEORGE. And at once began to do it again! It seems to me you +delight in rows. + +CLARE. You'd miss your--reconciliations. + +GEORGE. For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism! + +CLARE. And truth? + +GEORGE. You are my wife, I suppose. + +CLARE. And they twain shall be one--spirit. + +GEORGE. Don't talk wild nonsense! + + [There is silence.] + +CLARE. [Softly] I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice! + +GEORGE. Pish! + +CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've +served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better +together--if I went away? + +GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason, +and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some +primitive sense of honour. + +CLARE. You mean your name, don't you? + +GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your +head? + +CLARE. No; my own evil nature. + +GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up +people you know nothing of. I distrust him--and his looks--and his +infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not--good +form. + +CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h! + +GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in +him? + +CLARE. A mind. + +GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind--as you call it--it's not +necessary to talk about Art and Literature. + +CLARE. We don't. + +GEORGE. Then what do you talk about--your minds? [CLARE looks at +him] Will you answer a straight question? Is he falling in love +with you? + +CLARE. You had better ask him. + +GEORGE. I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe +in the guide, philosopher and friend business. + +CLARE. Thank you. + + A silence. CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head. + +CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman. + +GEORGE. Clare! + +CLARE. I believe--I'm sure I could earn my living. Quite serious. + +GEORGE. Are you mad? + +CLARE. It has been done. + +GEORGE. It will never be done by you--understand that! + +CLARE. It really is time we parted. I'd go clean out of your life. +I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your +money. + +GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us +both. + +CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're +a spectacle! + +GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as +you behave yourself. + +CLARE. That is--behave as you think right. + +GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling. + +CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time. + +GEORGE. So am I. + + [CLARE turns to the curtained door.] + +GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a +brute. I know you're not happy. + +CLARE. And you--are you happy? + +GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be? + +CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I. + +GEORGE. We can try. + +CLARE. I HAVE--haven't you? + +GEORGE. We used---- + +CLARE. I wonder! + +GEORGE. You know we did. + +CLARE. Too long ago--if ever. + +GEORGE [Coming closer] I--still---- + +CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard +love. + +GEORGE. We've got to face the facts. + +CLARE. I thought I was. + +GEORGE. The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and +certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly +for me, in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can +reasonably want; and I don't--don't wish for any change. If you +could bring anything against me--if I drank, or knocked about town, +or expected too much of you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I +can see. + +CLARE. Well, I think we've talked enough. + + [She again moves towards the curtained door.] + +GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put +up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried? +That's simple purgatory. You ought to know. + +CLARE. Yes. I haven't yet, have I? + +GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple +who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with +each other and make the best of it. + +CLARE. Not by thousands. + +GEORGE. Well, why do you imagine they do it? + +CLARE. I don't know. + +GEORGE. From a common sense of decency. + +CLARE. Very! + +GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the +world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long +slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you +might try to make some amends, I should think. + + CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of + something she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm. + +CLARE. No, no--no! + +GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up? + +CLARE. I don't feel very Christian. + + She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her. + GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the + room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it + with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward, + he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its + edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall + and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then + stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh. + Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the + curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is + standing, unhooking a necklet. + + He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud. + + + CURTAIN. + + + + + +ACT II + + The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer + door opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side + lead to other rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of + fine pictures, secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured + armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of + the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink, + pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to + his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only + eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper, + cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on + shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a + soft hat, and a black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his + armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers, + unshaved and uncollared, writing. He pauses, smiles, lights a + cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up + a sheet of quarto MS. + +MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those +excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace. Only +the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant +Tyranny." + + While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age, + in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the + corridor. She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron + and a Bissell broom. Her movements are slow and imperturbable, + as if she had much time before her. Her face is broad and dark, + with Chinese eyebrows. + +MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller! + +MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir. + + She comes and stands before him. MALISE writes. + +MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below. + + MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she + stops. But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on. + +MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out +to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on +the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought +to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man. + +MALISE. Well? + +MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im +lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at +pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv' +a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket, +and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I +says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e +says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers." +"Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says +tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this +time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks to meself [She closes one +eye] Rats! There's a good many corners hereabouts. + +MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler. + +MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor +with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh! +you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is +grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here +I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives +there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want +to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the +ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful +resource! + +MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman? + +MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily +papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock +hats you can't abide. + +MALISE. Isn't he a dun? + +MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir. +He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put +a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a +jug o' water. + + [MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.] + +MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave. + + He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS. + MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the + armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly + rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she + rests. There is a soft knock on the door. She gets up + leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door being + opened CLARE is revealed. + +CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in? + +MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'. + +CLARE. Oh. + +MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name? + +CLARE. Would you say--a lady. + +MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment +I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with +her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks +through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some +cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting +CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm +particular about not disturbin' things. + +CLARE. I'm sure you are. + +MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular. + + Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to + the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and + holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside + down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up + the other bottle, arid finding it not empty, she corks it and + drops it into the fold of her skirt. + +MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere +bawgwars. + +CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later. + +MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other +to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh +every mornin'--the Westminister. + + She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to + CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes + a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No + longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up. + +MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes +things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut +'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer! + + She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round + the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves + restlessly across the room. + +MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's +waitin'. + + CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture + "Sacred and Profane Love." MRS. MILER stands regarding her with + a Chinese smile. MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still + hanging to his cheek. + +MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to +her] Do the other room. + + [Enigmatically she goes.] + +MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything? + +CLARE. I want advice-badly. + +MALISE. What! Spreading your wings? + +CLARE. Yes. + +MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When? + +CLARE. The morning after you gave it me . . . + +MALISE. Well? + +CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad +frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good. +He was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't. + +MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong +to us. Yes. + +CLARE. It was horrible. There were the children--and my old nurse. +I could never live at home now. They'd think I was----. Impossible +--utterly! I'd made up my mind to go back to my owner--And then-- +he came down himself. I couldn't d it. To be hauled back and begin +all over again; I simply couldn't. I watched for a chance; and ran +to the station, and came up to an hotel. + +MALISE. Bravo! + +CLARE. I don't know--no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to +earn my living--no money; only a few things I can sell. All +yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone +ever get a chance? + +MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your +husband would pension you off. + +CLARE. If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it. + +MALISE. Good! + +CLARE. I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do +so hate watching pain. The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even +do art work. I came to ask you about the stage. + +MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't +think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training. +There's Chorus--I don't recommend it. How about your brother? + +CLARE. My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get +married; and he's going back to India in September. The only friend +I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's--got a husband. + +MALISE. I remember the gentleman. + +CLARE. Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back. I +must lie doggo somehow. + +MALISE. It makes my blood boil to think of women like you. God help +all ladies without money. + +CLARE. I expect I shall have to go back. + +MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at +all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but-- +emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his +drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners, +return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so +grow old and--die! + + [The bell rings.] + +MALISE. [Looking at the door in doubt] By the wayhe'd no means of +tracing you? + + [She shakes her head.] + + [The bell rings again.] + +MALISE. Was there a man on the stairs as you came up? + +CLARE. Yes. Why? + +MALISE. He's begun to haunt them, I'm told. + +CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I--oh! no! + +MALISE. Confidence in me is not excessive. + +CLARE. Spying! + +MALISE. Will you go in there for a minute? Or shall we let them +ring--or--what? It may not be anything, of course. + +CLARE. I'm not going to hide. + + [The bell rings a third time.] + +MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see +who it is; and then go, for the present. + + MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to + the door, and opens it. A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise? Would + you give him these cards?" + +MRS. MILER. [Re-entering] The cards. + +MALISE. Mr. Robert Twisden. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond. [He +looks at CLARE.] + +CLARE. [Her face scornful and unmoved] Let them come. + +MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in! + + TWISDEN enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a + fighting underlip, followed by SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND. + MRS. MILER goes. There are no greetings. + +TWISDEN. Mr. Malise? How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond? Had the +pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [CLARE inclines her head] +I am Mr. George Dedmond's solicitor, sir. I wonder if you would be +so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone? + + At a nod from CLARE, MALISE passes into the inner room, and + shuts the door. A silence. + +SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] What! + +LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Twisden, will you----? + +TWISDEN. [Uneasy] Mrs. Dedmond I must apologize, but you--you +hardly gave us an alternative, did you? [He pauses for an answer, +and, not getting one, goes on] Your disappearance has given your +husband great anxiety. Really, my dear madam, you must forgive us +for this--attempt to get into communication. + +CLARE. Why did you spy, HERE? + +SIR CHARLES. No, no! Nobody's spied on you. What! + +TWISDEN. I'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been +justified. [At the expression on CLARE'S face he goes on hastily] +Now, Mrs. Dedmond, I'm a lawyer and I know that appearances are +misleading. Don't think I'm unfriendly; I wish you well. [CLARE +raises her eyes. Moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had +said: "I have no friends," he hurries on] What we want to say to you +is this: Don't let this split go on! Don't commit yourself to what +you'll bitterly regret. Just tell us what's the matter. I'm sure it +can be put straight. + +CLARE. I have nothing against my husband--it was quite unreasonable +to leave him. + +TWISDEN. Come, that's good. + +CLARE. Unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason. + +TWISDEN. I don't know it, Mrs. Dedmond. + +CLARE. No? + +TWISDEN. [Disconcerted] Are you--you oughtn't to take a step without +advice, in your position. + +CLARE. Nor with it? + +TWISDEN. [Approaching her] Come, now; isn't there anything you feel +you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight? + +CLARE. I don't think so, thank you. + +LADY DEDMOND. You must see, Clare, that---- + +TWISDEN. In your position, Mrs. Dedmond--a beautiful young woman +without money. I'm quite blunt. This is a hard world. Should be +awfully sorry if anything goes wrong. + +CLARE. And if I go back? + +TWISDEN. Of two evils, if it be so--choose the least! + +CLARE. I am twenty-six; he is thirty-two. We can't reasonably +expect to die for fifty years. + +LADY DESMOND. That's morbid, Clare. + +TWISDEN. What's open to you if you don't go back? Come, what's your +position? Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody. +Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears +you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken +flight, is madness. You must know that no one pays attention to +anything but facts. If now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [His +eyes travel round the room and again rest on her] you would, at all +events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection, +but [He pauses] as you have not--you've none. + +CLARE. Except what I make myself. + +SIR CHARLES. Good God! + +TWISDEN. Yes! Mrs. Dedmond! There's the bedrock difficulty. As +you haven't money, you should never have been pretty. You're up +against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it. We lawyers see +too much of that. I'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world. + +CLARE. Thank you. Do you think you quite grasp the alternative? + +TWISDEN. [Taken aback] But, my dear young lady, there are two sides +to every contract. After all, your husband's fulfilled his. + +CLARE. So have I up till now. I shan't ask anything from him-- +nothing--do you understand? + +LADY DEDMOND. But, my dear, you must live. + +TWISDEN. Have you ever done any sort of work? + +CLARE. Not yet. + +TWISDEN. Any conception of the competition nowadays? + +CLARE. I can try. + + [TWISDEN, looking at her, shrugs his shoulders] + +CLARE. [Her composure a little broken by that look] It's real to +me--this--you see! + +SIR CHARLES. But, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of +George? + +CLARE. He can do what he likes--it's nothing to me. + +TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I say without hesitation you've no notion of +what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've +been. Do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one +leads into the wilderness. + +CLARE. Which? + +TWISDEN. [Glancing at the door through which MALISE has gone] Of +course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will +help you. + +SIR CHARLES. By Gad! Yes! + +CLARE. I only want to breathe. + +TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, go back! You can now. It will be too late +soon. There are lots of wolves about. [Again he looks at the door] + +CLARE. But not where you think. You say I need advice. I came here +for it. + +TWISDEN. [With a curiously expressive shrug] In that case I don't +know that I can usefully stay. + + [He goes to the outer door.] + +CLARE. Please don't have me followed when I leave here. Please! + +LADY DEDMOND. George is outside, Clare. + +CLARE. I don't wish to see him. By what right have you come here? +[She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and +says] Please come in, Mr. Malise. + + [MALISE enters.] + +TWISDEN. I am sorry. [Glancing at MALISE, he inclines his head] I +am sorry. Good morning. [He goes] + +LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Malise, I'm sure, will see---- + +CLARE. Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room. + + [MALISE bows] + +SIR CHARLES. My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp +your line of thought at all! + +CLARE. No? + +LADY DEDMOND. George is most willing to take up things just as they +were before you left. + +CLARE. Ah! + +LADY DEDMOND. Quite frankly--what is it you want? + +CLARE. To be left alone. Quite frankly, he made a mistake to have +me spied on. + +LADY DEDMOND. But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you +were, like a reasonable being. You can't possibly be left to +yourself without money or position of any kind. Heaven knows what +you'd be driven to! + +MALISE. [Softly] Delicious! + +SIR CHARLES. You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir. + +LADY DEDMOND. Charles! Clare, you must know this is all a fit of +spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, Clare. + +CLARE. Marriage! My marriage has become the--the reconciliation--of +two animals--one of them unwilling. That's all the sanctity there is +about it. + +SIR CHARLES. What! + + [She looks at MALISE] + +LADY DEDMOND. You ought to be horribly ashamed. CLARE. Of the +fact-I am. + +LADY DEDMOND. [Darting a glance at MALISE] If we are to talk this +out, it must be in private. + +MALISE. [To CLARE] Do you wish me to go? + +CLARE. No. + +LADY DEDMOND. [At MALISE] I should have thought ordinary decent +feeling--Good heavens, girl! Can't you see that you're being played +with? + +CLARE. If you insinuate anything against Mr. Malise, you lie. + +LADY DEDMOND. If you will do these things--come to a man's rooms---- + +CLARE. I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know +with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a +quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and +you instantly suspect him. That is disgusting. + +LADY DEDMOND. [Frigidly] Is this the natural place for me to find +my son's wife? + +CLARE. His woman. + +LADY DEDMOND. Will you listen to Reginald? + +CLARE. I have. + +LADY DEDMOND. Haven't you any religious sense at all, Clare? + +CLARE. None, if it's religion to live as we do. + +LADY DEDMOND. It's terrible--this state of mind! It's really +terrible! + + CLARE breaks into the soft laugh of the other evening. As if + galvanized by the sound, SIR CHARLES comes to life out of the + transfixed bewilderment with which he has been listening. + +SIR CHARLES. For God's sake don't laugh like that! + + [CLARE Stops] + +LADY DEDMOND. [With real feeling] For the sake of the simple right, +Clare! + +CLARE. Right? Whatever else is right--our life is not. [She puts +her hand on her heart] I swear before God that I've tried and tried. +I swear before God, that if I believed we could ever again love each +other only a little tiny bit, I'd go back. I swear before God that I +don't want to hurt anybody. + +LADY DEDMOND. But you are hurting everybody. Do--do be reasonable! + +CLARE. [Losing control] Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my +life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered. +Look at me! I'm not wax--I'm flesh and blood. And you want to +prison me for ever--body and soul. + + [They stare at her] + +SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] By Jove! I don't know, I don't know! +What! + +LADY DEDMOND. [To MALISE] If you have any decency left, sir, you +will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone. +[Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below. + +SIR CHARLES. I--I want to speak. [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel +like this, I can only say--as a--as a gentleman---- + +LADY DEDMOND. Charles! + +SIR CHARLES. Let me alone! I can only say that--damme, I don't know +that I can say anything! + + He looks at her very grieved, then turns and marches out, + followed by LADY DEDMOND, whose voice is heard without, answered + by his: "What!" In the doorway, as they pass, GEORGE is + standing; he comes in. + +GEORGE. [Going up to CLARE, who has recovered all her self-control] +Will you come outside and speak to me? + +CLARE. No. + + GEORGE glances at MALISE, who is leaning against the wall with + folded arms. + +GEORGE. [In a low voice] Clare! + +CLARE. Well! + +GEORGE. You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here, +and speak before this fellow? Most men would think the worst, +finding you like this. + +CLARE. You need not have come--or thought at all. + +GEORGE. Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an +effort---- + +CLARE. To save me? + +GEORGE. For God's sake be just! I've come here to say certain +things. If you force me to say them before him--on your head be it! +Will you appoint somewhere else? + +CLARE. No. + +GEORGE. Why not? + +CLARE. I know all those "certain things." "You must come back. It +is your duty. You have no money. Your friends won't help you. You +can't earn your living. You are making a scandal." You might even +say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected." + +GEORGE. Well, it's true and you've no answer. + +CLARE. Oh! [Suddenly] Our life's a lie. It's stupid; it's +disgusting. I'm tired of it! Please leave me alone! + +GEORGE. You rather miss the point, I'm afraid. I didn't come here +to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane. I came +here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend +here is playing. It wouldn't take a baby in. If you think that a +gentleman like that [His stare travels round the dishevelled room +till it rests on MALISE] champions a pretty woman for nothing, you +make a fairly bad mistake. + +CLARE. Take care. + + But MALISE, after one convulsive movement of his hands, has + again become rigid. + +GEORGE. I don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but I +have ordinary common sense. I don't attempt to be superior to plain +facts---- + +CLARE. [Under her breath] Facts! + +GEORGE. Oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone. It +doesn't suit you. Look here! If you like to go abroad with one of +your young sisters until the autumn, I'll let the flat and go to the +Club. + +CLARE. Put the fire out with a penny hose. [Slowly] I am not +coming back to you, George. The farce is over. + +GEORGE. [Taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone, +suddenly fronts MALISE] Then there is something between you and this +fellow. + +MALISE. [Dangerously, but without moving] I beg your pardon! + +CLARE. There--is--nothing. + +GEORGE. [Looking from one to the other] At all events, I won't--I +won't see a woman who once--[CLARE makes a sudden effacing movement +with her hands] I won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a +finger. + +CLARE. That is noble. + +GEORGE. [With intensity] I don't know that you deserve anything of +me. But on my honour, as a gentleman, I came here this morning for +your sake, to warn you of what you're doing. [He turns suddenly on +MALISE] And I tell this precious friend of yours plainly what I +think of him, and that I'm not going to play into his hands. + + [MALISE, without stirring from the wall, looks at CLARE, and his + lips move.] + +CLARE. [Shakes her head at him--then to GEORGE] Will you go, +please? + +GEORGE. I will go when you do. + +MALISE. A man of the world should know better than that. + +GEORGE. Are you coming? + +MALISE. That is inconceivable. + +GEORGE. I'm not speaking to you, sir. + +MALISE. You are right. Your words and mine will never kiss each +other. + +GEORGE. Will you come? [CLARE shakes her head] + +GEORGE. [With fury] D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that +rhapsodical swine? + +MALISE. [Transformed] By God, if you don't go, I'll kill you. + +GEORGE. [As suddenly calm] That remains to be seen. + +MALISE. [With most deadly quietness] Yes, I will kill you. + + He goes stealthily along the wall, takes up from where it lies + on the pile of books the great black knobby stick, and + stealthily approaches GEORGE, his face quite fiendish. + +CLARE. [With a swift movement, grasping the stick] Please. + + MALISE resigns the stick, and the two men, perfectly still, + glare at each other. CLARE, letting the stick fall, puts her + foot on it. Then slowly she takes off her hat and lays it on + the table. + +CLARE. Now will you go! [There is silence] + +GEORGE. [Staring at her hat] You mad little fool! Understand this; +if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and +you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours. +And mind this, you sir--I won't spare you--by God! Your pocket shall +suffer. That's the only thing that touches fellows like you. + + Turning, he goes out, and slams the door. CLARE and MALISE + remain face to face. Her lips have begun to quiver. + +CLARE. Horrible! + + She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the + armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands. MALISE + picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly. Then putting it + down, he moves so that he can see her face. She is sitting + quite still, staring straight before her. + +MALISE. Nothing could be better. + +CLARE. I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do! + +MALISE. Thank the stars for your good fortune. + +CLARE. He means to have revenge on you! And it's all my fault. + +MALISE. Let him. Let him go for his divorce. Get rid of him. Have +done with him--somehow. + + She gets up and stands with face averted. Then swiftly turning + to him. + +CLARE. If I must bring you harm--let me pay you back! I can't bear +it otherwise! Make some use of me, if you don't mind! + +MALISE. My God! + + [She puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.] + +MALISE. You poor---- + + He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face. + She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is + shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands + twitching. + +MALISE. [Very quietly] No, no! This is not the house of a +"gentleman." + +CLARE. [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] I'm sorry. + +MALISE. I understand. + +CLARE. I don't feel. And without--I can't, can't. + +MALISE. [Bitterly] Quite right. You've had enough of that. + + There is a long silence. Without looking at him she takes up + her hat, and puts it on. + +MALISE. Not going? + + [CLARE nods] + +MALISE. You don't trust me? + +CLARE. I do! But I can't take when I'm not giving. + +MALISE. I beg--I beg you! What does it matter? Use me! Get free +somehow. + +CLARE. Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in +for all this. I know what you want--or will want. Of course--why +not? + +MALISE. I give you my solemn word---- + +CLARE. No! if I can't be that to you--it's not real. And I can't. +It isn't to be manufactured, is it? + +MALISE. It is not. + +CLARE. To make use of you in such a way! No. + + [She moves towards the door] + +MALISE. Where are you going? + + CLARE does not answer. She is breathing rapidly. There is a + change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness. + +MALISE. Not back to him? [CLARE shakes her head] Thank God! But +where? To your people again? + +CLARE. No. + +MALISE. Nothing--desperate? + +CLARE. Oh! no. + +MALISE. Then what--tell me--come! + +CLARE. I don't know. Women manage somehow. + +MALISE. But you--poor dainty thing! + +CLARE. It's all right! Don't be unhappy! Please! + +MALISE. [Seizing her arm] D'you imagine they'll let you off, out +there--you with your face? Come, trust me trust me! You must! + +CLARE. [Holding out her hand] Good-bye! + +MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great damned world, and--you! +Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the +stillness] Into that! alone--helpless--without money. The men who +work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let +you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy, +bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the +"chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help +seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but +struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious! +Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The +hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up! +Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the +cart, and God pity you! + +CLARE. Well, I'll die running! + +MALISE. No, no! Let me shelter you! Let me! + +CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune. +Wish me luck! + +MALISE. I can't let you go. + +CLARE. You must. + + He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it, + suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them. + +MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck! + + He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her + other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed + head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They + die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with + his clenched fist. + + + CURTAIN. + + + + + +ACT III + + MALISE'S sitting-room. An afternoon, three months later. On + the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea- + things. Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit- + stand. Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced man, + with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is + contemplating a piece of blue paper. + +HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf +without any return on your money---- + +MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see +my way to smoking another. + +HAYWOOD. Well, sir--that's a funny remedy. + + With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears. + +MALISE. Yes. What is it? + +BOY. Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir. + +MALISE. [Motioning him out] Yes. Wait! + + The Boy withdraws. MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns + them over, and takes up some volumes. + +MALISE. This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's +"Decameron," Mr. Haywood illustrated. I should say you would get +more than the amount of your bill for them. + +HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven! + +MALISE. It's scarce, and highly improper. Will you take them in +discharge? + +HAYWOOD. [Torn between emotions] Well, I 'ardly know what to say-- +No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that. + +MALISE. You could read them first, you know? + +HAYWOOD. [Dubiously] I've got my wife at 'ome. + +MALISE. You could both read them. + +HAYWOOD. [Brought to his bearings] No, Sir, I couldn't. + +MALISE. Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the +result. + +HAYWOOD. Well, thank you, sir. I'm sure I didn't want to trouble +you. + +MALISE. Not at all, Mr. Haywood. It's for me to apologize. + +HAYWOOD. So long as I give satisfaction. + +MALISE. [Holding the door for him] Certainly. Good evening. + +HAYWOOD. Good evenin', sir; no offence, I hope. + +MALISE. On the contrary. + + Doubtfully HAYWOOD goes. And MALISE stands scratching his head; + then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he + replaces them at the top of the pile. The Boy again advances + into the doorway. + +MALISE. Yes, now for you. + + He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old + portfolio. But the door is again timidly pushed open, and + HAYWOOD reappears. + +MALISE. Yes, Mr. Haywood? + +HAYWOOD. About that little matter, sir. If--if it's any convenience +to you--I've--thought of a place where I could---- + +MALISE. Read them? You'll enjoy them thoroughly. + +HAYWOOD. No, sir, no! Where I can dispose of them. + +MALISE. [Holding out the volumes] It might be as well. [HAYWOOD +takes the books gingerly] I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a +classic. + +HAYWOOD. Oh, indeed--yes, sir. In the event of there being any---- + +MALISE. Anything over? Carry it to my credit. Your bill--[He +hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt. Good evening! + + HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening + paper, fumbles out. "Good evenin', sir!" and departs. MALISE + again takes up the sheets of MS. and cons a sentence over to + himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY. + +MALISE. "Man of the world--good form your god! Poor buttoned-up +philosopher" [the Boy shifts his feet] "inbred to the point of +cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the Boy +breathes heavily]--you are the slave of facts!" + + [There is a knock on the door] + +MALISE. Who is it? + + The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there. + +HUNTINGDON. I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute? + + [MALISE bows with ironical hostility] + +HUNTINGDON. I don't know if you remember me--Clare Dedmond's +brother. + +MALISE. I remember you. + + [He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again] + +HUNTINGDON. I've come to you, sir, as a gentleman---- + +MALISE. Some mistake. There is one, I believe, on the first floor. + +HUNTINGDON. It's about my sister. + +MALISE. D--n you! Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last +three months? Ask your detectives for any information you want. + +HUNTINGDON. We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where +she is. + +MALISE. Indeed! You've found that out? Brilliant! + +HUNTINGDON. We know it from my sister. + +MALISE. Oh! So you've tracked her down? + +HUNTINGDON. Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those +big shops--selling gloves. + +MALISE. Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband. Well! you've got +her. Clap her back into prison. + +HUNTINGDON. We have not got her. She left at once, and we don't +know where she's gone. + +MALISE. Bravo! + +HUNTINGDON. [Taking hold of his bit] Look here, Mr. Malise, in a +way I share your feeling, but I'm fond of my sister, and it's +damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift, +without protection, going through God knows what! Mrs. Fullarton +says she's looking awfully pale and down. + +MALISE. [Struggling between resentment and sympathy] Why do you +come to me? + +HUNTINGDON. We thought---- + +MALISE. Who? + +HUNTINGDON. My--my father and myself. + +MALISE. Go on. + +HUNTINGDON. We thought there was just a chance that, having lost +that job, she might come to you again for advice. If she does, it +would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with +her. He's getting old, and he feels this very much. [He hands +MALISE a card] This is his address. + +MALISE. [Twisting the card] Let there be no mistake, sir; I do +nothing that will help give her back to her husband. She's out to +save her soul alive, and I don't join the hue and cry that's after +her. On the contrary--if I had the power. If your father wants to +shelter her, that's another matter. But she'd her own ideas about +that. + +HUNTINGDON. Perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for +rough and tumble. She's not one of this new sort of woman. She's +always been looked after, and had things done for her. Pluck she's +got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief. + +MALISE. Very likely--the first birds do. But if she drops half-way +it's better than if she'd never flown. Your sister, sir, is trying +the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market. For women as +for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon, +and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession. + +HUNTINGDON. Admitted--but---- + +MALISE. We each have our own views as to what they are. But they +all come to--death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases. +Anything more? + +HUNTINGDON. My leave's up. I sail to-morrow. If you do see my +sister I trust you to give her my love and say I begged she would see +my father. + +MALISE. If I have the chance--yes. + + He makes a gesture of salute, to which HUNTINGDON responds. + Then the latter turns and goes out. + +MALISE. Poor fugitive! Where are you running now? + + He stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is + powdering the room with smoky gold. The stolid Boy has again + come in. MALISE stares at him, then goes back to the table, + takes up the MS., and booms it at him; he receives the charge, + breathing hard. + +MALISE. "Man of the world--product of a material age; incapable of +perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having 'no use,' as you +would say, for 'sentimental nonsense'; accustomed to believe yourself +the national spine--your position is unassailable. You will remain +the idol of the country--arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of +the playwright and the novelist--God bless you!--while waters lap +these shores." + + He places the sheets of MS. in an envelope, and hands them to + the Boy. + +MALISE. You're going straight back to "The Watchfire"? + +BOY. [Stolidly] Yes, sir. + +MALISE. [Staring at him] You're a masterpiece. D'you know that? + +BOY. No, sir. + +MALISE. Get out, then. + + He lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the + inner room. The Boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose, + turns to go. In the doorway he shies violently at the figure of + CLARE, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her + and goes. CLARE comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white + face alive with emotion or excitement. She looks round her, + smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes + back to the table. There she stands, fingering the papers on + the table, smoothing MALISE's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting. + +MALISE. [Returning] You! + +CLARE. [With a faint smile] Not very glorious, is it? + + He goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair + round. + +MALISE. Come! Sit down, sit down! [CLARE, heaving a long sigh, +sinks down into the chair] Tea's nearly ready. + + He places a cushion for her, and prepares tea; she looks up at + him softly, but as he finishes and turns to her, she drops that + glance. + +CLARE. Do you think me an awful coward for coming? [She has taken a +little plain cigarette case from her dress] Would you mind if I +smoked? + + MALISE shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if + afraid to be too close. And again, unseen, she looks at him. + +MALISE. So you've lost your job? + +CLARE. How did you----? + +MALISE. Your brother. You only just missed him. [CLARE starts up] +They had an idea you'd come. He's sailing to-morrow--he wants you to +see your father. + +CLARE. Is father ill? + +MALI$E. Anxious about you. + +CLARE. I've written to him every week. [Excited] They're still +hunting me! + +MALISE. [Touching her shoulder gently] It's all right--all right. + + She sinks again into the chair, and again he withdraws. And + once more she gives him that soft eager look, and once more + averts it as he turns to her. + +CLARE. My nerves have gone funny lately. It's being always on one's +guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you, +and dislike your being there. + +MALISE. Yes; that wants pluck. + +CLARE. [Shaking her head] I curl up all the time. The only thing I +know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him. The more +I've hated what I've been doing, the more sure I've been. I might +come to anything--but not that. + +MALISE. Had a very bad time? + +CLARE. [Nodding] I'm spoilt. It's a curse to be a lady when you +have to earn your living. It's not really been so hard, I suppose; +I've been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop +girls. + +MALISE. Were they decent to you? + +CLARE. Lots of the girls are really nice. But somehow they don't +want me, can't help thinking I've got airs or something; and in here +[She touches her breast] I don't want them! + +MALISE. I know. + +CLARE. Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping +reduced gentlewomen to get work. I know now what they want: enough +money not to work--that's all! [Suddenly looking up at him] Don't +think me worse than I am-please! It's working under people; it's +having to do it, being driven. I have tried, I've not been +altogether a coward, really! But every morning getting there the +same time; every day the same stale "dinner," as they call it; every +evening the same "Good evening, Miss Clare," "Good evening, Miss +Simpson," "Good evening, Miss Hart," "Good evening, Miss Clare." +And the same walk home, or the same 'bus; and the same men that you +mustn't look at, for fear they'll follow you. [She rises] Oh! and +the feeling-always, always--that there's no sun, or life, or hope, or +anything. It was just like being ill, the way I've wanted to ride +and dance and get out into the country. [Her excitement dies away +into the old clipped composure, and she sits down again] Don't think +too badly of me--it really is pretty ghastly! + +MALISE. [Gruffly] H'm! Why a shop? + +CLARE. References. I didn't want to tell more lies than I could +help; a married woman on strike can't tell the truth, you know. And +I can't typewrite or do shorthand yet. And chorus--I thought--you +wouldn't like. + +MALISE. I? What have I----? [He checks himself ] Have men been +brutes? + +CLARE. [Stealing a look at him] One followed me a lot. He caught +hold of my arm one evening. I just took this out [She draws out her +hatpin and holds it like a dagger, her lip drawn back as the lips of +a dog going to bite] and said: "Will you leave me alone, please?" +And he did. It was rather nice. And there was one quite decent +little man in the shop--I was sorry for him--such a humble little +man! + +MALISE. Poor devil--it's hard not to wish for the moon. + + At the tone of his voice CLARE looks up at him; his face is + turned away. + +CLARE. [Softly] How have you been? Working very hard? + +MALISE. As hard as God will let me. + +CLARE. [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do? +I could learn, and I've still got a brooch I could sell. Which is +the best kind? + +MALISE. I had a catalogue of them somewhere. + + He goes into the inner room. The moment he is gone, CLARE + stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them + flaming. Then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting. He + comes back with the old portfolio. + +MALISE. Can you typewrite where you are? + +CLARE. I have to find a new room anyway. I'm changing--to be safe. +[She takes a luggage ticket from her glove] I took my things to +Charing Cross--only a bag and one trunk. [Then, with that queer +expression on her face which prefaces her desperations] You don't +want me now, I suppose. + +MALISE. What? + +CLARE. [Hardly above a whisper] Because--if you still wanted me-- +I do--now. + + [Etext editors note: In the 1924 revision, 11 years after this + 1913 edition: "I do--now" is changed to "I could--now"-- + a significant change in meaning. D.W.] + +MALISE. [Staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling] +You mean it? You do? You care----? + +CLARE. I've thought of you--so much! But only--if you're sure. + + He clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for + a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them + apart. + +MALISE. It's the housekeeper. Give me that ticket; I'll send for +your things. + + Obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly + into the inner room. MRS. MILER has entered; her face, more + Chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen. + +MALISE. That lady will stay here, Mrs. Miler. Kindly go with this +ticket to the cloak-room at Charing Cross station, and bring back her +luggage in a cab. Have you money? + +MRS. MILER. 'Arf a crown. [She takes the ticket--then impassively] +In case you don't know--there's two o' them men about the stairs now. + + The moment she is gone MALISE makes a gesture of maniacal fury. + He steals on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens. Then, + placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without noise, and + wrenches back the door. Transfigured in the last sunlight + streaming down the corridor are two men, close together, + listening and consulting secretly. They start back. + +MALISE. [With strange, almost noiseless ferocity] You've run her to +earth; your job's done. Kennel up, hounds! [And in their faces he +slams the door] + + + CURTAIN. + + + + + +SCENE II + +SCENE II--The same, early on a winter afternoon, three months later. +The room has now a certain daintiness. There are curtains over the +doors, a couch, under the window, all the books are arranged on +shelves. In small vases, over the fireplace, are a few violets and +chrysanthemums. MALISE sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to +the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand. He looks rather grey and +drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter. At the table, now +nearer to the window, CLARE sits working a typewriter. She finishes +a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds +some figures, and marks the total. + +CLARE. Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound +seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds. One +hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred +and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour. It's +only just over an hour a day. Can't you get me more? + + MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again. + CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it. + +CLARE. I'm quite packed. Shall I pack for you? [He nods] Can't we +have more than three days at the sea? [He shakes his head. Going up +to him] You did sleep last night. + +MALISE. Yes, I slept. + +CLARE. Bad head? [MALISE nods] By this time the day after to- +morrow the case will be heard and done with. You're not worrying for +me? Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit. + + MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and + down. + +CLARE. Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages, +after what he said that day-here? [Looking suddenly at him] It is +true that he doesn't? + +MALISE. It is not. + +CLARE. But you told me yourself + +MALISE. I lied. + +CLARE. Why? + +MALISE. [Shrugging] No use lying any longer--you'd know it +tomorrow. + +CLARE. How much am I valued at? + +MALISE. Two thousand. [Grimly] He'll settle it on you. [He laughs] +Masterly! By one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his "honour," +and gilds his name with generosity! + +CLARE. Will you have to pay? + +MALISE. Stones yield no blood. + +CLARE. Can't you borrow? + +MALISE. I couldn't even get the costs. + +CLARE. Will they make you bankrupt, then? [MALISE nods] But that +doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it? [MALISE +laughs] What is your income, Kenneth? [He is silent] A hundred and +fifty from "The Watchfire," I know. What else? + +MALISE. Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds. + +CLARE. What else? Tell me. + +MALISE. Fifty to a hundred pounds a year. Leave me to gnaw my way +out, child. + + CLARE stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into + the room behind her. MALISE takes up his paper and pen. The + paper is quite blank. + +MALISE. [Feeling his head] Full of smoke. + + He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left + goes in. CLARE re-enters with a small leather box. She puts it + down on her typing table as MALISE returns followed by MRS. + MILER, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat. + +MRS. MILER. Put your coat on. It's a bitter wind. + + [He puts on the coat] + +CLARE. Where are you going? + +MALISE. To "The Watchfire." + + The door closes behind him, and MRS. MILER goes up to CLARE + holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full. + +MRS. MILER. You know he's takin' this [She makes a little motion +towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep? + +CLARE. [Reading the label] Where was it? + +MRS. MILER. In the bathroom chest o' drawers, where 'e keeps 'is +odds and ends. I was lookin' for 'is garters. + +CLARE. Give it to me! + +MRS. MILER. He took it once before. He must get his sleep. + +CLARE. Give it to me! + + MRS. MILER resigns it, CLARE takes the cork out, smells, then + tastes it from her finger. MRS. MILER, twisting her apron in + her hands, speaks. + +MILS. MILER. I've 'ad it on my mind a long time to speak to yer. +Your comin' 'ere's not done 'im a bit o' good. + +CLARE. Don't! + +MRS. MILER. I don't want to, but what with the worry o' this 'ere +divorce suit, an' you bein' a lady an' 'im havin' to be so careful of +yer, and tryin' to save, not smokin' all day like 'e used, an' not +gettin' 'is two bottles of claret regular; an' losin' his sleep, an' +takin' that stuff for it; and now this 'ere last business. I've seen +'im sometimes holdin' 'is 'ead as if it was comin' off. [Seeing +CLARE wince, she goes on with a sort of compassion in her Chinese +face] I can see yer fond of him; an' I've nothin' against yer you +don't trouble me a bit; but I've been with 'im eight years--we're +used to each other, and I can't bear to see 'im not 'imself, really I +can't. + + She gives a sadden sniff. Then her emotion passes, leaving her + as Chinese as ever. + +CLARE. This last business--what do you mean by that? + +MRS. MILER. If 'e a'n't told yer, I don't know that I've any call +to. + +CLARE. Please. + +MRS. MILER. [Her hands twisting very fast] Well, it's to do with +this 'ere "Watchfire." One of the men that sees to the writin' of +it 'e's an old friend of Mr. Malise, 'e come 'ere this mornin' when +you was out. I was doin' my work in there [She points to the room +on the right] an' the door open, so I 'earl 'em. Now you've 'ung +them curtains, you can't 'elp it. + +CLARE. Yes? + +MRS. MILER. It's about your divorce case. This 'ere "Watchfire," +ye see, belongs to some fellers that won't 'ave their men gettin' +into the papers. So this 'ere friend of Mr. Malise--very nice 'e +spoke about it: "If it comes into Court," 'e says, "you'll 'ave to +go," 'e says. "These beggars, these dogs, these dogs," 'e says, +"they'll 'oof you out," 'e says. An' I could tell by the sound of +his voice, 'e meant it--proper upset 'e was. So that's that! + +CLARE. It's inhuman! + +MRS. MILER. That's what I thinks; but it don't 'elp, do it? +"'Tain't the circulation," 'e says, "it's the principle," 'e says; +and then 'e starts in swearin' horrible. 'E's a very nice man. And +Mr. Malise, 'e says: "Well, that about does for me!" 'e says. + +CLARE. Thank you, Mrs. Miler--I'm glad to know. + +MRS. MILER. Yes; I don't know as I ought to 'ave told you. +[Desperately uncomfortable] You see, I don't take notice of Mr. +MALISE, but I know 'im very well. 'E's a good 'arted gentleman, very +funny, that'll do things to help others, and what's more, keep on +doin' 'em, when they hurt 'im; very obstinate 'e is. Now, when you +first come 'ere, three months ago, I says to meself: "He'll enjoy +this 'ere for a bit, but she's too much of a lady for 'im." What 'e +wants about 'im permanent is a woman that thinks an' talks about all +them things he talks about. And sometimes I fancy 'e don't want +nothin' permanent about 'im at all. + +CLARE. Don't! + +MRS. MILER. [With another sudden sniff] Gawd knows I don't want to +upset ye. You're situated very hard; an' women's got no business to +'urt one another--that's what I thinks. + +CLARE. Will you go out and do something for me? [MRS. MILER nods] + + [CLARE takes up the sheaf of papers and from the leather box a + note and an emerald pendant] + +Take this with the note to that address--it's quite close. He'll +give you thirty pounds for it. Please pay these bills and bring me +back the receipts, and what's over. + +MRS. MILER. [Taking the pendant and note] It's a pretty thing. + +CLARE. Yes. It was my mother's. + +MRS. MILER. It's a pity to part with it; ain't you got another? + +CLARE. Nothing more, Mrs. Miler, not even a wedding ring. + +MRS. MILER. [Without expression] You make my 'eart ache sometimes. + + [She wraps pendant and note into her handkerchief and goes out to + the door.] + +MRS. MILER. [From the door] There's a lady and gentleman out here. +Mrs. Fuller--wants you, not Mr. Malise. + +CLARE. Mrs. Fullarton? [MRS. MILER nods] Ask them to come in. + + MRS. MILER opens the door wide, says "Come in," and goes. MRS. + FULLARTON is accompanied not by FULLARTON, but by the lawyer, + TWISDON. They come in. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Clare! My dear! How are you after all this time? + +CLARE. [Her eyes fixed on TWISDEN] Yes? + +MRS. FULLARTON. [Disconcerted by the strange greeting] I brought +Mr. Twisden to tell you something. May I stay? + +CLARE. Yes. [She points to the chair at the same table: MRS. +FULLARTON sits down] Now! + + [TWISDEN comes forward] + +TWISDEN. As you're not defending this case, Mrs. Dedmond, there is +nobody but yourself for me to apply to. + +CLARE. Please tell me quickly, what you've come for. + +TWISDEN. [Bowing slightly] I am instructed by Mr. Dedmond to say +that if you will leave your present companion and undertake not to +see him again, he will withdraw the suit and settle three hundred a +year on you. [At CLARE's movement of abhorrence] Don't +misunderstand me, please--it is not--it could hardly be, a request +that you should go back. Mr. Dedmond is not prepared to receive you +again. The proposal--forgive my saying so--remarkably Quixotic--is +made to save the scandal to his family and your own. It binds you to +nothing but the abandonment of your present companion, with certain +conditions of the same nature as to the future. In other words, it +assures you a position--so long as you live quietly by yourself. + +CLARE. I see. Will you please thank Mr. Dedmond, and say that I +refuse? + +MRS. FULLARTON. Clare, Clare! For God's sake don't be desperate. + + [CLARE, deathly still, just looks at her] + +TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I am bound to put the position to you in its +naked brutality. You know there's a claim for damages? + +CLARE. I have just learnt it. + +TWISDEN. You realize what the result of this suit must be: You will +be left dependent on an undischarged bankrupt. To put it another +way, you'll be a stone round the neck of a drowning man. + +CLARE. You are cowards. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Clare, Clare! [To TWISDEN] She doesn't mean it; +please be patient. + +CLARE. I do mean it. You ruin him because of me. You get him down, +and kick him to intimidate me. + +MRS. FULLARTON. My dear girl! Mr. Twisden is not personally +concerned. How can you? + +CLARE. If I were dying, and it would save me, I wouldn't take a +penny from my husband. + +TWISDEN. Nothing could be more bitter than those words. Do you +really wish me to take them back to him? + +CLARE. Yes. [She turns from them to the fire] + +MRS. FULLARTON. [In a low voice to TWISDEN] Please leave me alone +with her, don't say anything to Mr. Dedmond yet. + +TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I told you once that I wished you well. +Though you have called me a coward, I still do that. For God's sake, +think--before it's too late. + +CLARE. [Putting out her hand blindly] I'm sorry I called you a +coward. It's the whole thing, I meant. + +TWISDEN. Never mind that. Think! + + With the curious little movement of one who sees something he + does not like to see, he goes. CLARE is leaning her forehead + against the mantel-shelf, seemingly unconscious that she is not + alone. MRS. FULLARTON approaches quietly till she can see + CLARE'S face. + +MRS. FULLARTON. My dear sweet thing, don't be cross with met [CLARE +turns from her. It is all the time as if she were trying to get away +from words and people to something going on within herself] How can +I help wanting to see you saved from all this ghastliness? + +CLARE. Please don't, Dolly! Let me be! + +MRS. FULLARTON. I must speak, Clare! I do think you're hard on +George. It's generous of him to offer to withdraw the suit-- +considering. You do owe it to us to try and spare your father and +your sisters and--and all of us who care for you. + +CLARE. [Facing her] You say George is generous! If he wanted to be +that he'd never have claimed these damages. It's revenge he wants--I +heard him here. You think I've done him an injury. So I did--when I +married him. I don't know what I shall come to, Dolly, but I shan't +fall so low as to take money from him. That's as certain as that I +shall die. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Do you know, Clare, I think it's awful about you! +You're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're +too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do +without it. It's simply tragic. At any rate, you might go home to +your people. + +CLARE. After this! + +MRS. FULLARTON. To us, then? + +CLARE. "If I could be the falling bee, and kiss thee all the day!" +No, Dolly! + + MRS. FULLARTON turns from her ashamed and baffled, but her quick + eyes take in the room, trying to seize on some new point of + attack. + +MRS. FULLARTON. You can't be--you aren't-happy, here? + +CLARE. Aren't I? + +MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! Clare! Save yourself--and all of us! + +CLARE. [Very still] You see, I love him. + +MRS. FULLARTON. You used to say you'd never love; did not want it-- +would never want it. + +CLARE. Did I? How funny! + +MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! my dear! Don't look like that, or you'll make +me cry. + +CLARE. One doesn't always know the future, does one? [Desperately] +I love him! I love him! + +MRS. FULLARTON. [Suddenly] If you love him, what will it be like for +you, knowing you've ruined him? + +CLARE. Go away! Go away! + +MRS. FULLARTON. Love!--you said! + +CLARE. [Quivering at that stab-suddenly] I must--I will keep him. +He's all I've got. + +MRS. FULLARTON. Can you--can you keep him? + +CLARE. Go! + +MRS. FULLARTON. I'm going. But, men are hard to keep, even when +you've not been the ruin of them. You know whether the love this man +gives you is really love. If not--God help you! [She turns at the +door, and says mournfully] Good-bye, my child! If you can---- + + Then goes. CLARE, almost in a whisper, repeats the words: + "Love! you said!" At the sound of a latchkey she runs as if to + escape into the bedroom, but changes her mind and stands blotted + against the curtain of the door. MALISE enters. For a moment + he does not see her standing there against the curtain that is + much the same colour as her dress. His face is that of a man in + the grip of a rage that he feels to be impotent. Then, seeing + her, he pulls himself together, walks to his armchair, and sits + down there in his hat and coat. + +CLARE. Well? "The Watchfire?" You may as well tell me. + +MALISE. Nothing to tell you, child. + + At that touch of tenderness she goes up to his chair and kneels + down beside it. Mechanically MALISE takes off his hat. + +CLARE. Then you are to lose that, too? [MALISE stares at her] I +know about it--never mind how. + +MALISE. Sanctimonious dogs! + +CLARE. [Very low] There are other things to be got, aren't there? + +MALISE. Thick as blackberries. I just go out and cry, "MALISE, +unsuccessful author, too honest journalist, freethinker, co- +respondent, bankrupt," and they tumble! + +CLARE. [Quietly] Kenneth, do you care for me? [MALISE stares at +her] Am I anything to you but just prettiness? + +MALISE. Now, now! This isn't the time to brood! Rouse up and +fight. + +CLARE. Yes. + +MALISE. We're not going to let them down us, are we? [She rubs her +cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] Life on +sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy! And some day in the +fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and +drink and breathe again. [His gesture sums up the rage within him] +Fine! [He puts his hat on and rises] That's the last groan they get +from me. + +CLASS. Are you going out again? [He nods] Where? + +MALISE. Blackberrying! Our train's not till six. + + He goes into the bedroom. CLARE gets up and stands by the fire, + looking round in a dazed way. She puts her hand up and + mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase. + Suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into + the armchair, which he must pass. There she sits, the violets + in her hand. MALISE comes out and crosses towards the outer + door. She puts the violets up to him. He stares at them, + shrugs his shoulders, and passes on. For just a moment CLARE + sits motionless. + +CLARE. [Quietly] Give me a kiss! + + He turns and kisses her. But his lips, after that kiss, have + the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have + done what does not suit their mood. He goes out. She is left + motionless by the armchair, her throat working. Then, + feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of + paper, and writes. Looking up suddenly she sees that MRS. MILER + has let herself in with her latchkey. + +MRS. MILER. I've settled the baker, the milk, the washin' an' the +groceries--this 'ere's what's left. + + She counts down a five-pound note, four sovereigns, and two + shillings on to the little table. CLARE folds the letter into + an envelope, then takes up the five-pound note and puts it into + her dress. + +CLARE. [Pointing to the money on the table] Take your wages; and +give him this when he comes in. I'm going away. + +MRS. MILER. Without him? When'll you be comin' back? + +CLARE. [Rising] I shan't be coming back. [Gazing at MRS. MILER'S +hands, which are plaiting at her dress] I'm leaving Mr. Malise, and +shan't see him again. And the suit against us will be withdrawn--the +divorce suit--you understand? + +MRS. MILER. [Her face all broken up] I never meant to say anything +to yer. + +CLARE. It's not you. I can see for myself. Don't make it harder; +help me. Get a cab. + +MRS. MILER. [Disturbed to the heart] The porter's outside, cleanin' +the landin' winder. + +CLARE. Tell him to come for my trunk. It is packed. [She goes into +the bedroom] + +MRS. MILER. [Opening the door-desolately] Come 'ere! + + [The PORTER appears in shirt-sleeves at the door] + +MRS. MILER. The lady wants a cab. Wait and carry 'er trunk down. + + CLARE comes from the bedroom in her hat and coat. + +MRS. MILER. [TO the PORTER] Now. + + They go into the bedroom to get the trunk. CLARE picks up from + the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if + they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the + armchair very still, while MRS. MILER and the PORTER pass her + with trunk and bag. And even after the PORTER has shouldered + the trunk outside, and marched away, and MRS. MILER has come + back into the room, CLARE still stands there. + +MRS. MILER. [Pointing to the typewriter] D'you want this 'ere, too? + +CLARE. Yes. + + MRS. MILER carries it out. Then, from the doorway, gazing at + CLARE taking her last look, she sobs, suddenly. At sound of + that sob CLARE throws up her head. + +CLARE. Don't! It's all right. Good-bye! + + She walks out and away, not looking back. MRS. MILER chokes her + sobbing into the black stuff of her thick old jacket. + + + CURTAIN + + + + +ACT IV + + Supper-time in a small room at "The Gascony" on Derby Day. + Through the windows of a broad corridor, out of which the door + opens, is seen the dark blue of a summer night. The walls are + of apricot-gold; the carpets, curtains, lamp-shades, and gilded + chairs, of red; the wood-work and screens white; the palms in + gilded tubs. A doorway that has no door leads to another small + room. One little table behind a screen, and one little table in + the open, are set for two persons each. On a service-table, + above which hangs a speaking-tube, are some dishes of hors + d'ouvres, a basket of peaches, two bottles of champagne in ice- + pails, and a small barrel of oysters in a gilded tub. ARNAUD, + the waiter, slim, dark, quick, his face seamed with a quiet, + soft irony, is opening oysters and listening to the robust joy + of a distant supper-party, where a man is playing the last bars + of: "Do ye ken John Peel" on a horn. As the sound dies away, he + murmurs: "Tres Joli!" and opens another oyster. Two Ladies with + bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor. Their + talk is faintly wafted in: "Well, I never like Derby night! The + boys do get so bobbish!" "That horn--vulgar, I call it!" + + ARNAUD'S eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop. A Lady + with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along + the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to + join her. They come through into the room. ARNAUD has sprung + to attention, but with: "Let's go in here, shall we?" they pass + through into the further room. The MANAGER, a gentleman with + neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared, + brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches. + +MANAGER. Four shillin' apiece to-night, see? + +ARNAUD. Yes, Sare. + + From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in. + She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale, + clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of + those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost + all save the capacity for hiding their emotions. He speaks in + a---- + +LANGUID VOICE. Awful row they're kickin' up in there, Mr. Varley. +A fellow with a horn. + +MANAGER. [Blandly] Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their +supper with us, Derby night. Quiet corner here, my lord. Arnaud! + + ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm. And, + there ensconced, the couple take their seats. Seeing them + safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away. In + the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems + uncertain whether to come in. She advances into the doorway. + It is CLARE. + +ARNAUD. [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes] Nice +table, Madame. + + CLARE moves to the corner of it. An artist in observation of + his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face--very pale under her wavy, + simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her + lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black + dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at + her breast three gardenias. And as he nears her, she lifts her + eyes. It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for + guidance. + +ARNAUD. Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then +Madame will be veree well here--veree well. I take Madame's cloak? + + He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair + fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she + wishes. She sits down. + +LANGUID VOICE. [From the corner] Waiter! + +ARNAUD. Milord! + +LANGUID VOICE. The Roederer. + +ARNAUD. At once, Milord. + + CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her + eyes lowered. Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark + rapid figure. + +ARNAUD. [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat? [He scans her with +increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame? + +CLARE. [Again giving him that look] Must I order? + +ARNAUD. Non, Madame, it is not necessary. A glass of water. [He +pours it out] I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face. + +CLARE. [Faintly smiling] No. + +ARNAUD. Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet. + +LANGUID VOICE. Waiter! + +ARNAUD. Pardon! [He goes] + + The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the + corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie! + Not she! Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!" + "Bobbie'll never stick it!" "Look here, dear----" Galvanized + by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they + die away and she subsides. + +ARNAUD. [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the +corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule--not as in some +places. To-night a little noise. Madame is fond of flowers? [He +whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from +some table in the next room] These smell good! + +CLARE. You are very kind. + +ARNAUD. [With courtesy] Not at all, Madame; a pleasure. [He bows] + + A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped, + sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of + those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in + a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a + white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the + corridor. He looks round, glances at CLARE, passes her table + towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back + at her. Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast + down again. The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD's eye, jerks + his head to summon him, and passes into the further room. + ARNAUD takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows + him out. And CLARE sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs + of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen. She is + breathing as if she had been running hard. She lifts her eyes. + The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her + table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness. + +YOUNG MAN. How d'you do? Didn't recognize you at first. So sorry- +awfully rude of me. + + CLARE'S eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign + herself all at once. Something in the YOUNG MAN responds. He + drops his hand. + +CLARE. [Faintly] How d'you do? + +YOUNG MAN. [Stammering] You--you been down there to-day? + +CLARE. Where? + +YOUNG MAN. [With a smile] The Derby. What? Don't you generally go +down? [He touches the other chair] May I? + +CLARE. [Almost in a whisper] Yes. + + As he sits down, ARNAUD returns and stands before them. + +ARNAUD. The plovers' eggs veree good to-night, Sare. Veree good, +Madame. A peach or two, after. Veree good peaches. The Roederer, +Sare--not bad at all. Madame likes it frappe, but not too cold--yes? + + [He is away again to his service-table.] + +YOUNG MAN. [Burying his face in the carnations] I say--these are +jolly, aren't they? They do you pretty well here. + +CLARE. Do they? + +YOUNG MAN. You've never been here? [CLARE shakes her head] By Jove! +I thought I didn't know your face. [CLARE looks full at him. Again +something moves in the YOUNG MAN, and he stammers] I mean--not---- + +CLARE. It doesn't matter. + +YOUNG MAN. [Respectfully] Of course, if I--if you were waiting for +anybody, or anything--I---- + + [He half rises] + +CLARE. It's all right, thank you. + + The YOUNG MAN sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed. There + is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord, + and the distant merriment of the supper-party. ARNAUD brings + the plovers' eggs. + +YOUNG MAN. The wine, quick. + +ARNAUD. At once, Sare. + +YOUNG MAN. [Abruptly] Don't you ever go racing, then? + +CLARE. No. + + [ARNAUD pours out champagne] + +YOUNG MAN. I remember awfully well my first day. It was pretty +thick--lost every blessed bob, and my watch and chain, playin' three +cards on the way home. + +CLARE. Everything has a beginning, hasn't it? + + [She drinks. The YOUNG MAN stares at her] + +YOUNG MAN. [Floundering in these waters deeper than he had bargained +for] I say--about things having beginnings--did you mean anything? + + [CLARE nods] + +YOUNG MAN. What! D'you mean it's really the first----? + + CLARE nods. The champagne has flicked her courage. + +YOUNG MAN. By George! [He leans back] I've often wondered. + +ARNAUD. [Again filling the glasses] Monsieur finds---- + +YOUNG MAN. [Abruptly] It's all right. + + He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright. Chivalry and the + camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him. + +YOUNG MAN. Of course I can see that you're not--I mean, that you're +a--a lady. [CLARE smiles] And I say, you know--if you have to-- +because you're in a hole--I should feel a cad. Let me lend you----? + +CLARE. [Holding up her glass] 'Le vin est tire, il faut le boire'! + + She drinks. The French words, which he does not too well + understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he + remains quite silent, frowning. As CLARE held up her glass, two + gentlemen have entered. The first is blond, of good height and + a comely insolence. His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up + moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of + two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is + broad, and coloured with air and wine. His companion is a tall, + thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow + cheeks. They stand looking round, then pass into the further + room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at CLARE. + +YOUNG MAN. [Seeing her wince] Look here! I'm afraid you must feel +me rather a brute, you know. + +CLARE. No, I don't; really. + +YOUNG MAN. Are you absolute stoney? [CLARE nods] But [Looking at +her frock and cloak] you're so awfully well---- + +CLARE. I had the sense to keep them. + +YOUNG MAN. [More and more disturbed] I say, you know--I wish you'd +let me lend you something. I had quite a good day down there. + +CLARE. [Again tracing her pattern on the cloth--then looking up at +him full] I can't take, for nothing. + +YOUNG MAN. By Jove! I don't know-really, I don't--this makes me +feel pretty rotten. I mean, it's your being a lady. + +CLARE. [Smiling] That's not your fault, is it? You see, I've been +beaten all along the line. And I really don't care what happens to +me. [She has that peculiar fey look on her face now] I really +don't; except that I don't take charity. It's lucky for me it's you, +and not some---- + +The supper-party is getting still more boisterous, and there comes a +long view holloa, and a blast of the horn. + +YOUNG MAN. But I say, what about your people? You must have people +of some sort. + + He is fast becoming fascinated, for her cheeks have begun to + flush and her eyes to shine. + +CLARE. Oh, yes; I've had people, and a husband, and--everything---- +And here I am! Queer, isn't it? [She touches her glass] This is +going to my head! Do you mind? I sha'n't sing songs and get up and +dance, and I won't cry, I promise you! + +YOUNG MAN. [Between fascination and chivalry] By George! One +simply can't believe in this happening to a lady. + +CLARE. Have you got sisters? [Breaking into her soft laughter] My +brother's in India. I sha'n't meet him, anyway. + +YOUNG MAN. No, but--I say-are you really quite cut off from +everybody? [CLARE nods] Something rather awful must have happened? + + She smiles. The two gentlemen have returned. The blond one is + again staring fixedly at CLARE. This time she looks back at + him, flaming; and, with a little laugh, he passes with his + friend into the corridor. + +CLARE. Who are those two? + +YOUNG MAN. Don't know--not been much about town yet. I'm just back +from India myself. You said your brother was there; what's his +regiment? + +CLARE. [Shaking her head] You're not going to find out my name. I +haven't got one--nothing. + + She leans her bare elbows on the table, and her face on her + hands. + +CLARE. First of June! This day last year I broke covert--I've been +running ever since. + +YOUNG MAN. I don't understand a bit. You--must have had a--a--some +one---- + + But there is such a change in her face, such rigidity of her + whole body, that he stops and averts his eyes. When he looks + again she is drinking. She puts the glass down, and gives a + little laugh. + +YOUNG MAN. [With a sort of awe] Anyway it must have been like +riding at a pretty stiff fence, for you to come here to-night. + +CLARE. Yes. What's the other side? + + The YOUNG MAN puts out his hand and touches her arm. It is + meant for sympathy, but she takes it for attraction. + +CLARE. [Shaking her head] Not yet please! I'm enjoying this. May +I have a cigarette? + + [He takes out his case, and gives her one] + +CLARE. [Letting the smoke slowly forth] Yes, I'm enjoying it. Had +a pretty poor time lately; not enough to eat, sometimes. + +YOUNG MAN. Not really! How damnable! I say--do have something more +substantial. + + CLARE gives a sudden gasp, as if going off into hysterical + laughter, but she stifles it, and shakes her head. + +YOUNG MAN. A peach? + + [ARNAUD brings peaches to the table] + +CLARE. [Smiling] Thank you. + + [He fills their glasses and retreats] + +CLARE. [Raising her glass] Eat and drink, for tomorrow we--Listen! + + From the supper-party comes the sound of an abortive chorus: + "With a hey ho, chivy, hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!" + Jarring out into a discordant whoop, it sinks. + +CLARE. "This day a stag must die." Jolly old song! + +YOUNG MAN. Rowdy lot! [Suddenly] I say--I admire your pluck. + +CLARE. [Shaking her head] Haven't kept my end up. Lots of women do! +You see: I'm too fine, and not fine enough! My best friend said +that. Too fine, and not fine enough. [She laughs] I couldn't be a +saint and martyr, and I wouldn't be a soulless doll. Neither one +thing nor the other--that's the tragedy. + +YOUNG MAN. You must have had awful luck! + +CLARE. I did try. [Fiercely] But what's the good--when there's +nothing before you?--Do I look ill? + +YOUNG MAN. No; simply awfully pretty. + +CLARE. [With a laugh] A man once said to me: "As you haven't money, +you should never have been pretty!" But, you see, it is some good. +If I hadn't been, I couldn't have risked coming here, could I? Don't +you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these [She touches the +gardenias] with the last shilling over from my cab fare? + +YOUNG MAN. Did you really? D---d sporting! + +CLARE. It's no use doing things by halves, is it? I'm--in for it-- +wish me luck! [She drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] In +for it--deep! [She flings up her hands above her smiling face] Down, +down, till they're just above water, and then--down, down, down, and +--all over! Are you sorry now you came and spoke to me? + +YOUNG MAN. By Jove, no! It may be caddish, but I'm not. + +CLARE. Thank God for beauty! I hope I shall die pretty! Do you +think I shall do well? + +YOUNG MAN. I say--don't talk like that! + +CLARE. I want to know. Do you? + +YOUNG MAN. Well, then--yes, I do. + +CLARE. That's splendid. Those poor women in the streets would give +their eyes, wouldn't they?--that have to go up and down, up and down! +Do you think I--shall---- + + The YOUNG MAN, half-rising, puts his hand on her arm. + +YOUNG MAN. I think you're getting much too excited. You look all-- +Won't you eat your peach? [She shakes her head] Do! Have something +else, then--some grapes, or something? + +CLARE. No, thanks. + + [She has become quite calm again] + +YOUNG MAN. Well, then, what d'you think? It's awfully hot in here, +isn't it? Wouldn't it be jollier drivin'? Shall we--shall we make a +move? + +CLARE. Yes. + + The YOUNG MAN turns to look for the waiter, but ARNAUD is not in + the room. He gets up. + +YOUNG MAN. [Feverishly] D---n that waiter! Wait half a minute, if +you don't mind, while I pay the bill. + + As he goes out into the corridor, the two gentlemen re-appear. + CLARE is sitting motionless, looking straight before her. + +DARK ONE. A fiver you don't get her to! + +BLOND ONE. Done! + + He advances to her table with his inimitable insolence, and + taking the cigar from his mouth, bends his stare on her, and + says: "Charmed to see you lookin' so well! Will you have supper + with me here to-morrow night?" Startled out of her reverie, + CLARE looks up. She sees those eyes, she sees beyond him the + eyes of his companion-sly, malevolent, amused-watching; and she + just sits gazing, without a word. At that regard, so clear, the + BLOND ONE does not wince. But rather suddenly he says: "That's + arranged then. Half-past eleven. So good of you. Good-night!" + He replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in + a low voice says: "Pay up!" Then at a languid "Hullo, Charles!" + they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen. + CLARE has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze. + Suddenly she thrusts her hand into the, pocket of the cloak that + hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which, + six months ago, she took from MALISE. She pulls out the cork + and pours the whole contents into her champagne. She lifts the + glass, holds it before her--smiling, as if to call a toast, then + puts it to her lips and drinks. Still smiling, she sets the + empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her + face. Slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile + still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms + relax, her head falls forward on her breast. And the voices + behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the + supper-party wax and wane. + + The waiter, ARNAUD, returning from the corridor, passes to his + service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit. Putting + it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees. + He runs up to CLARE. + +ARNAUD. Madame! Madame! [He listens for her breathing; then +suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] Bon Dieu! + + [At that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four, + and look. The dark night bird says: "Hallo; fainted!" ARNAUD + holds out the bottle.] + +LANGUID LORD. [Taking it, and smelling] Good God! [The woman bends +over CLARE, and lifts her hands; ARNAUD rushes to his service-table, +and speaks into his tube] + +ARNAUD. The boss. Quick! [Looking up he sees the YOUNG MAN, +returning] 'Monsieur, elle a fui! Elle est morte'! + +LANGUID LORD. [To the YOUNG MAN standing there aghast] What's this? +Friend of yours? + +YOUNG MAN. My God! She was a lady. That's all I know about her. + +LANGUID LORD. A lady! + + [The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out + of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long, + shrill: "Gone away!" And the sound of the horn playing the seven + last notes of the old song: "This day a stag must die!" From the + last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet + and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in + laughter. The YOUNG MAN has covered his eyes with his hands; + ARNAUD is crossing himself fervently; the LANGUID LORD stands + gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his + fingers; and the woman, bending over CLARE, kisses her forehead.] + + +CURTAIN. + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE FUGITIVE, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +THE PIGEON + +A Fantasy in Three Acts + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +CHRISTOPHER WELLWYN, an artist +ANN, his daughter +GUINEVERE MEGAN, a flower-seller +RORY MEGAN, her husband +FERRAND, an alien +TIMSON, once a cabman +EDWARD BERTLEY, a Canon +ALFRED CALWAY, a Professor +SIR THOMAS HOXTON, a Justice of the Peace +Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons + + + + +The action passes in Wellwyn's Studio, and the street outside. + +ACT I. Christmas Eve. + +ACT II. New Year's Day. + +ACT III. The First of April. + + + + +ACT I + + It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flush + with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow. + There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed, + above a floor of bare dark boards. A fire is cheerfully + burning. On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas. + There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm. + chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. A + door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall + to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the + centre of the wall between. On a low table a Russian samovar is + hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses, + lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. Through a huge uncurtained + window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be + seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars. + + The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door, + and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a + ribbon and covered by a scarf. Leaving the door open, she turns + up the electric light and goes to the fire. She throws of her + scarf and long red cloak. She is dressed in a high evening + frock of some soft white material. Her movements are quick and + substantial. Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and + sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped + forehead. Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands. + + In the doorway appear the figures of two men. The first is + rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft + eyes, and a crumply face. Under his squash hat his hair is + rather plentiful and rather grey. He wears an old brown ulster + and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. He + is ANN'S father, WELLWYN, the artist. His companion is a + well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with + a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby + clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. He is + the Vicar of the parish--CANON BERTLEY. + + +BERTLEY. My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of +difficulty. When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir +Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've +seen to-night, I confess, I---- + +WELLWYN. Come in, Vicar, and have some grog. + +BERTLEY. Not to-night, thanks! Christmas tomorrow! Great +temptation, though, this room! Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann! + +ANN. [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] Good-night, +Canon Bertley. + + [He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him, + approaches the fire.] + +ANN. [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and +making tea.] Daddy! + +WELLWYN. My dear? + +ANN. You say you liked Professor Calway's lecture. Is it going to +do you any good, that's the question? + +WELLWYN. I--I hope so, Ann. + +ANN. I took you on purpose. Your charity's getting simply awful. +Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money. + +WELLWYN. Um! Um! I quite understand your feeling. + +ANN. They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse--didn't know what +you'd said to them. Why don't you make it a rule never to give your +card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of +course. + +WELLWYN. My dear, I have--often. + +ANN. Then why don't you keep it? It's a frightful habit. You are +naughty, Daddy. One of these days you'll get yourself into most +fearful complications. + +WELLWYN. My dear, when they--when they look at you? + +ANN. You know the house wants all sorts of things. Why do you speak +to them at all? + +WELLWYN. I don't--they speak to me. + + [He takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an + arm-chair.] + +ANN. They see you coming. Anybody can see you coming, Daddy. +That's why you ought to be so careful. I shall make you wear a hard +hat. Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient. + +WELLWYN. [Gazing at his hat.] Calway wears one. + +ANN. As if anyone would beg of Professor Calway. + +WELLWYN. Well-perhaps not. You know, Ann, I admire that fellow. +Wonderful power of-of-theory! How a man can be so absolutely tidy in +his mind! It's most exciting. + +ANN. Has any one begged of you to-day? + +WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] No--no. + +ANN. [After a long, severe look.] Will you have rum in your tea? + +WELLWYN. [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear--a good deal. + +ANN. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] Well, who +was it? + +WELLWYN. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in recollection.] +Interesting old creature, Ann--real type. Old cabman. + +ANN. Where? + +WELLWYN. Just on the Embankment. + +ANN. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always +rotters. + +WELLWYN. Yes, my dear; but this wasn't. + +ANN. Did you give him your card? + +WELLWYN. I--I--don't + +ANN. Did you, Daddy? + +WELLWYN. I'm rather afraid I may have! + +ANN. May have! It's simply immoral. + +WELLWYN. Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann. Besides, I +didn't give him any money--hadn't got any. + +ANN. Look here, Daddy! Did you ever ask anybody for anything? You +know you never did, you'd starve first. So would anybody decent. +Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters? + +WELLWYN. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They wouldn't do it +if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to be friendly. What's the +use of being alive if one isn't? + +ANN. Daddy, you're hopeless. + +WELLWYN. But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly +complicated. According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can +spare, to make the undeserving deserving. He's a Professor; he ought +to know. But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to +support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the +undeserving. Well, that's just the opposite. And he's a J.P. +Tremendous experience. And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of +both. Well, what the devil----? My trouble is, whichever I'm with, +he always converts me. [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of +them. + +ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're +the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a +tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them +again. + +WELLWYN. Am I likely to? + +ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair. +D'you know what I live in terror of? + + [WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.] + +ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the +street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his +trousers--they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one +enormous hole? + +WELLWYN. No! + +ANN. Spiritually. + +WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! H'm! + +ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his +lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on +your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you +really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist! + +WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment. +It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. If I'm to give up +feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it +doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do. +I shall have to sit with my head in a bag. + +ANN. I think you ought to. + +WELLWYN. I suppose they see I like them--then they tell me things. +After that, of course you can't help doing what you can. + +ANN. Well, if you will love them up! + +WELLWYN. My dear, I don't want to. It isn't them especially--why, I +feel it even with old Calway sometimes. It's only Providence that he +doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound +him! + +ANN. [Moving towards the door into the house--impressively.] What +you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you. + +WELLWYN. Well, thank God! + +ANN. It's so old-fashioned too! I'm going to bed--I just leave you +to your conscience. + +WELLWYN. Oh! + +ANN. [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night--[with a certain +weakening] you old--Daddy! + + [She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.] + + [WELLWYN stands perfectly still. He first gazes up at the + skylight, then down at the floor. Slowly he begins to shake his + head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.] + +WELLWYN. Bad lot. . . . Low type--no backbone, no stability! + + [There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door. As the sound + slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though + he knew, but would not admit its significance. Then he sits + down, covering his ears. The knocking does not cease. WELLWYN + drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle + towards the door. The knocking becomes louder.] + +WELLWYN. Ah dear! Tt! Tt! Tt! + + [After a look in the direction of ANN's disappearance, he opens + the street door a very little way. By the light of the lamp + there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a + shawl to which the snow is clinging. She has on her arm a + basket covered with a bit of sacking.] + +WELLWYN. I can't, you know; it's impossible. + + [The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.] + +WELLWYN. [Wincing.] Let's see--I don't know you--do I? + + [The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent + of reproach: "Mrs. Megan--you give me this---" She holds out a + dirty visiting card.] + +WELLWYN. [Recoiling from the card.] Oh! Did I? Ah! When? + +MRS. MEGAN. You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. You give +me 'arf a crown. + + [A smile tries to visit her face.] + +WELLWYN. [Looking stealthily round.] Ah! Well, come in--just for a +minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is. + + [She comes in stolidly, a Sphinx-like figure, with her pretty + tragic little face.] + +WELLWYN. I don't remember you. [Looking closer.] Yes, I do. Only-- +you weren't the same-were you? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Dully.] I seen trouble since. + +WELLWYN. Trouble! Have some tea? + + [He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes + quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum + into it.] + +WELLWYN. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out! Drink it off! + + [MRS. MEGAN drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost + immediately seems to get a size larger. WELLWYN watches her + with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his + face.] + +WELLWYN. Cure for all evils, um? + +MRS. MEGAN. It warms you. [She smiles.] + +WELLWYN. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] Well! You know, +I oughtn't. + +MRS. MEGAN. [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and +withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] I wouldn't 'a come, but you told +me if I wanted an 'and---- + +WELLWYN. [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.] Let me +see--corner of Flight Street, wasn't it? + +MRS. MEGAN. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an' I told you about +me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day. + +WELLWYN. Beautiful! Beautiful! Birds singing, and the trees, &c.! +We had quite a talk. You had a baby with you. + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. I got married since then. + +WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes! [Cheerfully.] And how's the baby? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Turning to stone.] I lost her. + +WELLWYN. Oh! poor--- Um! + +MRS. MEGAN. [Impassive.] You said something abaht makin' a picture +of me. [With faint eagerness.] So I thought I might come, in case +you'd forgotten. + +WELLWYN. [Looking at, her intently.] Things going badly? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep 'em +covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. Thruppence--that's all I've +took. + +WELLWYN. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too! + +MRS. MEGAN. They're dead. + +WELLWYN. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband? + +MRS. MEGAN. He plays cards. + +WELLWYN. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out--with a cold like +that? [He taps his chest.] + +MRS. MEGAN. We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is +mates. Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'. + +WELLWYN. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who +buys flowers at this time of night? + + [MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.] + +WELLWYN. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! Here! Come to the +fire! + + [She follows him to the fire. He shuts the street door.] + +WELLWYN. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and +take them off. That's right. + + [She sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at him, which + has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years, + begins taking off her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN goes to the + door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of + stealthy casualness. He returns whistling, but not out loud. + The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her + bare toes to the flames. She shuffles them back under her + skirt.] + +WELLWYN. How old are you, my child? + +MRS. MEGAN. Nineteen, come Candlemas. + +WELLWYN. And what's your name? + +MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere. + +WELLWYN. What? Welsh? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes--from Battersea. + +WELLWYN. And your husband? + +MRS. MEGAN. No. Irish, 'e is. Notting Dale, 'e comes from. + +WELLWYN. Roman Catholic? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. My 'usband's an atheist as well. + +WELLWYN. I see. [Abstractedly.] How jolly! And how old is he--this +young man of yours? + +MRS. MEGAN. 'E'll be twenty soon. + +WELLWYN. Babes in the wood! Does he treat you badly? + +MRS. MEGAN. No. + +WELLWYN. Nor drink? + +MRS. MEGAN. No. He's not a bad one. Only he gets playin' +cards then 'e'll fly the kite. + +WELLWYN. I see. And when he's not flying it, what does he do? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Touching her basket.] Same as me. Other jobs tires 'im. + +WELLWYN. That's very nice! [He checks himself.] Well, what am I to +do with you? + +MRS. MEGAN. Of course, I could get me night's lodging if I like to +do--the same as some of them. + +WELLWYN. No! no! Never, my child! Never! + +MRS. MEGAN. It's easy that way. + +WELLWYN. Heavens! But your husband! Um? + +MRS. MEGAN. [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of. + +WELLWYN. Tt! What a pickle! + +MRS. MEGAN. I'll 'ave to walk about the streets. + +WELLWYN. [To himself.] Now how can I? + + [MRS. MEGAN looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already + discovered that he is peculiar.] + +WELLWYN. You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because +--well, for one thing I haven't got it. There are other reasons, but +that's the--real one. But, now, there's a little room where my +models dress. I wonder if you could sleep there. Come, and see. + + [The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth. She + takes up her wet stockings.] + +MRS. MEGAN. Shall I put them on again? + +WELLWYN. No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [Seeing the +steam rising from her.] Why, you're wet all over. Here, wait a +little! + + [He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy + listening, steps through. The Girl, like a cat, steals back to + the warmth of the fire. WELLWYN returns with a candle, a + canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.] + +WELLWYN. Now then! [He precedes her towards the door of the model's +room.] Hsssh! [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show +her the room.] Will it do? There's a couch. You'll find some +washing things. Make yourself quite at home. See! + + [The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and + her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN hands her the candle, + blankets, and bath gown.] + +WELLWYN. Have a good sleep, child! Forget that you're alive! +[He closes the door, mournfully.] Done it again! [He goes to the +table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it +in.] Chow-chow! [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite +door.] Well--damn it, what could I have done? Not a farthing on me! +[He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to +confirm himself in his hospitality.] Night like this! + + [A sputter of snow is blown in his face. A voice says: + "Monsieur, pardon!" WELLWYN recoils spasmodically. A figure + moves from the lamp-post to the doorway. He is seen to be young + and to have ragged clothes. He speaks again: "You do not + remember me, Monsieur? My name is Ferrand--it was in Paris, in + the Champs-Elysees--by the fountain . . . . When you came to + the door, Monsieur--I am not made of iron . . . . Tenez, + here is your card I have never lost it." He holds out to WELLWYN + an old and dirty wing card. As inch by inch he has advanced + into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall + gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of + beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large, + grey, rather prominent eyes. There is a certain grace in his + figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.] + +WELLWYN. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes. By the +fountain. I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and +drank the water. + +FERRAND. [With faint eagerness.] My breakfast. I was in poverty-- +veree bad off. You gave me ten francs. I thought I had a little the +right [WELLWYN makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said +that if I came to England---- + +WELLWYN. Um! And so you've come? + +FERRAND. It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur. + +WELLWYN. And you--have---- + + [He stops embarrassed. FERRAND. [Shrugging his ragged + shoulders.] One is not yet Rothschild. + +WELLWYN. [Sympathetically.] No. [Yielding to memory.] We talked +philosophy. + +FERRAND. I have not yet changed my opinion. We other vagabonds, we +are exploited by the bourgeois. This is always my idea, Monsieur. + +WELLWYN. Yes--not quite the general view, perhaps! Well---- +[Heartily.] Come in! Very glad to see you again. + +FERRAND. [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur--your +goodness--I am a little weak. [He opens his coat, and shows a belt +drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] I tighten him one hole for +each meal, during two days now. That gives you courage. + +WELLWYN. [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have +some of this. It'll buck you up. [He watches the young man drink.] + +FERRAND. [Becoming a size larger.] Sometimes I think that I will +never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur--though I have no vices, +except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success. But I +will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing +every day. I must find with what to fly a little. + +WELLWYN. [Delicately.] Yes; yes--I remember, you found it difficult +to stay long in any particular--yes. + +FERRAND. [Proudly.] In one little corner? No--Monsieur--never! +That is not in my character. I must see life. + +WELLWYN. Quite, quite! Have some cake? + + [He cuts cake.] + +FERRAND. In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have +it. But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content. +[Refusing the cake.] 'Grand merci', but for the moment I have no +stomach--I have lost my stomach now for two days. If I could smoke, +Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking.] + +WELLWYN. Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] Roll yourself one. + +FERRAND. [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.] If I had not found you, +Monsieur--I would have been a little hole in the river to-night-- +I was so discouraged. [He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of +smoke. Very bitterly.] Life! [He disperses the puff of smoke with +his finger, and stares before him.] And to think that in a few +minutes HE will be born! Monsieur! [He gazes intently at WELLWYN.] +The world would reproach you for your goodness to me. + +WELLWYN. [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.] You think +so? Ah! + +FERRAND. Monsieur, if HE himself were on earth now, there would be a +little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call +Him sloppee sentimentalist! And what is veree funny, these gentlemen +they would all be most strong Christians. [He regards WELLWYN +deeply.] But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from +the first that you are no Christian. You have so kind a face. + +WELLWYN. Oh! Indeed! + +FERRAND. You have not enough the Pharisee in your character. You do +not judge, and you are judged. + + [He stretches his limbs as if in pain.] + +WELLWYN. Are you in pain? + +FERRAND. I 'ave a little the rheumatism. + +WELLWYN. Wet through, of course! [Glancing towards the house.] Wait +a bit! I wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're +not quite---- + + [He passes through the door into the house. FERRAND stands at + the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it, + smoking with abandonment. WELLWYN returns stealthily, dressed + in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his + trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.] + +WELLWYN. [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] Can +you make these do for the moment? + +FERRAND. 'Je vous remercie', Monsieur. [Pointing to the screen.] +May I retire? + +WELLWYN. Yes, yes. + + [FERRAND goes behind the screen. WELLWYN closes the door into + the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains. He + suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.] + +WELLWYN. Good Lord! + + [There is the sound of tapping on glass. Against the + window-pane is pressed the face of a man. WELLWYN motions to him + to go away. He does not go, but continues tapping. WELLWYN + opens the door. There enters a square old man, with a red, + pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler + hat. He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.] + +WELLWYN. Who's that? Who are you? + +TIMSON. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir; +we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson--I give you me name. You invited +of me, if ye remember. + +WELLWYN. It's a little late, really. + +TIMSON. Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer. I +was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein' +Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with +increasing thickness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a +bed abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my +age. + +WELLWYN. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into +his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me. + +TIMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't +arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do with 'orses all me life. +It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep. + +WELLWYN. Well, really, I---- + +TIMSON. To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward. + +WELLWYN. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well--come in a moment, and let's-- +think it out. Have some tea! + + [He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not + very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a + little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.] + +TIMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's--soberiety! +[He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. Agreeably +surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it? + +FERRAND. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of +which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would +soon have with what to make face against the world. + +WELLWYN. Too short! Ah! + + [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes + from it a needle and cotton.] + + [While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one + dog will another. The old man, glass in hand, seems to have + lapsed into coma.] + +FERRAND. [Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur! + + [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.] + +WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so! + + [They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.] + +FERRAND. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux +sont tous des buveurs'. + +WELLWYN. [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] Now, my old +friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.] +Will you smoke? + +TIMSON. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. Old +'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold. + + [He relapses into coma.] + +FERRAND. [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'. + +WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do +you think? + +FERRAND. Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse. He is dreaming. I know very +well that state of him--that catches you sometimes. It is the warmth +sudden on the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-night. At the +most, drink, and fly a little in his past. + +WELLWYN. Poor old buffer! + +FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents +among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses, +and from sitting still. + +WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched! + +FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is +well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug, +if you will, he will soon steam. + + [WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the + old man.] + +TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put--the rug on th' old +'orse. + + [He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.] + +WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him? + +FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a +'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call-- +'is bitt. + +WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in +this state. + +FERRAND. If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I +charge myself with him. + +WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't +contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed? + +FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur. + +WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you +want? + +FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'. + +WELLWYN. I don't know what I can do by staying. + +FERRAND. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. Have confidence in +me. + +WELLWYN. Well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly. You'd better +take this coat of mine, too. You'll find it precious cold, I expect, +about three o'clock. [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.] + +FERRAND. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur. + +WELLWYN. Ah! Yes! Thanks! Well-good-night! By the way, I shall +be down rather early. Have to think of my household a bit, you know. + +FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Monsieur'. I comprehend. One must well be +regular in this life. + +WELLWYN. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the +model's room.] I'd forgotten---- + +FERRAND. Can I undertake anything, Monsieur? + +WELLWYN. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer +door.] You won't want this, will you? + +FERRAND. 'Merci, Monsieur'. + + [WELLWYN switches off the light.] + +FERRAND. 'Bon soir, Monsieur'! + +WELLWYN. The devil! Er--good-night! + + [He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly + away.] + +FERRAND. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long at old TIMSON] +'Espece de type anglais!' + + [He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and + taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of + trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary + stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well- + accustomed. Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up + quickly and slips behind the screen. MRS. MEGAN, attracted by + the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping + from the model's room towards the fire. She has almost reached + it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON. + She halts and puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the + firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's- + wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her + neck. Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a + sort of stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on + the little stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON. FERRAND, + coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his + long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life; + then he steps back a yard or two.] + +FERRAND. [Gently.] 'Pardon, Ma'moiselle'. + +MRS. MEGAN. [Springing to her feet.] Oh! + +FERRAND. All right, all right! We are brave gents! + +TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] 'Old up, there! + +FERRAND. Trust in me, Ma'moiselle! + + [MRS. MEGAN responds by drawing away.] + +FERRAND. [Gently.] We must be good comrades. This asylum--it is +better than a doss-'ouse. + + [He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself. + Somewhat reassured, MRS. MEGAN again sits down.] + +MRS. MEGAN. You frightened me. + +TIMSON. [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] Purple foreigners! + +FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a philosopher. + +MRS. MEGAN. Oh! I thought 'e was boozed. + + [They both look at TIMSON] + +FERRAND. It is the same-veree 'armless. + +MRS. MEGAN. What's that he's got on 'im? + +FERRAND. It is a coronation robe. Have no fear, Ma'moiselle. Veree +docile potentate. + +MRS. MEGAN. I wouldn't be afraid of him. [Challenging FERRAND.] I'm +afraid o' you. + +FERRAND. It is because you do not know me, Ma'moiselle. You are +wrong, it is always the unknown you should love. + +MRS. MEGAN. I don't like the way you-speaks to me. + +FERRAND. Ah! You are a Princess in disguise? + +MRS. MEGAN. No fear! + +FERRAND. No? What is it then you do to make face against the +necessities of life? A living? + +MRS. MEGAN. Sells flowers. + +FERRAND. [Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career. + +MRS. MEGAN. [With a touch of devilry.] You don't know what I do. + +FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming. + + [MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and slowly smiles.] + +MRS. MEGAN. You're a foreigner. + +FERRAND. It is true. + +MRS. MEGAN. What do you do for a livin'? + +FERRAND. I am an interpreter. + +MRS. MEGAN. You ain't very busy, are you? + +FERRAND. [With dignity.] At present I am resting. + +MRS. MEGAN. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and 'im come +here? + +FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question. + +MRS. MEGAN. The gentleman let me. 'E's funny. + +FERRAND. 'C'est un ange' [At MRS. MEGAN's blank stare he +interprets.] An angel! + +MRS. MEGAN. Me luck's out-that's why I come. + +FERRAND. [Rising.] Ah! Ma'moiselle! Luck! There is the little +God who dominates us all. Look at this old! [He points to TIMSON.] +He is finished. In his day that old would be doing good business. +He could afford himself--[He maker a sign of drinking.]--Then come +the motor cars. All goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a +'cocher'! Luck! + +TIMSON. [With a vague gesture--drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars +out. + +FERRAND. A real Englishman . . . . And look at me! My father +was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels. If I had been content +to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich. But I was born to +roll--"rolling stone"to voyage is stronger than myself. Luck! . . +And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her +face.] You were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of +life. 'Et vous voila'! Luck! + + [Though she does not in the least understand what he has said, + her expression changes to a sort of glee.] + +FERRAND. Yes. You were born loving pleasure. Is it not? You see, +you cannot say, No. All of us, we have our fates. Give me your +hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is +that against which we cannot struggle. Yes, yes! + + [He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. + MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.] + +TIMSON. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be'ave yourselves! Yer +crimson canary birds! + + [MRS. MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.] + +FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a Puritan. + + [TIMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which + falls with a crash.] + +MRS. MEGAN. Let go my hand, please! + +FERRAND. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] +There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in +my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her +face.] Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long? + +MRS. MEGAN. I dunno--lots, I thinks of. + +FERRAND. Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the +strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along." +He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets--the lights-- +the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it +is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you +what the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for that +old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON. Then bending swiftly +forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you--Ah! + + [He draws her forward off the stool. There is a little + struggle, then she resigns her lips. The little stool, + overturned, falls with a clatter. They spring up, and move + apart. The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue + dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above + her head. Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove, + she recoils. Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice + sharpened by fright: "Daddy--Daddy!"] + +TIMSON. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] All right! +I'm comin'! + +FERRAND. Have no fear, Madame! + + [In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking + twelve. ANN remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened + on the strangers. There is the sound of someone falling + downstairs, and WELLWYN appears, also holding a candle above his + head.] + +ANN. Look! + +WELLWYN. Yes, yes, my dear! It--it happened. + +ANN. [With a sort of groan.] Oh! Daddy! + + [In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.] + +FERRAND. [Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come, Monsieur! 'Appy +Christmas! Bon Noel! + + [There is a sudden chime of bells. The Stage is blotted dark.] + + + Curtain. + + + + +ACT II + +It is four o'clock in the afternoon of New Year's Day. On the raised +dais MRS. MEGAN is standing, in her rags; with bare feet and ankles, +her dark hair as if blown about, her lips parted, holding out a +dishevelled bunch of violets. Before his easel, WELLWYN is painting +her. Behind him, at a table between the cupboard and the door to the +model's room, TIMSON is washing brushes, with the movements of one +employed upon relief works. The samovar is hissing on the table by +the stove, the tea things are set out. + +WELLWYN. Open your mouth. + + [MRS. MEGAN opens her mouth.] + +ANN. [In hat and coat, entering from the house.] Daddy! + + [WELLWYN goes to her; and, released from restraint, MRS. MEGAN + looks round at TIMSON and grimaces.] + +WELLWYN. Well, my dear? + + [They speak in low voices.] + +ANN. [Holding out a note.] This note from Canon Bentley. He's going +to bring her husband here this afternoon. [She looks at MRS. MEGAN.] + +WELLWYN. Oh! [He also looks at MRS. MEGAN.] + +ANN. And I met Sir Thomas Hoxton at church this morning, and spoke +to him about Timson. + +WELLWYN. Um! + + [They look at TIMSON. Then ANN goes back to the door, and + WELLWYN follows her.] + +ANN. [Turning.] I'm going round now, Daddy, to ask Professor Calway +what we're to do with that Ferrand. + +WELLWYN. Oh! One each! I wonder if they'll like it. + +ANN. They'll have to lump it. + + [She goes out into the house.] + +WELLWYN. [Back at his easel.] You can shut your mouth now. + + [MRS. MEGAN shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.] + +WELLWYN. [Spasmodically.] Ah! Now that's what I want. [He dabs +furiously at the canvas. Then standing back, runs his hands through +his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.] Dash! +Light's gone! Off you get, child--don't tempt me! + + [MRS. MEGAN descends. Passing towards the door of the model's + room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.] + +TIMSON. Ah! Would yer! + +WELLWYN. [Wheeling round.] Want to have a look? Well--come on! + + [He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas. + After a stolid moment, she giggles.] + +WELLWYN. Oh! You think so? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Who has lost her hoarseness.] It's not like my picture +that I had on the pier. + +WELLWYN. No-it wouldn't be. + +MRS. MEGAN. [Timidly.] If I had an 'at on, I'd look better. + +WELLWYN. With feathers? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. + +WELLWYN. Well, you can't! I don't like hats, and I don't like +feathers. + + [MRS. MEGAN timidly tugs his sleeve. TIMSON, screened as he + thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle + and is taking a stealthy swig.] + +WELLWYN. [To MRS. MEGAN, affecting not to notice.] How much do I owe +you? + +MRS. MEGAN. [A little surprised.] You paid me for to-day-all 'cept +a penny. + +WELLWYN. Well! Here it is. [He gives her a coin.] Go and get your +feet on! + +MRS. MEGAN. You've give me 'arf a crown. + +WELLWYN. Cut away now! + + [MRS. MEGAN, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room. + She looks back at WELLWYN, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he + is gazing at the picture; then, catching old TIMSON'S sour + glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little + squeal. But when WELLWYN turns to the sound, she is demurely + passing through the doorway.] + +TIMSON. [In his voice of dubious sobriety.] I've finished these yer +brushes, sir. It's not a man's work. I've been thinkin' if you'd +keep an 'orse, I could give yer satisfaction. + +WELLWYN. Would the horse, Timson? + +TIMSON. [Looking him up and down.] I knows of one that would just +suit yer. Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im. + +WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Afraid not, Timson! Awfully sorry, +though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present. + +TIMSON. [Faintly waving the brushes.] Of course, if you can't +afford it, I don't press you--it's only that I feel I'm not doing +meself justice. [Confidentially.] There's just one thing, sir; I +can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on. That foreigner--'e's not +the sort to 'ave about the place. Talk? Oh! ah! But 'e'll never +do any good with 'imself. He's a alien. + +WELLWYN. Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson. + +TIMSON. Don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault I says to the +young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a +sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--I don't mind +sayin' it--but, I said, he's too easy-goin'. + +WELLWYN. Indeed! + +TIMSON. Well, see that girl now! [He shakes his head.] I never did +believe in goin' behind a person's back--I'm an Englishman--but +[lowering his voice] she's a bad hat, sir. Why, look at the street +she comes from! + +WELLWYN. Oh! you know it. + +TIMSON. Lived there meself larst three years. See the difference a +few days' corn's made in her. She's that saucy you can't touch 'er +head. + +WELLWYN. Is there any necessity, Timson? + +TIMSON. Artful too. Full o' vice, I call'er. Where's 'er 'usband? + +WELLWYN. [Gravely.] Come, Timson! You wouldn't like her to---- + +TIMSON. [With dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket is plainly +visible.] I'm a man as always beared inspection. + +WELLWYN. [With a well-directed smile.] So I see. + +TIMSON. [Curving himself round the bottle.] It's not for me to say +nothing--but I can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever I can tell an +'orse. + +WELLWYN. [Painting.] I find it safest to assume that every man is a +gentleman, and every woman a lady. Saves no end of self-contempt. +Give me the little brush. + +TIMSON. [Handing him the brush--after a considerable introspective +pause.] Would yer like me to stay and wash it for yer again? [With +great resolution.] I will--I'll do it for you--never grudged workin' +for a gen'leman. + +WELLWYN. [With sincerity.] Thank you, Timson--very good of you, I'm +sure. [He hands him back the brush.] Just lend us a hand with this. +[Assisted by TIMSON he pushes back the dais.] Let's see! What do I +owe you? + +TIMSON. [Reluctantly.] It so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's +yesterday. + +WELLWYN. Then I suppose you want to-morrow's? + +TIMSON. Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job. When +you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you +might as well be dead. + +WELLWYN. Quite so! + +TIMSON. It mounts up in the course o' the year. + +WELLWYN. It would. [Passing him a coin.] This is for an exceptional +purpose--Timson--see. Not---- + +TIMSON. [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir. I quite +understand. I'm not that sort, as I think I've proved to yer, comin' +here regular day after day, all the week. There's one thing, I ought +to warn you perhaps--I might 'ave to give this job up any day. + + [He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts + it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.] + +WELLWYN. [Gravely.] I'd never stand in the way of your bettering +yourself, Timson. And, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend +about you to-day. I think something may come of it. + +TIMSON. Oh! Oh! She did! Well, it might do me a bit o' good. [He +makes for the outer door, but stops.] That foreigner! 'E sticks in +my gizzard. It's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to +pluck in 'is own Gawd-forsaken country. Reg-lar jay, that's what I +calls 'im. I could tell yer something---- + + [He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that FERRAND himself + is standing there. Sticking out his lower lip, TIMSON gives a + roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street. Owing to a + slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly + visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his + battle against the cold. FERRAND, having closed the door, + stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle. + He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a + frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk, + the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a + tan waistcoat.] + +WELLWYN. What luck to-day? + +FERRAND. [With a shrug.] Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur- +-not one bite. [Contemplating himself.] I think perhaps, that, for +the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume. + +WELLWYN. [Contemplating him.] Let's see--I believe I've an old top +hat somewhere. + +FERRAND. Ah! Monsieur, 'merci', but that I could not. It is +scarcely in my character. + +WELLWYN. True! + +FERRAND. I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to +Leicester Square. I have been to a Society for spreading Christian +knowledge--I thought there I would have a chance perhaps as +interpreter. 'Toujours meme chose', we regret, we have no situation +for you--same thing everywhere. It seems there is nothing doing in +this town. + +WELLWYN. I've noticed, there never is. + +FERRAND. I was thinking, Monsieur, that in aviation there might be a +career for me--but it seems one must be trained. + +WELLWYN. Afraid so, Ferrand. + +FERRAND. [Approaching the picture.] Ah! You are always working at +this. You will have something of very good there, Monsieur. You +wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high +civilisation. 'C'est tres chic ca'! [WELLWYN manifests the quiet +delight of an English artist actually understood.] In the figures +of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would +give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the +wild bird, that will surely die within. 'Tres gentil'! Believe me, +Monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life! How anxious +are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [His voice changes.] +For the wild birds it is not funny. There is in some human souls, +Monsieur, what cannot be made tame. + +WELLWYN. I believe you, Ferrand. + + [The face of a young man appears at the window, unseen. + Suddenly ANN opens the door leading to the house.] + +ANN. Daddy--I want you. + +WELLWYN. [To FERRAND.] Excuse me a minute! + + [He goes to his daughter, and they pass out. FERRAND remains + at the picture. MRS. MEGAN dressed in some of ANN's discarded + garments, has come out of the model's room. She steals up + behind FERRAND like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it + round his mouth. He turns, and tries to seize her; she + disingenuously slips away. He follows. The chase circles the + tea table. He catches her, lifts her up, swings round with + her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and + sets her down. She stands there smiling. The face at the + window darkens.] + +FERRAND. La Valse! + + [He takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands + against his shoulders to push him of--and suddenly they are + whirling. As they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and + kiss. Then, with a warning motion towards the door, she + wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying + desperately to appear demure. WELLWYN and ANN have entered. + The face has vanished.] + +FERRAND. [Pointing to the picture.] One does not comprehend all +this, Monsieur, without well studying. I was in train to interpret +for Ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro. + +WELLWYN. [With a queer look.] Don't take it too seriously, +Ferrand. + +FERRAND. It is a masterpiece. + +WELLWYN. My daughter's just spoken to a friend, Professor Calway. +He'd like to meet you. Could you come back a little later? + +FERRAND. Certainly, Ma'moiselle. That will be an opening for me, I +trust. [He goes to the street door.] + +ANN. [Paying no attention to him.] Mrs. Megan, will you too come +back in half an hour? + +FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Ma'moiselle'! I will see that she does. We +will take a little promenade together. That will do us good. + + [He motions towards the door; MRS. MEGAN, all eyes, follows him + out.] + +ANN. Oh! Daddy, they are rotters. Couldn't you see they were +having the most high jinks? + +WELLWYN. [At his picture.] I seemed to have noticed something. + +ANN. [Preparing for tea.] They were kissing. + +WELLWYN. Tt! Tt! + +ANN. They're hopeless, all three--especially her. Wish I hadn't +given her my clothes now. + +WELLWYN. [Absorbed.] Something of wild-savage. + +ANN. Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see that married +people live together in his parish. + +WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] The Megans are Roman Catholic-Atheists, +Ann. + +ANN. [With heat.] Then they're all the more bound. [WELLWYN gives +a sudden and alarmed whistle.] + +ANN. What's the matter? + +WELLWYN. Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, too. Suppose he +comes in while the Professor's here. They're cat and dog. + +ANN. [Blankly.] Oh! [As WELLWYN strikes a match.] The samovar is +lighted. [Taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to +the cupboard.] It's all right. He won't. + +WELLWYN. We'll hope not. + + [He turns back to his picture.] + +ANN. [At the cupboard.] Daddy! + +WELLWYN. Hi! + +ANN. There were three bottles. + +WELLWYN. Oh! + +ANN. Well! Now there aren't any. + +WELLWYN. [Abstracted.] That'll be Timson. + +ANN. [With real horror.] But it's awful! + +WELLWYN. It is, my dear. + +ANN. In seven days. To say nothing of the stealing. + +WELLWYN. [Vexed.] I blame myself-very much. Ought to have kept it +locked up. + +ANN. You ought to keep him locked up! + + [There is heard a mild but authoritative knock.] + +WELLWYN. Here's the Vicar! + +ANN. What are you going to do about the rum? + +WELLWYN. [Opening the door to CANON BERTLEY.] Come in, Vicar! +Happy New Year! + +BERTLEY. Same to you! Ah! Ann! I've got into touch with her +young husband--he's coming round. + +ANN. [Still a little out of her plate.] Thank Go---Moses! + +BERTLEY. [Faintly surprised.] From what I hear he's not really a +bad youth. Afraid he bets on horses. The great thing, WELLWYN, +with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot. + +ANN. [To herself-gloomily.] That's not difficult. What would you +do, Canon Bertley, with a man who's been drinking father's rum? + +BERTLEY. Remove the temptation, of course. + +WELLWYN. He's done that. + +BERTLEY. Ah! Then--[WELLWYN and ANN hang on his words] then I +should--er + +ANN. [Abruptly.] Remove him. + +BERTLEY. Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly see the +individual. + +WELLWYN. [Pointing to the window.] There he is! + + [In the failing light TIMSON'S face is indeed to be seen + pressed against the window pane.] + +ANN. Daddy, I do wish you'd have thick glass put in. It's so +disgusting to be spied at! [WELLWYN going quickly to the door, has +opened it.] What do you want? [TIMSON enters with dignity. He is +fuddled.] + +TIMSON. [Slowly.] Arskin' yer pardon-thought it me duty to come +back-found thish yer little brishel on me. [He produces the little +paint brush.] + +ANN. [In a deadly voice.] Nothing else? + + [TIMSON accords her a glassy stare.] + +WELLWYN. [Taking the brush hastily.] That'll do, Timson, thanks! + +TIMSON. As I am 'ere, can I do anything for yer? + +ANN. Yes, you can sweep out that little room. [She points to the +model's room.] There's a broom in there. + +TIMSON. [Disagreeably surprised.] Certainly; never make bones +about a little extra--never 'ave in all me life. Do it at onsh, I +will. [He moves across to the model's room at that peculiar broad +gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.] You quite understand me +--couldn't bear to 'ave anything on me that wasn't mine. + + [He passes out.] + +ANN. Old fraud! + +WELLWYN. "In" and "on." Mark my words, he'll restore the--bottles. + +BERTLEY. But, my dear WELLWYN, that is stealing. + +WELLWYN. We all have our discrepancies, Vicar. + +ANN. Daddy! Discrepancies! + +WELLWYN. Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson's an +Individualist, but as regards liquids he's a Socialist . . . or +'vice versa', according to taste. + +BERTLEY. No, no, we mustn't joke about it. [Gravely.] I do think +he should be spoken to. + +WELLWYN. Yes, but not by me. + +BERTLEY. Surely you're the proper person. + +WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] It was my rum, Vicar. Look so +personal. + + [There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.] + +WELLWYN. Isn't that the Professor's knock? + + [While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens + it. There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved + man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking + off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead, + which completely dominates all that comes below it.] + +WELLWYN. Come in, Professor! So awfully good of you! You know +Canon Bentley, I think? + +CALWAY. Ah! How d'you do? + +WELLWYN. Your opinion will be invaluable, Professor. + +ANN. Tea, Professor Calway? + + [They have assembled round the tea table.] + +CALWAY. Thank you; no tea; milk. + +WELLWYN. Rum? + + [He pours rum into CALWAY's milk.] + +CALWAY. A little-thanks! [Turning to ANN.] You were going to show +me some one you're trying to rescue, or something, I think. + +ANN. Oh! Yes. He'll be here directly--simply perfect rotter. + +CALWAY. [Smiling.] Really! Ah! I think you said he was a +congenital? + +WELLWYN. [With great interest.] What! + +ANN. [Low.] Daddy! [To CALWAY.] Yes; I--I think that's what you +call him. + +CALWAY. Not old? + +ANN. No; and quite healthy--a vagabond. + +CALWAY. [Sipping.] I see! Yes. Is it, do you think chronic +unemployment with a vagrant tendency? Or would it be nearer the +mark to say: Vagrancy---- + +WELLWYN. Pure! Oh! pure! Professor. Awfully human. + +CALWAY. [With a smile of knowledge.] Quite! And--er---- + +ANN. [Breaking in.] Before he comes, there's another---- + +BERTLEY. [Blandly.] Yes, when you came in, we were discussing what +should be done with a man who drinks rum--[CALWAY pauses in the act +of drinking]--that doesn't belong to him. + +CALWAY. Really! Dipsomaniac? + +BERTLEY. Well--perhaps you could tell us--drink certainly changing +thine to mine. The Professor could see him, WELLWYN? + +ANN. [Rising.] Yes, do come and look at him, Professor CALWAY. +He's in there. + + [She points towards the model's room. CALWAY smiles + deprecatingly.] + +ANN. No, really; we needn't open the door. You can see him through +the glass. He's more than half---- + +CALWAY. Well, I hardly---- + +ANN. Oh! Do! Come on, Professor CALWAY! We must know what to do +with him. [CALWAY rises.] You can stand on a chair. It's all +science. + + [She draws CALWAY to the model's room, which is lighted by a + glass panel in the top of the high door. CANON BERTLEY also + rises and stands watching. WELLWYN hovers, torn between + respect for science and dislike of espionage.] + +ANN. [Drawing up a chair.] Come on! + +CALWAY. Do you seriously wish me to? + +ANN. Rather! It's quite safe; he can't see you. + +CALWAY. But he might come out. + + [ANN puts her back against the door. CALWAY mounts the chair + dubiously, and raises his head cautiously, bending it more and + more downwards.] + +ANN. Well? + +CALWAY. He appears to be---sitting on the floor. + +WELLWYN. Yes, that's all right! + + [BERTLEY covers his lips.] + +CALWAY. [To ANN--descending.] By the look of his face, as far as +one can see it, I should say there was a leaning towards mania. I +know the treatment. + + [There come three loud knocks on the door. WELLWYN and ANN + exchange a glance of consternation.] + +ANN. Who's that? + +WELLWYN. It sounds like Sir Thomas. + +CALWAY. Sir Thomas Hoxton? + +WELLWYN. [Nodding.] Awfully sorry, Professor. You see, we---- + +CALWAY. Not at all. Only, I must decline to be involved in +argument with him, please. + +BERTLEY. He has experience. We might get his opinion, don't you +think? + +CALWAY. On a point of reform? A J.P.! + +BERTLEY. [Deprecating.] My dear Sir--we needn't take it. + + [The three knocks resound with extraordinary fury.] + +ANN. You'd better open the door, Daddy. + + [WELLWYN opens the door. SIR, THOMAS HOXTON is disclosed in a + fur overcoat and top hat. His square, well-coloured face is + remarkable for a massive jaw, dominating all that comes above + it. His Voice is resolute.] + +HOXTON. Afraid I didn't make myself heard. + +WELLWYN. So good of you to come, Sir Thomas. Canon Bertley! [They +greet.] Professor CALWAY you know, I think. + +HOXTON. [Ominously.] I do. + + [They almost greet. An awkward pause.] + +ANN. [Blurting it out.] That old cabman I told you of's been +drinking father's rum. + +BERTLEY. We were just discussing what's to be done with him, Sir +Thomas. One wants to do the very best, of course. The question of +reform is always delicate. + +CALWAY. I beg your pardon. There is no question here. + +HOXTON. [Abruptly.] Oh! Is he in the house? + +ANN. In there. + +HOXTON. Works for you, eh? + +WELLWYN. Er--yes. + +HOXTON. Let's have a look at him! + + [An embarrassed pause.] + +BERTLEY. Well--the fact is, Sir Thomas---- + +CALWAY. When last under observation---- + +ANN. He was sitting on the floor. + +WELLWYN. I don't want the old fellow to feel he's being made a show +of. Disgusting to be spied at, Ann. + +ANN. You can't, Daddy! He's drunk. + +HOXTON. Never mind, Miss WELLWYN. Hundreds of these fellows before +me in my time. [At CALWAY.] The only thing is a sharp lesson! + +CALWAY. I disagree. I've seen the man; what he requires is steady +control, and the bobbins treatment. + + [WELLWYN approaches them with fearful interest.] + +HOXTON. Not a bit of it! He wants one for his knob! Brace 'em up! +It's the only thing. + +BERTLEY. Personally, I think that if he were spoken to seriously + +CALWAY. I cannot walk arm in arm with a crab! + +HOXTON. [Approaching CALWAY.] I beg your pardon? + +CALWAY. [Moving back a little.] You're moving backwards, Sir +Thomas. I've told you before, convinced reactionaryism, in these +days---- + + [There comes a single knock on the street door.] + +BERTLEY. [Looking at his watch.] D'you know, I'm rather afraid +this may be our young husband, WELLWYN. I told him half-past four. + +WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes. [Going towards the two reformers.] Shall +we go into the house, Professor, and settle the question quietly +while the Vicar sees a young man? + +CALWAY. [Pale with uncompleted statement, and gravitating +insensibly in the direction indicated.] The merest sense of +continuity--a simple instinct for order---- + +HOXTON. [Following.] The only way to get order, sir, is to bring +the disorderly up with a round turn. [CALWAY turns to him in the +doorway.] You people without practical experience---- + +CALWAY. If you'll listen to me a minute. + +HOXTON. I can show you in a mo---- + + [They vanish through the door.] + +WELLWYN. I was afraid of it. + +BERTLEY. The two points of view. Pleasant to see such keenness. +I may want you, WELLWYN. And Ann perhaps had better not be present. + +WELLWYN. [Relieved.] Quite so! My dear! + + [ANN goes reluctantly. WELLWYN opens the street door. The + lamp outside has just been lighted, and, by its gleam, is seen + the figure of RORY MEGAN, thin, pale, youthful. ANN turning at + the door into the house gives him a long, inquisitive look, + then goes.] + +WELLWYN. Is that Megan? + +MEGAN. Yus. + +WELLWYN. Come in. + + [MEGAN comes in. There follows an awkward silence, during + which WELLWYN turns up the light, then goes to the tea table + and pours out a glass of tea and rum.] + +BERTLEY. [Kindly.] Now, my boy, how is it that you and your wife +are living apart like this? + +MEGAN. I dunno. + +BERTLEY. Well, if you don't, none of us are very likely to, are we? + +MEGAN. That's what I thought, as I was comin' along. + +WELLWYN. [Twinkling.] Have some tea, Megan? [Handing him the +glass.] What d'you think of her picture? 'Tisn't quite finished. + +MEGAN. [After scrutiny.] I seen her look like it--once. + +WELLWYN. Good! When was that? + +MEGAN. [Stoically.] When she 'ad the measles. + + [He drinks.] + +WELLWYN. [Ruminating.] I see--yes. I quite see feverish! + +BERTLEY. My dear WELLWYN, let me--[To, MEGAN.] Now, I hope you're +willing to come together again, and to maintain her? + +MEGAN. If she'll maintain me. + +BERTLEY. Oh! but--I see, you mean you're in the same line of +business? + +MEGAN. Yus. + +BERTLEY. And lean on each other. Quite so! + +MEGAN. I leans on 'er mostly--with 'er looks. + +BERTLEY. Indeed! Very interesting--that! + +MEGAN. Yus. Sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown off of a toff. [He +looks at WELLWYN.] + +WELLWYN. [Twinkling.] I apologise to you, Megan. + +MEGAN. [With a faint smile.] I could do with a bit more of it. + +BERTLEY. [Dubiously.] Yes! Yes! Now, my boy, I've heard you bet +on horses. + +MEGAN. No, I don't. + +BERTLEY. Play cards, then? Come! Don't be afraid to acknowledge +it. + +MEGAN. When I'm 'ard up--yus. + +BERTLEY. But don't you know that's ruination? + +MEGAN. Depends. Sometimes I wins a lot. + +BERTLEY. You know that's not at all what I mean. Come, promise me +to give it up. + +MEGAN. I dunno abaht that. + +BERTLEY. Now, there's a good fellow. Make a big effort and throw +the habit off! + +MEGAN. Comes over me--same as it might over you. + +BERTLEY. Over me! How do you mean, my boy? + +MEGAN. [With a look up.] To tork! + + [WELLWYN, turning to the picture, makes a funny little noise.] + +BERTLEY. [Maintaining his good humour.] A hit! But you forget, +you know, to talk's my business. It's not yours to gamble. + +MEGAN. You try sellin' flowers. If that ain't a--gamble + +BERTLEY. I'm afraid we're wandering a little from the point. +Husband and wife should be together. You were brought up to that. +Your father and mother---- + +MEGAN. Never was. + +WELLWYN. [Turning from the picture.] The question is, Megan: Will +you take your wife home? She's a good little soul. + +MEGAN. She never let me know it. + + [There is a feeble knock on the door.] + +WELLWYN. Well, now come. Here she is! + + [He points to the door, and stands regarding MEGAN with his + friendly smile.] + +MEGAN. [With a gleam of responsiveness.] I might, perhaps, to +please you, sir. + +BERTLEY. [Appropriating the gesture.] Capital, I thought we should +get on in time. + +MEGAN. Yus. + + [WELLWYN opens the door. MRS. MEGAN and FERRAND are revealed. + They are about to enter, but catching sight of MEGAN, + hesitate.] + +BERTLEY. Come in! Come in! + + [MRS. MEGAN enters stolidly. FERRAND, following, stands apart + with an air of extreme detachment. MEGAN, after a quick glance + at them both, remains unmoved. No one has noticed that the + door of the model's room has been opened, and that the unsteady + figure of old TIMSON is standing there.] + +BERTLEY. [A little awkward in the presence of FERRAND--to the +MEGANS.] This begins a new chapter. We won't improve the occasion. +No need. + + [MEGAN, turning towards his wife, makes her a gesture as if to + say: "Here! let's get out of this!"] + +BENTLEY. Yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once--I know. [He +holds up his hand mechanically.] + +TIMSON. I forbids the banns. + +BERTLEY, [Startled.] Gracious! + +TIMSON. [Extremely unsteady.] Just cause and impejiment. There 'e +stands. [He points to FERRAND.] The crimson foreigner! The mockin' +jay! + +WELLWYN. Timson! + +TIMSON. You're a gen'leman--I'm aweer o' that but I must speak the +truth--[he waves his hand] an' shame the devil! + +BERTLEY. Is this the rum--? + +TIMSON. [Struck by the word.] I'm a teetotaler. + +WELLWYN. Timson, Timson! + +TIMSON. Seein' as there's ladies present, I won't be conspicuous. +[Moving away, and making for the door, he strikes against the dais, +and mounts upon it.] But what I do say, is: He's no better than 'er +and she's worse. + +BERTLEY. This is distressing. + +FERRAND. [Calmly.] On my honour, Monsieur! + + [TIMSON growls.] + +WELLWYN. Now, now, Timson! + +TIMSON. That's all right. You're a gen'leman, an' I'm a gen'leman, +but he ain't an' she ain't. + +WELLWYN. We shall not believe you. + +BERTLEY. No, no; we shall not believe you. + +TIMSON. [Heavily.] Very well, you doubts my word. Will it make +any difference, Guv'nor, if I speaks the truth? + +BERTLEY. No, certainly not--that is--of course, it will. + +TIMSON. Well, then, I see 'em plainer than I see [pointing at +BERTLEY] the two of you. + +WELLWYN. Be quiet, Timson! + +BERTLEY. Not even her husband believes you. + +MEGAN. [Suddenly.] Don't I! + +WELLWYN. Come, Megan, you can see the old fellow's in Paradise. + +BERTLEY. Do you credit such a--such an object? + + [He points at TIMSON, who seems falling asleep.] + +MEGAN. Naow! + + [Unseen by anybody, ANN has returned.] + +BERTLEY. Well, then, my boy? + +MEGAN. I seen 'em meself. + +BERTLEY. Gracious! But just now you were will---- + +MEGAN. [Sardonically.] There wasn't nothing against me honour, +then. Now you've took it away between you, cumin' aht with it like +this. I don't want no more of 'er, and I'll want a good deal more +of 'im; as 'e'll soon find. + + [He jerks his chin at FERRAND, turns slowly on his heel, and + goes out into the street.] + + [There follows a profound silence.] + +ANN. What did I say, Daddy? Utter! All three. + + [Suddenly alive to her presence, they all turn.] + +TIMSON. [Waking up and looking round him.] Well, p'raps I'd better +go. + + [Assisted by WELLWYN he lurches gingerly off the dais towards + the door, which WELLWYN holds open for him.] + +TIMSON. [Mechanically.] Where to, sir? + + [Receiving no answer he passes out, touching his hat; and the + door is closed.] + +WELLWYN. Ann! + + [ANN goes back whence she came.] + + [BERTLEY, steadily regarding MRS. MEGAN, who has put her arm up + in front of her face, beckons to FERRAND, and the young man + comes gravely forward.] + +BERTLEY. Young people, this is very dreadful. [MRS. MEGAN lowers +her arm a little, and looks at him over it.] Very sad! + +MRS. MEGAN. [Dropping her arm.] Megan's no better than what I am. + +BERTLEY. Come, come! Here's your home broken up! [MRS. MEGAN +Smiles. Shaking his head gravely.] Surely-surely-you mustn't +smile. [MRS. MEGAN becomes tragic.] That's better. Now, what is +to be done? + +FERRAND. Believe me, Monsieur, I greatly regret. + +BERTLEY. I'm glad to hear it. + +FERRAND. If I had foreseen this disaster. + +BERTLEY. Is that your only reason for regret? + +FERRAND. [With a little bow.] Any reason that you wish, Monsieur. +I will do my possible. + +MRS. MEGAN. I could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes +round at WELLWYN] I 'ad the money to furnish it. + +BERTLEY. But suppose I can induce your husband to forgive you, and +take you back? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Shaking her head.] 'E'd 'it me. + +BERTLEY. I said to forgive. + +MRS. MEGAN. That wouldn't make no difference. [With a flash at +BERTLEY.] An' I ain't forgiven him! + +BERTLEY. That is sinful. + +MRS. MEGAN. I'm a Catholic. + +BERTLEY. My good child, what difference does that make? + +FERRAND. Monsieur, if I might interpret for her. + + [BERTLEY silences him with a gesture. MRS. MEGAN.] + + [Sliding her eyes towards WELLWYN.] If I 'ad the money to buy + some fresh stock.] + +BERTLEY. Yes; yes; never mind the money. What I want to find in +you both, is repentance. + +MRS. MEGAN. [With a flash up at him.] I can't get me livin' off of +repentin'. + +BERTLEY. Now, now! Never say what you know to be wrong. + +FERRAND. Monsieur, her soul is very simple. + +BERTLEY. [Severely.] I do not know, sir, that we shall get any +great assistance from your views. In fact, one thing is clear to +me, she must discontinue your acquaintanceship at once. + +FERRAND. Certainly, Monsieur. We have no serious intentions. + +BERTLEY. All the more shame to you, then! + +FERRAND. Monsieur, I see perfectly your point of view. It is very +natural. [He bows and is silent.] + +MRS. MEGAN. I don't want'im hurt'cos o' me. Megan'll get his mates +to belt him--bein' foreign like he is. + +BERTLEY. Yes, never mind that. It's you I'm thinking of. + +MRS. MEGAN. I'd sooner they'd hit me. + +WELLWYN. [Suddenly.] Well said, my child! + +MRS. MEGAN. 'Twasn't his fault. + +FERRAND. [Without irony--to WELLWYN.] I cannot accept that +Monsieur. The blame--it is all mine. + +ANN. [Entering suddenly from the house.] Daddy, they're having an +awful----! + + [The voices of PROFESSOR CALWAY and SIR THOMAS HOXTON are + distinctly heard.] + +CALWAY. The question is a much wider one, Sir Thomas. + +HOXTON. As wide as you like, you'll never---- + + [WELLWYN pushes ANN back into the house and closes the door + behind her. The voices are still faintly heard arguing on the + threshold.] + +BERTLEY. Let me go in here a minute, Wellyn. I must finish +speaking to her. [He motions MRS. MEGAN towards the model's room.] +We can't leave the matter thus. + +FERRAND. [Suavely.] Do you desire my company, Monsieur? + + [BERTLEY, with a prohibitive gesture of his hand, shepherds the + reluctant MRS. MEGAN into the model's room.] + +WELLWYN. [Sorrowfully.] You shouldn't have done this, Ferrand. It +wasn't the square thing. + +FERRAND. [With dignity.] Monsieur, I feel that I am in the wrong. +It was stronger than me. + + [As he speaks, SIR THOMAS HOXTON and PROFESSOR CALWAY enter + from the house. In the dim light, and the full cry of + argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire. SIR + THOMAS HOXTON leads towards the street door.] + +HOXTON. No, Sir, I repeat, if the country once commits itself to +your views of reform, it's as good as doomed. + +CALWAY. I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas. And let me +say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime---- + +HOXTON. Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly +methods. What the old fellow wants is a shock! With all this +socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual. + +CALWAY. [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost," +have never even seen him. + + [SIR THOMAS HOXTON, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps + out into the night, and falls heavily PROFESSOR CALWAY, + hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.] + + [TIMSON, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits + up.] + +HOXTON. [Struggling to his knees.] Damnation! + +CALWAY. [Sitting.] How simultaneous! + + [WELLWYN and FERRAND approach hastily.] + +FERRAND. [Pointing to TIMSON.] Monsieur, it was true, it seems. +They had lost sight of the individual. + + [A Policeman has appeared under the street lamp. He picks up + HOXTON'S hat.] + +CONSTABLE. Anything wrong, sir? + +HOXTON. [Recovering his feet.] Wrong? Great Scott! Constable! +Why do you let things lie about in the street like this? Look here, +Wellyn! + + [They all scrutinize TIMSON.] + +WELLWYN. It's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing. + +HOXTON. How did he come here? + +CONSTABLE. Drunk, sir. [Ascertaining TIMSON to be in the street.] +Just off the premises, by good luck. Come along, father. + +TIMSON. [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.] Cert'nly, by no means; +take my arm. + + [They move from the doorway. HOXTON and CALWAY re-enter, and + go towards the fire.] + +ANN. [Entering from the house.] What's happened? + +CALWAY. Might we have a brush? + +HOXTON. [Testily.] Let it dry! + + [He moves to the fire and stands before it. PROFESSOR CALWAY + following stands a little behind him. ANN returning begins to + brush the PROFESSOR's sleeve.] + +WELLWYN. [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after +the receding TIMSON.] Poor old Timson! + +FERRAND. [Softly.] Must be philosopher, Monsieur! They will but +run him in a little. + + [From the model's room MRS. MEGAN has come out, shepherded by + CANON BERTLEY.] + +BERTLEY. Let's see, your Christian name is----. + +MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere. + +BERTLEY. Oh! Ah! Ah! Ann, take Gui--take our little friend into +the study a minute: I am going to put her into service. We shall +make a new woman of her, yet. + +ANN. [Handing CANON BERTLEY the brush, and turning to MRS. MEGAN.] +Come on! + + [She leads into the house, and MRS. MEGAN follows Stolidly.] + +BERTLEY. [Brushing CALWAY'S back.] Have you fallen? + +CALWAY. Yes. + +BERTLEY. Dear me! How was that? + +HOXTON. That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep. Hope they'll give +him a sharp dose! These rag-tags! + + [He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on FERRAND.] + +FERRAND. [With his eyes on HOXTON--softly.] Monsieur, something +tells me it is time I took the road again. + +WELLWYN. [Fumbling out a sovereign.] Take this, then! + +FERRAND. [Refusing the coin.] Non, Monsieur. To abuse 'ospitality +is not in my character. + +BERTLEY. We must not despair of anyone. + +HOXTON. Who talked of despairing? Treat him, as I say, and you'll +see! + +CALWAY. The interest of the State---- + +HOXTON. The interest of the individual citizen sir---- + +BERTLEY. Come! A little of both, a little of both! + + [They resume their brushing.] + +FERRAND. You are now debarrassed of us three, Monsieur. I leave +you instead--these sirs. [He points.] 'Au revoir, Monsieur'! +[Motioning towards the fire.] 'Appy New Year! + + [He slips quietly out. WELLWYN, turning, contemplates the + three reformers. They are all now brushing away, scratching + each other's backs, and gravely hissing. As he approaches + them, they speak with a certain unanimity.] + +HOXTON. My theory----! + +CALWAY. My theory----! + +BERTLEY. My theory----! + + [They stop surprised. WELLWYN makes a gesture of discomfort, + as they speak again with still more unanimity.] + +HOXTON. My----! CALWAY. My----! BERTLEY. My----! + + [They stop in greater surprise. The stage is blotted dark.] + + + Curtain. + + + + +ACT III + +It is the first of April--a white spring day of gleams and driving +showers. The street door of WELLWYN's studio stands wide open, and, +past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper +bags. Through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary +furniture van with its flap let down. To this van three humble-men +in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the +studio. The hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly +empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the +fast-being-gutted room. WELLWYN in his ulster and soft hat, is +squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring +into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette. He has a moulting air. +Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles +of vertu. + +CHIEF H'MAN. [Stopping, and standing in the attitude of +expectation.] We've about pinched this little lot, sir. Shall we +take the--reservoir? + + [He indicates the samovar.] + +WELLWYN. Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding +coins.] Thanks--thanks--heavy work, I'm afraid. + +H'MAN. [Receiving the coins--a little surprised and a good deal +pleased.] Thank'ee, sir. Much obliged, I'm sure. We'll 'ave to +come back for this. [He gives the dais a vigorous push with his +foot.] Not a fixture, as I understand. Perhaps you'd like us to +leave these 'ere for a bit. [He indicates the tea things.] + +WELLWYN. Ah! do. + + [The humble-men go out. There is the sound of horses being + started, and the butt end of the van disappears. WELLWYN stays + on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare. The open + doorway is darkened by a figure. CANON BERTLEY is standing + there.] + +BERTLEY. WELLWYN! [WELLWYN turns and rises.] It's ages since I +saw you. No idea you were moving. This is very dreadful. + +WELLWYN. Yes, Ann found this--too exposed. That tall house in +Flight Street--we're going there. Seventh floor. + +BERTLEY. Lift? + + [WELLWYN shakes his head.] + +BERTLEY. Dear me! No lift? Fine view, no doubt. [WELLWYN nods.] +You'll be greatly missed. + +WELLWYN. So Ann thinks. Vicar, what's become of that little +flower-seller I was painting at Christmas? You took her into +service. + +BERTLEY. Not we--exactly! Some dear friends of ours. Painful +subject! + +WELLWYN. Oh! + +BERTLEY. Yes. She got the footman into trouble. + +WELLWYN. Did she, now? + +BERTLEY. Disappointing. I consulted with CALWAY, and he advised me +to try a certain institution. We got her safely in--excellent +place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago. And since-- +I've heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, I'm afraid--quite! + +WELLWYN. I thought I saw her last night. You can't tell me her +address, I suppose? + +BERTLEY. [Shaking his head.] The husband too has quite passed out +of my ken. He betted on horses, you remember. I'm sometimes +tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but +to pray for death. + + [ANN has entered from the house. Her hair hangs from under a + knitted cap. She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk + scarf.] + +BERTLEY. Ah! Ann. I was telling your father of that poor little +Mrs. Megan. + +ANN. Is she dead? + +BERTLEY. Worse I fear. By the way--what became of her accomplice? + +ANN. We haven't seen him since. [She looks searchingly at +WELLWYN.] At least--have you--Daddy? + +WELLWYN. [Rather hurt.] No, my dear; I have not. + +BERTLEY. And the--old gentleman who drank the rum? + +ANN. He got fourteen days. It was the fifth time. + +BERTLEY. Dear me! + +ANN. When he came out he got more drunk than ever. Rather a score +for Professor Calway, wasn't it? + +BERTLEY. I remember. He and Sir Thomas took a kindly interest in +the old fellow. + +ANN. Yes, they fell over him. The Professor got him into an +Institution. + +BERTLEY. Indeed! + +ANN. He was perfectly sober all the time he was there. + +WELLWYN. My dear, they only allow them milk. + +ANN. Well, anyway, he was reformed. + +WELLWYN. Ye-yes! + +ANN. [Terribly.] Daddy! You've been seeing him! + +WELLWYN. [With dignity.] My dear, I have not. + +ANN. How do you know, then? + +WELLWYN. Came across Sir Thomas on the Embankment yesterday; told +me old Timso--had been had up again for sitting down in front of a +brewer's dray. + +ANN. Why? + +WELLWYN. Well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you +call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits. + +BERTLEY. Do you mean he deliberately sat down, with the +intention--of--er? + +WELLWYN. Said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him. + +ANN. Rather a score for Sir Thomas! I suppose he'd told the +Professor? What did he say? + +WELLWYN. Well, the Professor said [with a quick glance at BERTLEY] +he felt there was nothing for some of these poor devils but a lethal +chamber. + +BERTLEY. [Shocked.] Did he really! + +[He has not yet caught WELLWYN' s glance.] + +WELLWYN. And Sir Thomas agreed. Historic occasion. And you, Vicar +H'm! + + [BERTLEY winces.] + +ANN. [To herself.] Well, there isn't. + +BERTLEY. And yet! Some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one +could put one's finger on it. [Preparing to go.] You'll let us +know, then, when you're settled. What was the address? [WELLWYN +takes out and hands him a card.] Ah! yes. Good-bye, Ann. +Good-bye, Wellyn. [The wind blows his hat along the street.] What +a wind! [He goes, pursuing.] + +ANN. [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have you told those +other two where we're going? + +WELLWYN. Which other two, my dear? + +ANN. The Professor and Sir Thomas. + +WELLWYN. Well, Ann, naturally I---- + +ANN. [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.] Oh, dear! When I'm +trying to get you away from all this atmosphere. I don't so much +mind the Vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart---- + + [She jumps off again. ] + +WELLWYN. [To himself.] Seventh floor! I felt there was something. + +ANN. [Preparing to go.] I'm going round now. But you must stay +here till the van comes back. And don't forget you tipped the men +after the first load. + +WELLWYN. Oh! Yes, yes. [Uneasily.] Good sorts they look, those +fellows! + +ANN. [Scrutinising him.] What have you done? + +WELLWYN. Nothing, my dear, really----! + +ANN. What? + +WELLWYN. I--I rather think I may have tipped them twice. + +ANN. [Drily.] Daddy! If it is the first of April, it's not +necessary to make a fool of oneself. That's the last time you ever +do these ridiculous things. [WELLWYN eyes her askance.] I'm going +to see that you spend your money on yourself. You needn't look at +me like that! I mean to. As soon as I've got you away from here, +and all--these---- + +WELLWYN. Don't rub it in, Ann! + +ANN. [Giving him a sudden hug--then going to the door--with a sort +of triumph.] Deeds, not words, Daddy! + + [She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out + beneath her firm young chin. WELLWYN returning to the fire, + stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.] + +WELLWYN. [To himself.] Bad lot--low type! No method! No theory! + + [In the open doorway appear FERRAND and MRS. MEGAN. They + stand, unseen, looking at him. FERRAND is more ragged, if + possible, than on Christmas Eve. His chin and cheeks are + clothed in a reddish golden beard. MRS. MEGAN's dress is not + so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled. + They whisper. She slips back into the shadow of the doorway. + WELLWYN turns at the sound, and stares at FERRAND in + amazement.] + +FERRAND. [Advancing.] Enchanted to see you, Monsieur. [He looks +round the empty room.] You are leaving? + +WELLWYN. [Nodding--then taking the young man's hand.] How goes it? + +FERRAND. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see, Monsieur. I +have done of my best. It still flies from me. + +WELLWYN. [Sadly--as if against his will.] Ferrand, it will always +fly. + + [The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then + controls himself with a great effort.] + +FERRAND. Don't say that, Monsieur! It is too much the echo of my +heart. + +WELLWYN. Forgive me! I didn't mean to pain you. + +FERRAND. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby, Monsieur, you +remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the +other day. + + [WELLWYN nods.] + +FERRAND. And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories? +He has worn them out? [WELLWYN nods.] That goes without saying. +And now they wish for him the lethal chamber. + +WELLWYN. [Startled.] How did you know that? + + [There is silence.] + +FERRAND. [Staring into the fire.] Monsieur, while I was on the +road this time I fell ill of a fever. It seemed to me in my illness +that I saw the truth--how I was wasting in this world--I would never +be good for any one--nor any one for me--all would go by, and I +never of it--fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of +life, ever mocking me. + + [He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the + flame. And while he is speaking, through the doorway MRS. + MEGAN creeps in to listen.] + +FERRAND. [Speaking on into the fire.] And I saw, Monsieur, so +plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I +dying in the end the death of a dog. I saw it all in my fever-- +clear as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb +of death. [WELLWYN takes his arm and presses it.] And so, +Monsieur, I wished to die. I told no one of my fever. I lay out on +the ground--it was verree cold. But they would not let me die on +the roads of their parishes--they took me to an Institution, +Monsieur, I looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more +clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should +die, although they would not let me. Then Monsieur, naturally my +spirit rose, and I said: "So much the worse for you. I will live a +little more." One is made like that! Life is sweet, Monsieur. + +WELLWYN. Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet. + +FERRAND. That little girl you had here, Monsieur [WELLWYN nods.] +in her too there is something of wild-savage. She must have joy of +life. I have seen her since I came back. She has embraced the life +of joy. It is not quite the same thing. [He lowers his voice.] +She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. I can see, +if she cannot. [As WELLWYN makes a movement of distress.] Oh! I +am not to blame for that, Monsieur. It had well begun before I knew +her. + +WELLWYN. Yes, yes--I was afraid of it, at the time. + + [MRS. MEGAN turns silently, and slips away.] + +FEERRAND. I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look at me! Besides, +I am not good for her--it is not good for simple souls to be with +those who see things clear. For the great part of mankind, to see +anything--is fatal. + +WELLWYN. Even for you, it seems. + +FERRAND. No, Monsieur. To be so near to death has done me good; I +shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave. +Since I saw you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions. They +are palaces. One may eat upon the floor--though it is true--for +Kings--they eat too much of skilly there. One little thing they +lack--those palaces. It is understanding of the 'uman heart. In +them tame birds pluck wild birds naked. + +WELLWYN. They mean well. + +FERRAND. Ah! Monsieur, I am loafer, waster--what you like--for all +that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime. If I were rich, should +I not be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above +commerce, travelling to see the world? And that young girl, would +she not be "that charming ladee," "veree chic, you know!" And the +old Tims--good old-fashioned gentleman--drinking his liquor well. +Eh! bien--what are we now? Dark beasts, despised by all. That is +life, Monsieur. [He stares into the fire.] + +WELLWYN. We're our own enemies, Ferrand. I can afford it--you +can't. Quite true! + +FERRAND. [Earnestly.] Monsieur, do you know this? You are the +sole being that can do us good--we hopeless ones. + +WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I'm hopeless too. + +FERRAND. [Eagerly.] Monsieur, it is just that. You understand. +When we are with you we feel something--here--[he touches his +heart.] If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me +to understand! Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our +skins and chain our 'abits--that soothes for them the aesthetic +sense; it gives them too their good little importance. But our +spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand. Without +that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange. + +WELLWYN. Don't be so bitter. Think of all the work they do! + +FERRAND. Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing. They do a good +work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame +old, and the good unfortunate deserving. Above all to the little +children. But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us +hopeless ones. What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl, +or with that old man? Ah! Monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities, +we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or +like that young girl's. We wild ones--we know a thousand times more +of life than ever will those sirs. They waste their time trying to +make rooks white. Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like +Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins. Leave us to live, or +leave us to die when we like in the free air. If you do not wish of +us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die +the faster. + +WELLWYN. [With agitation.] But that, you know--we can't do--now +can we? + +FERRAND. If you cannot, how is it our fault? The harm we do to +others--is it so much? If I am criminal, dangerous--shut me up! +I would not pity myself--nevare. But we in whom something moves-- +like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are +not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make +us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it +is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered +figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am +talking. If I could smoke, Monsieur! + + [WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette + with his yellow-Stained fingers.] + +FERRAND. The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole +month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day +making round business on an office stool! It is not to my +advantage. I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would you +have? It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.] +Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said. + +WELLWYN. [Quietly.] Go on, go on. [There is silence.] + +FERRAND. [Suddenly.] Monsieur! Are you really English? The +English are so civilised. + +WELLWYN. And am I not? + +FERRAND. You treat me like a brother. + + [WELLWYN has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet, + and the clamour of voices.] + +TIMSON. [From the street.] Take her in 'ere. I knows 'im. + + [Through the open doorway come a POLICE CONSTABLE and a LOAFER, + bearing between them the limp white faced form of MRS. MEGAN, + hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman's + waterproof. Some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling + in the doorway, among whom is TIMSON carrying in his hands the + policeman's dripping waterproof leg pieces.] + +FERRAND. [Starting forward.] Monsieur, it is that little girl! + +WELLWYN. What's happened? Constable! What's happened! + + [The CONSTABLE and LOAFER have laid the body down on the dais; + with WELLWYN and FERRAND they stand bending over her.] + +CONSTABLE. 'Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water +'arf a minute when I got hold of her. [He bends lower.] Can't +understand her collapsin' like this. + +WELLWYN. [Feeling her heart.] I don't feel anything. + +FERRAND. [In a voice sharpened by emotion.] Let me try, Monsieur. + +CONSTABLE. [Touching his arm.] You keep off, my lad. + +WELLWYN. No, constable--let him. He's her friend. + +CONSTABLE. [Releasing FERRAND--to the LOAFER.] Here you! Cut off +for a doctor-sharp now! [He pushes back the curious persons.] Now +then, stand away there, please--we can't have you round the body. +Keep back--Clear out, now! + + [He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through + the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.] + +FERRAND. The rum! + + [WELLWYN fetches the decanter. With the little there is left + FERRAND chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some + between her lips. But there is no response from the inert + body.] + +FERRAND. Her soul is still away, Monsieur! + + [WELLWYN, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling + water.] + +CONSTABLE. It's never drownin', sir--her head was hardly under; I +was on to her like knife. + +FERRAND. [Rubbing her feet.] She has not yet her philosophy, +Monsieur; at the beginning they often try. If she is dead! [In a +voice of awed rapture.] What fortune! + +CONSTABLE. [With puzzled sadness.] True enough, sir--that! We'd +just begun to know 'er. If she 'as been taken--her best friends +couldn't wish 'er better. + +WELLWYN. [Applying the decanter to her dips.] Poor little thing! +I'll try this hot tea. + +FERRAND. [Whispering.] 'La mort--le grand ami!' + +WELLWYN. Look! Look at her! She's coming round! + + [A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body. He again + applies the hot drink to her mouth. She stirs and gulps.] + +CONSTABLE. [With intense relief.] That's brave! Good lass! +She'll pick up now, sir. + + [Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again + opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back + against it. MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.] + +WELLWYN. [Sitting on the dais and supporting her--as if to a +child.] There you are, my dear. There, there--better now! That's +right. Drink a little more of this tea. + + [MRS. MEGAN drinks from the decanter.] + +FERRAND. [Rising.] Bring her to the fire, Monsieur. + + [They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool. + From the moment of her restored animation FERRAND has resumed + his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms + folded, watching.] + +WELLWYN. Feeling better, my child? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. + +WELLWYN. That's good. That's good. Now, how was it? Um? + +MRS. MEGAN. I dunno. [She shivers.] I was standin' here just now +when you was talkin', and when I heard 'im, it cam' over me to do +it--like. + +WELLWYN. Ah, yes I know. + +MRS. MEGAN. I didn't seem no good to meself nor any one. But when +I got in the water, I didn't want to any more. It was cold in +there. + +WELLWYN. Have you been having such a bad time of it? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. And listenin' to him upset me. [She signs with +her head at FERRAND.] I feel better now I've been in the water. +[She smiles and shivers.] + +WELLWYN. There, there! Shivery? Like to walk up and down a +little? + + [They begin walking together up and down.] + +WELLWYN. Beastly when your head goes under? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. It frightened me. I thought I wouldn't come up +again. + +WELLWYN. I know--sort of world without end, wasn't it? What did +you think of, um? + +MRS. MEGAN. I wished I 'adn't jumped--an' I thought of my baby-- +that died--and--[in a rather surprised voice] and I thought of +d-dancin'. + + [Her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a + little sob.] + +WELLWYN. [Stopping and stroking her.] There, there--there! + + [For a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she + recovers herself.] + +MRS. MEGAN. Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out. + +WELLWYN. Ah! what a comfort--um? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. The water got into me mouth. + + [They walk again.] I wouldn't have gone to do it but for him. + [She looks towards FERRAND.] His talk made me feel all funny, + as if people wanted me to. + +WELLWYN. My dear child! Don't think such things! As if anyone +would----! + +MRS. MEGAN. [Stolidly.] I thought they did. They used to look at +me so sometimes, where I was before I ran away--I couldn't stop +there, you know. + +WELLWYN. Too cooped-up? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. No life at all, it wasn't--not after sellin' +flowers, I'd rather be doin' what I am. + +WELLWYN. Ah! Well-it's all over, now! How d'you feel--eh? +Better? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. I feels all right now. + + [She sits up again on the little stool before the fire.] + +WELLWYN. No shivers, and no aches; quite comfy? + +MRS. MEGAN. Yes. + +WELLWYN. That's a blessing. All well, now, Constable--thank you! + +CONSTABLE. [Who has remained discreetly apart at the +door-cordially.] First rate, sir! That's capital! [He approaches +and scrutinises MRS. MEGAN.] Right as rain, eh, my girl? + +MRS. MEGAN. [Shrinking a little.] Yes. + +CONSTABLE. That's fine. Then I think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir, +the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better. + +WELLWYN. Oh! don't bother about that--I'll send round for my +daughter--we'll manage for her here. + +CONSTABLE. Very kind of you, I'm sure, sir. But [with +embarrassment] she seems all right. She'll get every attention at +the station. + +WELLWYN. But I assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the +greatest care of her. + +CONSTABLE. [Still more embarrassed.] Well, sir, of course, I'm +thinkin' of--I'm afraid I can't depart from the usual course. + +WELLWYN. [Sharply.] What! But-oh! No! No! That'll be all right, +Constable! That'll be all right! I assure you. + +CONSTABLE. [With more decision.] I'll have to charge her, sir. + +WELLWYN. Good God! You don't mean to say the poor little thing has +got to be---- + +CONSTABLE. [Consulting with him.] Well, sir, we can't get over the +facts, can we? There it is! You know what sooicide amounts to-- +it's an awkward job. + +WELLWYN. [Calming himself with an effort.] But look here, +Constable, as a reasonable man--This poor wretched little girl--you +know what that life means better than anyone! Why! It's to her +credit to try and jump out of it! + + [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.] + +WELLWYN. You said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her +better! [Dropping his voice still more.] Everybody feels it! The +Vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing--the +Vicar, Constable! [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.] Ah! now, look +here, I know something of her. Nothing can be done with her. We +all admit it. Don't you see? Well, then hang it--you needn't go +and make fools of us all by---- + +FERRAND. Monsieur, it is the first of April. + +CONSTABLE. [With a sharp glance at him.] Can't neglect me duty, +sir; that's impossible. + +WELLWYN. Look here! She--slipped. She's been telling me. Come, +Constable, there's a good fellow. May be the making of her, this. + +CONSTABLE. I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it +very 'ard for me--but, come now! I put it to you as a gentleman, +would you go back on yer duty if you was me? + + [WELLWYN raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and + through his hair.] + +WELLWYN. Well! God in heaven! Of all the d---d topsy--turvy--! +Not a soul in the world wants her alive--and now she's to be +prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her. + +CONSTABLE. Come, sir, come! Be a man! + + [Throughout all this MRS. MEGAN has sat stolidly before the + fire, but as FERRAND suddenly steps forward she looks up at + him.] + +FERRAND. Do not grieve, Monsieur! This will give her courage. +There is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of +things. [He touches MRS. MEGAN'S shoulder.] Go, my child; it will +do you good. + + [MRS. MEGAN rises, and looks at him dazedly.] + +CONSTABLE. [Coming forward, and taking her by the hand.] That's my +good lass. Come along! We won't hurt you. + +MRS. MEGAN. I don't want to go. They'll stare at me. + +CONSTABLE. [Comforting.] Not they! I'll see to that. + +WELLWYN. [Very upset.] Take her in a cab, Constable, if you must- +-for God's sake! [He pulls out a shilling.] Here! + +CONSTABLE. [Taking the shilling.] I will, sir, certainly. Don't +think I want to---- + +WELLWYN. No, no, I know. You're a good sort. + +CONSTABLE. [Comfortable.] Don't you take on, sir. It's her first +try; they won't be hard on 'er. Like as not only bind 'er over in +her own recogs. not to do it again. Come, my dear. + +MRS. MEGAN. [Trying to free herself from the policeman's cloak.] I +want to take this off. It looks so funny. + + [As she speaks the door is opened by ANN; behind whom is dimly + seen the form of old TIMSON, still heading the curious + persons.] + +ANN. [Looking from one to the other in amazement.] What is it? +What's happened? Daddy! + +FERRAND. [Out of the silence.] It is nothing, Ma'moiselle! She +has failed to drown herself. They run her in a little. + +WELLWYN. Lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death. + + [ANN, feeling MRS. MEGAN's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps + her into it without a word.] + +CONSTABLE. [Donning his cloak.] Thank you. Miss--very good of +you, I'm sure. + +MRS. MEGAN. [Mazed.] It's warm! + + [She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and Passes with + the CONSTABLE through the doorway.] + +FERRAND. That makes the third of us, Monsieur. We are not in luck. +To wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die. + + [He looks at ANN, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her + father. WELLWYN has taken from his pocket a visiting card.] + +WELLWYN. [To FERRAND.] Here quick; take this, run after her! When +they've done with her tell her to come to us. + +FERRAND. [Taking the card, and reading the address.] "No. 7, Haven +House, Flight Street!" Rely on me, Monsieur--I will bring her +myself to call on you. 'Au revoir, mon bon Monsieur'! + + [He bends over WELLWYN's hand; then, with a bow to ANN goes + out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window, + passing in the wind. WELLWYN turns back to the fire. The + figure of TIMSON advances into the doorway, no longer holding + in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.] + +TIMSON. [In a croaky voice.] Sir! + +WELLWYN. What--you, Timson? + +TIMSON. On me larst legs, sir. 'Ere! You can see 'em for yerself! +Shawn't trouble yer long.... + +WELLWYN. [After a long and desperate stare.] Not now--TIMSON not +now! Take this! [He takes out another card, and hands it to +TIMSON] Some other time. + +TIMSON. [Taking the card.] Yer new address! You are a gen'leman. +[He lurches slowly away.] + + [ANN shuts the street door and sets her back against it. The + rumble of the approaching van is heard outside. It ceases.] + +ANN. [In a fateful voice.] Daddy! [They stare at each other.] Do +you know what you've done? Given your card to those six rotters. + +WELLWYN. [With a blank stare.] Six? + +ANN. [Staring round the naked room.] What was the good of this? + +WELLWYN. [Following her eyes---very gravely.] Ann! It is stronger +than me. + + [Without a word ANN opens the door, and walks straight out. + With a heavy sigh, WELLWYN sinks down on the little stool + before the fire. The three humble-men come in.] + +CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [In an attitude of expectation.] This is the +larst of it, sir. + +WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! yes! + + [He gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and + he exhibits certain signs of vexation. Suddenly he recovers, + looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things. A + faint smile comes on his face.] + +WELLWYN. You can finish the decanter. + + [He goes out in haste.] + +CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [Clinking the coins.] Third time of arskin'! +April fool! Not 'arf! Good old pigeon! + +SECOND HUMBLE-MAN. 'Uman being, I call 'im. + +CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [Taking the three glasses from the last +packing-case, and pouring very equally into them.] That's right. +Tell you wot, I'd never 'a touched this unless 'e'd told me to, I +wouldn't--not with 'im. + +SECOND HUMBLE-MAN. Ditto to that! This is a bit of orl right! +[Raising his glass.] Good luck! + +THIRD HUMBLE-MAN. Same 'ere! + +[Simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor, +and at once let fall their faces and their glasses.] + +CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [With great solemnity.] Crikey! Bill! Tea! +.....'E's got us! + + [The stage is blotted dark.] + + +Curtain. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE PIGEON, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +THE MOB + +A Play in Four Acts + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +STEPHEN MORE, Member of Parliament +KATHERINE, his wife +OLIVE, their little daughter +THE DEAN OF STOUR, Katherine's uncle +GENERAL SIR JOHN JULIAN, her father +CAPTAIN HUBERT JULIAN, her brother +HELEN, his wife +EDWARD MENDIP, editor of "The Parthenon" +ALAN STEEL, More's secretary +JAMES HOME, architect | +CHARLES SHELDER, Solicitor |A deputation of More's +MARK WACE, bookseller |constituents +WILLIAM BANNING, manufacturer | +NURSE WREFORD +WREFORD (her son), Hubert's orderly +HIS SWEETHEART +THE FOOTMAN HENRY +A DOORKEEPER +SOME BLACK-COATED GENTLEMEN +A STUDENT +A GIRL + + + + + A MOB + +ACT I. The dining-room of More's town house, evening. + +ACT II. The same, morning. + +ACT III. SCENE I. An alley at the back of a suburban theatre. + SCENE II. Katherine's bedroom. + +ACT IV. The dining-room of More's house, late afternoon. + +AFTERMATH. The corner of a square, at dawn. + + + +Between ACTS I and II some days elapse. +Between ACTS II and III three months. +Between ACT III SCENE I and ACT III SCENE II no time. +Between ACTS III and IV a few hours. +Between ACTS IV and AFTERMATH an indefinite period. + + + + +ACT I + + It is half-past nine of a July evening. In a dining-room + lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, carpet, and + curtains of deep vivid blue, the large French windows between + two columns are open on to a wide terrace, beyond which are seen + trees in darkness, and distant shapes of lighted houses. On one + side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly drawn. + Opposite to this window is a door leading into the hall. At an + oval rosewood table, set with silver, flowers, fruit, and wine, + six people are seated after dinner. Back to the bay window is + STEPHEN MORE, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, a + rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; to his + right, SIR, JOHN JULIAN, an old soldier, with thin brown + features, and grey moustaches; to SIR JOHN's right, his brother, + the DEAN OF STOUR, a tall, dark, ascetic-looking Churchman: to + his right KATHERINE is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, + and her chin on her hands, staring across at her husband; to her + right sits EDWARD MENDIP, a pale man of forty-five, very bald, + with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that + shows his teeth; between him and MORE is HELEN JULIAN, a pretty + dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own. The + voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the + curtain rises. + + +THE DEAN. I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, entirely +disagree. + +MORE. I can't help it. + +MENDIP. Remember a certain war, Stephen! Were your chivalrous +notions any good, then? And, what was winked at in an obscure young +Member is anathema for an Under Secretary of State. You can't +afford---- + +MORE. To follow my conscience? That's new, Mendip. + +MENDIP. Idealism can be out of place, my friend. + +THE DEAN. The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race, +on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted. + +MORE. God made them, Dean. + +MENDIP. I have my doubts. + +THE DEAN. They have proved themselves faithless. We have the right +to chastise. + +MORE. If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have I +the right to chastise him? + +SIR JOHN. We didn't begin this business. + +MORE. What! With our missionaries and our trading? + +THE DEAN. It is news indeed that the work of civilization may be +justifiably met by murder. Have you forgotten Glaive and Morlinson? + +SIR JOHN. Yes. And that poor fellow Groome and his wife? + +MORE. They went into a wild country, against the feeling of the +tribes, on their own business. What has the nation to do with the +mishaps of gamblers? + +SIR JOHN. We can't stand by and see our own flesh and blood +ill-treated! + +THE DEAN. Does our rule bring blessing--or does it not, Stephen? + +MORE. Sometimes; but with all my soul I deny the fantastic +superstition that our rule can benefit a people like this, a nation +of one race, as different from ourselves as dark from light--in +colour, religion, every mortal thing. We can only pervert their +natural instincts. + +THE DEAN. That to me is an unintelligible point of view. + +MENDIP. Go into that philosophy of yours a little deeper, Stephen-- +it spells stagnation. There are no fixed stars on this earth. +Nations can't let each other alone. + +MORE. Big ones could let little ones alone. + +MENDIP. If they could there'd be no big ones. My dear fellow, we +know little nations are your hobby, but surely office should have +toned you down. + +SIR JOHN. I've served my country fifty years, and I say she is not +in the wrong. + +MORE. I hope to serve her fifty, Sir John, and I say she is. + +MENDIP. There are moments when such things can't be said, More. + +MORE. They'll be said by me to-night, Mendip. + +MENDIP. In the House? + + [MORE nods.] + +KATHERINE. Stephen! + +MENDIP. Mrs. More, you mustn't let him. It's madness. + +MORE. [Rising] You can tell people that to-morrow, Mendip. Give it +a leader in 'The Parthenon'. + +MENDIP. Political lunacy! No man in your position has a right to +fly out like this at the eleventh hour. + +MORE. I've made no secret of my feelings all along. I'm against +this war, and against the annexation we all know it will lead to. + +MENDIP. My dear fellow! Don't be so Quixotic! We shall have war +within the next twenty-four hours, and nothing you can do will stop +it. + +HELEN. Oh! No! + +MENDIP. I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hubert. + +SIR JOHN. Not a doubt of it, Helen. + +MENDIP. [TO MORE] And you mean to charge the windmill? + + [MORE nods.] + +MENDIP. 'C'est magnifique'! + +MORE. I'm not out for advertisement. + +MENDIP. You will get it! + +MORE. Must speak the truth sometimes, even at that risk. + +SIR JOHN. It is not the truth. + +MENDIP. The greater the truth the greater the libel, and the greater +the resentment of the person libelled. + +THE DEAN. [Trying to bring matters to a blander level] My dear +Stephen, even if you were right--which I deny--about the initial +merits, there surely comes a point where the individual conscience +must resign it self to the country's feeling. This has become a +question of national honour. + +SIR JOHN. Well said, James! + +MORE. Nations are bad judges of their honour, Dean. + +THE DEAN. I shall not follow you there. + +MORE. No. It's an awkward word. + +KATHERINE. [Stopping THE DEAN] Uncle James! Please! + + [MORE looks at her intently.] + +SIR JOHN. So you're going to put yourself at the head of the cranks, +ruin your career, and make me ashamed that you're my son-in-law? + +MORE. Is a man only to hold beliefs when they're popular? You've +stood up to be shot at often enough, Sir John. + +SIR JOHN. Never by my country! Your speech will be in all the +foreign press-trust 'em for seizing on anything against us. A +show-up before other countries----! + +MORE. You admit the show-up? + +SIR JOHN. I do not, sir. + +THE DEAN. The position has become impossible. The state of things +out there must be put an end to once for all! Come, Katherine, back +us up! + +MORE. My country, right or wrong! Guilty--still my country! + +MENDIP. That begs the question. + + [KATHERINE rises. THE DEAN, too, stands up.] + +THE DEAN. [In a low voice] 'Quem Deus volt perdere'----! + +SIR JOHN. Unpatriotic! + +MORE. I'll have no truck with tyranny. + +KATHERINE. Father doesn't admit tyranny. Nor do any of us, Stephen. + +HUBERT JULIAN, a tall Soldier-like man, has come in. + +HELEN. Hubert! + + [She gets up and goes to him, and they talk together near the + door.] + +SIR JOHN. What in God's name is your idea? We've forborne long +enough, in all conscience. + +MORE. Sir John, we great Powers have got to change our ways in +dealing with weaker nations. The very dogs can give us lessons-- +watch a big dog with a little one. + +MENDIP. No, no, these things are not so simple as all that. + +MORE. There's no reason in the world, Mendip, why the rules of +chivalry should not apply to nations at least as well as to---dogs. + +MENDIP. My dear friend, are you to become that hapless kind of +outcast, a champion of lost causes? + +MORE. This cause is not lost. + +MENDIP. Right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause in all this world. +There was never a time when the word "patriotism" stirred mob +sentiment as it does now. 'Ware "Mob," Stephen---'ware "Mob"! + +MORE. Because general sentiment's against me, I--a public man--am to +deny my faith? The point is not whether I'm right or wrong, Mendip, +but whether I'm to sneak out of my conviction because it's unpopular. + +THE DEAN. I'm afraid I must go. [To KATHERINE] Good-night, my +dear! Ah! Hubert! [He greets HUBERT] Mr. Mendip, I go your way. +Can I drop you? + +MENDIP. Thank you. Good-night, Mrs. More. Stop him! It's +perdition. + + [He and THE DEAN go out. KATHERINE puts her arm in HELEN'S, and + takes her out of the room. HUBERT remains standing by the door] + +SIR JOHN. I knew your views were extreme in many ways, Stephen, but +I never thought the husband of my daughter would be a Peace-at-any- +price man! + +MORE. I am not! But I prefer to fight some one my own size. + +SIR JOHN. Well! I can only hope to God you'll come to your senses +before you commit the folly of this speech. I must get back to the +War Office. Good-night, Hubert. + +HUBERT. Good-night, Father. + + [SIR JOHN goes out. HUBERT stands motionless, dejected.] + +HUBERT. We've got our orders. + +MORE. What? When d'you sail? + +HUBERT. At once. + +MORE. Poor Helen! + +HUBERT. Not married a year; pretty bad luck! [MORE touches his arm +in sympathy] Well! We've got to put feelings in our pockets. Look +here, Stephen--don't make that speech! Think of Katherine--with the +Dad at the War Office, and me going out, and Ralph and old George out +there already! You can't trust your tongue when you're hot about a +thing. + +MORE. I must speak, Hubert. + +HUBERT. No, no! Bottle yourself up for to-night. The next few +hours 'll see it begin. [MORE turns from him] If you don't care +whether you mess up your own career--don't tear Katherine in two! + +MORE. You're not shirking your duty because of your wife. + +HUBERT. Well! You're riding for a fall, and a godless mucker it'll +be. This'll be no picnic. We shall get some nasty knocks out there. +Wait and see the feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in +those mountains. It's awful country. Those fellows have got modern +arms, and are jolly good fighters. Do drop it, Stephen! + +MORE. Must risk something, sometimes, Hubert--even in my profession! + + [As he speaks, KATHERINE comes in.] + +HUBERT. But it's hopeless, my dear chap--absolutely. + + [MORE turns to the window, HUBERT to his sister--then with a + gesture towards MORE, as though to leave the matter to her, he + goes out.] + +KATHERINE. Stephen! Are you really going to speak? [He nods] I ask +you not. + +MORE. You know my feeling. + +KATHERINE. But it's our own country. We can't stand apart from it. +You won't stop anything--only make people hate you. I can't bear +that. + +MORE. I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice. Two or three +reverses--certain to come--and the whole country will go wild. And +one more little nation will cease to live. + +KATHERINE. If you believe in your country, you must believe that the +more land and power she has, the better for the world. + +MORE. Is that your faith? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +MORE. I respect it; I even understand it; but--I can't hold it. + +KATHERINE. But, Stephen, your speech will be a rallying cry to all +the cranks, and every one who has a spite against the country. +They'll make you their figurehead. [MORE smiles] They will. Your +chance of the Cabinet will go--you may even have to resign your seat. + +MORE. Dogs will bark. These things soon blow over. + +KATHERINE. No, no! If you once begin a thing, you always go on; and +what earthly good? + +MORE. History won't say: "And this they did without a single protest +from their public men!" + +KATHERINE. There are plenty who---- + +MORE. Poets? + +KATHERINE. Do you remember that day on our honeymoon, going up Ben +Lawers? You were lying on your face in the heather; you said it was +like kissing a loved woman. There was a lark singing--you said that +was the voice of one's worship. The hills were very blue; that's why +we had blue here, because it was the best dress of our country. You +do love her. + +MORE. Love her! + +KATHERINE. You'd have done this for me--then. + +MORE. Would you have asked me--then, Kit? + +KATHERINE. Yes. The country's our country! Oh! Stephen, think +what it'll be like for me--with Hubert and the other boys out there. +And poor Helen, and Father! I beg you not to make this speech. + +MORE. Kit! This isn't fair. Do you want me to feel myself a cur? + +KATHERINE. [Breathless] I--I--almost feel you'll be a cur to do it +[She looks at him, frightened by her own words. Then, as the footman +HENRY has come in to clear the table--very low] I ask you not! + + [He does not answer, and she goes out.] + +MORE [To the servant] Later, please, Henry, later! + + The servant retires. MORE still stands looking down at the + dining-table; then putting his hand to his throat, as if to free + it from the grip of his collar, he pours out a glass of water, + and drinks it of. In the street, outside the bay window, two + street musicians, a harp and a violin, have taken up their + stand, and after some twangs and scrapes, break into music. + MORE goes towards the sound, and draws aside one curtain. After + a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up the notes of the + speech. He is in an agony of indecision. + +MORE. A cur! + + He seems about to tear his notes across. Then, changing his + mind, turns them over and over, muttering. His voice gradually + grows louder, till he is declaiming to the empty room the + peroration of his speech. + +MORE. . . . We have arrogated to our land the title Champion of +Freedom, Foe of Oppression. Is that indeed a bygone glory? Is it +not worth some sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying +another stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the searchlight +eyes of History the spectacle of yet one more piece of national +cynicism? We are about to force our will and our dominion on a race +that has always been free, that loves its country, and its +independence, as much as ever we love ours. I cannot sit silent +to-night and see this begin. As we are tender of our own land, so we +should be of the lands of others. I love my country. It is because +I love my country that I raise my voice. Warlike in spirit these +people may be--but they have no chance against ourselves. And war on +such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious to the future. +The great heart of mankind ever beats in sense and sympathy with the +weaker. It is against this great heart of mankind that we are going. +In the name of Justice and Civilization we pursue this policy; but by +Justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by Civilization--condemned. + + While he is speaking, a little figure has flown along the + terrace outside, in the direction of the music, but has stopped + at the sound of his voice, and stands in the open window, + listening--a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue dressing- + gown caught up in her hand. The street musicians, having + reached the end of a tune, are silent. + + In the intensity of MORES feeling, a wine-glass, gripped too + strongly, breaks and falls in pieces onto a finger-bowl. The + child starts forward into the room. + +MORE. Olive! + +OLIVE. Who were you speaking to, Daddy? + +MORE. [Staring at her] The wind, sweetheart! + +OLIVE. There isn't any! + +MORE. What blew you down, then? + +OLIVE. [Mysteriously] The music. Did the wind break the wine- +glass, or did it come in two in your hand? + +MORE. Now my sprite! Upstairs again, before Nurse catches you. +Fly! Fly! + +OLIVE. Oh! no, Daddy! [With confidential fervour] It feels like +things to-night! + +MORE. You're right there! + +OLIVE. [Pulling him down to her, and whispering] I must get back +again in secret. H'sh! + + She suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of + the bay window. A young man enters, with a note in his hand. + +MORE. Hello, Steel! + + [The street musicians have again begun to play.] + +STEEL. From Sir John--by special messenger from the War Office. + +MORE. [Reading the note] "The ball is opened." + + He stands brooding over the note, and STEEL looks at him + anxiously. He is a dark, sallow, thin-faced young man, with the + eyes of one who can attach himself to people, and suffer with + them. + +STEEL. I'm glad it's begun, sir. It would have been an awful pity +to have made that speech. + +MORE. You too, Steel! + +STEEL. I mean, if it's actually started---- + +MORE. [Tearing tie note across] Yes. Keep that to yourself. + +STEEL. Do you want me any more? + + MORE takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them + down on the bureau. + +MORE. Answer these. + +STEEL. [Going to the bureau] Fetherby was simply sickening. [He +begins to write. Struggle has begun again in MORE] Not the faintest +recognition that there are two sides to it. + + MORE gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the dining-table + and picks up his sheaf of notes. Hiding them with his sleeve, + he goes back to the window, where he again stands hesitating. + +STEEL. Chief gem: [Imitating] "We must show Impudence at last that +Dignity is not asleep!" + +MORE. [Moving out on to the terrace] Nice quiet night! + +STEEL. This to the Cottage Hospital--shall I say you will preside? + +MORE. No. + + STEEL writes; then looking up and seeing that MORE is no longer + there, he goes to the window, looks to right and left, returns + to the bureau, and is about to sit down again when a thought + seems to strike him with consternation. He goes again to the + window. Then snatching up his hat, he passes hurriedly out + along the terrace. As he vanishes, KATHERINE comes in from the + hall. After looking out on to the terrace she goes to the bay + window; stands there listening; then comes restlessly back into + the room. OLIVE, creeping quietly from behind the curtain, + clasps her round the waist. + +KATHERINE. O my darling! How you startled me! What are you doing +down here, you wicked little sinner! + +OLIVE. I explained all that to Daddy. We needn't go into it again, +need we? + +KATHERINE. Where is Daddy? + +OLIVE. Gone. + +KATHERINE. When? + +OLIVE. Oh! only just, and Mr. Steel went after him like a rabbit. +[The music stops] They haven't been paid, you know. + +KATHERINE. Now, go up at once. I can't think how you got down here. + +OLIVE. I can. [Wheedling] If you pay them, Mummy, they're sure to +play another. + +KATHERINE. Well, give them that! One more only. + + She gives OLIVE a coin, who runs with it to the bay window, + opens the aide casement, and calls to the musicians. + +OLIVE. Catch, please! And would you play just one more? + + She returns from the window, and seeing her mother lost in + thought, rubs herself against her. + +OLIVE. Have you got an ache? + +KATHARINE. Right through me, darling! + +OLIVE. Oh! + + [The musicians strike up a dance.] + +OLIVE. Oh! Mummy! I must just dance! + + She kicks off her lisle blue shoes, and begins dancing. While + she is capering HUBERT comes in from the hall. He stands + watching his little niece for a minute, and KATHERINE looks at + him. + +HUBERT. Stephen gone! + +KATHERINE. Yes--stop, Olive! + +OLIVE. Are you good at my sort of dancing, Uncle? + +HUBERT. Yes, chick--awfully! + +KATHERINE. Now, Olive! + + The musicians have suddenly broken off in the middle of a bar. + From the street comes the noise of distant shouting. + +OLIVE. Listen, Uncle! Isn't it a particular noise? + + HUBERT and KATHERINE listen with all their might, and OLIVE + stares at their faces. HUBERT goes to the window. The sound + comes nearer. The shouted words are faintly heard: "Pyper---- + war----our force crosses frontier--sharp fightin'----pyper." + +KATHERINE. [Breathless] Yes! It is. + + The street cry is heard again in two distant voices coming from + different directions: "War--pyper--sharp fightin' on the + frontier--pyper." + +KATHERINE. Shut out those ghouls! + + As HUBERT closes the window, NURSE WREFORD comes in from the + hall. She is an elderly woman endowed with a motherly grimness. + She fixes OLIVE with her eye, then suddenly becomes conscious of + the street cry. + +NURSE. Oh! don't say it's begun. + + [HUBERT comes from the window.] + +NURSE. Is the regiment to go, Mr. Hubert? + +HUBERT. Yes, Nanny. + +NURSE. Oh, dear! My boy! + +KATHERINE. [Signing to where OLIVE stands with wide eyes] Nurse! + +HUBERT. I'll look after him, Nurse. + +NURSE. And him keepin' company. And you not married a year. Ah! +Mr. Hubert, now do 'ee take care; you and him's both so rash. + +HUBERT. Not I, Nurse! + + NURSE looks long into his face, then lifts her finger, and + beckons OLIVE. + +OLIVE. [Perceiving new sensations before her, goes quietly] Good- +night, Uncle! Nanny, d'you know why I was obliged to come down? [In +a fervent whisper] It's a secret! + + [As she passes with NURSE out into the hall, her voice is heard + saying, "Do tell me all about the war."] + +HUBERT. [Smothering emotion under a blunt manner] We sail on +Friday, Kit. Be good to Helen, old girl. + +KATHERINE. Oh! I wish----! Why--can't--women--fight? + +HUBERT. Yes, it's bad for you, with Stephen taking it like this. +But he'll come round now it's once begun. + + KATHERINE shakes her head, then goes suddenly up to him, and + throws her arms round his neck. It is as if all the feeling + pent up in her were finding vent in this hug. + + The door from the hall is opened, and SIR JOHN'S voice is heard + outside: "All right, I'll find her." + +KATHERINE. Father! + + [SIR JOHN comes in.] + +SIR JOHN. Stephen get my note? I sent it over the moment I got to +the War Office. + +KATHERINE. I expect so. [Seeing the torn note on the table] Yes. + +SIR JOHN. They're shouting the news now. Thank God, I stopped that +crazy speech of his in time. + +KATHERINE. Have you stopped it? + +SIR JOHN. What! He wouldn't be such a sublime donkey? + +KATHERINE. I think that is just what he might be. [Going to the +window] We shall know soon. + + [SIR JOHN, after staring at her, goes up to HUBERT.] + +SIR JOHN. Keep a good heart, my boy. The country's first. [They +exchange a hand-squeeze.] + + KATHERINE backs away from the window. STEEL has appeared there + from the terrace, breathless from running. + +STEEL. Mr. More back? + +KATHERINE. No. Has he spoken? + +STEEL. Yes. + +KATHERINE. Against? + +STEEL. Yes. + +SIR JOHN. What? After! + + SIR, JOHN stands rigid, then turns and marches straight out into + the hall. At a sign from KATHERINE, HUBERT follows him. + +KATHERINE. Yes, Mr. Steel? + +STEEL. [Still breathless and agitated] We were here--he slipped +away from me somehow. He must have gone straight down to the House. +I ran over, but when I got in under the Gallery he was speaking +already. They expected something--I never heard it so still there. +He gripped them from the first word--deadly--every syllable. It got +some of those fellows. But all the time, under the silence you could +feel a--sort of--of--current going round. And then Sherratt--I think +it was--began it, and you saw the anger rising in them; but he kept +them down--his quietness! The feeling! I've never seen anything +like it there. + +Then there was a whisper all over the House that fighting had begun. +And the whole thing broke out--regular riot--as if they could have +killed him. Some one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but +he shook him off, and went on. Then he stopped dead and walked out, +and the noise dropped like a stone. The whole thing didn't last five +minutes. It was fine, Mrs. More; like--like lava; he was the only +cool person there. I wouldn't have missed it for anything--it was +grand! + + MORE has appeared on the terrace, behind STEEL. + +KATHERINE. Good-night, Mr. Steel. + +STEEL. [Startled] Oh!--Good-night! + + He goes out into the hall. KATHERINE picks up OLIVE'S shoes, + and stands clasping them to her breast. MORE comes in. + +KATHERINE. You've cleared your conscience, then! I didn't think +you'd hurt me so. + + MORE does not answer, still living in the scene he has gone + through, and KATHERINE goes a little nearer to him. + +KATHERINE. I'm with the country, heart and soul, Stephen. I warn +you. + + While they stand in silence, facing each other, the footman, + HENRY, enters from the hall. + +FOOTMAN. These notes, sir, from the House of Commons. + +KATHERINE. [Taking them] You can have the room directly. + + [The FOOTMAN goes out.] + +MORE. Open them! + + KATHERINE opens one after the other, and lets them fall on the + table. + +MORE. Well? + +KATHERINE. What you might expect. Three of your best friends. It's +begun. + +MORE. 'Ware Mob! [He gives a laugh] I must write to the Chief. + + KATHERINE makes an impulsive movement towards him; then quietly + goes to the bureau, sits down and takes up a pen. + +KATHERINE. Let me make the rough draft. [She waits] Yes? + +MORE. [Dictating] + +"July 15th. + +"DEAR SIR CHARLES, After my speech to-night, embodying my most +unalterable convictions [KATHERINE turns and looks up at him, but he +is staring straight before him, and with a little movement of despair +she goes on writing] I have no alternative but to place the +resignation of my Under-Secretaryship in your hands. My view, my +faith in this matter may be wrong--but I am surely right to keep the +flag of my faith flying. I imagine I need not enlarge on the +reasons----" + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + + + + +ACT. II + + Before noon a few days later. The open windows of the dining- + room let in the sunlight. On the table a number of newspapers + are littered. HELEN is sitting there, staring straight before + her. A newspaper boy runs by outside calling out his wares. At + the sound she gets up anti goes out on to the terrace. HUBERT + enters from the hall. He goes at once to the terrace, and draws + HELEN into the room. + +HELEN. Is it true--what they're shouting? + +HUBERT. Yes. Worse than we thought. They got our men all crumpled +up in the Pass--guns helpless. Ghastly beginning. + +HELEN. Oh, Hubert! + +HUBERT. My dearest girl! + + HELEN puts her face up to his. He kisses her. Then she turns + quickly into the bay window. The door from the hall has been + opened, and the footman, HENRY, comes in, preceding WREFORD and + his sweetheart. + +HENRY. Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs. More know. +[Catching sight of HUBERT] Beg pardon, sir! + +HUBERT. All right, Henry. [Off-hand] Ah! Wreford! [The FOOTMAN +withdraws] So you've brought her round. That's good! My sister'll +look after her--don't you worry! Got everything packed? Three +o'clock sharp. + +WREFORD. [A broad faced soldier, dressed in khaki with a certain +look of dry humour, now dimmed-speaking with a West Country burr] +That's right, zurr; all's ready. + + HELEN has come out of the window, and is quietly looking at + WREFORD and the girl standing there so awkwardly. + +HELEN. [Quietly] Take care of him, Wreford. + +HUBERT. We'll take care of each other, won't we, Wreford? + +HELEN. How long have you been engaged? + +THE GIRL. [A pretty, indeterminate young woman] Six months. [She +sobs suddenly.] + +HELEN. Ah! He'll soon be safe back. + +WREFORD. I'll owe 'em for this. [In a lacy voice to her] Don't 'ee +now! Don't 'ee! + +HELEN. No! Don't cry, please! + + She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the + terrace, HUBERT following. WREFORD and his girl remain where + they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs. + +WREFORD. Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 'ave to take you +'ome. That's silly, now we've a-come. I might be dead and buried by +the fuss you're makin'. You've a-drove the lady away. See! + + She regains control of herself as the door is opened and + KATHERINE appears, accompanied by OLIVE, who regards WREFORD + with awe and curiosity, and by NURSE, whose eyes are red, but + whose manner is composed. + +KATHERINE. My brother told me; so glad you've brought her. + +WREFORD. Ye--as, M'. She feels me goin', a bit. + +KATHERINE. Yes, yes! Still, it's for the country, isn't it? + +THE GIRL. That's what Wreford keeps tellin' me. He've got to go--so +it's no use upsettin' 'im. And of course I keep tellin' him I shall +be all right. + +NURSE. [Whose eyes never leave her son's face] And so you will. + +THE GIRL. Wreford thought it'd comfort him to know you were +interested in me. 'E's so 'ot-headed I'm sure somethin'll come to +'im. + +KATHERINE. We've all got some one going. Are you coming to the +docks? We must send them off in good spirits, you know. + +OLIVE. Perhaps he'll get a medal. + +KATHERINE. Olive! + +NURSE. You wouldn't like for him to be hanging back, one of them +anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones. + +KATHERINE. [Quickly] Let me see--I have your address. [Holding out +her hand to WREFORD] We'll look after her. + +OLIVE. [In a loud whisper] Shall I lend him my toffee? + +KATHERINE. If you like, dear. [To WREFORD] Now take care of my +brother and yourself, and we'll take care of her. + +WREFORD. Ye--as, M'. + + He then looks rather wretchedly at his girl, as if the interview + had not done so much for him as he had hoped. She drops a + little curtsey. WREFORD salutes. + +OLIVE. [Who has taken from the bureau a packet, places it in his +hand] It's very nourishing! + +WREFORD. Thank you, miss. + + Then, nudging each other, and entangled in their feelings and + the conventions, they pass out, shepherded by NURSE. + +KATHERINE. Poor things! + +OLIVE. What is an anti-patriot, stop-the-war one, Mummy? + +KATHERINE. [Taking up a newspaper] Just a stupid name, dear--don't +chatter! + +OLIVE. But tell me just one weeny thing! + +KATHERINE. Well? + +OLIVE. Is Daddy one? + +KATHERINE. Olive! How much do you know about this war? + +OLIVE. They won't obey us properly. So we have to beat them, and +take away their country. We shall, shan't we? + +KATHERINE. Yes. But Daddy doesn't want us to; he doesn't think it +fair, and he's been saying so. People are very angry with him. + +OLIVE. Why isn't it fair? I suppose we're littler than them. + +KATHERINE. No. + +OLIVE. Oh! in history we always are. And we always win. That's why +I like history. Which are you for, Mummy--us or them? + +KATHERINE. Us. + +OLIVE. Then I shall have to be. It's a pity we're not on the same +side as Daddy. [KATHERINE shudders] Will they hurt him for not +taking our side? + +KATHERINE. I expect they will, Olive. + +OLIVE. Then we shall have to be extra nice to him. + +KATHERINE. If we can. + +OLIVE. I can; I feel like it. + + HELEN and HUBERT have returned along the terrace. Seeing + KATHERINE and the child, HELEN passes on, but HUBERT comes in at + the French window. + +OLIVE. [Catching sight of him-softly] Is Uncle Hubert going to the +front to-day? [KATHERINE nods] But not grandfather? + +KATHERINE. No, dear. + +OLIVE. That's lucky for them, isn't it? + + HUBERT comes in. The presence of the child give him self- + control. + +HUBERT. Well, old girl, it's good-bye. [To OLIVE] What shall I +bring you back, chick? + +OLIVE. Are there shops at the front? I thought it was dangerous. + +HUBERT. Not a bit. + +OLIVE. [Disillusioned] Oh! + +KATHERINE. Now, darling, give Uncle a good hug. + + [Under cover of OLIVE's hug, KATHERINE repairs her courage.] + +KATHERINE. The Dad and I'll be with you all in spirit. Good-bye, +old boy! + + They do not dare to kiss, and HUBERT goes out very stiff and + straight, in the doorway passing STEEL, of whom he takes no + notice. STEEL hesitates, and would go away. + +KATHERINE. Come in, Mr. Steel. + +STEEL. The deputation from Toulmin ought to be here, Mrs. More. +It's twelve. + +OLIVE. [Having made a little ball of newspaper-slyly] Mr. Steel, +catch! + + [She throws, and STEEL catches it in silence.] + +KATHERINE. Go upstairs, won't you, darling? + +OLIVE. Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy? Then I shall see if any +soldiers pass. + +KATHERINE. No. You can go out on the terrace a little, and then you +must go up. + + [OLIVE goes reluctantly out on to the terrace.] + +STEEL. Awful news this morning of that Pass! And have you seen +these? [Reading from the newspaper] "We will have no truck with the +jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment. +The Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all +virile patriots." [He takes up a second journal] "There is a +certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot +resist the itch to advertise himself. We would, at moments of +national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we +suspect of incipient rabies . . . ." They're in full cry after +him! + +KATHERINE. I mind much more all the creatures who are always +flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly! You know +what's in his mind? + +STEEL. Oh! We must get him to give up that idea of lecturing +everywhere against the war, Mrs. More; we simply must. + +KATHERINE. [Listening] The deputation's come. Go and fetch him, +Mr. Steel. He'll be in his room, at the House. + + [STEEL goes out, and KATHERINE Stands at bay. In a moment he + opens the door again, to usher in the deputation; then retires. + The four gentlemen have entered as if conscious of grave issues. + The first and most picturesque is JAMES HOME, a thin, tall, + grey-bearded man, with plentiful hair, contradictious eyebrows, + and the half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over + polite, of one not accustomed to Society, yet secretly much + taken with himself. He is dressed in rough tweeds, with a red + silk tie slung through a ring, and is closely followed by MARK + WACE, a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with sleek dark + hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth way of continually rubbing + his hands together, as if selling something to an esteemed + customer. He is rather stout, wears dark clothes, with a large + gold chain. Following him comes CHARLES SHELDER, a lawyer of + fifty, with a bald egg-shaped head, and gold pince-nez. He has + little side whiskers, a leathery, yellowish skin, a rather kind + but watchful and dubious face, and when he speaks seems to have + a plum in his mouth, which arises from the preponderance of his + shaven upper lip. Last of the deputation comes WILLIAM BANNING, + an energetic-looking, square-shouldered, self-made country-man, + between fifty and sixty, with grey moustaches, ruddy face, and + lively brown eyes.] + +KATHERINE. How do you do, Mr. Home? + +HOME. [Bowing rather extravagantly over her hand, as if to show his +independence of women's influence] Mrs. More! We hardly expected-- +This is an honour. + +WACE. How do you do, Ma'am? + +KATHERINE. And you, Mr. Wace? + +WACE. Thank you, Ma'am, well indeed! + +SHELDER. How d'you do, Mrs. More? + +KATHERINE. Very well, thank you, Mr. Shelder. + +BANNING. [Speaking with a rather broad country accent] This is but +a poor occasion, Ma'am. + +KATHERINE. Yes, Mr. Banning. Do sit down, gentlemen. + + Seeing that they will not settle down while she is standing, she + sits at the table. They gradually take their seats. Each + member of the deputation in his own way is severely hanging back + from any mention of the subject in hand; and KATHERINE as intent + on drawing them to it. + +KATHERINE. My husband will be here in two minutes. He's only over +at the House. + +SHELDER. [Who is of higher standing and education than the others] +Charming position--this, Mrs. More! So near the--er--Centre of-- +Gravity um? + +KATHERINE. I read the account of your second meeting at Toulmin. + +BANNING. It's bad, Mrs. More--bad. There's no disguising it. That +speech was moon-summer madness--Ah! it was! Take a lot of explaining +away. Why did you let him, now? Why did you? Not your views, I'm +sure! + + [He looks at her, but for answer she only compresses her lips.] + +BANNING. I tell you what hit me--what's hit the whole constituency-- +and that's his knowing we were over the frontier, fighting already, +when he made it. + +KATHERINE. What difference does it make if he did know? + +HOME. Hitting below the belt--I should have thought--you'll pardon +me! + +BANNING. Till war's begun, Mrs. More, you're entitled to say what +you like, no doubt--but after! That's going against your country. +Ah! his speech was strong, you know--his speech was strong. + +KATHERINE. He had made up his mind to speak. It was just an +accident the news coming then. + + [A silence.] + +BANNING. Well, that's true, I suppose. What we really want is to +make sure he won't break out again. + +HOME. Very high-minded, his views of course--but, some consideration +for the common herd. You'll pardon me! + +SHELDER. We've come with the friendliest feelings, Mrs. More--but, +you know, it won't do, this sort of thing! + +WACE. We shall be able to smooth him down. Oh! surely. + +BANNING. We'd be best perhaps not to mention about his knowing that +fighting had begun. + + [As he speaks, MORE enters through the French windows. They all + rise.] + +MORE. Good-morning, gentlemen. + + [He comes down to the table, but does not offer to shake hands.] + +BANNING. Well, Mr. More? You've made a woeful mistake, sir; I tell +you to your face. + +MORE. As everybody else does, Banning. Sit down again, please. + + [They gradually resume their seats, and MORE sits in KATHERINE's + chair. She alone remains standing leaning against the corner of + the bay window, watching their faces.] + +BANNING. You've seen the morning's telegrams? I tell you, Mr. +More--another reverse like that, and the flood will sweep you clean +away. And I'll not blame it. It's only flesh and blood. + +MORE, Allow for the flesh and blood in me, too, please. When I spoke +the other night it was not without a certain feeling here. [He +touches his heart.] + +BANNING. But your attitude's so sudden--you'd not been going that +length when you were down with us in May. + +MORE. Do me the justice to remember that even then I was against our +policy. It cost me three weeks' hard struggle to make up my mind to +that speech. One comes slowly to these things, Banning. + +SHELDER. Case of conscience? + +MORE. Such things have happened, Shelder, even in politics. + +SHELDER. You see, our ideals are naturally low--how different from +yours! + + [MORE smiles.] + + KATHERINE, who has drawn near her husband, moves back again, as + if relieved at this gleam of geniality. WACE rubs his hands. + +BANNING. There's one thing you forget, sir. We send you to +Parliament, representing us; but you couldn't find six men in the +whole constituency that would have bidden you to make that speech. + +MORE. I'm sorry; but I can't help my convictions, Banning. + +SHELDER. What was it the prophet was without in his own country? + +BANNING. Ah! but we're not funning, Mr. More. I've never known +feeling run so high. The sentiment of both meetings was dead against +you. We've had showers of letters to headquarters. Some from very +good men--very warm friends of yours. + +SHELDER. Come now! It's not too late. Let's go back and tell them +you won't do it again. + +MORE. Muzzling order? + +BANNING. [Bluntly] That's about it. + +MORE. Give up my principles to save my Parliamentary skin. Then, +indeed, they might call me a degenerate! [He touches the newspapers +on the table.] + + KATHERINE makes an abrupt and painful movement, then remains as + still as before, leaning against the corner of the window-seat. + +BANNING. Well, Well! I know. But we don't ask you to take your +words back--we only want discretion in the future. + +MORE. Conspiracy of silence! And have it said that a mob of +newspapers have hounded me to it. + +BANNING. They won't say that of you. + +SHELDER. My dear More, aren't you rather dropping to our level? +With your principles you ought not to care two straws what people +say. + +MORE. But I do. I can't betray the dignity and courage of public +men. If popular opinion is to control the utterances of her +politicians, then good-bye indeed to this country! + +BANNING. Come now! I won't say that your views weren't sound enough +before the fighting began. I've never liked our policy out there. +But our blood's being spilled; and that makes all the difference. +I don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but I'd be ready to go +myself. We'd all of us be ready. And we can't have the man that +represents us talking wild, until we've licked these fellows. That's +it in a nutshell. + +MORE. I understand your feeling, Banning. I tender you my +resignation. I can't and won't hold on where I'm not wanted. + +BANNING. No, no, no! Don't do that! [His accent broader and +broader] You've 'ad your say, and there it is. Coom now! You've +been our Member nine years, in rain and shine. + +SHELDER. We want to keep you, More. Come! Give us your promise- +that's a good man! + +MORE. I don't make cheap promises. You ask too much. + + [There is silence, and they all look at MORE.] + +SHELDER. There are very excellent reasons for the Government's +policy. + +MORE. There are always excellent reasons for having your way with +the weak. + +SHELDER. My dear More, how can you get up any enthusiasm for those +cattle-lifting ruffians? + +MORE. Better lift cattle than lift freedom. + +SHELDER. Well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't go about the +country, saying so. + +MORE. But that is just what I must do. + + [Again they all look at MORE in consternation.] + +HOME. Not down our way, you'll pardon me. + +WACE. Really--really, sir---- + +SHELDER. The time of crusades is past, More. + +MORE. Is it? + +BANNING. Ah! no, but we don't want to part with you, Mr. More. +It's a bitter thing, this, after three elections. Look at the 'uman +side of it! To speak ill of your country when there's been a +disaster like this terrible business in the Pass. There's your own +wife. I see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon. +Come now--how must she feel? + + MORE breaks away to the bay window. The DEPUTATION exchange + glances. + +MORE. [Turning] To try to muzzle me like this--is going too far. + +BANNING. We just want to put you out of temptation. + +MORE. I've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years. +You've all been bricks to me. My heart's in my work, Banning; I'm +not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty. + +SHELDER. Just so--we don't want to see you in that quandary. + +BANNING. It'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong impression of +the state of feeling. Silence--till the bitterness is overpast; +there's naught else for it, Mr. More, while you feel as you do. That +tongue of yours! Come! You owe us something. You're a big man; +it's the big view you ought to take. + +MORE. I am trying to. + +HOME. And what precisely is your view--you'll pardon my asking? + +MORE. [Turning on him] Mr. Home a great country such as ours--is +trustee for the highest sentiments of mankind. Do these few outrages +justify us in stealing the freedom of this little people? + +BANNING. Steal--their freedom! That's rather running before the +hounds. + +MORE. Ah, Banning! now we come to it. In your hearts you're none of +you for that--neither by force nor fraud. And yet you all know that +we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all +we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak. The +Prime Minister's words the other night were these: "If we are forced +to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced." +What does that mean but swallowing this country? + +SHELDER. Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing. + +HOME. We don't want their wretched country--we're forced. + +MORE. We are not forced. + +SHELDER. My dear More, what is civilization but the logical, +inevitable swallowing up of the lower by the higher types of man? +And what else will it be here? + +MORE. We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we might argue it all +day. But the point is, not whether you or I are right--the point is: +What is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do? Please +tell me. + + [There is a silence.] + +BANNING. [Simply] I was just thinkin' of those poor fellows in the +Pass. + +MORE. I can see them, as well as you, Banning. But, imagine! Up in +our own country--the Black Valley--twelve hundred foreign devils dead +and dying--the crows busy over them--in our own country, our own +valley--ours--ours--violated. Would you care about "the poor +fellows" in that Pass?--Invading, stealing dogs! Kill them--kill +them! You would, and I would, too! + + The passion of those words touches and grips as no arguments + could; and they are silent. + +MORE. Well! What's the difference out there? I'm not so inhuman as +not to want to see this disaster in the Pass wiped out. But once +that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and +they're not few; [Very low] in spite of my own wife's feeling, I +must be free to raise my voice against this war. + +BANNING. [Speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it were, with +his eyes] Mr. More, there's no man I respect more than yourself. I +can't tell what they'll say down there when we go back; but I, for +one, don't feel it in me to take a hand in pressing you farther +against your faith. + +SHELDER. We don't deny that--that you have a case of sorts. + +WACE. No--surely. + +SHELDER. A--man should be free, I suppose, to hold his own opinions. + +MORE. Thank you, Shelder. + +BANNING. Well! well! We must take you as you are; but it's a rare +pity; there'll be a lot of trouble---- + + His eyes light on Honk who is leaning forward with hand raised + to his ear, listening. Very faint, from far in the distance, + there is heard a skirling sound. All become conscious of it, + all listen. + +HOME. [Suddenly] Bagpipes! + + The figure of OLIVE flies past the window, out on the terrace. + KATHERINE turns, as if to follow her. + +SHELDER. Highlanders! + + [He rises. KATHERINE goes quickly out on to the terrace. One + by one they all follow to the window. One by one go out on to + the terrace, till MORE is left alone. He turns to the bay + window. The music is swelling, coming nearer. MORE leaves the + window--his face distorted by the strafe of his emotions. He + paces the room, taking, in some sort, the rhythm of the march.] + + [Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the + tramp of a company. MORE stops at the table, covering his eyes + with his hands.] + + [The DEPUTATION troop back across the terrace, and come in at the + French windows. Their faces and manners have quite changed. + KATHERINE follows them as far as the window.] + +HOME. [In a strange, almost threatening voice] It won't do, Mr. +More. Give us your word, to hold your peace! + +SHELDER. Come! More. + +WACE. Yes, indeed--indeed! + +BANNING. We must have it. + +MORE. [Without lifting his head] I--I---- + + The drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard. + +BANNING. Can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been +struck? + + Now comes the scale and mutter of a following crowd. + +MORE. I give you---- + + Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "Give + the beggars hell, boys!" "Wipe your feet on their dirty + country!" "Don't leave 'em a gory acre! "And a burst of hoarse + cheering. + +MORE. [Flinging up his head] That's reality! By Heaven! No! + +KATHERINE. Oh! + +SHELDER. In that case, we'll go. + +BANNING. You mean it? You lose us, then! + + [MORE bows.] + +HOME. Good riddance! [Venomously--his eyes darting between MORE and +KATHERINE] Go and stump the country! Find out what they think of +you! You'll pardon me! + + One by one, without a word, only BANNING looking back, they pass + out into the hall. MORE sits down at the table before the pile + of newspapers. KATHERINE, in the window, never moves. OLIVE + comes along the terrace to her mother. + +OLIVE. They were nice ones! Such a lot of dirty people following, +and some quite clean, Mummy. [Conscious from her mother's face that +something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up +to his side] Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's crying. +And--look at Mummy! + + [MORE raises his head and looks.] + +OLIVE. Do be on our side! Do! + + She rubs her cheek against his. Feeling that he does not rub + his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to + her mother in wonder. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS + + + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + + A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban + theatre. The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building + is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment + bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one + still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the- + War Meeting, October 1st. Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and + others." The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps + of paper. Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. It + is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all + the light there is. A faint, confused murmur, as of distant + hooting is heard. Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough + girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is + again deserted. The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking + his head out, looks up and down. He withdraws, but in a second + reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen. + +DOORKEEPER. It's all clear. You can get away down here, gentlemen. +Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner. + +THE THREE. [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks, +very much! Thanks! + +FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Where's More? Isn't he coming? + + They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN. + +FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER] +Thanks. + + They hurry away. The DOORKEEPER retires. Another boy runs + past. Then the door opens again. STEEL and MORE come out. + + MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go + back. + +STEEL. Come along, sir, come! + +MORE. It sticks in my gizzard, Steel. + +STEEL. [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down +the steps] You owe it to the theatre people. [MORE still hesitates] +We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More half- +past ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't seen you for +six weeks. + +MORE. All right; don't dislocate my arm. + + They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes + running down the alley. Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins + round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 'Ere 'e + is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came. + +STEEL. Quick, Sir, quick! + +MORE. That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador +remarked. + +STEEL. [Pulling him back towards the door] Well! come inside again, +anyway! + + A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping + quickly from the left. A motley crew, out for excitement; + loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. All in + the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. They gather round + the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity + that follows on a new development of any chase. MORE, on the + bottom step, turns and eyes them. + +A GIRL. [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or the young? + + [MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.] + +TALL YOUTH. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted +traitor! + + MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the + chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they + realized that they were spoiling their own sport. + +A ROUGH GIRL. Don't frighten the poor feller! + + [A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.] + +STEEL. [Tugging at MORE's arm] Come along, sir. + +MORE. [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd] Well, what do you want? + +A VOICE. Speech. + +MORE. Indeed! That's new. + +ROUGH VOICE. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver. +You can see it in his face. + +A BIG NAVY. [In front] Shut it! Give 'im a chanst! + +TALL YOUTH. Silence for the blasted traitor? + + A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt + silence. + +MORE. You shall have it in a nutshell! + +A SHOPBOY. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the +shoulder] Here y'are! + +MORE. Go home, and think! If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be +fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there? + +TALL YOUTH. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they come out in the open? + +MORE. They fight the best way they can. + + [A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the + outskirt.] + +MORE. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. I've never said a +word against our soldiers. It's the Government I condemn for putting +them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all +of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do, +left to yourselves. + + The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of + execration. + +MORE. I say not one of you would go for a weaker man. + +VOICES IN THE CROWD. + + ROUGH VOICE. Tork sense! + + GIRL'S VOICE. He's gittin' at you! + + TALL YOUTH'S VOICE. Shiny skunk! + +A NAVVY. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look 'ere, Mister! Don't +you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the +worse for you-you go 'ome! + +COCKNEY VOICE. And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears. + + [A spurt of laughter.] + +A FRIENDLY VOICE. [From the outskirts] Shame! there! Bravo, More! +Keep it up! + + [A scuffle drowns this cry.] + +MORE. [With vehemence] Stop that! Stop that! You---! + +TALL YOUTH. Traitor! + +AN ARTISAN. Who black-legged? + +MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies! + +MORE. Those tribesmen are defending their homes. + +TWO VOICES. Hear! hear! + + [They are hustled into silence.] + +TALL YOUTH. Wind-bag! + +MORE. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes! Not mobbing +unarmed men! + + [STEEL again pulls at his arm.] + +ROUGH. Shut it, or we'll do you in! + +MORE. [Recovering his coolness] Ah! Do me in by all means! You'd +deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your +time. + +STEEL. For God's sake, sir! + +MORE. [Shaking off his touch] Well! + + There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost + figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. The crowd + recoils. + + There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at + them. + +COCKNEY VOICE. Don't 'e speak well! What eloquence! + + Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE + across the face. He takes no notice. + +ROUGH VOICE. That's it! Give 'im some encouragement. + + The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous + smile on MORE'S face. + +A TALL YOUTH. Traitor! + +A VOICE. Don't stand there like a stuck pig. + +A ROUGH. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that! + + Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE + across the legs with a belt. STEEL starts forward. MORE, + flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil + staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this + silence is fast turning to rage. + +THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there--or +we'll make you! Go on! + + [MORE remains immovable.] + +A YOUTH. [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak! See! + + He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand. MORE jerks it + up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever. A + spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the + action. The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES + scornful face. + +TALL YOUTH. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you'll get it! + +A VOICE. Enough of your ugly mug! + +A ROUGH. Give 'im one! + + Two flung stones strike MORE. He staggers and nearly falls, + then rights himself. + +A GIRL'S VOICE. Shame! + +FRIENDLY VOICE. Bravo, More! Stick to it! + +A ROUGH. Give 'im another! + +A VOICE. No! + +A GIRL'S VOICE. Let 'im alone! Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun! + + Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy + silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet. Then the BIG + NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge + of the crowd. + +THE NAVVY. Let 'im be! + + With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd + breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is + nearly empty. + +MORE. [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting +his coat] Well, Steel! + + And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away. + Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass. One of them + stops and makes a note. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + + + +SCENE II + +The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured +wood. The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is +sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table, +brushing her hair. A door, on the left, stands ajar. An oak chair +against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other +furniture. Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist +is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs +show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. As the curtain rises, +KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening. She begins again +brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a +drawer of her dressing-table, reads. Through the just open door +behind her comes the voice of OLIVE. + +OLIVE. Mummy! I'm awake! + + But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in + her nightgown. + +OLIVE. [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's +fourteen minutes to eleven. + +KATHERINE. Olive, Olive! + +OLIVE. I just wanted to see the time. I never can go to sleep if I +try--it's quite helpless, you know. Is there a victory yet? +[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh! I prayed extra special for one in +the evening papers. [Straying round her mother] Hasn't Daddy come? + +KATHERINE. Not yet. + +OLIVE. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face in her mother's +hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's particular to-night. + + KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm. + +OLIVE. How long has Daddy been away? + +KATHERINE. Six weeks. + +OLIVE. It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? Has he been +making speeches all the time? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. To-night, too? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. The night that man was here whose head's too bald for +anything--oh! Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so +termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a +wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they! + +KATHERINE. Very. + +OLIVE. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know. + +KATHERINE. Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive. + +OLIVE. Does Daddy often? + +KATHERINE. Yes, nowadays. + +OLIVE. What does it mean? + +KATHERINE. Speaking to people who won't listen. + +OLIVE. What do they do, then? + +KATHERINE. Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd +comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things, +and hoot. + +OLIVE. Poor Daddy! Is it people on our side who throw things? + +KATHERINE. Yes, but only rough people. + +OLIVE. Why does he go on doing it? I shouldn't. + +KATHERINE. He thinks it is his duty. + +OLIVE. To your neighbour, or only to God? + +KATHERINE. To both. + +OLIVE. Oh! Are those his letters? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." Does he always +call you his dear heart, Mummy? It's rather jolly, isn't it? +"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. For a few +hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are +the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y? + +KATHERINE. [Putting away the letters] Come, Olive! + +OLIVE. But what are they? + +KATHERINE. Daddy means that he's been very unhappy. + +OLIVE. Have you, too? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. [Cheerfully] So have I. May I open the window? + +KATHERINE. No; you'll let the mist in. + +OLIVE. Isn't it a funny mist-all flat! + +KATHERINE. Now, come along, frog! + +OLIVE. [Making time] Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back? + +KATHERINE. We don't know, dear. + +OLIVE. I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does. + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. That's something, isn't it? + +KATHERINE. [Picking her up] Now then! + +OLIVE. [Deliciously limp] Had I better put in the duty to your +neighbour if there isn't a victory soon? [As they pass through the +door] You're tickling under my knee! [Little gurgles of pleasure +follow. Then silence. Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for +Daddy. + + KATHERINE comes back. She is about to leave the door a little + open, when she hears a knock on the other door. It is opened a + few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The + NURSE comes in. + +KATHERINE. [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her] What is it, +Nurse? + +NURSE. [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do +it in the daytime. I'm giving you notice. + +KATHERINE. Nurse! You too! + + She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay. The NURSE smudges a + slow tear away from her cheek. + +NURSE. I want to go right away at once. + +KATHERINE. Leave Olive! That is the sins of the fathers with a +vengeance. + +NURSE. I've had another letter from my son. No, Miss Katherine, +while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish +creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back. + +KATHERINE. But, Nurse----! + +NURSE. It's not like them [With an ineffable gesture] downstairs, +because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke +again, or mind what the boys in the street say. I should think not-- +no! It's my heart. I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and +him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water +that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day +one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself +perhaps. If anything were to 'appen to him. I'd never forgive +meself--here. Ah! Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad +news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time +the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself. + +KATHERINE. But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you? + +NURSE. [Smudging at her cheeks] There's that tells me it's +encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming +back to-night. You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says. + +KATHERINE. Don't you know what it's costing him? + +NURSE. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than +that it'll cost him, to go against the country. + +KATHERINE. He's following his conscience. + +NURSE. And others must follow theirs, too. No, Miss Katherine, for +you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your +father fair wasting away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been +these three months past. What'll you feel if anything happens to my +three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed +myself, when your precious mother couldn't? What would she have said +--with you in the camp of his enemies? + +KATHERINE. Nurse, Nurse! + +NURSE. In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and +makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war +lasts, there's our blood on this house. + +KATHERINE. [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen. + +NURSE. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move him to leave off! +I see your heart, my dear. But if you don't, then go I must! + + She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room, + opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the + words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door. + + KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and + smooths her lips and eyes. The door from the corridor is + opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit! You're not in bed?" + +KATHERINE. No. + + HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her + head. Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into + KATHERINE's arms. + +KATHERINE. My dear, what is it? + +HELEN. I've seen--a vision! + +KATHERINE. Hssh! You'll wake Olive! + +HELEN. [Staring before her] I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a +plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. And on it +there were--dark things. One grew into a body without a head, and a +gun by its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a +wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford. And then +I saw--Hubert. His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound, +an awful wound here [She touches her breast]. The blood was running +from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! Kit--by kissing it [She +pauses, stifled by emotion]. Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say +vultures didn't touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from +somewhere, calling out: "Oh! God! I'm dying!" And Wreford began to +swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor +fellow be!" But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out: +"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!" And Wreford +dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man +who's going to kill. + +KATHERINE. My dear! HOW ghastly! + +HELEN. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead +man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along, +so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him, +Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You +brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there, +he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got +black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to +the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it +touched him, and sprang away. And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing +out at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things! + +KATHERINE. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes! You must +have been looking at the mist. + +HELEN. [Strangely calm] He's dead! + +KATHERINE. It was only a dream. + +HELEN. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] That's Stephen. +Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help +coming. + + She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have + passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans + out. MORE comes in. + +MORE. Kit! + + Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to + her. + +KATHERINE. Ah! [She has mastered her emotion.] + +MORE. Let me look at you! + + He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long + at her. + +MORE. What have you done to your hair? + +KATHERINE. Nothing. + +MORE. It's wonderful to-night. + + [He takes it greedily and buries his face in it.] + +KATHERINE. [Drawing her hair away] Well? + +MORE. At last! + +KATHERINE. [Pointing to OLIVE's room] Hssh! + +MORE. How is she? + +KATHERINE. All right. + +MORE. And you? + + [KATHERINE shrugs her shoulders.] + +MORE. Six weeks! + +KATHERINE. Why have you come? + +MORE. Why! + +KATHERINE. You begin again the day after tomorrow. Was it worth +while? + +MORE. Kit! + +KATHERINE. It makes it harder for me, that's all. + +MORE. [Staring at her] What's come to you? + +KATHERINE. Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your +meetings. + +MORE. Put that away to-night. [He touches her] This is what +travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water. + +KATHERINE. [Suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead] Your +forehead! It's cut. + +MORE. It's nothing. + +KATHERINE. Oh! Let me bathe it! + +MORE. No, dear! It's all right. + +KATHERINE. [Turning away] Helen has just been telling me a dream +she's had of Hubert's death. + +MORE. Poor child! + +KATHERINE. Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's +been nothing else to do. Nothing, Stephen--nothing! + +MORE. Hide? Because of me? + + [KATHERINE nods.] + +MORE. [With a movement of distress] I see. I thought from your +letters you were coming to feel----. Kit! You look so lovely! + + [Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.] + +MORE. My dear, don't cry! God knows I don't want to make things +worse for you. I'll go away. + + She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her, + he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the + brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words. + +MORE. Never look forward. After the time I've had--I thought-- +tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and +everything! + + While he is speaking KATHERINE has stolen closer. She suddenly + drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair. + He turns and clasps her. + +MORE. Kit! + +KATHERINE. Ah! yes! But-to-morrow it begins again. Oh! Stephen! +How long--how long am I to be torn in two? [Drawing back in his +arms] I can't--can't bear it. + +MORE. My darling! + +KATHERINE. Give it up! For my sake! Give it up! [Pressing closer +to him] It shall be me--and everything---- + +MORE. God! + +KATHERINE. It shall be--if--if---- + +MORE. [Aghast] You're not making terms? Bargaining? For God's +sake, Kit! + +KATHERINE. For God's sake, Stephen! + +MORE. You!--of all people--you! + +KATHERINE. Stephen! + + [For a moment MORE yields utterly, then shrinks back.] + +MORE. A bargain! It's selling my soul! + + He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without + speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his + forehead. KATHERINE remains some seconds on her knees, gazing + up at him, not realizing. Then her head droops; she too gets up + and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her. It is + as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both. Quite + suddenly MORE turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his + way out of the room. When he is gone KATHERINE drops on her + knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS + + + + + +ACT IV + + It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of + MORE's house. The windows are closed, but curtains are not + drawn. STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from + MORE's dictation. + +STEEL. [Reading over the letter] "No doubt we shall have trouble. +But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the +hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. Let bills be got out, and +an audience will collect in any case." + +MORE. They will. + +STEEL. "Yours truly"; I've signed for you. + + [MORE nods.] + +STEEL. [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants +have all given notice--except Henry. + +MORE. Poor Henry! + +STEEL. It's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken +twice--but it's partly---- + +MORE. Patriotism. Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves. +That reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel. + +STEEL. Oh, no! + +MORE. My dear fellow--yes. Last night ended your sulphur cure. +Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it. + +STEEL. Some one must do the work. You're half dead as it is. + +MORE. There's lots of kick in me. + +STEEL. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It isn't worth it. + +MORE. To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything +better worth it? + +STEEL. Well, then, I'm not going. + +MORE. This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any +longer. Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but +yourself. + +STEEL. I can't leave you, sir. + +MORE. My dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so +far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer. Hand me +over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting. + +STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them. + +MORE. Come! [He stretches out his hand for the papers. As STEEL +still draws back, he says more sharply] Give them to me, Steel! +[STEEL hands them over] Now, that ends it, d'you see? + + They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset, + turns and goes out of the room. MORE, who has watched him with + a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is + closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr. + Mendip, sir." MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws. MORE + turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand. + +MENDIP. [Taking MORE'S hand] Give me credit for a little philosophy, +my friend. Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day. Have you heard? + +MORE. What? + +MENDIP. There's been a victory. + +MORE. Thank God! + +MENDIP. Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood. + +MORE. Yes! + +MENDIP. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. You're only flouting +human nature. + +MORE. So--even you defend the mob! + +MENDIP. My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common +instinct in the world. What do you expect? That the man in the +street should be a Quixote? That his love of country should express +itself in philosophic altruism? What on earth do you expect? Men +are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of +simple men. + +MORE. Conglomerate excrescence. Mud of street and market-place +gathered in a torrent--This blind howling "patriotism"--what each man +feels in here? [He touches his breast] No! + +MENDIP. You think men go beyond instinct--they don't. All they know +is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call +country. They just feel something big and religious, and go it +blind. + +MORE. This used to be the country of free speech. It used to be the +country where a man was expected to hold to his faith. + +MENDIP. There are limits to human nature, Stephen. + +MORE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. Still +your advice, is it? + +MENDIP. My advice is: Get out of town at once. The torrent you +speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. Come, my +dear fellow, don't stay here! + +MORE. Thanks! I'll see that Katherine and Olive go. + +MENDIP. Go with them! If your cause is lost, that's no reason why +you should be. + +MORE. There's the comfort of not running away. And--I want comfort. + +MENDIP. This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish--foolish. Well! I'm +going to the House. This way? + +MORE. Down the steps, and through the gate. Good-bye? + + KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked, + with a small bag in her hand. KATHERINE takes from the bureau a + cheque which she hands to the NURSE. MORE comes in from the + terrace. + +MORE. You're wise to go, Nurse. + +NURSE. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. Where's your heart? + +MORE. In full use. + +NURSE. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth and home come +first? Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father +fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. A bitter +thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by +the boys in the street. + + [MORE stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.] + +KATHERINE. Nurse! + +NURSE. It's unnatural, sir--what you're doing! To think more of +those savages than of your own wife! Look at her! Did you ever see +her look like that? Take care, sir, before it's too late! + +MORE. Enough, please! + + NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE; + then goes. + +MORE. [Quietly] There has been a victory. + + [He goes out. KATHERINE is breathing fast, listening to the + distant hum and stir rising in the street. She runs to the + window as the footman, HENRY, entering, says: "Sir John Julian, + Ma'am!" SIR JOHN comes in, a newspaper in his hand.] + +KATHERINE. At last! A victory! + +SIR JOHN. Thank God! [He hands her the paper.] + +KATHERINE. Oh, Dad! + + [She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.] + +KATHERINE. At last! + + The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. But SIR JOHN, + after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper, + stares dumbly at the floor. + +KATHERINE. [Suddenly conscious of his gravity] Father! + +SIR JOHN. There is other news. + +KATHERINE. One of the boys? Hubert? + + [SIR JOHN bows his head.] + +KATHERINE. Killed? + + [SIR JOHN again bows his head.] + +KATHERINE. The dream! [She covers her face] Poor Helen! + + They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his + head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek. + +SIR JOHN. [Huskily] Whom the gods love---- + +KATHERINE. Hubert! + +SIR JOHN. And hulks like me go on living! + +KATHERINE. Dear Dad! + +SIR JOHN. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We shall break them. +Stephen back? + +KATHERINE. Last night. + +SIR JOHN. Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last? +[KATHERINE shakes her head] Not? + + [Then, seeing that KATHERINE is quivering with emotion, he ` + strokes her hand.] + +SIR JOHN. My dear! Death is in many houses! + +KATHERINE. I must go to Helen. Tell Stephen, Father. I can't. + +SIR JOHN. If you wish, child. + + [She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and + in a few seconds MORE comes in.] + +MORE. Yes, Sir John. You wanted me? + +SIR JOHN. Hubert is killed. + +MORE. Hubert! + +SIR JOHN. By these--whom you uphold. Katherine asked me to let you +know. She's gone to Helen. I understand you only came back last +night from your----No word I can use would give what I feel about +that. I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine; +but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months +beyond what any woman ought to bear! + + [MORE makes a gesture of pain.] + +SIR JOHN. When you chose your course---- + +MORE. Chose! + +SIR JOHN. You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her. +You knew this might come. It may come again with another of my sons + +MORE. I would willingly change places with any one of them. + +SIR JOHN. Yes--I can believe in your unhappiness. I cannot conceive +of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country. If I +could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price--no, nor +all my sons. 'Pro patri mori'--My boy, at all events, is happy! + +MORE. Yes! + +SIR JOHN. Yet you can go on doing what you are! What devil of pride +has got into you, Stephen? + +MORE. Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private +fighting out there? Not for a minute. + +SIR JOHN. I don't understand you. I always thought you devoted to +Katherine. + +MORE. Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and +child? + +SIR JOHN. I do. + +MORE. So do I. + +SIR JOHN. [Bewildered] Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I +no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God. [With +all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her] My +country! + +MORE. I would give all I have--for that creed. + +SIR JOHN. [Puzzled] Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank; +I always believed you sane and honest. But this is--visionary mania. + +MORE. Vision of what might be. + +SIR JOHN. Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation-- +the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them? I've +known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country. + +MORE. Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me! +To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I +were a wall! To dread the post! To go to bed every night with the +sound of hooting in my ears! To know that my name is never referred +to without contempt---- + +SIR JOHN. You have your new friends. Plenty of them, I understand. + +MORE. Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night? Your +battles are fool's play to it. + + The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder. + SIR JOHN turns his head towards it. + +SIR JOHN. You've heard there's been a victory. Do you carry your +unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? [MORE shakes his +head] That's something! For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's +gone past mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hubert was +her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. Think +what that means to her! Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever +you call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country till the +thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and-- +traducing. Take her away! Come! What good are you doing? What +earthly good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone. + +MORE. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's +in them! I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am +I to slink away? Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds +who've thanked me for taking this stand. They look on me now as +their leader. Am I to desert them? When you led your forlorn hope-- +did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come +through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are +following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred-- +not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time. + +SIR JOHN. [After a long stare] I give you credit for believing what +you say. But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too +old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's +love. By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks +and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of +your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much +the better for you. But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection-- +alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter +ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity +you. Good-night! + + He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. MORE is left + standing perfectly still. The stir and murmur of the street is + growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his + consciousness. He goes to the bay window and looks out; then + rings the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning up the + lights, he rings again. KATHERINE comes in. She is wearing a + black hat, and black outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without + looking up. + +KATHERINE. You rang! + +MORE. For them to shut this room up. + +KATHERINE. The servants have gone out. They're afraid of the house +being set on fire. + +MORE. I see. + +KATHERINE. They have not your ideals to sustain them. [MORE winces] +I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's. + +MORE. [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words] Good! You +prefer that to an hotel? [KATHERINE nods. Gently] Will you let me +say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's---- + +KATHERINE. Don't. I ought to have made what I meant plainer. I am +not coming back. + +MORE. Not? Not while the house---- + +KATHERINE. Not--at all. + +MORE. Kit! + +KATHERINE. I warned you from the first. You've gone too far! + +MORE. [Terribly moved] Do you understand what this means? After +ten years--and all--our love! + +KATHERINE. Was it love? How could you ever have loved one so +unheroic as myself! + +MORE. This is madness, Kit--Kit! + +KATHERINE. Last night I was ready. You couldn't. If you couldn't +then, you never can. You are very exalted, Stephen. I don't like +living--I won't live, with one whose equal I am not. This has been +coming ever since you made that speech. I told you that night what +the end would be. + +MORE. [Trying to put his arms round her] Don't be so terribly +cruel! + +KATHERINE. No! Let's have the truth! People so wide apart don't +love! Let me go! + +MORE. In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths? + +KATHERINE. Last night you used the word--bargain. Quite right. I +meant to buy you. I meant to kill your faith. You showed me what I +was doing. I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains, +Stephen. + +MORE. God knows--I never meant---- + +KATHERINE. If I'm not yours in spirit--I don't choose to be your-- +mistress. + + MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an + attitude of defence. + +KATHERINE. Yes, that's cruel! It shows the heights you live on. I +won't drag you down. + +MORE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and see! I'm fighting +for the faith that's in me. What else can a man do? What else? Ah! +Kit! Do see! + +KATHERINE. I'm strangled here! Doing nothing--sitting silent--when +my brothers are fighting, and being killed. I shall try to go out +nursing. Helen will come with me. I have my faith, too; my poor +common love of country. I can't stay here with you. I spent last +night on the floor--thinking--and I know! + +MORE. And Olive? + +KATHERINE. I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you +forbid me to take her. You can. + +MORE. [Icily] That I shall not do--you know very well. You are +free to go, and to take her. + +KATHERINE. [Very low] Thank you! [Suddenly she turns to him, and +draws his eyes on her. Without a sound, she puts her whole strength +into that look] Stephen! Give it up! Come down to me! + + The festive sounds from the street grow louder. There can be + heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds + of joy. + +MORE. And drown in--that? + +KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door. There she stands and again +looks at him. Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents +of her emotions. + +MORE. So--you're going? + +KATHERINE. [In a whisper] Yes. + + She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. MORE starts + forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the + doorway. She has on a straight little white coat and a round + white cap. + +OLIVE. Aren't you coming with us, Daddy? + + [MORE shakes his head.] + +OLIVE. Why not? + +MORE. Never mind, my dicky bird. + +OLIVE. The motor'll have to go very slow. There are such a lot of +people in the street. Are you staying to stop them setting the house +on fire? [MORE nods] May I stay a little, too? [MORE shakes his +head] Why? + +MORE. [Putting his hand on her head] Go along, my pretty! + +OLIVE. Oh! love me up, Daddy! + + [MORE takes and loves her up] + +OLIVE. Oo-o! + +MORE. Trot, my soul! + + [She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.] + + MORE follows her to the door, but stops there. Then, as full + realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window, + craning his head to catch sight of the front door. There is the + sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its + horn as it makes its way among the crowd. He turns from the + window. + +MORE. Alone as the last man on earth! + + [Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the + street.] + +VOICE. There 'e is! That's 'im! More! Traitor! More! + + A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins + to rattle against the glass of the window. Many voices take up + the groaning: "More! Traitor! Black-leg! More!" And through + the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese + lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos. The din of execration + swells. MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab. + Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of + the panes. It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a + hearty groan. A second stone crashes through the glass. MORE + turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the + street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his + face. Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he + moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head + droop. The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes + through. MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands, + looks straight before him. The footman, HENRY, entering, + hastens to the French windows. + +MORE. Ah! Henry, I thought you'd gone. + +FOOTMAN. I came back, sir. + +MORE. Good fellow! + +FOOTMAN. They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir. They've no +business coming on to private property--no matter what! + + In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows + fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the + terrace, and no more seen. The MOB is a mixed crowd of + revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and + girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats--Some + wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles. + Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside + on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such + ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS, + the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an + athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and + heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge + arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the + first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To + him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive + MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round + the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music + of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF + THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him + down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and + stand gaping up at him. + +CHIEF STUDENT. Speech! Speech! + + [The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.] + +CHIEF STUDENT. Now then, you, sir. + +MORE. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here by the law that +governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force. By that law, you +can do what you like to this body of mine. + +A VOICE. And we will, too. + +MORE. I don't doubt it. But before that, I've a word to say. + +A VOICE. You've always that. + + [ANOTHER VOICE raises a donkey's braying.] + +MORE. You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun. When +you walk the street--God goes in. + +CHIEF STUDENT. Be careful, you--sir. + +VOICES. Down him! Down with the beggar! + +MORE. [Above the murmurs] My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you. +You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak. +Put up with the truth for once! [His words rush out] You are the +thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. This +to-day, and that to-morrow. Brain--you have none. Spirit--not the +ghost of it! If you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If +you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing +fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of +our soldiers, and this of mine. You have neither! + +CHIEF STUDENT. [Checking a dangerous rush] Hold on! Hold on! [To +MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear +it! + +CROWD. Ah! Ay! Ah! + +MORE. My country is not yours. Mine is that great country which +shall never take toll from the weakness of others. [Above the +groaning] Ah! you can break my head and my windows; but don't think +that you can break my faith. You could never break or shake it, if +you were a million to one. + + A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the + crowd and shakes her fist at him. + +GIRL. You're friends with them that killed my lad! [MORE smiles +down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy +Scout beside her] Smile, you--cur! + + A violent rush and heave from behind flings MORE forward on to + the steel. He reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the + crowd. A scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries. The CHIEF + STUDENT shouts above the riot: "Steady!" Another: "My God! + He's got it!" + +CHIEF STUDENT. Give him air! + + The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift + his arms and head, but they fall like lead. Desperately they + test him for life. + +CHIEF STUDENT. By the Lord, it's over! + + Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window. Some one + turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts + away. The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese + lantern. Muttering the words: "Poor devil! He kept his end up + anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little + abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast. Then he, + too, turns, and rushes out. + + And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee + noises in the street continue to rise. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST AT ONCE. + + + + + + AFTERMATH + + A late Spring dawn is just breaking. Against trees in leaf and + blossom, with the houses of a London Square beyond, suffused by + the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite + pedestal. In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement. The light + grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly + read: + + ERECTED + To the Memory + of + STEPHEN MORE + "Faithful to his ideal" + +High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint +smile. On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have +perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and +singing of birds. + + +THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + +The End + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE MOB, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +PLAYS in the FOURTH SERIES + +A BIT O' LOVE + THE FOUNDATIONS + THE SKIN GAME + + + + +A BIT O' LOVE + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +MICHAEL STRANGWAY +BEATRICE STRANGWAY +MRS. BRADMERE +JIM BERE +JACK CREMER +MRS. BURLACOMBE +BURLACOMBE +TRUSTAFORD +JARLAND +CLYST +FREMAN +GODLEIGH +SOL POTTER +MORSE, AND OTHERS +IVY BURLACOMBE +CONNIE TRUSTAFORD +GLADYS FREMAN +MERCY JARLAND +TIBBY JARLAND +BOBBIE JARLAND + + + + +SCENE: A VILLAGE OF THE WEST + +The Action passes on Ascension Day. + +ACT I. STRANGWAY'S rooms at BURLACOMBE'S. Morning. + +ACT II. Evening + + SCENE I. The Village Inn. + SCENE II. The same. + SCENE III. Outside the church. + +ACT III. Evening + + SCENE I. STRANGWAY'S rooms. + SCENE II. BURLACOMBE'S barn. + + + +A BIT O' LOVE + + +ACT I + + It is Ascension Day in a village of the West. In the low + panelled hall-sittingroom of the BURLACOMBE'S farmhouse on the + village green, MICHAEL STRANGWAY, a clerical collar round his + throat and a dark Norfolk jacket on his back, is playing the + flute before a very large framed photograph of a woman, which is + the only picture on the walls. His age is about thirty-five his + figure thin and very upright and his clean-shorn face thin, + upright, narrow, with long and rather pointed ears; his dark + hair is brushed in a coxcomb off his forehead. A faint smile + hovers about his lips that Nature has made rather full and he + has made thin, as though keeping a hard secret; but his bright + grey eyes, dark round the rim, look out and upwards almost as if + he were being crucified. There is something about the whole of + him that makes him seen not quite present. A gentle creature, + burnt within. + + A low broad window above a window-seat forms the background to + his figure; and through its lattice panes are seen the outer + gate and yew-trees of a churchyard and the porch of a church, + bathed in May sunlight. The front door at right angles to the + window-seat, leads to the village green, and a door on the left + into the house. + + It is the third movement of Veracini's violin sonata that + STRANGWAY plays. His back is turned to the door into the house, + and he does not hear when it is opened, and IVY BURLACOMBE, the + farmer's daughter, a girl of fourteen, small and quiet as a + mouse, comes in, a prayer-book in one hand, and in the other a + gloss of water, with wild orchis and a bit of deep pink + hawthorn. She sits down on the window-seat, and having opened + her book, sniffs at the flowers. Coming to the end of the + movement STRANGWAY stops, and looking up at the face on the + wall, heaves a long sigh. + +IVY. [From the seat] I picked these for yu, Mr. Strangway. + +STRANGWAY. [Turning with a start] Ah! Ivy. Thank you. [He puts +his flute down on a chair against the far wall] Where are the +others? + + As he speaks, GLADYS FREMAN, a dark gipsyish girl, and CONNIE + TRUSTAFORD, a fair, stolid, blue-eyed Saxon, both about sixteen, + come in through the front door, behind which they have evidently + been listening. They too have prayer-books in their hands. + They sidle past Ivy, and also sit down under the window. + +GLADYS. Mercy's comin', Mr. Strangway. + +STRANGWAY. Good morning, Gladys; good morning, Connie. + + He turns to a book-case on a table against the far wall, and + taking out a book, finds his place in it. While he stands thus + with his back to the girls, MERCY JARLAND comes in from the + green. She also is about sixteen, with fair hair and china-blue + eyes. She glides in quickly, hiding something behind her, and + sits down on the seat next the door. And at once there is a + whispering. + +STRANGWAY. [Turning to them] Good morning, Mercy. + +MERCY. Good morning, Mr. Strangway. + +STRANGWAY. Now, yesterday I was telling you what our Lord's coming +meant to the world. I want you to understand that before He came +there wasn't really love, as we know it. I don't mean to say that +there weren't many good people; but there wasn't love for the sake of +loving. D'you think you understand what I mean? + + MERCY fidgets. GLADYS'S eyes are following a fly. + +IVY. Yes, Mr. Strangway. + +STRANGWAY. It isn't enough to love people because they're good to +you, or because in some way or other you're going to get something by +it. We have to love because we love loving. That's the great thing- +-without that we're nothing but Pagans. + +GLADYS. Please, what is Pagans? + +STRANGWAY. That's what the first Christians called the people who +lived in the villages and were not yet Christians, Gladys. + +MERCY. We live in a village, but we're Christians. + +STRANGWAY. [With a smile] Yes, Mercy; and what is a Christian? + + MERCY kicks afoot, sideways against her neighbour, frowns over + her china-blare eyes, is silent; then, as his question passes + on, makes a quick little face, wriggles, and looks behind her. + +STRANGWAY. Ivy? + +IVY. 'Tis a man--whu--whu---- + +STRANGWAY. Yes?--Connie? + +CONNIE. [Who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a permanent slight +cold] Please, Mr. Strangway, 'tis a man what goes to church. + +GLADYS. He 'as to be baptised--and confirmed; and--and--buried. + +IVY. 'Tis a man whu--whu's gude and---- + +GLADYS. He don't drink, an' he don't beat his horses, an' he don't +hit back. + +MERCY. [Whispering] 'Tisn't your turn. [To STRANGWAY] 'Tis a man +like us. + +IVY. I know what Mrs. Strangway said it was, 'cause I asked her +once, before she went away. + +STRANGWAY. [Startled] Yes? + +IVY. She said it was a man whu forgave everything. + +STRANGWAY. Ah! + + The note of a cuckoo comes travelling. The girls are gazing at + STRANGWAY, who seems to have gone of into a dream. They begin + to fidget and whisper. + +CONNIE. Please, Mr. Strangway, father says if yu hit a man and he +don't hit yu back, he's no gude at all. + +MERCY. When Tommy Morse wouldn't fight, us pinched him--he did +squeal! [She giggles] Made me laugh! + +STRANGWAY. Did I ever tell you about St. Francis of Assisi? + +IVY. [Clasping her hands] No. + +STRANGWAY. Well, he was the best Christian, I think, that ever +lived--simply full of love and joy. + +IVY. I expect he's dead. + +STRANGWAY. About seven hundred years, Ivy. + +IVY. [Softly] Oh! + +STRANGWAY. Everything to him was brother or sister--the sun and the +moon, and all that was poor and weak and sad, and animals and birds, +so that they even used to follow him about. + +MERCY. I know! He had crumbs in his pocket. + +STRANGWAY. No; he had love in his eyes. + +IVY. 'Tis like about Orpheus, that yu told us. + +STRANGWAY. Ah! But St. Francis was a Christian, and Orpheus was a +Pagan. + +IVY. Oh! + +STRANGWAY. Orpheus drew everything after him with music; St. +Francis by love. + +IVY. Perhaps it was the same, really. + +STRANGWAY. [looking at his flute] Perhaps it was, Ivy. + +GLADYS. Did 'e 'ave a flute like yu? + +IVY. The flowers smell sweeter when they 'ear music; they du. + + [She holds up the glass of flowers.] + +STRANGWAY. [Touching one of the orchis] What's the name of this +one? + + [The girls cluster; save MERCY, who is taking a stealthy + interest in what she has behind her.] + +CONNIE. We call it a cuckoo, Mr. Strangway. + +GLADYS. 'Tis awful common down by the streams. We've got one medder +where 'tis so thick almost as the goldie cups. + +STRANGWAY. Odd! I've never noticed it. + +IVY. Please, Mr. Strangway, yu don't notice when yu're walkin'; yu +go along like this. + + [She holds up her face as one looking at the sky.] + +STRANGWAY. Bad as that, Ivy? + +IVY. Mrs. Strangway often used to pick it last spring. + +STRANGWAY. Did she? Did she? + + [He has gone off again into a kind of dream.] + +MERCY. I like being confirmed. + +STRANGWAY. Ah! Yes. Now----What's that behind you, Mercy? + +MERCY. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a +mouse-trap, containing a skylark] My skylark. + +STRANGWAY. What! + +MERCY. It can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. Bobbie caught +it. + +STRANGWAY. How long ago? + +MERCY. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yesterday. + +STRANGWAY. [White hot] Give me the cage! + +MERCY. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps up to her and +takes the cage--thoroughly alarmed] I gave Bobbie thrippence for it! + +STRANGWAY. [Producing a sixpence] There! + +MERCY. [Throwing it down-passionately] I want my skylark! + +STRANGWAY. God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass. And +you put it in that! Never cage any wild thing! Never! + +MERCY. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark. + +STRANGWAY. [Taking the cage to the door] No! [He holds up the cage +and opens it] Off you go, poor thing! + + [The bird flies out and away. The girls watch with round eyes + the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.] + +IVY. I'm glad! + + [MERCY kicks her viciously and sobs. STRANGWAY comes from the + door, looks at MERCY sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. The + girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and + disapproval.] + +GLADYS. [Whispering] Don't cry, Mercy. Bobbie'll soon catch yu +another. + + [STRANGWAY has dropped his hands, and is looking again at MERCY. + IVY sits with hands clasped, gazing at STRANGWAY. MERCY + continues her artificial sobbing.] + +STRANGWAY. [Quietly] The class is over for to-day. + + [He goes up to MERCY, and holds out his hand. She does not take + it, and runs out knuckling her eyes. STRANGWAY turns on his + heel and goes into the house.] + +CONNIE. 'Twasn't his bird. + +IVY. Skylarks belong to the sky. Mr. Strangway said so. + +GLADYS. Not when they'm caught, they don't. + +IVY. They du. + +CONNIE. 'Twas her bird. + +IVY. He gave her sixpence for it. + +GLADYS. She didn't take it. + +CONNIE. There it is on the ground. + +IVY. She might have. + +GLADYS. He'll p'raps take my squirrel, tu. + +IVY. The bird sang--I 'eard it! Right up in the sky. It wouldn't +have sanged if it weren't glad. + +GLADYS. Well, Mercy cried. + +IVY. I don't care. + +GLADYS. 'Tis a shame! And I know something. Mrs. Strangway's at +Durford. + +CONNIE. She's--never! + +GLADYS. I saw her yesterday. An' if she's there she ought to be +here. I told mother, an' she said: "Yu mind yer business." An' when +she goes in to market to-morrow she'm goin' to see. An' if she's +really there, mother says, 'tis a fine tu-du an' a praaper scandal. +So I know a lot more'n yu du. + + [Ivy stares at her.] + +CONNIE. Mrs. Strangway told mother she was goin' to France for the +winter because her mother was ill. + +GLADYS. 'Tisn't, winter now--Ascension Day. I saw her cumin' out o' +Dr. Desert's house. I know 'twas her because she had on a blue dress +an' a proud luke. Mother says the doctor come over here tu often +before Mrs. Strangway went away, just afore Christmas. They was old +sweethearts before she married Mr. Strangway. [To Ivy] 'Twas yure +mother told mother that. + + [Ivy gazes at them more and more wide-eyed.] + +CONNIE. Father says if Mrs. Bradmere an' the old Rector knew about +the doctor, they wouldn't 'ave Mr. Strangway 'ere for curate any +longer; because mother says it takes more'n a year for a gude wife to +leave her 'usband, an' 'e so fond of her. But 'tisn't no business of +ours, father says. + +GLADYS. Mother says so tu. She's praaper set against gossip. +She'll know all about it to-morrow after market. + +IVY. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to 'ear nothin' at all; I +don't, an' I won't. + + [A rather shame faced silence falls on the girls.] + +GLADYS. [In a quick whisper] 'Ere's Mrs. Burlacombe. + + [There enters fawn the house a stout motherly woman with a round + grey eye and very red cheeks.] + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ivy, take Mr. Strangway his ink, or we'll never +'eve no sermon to-night. He'm in his thinkin' box, but 'tis not a +bit o' yuse 'im thinkin' without 'is ink. [She hands her daughter an +inkpot and blotting-pad. Ivy Takes them and goes out] What ever's +this? [She picks up the little bird-cage.] + +GLADYS. 'Tis Mercy Jarland's. Mr. Strangway let her skylark go. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! Did 'e now? Serve 'er right, bringin' an +'eathen bird to confirmation class. + +CONNIE. I'll take it to her. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. No. Yu leave it there, an' let Mr. Strangway du +what 'e likes with it. Bringin' a bird like that! Well 'I never! + + [The girls, perceiving that they have lighted on stony soil, + look at each other and slide towards the door.] + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yes, yu just be off, an' think on what yu've been +told in class, an' be'ave like Christians, that's gude maids. An' +don't yu come no more in the 'avenin's dancin' them 'eathen dances in +my barn, naighther, till after yu'm confirmed--'tisn't right. I've +told Ivy I won't 'ave it. + +CONNIE. Mr. Strangway don't mind--he likes us to; 'twas Mrs. +Strangway began teachin' us. He's goin' to give a prize. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yu just du what I tell yu an' never mind Mr. +Strangway--he'm tu kind to everyone. D'yu think I don't know how +gells oughter be'ave before confirmation? Yu be'ave like I did! +Now, goo ahn! Shoo! + + [She hustles them out, rather as she might hustle her chickens, + and begins tidying the room. There comes a wandering figure to + the open window. It is that of a man of about thirty-five, of + feeble gait, leaning the weight of all one side of him on a + stick. His dark face, with black hair, one lock of which has + gone white, was evidently once that of an ardent man. Now it is + slack, weakly smiling, and the brown eyes are lost, and seem + always to be asking something to which there is no answer.] + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [With that forced cheerfulness always assumed in +the face of too great misfortune] Well, Jim! better? [At the faint +brightening of the smile] That's right! Yu'm gettin' on bravely. +Want Parson? + +JIM. [Nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] I want to tell 'un +about my cat. + + [His face loses its smile.] + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Why! what's she been duin' then? Mr. Strangway's +busy. Won't I du? + +JIM. [Shaking his head] No. I want to tell him. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Whatever she been duin'? Havin' kittens? + +JIM. No. She'm lost. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Dearie me! Aw! she'm not lost. Cats be like +maids; they must get out a bit. + +JIM. She'm lost. Maybe he'll know where she'll be. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Well, well. I'll go an' find 'im. + +JIM. He's a gude man. He's very gude. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. That's certain zure. + +STRANGWAY. [Entering from the house] Mrs. Burlacombe, I can't think +where I've put my book on St. Francis--the large, squarish pale-blue +one? + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! there now! I knu there was somethin' on me +mind. Miss Willis she came in yesterday afternune when yu was out, +to borrow it. Oh! yes--I said--I'm zure Mr. Strangway'll lend it +'ee. Now think o' that! + +STRANGWAY. Of course, Mrs. Burlacombe; very glad she's got it. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! but that's not all. When I tuk it up there +come out a whole flutter o' little bits o' paper wi' little rhymes on +'em, same as I see yu writin'. Aw! my gudeness! I says to meself, +Mr. Strangway widn' want no one seein' them. + +STRANGWAY. Dear me! No; certainly not! + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. An' so I putt 'em in your secretary. + +STRANGWAY. My-ah! Yes. Thank you; yes. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. But I'll goo over an' get the buke for yu. +'T won't take me 'alf a minit. + + [She goes out on to the green. JIM BERE has come in.] + +STRANGWAY. [Gently] Well, Jim? + +JIM. My cat's lost. + +STRANGWAY. Lost? + +JIM. Day before yesterday. She'm not come back. They've shot 'er, +I think; or she'm caught in one o' they rabbit-traps. + +STRANGWAY. Oh! no; my dear fellow, she'll come back. I'll speak to +Sir Herbert's keepers. + +JIM. Yes, zurr. I feel lonesome without 'er. + +STRANGWAY. [With a faint smile--more to himself than to Jim] +Lonesome! Yes! That's bad, Jim! That's bad! + +JIM. I miss 'er when I sits than in the avenin'. + +STRANGWAY. The evenings----They're the worst----and when the +blackbirds sing in the morning. + +JIM. She used to lie on my bed, ye know, zurr. + + [STRANGWAY turns his face away, contracted with pain] + +She'm like a Christian. + +STRANGWAY. The beasts are. + +JIM. There's plenty folk ain't 'alf as Christian as 'er be. + +STRANGWAY. Well, dear Jim, I'll do my very best. And any time +you're lonely, come up, and I'll play the flute to you. + +JIM. [Wriggling slightly] No, zurr. Thank 'ee, zurr. + +STRANGWAY. What--don't you like music? + +JIM. Ye-es, zurr. [A figure passes the window. Seeing it he says +with his slow smile] "'Ere's Mrs. Bradmere, comin' from the Rectory." +[With queer malice] She don't like cats. But she'm a cat 'erself, I +think. + +STRANGWAY. [With his smile] Jim! + +JIM. She'm always tellin' me I'm lukin' better. I'm not better, +zurr. + +STRANGWAY. That's her kindness. + +JIM. I don't think it is. 'Tis laziness, an' 'avin' 'er own way. +She'm very fond of 'er own way. + + [A knock on the door cuts off his speech. Following closely on + the knock, as though no doors were licensed to be closed against + her, a grey-haired lady enters; a capable, broad-faced woman of + seventy, whose every tone and movement exhales authority. With + a nod and a "good morning" to STRANGWAY she turns at face to JIM + BERE.] + +MRS. BRADMERE Ah! Jim; you're looking better. + + [JIM BERE shakes his head. MRS. BRADMERE. Oh! yes, you are. + Getting on splendidly. And now, I just want to speak to Mr. + Strangway.] + + [JIM BERE touches his forelock, and slowly, leaning on his + stick, goes out.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Waiting for the door to close] You know how that +came on him? Caught the girl he was engaged to, one night, with +another man, the rage broke something here. [She touches her +forehead] Four years ago. + +STRANGWAY. Poor fellow! + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Looking at him sharply] Is your wife back? + +STRANGWAY. [Starting] No. + +MRS. BRADMERE. By the way, poor Mrs. Cremer--is she any better? + +STRANGWAY. No; going fast: Wonderful--so patient. + +MRS. BRADMERE. [With gruff sympathy] Um! Yes. They know how to +die! [Wide another sharp look at him] D'you expect your wife soon? + +STRANGWAY. I I--hope so. + +MRS. BRADMERE: So do I. The sooner the better. + +STRANGWAY. [Shrinking] I trust the Rector's not suffering so much +this morning? + +MRS. BRADMERE. Thank you! His foot's very bad. + + [As she speaks Mrs. BURLACOMBE returns with a large pale-blue + book in her bared.] + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Good day, M'm! [Taking the book across to +STRANGWAY] Miss Willie, she says she'm very sorry, zurr. + +STRANGWAY. She was very welcome, Mrs. Burlacombe. [To MRS. +BURLACOMBE] Forgive me--my sermon. + + [He goes into the house. The two women graze after him. Then, + at once, as it were, draw into themselves, as if preparing for + an encounter, and yet seem to expand as if losing the need for + restraint.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Abruptly] He misses his wife very much, I'm afraid. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ah! Don't he? Poor dear man; he keeps a terrible +tight 'and over 'imself, but 'tis suthin' cruel the way he walks +about at night. He'm just like a cow when its calf's weaned. 'T'as +gone to me 'eart truly to see 'im these months past. T'other day +when I went up to du his rume, I yeard a noise like this [she +sniffs]; an' ther' 'e was at the wardrobe, snuffin' at 'er things. I +did never think a man cud care for a woman so much as that. + +MRS. BRADMERE. H'm! + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tis funny rest an' 'e comin' 'ere for quiet after +that tearin' great London parish! 'E'm terrible absent-minded tu- +-don't take no interest in 'is fude. Yesterday, goin' on for one +o'clock, 'e says to me, "I expect 'tis nearly breakfast-time, Mrs. +Burlacombe!" 'E'd 'ad it twice already! + +MRS. BRADMERE. Twice! Nonsense! + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Zurely! I give 'im a nummit afore 'e gets up; an' +'e 'as 'is brekjus reg'lar at nine. Must feed un up. He'm on 'is +feet all day, gain' to zee folk that widden want to zee an angel, +they're that busy; an' when 'e comes in 'e'll play 'is flute there. +Hem wastin' away for want of 'is wife. That's what 'tis. An' 'im so +sweet-spoken, tu, 'tes a pleasure to year 'im--Never says a word! + +MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, that's the kind of man who gets treated badly. +I'm afraid she's not worthy of him, Mrs. Burlacombe. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Plaiting her apron] 'Tesn't for me to zay that. +She'm a very pleasant lady. + +MRS. BRADMERE Too pleasant. What's this story about her being seen +in Durford? + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! I du never year no gossip, m'm. + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Drily] Of course not! But you see the Rector +wishes to know. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Flustered] Well--folk will talk! But, as I says +to Burlacombe--"'Tes paltry," I says; and they only married eighteen +months, and Mr. Strangway so devoted-like. 'Tes nothing but love, +with 'im. + +MRS. BRADMERE. Come! + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. There's puzzivantin' folk as'll set an' gossip the +feathers off an angel. But I du never listen. + +MRS. BRADMERE Now then, Mrs. Burlacombe? + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Well, they du say as how Dr. Desart over to Durford +and Mrs. Strangway was sweethearts afore she wer' married. + +MRS. BRADMERE. I knew that. Who was it saw her coming out of Dr. +Desart's house yesterday? + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. In a manner of spakin' 'tes Mrs. Freman that says +'er Gladys seen her. + +MRS. BRADMERE. That child's got an eye like a hawk. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes wonderful how things du spread. 'Tesn't as if +us gossiped. Du seem to grow-like in the naight. + +MRS. BRADMERE [To herself] I never lied her. That Riviera excuse, +Mrs. Burlacombe--Very convenient things, sick mothers. Mr. +Strangway doesn't know? + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. The Lord forbid! 'Twid send un crazy, I think. +For all he'm so moony an' gentlelike, I think he'm a terrible +passionate man inside. He've a-got a saint in 'im, for zure; but +'tes only 'alf-baked, in a manner of spakin'. + +MRS. BRADMERE. I shall go and see Mrs. Freman. There's been too +much of this gossip all the winter. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes unfortunate-like 'tes the Fremans. Freman +he'm a gipsy sort of a feller; and he've never forgiven Mr. Strangway +for spakin' to 'im about the way he trates 'is 'orses. + +MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! I'm afraid Mr. Strangway's not too discreet when +his feelings are touched. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'E've a-got an 'eart so big as the full mune. But +'tes no yuse espectin' tu much o' this world. 'Tes a funny place, +after that. + +MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, Mrs. Burlacombe; and I shall give some of these +good people a rare rap over the knuckles for their want of charity. +For all they look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, they're +an un-Christian lot. [Looking very directly at Mrs. BURLACOMBE] +It's lucky we've some hold over the village. I'm not going to have +scandal. I shall speak to Sir Herbert, and he and the Rector will +take steps. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [With covert malice] Aw! I du hope 'twon't upset +the Rector, an' 'is fute so poptious! + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Grimly] His foot'll be sound enough to come down +sharp. By the way, will you send me a duck up to the Rectory? + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Glad to get away] Zurely, m'm; at once. I've +some luv'ly fat birds. + + [She goes into the house.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. Old puss-cat! + + [She turns to go, and in the doorway encounters a very little, + red-cheeked girl in a peacock-blue cap, and pink frock, who + curtsies stolidly.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. Well, Tibby Jarland, what do you want here? Always +sucking something, aren't you? + + [Getting no reply from Tibby JARLAND, she passes out. Tibby + comes in, looks round, takes a large sweet out of her mouth, + contemplates it, and puts it back again. Then, in a perfunctory + and very stolid fashion, she looks about the floor, as if she + had been told to find something. While she is finding nothing + and sucking her sweet, her sister MERCY comes in furtively, + still frowning and vindictive.] + +MERCY. What! Haven't you found it, Tibby? Get along with 'ee, +then! + + [She accelerates the stolid Tissy's departure with a smack, + searches under the seat, finds and picks up the deserted + sixpence. Then very quickly she goes to the door: But it is + opened before she reaches it, and, finding herself caught, she + slips behind the chintz window-curtain. A woman has entered, + who is clearly the original of the large photograph. She is not + strictly pretty, but there is charm in her pale, resolute face, + with its mocking lips, flexible brows, and greenish eyes, whose + lids, square above them, have short, dark lashes. She is + dressed in blue, and her fair hair is coiled up under a cap and + motor-veil. She comes in swiftly, and closes the door behind + her; becomes irresolute; then, suddenly deciding, moves towards + the door into the house. MERCY slips from behind her curtain to + make off, but at that moment the door into the house is opened, + and she has at once to slip back again into covert. It is Ivy + who has appeared.] + +IVY. [Amazed] Oh! Mrs. Strangway! + + [Evidently disconcerted by this appearance, BEATRICE STRANGWAY + pulls herself together and confronts the child with a smile.] + +BEATRICE. Well, Ivy--you've grown! You didn't expect me, did you? + +IVY. No, Mrs. Strangway; but I hoped yu'd be comin' soon. + +BEATRICE. Ah! Yes. Is Mr. Strangway in? + +IVY. [Hypnotized by those faintly smiling lips] Yes--oh, yes! He's +writin' his sermon in the little room. He will be glad! + +BEATRICE. [Going a little closer, and never taking her eyes off the +child] Yes. Now, Ivy; will you do something for me? + +IVY. [Fluttering] Oh, yes, Mrs. Strangway. + +BEATRICE. Quite sure? + +IVY. Oh, yes! + +BEATRICE. Are you old enough to keep a secret? + +IVY. [Nodding] I'm fourteen now. + +BEATRICE. Well, then--, I don't want anybody but Mr. Strangway to +know I've been here; nobody, not even your mother. D'you understand? + +IVY. [Troubled] No. Only, I can keep a secret. + +BEATRICE. Mind, if anybody hears, it will hurt Mr. Strangway. + +IVY. Oh! I wouldn't--hurt--him. Must yu go away again? [Trembling +towards her] I wish yu wer goin' to stay. And perhaps some one has +seen yu--They---- + +BEATRICE. [Hastily] No, no one. I came motoring; like this. [She +moves her veil to show how it can conceal her face] And I came +straight down the little lane, and through the barn, across the yard. + +IVY. [Timidly] People du see a lot. + +BEATRICE. [Still with that hovering smile] I know, but----Now go +and tell him quickly and quietly. + +IVY. [Stopping at the door] Mother's pluckin' a duck. Only, +please, Mrs. Strangway, if she comes in even after vu've gone, she'll +know, because--because yu always have that particular nice scent. + +BEATRICE. Thank you, my child. I'll see to that. + + [Ivy looks at her as if she would speak again, then turns + suddenly, and goes out. BEATRICE'S face darkens; she shivers. + Taking out a little cigarette case, she lights a cigarette, and + watches the puff's of smoke wreathe shout her and die away. The + frightened MERCY peers out, spying for a chance, to escape. + Then from the house STRANGWAY comes in. All his dreaminess is + gone.] + +STRANGWAY. Thank God! [He stops at the look on her face] I don't +understand, though. I thought you were still out there. + +BEATRICE. [Letting her cigarette fall, and putting her foot on it] +No. + +STRANGWAY: You're staying? Oh! Beatrice; come! We'll get away from +here at once--as far, as far--anywhere you like. Oh! my darling- +-only come! If you knew---- + +BEATRICE. It's no good, Michael; I've tried and tried. + +STRANGWAY. Not! Then, why--? Beatrice! You said, when you were +right away--I've waited---- + +BEATRICE. I know. It's cruel--it's horrible. But I told you not to +hope, Michael. I've done my best. All these months at Mentone, I've +been wondering why I ever let you marry me--when that feeling wasn't +dead! + +STRANGWAY. You can't have come back just to leave me again? + +BEATRICE. When you let me go out there with mother I thought--I did +think I would be able; and I had begun--and then--spring came! + +STRANGWAY. Spring came here too! Never so--aching! Beatrice, can't +you? + +BEATRICE. I've something to say. + +STRANGWAY. No! No! No! + +BEATRICE. You see--I've--fallen. + +STBANGWAY. Ah! [In a twice sharpened by pain] Why, in the name of +mercy, come here to tell me that? Was he out there, then? + +BEATRICE. I came straight back to him. + +STRANGGWAY. To Durford? + +BEATRICE. To the Crossway Hotel, miles out--in my own name. They +don't know me there. I told you not to hope, Michael. I've done my +best; I swear it. + +STRANGWAY. My God! + +BEATRICE. It was your God that brought us to live near him! + +STRANGWAY. Why have you come to me like this? + +BEATRICE. To know what you're going to do. Are you going to divorce +me? We're in your power. Don't divorce me--Doctor and patient--you +must know--it ruins him. He'll lose everything. He'd be +disqualified, and he hasn't a penny without his work. + +STRANGWAY. Why should I spare him? + +BEATRICE. Michael; I came to beg. It's hard. + +STRANGWAY. No; don't beg! I can't stand it. + + [She shakes her head.] + +BEATRICE. [Recovering her pride] What are you going to do, then? +Keep us apart by the threat of a divorce? Starve us and prison us? +Cage me up here with you? I'm not brute enough to ruin him. + +STRANGWAY. Heaven! + +BEATRICE. I never really stopped loving him. I never--loved you, +Michael. + +STRANGWAY. [Stunned] Is that true? [BEATRICE bends her head] +Never loved me? Not--that night--on the river--not----? + +BEATRICE. [Under her breath] No. + +STRANGWAY. Were you lying to me, then? Kissing me, and--hating me? + +BEATRICE. One doesn't hate men like you; but it wasn't love. + +STRANGWAY. Why did you tell me it was? + +BEATRICE. Yes. That was the worst thing I've ever done. + +STRANGWAY. Do you think I would have married you? I would have +burned first! I never dreamed you didn't. I swear it! + +BEATRICE. [Very low] Forget it! + +STRANGWAY. Did he try to get you away from me? [BEATRICE gives him +a swift look] Tell me the truth! + +BEATRICE. No. It was--I--alone. But--he loves me. + +STRANGWAY. One does not easily know love, it seems. + + [But her smile, faint, mysterious, pitying, is enough, and he + turns away from her.] + +BEATRICE. It was cruel to come, I know. For me, too. But I +couldn't write. I had to know. + +STRANGWAY. Never loved me? Never loved me? That night at Tregaron? +[At the look on her face] You might have told me before you went +away! Why keep me all these---- + +BEATRICE. I meant to forget him again. I did mean to. I thought I +could get back to what I was, when I married you; but, you see, what +a girl can do, a woman that's been married--can't. + +STRANGWAY. Then it was I--my kisses that----! [He laughs] How did +you stand them? [His eyes dart at her face] Imagination helped you, +perhaps! + +BEATRICE. Michael, don't, don't! And--oh! don't make a public thing +of it! You needn't be afraid I shall have too good a time! + + [He stays quite still and silent, and that which is writhing in + him makes his face so strange that BEATRICE stands aghast. At + last she goes stumbling on in speech] + +If ever you want to marry some one else--then, of course--that's only +fair, ruin or not. But till then--till then----He's leaving +Durford, going to Brighton. No one need know. And you--this isn't +the only parish in the world. + +STRANGWAY. [Quietly] You ask me to help you live in secret with +another man? + +BEATRICE. I ask for mercy. + +STRANGWAY. [As to himself] What am I to do? + +BEATRICE. What you feel in the bottom of your heart. + +STRANGWAY. You ask me to help you live in sin? + +BEATRICE. To let me go out of your life. You've only to do-- +nothing. [He goes, slowly, close to her.] + +STRANGWAY. I want you. Come back to me! Beatrice, come back! + +BEATRICE. It would be torture, now. + +STANGWAY. [Writhing] Oh! + +BEATRICE. Whatever's in your heart--do! + +STRANGWAY. You'd come back to me sooner than ruin him? Would you? + +BEATRICE. I can't bring him harm. + +STRANGWAY. [Turning away] God!--if there be one help me! [He +stands leaning his forehead against the window. Suddenly his glance +falls on the little bird cage, still lying on the window-seat] Never +cage any wild thing! [He gives a laugh that is half a sob; then, +turning to the door, says in a low voice] Go! Go please, quickly! +Do what you will. I won't hurt you--can't----But--go! [He opens +the door.] + +BEATRICE. [Greatly moved] Thank you! + + [She passes him with her head down, and goes out quickly. + STRANGWAY stands unconsciously tearing at the little bird-cage. + And while he tears at it he utters a moaning sound. The + terrified MERCY, peering from behind the curtain, and watching + her chance, slips to the still open door; but in her haste and + fright she knocks against it, and STRANGWAY sees her. Before he + can stop her she has fled out on to the green and away.] + + [While he stands there, paralysed, the door from the house is + opened, and MRS. BURLACOMBE approaches him in a queer, hushed + way.] + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Her eyes mechanically fixed on the twisted +bird-cage in his hands] 'Tis poor Sue Cremer, zurr, I didn't 'ardly +think she'd last thru the mornin'. An' zure enough she'm passed +away! [Seeing that he has not taken in her words] Mr. Strangway-- +yu'm feelin' giddy? + +STRANGWAY. No, no! What was it? You said---- + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes Jack Cremer. His wife's gone. 'E'm in a +terrible way. 'Tes only yu, 'e ses, can du 'im any gude. He'm in +the kitchen. + +STRANGWAY. Cremer? Yes! Of course. Let him---- + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Still staring at the twisted cage] Yu ain't +wantin' that--'tes all twizzled. [She takes it from him] Sure yu'm +not feelin' yer 'ead? + +STRANGWAY. [With a resolute effort] No! + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Doubtfully] I'll send 'im in, then. [She goes. +When she is gone, Strangway passes his handkerchief across his +forehead, and his lips move fast. He is standing motionless when +CREMER, a big man in labourer's clothes, with a thick, broad face, +and tragic, faithful eyes, comes in, and stands a little in from the +elosed door, quite dumb.] + +STRANGWAY. [After a moment's silence--going up to him and laying a +hand on his shoulder] Jack! Don't give way. If we give way--we're +done. + +CREMER. Yes, zurr. [A quiver passes over his face.] + +STRANGWAY. She didn't. Your wife was a brave woman. A dear woman. + +CREMER. I never thought to luse 'er. She never told me 'ow bad she +was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 'Tis a dreadful thing to luse a wife, +zurr. + +STRANGWAY. [Tightening his lips, that tremble] Yes. But don't give +way! Bear up, Jack! + +CREMER. Seems funny 'er goin' blue-bell time, an' the sun shinin' so +warm. I picked up an 'orse-shu yesterday. I can't never 'ave 'er +back, zurr. + + [His face quivers again.] + +STRANGWAY. Some day you'll join her. Think! Some lose their wives +for ever. + +CREMER. I don't believe as there's a future life, zurr. I think we +goo to sleep like the beasts. + +STRANGWAY. We're told otherwise. But come here! [Drawing him to +the window] Look! Listen! To sleep in that! Even if we do, it +won't be so bad, Jack, will it? + +CREMER. She wer' a gude wife to me--no man didn't 'ave no better +wife. + +STRANGWAY. [Putting his hand out] Take hold--hard--harder! I want +yours as much as you want mine. Pray for me, Jack, and I'll pray for +you. And we won't give way, will we? + +CREMER. [To whom the strangeness of these words has given some +relief] No, zurr; thank 'ee, zurr. 'Tes no gude, I expect. Only, +I'll miss 'er. Thank 'ee, zurr; kindly. + + [He lifts his hand to his head, turns, and uncertainly goes out + to the kitchen. And STRANGWAY stays where he is, not knowing + what to do. They blindly he takes up his flute, and hatless, + hurries out into the air.] + + + + + +ACT II + + +SCENE I + + About seven o'clock in the taproom of the village inn. The bar, + with the appurtenances thereof, stretches across one end, and + opposite is the porch door on to the green. The wall between is + nearly all window, with leaded panes, one wide-open casement + whereof lets in the last of the sunlight. A narrow bench runs + under this broad window. And this is all the furniture, save + three spittoons: + + GODLEIGH, the innkeeper, a smallish man with thick ruffled hair, + a loquacious nose, and apple-red cheeks above a reddish-brown + moustache; is reading the paper. To him enters TIBBY JARLAND + with a shilling in her mouth. + +GODLEIGH. Well, TIBBY JARLAND, what've yu come for, then? Glass o' +beer? + + [TIBBY takes the shilling from her mouth and smiles stolidly.] + +GODLEIGH. [Twinkling] I shid zay glass o' 'arf an' 'arf's about +yure form. [TIBBY smiles more broadly] Yu'm a praaper masterpiece. +Well! 'Ave sister Mercy borrowed yure tongue? [TIBBY shakes her +head] Aw, she 'aven't. Well, maid? + +TIBBY. Father wants six clay pipes, please. + +GODLEIGH. 'E du, du 'ee? Yu tell yure father 'e can't 'ave more'n +one, not this avenin'. And 'ere 'tis. Hand up yure shillin'. + + [TIBBY reaches up her hand, parts with the shilling, and + receives a long clay pipe and eleven pennies. In order to + secure the coins in her pinafore she places the clay pipe in her + mouth. While she is still thus engaged, MRS. BRADMERE enters + the porch and comes in. TIBBY curtsies stolidly.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. Gracious, child! What are you doing here? And what +have you got in your mouth? Who is it? Tibby Jarland? [TIBBY +curtsies again] Take that thing out. And tell your father from me +that if I ever see you at the inn again I shall tread on his toes +hard. Godleigh, you know the law about children? + +GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye, and not at all abashed] Surely, m'm. +But she will come. Go away, my dear. + + [TIBBY, never taking her eyes off MRS. BRADMERE, or the pipe + from her mouth, has backed stolidly to the door, and vanished.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Eyeing GODLEIGH] Now, Godleigh, I've come to talk +to you. Half the scandal that goes about the village begins here. +[She holds up her finger to check expostulation] No, no--its no +good. You know the value of scandal to your business far too well. + +GODLEIGH. Wi' all respect, m'm, I knows the vally of it to yourn, +tu. + +MRS. BRADMERE. What do you mean by that? + +GODLEIGH. If there weren't no Rector's lady there widden' be no +notice taken o' scandal; an' if there weren't no notice taken, +twidden be scandal, to my thinkin'. + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Winking out a grim little smile] Very well! You've +given me your views. Now for mine. There's a piece of scandal going +about that's got to be stopped, Godleigh. You turn the tap of it off +here, or we'll turn your tap off. You know me. See? + +GODLEIGH. I shouldn' never presume, m'm, to know a lady. + +MRS. BRADMERE. The Rector's quite determined, so is Sir Herbert. +Ordinary scandal's bad enough, but this touches the Church. While +Mr. Strangway remains curate here, there must be no talk about him +and his affairs. + +GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin' how to du it, m'm. +'Twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the +women's tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as I'm +told. + +MRS. BRADMERE. Don't talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say, +because I mean it. + +GODLEIGH. Make yure mind aisy, m'm there'll be no scandal-monkeyin' +here wi' my permission. + + [MRS. BRADMERE gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly + grave, nods her head with approval.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. Good! You know what's being said, of course? + +GODLEIGH. [With respectful gravity] Yu'll pardon me, m'm, but ef +an' in case yu was goin' to tell me, there's a rule in this 'ouse: +"No scandal 'ere!" + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Twinkling grimly] You're too smart by half, my man. + +GODLEIGH. Aw fegs, no, m'm--child in yure 'ands. + +MRS. BRADMERE. I wouldn't trust you a yard. Once more, Godleigh! +This is a Christian village, and we mean it to remain so. You look +out for yourself. + + [The door opens to admit the farmers TRUSTAFORD and BURLACOMBE. + They doff their hats to MRS. BRADMERE, who, after one more sharp + look at GODLEIGH, moves towards the door.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To BURLACOMBE] +Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard +training. + + [With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.] + +TRUSTAFORD. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new, +on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little +whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh] +'Er's lukin' awful wise! + +GODLEIGH. [Enigmatically] Ah! + +TRUSTAFORD. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o' whisky, +an' potash. + +BURLACOMBE. [A taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat] +What's wise, Godleigh? Drop o' cider. + +GODLEIGH. Nuse? There's never no nuse in this 'ouse. Aw, no! Not +wi' my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village. + +TRUSTAFORD. Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To +BURLACOMBE] 'Tes rather quare about the curate's wife a-cumin' +motorin' this mornin'. Passed me wi' her face all smothered up in a +veil, goggles an' all. Haw, haw! + +BURLACOMBE. Aye! + +TRUSTAFORD. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'Er didn't give poor +old curate much of a chance, after six months. + +GODLEIGH. Havin' an engagement elsewhere--No scandal, please, +gentlemen. + +BURLACOMBE. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis. Passed me in +the yard like a stone. + +TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about 'er doctor. + +GODLEIGH. Ah! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead secret; Mr. +Trustaford. Don't yu never repate it--there's not a cat don't know +it already! + +BURLACOMBE frowns, and TRUSTAFORD utters his laugh. The door is +opened and FREMAN, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, +comes in. + +GODLEIGH. Don't yu never tell Will Freman what 'e told me! + +FREMAN. Avenin'! + +TRUSTAFORD. Avenin', Will; what's yure glass o' trouble? + +FREMAN. Drop o' eider, clove, an' dash o' gin. There's blood in the +sky to-night. + +BURLACOMBE. Ah! We'll 'ave fine weather now, with the full o' the +mune. + +FREMAN. Dust o' wind an' a drop or tu, virst, I reckon. 'Earl t' +nuse about curate an' 'is wife? + +GODLEIGH. No, indeed; an' don't yu tell us. We'm Christians 'ere in +this village. + +FREMAN. 'Tain't no very Christian nuse, neither. He's sent 'er off +to th' doctor. "Go an' live with un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye." +If 'er'd a-been mine, I'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. Tam Jarland's +maid, she yeard it all. Christian, indeed! That's brave +Christianity! "Goo an' live with un!" 'e told 'er. + +BURLACOMBE. No, no; that's, not sense--a man to say that. I'll not +'ear that against a man that bides in my 'ouse. + +FREMAN. 'Tes sure, I tell 'ee. The maid was hid-up, scared-like, +behind the curtain. At it they went, and parson 'e says: "Go," 'e +says, "I won't kape 'ee from 'im," 'e says, "an' I won't divorce 'ee, +as yu don't wish it!" They was 'is words, same as Jarland's maid +told my maid, an' my maid told my missis. If that's parson's talk, +'tes funny work goin' to church. + +TRUSTAFORD. [Brooding] 'Tes wonderful quare, zurely. + +FREMAN. Tam Jarland's fair mad wi' curate for makin' free wi' his +maid's skylark. Parson or no parson, 'e've no call to meddle wi' +other people's praperty. He cam' pokin' 'is nose into my affairs. I +told un I knew a sight more 'bout 'orses than 'e ever would! + +TRUSTAFORD. He'm a bit crazy 'bout bastes an' birds. + + [They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the + entrance of CLYST, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright, + quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in + his hand.] + +CLYST. Ah! he'm that zurely, Mr. Trustaford. + + [He chuckles.] + +GODLEIGH. Now, Tim Clyst, if an' in case yu've a-got some scandal on +yer tongue, don't yu never unship it here. Yu go up to Rectory where +'twill be more relished-like. + +CLYST. [Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink for this, Mr. +Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes somethin' swats. Butiful +readin'. Poetry. Rale spice. Yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr. +Godleigh. + +GODLEIGH. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then? + +CLYST. Ah! Yu want t'know tu much. + + [Putting the paper in his pocket.] + + [While he is speaking, JIM BERE has entered quietly, with his + feeble step and smile, and sits down.] + +CLYST. [Kindly] Hello, Jim! Cat come 'ome? + +JIM BERE. No. + + [All nod, and speak to him kindly. And JIM BERE smiles at them, + and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no + answer. And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they + talk as if he were not there.] + +GODLEIGH. What's all this, now--no scandal in my 'ouse! + +CLYST. 'Tes awful peculiar--like a drame. Mr. Burlacombe 'e don't +like to hear tell about drames. A guess a won't tell 'ee, arter +that. + +FREMAN. Out wi' it, Tim. + +CLYST. 'Tes powerful thirsty to-day, Mr. Godleigh. + +GODLEIGH. [Drawing him some cider] Yu're all wild cat's talk, Tim; +yu've a-got no tale at all. + +CLYST. [Moving for the cider] Aw, indade! + +GODLEIGH. No tale, no cider! + +CLYST. Did ye ever year tell of Orphus? + +TRUSTAFORD. What? The old vet. up to Drayleigh? + +CLYST. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th' old time, an' drawed the +bastes after un wi' his music, same as curate was tellin' the maids. + +FREMAN. I've 'eard as a gipsy over to Vellacott could du that wi' +'is viddle. + +CLYST. 'Twas no gipsy I see'd this arternune; 'twee Orphus, down to +Mr. Burlacombe's long medder; settin' there all dark on a stone among +the dimsy-white flowers an' the cowflops, wi' a bird upon 'is 'ead, +playin' his whistle to the ponies. + +FREMAN. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee a man wi' a bird on 'is 'ead. + +CLYST. Didn' I? + +FREMAN. What sort o' bird, then? Yu tell me that. + +TRUSTAFORD. Praaper old barndoor cock. Haw, haw! + +GODLEIGH. [Soothingly] 'Tes a vairy-tale; us mustn't be tu +partic'lar. + +BURLACOMBE: In my long medder? Where were yu, then, Tim Clyst? + +CLYST. Passin' down the lane on my bike. Wonderful sorrowful-fine +music 'e played. The ponies they did come round 'e--yu cud zee the +tears rennin' down their chakes; 'twas powerful sad. 'E 'adn't no +'at on. + +FREMAN. [Jeering] No; 'e 'ad a bird on 'is 'ead. + +CLYST. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin' an' playin'. The +ponies they never muved. An' all the dimsy-white flowers they waved +and waved, an' the wind it went over 'em. Gav' me a funny feelin'. + +GODLEIGH. Clyst, yu take the cherry bun! + +CLYST. Where's that cider, Mr. Godleigh? + +GODLEIGH. [Bending over the cider] Yu've a -'ad tu much already, +Tim. + + [The door is opened, and TAM JARLAND appears. He walks rather + unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange; + epileptic-looking eyes.] + +CLYST. [Pointing to JARLAND] 'Tis Tam Jarland there 'as the cargo +aboard. + +JARLAND. Avenin', all! [To GODLEIGH] Pinto' beer. [To JIM BERE] +Avenin', Jim. + + [JIM BERE looks at him and smiles.] + +GODLEIGH. [Serving him after a moment's hesitation] 'Ere y'are, +Tam. [To CLYST, who has taken out his paper again] Where'd yu get +thiccy paper? + +CLYST. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] Yure tongue du watter, +don't it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding out his mug] No zider, no poetry. +'Tis amazin' sorrowful; Shakespeare over again. "The boy stude on +the burnin' deck." + +FREMAN. Yu and yer yap! + +CLYST. Ah! Yu wait a bit. When I come back down t'lane again, +Orphus 'e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the +ponies, an' a praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. I zee +somethin' white in the beak o' the fowl, so I giv' a "Whisht," an' +'e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. I gets over bank an' picks un up, +and here't be. + + [He holds out his mug.] + +BURLACOMBE. [Tartly] Here, give 'im 'is cider. Rade it yureself, +ye young teasewings. + + [CLYST, having secured his cider, drinks it o$. Holding up the + paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then. slides his + eye round, tantalizing.] + +CLYST. 'Tes a pity I bain't dressed in a white gown, an' flowers in +me 'air. + +FREMAN. Read it, or we'll 'aye yu out o' this. + +CLYST. Aw, don't 'ee shake my nerve, now! + + [He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring + voice. Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines] + + God lighted the zun in 'eaven far. + Lighted the virefly an' the star. + My 'eart 'E lighted not! + + God lighted the vields fur lambs to play, + Lighted the bright strames, 'an the may. + My 'eart 'E lighted not! + + God lighted the mune, the Arab's way, + He lights to-morrer, an' to-day. + My 'eart 'E 'ath vorgot! + + [When he has finished, there is silence. Then TRUSTAFORD, + scratching his head, speaks:] + +TAUSTAFORD. 'Tes amazin' funny stuff. + +FREMAN. [Looking over CLYST'S shoulder] Be danged! 'Tes the +curate's 'andwritin'. 'Twas curate wi' the ponies, after that. + +CLYST. Fancy, now! Aw, Will Freman, an't yu bright! + +FREMAN. But 'e 'adn't no bird on 'is 'ead. + +CLYST. Ya-as, 'e 'ad. + +JARLAND. [In a dull, threatening voice] 'E 'ad my maid's bird, this +arternune. 'Ead or no, and parson or no, I'll gie 'im one for that. + +FREMAN. Ah! And 'e meddled wi' my 'orses. + +TRUSTAFORD. I'm thinkin' 'twas an old cuckoo bird 'e 'ad on 'is +'ead. Haw, haw! + +GODLEIGH. "His 'eart She 'ath Vorgot!" + +FREMAN. 'E's a fine one to be tachin' our maids convirmation. + +GODLEIGH. Would ye 'ave it the old Rector then? Wi' 'is gouty shoe? +Rackon the maids wid rather 'twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe? + +BURLACOMBE. [Abruptly] Curate's a gude man. + +JARLAND. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I'll be even wi' un. + +FREMAN. [Excitedly] Tell 'ee one thing--'tes not a proper man o' +God to 'ave about, wi' 'is luse goin's on. Out vrom 'ere he oughter +go. + +BURLACOMBE. You med go further an' fare worse. + +FREMAN. What's 'e duin', then, lettin' 'is wife runoff? + +TRUSTAFORD. [Scratching his head] If an' in case 'e can't kape 'er, +'tes a funny way o' duin' things not to divorce 'er, after that. If +a parson's not to du the Christian thing, whu is, then? + +BURLACOMBE. 'Tes a bit immoral-like to pass over a thing like that. +Tes funny if women's gain's on's to be encouraged. + +FREMAN. Act of a coward, I zay. + +BURLACOMBE. The curate ain't no coward. + +FREMAN. He bides in yure house; 'tes natural for yu to stand up for +un; I'll wager Mrs. Burlacombe don't, though. My missis was fair +shocked. "Will," she says, "if yu ever make vur to let me go like +that, I widden never stay wi' yu," she says. + +TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes settin' a bad example, for zure. + +BURLACOMBE. 'Tes all very airy talkin'; what shude 'e du, then? + +FREMAN. [Excitedly] Go over to Durford and say to that doctor: "Yu +come about my missis, an' zee what I'll du to 'ee." An' take 'er +'ome an' zee she don't misbe'ave again. + +CLYST. 'E can't take 'er ef 'er don' want t' come--I've 'eard +lawyer, that lodged wi' us, say that. + +FREMAN. All right then, 'e ought to 'ave the law of 'er and 'er +doctor; an' zee 'er goin's on don't prosper; 'e'd get damages, tu. +But this way 'tes a nice example he'm settin' folks. Parson indade! +My missis an' the maids they won't goo near the church to-night, an' +I wager no one else won't, neither. + +JARLAND. [Lurching with his pewter up to GODLEIGH] The beggar! I'll +be even wi' un. + +GODLEIGH. [Looking at him in doubt] 'Tes the last, then, Tam. + + [Having received his beer, JARLAND stands, leaning against the + bar, drinking.] + +BURLACOMBE. [Suddenly] I don' goo with what curate's duin--'tes +tiff soft 'earted; he'm a muney kind o' man altogether, wi' 'is flute +an' 'is poetry; but he've a-lodged in my 'ouse this year an' mare, +and always 'ad an 'elpin' 'and for every one. I've got a likin' for +him an' there's an end of it. + +JARLAND. The coward! + +TRUSTAFORD. I don' trouble nothin' about that, Tam Jarland. +[Turning to BURLACOMBE] What gits me is 'e don't seem to 'ave no +zense o' what's his own praperty. + +JARLAND. Take other folk's property fast enough! + + [He saws the air with his empty. The others have all turned to + him, drawn by the fascination that a man in liquor has for his + fellow-men. The bell for church has begun to rang, the sun is + down, and it is getting dusk.] + +He wants one on his crop, an' one in 'is belly; 'e wants a man to +take an' gie un a gude hidin zame as he oughter give 'is fly-be-night +of a wife. + + [STRANGWAY in his dark clothes has entered, and stands by the + door, his lips compressed to a colourless line, his thin, + darkish face grey-white] + +Zame as a man wid ha' gi'en the doctor, for takin' what isn't his'n. + + All but JARLAND have seen STRANGWAY. He steps forward, JARLAND + sees him now; his jaw drops a little, and he is silent. + +STRANGWAY. I came for a little brandy, Mr. Godleigh--feeling rather +faint. Afraid I mightn't get through the service. + +GODLEIGH. [With professional composure] Marteil's Three Star, zurr, +or 'Ennessy's? + +STRANGWAY. [Looking at JARLAND] Thank you; I believe I can do +without, now. [He turns to go.] + + [In the deadly silence, GODLEIGH touches the arm of JARLAND, + who, leaning against the bar with the pewter in his hand, is + staring with his strange lowering eyes straight at STRANGWAY.] + +JARLAND. [Galvanized by the touch into drunken rage] Lave me be- +I'll talk to un-parson or no. I'll tache un to meddle wi' my maid's +bird. I'll tache un to kape 'is thievin' 'ands to 'imself. + + [STRANGWAY turns again.] + +CLYST. Be quiet, Tam. + +JARLAND. [Never loosing STRANGWAY with his eyes--like a bull-dog who +sees red] That's for one chake; zee un turn t'other, the white- +livered buty! Whu lets another man 'ave 'is wife, an' never the +sperit to go vor un! + +BURLACOMBE. Shame, Jarland; quiet, man! + + [They are all looking at STRANGWAY, who, under JARLAND'S drunken + insults is standing rigid, with his eyes closed, and his hands + hard clenched. The church bell has stopped slow ringing, and + begun its five minutes' hurrying note.] + +TRUSTAFORD. [Rising, and trying to hook his arm into JARLAND'S] +Come away, Tam; yu've a-'ad to much, man. + +JARLAND. [Shaking him off] Zee, 'e darsen't touch me; I might 'it +un in the vase an' 'e darsen't; 'e's afraid--like 'e was o' the +doctor. + + [He raises the pewter as though to fling it, but it is seized by + GODLEIGH from behind, and falls clattering to the floor. + STRANGWAY has not moved.] + +JARLAND. [Shaking his fist almost in his face] Luke at un, Luke at +un! A man wi' a slut for a wife---- + + [As he utters the word "wife" STRANGWAY seizes the outstretched + fist, and with a jujitsu movement, draws him into his clutch, + helpless. And as they sway and struggle in the open window, + with the false strength of fury he forces JARLAND through. + There is a crash of broken glass from outside. At the sound + STRANGWAY comes to himself. A look of agony passes over his + face. His eyes light on JIM BERE, who has suddenly risen, and + stands feebly clapping his hands. STRANGWAY rushes out.] + + [Excitedly gathering at the window, they all speak at once.] + +CLYST. Tam's hatchin' of yure cucumbers, Mr. Godleigh. + +TRUSTAFORD. 'E did crash; haw, haw! + +FREMAN. 'Twas a brave throw, zurely. Whu wid a' thought it? + +CLYST. Tam's crawlin' out. [Leaning through window] Hello, Tam-- +'ow's t' base, old man? + +FREMAN. [Excitedly] They'm all comin' up from churchyard to zee. + +TRUSTAFORD. Tam du luke wonderful aztonished; haw, haw! Poor old +Tam! + +CLYST. Can yu zee curate? Reckon 'e'm gone into church. Aw, yes; +gettin' a bit dimsy-service time. [A moment's hush.] + +TRUSTAFORD. Well, I'm jiggered. In 'alf an hour he'm got to prache. + +GODLEIGH. 'Tes a Christian village, boys. + + [Feebly, quietly, JIM BERE laughs. There is silence; but the + bell is heard still ranging.] + + + CURTAIN. + + + +SCENE II + + The same-in daylight dying fast. A lamp is burning on the bar. + A chair has been placed in the centre of the room, facing the + bench under the window, on which are seated from right to left, + GODLEIGH, SOL POTTER the village shopman, TRUSTAFORD, + BURLACOMBE, FREMAN, JIM BERE, and MORSE the blacksmith. CLYST + is squatting on a stool by the bar, and at the other end + JARLAND, sobered and lowering, leans against the lintel of the + porch leading to the door, round which are gathered five or six + sturdy fellows, dumb as fishes. No one sits in the chair. In + the unnatural silence that reigns, the distant sound of the + wheezy church organ and voices singing can be heard. + +TAUSTAFORD. [After a prolonged clearing of his throat] What I mean +to zay is that 'tes no yuse, not a bit o' yuse in the world, not +duin' of things properly. If an' in case we'm to carry a resolution +disapprovin' o' curate, it must all be done so as no one can't, zay +nothin'. + +SOL POTTER. That's what I zay, Mr. Trustaford; ef so be as 'tis to +be a village meetin', then it must be all done proper. + +FREMAN. That's right, Sot Potter. I purpose Mr. Sot Potter into the +chair. Whu seconds that? + + [A silence. Voices from among the dumb-as-fishes: "I du."] + +CLYST. [Excitedly] Yu can't putt that to the meetin'. Only a +chairman can putt it to the meetin'. I purpose that Mr. Burlacombe-- +bein as how he's chairman o' the Parish Council--take the chair. + +FREMAN. Ef so be as I can't putt it, yu can't putt that neither. + +TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes not a bit o' yuse; us can't 'ave no meetin' without +a chairman. + +GODLEIGH. Us can't 'ave no chairman without a meetin' to elect un, +that's zure. [A silence.] + +MORSE. [Heavily] To my way o' thinkin', Mr. Godleigh speaks zense; +us must 'ave a meetin' before us can 'ave a chairman. + +CLYST. Then what we got to du's to elect a meetin'. + +BURLACOMBE. [Sourly] Yu'll not find no procedure far that. + + [Voices from among the dumb-as fishes: "Mr. Burlacombe 'e + oughter know."] + +SOL POTTER. [Scratching his head--with heavy solemnity] 'Tes my +belief there's no other way to du, but to elect a chairman to call a +meetin'; an' then for that meetin' to elect a chairman. + +CLYST. I purpose Mr. Burlacombe as chairman to call a meetin'. + +FREMAN. I purpose Sol Potter. + +GODLEIGH. Can't 'ave tu propositions together before a meetin'; +that's apple-pie zure vur zurtain. + + [Voice from among the dumb-as fishes: "There ain't no meetin' + yet, Sol Potter zays."] + +TRUSTAFORD. Us must get the rights of it zettled some'ow. 'Tes like +the darned old chicken an' the egg--meetin' or chairman--which come +virst? + +SOL POTTER. [Conciliating] To my thinkin' there shid be another way +o' duin' it, to get round it like with a circumbendibus. 'T'all +comes from takin' different vuse, in a manner o' spakin'. + +FREMAN. Vu goo an' zet in that chair. + +SOL POTTER. [With a glance at BURLACOMBE modestly] I shid'n never +like fur to du that, with Mr. Burlacombe zettin' there. + +BURLACOMBE. [Rising] 'Tes all darned fulishness. + + [Amidst an uneasy shufflement of feet he moves to the door, and + goes out into the darkness.] + +CLYST. [Seeing his candidate thus depart] Rackon curate's pretty +well thru by now, I'm goin' to zee. [As he passes JARLAND] 'Ow's to +base, old man? + + [He goes out. One of the dumb-as-fishes moves from the door and + fills the apace left on the bench by BURLACOMBE'S departure.] + +JARLAND. Darn all this puzzivantin'! [To SOL POTTER] Got an' zet +in that chair. + +SOL POTTER. [Rising and going to the chair; there he stands, +changing from one to the other of his short broad feet and sweating +from modesty and worth] 'Tes my duty now, gentlemen, to call a +meetin' of the parishioners of this parish. I beg therefore to +declare that this is a meetin' in accordance with my duty as chairman +of this meetin' which elected me chairman to call this meetin'. And +I purceed to vacate the chair so that this meetin' may now purceed to +elect a chairman. + + [He gets up from the chair, and wiping the sweat from his brow, + goes back to his seat.] + +FREMAN. Mr. Chairman, I rise on a point of order. + +GODLEIGH. There ain't no chairman. + +FREMAN. I don't give a darn for that. I rise on a point of order. + +GODLEIGH. 'Tes a chairman that decides points of order. 'Tes +certain yu can't rise on no points whatever till there's a chairman. + +TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes no yuse yure risin', not the least bit in the +world, till there's some one to set yu down again. Haw, haw! + + [Voice from the dumb-as-Etches: "Mr. Trustaford 'e's right."] + +FREMAN. What I zay is the chairman ought never to 'ave vacated the +chair till I'd risen on my point of order. I purpose that he goo and +zet down again. + +GODLEIGH. Yu can't purpose that to this meetin'; yu can only purpose +that to the old meetin' that's not zettin' any longer. + +FREMAN. [Excitedly] I didn' care what old meetin' 'tis that's +zettin'. I purpose that Sol Potter goo an' zet in that chair again, +while I rise on my point of order. + +TRUSTAFORD. [Scratching his head] 'Tesn't regular but I guess yu've +got to goo, Sol, or us shan't 'ave no peace. + + [SOL POTTER, still wiping his brow, goes back to the chair.] + +MORSE. [Stolidly-to FREMAN] Zet down, Will Freman. [He pulls at +him with a blacksmith's arm.] + +FREMAN. [Remaining erect with an effort] I'm not a-goin' to zet +down till I've arisen. + +JARLAND. Now then, there 'e is in the chair. What's yore point of +order? + +FREMAN. [Darting his eyes here and there, and flinging his hand up +to his gipsy-like head] 'Twas--'twas--Darned ef y' 'aven't putt it +clean out o' my 'ead. + +JARLAND. We can't wait for yore points of order. Come out o' that +chair. Sol Potter. + + [SOL POTTER rises and is about to vacate the chair.] + +FREMAN. I know! There ought to 'a been minutes taken. Yu can't +'ave no meetin' without minutes. When us comes to electin' a +chairman o' the next meetin', 'e won't 'ave no minutes to read. + +SOL POTTER. 'Twas only to putt down that I was elected chairman to +elect a meetin' to elect a chairman to preside over a meetin' to pass +a resolution dalin' wi' the curate. That's aisy set down, that is. + +FREMAN. [Mollified] We'll 'ave that zet down, then, while we're +electin' the chairman o' the next meetin'. + + [A silence. ] + +TRUSTAFORD. Well then, seein' this is the praaper old meetin' for +carryin' the resolution about the curate, I purpose Mr. Sol Potter +take the chair. + +FREMAN. I purpose Mr. Trustaford. I 'aven't a-got nothin' against +Sol Potter, but seein' that he elected the meetin' that's to elect +'im, it might be said that 'e was electin' of himzelf in a manner of +spakin'. Us don't want that said. + +MORSE. [Amid meditative grunts from the dumb-as-fishes] There's +some-at in that. One o' they tu purposals must be putt to the +meetin'. + +FREMAN. Second must be putt virst, fur zure. + +TRUSTAFORD. I dunno as I wants to zet in that chair. To hiss the +curate, 'tis a ticklish sort of a job after that. Vurst comes afore +second, Will Freeman. + +FREMAN. Second is amendment to virst. 'Tes the amendments is putt +virst. + +TRUSTAFORD. 'Ow's that, Mr. Godleigh? I'm not particular eggzac'ly +to a dilly zort of a point like that. + +SOL POTTER. [Scratching his, head] 'Tes a very nice point, for +zure. + +GODLEIGH. 'Tes undoubtedly for the chairman to decide. + + [Voice from the dumb-as fishes: "But there ain't no chairman + yet."] + +JARLAND. Sol Potter's chairman. + +FREMAN. No, 'e ain't. + +MORSE. Yes, 'e is--'e's chairman till this second old meetin' gets +on the go. + +FREMAN. I deny that. What du yu say, Mr. Trustaford? + +TRUSTAFORD. I can't 'ardly tell. It du zeem a darned long-sufferin' +sort of a business altogether. + + [A silence.] + +MORSE. [Slowly] Tell 'ee what 'tis, us shan't du no gude like this. + +GODLEIGH. 'Tes for Mr. Freman or Mr. Trustaford, one or t'other to +withdraw their motions. + +TRUSTAFORD. [After a pause, with cautious generosity] I've no +objections to withdrawin' mine, if Will Freman'll withdraw his'n. + +FREMAN. I won't never be be'indhand. If Mr. Trustaford withdraws, I +withdraws mine. + +MORSE. [With relief] That's zensible. Putt the motion to the +meetin'. + +SOL POTTER. There ain't no motion left to putt. + + [Silence of consternation.] + + [In the confusion Jim BERE is seen to stand up.] + +GODLEIGH. Jim Bere to spike. Silence for Jim! + +VOICES. Aye! Silence for Jim! + +SOL POTTER. Well, Jim? + +JIM. [Smiling and slow] Nothin' duin'. + +TRUSTAFORD. Bravo, Jim! Yu'm right. Best zense yet! + + [Applause from the dumb-as-fishes.] + + [With his smile brightening, JIM resumes his seat.] + +SOL POTTER. [Wiping his brow] Du seem to me, gentlemen, seem' as +we'm got into a bit of a tangle in a manner of spakin', 'twid be the +most zimplest and vairest way to begin all over vrom the beginnin', +so's t'ave it all vair an' square for every one. + + [In the uproar Of "Aye" and "No," it is noticed that TIBBY + JARLAND is standing in front of her father with her finger, for + want of something better, in her mouth.] + +TIBBY. [In her stolid voice] Please, sister Mercy says, curate 'ave +got to "Lastly." [JARLAND picks her up, and there is silence.] An' +please to come quick. + +JARLAND. Come on, mates; quietly now! + + [He goes out, and all begin to follow him.] + +MORSE. [Slowest, save for SOL POTTER] 'Tes rare lucky us was all +agreed to hiss the curate afore us began the botherin' old meetin', +or us widn' 'ardly 'ave 'ad time to settle what to du. + +SOL POTTER. [Scratching his head] Aye, 'tes rare lucky; but I dunno +if 'tes altogether reg'lar. + + + CURTAIN. + + + + +SCENE III + + The village green before the churchyard and the yew-trees at the + gate. Into the pitch dark under the yews, light comes out + through the half-open church door. Figures are lurking, or + moving stealthily--people waiting and listening to the sound of + a voice speaking in the church words that are inaudible. + Excited whispering and faint giggles come from the deepest yew- + tree shade, made ghostly by the white faces and the frocks of + young girls continually flitting up and back in the blackness. + A girl's figure comes flying out from the porch, down the path + of light, and joins the stealthy group. + +WHISPERING VOICE of MERCY. Where's 'e got to now, Gladys? + +WHISPERING VOICE OF GLADYS. 'E've just finished. + +VOICE OF CONNIE. Whu pushed t'door open? + +VOICE OF GLADYS. Tim Clyst I giv' it a little push, meself. + +VOICE OF CONNIE. Oh! + +VOICE of GLADYS. Tim Clyst's gone in! + +ANOTHER VOICE. O-o-o-h! + +VOICE of MERCY. Whu else is there, tu? + +VOICE OF GLADYS. Ivy's there, an' Old Mrs. Potter, an' tu o' the +maids from th'Hall; that's all as ever. + +VOICE of CONNIE. Not the old grey mare? + +VOICE of GLADYS. No. She ain't ther'. 'Twill just be th'ymn now, +an' the Blessin'. Tibby gone for 'em? + +VOICE OF MERCY. Yes. + +VOICE of CONNIE. Mr. Burlacombe's gone in home, I saw 'im pass by +just now--'e don' like it. Father don't like it neither. + +VOICE of MERCY. Mr. Strangway shoudn' 'ave taken my skylark, an' +thrown father out o' winder. 'Tis goin' to be awful fun! Oh! + + [She jumps up and dawn in the darkness. And a voice from far in + the shadow says: "Hsssh! Quiet, yu maids!" The voice has + ceased speaking in the church. There is a moment's dead + silence. The voice speaks again; then from the wheezy little + organ come the first faint chords of a hymn.] + +GLADYS. "Nearer, my God, to Thee!" + +VOICE of MERCY. 'Twill be funny, with no one 'ardly singin'. + + [The sound of the old hymn sung by just six voices comes out to + them rather sweet and clear.] + +GLADYS. [Softly] 'Tis pretty, tu. Why! They're only singin' one +verse! + + [A moment's silence, and the voice speaks, uplifted, pronouncing + the Blessing: "The peace of God----" As the last words die away, + dark figures from the inn approach over the grass, till quite a + crowd seems standing there without a word spoken. Then from out + of the church porch come the congregation. TIM CLYST first, + hastily lost among the waiting figures in the dark; old Mrs. + Potter, a half blind old lady groping her way and perceiving + nothing out of the ordinary; the two maids from the Hall, self- + conscious and scared, scuttling along. Last, IVY BURLACOMBE + quickly, and starting back at the dim, half-hidden crowd.] + +VOICE of GLADYS. [Whispering] Ivy! Here, quick! + + [Ivy sways, darts off towards the voice, and is lost in the + shadow.] + +VOICE OF FREMAN. [Low] Wait, boys, till I give signal. + + [Two or three squirks and giggles; Tim CLYST'S voice: "Ya-as! + Don't 'ee tread on my toe!" A soft, frightened "O-o-h!" from a + girl. Some quick, excited whisperings: "Luke!" "Zee there!" + "He's comin'!" And then a perfectly dead silence. The figure + of STRANGWAY is seen in his dark clothes, passing from the + vestry to the church porch. He stands plainly visible in the + lighted porch, locking the door, then steps forward. Just as he + reaches the edge of the porch, a low hiss breaks the silence. + It swells very gradually into a long, hissing groan. STRANGWAY + stands motionless, his hand over his eyes, staring into the + darkness. A girl's figure can be seen to break out of the + darkness and rush away. When at last the groaning has died into + sheer expectancy, STRANGWAY drops his hand.] + +STRANGWAY. [In a loco voice] Yes! I'm glad. Is Jarland there? + +FREMAN. He's 'ere-no thanks to yu! Hsss! + + [The hiss breaks out again, then dies away.] + +JARLAND'S VOICE. [Threatening] Try if yu can du it again. + +STRANGWAY. No, Jarland, no! I ask you to forgive me. Humbly! + + [A hesitating silence, broken by muttering.] + +CLYST'S VOICE. Bravo! + +A VOICE. That's vair. + +A VOICE. 'E's afraid o' the sack--that's what 'tis. + +A VOICE. [Groaning] 'E's a praaper coward. + +A VOICE. Whu funked the doctor? + +CLYST'S VOICE. Shame on 'ee, therr! + +STRANGWAY. You're right--all of you! I'm not fit! An uneasy and +excited mustering and whispering dies away into renewed silence. + +STRANGWAY. What I did to Tam Jarland is not the real cause of what +you're doing, is it? I understand. But don't be troubled. It's all +over. I'm going--you'll get some one better. Forgive me, Jarland. +I can't see your face--it's very dark. + +FREMAN'S Voice. [Mocking] Wait for the full mune. + +GODLEIGH. [Very low] "My 'eart 'E lighted not!" + +STRANGWAY. [starting at the sound of his own words thus mysteriously +given him out of the darkness] Whoever found that, please tear it +up! [After a moment's silence] Many of you have been very kind to +me. You won't see me again--Good-bye, all! + + [He stands for a second motionless, then moves resolutely down + into the darkness so peopled with shadows.] + +UNCERTAIN VOICES AS HE PASSES. Good-bye, zurr! +Good luck, zurr! [He has gone.] + +CLYST'S VOICE. Three cheers for Mr. Strangway! + + [And a queer, strangled cheer, with groans still threading it, + arises.] + + + CURTAIN. + + + + + +ACT III + + +SCENE I + + In the BURLACOMBES' hall-sitting-room the curtains are drawn, a + lamp burns, and the door stands open. BURLACOMBE and his wife + are hovering there, listening to the sound of mingled cheers and + groaning. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! my gudeness--what a thing t'appen! I'd saner +'a lost all me ducks. [She makes towards the inner door] I can't +never face 'im. + +BURLACOMBE. 'E can't expect nothin' else, if 'e act like that. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes only duin' as 'e'd be done by. + +BURLACOMBE. Aw! Yu can't go on forgivin' 'ere, an' forgivin' there. +'Tesn't nat'ral. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes the mischief 'e'm a parson. 'Tes 'im bein' a +lamb o' God--or 'twidden be so quare for 'im to be forgivin'. + +BURLACOMBE. Yu goo an' make un a gude 'ot drink. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Poor soul! What'll 'e du now, I wonder? [Under +her breath] 'E's cumin'! + + [She goes hurriedly. BURLACOMBE, with a startled look back, + wavers and makes to follow her, but stops undecided in the inner + doorway. STRANGWAY comes in from the darkness. He turns to the + window and drops overcoat and hat and the church key on the + windowseat, looking about him as men do when too hard driven, + and never fixing his eyes long enough on anything to see it. + BURLACOMBE, closing the door into the house, advances a step. + At the sound STRANGWAY faces round.] + +BURLACOMBE. I wanted for yu to know, zurr, that me an' mine 'adn't +nothin' to du wi' that darned fulishness, just now. + +STRANGWAY. [With a ghost of a smile] Thank you, Burlacombe. It +doesn't matter. It doesn't matter a bit. + +BURLACOMBE. I 'ope yu won't take no notice of it. Like a lot o' +silly bees they get. [After an uneasy pause] Yu'll excuse me +spakin' of this mornin', an' what 'appened. 'Tes a brave pity it +cam' on yu so sudden-like before yu 'ad time to think. 'Tes a sort +o' thing a man shude zet an' chew upon. Certainly 'tes not a bit o' +yuse goin' against human nature. Ef yu don't stand up for yureself +there's no one else not goin' to. 'Tes yure not 'avin' done that 'as +made 'em so rampageous. [Stealing another look at STRANGWAY] Yu'll +excuse me, zurr, spakin' of it, but 'tes amazin' sad to zee a man let +go his own, without a word o' darin'. 'Tea as ef 'e 'ad no passions- +like. + +STRANGWAY. Look at me, Burlacombe. + + [BURLACOMBE looks up, trying hard to keep his eyes on + STRANGWAY'S, that seem to burn in his thin face.] + +STRANGWAY. Do I look like that? Please, please! [He touches his +breast] I've too much here. Please! + +BURLACOMBE. [With a sort of startled respect] Well, zurr, 'tes not +for me to zay nothin', certainly. + + [He turns and after a slow look back at STRANGWAY goes out.] + +STRANGWAY. [To himself] Passions! No passions! Ha! + + [The outer door is opened and IVY BURLACOMBE appears, and, + seeing him, stops. Then, coming softly towards him, she speaks + timidly.] + +IVY. Oh! Mr. Strangway, Mrs. Bradmere's cumin' from the Rectory. I +ran an' told 'em. Oh! 'twas awful. + + [STRANGWAY starts, stares at her, and turning on his heel, goes + into the house. Ivy's face is all puckered, as if she were on + the point of tears. There is a gentle scratching at the door, + which has not been quite closed.] + +VOICE OF GLADYS. [Whispering] Ivy! Come on Ivy. I won't. + +VOICE OF MERCY. Yu must. Us can't du without Yu. + +Ivy. [Going to the door] I don't want to. + +VOICE of GLADYS. "Naughty maid, she won't come out," Ah! du 'ee! + +VOICE OF CREMER. Tim Clyst an' Bobbie's cumin'; us'll only be six +anyway. Us can't dance "figure of eight" without yu. + +Ivy. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to dance at all! I don't. + +MERCY. Aw! She's temper. Yu can bang on tambourine, then! + +GLADYS. [Running in] Quick, Ivy! Here's the old grey mare cumin' +down the green. Quick. + + [With whispering and scuffling; gurgling and squeaking, the + reluctant Ivy's hand is caught and she is jerked away. In their + haste they have left the door open behind them.] + +VOICE of MRS. BRADMERE. [Outside] Who's that? + + [She knocks loudly, and rings a bell; then, without waiting, + comes in through the open door.] + + [Noting the overcoat and hat on the window-sill she moves across + to ring the bell. But as she does so, MRS. BURLACOMBE, followed + by BURLACOMBE, comes in from the house.] + +MRS. BRADMERE This disgraceful business! Where's Mr. Strangway? I +see he's in. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yes, m'm, he'm in--but--but Burlacombe du zay he'm +terrible upset. + +MRS. BRADMERE. I should think so. I must see him--at once. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. I doubt bed's the best place for 'un, an' gude 'ot +drink. Burlacombe zays he'm like a man standin' on the edge of a +cliff; and the lasts tipsy o' wind might throw un over. + +MRS. BRADMERE. [To BURLACOMBE] You've seen him, then? + +BURLACOMBE. Yeas; an' I don't like the luke of un--not a little bit, +I don't. + +MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Almost to herself] Poor soul; 'e've a-'ad to +much to try un this yer long time past. I've a-seen 'tis sperrit +cumin' thru 'is body, as yu might zay. He's torn to bits, that's +what 'tis. + +BURLACOMBE. 'Twas a praaper cowardly thing to hiss a man when he's +down. But 'twas natural tu, in a manner of spakin'. But 'tesn't +that troublin' 'im. 'Tes in here [touching his forehead], along of +his wife, to my thinkin'. They zay 'e've a-known about 'er a-fore +she went away. Think of what 'e've 'ad to kape in all this time. +'Tes enough to drive a man silly after that. I've a-locked my gun +up. I see a man like--like that once before--an' sure enough 'e was +dead in the mornain'! + +MRS. BRADMERE. Nonsense, Burlacombe! [To MRS. BURLACOMBE] Go and +tell him I want to see him--must see him. [MRS. BURLACOMBE goes +into the house] And look here, Burlacombe; if we catch any one, man +or woman, talking of this outside the village, it'll be the end of +their tenancy, whoever they may be. Let them all know that. I'm +glad he threw that drunken fellow out of the window, though it was a +little---- + +BURLACOMBE. Aye! The nuspapers would be praaper glad of that, for a +tiddy bit o' nuse. + +MRS. BRADMERE. My goodness! Yes! The men are all up at the inn. +Go and tell them what I said--it's not to get about. Go at once, +Burlacombe. + +BURLACOMBE. Must be a turrable job for 'im, every one's knowin' +about 'is wife like this. He'm a proud man tu, I think. 'Tes a +funny business altogether! + +MRS. BRADMERE. Horrible! Poor fellow! Now, come! Do your best, +Burlacombe! + + [BURLACOMBE touches his forelock and goes. MRS. BRADMERE stands + quite still, thinking. Then going to the photograph, she stares + up at it.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. You baggage! + + [STRANGWAY has come in noiselessly, and is standing just behind + her. She turns, and sees him. There is something so still, so + startlingly still in his figure and white face, that she cannot + for the moment fond her voice.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. [At last] This is most distressing. I'm deeply +sorry. [Then, as he does not answer, she goes a step closer] I'm an +old woman; and old women must take liberties, you know, or they +couldn't get on at all. Come now! Let's try and talk it over calmly +and see if we can't put things right. + +STRANGWAY. You were very good to come; but I would rather not. + +MRS. BRADMERE. I know you're in as grievous trouble as a man can be. + +STRANGWAY. Yes. + +MRS. BRADMERE. [With a little sound of sympathy] What are you-- +thirty-five? I'm sixty-eight if I'm a day--old enough to be your +mother. I can feel what you must have been through all these months, +I can indeed. But you know you've gone the wrong way to work. We +aren't angels down here below! And a son of the Church can't act as +if for himself alone. The eyes of every one are on him. + +STRANGWAY. [Taking the church key from the window.] Take this, +please. + +MRS. BRADMERE. No, no, no! Jarland deserved all he got. You had +great provocation. + +STRANGWAY. It's not Jarland. [Holding out the key] Please take it +to the Rector. I beg his forgiveness. [Touching his breast] +There's too much I can't speak of--can't make plain. Take it to him, +please. + +MRS. BRADMERE. Mr. Strangway--I don't accept this. I am sure my +husband--the Church--will never accept---- + +STRANGWAY. Take it! + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Almost unconsciously taking it] Mind! We don't +accept it. You must come and talk to the Rector to-morrow. You're +overwrought. You'll see it all in another light, then. + +STRANGWAY. [With a strange smile] Perhaps. [Lifting the blind] +Beautiful night! Couldn't be more beautiful! + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Startled-softly] Don't turn sway from these who +want to help you! I'm a grumpy old woman, but I can feel for you. +Don't try and keep it all back, like this! A woman would cry, and it +would all seem clearer at once. Now won't you let me----? + +STRANGWAY. No one can help, thank you. + +MRS. BRADMERE. Come! Things haven't gone beyond mending, really, if +you'll face them. [Pointing to the photograph] You know what I +mean. We dare not foster immorality. + +STRANGWAY. [Quivering as at a jabbed nerve] Don't speak of that! + +MRS. BRADMERE. But think what you've done, Mr. Strangway! If you +can't take your wife back, surely you must divorce her. You can +never help her to go on like this in secret sin. + +STRANGWAY. Torture her--one way or the other? + +MRS. BRADMERE. No, no; I want you to do as the Church--as all +Christian society would wish. Come! You can't let this go on. My +dear man, do your duty at all costs! + +STRANGWAY. Break her heart? + +MRS. BRADMERE. Then you love that woman--more than God! + +STRANGWAY. [His face quivering] Love! + +MRS. BRADMERE. They told me----Yes, and I can see you're is a bad +way. Come, pull yourself together! You can't defend what you're +doing. + +STRANGWAY. I do not try. + +MRS. BRADMERE. I must get you to see! My father was a clergyman; +I'm married to one; I've two sons in the Church. I know what I'm +talking about. It's a priest's business to guide the people's lives. + +STRANGWAY. [Very low] But not mine! No more! + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Looking at him shrewdly] There's something very +queer about you to-night. You ought to see doctor. + +STRANGWAY. [A smile awning and going on his lips] If I am not better +soon---- + +MRS. BRADMERE. I know it must be terrible to feel that everybody---- + + [A convulsive shiver passes over STRANGWAY, and he shrinks + against the door] + +But come! Live it down! + + [With anger growing at his silence] + +Live it down, man! You can't desert your post--and let these +villagers do what they like with us? Do you realize that you're +letting a woman, who has treated you abominably;--yes, abominably +--go scot-free, to live comfortably with another man? What an +example! + +STRANGWAY. Will you, please, not speak of that! + +MRS. BRADMERE. I must! This great Church of ours is based on the +rightful condemnation of wrongdoing. There are times when +forgiveness is a sin, Michael Strangway. You must keep the whip +hand. You must fight! + +STRANGWAY. Fight! [Touching his heart] My fight is here. Have you +ever been in hell? For months and months--burned and longed; hoped +against hope; killed a man in thought day by day? Never rested, for +love and hate? I--condemn! I--judge! No! It's rest I have to +find--somewhere--somehow-rest! And how--how can I find rest? + +MRS. BRADMERE. [Who has listened to his outburst in a soft of coma] +You are a strange man! One of these days you'll go off your head if +you don't take care. + +STRANGWAY. [Smiling] One of these days the flowers will grow out of +me; and I shall sleep. + + [MRS. BRADMERE stares at his smiling face a long moment in + silence, then with a little sound, half sniff, half snort, she + goes to the door. There she halts.] + +MRS. BRADMERE. And you mean to let all this go on----Your wife---- + +STRANGWAY. Go! Please go! + +MRS. BRADMERE. Men like you have been buried at cross-roads before +now! Take care! God punishes! + +STRANGWAY. Is there a God? + +MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! [With finality] You must see a doctor. + + [Seeing that the look on his face does not change, she opens the + door, and hurries away into the moonlight.] + + [STRANGWAY crosses the room to where his wife's picture hangs, + and stands before it, his hands grasping the frame. Then he + takes it from the wall, and lays it face upwards on the window + seat.] + +STRANGWAY. [To himself] Gone! What is there, now? + + [The sound of an owl's hooting is floating in, and of voices + from the green outside the inn.] + +STRANGWAY. [To himself] Gone! Taken faith--hope--life! + + [JIM BERE comes wandering into the open doorway.] + +JIM BERE. Gude avenin', zurr. + + [At his slow gait, with his feeble smile, he comes in, and + standing by the window-seat beside the long dark coat that still + lies there, he looks down at STRANGWAY with his lost eyes.] + +JIM. Yu threw un out of winder. I cud 'ave, once, I cud. + + [STRANGWAY neither moves nor speaks; and JIM BERE goes on with + his unimaginably slow speech] + +They'm laughin' at yu, zurr. An' so I come to tell 'ee how to du. +'Twas full mune--when I caught 'em, him an' my girl. I caught 'em. +[With a strange and awful flash of fire] I did; an' I tuk un [He +taken up STRANGWAY'S coat and grips it with his trembling hands, as a +man grips another's neck] like that--I tuk un. As the coat falls, +like a body out of which the breath has been squeezed, STRANGWAY, +rising, catches it. + +STRANGWAY. [Gripping the coat] And he fell! + + [He lets the coat fall on the floor, and puts his foot on it. + Then, staggering back, he leans against the window.] + +JIM. Yu see, I loved 'er--I did. [The lost look comes back to his +eyes] Then somethin'--I dunno--and--and----[He lifts his hand and +passes it up and down his side] Twas like this for ever. + + [They gaze at each other in silence.] + +JIM. [At last] I come to tell yu. They'm all laughin' at yu. But +yu'm strong--yu go over to Durford to that doctor man, an' take un +like I did. [He tries again to make the sign of squeezing a man's +neck] They can't laugh at yu no more, then. Tha's what I come to +tell yu. Tha's the way for a Christian man to du. Gude naight, +zurr. I come to tell yee. + + [STRANGWAY motions to him in silence. And, very slowly, JIM + BERE passes out.] + + [The voices of men coming down the green are heard.] + +VOICES. Gude night, Tam. Glide naight, old Jim! + +VOICES. Gude might, Mr. Trustaford. 'Tes a wonderful fine mune. + +VOICE OF TRUSTAFORD. Ah! 'Tes a brave mune for th' poor old curate! + +VOICE. "My 'eart 'E lighted not!" + + [TRUSTAFORD'S laugh, and the rattling, fainter and fainter, of + wheels. A spasm seizes on STRANGWAY'S face, as he stands there + by the open door, his hand grips his throat; he looks from side + to side, as if seeking a way of escape.] + + + CURTAIN. + + + +SCENE II + + The BURLACOMBES' high and nearly empty barn. A lantern is hung + by a rope that lifts the bales of straw, to a long ladder + leaning against a rafter. This gives all the light there is, + save for a slender track of moonlight, slanting in from the end, + where the two great doors are not quite closed. On a rude bench + in front of a few remaining, stacked, square-cut bundles of last + year's hay, sits TIBBY JARLAND, a bit of apple in her mouth, + sleepily beating on a tambourine. With stockinged feet GLADYS, + IVY, CONNIE, and MERCY, TIM CLYST, and BOBBIE JARLAND, a boy of + fifteen, are dancing a truncated "Figure of Eight"; and their + shadow are dancing alongside on the walls. Shoes and some + apples have been thrown down close to the side door through + which they have come in. Now and then IVY, the smallest and + best of the dancers, ejaculates words of direction, and one of + the youths grunts or breathes loudly out of the confusion of his + mind. Save for this and the dumb beat and jingle of the sleepy + tambourine, there is no sound. The dance comes to its end, but + the drowsy TIBBY goes on beating. + +MERCY. That'll du, Tibby; we're finished. Ate yore apple. [The +stolid TIBBY eats her apple.] + +CLYST. [In his teasing, excitable voice] Yu maids don't dance +'elf's well as us du. Bobbie 'e's a great dancer. 'E dance vine. +I'm a gude dancer, meself. + +GLADYS. A'n't yu conceited just? + +CLYST. Aw! Ah! Yu'll give me kiss for that. [He chases, but cannot +catch that slippery white figure] Can't she glimmer! + +MERCY. Gladys! Up ladder! + +CLYST. Yu go up ladder; I'll catch 'ee then. Naw, yu maids, don't +yu give her succour. That's not vair [Catching hold of MERCY, who +gives a little squeal.] + +CONNIE. Mercy, don't! Mrs. Burlacombe'll hear. Ivy, go an' peek. + + [Ivy goes to flee side door and peers through.] + +CLYST. [Abandoning the chase and picking up an apple--they all have +the joyous irresponsibility that attends forbidden doings] Ya-as, +this is a gude apple. Luke at Tibby! + + [TIBBY, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen back into the hay, + asleep. GLADYS, leaning against the hay breaks into humming:] + + "There cam' three dukes a-ridin', a-ridin', a-ridin', + There cam' three dukes a ridin' + With a ransy-tansy tay!" + +CLYST. Us 'as got on vine; us'll get prize for our dancin'. + +CONNIE. There won't be no prize if Mr. Strangway goes away. 'Tes +funny 'twas Mrs. Strangway start us. + +IVY. [From the door] 'Twas wicked to hiss him. + + [A moment's hush.] + +CLYST. Twasn't I. + +BOBBIE. I never did. + +GLADYS. Oh! Bobbie, yu did! Yu blew in my ear. + +CLYST. 'Twas the praaper old wind in the trees. Did make a brave +noise, zurely. + +MERCY. 'E shuld'n' 'a let my skylark go. + +CLYST. [Out of sheer contradictoriness] Ya-as, 'e shude, then. +What du yu want with th' birds of the air? They'm no gude to yu. + +IVY. [Mournfully] And now he's goin' away. + +CLYST. Ya-as; 'tes a pity. He's the best man I ever seen since I +was comin' from my mother. He's a gude man. He'em got a zad face, +sure enough, though. + +IVY. Gude folk always 'ave zad faces. + +CLYST. I knu a gude man--'e sold pigs--very gude man: 'e 'ad a +budiful bright vase like the mane. [Touching his stomach] I was sad, +meself, once. 'Twas a funny scrabblin'--like feelin'. + +GLADYS. If 'e go away, whu's goin' to finish us for confirmation? + +CONNIE. The Rector and the old grey mare. + +MERCY. I don' want no more finishin'; I'm confirmed enough. + +CLYST. Ya-as; yu'm a buty. + +GLADYS. Suppose we all went an' asked 'im not to go? + +IVY. 'Twouldn't be no gude. + +CONNIE. Where's 'e goin'? + +MERCY. He'll go to London, of course. + +IVY. He's so gentle; I think 'e'll go to an island, where there's +nothin' but birds and beasts and flowers. + +CLYST. Aye! He'm awful fond o' the dumb things. + +IVY. They're kind and peaceful; that's why. + +CLYST. Aw! Yu see tu praaper old tom cats; they'm not to peaceful, +after that, nor kind naighther. + +BOBBIE. [Surprisingly] If 'e's sad, per'aps 'e'll go to 'Eaven. + +IVY. Oh! not yet, Bobbie. He's tu young. + +CLYST. [Following his own thoughts] Ya-as. 'Tes a funny place, tu, +nowadays, judgin' from the papers. + +GLADYS. Wonder if there's dancin' in 'Eaven? + +IVY. There's beasts, and flowers, and waters, and 'e told us. + +CLYST. Naw! There's no dumb things in 'Eaven. Jim Bere 'e says +there is! 'E thinks 'is old cat's there. + +IVY. Yes. [Dreamily] There's stars, an' owls, an' a man playin' on +the flute. Where 'tes gude, there must be music. + +CLYST. Old brass band, shuldn' wonder, like th' Salvation Army. + +IVY. [Putting up her hands to an imaginary pipe] No; 'tis a boy +that goes so; an' all the dumb things an' all the people goo after +'im--like this. + + [She marches slowly, playing her imaginary pipe, and one by one + they all fall in behind her, padding round the barn in their + stockinged feet. Passing the big doors, IVY throws them open.] + +An' 'tes all like that in 'Eaven. + + [She stands there gazing out, still playing on her imaginary + pipe. And they all stand a moment silent, staring into the + moonlight.] + +CLYST. 'Tes a glory-be full mune to-night! + +IVY. A goldie-cup--a big one. An' millions o' little goldie-cups on +the floor of 'Eaven. + +MERCY. Oh! Bother 'Eaven! Let's dance "Clapperclaws"! Wake up, +Tibby! + +GLADYS. Clapperelaws, clapperclaws! Come on, Bobbie--make circle! + +CLYST. Clapperclaws! I dance that one fine. + +IVY. [Taking the tambourine] See, Tibby; like this. She hums and +beats gently, then restores the tambourine to the sleepy TIBBY, who, +waking, has placed a piece of apple in her mouth. + +CONNIE. 'Tes awful difficult, this one. + +IVY. [Illustrating] No; yu just jump, an' clap yore 'ands. Lovely, +lovely! + +CLYST. Like ringin' bells! Come ahn! + + [TIBBY begins her drowsy beating, IVY hums the tune; they dance, + and their shadows dance again upon the walls. When she has + beaten but a few moments on the tambourine, TIBBY is overcome + once more by sleep and falls back again into her nest of hay, + with her little shoed feet just visible over the edge of the + bench. Ivy catches up the tambourine, and to her beating and + humming the dancers dance on.] + + [Suddenly GLADYS stops like a wild animal surprised, and cranes + her neck towards the aide door.] + +CONNIE. [Whispering] What is it? + +GLADYS. [Whispering] I hear--some one comin' across the yard. + + [She leads a noiseless scamper towards the shoes. BOBBIE + JARLAND shins up the ladder and seizes the lantern. Ivy drops + the tambourine. They all fly to the big doors, and vanish into + the moonlight, pulling the door nearly to again after them.] + + [There is the sound of scrabbling at the hitch of the side door, + and STRANGWAY comes into the nearly dark barn. Out in the night + the owl is still hooting. He closes the door, and that sound is + lost. Like a man walking in his sleep, he goes up to the + ladder, takes the rope in his hand, and makes a noose. He can + be heard breathing, and in the darkness the motions of his hands + are dimly seen, freeing his throat and putting the noose round + his neck. He stands swaying to and fro at the foot of the + ladder; then, with a sigh, sets his foot on it to mount. One of + the big doors creaks and opens in the wind, letting in a broad + path of moonlight.] + + [STRANGWAY stops; freeing his neck from the noose, he walks + quickly up the track of moonlight, whitened from head to foot, + to close the doors.] + + [The sound of his boots on the bare floor has awakened TIBBY + JARLAND. Struggling out of her hay nest she stands staring at + his whitened figure, and bursts suddenly into a wail.] + +TIBBY. O-oh! Mercy! Where are yu? I'm frightened! I'm +frightened! O-oooo! + +STRANGWAY. [Turning--startled] Who's that? Who is it? + +TIBBY. O-oh! A ghosty! Oo-ooo! + +STRANGWAY. [Going to her quickly] It's me, Tibby--Tib only me! + +TIBBY. I seed a ghosty. + +STRANGWAY. [Taking her up] No, no, my bird, you didn't! It was +me. + +TIBBY. [Burying her face against him] I'm frighted. It was a big +one. [She gives tongue again] O-o-oh! + +STRANGWAY. There, there! It's nothing but me. Look! + +TIBBY. No. [She peeps out all the same.] + +STRANGWAY. See! It's the moonlight made me all white. See! You're +a brave girl now? + +TIBBY. [Cautiously] I want my apple. + + [She points towards her nest. STRANGWAY carries her there, + picks up an apple, and gives it her. TIBBY takes a bite.] + +TIBBY. I want any tambourine. + +STRANGWAY. [Giving her the tambourine, and carrying her back into +the' track of moonlight] Now we're both ghosties! Isn't it funny? + +TABBY. [Doubtfully] Yes. + +STRANGWAY. See! The moon's laughing at us! See? Laugh then! + + [TABBY, tambourine in one hand and apple in the other, smiles + stolidly. He sets her down on the ladder, and stands, holding + her level With him.] + +TABBY. [Solemnly] I'se still frightened. + +STRANGWAY. No! Full moon, Tibby! Shall we wish for it? + +TABBY. Full mune. + +STRANGWAY. Moon! We're wishing for you. Moon, moon! + +TIBBY. Mune, we're wishin' for yu! + +STRANGWAY. What do, you wish it to be? + +TIBBY. Bright new shillin'! + +STRANGWAY. A face. + +TIBBY. Shillin', a shillin'! + +STRANGWAY. [Taking out a shilling and spinning it so that it falls +into her pinafore] See! Your wish comes true. + +TIBBY. Oh! [Putting the shilling in her mouth] Mune's still there! + +STRANGWAY. Wish for me, Tibby! + +TIBBY. Mune. I'm wishin' for yu! + +STRANGWAY. Not yet! + +TIBBY. Shall I shake my tambouline? + +STRANGWAY. Yes, shake your tambouline. + +TIBBY. [Shaking her tambourine] Mune, I'm shaken' at yu. + + [STRANGWAY lays his hand suddenly on the rope, and swings it up + on to the beam.] + +TIBBY. What d'yu du that for? + +STRANGWAY. To put it out of reach. It's better---- + +TIBBY. Why is it better? [She stares up at him.] + +STRANGWAY. Come along, Tibby! [He carries her to the big doors, and +sets her down] See! All asleep! The birds, and the fields, and the +moon! + +TIBBY. Mune, mune, we're wishing for yu! + +STRANGWAY. Send her your love, and say good-night. + +TIBBY. [Blowing a kiss] Good-night, mune! + + [From the barn roof a little white dove's feather comes floating + down in the wind. TIBBY follows it with her hand, catches it, + and holds it up to him.] + +TIBBY. [Chuckling] Luke. The mune's sent a bit o' love! + +STRANGWAY. [Taking the feather] Thank you, Tibby! I want that bit +o' love. [Very faint, comes the sound of music] Listen! + +TIBBY. It's Miss Willis, playin' on the pianny! + +STRANGWAY. No; it's Love; walking and talking in the world. + +TIBBY. [Dubiously] Is it? + +STRANGWAY. [Pointing] See! Everything coming out to listen! See +them, Tibby! All the little things with pointed ears, children, and +birds, and flowers, and bunnies; and the bright rocks, and--men! +Hear their hearts beating! And the wind listening! + +TIBBY. I can't hear--nor I can't see! + +STRANGWAY. Beyond----[To himself] They are--they must be; I swear +they are! [Then, catching sight of TIBBY'S amazed eyes] And now say +good-bye to me. + +TIBBY. Where yu goin'? + +STRANGWAY. I don't know, Tibby. + +VOICE OF MERCY. [Distant and cautious] Tibby! Tibby! Where are +yu? + +STRANGWAY. Mercy calling; run to her! + + [TIBBY starts off, turns back and lifts her face. He bends to + kiss her, and flinging her arms round his neck, she gives him a + good hug. Then, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, she runs.] + + [STRANGWAY stands, uncertain. There is a sound of heavy + footsteps; a man clears his throat, close by.] + +STRANGWAY. Who's that? + +CREMER. Jack Cremer. [The big man's figure appears out of the +shadow of the barn] That yu, zurr? + +STRANGWAY. Yes, Jack. How goes it? + +CREMER. 'Tes empty, zurr. But I'll get on some'ow. + +STRANGWAY. You put me to shame. + +CREMER. No, zurr. I'd be killin' meself, if I didn' feel I must +stick it, like yu zaid. + + [They stand gazing at each other in the moonlight.] + +STRANGWAY. [Very low] I honour you. + +CREMER. What's that? [Then, as STRANGWAY does not answer] I'll +just be walkin'--I won' be gain' 'ome to-night. 'Tes the full mune-- +lucky. + +STRANGWAY. [Suddenly] Wait for me at the crossroads, Jack. I'll +come with you. Will you have me, brother? + +CREMER. Sure! + +STRANGWAY. Wait, then. + +CREMER. Aye, zurr. + + [With his heavy tread CREMER passes on. And STRANGWAY leans + against the lintel of the door, looking at the moon, that, quite + full and golden, hangs not far above the straight horizon, where + the trees stand small, in a row.] + +STRANGWAY. [Lifting his hand in the gesture of prayer] God, of the +moon and the sun; of joy and beauty, of loneliness and sorrow--give +me strength to go on, till I love every living thing! + + [He moves away, following JACK CREMER. The full moon shines; + the owl hoots; and some one is shaking TIBBY'S tambourine.] + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of A BIT 'O LOVE, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +THE FOUNDATIONS + +(AN EXTRAVAGANT PLAY) + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY, M.P. +LADY WILLIAM DROMONDY +LITTLE ANNE +MISS STOKES +MR. POULDER +JAMES +HENRY +THOMAS +CHARLES +THE PRESS +LEMMY +OLD MRS. LEMMY +LITTLE AIDA +THE DUKE OF EXETER + +Some ANTI-SWEATERS; Some SWEATED WORKERS; and a CROWD + + + + +SCENES + +SCENE I. The cellar at LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S in Park Lane. + +SCENE II. The room of old MRS. LEMMY in Bethnal Green. + +SCENE III. Ante-room of the hall at LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S + + + +The Action passes continuously between 8 and 10.30 of a +summer evening, some years after the Great War. + + + + +ACT I + + +LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S mansion in Park Lane. Eight o'clock of the +evening. LITTLE ANNE DROMONDY and the large footman, JAMES, gaunt +and grin, discovered in the wine cellar, by light of gas. JAMES, in +plush breeches, is selecting wine. + +L. ANNE: James, are you really James? + +JAMES. No, my proper name's John. + +L. ANNE. Oh! [A pause] And is Charles's an improper name too? + +JAMES. His proper name's Mark. + +L. ANNE. Then is Thomas Matthew? + +JAMES. Miss Anne, stand clear o' that bin. You'll put your foot +through one o' those 'ock bottles. + +L. ANNE. No, but James--Henry might be Luke, really? + +JAMES. Now shut it, Miss Anne! + +L. ANNE. Who gave you those names? Not your godfathers and +godmothers? + +JAMES. Poulder. Butlers think they're the Almighty. [Gloomily] +But his name's Bartholomew. + +L. ANNE. Bartholomew Poulder? It's rather jolly. + +JAMES. It's hidjeous. + +L. ANNE. Which do you like to be called--John or James? + +JAMES. I don't give a darn. + +L. ANNE. What is a darn? + +JAMES. 'Tain't in the dictionary. + +L. ANNE. Do you like my name? Anne Dromondy? It's old, you know. +But it's funny, isn't it? + +JAMES. [Indifferently] It'll pass. + +L. ANNE. How many bottles have you got to pick out? + +JAMES. Thirty-four. + +L. ANNE. Are they all for the dinner, or for the people who come in +to the Anti-Sweating Meeting afterwards? + +JAMES. All for the dinner. They give the Sweated--tea. + +L. ANNE. All for the dinner? They'll drink too much, won't they? + +JAMES. We've got to be on the safe side. + +L. ANNE. Will it be safer if they drink too much? + + [JAMES pauses in the act of dusting a bottle to look at her, as + if suspecting irony.] + +[Sniffing] Isn't the smell delicious here-like the taste of cherries +when they've gone bad--[She sniffs again] and mushrooms; and boot +blacking. + +JAMES. That's the escape of gas. + +L. ANNE. Has the plumber's man been? + +JAMES. Yes. + +L. ANNE. Which one? + +JAMES. Little blighter I've never seen before. + +L. ANNE. What is a little blighter? Can I see? + +JAMES. He's just gone. + +L. ANNE. [Straying] Oh! . . . James, are these really the +foundations? + +JAMES. You might 'arf say so. There's a lot under a woppin' big +house like this; you can't hardly get to the bottom of it. + +L. ANNE. Everything's built on something, isn't it? And what's THAT +built on? + +JAMES. Ask another. + +L. ANNE. If you wanted to blow it up, though, you'd have to begin +from here, wouldn't you? + +JAMES. Who'd want to blow it up? + +L. ANNE. It would make a mess in Park Lane. + +JAMES. I've seen a lot bigger messes than this'd make, out in the +war. + +L. ANNE. Oh! but that's years ago! Was it like this in the +trenches, James? + +JAMES. [Grimly] Ah! 'Cept that you couldn't lay your 'and on a +bottle o' port when you wanted one. + +L. ANNE. Do you, when you want it, here? + +JAMES. [On guard] I only suggest it's possible. + +L. ANNE. Perhaps Poulder does. + +JAMES. [Icily] I say nothin' about that. + +L. ANNE. Oh! Do say something! + +JAMES. I'm ashamed of you, Miss Anne, pumpin' me! + +L. ANNE. [Reproachfully] I'm not pumpin'! I only want to make +Poulder jump when I ask him. + +JAMES. [Grinning] Try it on your own responsibility, then; don't +bring me in! + +L. ANNE. [Switching off] James, do you think there's going to be a +bloody revolution? + +JAMES. [Shocked] I shouldn't use that word, at your age. + +L. ANNE. Why not? Daddy used it this morning to Mother. +[Imitating] "The country's in an awful state, darling; there's going +to be a bloody revolution, and we shall all be blown sky-high." Do +you like Daddy? + +JAMES. [Taken aback] Like Lord William? What do you think? We +chaps would ha' done anything for him out there in the war. + +L. ANNE. He never says that he always says he'd have done anything +for you! + +JAMES. Well--that's the same thing. + +L. ANNE. It isn't--it's the opposite. What is class hatred, James? + +JAMES. [Wisely] Ah! A lot o' people thought when the war was over +there'd be no more o' that. [He sniggers] Used to amuse me to read +in the papers about the wonderful unity that was comin'. I could ha' +told 'em different. + +L. ANNE. Why should people hate? I like everybody. + +JAMES. You know such a lot o' people, don't you? + +L. ANNE. Well, Daddy likes everybody, and Mother likes everybody, +except the people who don't like Daddy. I bar Miss Stokes, of +course; but then, who wouldn't? + +JAMES. [With a touch of philosophy] That's right--we all bars them +that tries to get something out of us. + +L. ANNE. Who do you bar, James? + +JAMES. Well--[Enjoying the luxury of thought]--Speaking generally, I +bar everybody that looks down their noses at me. Out there in the +trenches, there'd come a shell, and orf'd go some orficer's head, an' +I'd think: That might ha' been me--we're all equal in the sight o' +the stars. But when I got home again among the torfs, I says to +meself: Out there, ye know, you filled a hole as well as me; but here +you've put it on again, with mufti. + +L. ANNE. James, are your breeches made of mufti? + +JAMES. [Contemplating his legs with a certain contempt] Ah! +Footmen were to ha' been off; but Lord William was scared we wouldn't +get jobs in the rush. We're on his conscience, and it's on my +conscience that I've been on his long enough--so, now I've saved a +bit, I'm goin' to take meself orf it. + +L. ANNE. Oh! Are you going? Where? + +JAMES. [Assembling the last bottles] Out o' Blighty! + +L. ANNE. Is a little blighter a little Englishman? + +JAMES. [Embarrassed] Well-'e can be. + +L. ANNE [Mining] James--we're quite safe down here, aren't we, in a +revolution? Only, we wouldn't have fun. Which would you rather--be +safe, or have fun? + +JAMES. [Grimly] Well, I had my bit o' fun in the war. + +L. ANNE. I like fun that happens when you're not looking. + +JAMES. Do you? You'd ha' been just suited. + +L. ANNE. James, is there a future life? Miss Stokes says so. + +JAMES. It's a belief, in the middle classes. + +L. ANNE. What are the middle classes? + +JAMES. Anything from two 'undred a year to supertax. + +L. ANNE. Mother says they're terrible. Is Miss Stokes middle class? + +JAMES. Yes. + +L. ANNE. Then I expect they are terrible. She's awfully virtuous, +though, isn't she? + +JAMES. 'Tisn't so much the bein' virtuous, as the lookin' it, that's +awful. + +L. ANNE. Are all the middle classes virtuous? Is Poulder? + +JAMES. [Dubiously] Well. Ask him! + +L. ANNE. Yes, I will. Look! + + [From an empty bin on the ground level she picks up a lighted + taper,--burnt almost to the end.] + +JAMES. [Contemplating it] Careless! + +L. Ate. Oh! And look! [She paints to a rounded metal object lying +in the bin, close to where the taper was] It's a bomb! + +She is about to pick it up when JAMES takes her by the waist and puts +her aside. + +JAMES. [Sternly] You stand back, there! I don't like the look o' +that! + +L. ANNE. [With intense interest] Is it really a bomb? What fun! + +JAMES. Go and fetch Poulder while I keep an eye on it. + +L. ANNE. [On tiptoe of excitement] If only I can make him jump! +Oh, James! we needn't put the light out, need we? + +JAMES. No. Clear off and get him, and don't you come back. + +L. ANNE. Oh! but I must! I found it! + +JAMES. Cut along. + +L. ANNE. Shall we bring a bucket? + +JAMES. Yes. [ANNE flies off.] + +[Gazing at the object] Near go! Thought I'd seen enough o'them +to last my time. That little gas blighter! He looked a rum 'un, +too--one o' these 'ere Bolshies. + + [In the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are + too much for him. He sits on the ground, leaning against one of + the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large, + lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee. Taking + out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between + his dips. There enter, behind him, as from a communication + trench, POULDER, in swallow-tails, with LITTLE ANNE behind him.] + +L. ANNE. [Peering round him--ecstatic] Hurrah! Not gone off yet! +It can't--can it--while James is sitting on it? + +POULDER. [Very broad and stout, with square shoulders,--a large +ruddy face, and a small mouth] No noise, Miss.--James. + +JAMES. Hallo! + +POULDER. What's all this? + +JAMES. Bomb! + +POULDER. Miss Anne, off you go, and don't you---- + +L. ANNE. Come back again! I know! [She flies.] + +JAMES. [Extending his hand with the pipe in it] See! + +POULDER. [Severely] You've been at it again! Look here, you're not +in the trenches now. Get up! What are your breeches goin' to be +like? You might break a bottle any moment! + +JAMES. [Rising with a jerk to a sort of "Attention!"] Look here, +you starched antiquity, you and I and that bomb are here in the sight +of the stars. If you don't look out I'll stamp on it and blow us all +to glory! Drop your civilian swank! + +POULDER. [Seeing red] Ho! Because you had the privilege of +fightin' for your country you still think you can put it on, do you? +Take up your wine! 'Pon my word, you fellers have got no nerve left! + + [JAMES makes a sudden swoop, lifts the bomb and poises it in + both hands. POULDER recoils against a bin and gazes, at the + object.] + +JAMES. Put up your hands! + +POULDER. I defy you to make me ridiculous. + +JAMES. [Fiercely] Up with 'em! + + [POULDER'S hands go up in an uncontrollable spasm, which he + subdues almost instantly, pulling them down again.] + +JAMES. Very good. [He lowers the bomb.] + +POULDER. [Surprised] I never lifted 'em. + +JAMES. You'd have made a first-class Boche, Poulder. Take the bomb +yourself; you're in charge of this section. + +POULDER. [Pouting] It's no part of my duty to carry menial objects; +if you're afraid of it I'll send 'Enry. + +JAMES. Afraid! You 'Op o' me thumb! + + [From the "communication trench" appears LITTLE ANNE, followed + by a thin, sharp, sallow-faced man of thirty-five or so, and + another FOOTMAN, carrying a wine-cooler.] + +L. ANNE. I've brought the bucket, and the Press. + +PRESS. [In front of POULDER'S round eyes and mouth] Ah, major domo, +I was just taking the names of the Anti-Sweating dinner. [He catches +sight of the bomb in JAMES'S hand] By George! What A.1. irony! [He +brings out a note-book and writes] "Highest class dining to relieve +distress of lowest class-bombed by same!" Tipping! [He rubs his +hands]. + +POULDER. [Drawing himself up] Sir? This is present! [He indicates +ANNE with the flat of his hand.] + +L. ANNE. I found the bomb. + +PRESS. [Absorbed] By Jove! This is a piece of luck! [He writes.] + +POULDER. [Observing him] This won't do--it won't do at all! + +PRESS. [Writing-absorbed] "Beginning of the British Revolution!" + +POULDER. [To JAMES] Put it in the cooler. 'Enry, 'old up the +cooler. Gently! Miss Anne, get be'ind the Press. + +JAMES. [Grimly--holding the bomb above the cooler] It won't be the +Press that'll stop Miss Anne's goin' to 'Eaven if one o' this sort +goes off. Look out! I'm goin' to drop it. + + [ALL recoil. HENRY puts the cooler down and backs away.] + +L. ANNE. [Dancing forward] Oh! Let me see! I missed all the war, +you know! + + [JAMES lowers the bomb into the cooler.] + +POULDER. [Regaining courage--to THE PRESS, who is scribbling in his +note-book] If you mention this before the police lay their hands on +it, it'll be contempt o' Court. + +PRESS. [Struck] I say, major domo, don't call in the police! +That's the last resort. Let me do the Sherlocking for you. Who's +been down here? + +L. ANNE. The plumber's man about the gas---a little blighter we'd +never seen before. + +JAMES. Lives close by, in Royal Court Mews--No. 3. I had a word +with him before he came down. Lemmy his name is. + +PRESS. "Lemmy!" [Noting the address] Right-o! + +L. ANNE. Oh! Do let me come with you! + +POULDER. [Barring the way] I've got to lay it all before Lord +William. + +PRESS. Ah! What's he like? + +POULDER. [With dignity] A gentleman, sir. + +PRESS. Then he won't want the police in. + +POULDER. Nor the Press, if I may go so far, as to say so. + +PRESS. One to you! But I defy you to keep this from the Press, +major domo: This is the most significant thing that has happened in +our time. Guy Fawkes is nothing to it. The foundations of Society +reeling! By George, it's a second Bethlehem! + + [He writes.] + +POULDER. [To JAMES] Take up your wine and follow me. 'Enry, bring +the cooler. Miss Anne, precede us. [To THE PRESS] You defy me? +Very well; I'm goin' to lock you up here. + +PRESS. [Uneasy] I say this is medieval. + + [He attempts to pass.] + +POULDER. [Barring the way] Not so! James, put him up in that empty +'ock bin. We can't have dinner disturbed in any way. + +JAMES. [Putting his hands on THE PRESS'S shoulders] Look here--go +quiet! I've had a grudge against you yellow newspaper boys ever +since the war--frothin' up your daily hate, an' makin' the Huns +desperate. You nearly took my life five hundred times out there. If +you squeal, I'm gain' to take yours once--and that'll be enough. + +PRESS. That's awfully unjust. Im not yellow! + +JAMES. Well, you look it. Hup. + +PRESS. Little Lady-Anne, haven't you any authority with these +fellows? + +L. ANNE. [Resisting Poulard's pressure] I won't go! I simply must +see James put him up! + +PRESS. Now, I warn you all plainly--there'll be a leader on this. + + [He tries to bolt but is seized by JAMES.] + +JAMES. [Ironically] Ho! + +PRESS. My paper has the biggest influence + +JAMES. That's the one! Git up in that 'ock bin, and mind your feet +among the claret. + +PRESS. This is an outrage on the Press. + +JAMES. Then it'll wipe out one by the Press on the Public--an' leave +just a million over! Hup! + +POULDER. 'Enry, give 'im an 'and. + + [THE PRESS mounts, assisted by JAMES and HENRY.] + +L. ANNE. [Ecstatic] It's lovely! + +POULDER. [Nervously] Mind the '87! Mind! + +JAMES. Mind your feet in Mr. Poulder's favourite wine! + + [A WOMAN'S voice is heard, as from the depths of a cave, calling + "Anne! Anne!"] + +L. ANNE. [Aghast] Miss Stokes--I must hide! + + [She gets behind POULDER. The three Servants achieve dignified + positions in front of the bins. The voice comes nearer. THE + PRESS sits dangling his feet, grinning. MISS STOKES appears. + She is woman of forty-five and terribly good manners. Her + greyish hair is rolled back off her forehead. She is in a high + evening dress, and in the dim light radiates a startled + composure.] + +MISS STOKES. Poulder, where is Miss Anne? + + [ANNE lays hold of the backs of his legs.] + +POULDER. [Wincing] I am not in a position to inform you, Miss. + +MISS S. They told me she was down here. And what is all this about +a bomb? + +POULDER. [Lifting his hand in a calming manner] The crisis is past; +we have it in ice, Miss. 'Enry, show Miss Stokes! [HENRY indicates +the cooler.] + +MISS S. Good gracious! Does Lord William know? + +POULDER. Not at present, Miss. + +MISS S. But he ought to, at once. + +POULDER. We 'ave 'ad complications. + +MISS S. [Catching sight of the legs of THE PRESS] Dear me! What +are those? + +JAMES. [Gloomily] The complications. + + [MISS STOKES pins up her glasses and stares at them.] + +PRESS. [Cheerfully] Miss Stokes, would you kindly tell Lord William +I'm here from the Press, and would like to speak to him? + +MISS S. But--er--why are you up there? + +JAMES. 'E got up out o' remorse, Miss. + +MISS S. What do you mean, James? + +PRESS. [Warmly] Miss Stokes, I appeal to you. Is it fair to +attribute responsibility to an unsigned journalist--for what he has +to say? + +JAMES. [Sepulchrally] Yes, when you've got 'im in a nice dark +place. + +MISS. S. James, be more respectful! We owe the Press a very great +debt. + +JAMES. I'm goin' to pay it, Miss. + +MISS S. [At a loss] Poulder, this is really most---- + +POULDER. I'm bound to keep the Press out of temptation, miss, till +I've laid it all before Lord William. 'Enry, take up the cooler. +James, watch 'im till we get clear, then bring on the rest of the +wine and lock up. Now, Miss. + +MISS S. But where is Anne? + +PRESS. Miss Stokes, as a lady----! + +MISS S. I shall go and fetch Lord William! + +POULDER. We will all go, Miss. + +L. ANNE. [Rushing out from behind his legs] No--me! + + [She eludes MISS STOKES and vanishes, followed by that + distracted but still well-mannered lady.] + +POULDER. [Looking at his watch] 'Enry, leave the cooler, and take +up the wine; tell Thomas to lay it out; get the champagne into ice, +and 'ave Charles 'andy in the 'all in case some literary bounder +comes punctual. + + [HENRY takes up the wine and goes.] + +PRESS. [Above his head] I say, let me down. This is a bit +undignified, you know. My paper's a great organ. + +POULDER. [After a moment's hesitation] Well--take 'im down, James; +he'll do some mischief among the bottles. + +JAMES. 'Op off your base, and trust to me. + + [THE, PRESS slides off the bin's edge, is received by JAMES, and + not landed gently.] + +POULDER. [Contemplating him] The incident's closed; no ill-feeling, +I hope? + +PRESS. No-o. + +POULDER. That's right. [Clearing his throat] While we're waitin' +for Lord William--if you're interested in wine--[Philosophically] +you can read the history of the times in this cellar. Take 'ock: [He +points to a bin] Not a bottle gone. German product, of course. +Now, that 'ock is 'sa 'avin' the time of its life--maturin' grandly; +got a wonderful chance. About the time we're bringin' ourselves to +drink it, we shall be havin' the next great war. With luck that 'ock +may lie there another quarter of a century, and a sweet pretty wine +it'll be. I only hope I may be here to drink it. Ah! [He shakes his +head]--but look at claret! Times are hard on claret. We're givin' +it an awful doin'. Now, there's a Ponty Canny [He points to a bin]- +if we weren't so 'opelessly allied with France, that wine would have +a reasonable future. As it is--none! We drink it up and up; not +more than sixty dozen left. And where's its equal to come from for a +dinner wine--ah! I ask you? On the other hand, port is steady; made +in a little country, all but the cobwebs and the old boot flavour; +guaranteed by the British Nary; we may 'ope for the best with port. +Do you drink it? + +PRESS. When I get the chance. + +POULDER. Ah! [Clears his throat] I've often wanted to ask: What do +they pay you--if it's not indelicate? + +[THE PRESS shrugs his shoulders.] + +Can you do it at the money? + +[THE PRESS shakes his head.] Still--it's an easy life! I've +regretted sometimes that I didn't have a shot at it myself; +influencin' other people without disclosin' your identity--something +very attractive about that. [Lowering his voice] Between man and +man, now-what do you think of the situation of the country--these +processions of the unemployed--the Red Flag an' the Marsillaisy in +the streets--all this talk about an upheaval? + +PRESS. Well, speaking as a Socialist---- + +POULDER. [Astounded] Why; I thought your paper was Tory! + +PRESS. So it is. That's nothing! + +POULDER. [Open-mouthed] Dear me! [Pointing to the bomb] Do you +really think there's something in this? + +JAMES. [Sepulchrally] 'Igh explosive. + +PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Too much, anyway, to let it drop. + + [A pleasant voice calls "Poulder! Hallo!".] + +POULDER. [Forming a trumpet with his hand] Me Lord! + + [As LORD WILLIAM appears, JAMES, overcome by reminiscences; + salutes, and is mechanically answered. LORD WILLIAM has + "charm." His hair and moustache are crisp and just beginning to + grizzle. His bearing is free, easy, and only faintly armoured. + He will go far to meet you any day. He is in full evening + dress.] + +LORD W. [Cheerfully] I say, Poulder, what have you and James been +doing to the Press? Liberty of the Press--it isn't what it was, but +there is a limit. Where is he? + + [He turns to Jams between whom and himself there is still the + freemasonry of the trenches.] + +JAMES. [Pointing to POULDER] Be'ind the parapet, me Lord. + + [THE PRESS mopes out from where he has involuntarily been. + screened by POULDER, who looks at JAMES severely. LORD WILLIAM + hides a smile.] + +PRESS. Very glad to meet you, Lord William. My presence down here +is quite involuntary. + +LORD W. [With a charming smile] I know. The Press has to put its-- +er--to go to the bottom of everything. Where's this bomb, Poulder? +Ah! + + [He looks into the wine cooler.] + +PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Could I have a word with you on +the crisis, before dinner, Lord William? + +LORD W. It's time you and James were up, Poulder. [Indicating the +cooler] Look after this; tell Lady William I'll be there in a +minute. + +POULDER. Very good, me Lord. + + [He goes, followed by JAMES carrying the cooler.] + + [As THE PRESS turns to look after them, LORD WILLIAM catches + sight of his back.] + +LORD W. I must apologise, sir. Can I brush you? + +PRESS. [Dusting himself] Thanks; it's only behind. [He opens his +note-book] Now, Lord William, if you'd kindly outline your views on +the national situation; after such a narrow escape from death, I feel +they might have a moral effect. My paper, as you know, is concerned +with--the deeper aspect of things. By the way, what do you value +your house and collection at? + +LORD W. [Twisting his little mustache] Really: I can't! Really! + +PRESS. Might I say a quarter of a million-lifted in two seconds and +a half-hundred thousand to the second. It brings it home, you know. + +LORD W. No, no; dash it! No! + +PRESS. [Disappointed] I see--not draw attention to your property in +the present excited state of public feeling? Well, suppose we +approach it from the viewpoint of the Anti-Sweating dinner. I have +the list of guests--very weighty! + +LORD W. Taken some lifting-wouldn't they? + +PRESS. [Seriously] May I say that you designed the dinner to soften +the tension, at this crisis? You saw that case, I suppose, this +morning, of the woman dying of starvation in Bethnal Green? + +LORD W. [Desperately] Yes-yes! I've been horribly affected. I +always knew this slump would come after the war, sooner or later. + +PRESS. [Writing] ". . . had predicted slump." + +LORD W. You see, I've been an Anti-Sweating man for years, and I +thought if only we could come together now . . . . + +PRESS. [Nodding] I see--I see! Get Society interested in the +Sweated, through the dinner. I have the menu here. [He produces it.] + +LORD W. Good God, man--more than that! I want to show the people +that we stand side by side with them, as we did in the trenches. The +whole thing's too jolly awful. I lie awake over it. + + [He walks up and down.] + +PRESS. [Scribbling] One moment, please. I'll just get that down-- +"Too jolly awful--lies awake over it. Was wearing a white waistcoat +with pearl buttons." [At a sign of resentment from his victim.] +I want the human touch, Lord William--it's everything in my paper. +What do you say about this attempt to bomb you? + +LORD W. Well, in a way I think it's d---d natural + +PRESS. [Scribbling] "Lord William thought it d---d natural." + +LORD W. [Overhearing] No, no; don't put that down. What I mean is, +I should like to get hold of those fellows that are singing the +Marseillaise about the streets--fellows that have been in the war-- +real sports they are, you know--thorough good chaps at bottom--and +say to them: "Have a feeling heart, boys; put yourself in my +position." I don't believe a bit they'd want to bomb me then. + + [He walks up and down.] + +PRESS. [Scribbling and muttering] "The idea, of brotherhood--" D'you +mind my saying that? Word brotherhood--always effective--always---- + + [He writes.] + +LORD E. [Bewildered] "Brotherhood!" Well, it's pure accident that +I'm here and they're there. All the same, I can't pretend to be +starving. Can't go out into Hyde Park and stand on a tub, can I? +But if I could only show them what I feel--they're such good chaps-- +poor devils. + +PRESS. I quite appreciate! [He writes] "Camel and needle's eye." +You were at Eton and Oxford? Your constituency I know. Clubs? But +I can get all that. Is it your view that Christianity is on the up- +grade, Lord William? + +LORD W. [Dubious] What d'you mean by Christianity--loving--kindness +and that? Of course I think that dogma's got the knock. + + [He walks.] + +PRESS. [Writing] "Lord William thought dogma had got the knock." +I should like you just to develop your definition of Christianity. +"Loving--kindness" strikes rather a new note. + +LORD W. New? What about the Sermon on the Mount? + +PRESS. [Writing] "Refers to Sermon on Mount." I take it you don't +belong to any Church, Lord William? + +LORD W. [Exasperated] Well, really--I've been baptised and that +sort of thing. But look here---- + +PRESS. Oh! you can trust me--I shan't say anything that you'll +regret. Now, do you consider that a religious revival would help to +quiet the country? + +LORD W. Well, I think it would be a deuced, good thing if everybody +were a bit more kind. + +PRESS. Ah! [Musing] I feel that your views are strikingly +original, Lord William. If you could just open out on them a little +more? How far would you apply kindness in practice? + +LORD W. Can you apply it in theory? + +PRESS. I believe it is done. But would you allow yourself to be +blown up with impunity? + +LORD W. Well, that's a bit extreme. But I quite sympathise with +this chap. Imagine yourself in his shoes. He sees a huge house, all +these bottles; us swilling them down; perhaps he's got a starving +wife, or consumptive kids. + +PRESS. [Writing and murmuring] Um-m! "Kids." + +LORD W. He thinks: "But for the grace of God, there swill I. Why +should that blighter have everything and I nothing?" and all that. + +PRESS. [Writing] "And all that." [Eagerly] Yes? + +LORD W. And gradually--you see--this contrast--becomes an obsession +with him. "There's got to be an example made," he thinks; and--er-- +he makes it, don't you know? + +PRESS. [Writing] Ye-es? And--when you're the example? + +LORD W. Well, you feel a bit blue, of course. But my point is that +you quite see it. + +PRESS. From the other world. Do you believe in a future life, Lord +William? The public took a lot of interest in the question, if you +remember, at the time of the war. It might revive at any moment, if +there's to be a revolution. + +LORD W. The wish is always father to the thought, isn't it? + +PRESS. Yes! But--er--doesn't the question of a future life rather +bear on your point about kindness? If there isn't one--why be kind? + +LORD W. Well, I should say one oughtn't to be kind for any motive-- +that's self-interest; but just because one feels it, don't you know. + +PRESS. [Writing vigorously] That's very new--very new! + +LORD W. [Simply] You chaps are wonderful. + +PRESS. [Doubtfully] You mean we're--we're---- + +LORD W. No, really. You have such a d---d hard time. It must be +perfectly beastly to interview fellows like me. + +PRESS. Oh! Not at all, Lord William. Not at all. I assure you +compared with a literary man, it's--it's almost heavenly. + +LORD W. You must have a wonderful knowledge of things. + +PRESS. [Bridling a little] Well--I shouldn't say that. + +LORD W. I don't see how you can avoid it. You turn your hands to +everything. + +PRESS. [Modestly] Well--yes, Yes. + +LORD W. I say: Is there really going to be a revolution, or are you +making it up, you Press? + +PRESS. We don't know. We never know whether we come before the +event, or it comes before us. + +LORD W. That's--very deep--very dip. D'you mind lending me your +note-book a moment. I'd like to stick that down. All right, I'll +use the other end. [THE PRESS hands it hypnotically.] + +LORD W. [Jotting] Thanks awfully. Now what's your real opinion of +the situation? + +PRESS. As a man or a Press man? + +LORD W. Is there any difference? + +PRESS. Is there any connection? + +LORD W. Well, as a man. + +PRESS. As a man, I think it's rotten. + +LORD W. [Jotting] "Rotten." And as a pressman? + +PRESS. [Smiling] Prime. + +LORD W. What! Like a Stilton cheese. Ha, ha! + + [He is about to write.] + +PRESS. My stunt, Lord William. You said that. + + [He jots it on his cuff.] + +LORD W. But look here! Would you say that a strong press movement +would help to quiet the country? + +PRESS. Well, as you ask me, Lord William, I'll tell you. No +newspapers for a month would do the trick. + +LORD W. [Jotting] By Jove! That's brilliant. + +PRESS. Yes, but I should starve. [He suddenly looks up, and his +eyes, like gimlets, bore their way into LORD WILLIAM'S pleasant, +troubled face] Lord William, you could do me a real kindness. +Authorise me to go and interview the fellow who left the bomb here; +I've got his address. I promise you to do it most discreetly. Fact +is--well--I'm in low water. Since the war we simply can't get +sensation enough for the new taste. Now, if I could have an article +headed: "Bombed and Bomber"--sort of double interview, you know, it'd +very likely set me on my legs again. [Very earnestly] Look! +[He holds out his frayed wristbands.] + +LORD W. [Grasping his hand] My dear chap, certainly. Go and +interview this blighter, and then bring him round here. You can do +that for one. I'd very much like to see him, as a matter of fact. + +PRESS. Thanks awfully; I shall never forget it. Oh! might I have +my note-book? + + [LORD WILLIAM hands it back.] + +LORD W. And look here, if there's anything--when a fellow's +fortunate and another's not---- + +[He puts his hand into his breast pocket.] + +PRESS. Oh, thank you! But you see, I shall have to write you up a +bit, Lord William. The old aristocracy--you know what the public +still expects; if you were to lend me money, you might feel---- + +LORD W. By Jove! Never should have dreamt---- + +PRESS. No! But it wouldn't do. Have you a photograph of yourself. + +LORD W. Not on me. + +PRESS. Pity! By the way, has it occurred to you that there may be +another bomb on the premises? + +LORD W. Phew! I'll have a look. + + [He looks at his watch, and begins hurriedly searching the bins, + bending down and going on his knees. THE PRESS reverses the + notebook again and sketches him.] + +PRESS. [To himself] Ah! That'll do. "Lord William examines the +foundations of his house." + + [A voice calls "Bill!" THE PRESS snaps the note-book to, and + looks up. There, where the "communication trench" runs in, + stands a tall and elegant woman in the extreme of evening + dress.] + + [With presence of mind] Lady William? You'll find Lord William +--Oh! Have you a photograph of him? + +LADY W. Not on me. + +PRESS. [Eyeing her] Er--no--I suppose not--no. Excuse me! [He +sidles past her and is gone.] + +LADY W. [With lifted eyebrows] Bill! + +LORD W. [Emerging, dusting his knees] Hallo, Nell! I was just +making sure there wasn't another bomb. + +LADY W. Yes; that's why I came dawn: Who was that person? + +LORD W. Press. + +LADY W. He looked awfully yellow. I hope you haven't been giving +yourself away. + +LORD W. [Dubiously] Well, I don't know. They're like corkscrews. + +LADY W. What did he ask you? + +LORD W. What didn't he? + +LADY W. Well, what did you tell him? + +LORD W. That I'd been baptised--but he promised not to put it down. + +LADY W. Bill, you are absurd. + + [She gives a light tittle laugh.] + +LORD W. I don't remember anything else, except that it was quite +natural we should be bombed, don't you know. + +LADY W. Why, what harm have we done? + +LORD W. Been born, my dear. [Suddenly serious] I say, Nell, how am +I to tell what this fellow felt when he left that bomb here? + +LADY W. Why do you want to? + +LORD W. Out there one used to know what one's men felt. + +LADY W. [Staring] My dear boy, I really don't think you ought to +see the Press; it always upsets you. + +LORD W. Well! Why should you and I be going to eat ourselves silly +to improve the condition of the sweated, when---- + +LADY W. [Calmly] When they're going to "improve" ours, if we don't +look out. We've got to get in first, Bill. + +LORD W. [Gloomily] I know. It's all fear. That's it! Here we +are, and here we shall stay--as if there'd never been a war. + +LADY W. Well, thank heaven there's no "front" to a revolution. You +and I can go to glory together this time. Compact! Anything that's +on, I'm to abate in. + +LORD W. Well, in reason. + +LADY W. No, in rhyme, too. + +LORD W. I say, your dress! + +LADY W. Yes, Poulder tried to stop me, but I wasn't going to have +you blown up without me. + +LORD W. You duck. You do look stunning. Give us a kiss! + +LADY W. [Starting back] Oh, Bill! Don't touch me--your hands! + +LORD W. Never mind, my mouth's clean. + +They stand about a yard apart, and banding their faces towards each +other, kiss on the lips. + +L. ANNE. [Appearing suddenly from the "communication trench," and +tip-toeing silently between them] Oh, Mum! You and Daddy ARE +wasting time! Dinner's ready, you know! + + + CURTAIN + + + + +ACT II + + The single room of old MRS. LEMMY, in a small grey house in + Bethnal Green, the room of one cumbered by little save age, and + the crockery debris of the past. A bed, a cupboard, a coloured + portrait of Queen Victoria, and--of all things--a fiddle, + hanging on the wall. By the side of old MRS. LEMMY in her chair + is a pile of corduroy trousers, her day's sweated sewing, and a + small table. She sits with her back to the window, through + which, in the last of the light, the opposite side of the little + grey street is visible under the evening sky, where hangs one + white cloud shaped like a horned beast. She is still sewing, + and her lips move. Being old, and lonely, she has that habit of + talking to herself, distressing to those who cannot overhear. + From the smack of her tongue she was once a West Country cottage + woman; from the look of her creased, parchmenty face, she was + once a pretty girl with black eyes, in which there is still much + vitality. The door is opened with difficulty and a little girl + enters, carrying a pile of unfinished corduroy trousers nearly + as large as herself. She puts them down against the wall, and + advances. She is eleven or twelve years old; large-eyed, dark + haired, and sallow. Half a woman of this and half of another + world, except when as now, she is as irresponsible a bit of life + as a little flowering weed growing out of a wall. She stands + looking at MRS. LEMMY with dancing eyes. + +L. AIDA. I've brought yer to-morrer's trahsers. Y'nt yer finished +wiv to-dy's? I want to tyke 'em. + +MRS. L. No, me dear. Drat this last one--me old fengers! + +L. AIDA. I learnt some poytry to-dy--I did. + +MRS. L. Well, I never! + +L. AIDA. [Reciting with unction] + + "Little lamb who myde thee? + Dost thou know who myde thee, + Gyve thee life and byde thee feed + By the stream and oer the mead; + Gyve the clothing of delight, + Softest clothing, woolly, bright; + Gyve thee such a tender voice, + Myking all the vyles rejoice. + Little lamb who myde thee? + Dost thou know who myde thee?" + +MRS. L. 'Tes wonderful what things they tache ya nowadays. + +L. AIDA. When I grow up I'm goin' to 'ave a revolver an' shoot the +people that steals my jools. + +MRS. L. Deary-me, wherever du yu get yore notions? + +L. AIDA. An' I'm goin' to ride on as 'orse be'ind a man; an' I'm +goin' to ryce trynes in my motor car. + +MRS. L. [Dryly] Ah!--Yu'um gwine to be very busy, that's sartin. +Can you sew? + +L. AIDA. [With a Smile] Nao. + +MRS. L. Don' they tache Yu that, there? + +L. AIDA. [Blending contempt and a lingering curiosity] Nao. + +MRS. L. 'Tes wonderful genteel. + +L. AIDA. I can sing, though. + +MRS. L. Let's 'ear yu, then. + +L. AIDA. [Shaking her head] I can ply the pianner. I can ply a +tune. + +MRS. L. Whose pianner? + +L. AIDA. Mrs. Brahn's when she's gone aht. + +MRS. L. Well, yu are gettin' edjucation! Du they tache yu to love +yore neighbours? + +L. AIDA. [Ineffably] Nao. [Straying to the window] Mrs. Lemmy, +what's the moon? + +MRS. L. The mune? Us used to zay 'twas made o' crame cheese. + +L. AIDA. I can see it. + +MRS. L. Ah! Don' yu never go wishin' for it, me dear. + +L. AIDA. I daon't. + +MRS. L. Folks as wish for the mune never du no gude. + +L. AIDA. [Craning out, brilliant] I'm goin' dahn in the street. +I'll come back for yer trahsers. + +MRS. L. Well; go yu, then, and get a breath o' fresh air in yore +chakes. I'll sune 'a feneshed. + +L. AIDA. [Solemnly] I'm goin' to be a dancer, I am. + +She rushes suddenly to the door, pulls it open, and is gone. + +MRS. L. [Looking after her, and talking to herself.] Ah! 'Er've +a-got all 'er troubles before 'er! "Little lamb, a made'ee?" +[Cackling] 'Tes a funny world, tu! [She sings to herself.] + + "There is a green 'ill far away + Without a city wall, + Where our dear-Lord was crucified, + 'U died to save us all." + + The door is opened, and LEMMY comes in; a little man with a + stubble of dark moustache and spiky dark hair; large, peculiar + eyes he has, and a look of laying his ears back, a look of + doubting, of perversity with laughter up the sleeve, that grows + on those who have to do with gas and water. He shuts the door. + +MRS. L. Well, Bob, I 'aven't a-seen yu this tu weeks. + + LEMMY comes up to his mother, and sits down on a stool, sets a + tool-bag between his knees, and speaks in a cockney voice. + +LEMMY. Well, old lydy o' leisure! Wot would y' 'ave for supper, if +yer could choose--salmon wivaht the tin, an' tipsy cyke? + +MRS. L. [Shaking her head and smiling blandly] That's showy. Toad +in the 'ole I'd 'ave--and a glass o' port wine. + +LEMMY. Providential. [He opens a tool-bag] Wot dyer think I've got +yer? + +MRS. L. I 'ope yu've a-got yureself a job, my son! + +LEMMY. [With his peculiar smile] Yus, or I couldn't 'ave afforded +yer this. [He takes out a bottle] Not 'arf! This'll put the blood +into yer. Pork wine--once in the cellars of the gryte. We'll drink +the ryyal family in this. + +[He apostrophises the portrait of Queen Victoria.] + +MRS. L. Ah! She was a praaper gude queen. I see 'er once, when 'er +was bein' burried. + +LEMMY. Ryalties--I got nothin' to sy agynst 'em in this country. +But the STYTE 'as got to 'ave its pipes seen to. The 'ole show's +goin' up pop. Yer'll wyke up one o' these dyes, old lydy, and find +yerself on the roof, wiv nuffin' between yer an' the grahnd. + +MRS. L. I can't tell what yu'm talkin' about. + +LEMMY. We're goin' to 'ave a triumpherat in this country Liberty, +Equality, Fraternity; an' if yer arsk me, they won't be in power six +months before they've cut each other's throats. But I don't care--I +want to see the blood flow! (Dispassionately) I don' care 'oose +blood it is. I want to see it flow! + +MRS. L. [Indulgently] Yu'm a funny boy, that's sartin. + +LEMMY. [Carving at the cork with a knife] This 'ere cork is like +Sasiety--rotten; it's old--old an' moulderin'. [He holds up a bit of +cork on the point of the knife] Crumblin' under the wax, it is. In +goes the screw an' out comes the cork. [With unction]--an' the blood +flows. [Tipping the bottle, he lets a drop fall into the middle of +his hand, and licks it up. Gazing with queer and doubting +commiseration at has mother] Well, old dear, wot shall we 'ave it +aht of--the gold loving-cup, or--what? 'Ave yer supper fust, though, +or it'll go to yer 'ead! [He goes to the cupboard and taken out a +disk in which a little bread is sopped in a little' milk] Cold pap! +'Ow can yer? 'Yn't yer got a kipper in the 'ouse? + +MRS. L. [Admiring the bottle] Port wine! 'Tis a brave treat! I'll +'ave it out of the "Present from Margitt," Bob. I tuk 'ee therr by +excursion when yu was six months. Yu 'ad a shrimp an' it choked yu +praaperly. Yu was always a squeamy little feller. I can't never +think 'ow yu managed in the war-time, makin' they shells. + + LEMMY, who has brought to the table two mugs and blown the duet + out of; them, fills them with port, and hands one to his mother, + who is eating her bread and milk. + +LEMMY. Ah! Nothin' worried me, 'cept the want o' soap. + +MRS. L. [Cackling gently] So it du still, then! Luke at yore face. +Yu never was a clean boy, like Jim. + + [She puts out a thin finger and touches his cheek, whereon is a + black smudge.] + +LEMMY. [Scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve.] All right! Y'see, I +come stryte 'ere, to get rid o' this. + + [He drinks.] + +MRS. L. [Eating her bread and milk] Tes a pity yu'm not got a wife +to see't yu wash yureself. + +LEMMY. [Goggling] Wife! Not me--I daon't want ter myke no food for +pahder. Wot oh!--they said, time o' the war--ye're fightin' for yer +children's 'eritage. Well; wot's the 'eritage like, now we've got +it? Empty as a shell before yer put the 'igh explosive in. Wot's it +like? [Warming to his theme] Like a prophecy in the pypers--not a +bit more substantial. + +MRS. L. [Slightly hypnotised] How 'e du talk! The gas goes to yore +'ead, I think! + +LEMMY. I did the gas to-dy in the cellars of an 'ouse where the wine +was mountains 'igh. A regiment couldn't 'a drunk it. Marble pillars +in the 'all, butler broad as an observytion balloon, an' four +conscientious khaki footmen. When the guns was roarin' the talk was +all for no more o' them glorious weeds-style an' luxury was orf. See +wot it is naow. You've got a bare crust in the cupboard 'ere, I +works from 'and to mouth in a glutted market--an' there they stand +abaht agyne in their britches in the 'oases o' the gryte. I was +reg'lar overcome by it. I left a thing in that cellar--I left a +thing . . . . It'll be a bit ork'ard for me to-mower. [Drinks +from his mug.] + +MRS. L. [Placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk] +What thing? + +LEMMY. Wot thing? Old lydy, ye're like a winkle afore yer opens +'er--I never see anything so peaceful. 'Ow dyer manage it? + +MRS. L. Settin' 'ere and thenkin'. + +LEA. Wot abaht? + +MRS. L. We-el--Money, an' the works o' God. + +LEMMY. Ah! So yer give me a thought sometimes. + +MRS. L. [Lofting her mug] Yu ought never to ha' spent yore money on +this, Bob! + +LEMMY. I thought that meself. + +MRS. L. Last time I 'ad a glass o' port wine was the day yore +brother Jim went to Ameriky. [Smacking her lips] For a teetotal +drink, it du warm 'ee! + +LEMMY. [Raising his mug] Well, 'ere's to the British revolution! +'Ere's to the conflygrytion in the sky! + +MRS. L. [Comfortably] So as to kape up therr, 'twon't du no 'arm. + + LEMMY goes to the window and unhooks his fiddle; he stands with + it halfway to his shoulder. Suddenly he opens the window and + leans out. A confused murmur of voices is heard; and a snatch + of the Marseillaise, sung by a girl. Then the shuffling tramp + of feet, and figures are passing in the street. + +LEMMY. [Turning--excited] Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy? There it is- +-there it is! + +MRS. L. [Placidly] What is? + +LEMMY. The revolution. [He cranes out] They've got it on a barrer. +Cheerio! + +VOICE. [Answering] Cheerio! + +LEMMY. [Leaning out] I sy--you 'yn't tykin' the body, are yer? + +VOICE. Nao. + +LEMMY. Did she die o' starvytion O.K.? + +VOICE. She bloomin' well did; I know 'er brother. + +LEMMY. Ah! That'll do us a bit o' good! + +VOICE. Cheerio! + +LEMMY. So long! + +VOICE. So long! + + [The girl's voice is heard again in the distance singing the + Marseillaise. The door is flung open and LITTLE AIDA comes + running in again.] + +LEMMY. 'Allo, little Aida! + +L. AIDA. 'Allo, I been follerin' the corfin. It's better than an +'orse dahn! + +MRS. L. What coffin? + +L. AIDA. Why, 'er's wot died o' starvytion up the street. They're +goin' to tyke it to 'Yde Pawk, and 'oller. + +MRS. L. Well, never yu mind wot they'm goin' to du: Yu wait an' take +my trousers like a gude gell. + + [She puts her mug aside and takes up her unfinished pair of + trousers. But the wine has entered her fingers, and strength to + push the needle through is lacking.] + +LEMMY. [Tuning his fiddle] Wot'll yer 'ave, little Aida? "Dead March +in Saul" or "When the fields was white wiv dysies"? + +L. AIDA. [With a hop and a brilliant smile] Aoh yus! "When the +fields"---- + +MRS. L. [With a gesture of despair] Deary me! I 'aven't a-got the +strength! + +LEMMY. Leave 'em alone, old dear! No one'll be goin' aht wivaht +trahsers to-night 'cos yer leaves that one undone. Little Aida, fold +'em up! + + [LITTLE AIDA methodically folds the five finished pairs of + trousers into a pile. LEMMY begins playing. A smile comes on + the face of MRS. L, who is rubbing her fingers. LITTLE AIDA, + trousers over arm, goes and stares at LEMMY playing.] + +LEMMY. [Stopping] Little Aida, one o' vese dyes yer'll myke an +actress. I can see it in yer fyce! + + [LITTLE AIDA looks at him wide-eyed.] + +MRS. L. Don't 'ee putt things into 'er 'ead, Bob! + +LEMMY. 'Tyn't 'er 'ead, old lydy--it's lower. She wants feedin'-- +feed 'er an' she'll rise. [He strikes into the "Machichi"] Look at +'er naow. I tell yer there's a fortune in 'er. + + [LITTLE AIDA has put out her tongue.] + +MRS. L. I'd saner there was a gude 'eart in 'er than any fortune. + +L. AIDA. [Hugging her pile of trousers] It's thirteen pence three +farthin's I've got to bring yer, an' a penny aht for me, mykes twelve +three farthin's: [With the same little hop and sudden smile] I'm +goin' to ride back on a bus, I am. + +LEMMY. Well, you myke the most of it up there; it's the nearest +you'll ever git to 'eaven. + +MRS. L. Don' yu discourage 'er, Bob; she'm a gude little thing, an't +yu, dear? + +L. AIDA. [Simply] Yus. + +LEMMY. Not 'arf. Wot c'her do wiv yesterdy's penny? + +L. AIDA. Movies. + +LEMMY. An' the dy before? + +L. AIDA. Movies. + +LEMMY. Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy--she's got vicious tystes, she'll +finish in the theayter yep Tyke my tip, little Aida; you put every +penny into yer foundytions, yer'll get on the boards quicker that wy. + +MRS. L. Don' yu pay no 'eed to his talk. + +L. AIDA. I daon't. + +Ice. Would yer like a sip aht o' my mug? + +L. AIDA. [Brilliant] Yus. + +MRS. L. Not at yore age, me dear, though it is teetotal. + + [LITTLE AIDA puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to + understand.] + +LEMMY. Well, 'ave one o' my gum-drops. + + [Holds out a paper.] + + [LITTLE AIDA brilliant, takes a flat, dark substance from it, + and puts it in her mouth.] + +Give me a kiss, an' I'll give yer a penny. + + [LITTLE AIDA shakes her head, and leans out of window.] + +Movver, she daon't know the valyer of money. + +MRS. L. Never mind 'im, me dear. + +L. AIDA. [Sucking the gum-drop--with difficulty] There's a taxi-cab +at the corner. + + [LITTLE AIDA runs to the door. A figure stands in the doorway; + she skids round him and out. THE PRESS comes in.] + +LEMMY. [Dubiously] Wat-oh! + +PRESS. Mr. Lemmy? + +LEMMY. The syme. + +PRESS. I'm from the Press. + +LEMMY. Blimy. + +PRESS. They told me at your place you wens very likely here. + +LEMMY. Yus I left Downin' Street a bit early to-dy! [He twangs the +feddle-strings pompously.] + +PRESS. [Taking out his note-book and writing] "Fiddles while Rome +is burning!" Mr. Lemmy, it's my business at this very critical time +to find out what the nation's thinking. Now, as a representative +working man + +LEMMY. That's me. + +PRESS. You can help me. What are your views? + +LEMMY. [Putting down fiddle] Voos? Sit dahn! + + [THE PRESS sits on the stool which LEMMY has vacated.] + +The Press--my Muvver. Seventy-seven. She's a wonder; 'yn't yer, old +dear? + +PRESS. Very happy to make your acquaintance, Ma'am. [He writes] +"Mrs. Lemmy, one of the veterans of industry----" By the way, I've +jest passed a lot of people following a coffin. + + +LEMMY. Centre o' the cyclone--cyse o' starvytion; you 'ad 'er in the +pyper this mornin'. + +PRESS. Ah! yes! Tragic occurrence. [Looking at the trousers.] Hub +of the Sweated Industries just here. I especially want to get at the +heart---- + +MRS. L. 'Twasn't the 'eart, 'twas the stomach. + +PRESS. [Writing] "Mrs. Lemmy goes straight to the point." + +LEMMY. Mister, is it my voos or Muvver's yer want? + +PRESS. Both. + +LEMMY. 'Cos if yer get Muvver's, yer won't 'ave time for mine. I +tell yer stryte [Confidentially] she's get a glawss a' port wine in +'er. Naow, mind yer, I'm not anxious to be intervooed. On the other +'and, anyfink I might 'eve to sy of valyer----There is a clawss o' +politician that 'as nuffn to sy--Aoh! an' daon't 'e sy it just! I +dunno wot pyper yer represent. + +PRESS. [Smiling] Well, Mr. Lemmy, it has the biggest influ---- + +LEMMY. They all 'as that; dylies, weeklies, evenin's, Sundyes; but +it's of no consequence--my voos are open and aboveboard. Naow, wot +shall we begin abaht? + +PRESS. Yourself, if you please. And I'd like you to know at once +that my paper wants the human note, the real heart-beat of things. + +LEMMY. I see; sensytion! Well; 'ere am I--a fustclawss plumber's. +assistant--in a job to-dy an' out tomorrer. There's a 'eart-beat in +that, I tell yer. 'Oo knows wot the mower 'as for me! + +PRESS. [Writing]. "The great human issue--Mr. Lemmy touches it at +once." + +LEMMY. I sy keep my nyme aht o' this; I don' go in fer self- +advertisement. + +PRESS. [Writing] "True working-man--modest as usual." + +LEMMY. I daon't want to embarrass the Gover'ment. They're so +ticklish ever since they got the 'abit, war-time, o' mindin' wot +people said. + +PRESS. Right-o! + +LEMMY. For instance, suppose there's goin' to be a revolution---- +[THE PRESS writes with energy.] 'Ow does it touch me? Like this: I +my go up--I cawn't come dahn; no more can Muvver. + +MRS. L. [Surprisingly] Us all goes down into the grave. + +PRESS. "Mrs. Lemmy interjects the deeper note." + +LEMMY. Naow, the gryte--they can come dahn, but they cawn't go up! +See! Put two an' two together, an' that's 'ow it touches me. [He +utters a throaty laugh] 'Ave yer got that? + +PRESS. [Quizzical] Not go up? What about bombs, Mr. Lemmy? + +LEMMY. [Dubious] Wot abaht 'em? I s'pose ye're on the comic +pypers? 'Ave yer noticed wot a weakness they 'ave for the 'orrible? + +PRESS. [Writing] "A grim humour peeped out here and there through +the earnestness of his talk." + + [He sketches LEMMY'S profile.] + +LEMMY. We 'ad an explosion in my factory time o' the war, that would +just ha' done for you comics. [He meditates] Lord! They was after +it too,--they an' the Sundyes; but the Censor did 'em. Strike me, I +could tell yer things! + +PRESS. That's what I want, Mr. Lemmy; tell me things! + +LEMMY. [Musing] It's a funny world, 'yn't it? 'Ow we did blow each +other up! [Getting up to admire] I sy, I shall be syfe there. That +won't betry me anonymiety. Why! I looks like the Prime Minister! + +PRESS. [Rather hurt] You were going to tell me things. + +LEMMY. Yus, an' they'll be the troof, too. + +PRESS. I hope so; we don't---- + +LEMMY. Wot oh! + +PRESS. [A little confused.] We always try to verify---- + +LEMMY. Yer leave it at tryin', daon't yer? Never, mind, ye're a +gryte institootion. Blimy, yer do have jokes, wiv it, spinnin' rahnd +on yer own tyles, denyin' to-dy wot ye're goin' to print to-morrer. +Ah, well! Ye're like all of us below the line o' comfort--live +dyngerously--ever' dy yer last. That's wy I'm interested in the +future. + +PRESS. Well now--the future. [Writing] "He prophesies." + +LEMMY. It's syfer, 'yn't it? [He winks] No one never looks back on +prophecies. I remembers an editor spring o' 1916 stykin' his +reputytion the war'd be over in the follerin' October. Increased 'is +circulytion abaht 'arf a million by it. 1917 an' war still on--'ad +'is readers gone back on 'im? Nao! They was increasin' like +rabbits. Prophesy wot people want to believe, an' ye're syfe. Naow, +I'll styke my reputption on somethin', you tyke it dahn word for +word. This country's goin' to the dawgs--Naow, 'ere's the +sensytion--unless we gets a new religion. + +PRESS. Ah! Now for it--yes? + +LEMMY. In one word: "Kindness." Daon't mistyke me, nao sickly +sentiment and nao patronizin'. Me as kind to the millionaire as 'im +to me. [Fills his mug and drinks.] + +PRESS. [Struck] That's queer! Kindness! [Writing] "Extremes +meet. Bombed and bomber breathing the same music." + +LEMMY. But 'ere's the interestin' pynt. Can it be done wivaht +blood? + +PRESS. [Writing] "He doubts." + +LEMMY. No dabt wotever. It cawn't! Blood-and-kindness! Spill the +blood o' them that aren't kind--an' there ye are! + +PRESS. But pardon me, how are you to tell? + +LEMMY. Blimy, they leaps to the heye! + +PRESS. [Laying down-his note-book] I say, let me talk to you as man +to man for a moment. + +LEMMY. Orl right. Give it a rest! + +PRESS. Your sentiments are familiar to me. I've got a friend on the +Press who's very keen on Christ and kindness; and wants to strangle +the last king with the--hamstrings of the last priest. + +LEMMY. [Greatly intrigued] Not 'arf! Does 'e? + +PRESS. Yes. But have you thought it out? Because he hasn't. + +LEMMY. The difficulty is--where to stop. + +PRESS. Where to begin. + +LEMMY. Lawd! I could begin almost anywhere. Why, every month +abaht, there's a cove turns me aht of a job 'cos I daon't do just wot +'e likes. They'd 'ave to go. . I tell yer stryte--the Temple wants +cleanin' up. + +PRESS. Ye-es. If I wrote what I thought, I should get the sack as +quick as you. D'you say that justifies me in shedding the blood of +my boss? + +LEMMY. The yaller Press 'as got no blood--'as it? You shed their +ile an' vinegar--that's wot you've got to do. Stryte--do yer believe +in the noble mission o' the Press? + +PRESS. [Enigmatically] Mr. Lemmy, I'm a Pressman. + +LEMMY. [Goggling] I see. Not much! [Gently jogging his mother's +elbow] Wyke up, old lydy! + + [For Mrs. LEMMY who has been sipping placidly at her port, is + nodding. The evening has drawn in. LEMMY strikes a match on + his trousers and lights a candle.] + +Blood an' kindness-that's what's wanted--'specially blood! The +'istory o' me an' my family'll show yer that. Tyke my bruver Fred- +crushed by burycrats. Tyke Muvver 'erself. Talk o' the wrongs o' +the people! I tell yer the foundytions is rotten. [He empties the +bottle into his mother's mug] Daon't mind the mud at the bottom, old +lydy--it's all strengthenin'! You tell the Press, Muvver. She can +talk abaht the pawst. + +PRESS. [Taking up his note-book, and becoming, again his +professional self] Yes, Mrs. Lemmy? "Age and Youth--Past and +Present--" + +MRS. L. Were yu talkin' about Fred? [The port has warmed her veins, +the colour in her eyes and cheeks has deepened] My son Fred was +always a gude boy--never did nothin' before 'e married. I can see +Fred [She bends forward a little in her chair, looking straight +before her] acomin' in wi' a pheasant 'e'd found--terrible 'e was at +findin' pheasants. When father died, an' yu was cumin', Bob, Fred 'e +said to me: "Don't yu never cry, Mother, I'll look after 'ee." An' +so 'e did, till 'e married that day six months an' take to the drink +in sower. 'E wasn't never 'the same boy again--not Fred. An' now +'e's in That. I can see poor Fred---- + + [She slowly wipes a tear out of the corner of an eye with the + back of her finger.] + +PRESS. [Puzzled] In--That? + +LEMMY. [Sotto voce] Come orf it! Prison! 'S wot she calls it. + +MRS. L. [Cheerful] They say life's a vale o' sorrows. Well, so +'tes, but don' du to let yureself thenk so. + +PRESS. And so you came to London, Mrs. Lemmy? + +MRS. L. Same year as father died. With the four o' them--that's my +son Fred, an' my son Jim, an' my son Tom, an' Alice. Bob there, 'e +was born in London--an' a praaper time I 'ad of et. + +PRESS. [Writing] "Her heroic struggles with poverty----" + +MRS. L. Worked in a laundry, I ded, at fifteen shellin's a week, an' +brought 'em all up on et till Alice 'ad the gallopin' consumption. I +can see poor Alice wi' the little red spots is 'er cheeks---an' I not +knowin' wot to du wi' 'her--but I always kept up their buryin' money. +Funerals is very dear; Mr. Lemmy was six pound, ten. + +PRESS. "High price of Mr. Lemmy." + +MRS. L. I've a-got the money for when my time come; never touch et, +no matter 'ow things are. Better a little goin' short here below, +an' enter the kingdom of 'eaven independent: + +PRESS. [Writing] "Death before dishonour--heroine of the slums. +Dickens--Betty Higden." + +MRS. L. No, sir. Mary Lemmy. I've seen a-many die, I 'ave; an' not +one grievin'. I often says to meself: [With a little laugh] "Me +dear, when yu go, yu go 'appy. Don' yu never fret about that," I +says. An' so I will; I'll go 'appy. + + [She stays quite still a moment, and behind her LEMMY draws one + finger across his face.] + +[Smiling] "Yore old fengers'll 'ave a rest. Think o' that!" I says. +"'Twill be a brave change." I can see myself lyin' there an' duin' +nothin'. + + [Again a pause, while MRS. LEMMY sees herself doing nothing.] + +LEMMY. Tell abaht Jim; old lydy. + +MRS. L. My son Jim 'ad a family o' seven in six years. "I don' know +'ow 'tes, Mother," 'e used to say to me; "they just sim to come!" +That was Jim--never knu from day to day what was cumin'. "Therr's +another of 'em dead," 'e used to say, "'tes funny, tu" "Well," I +used to say to 'im; "no wonder, poor little things, livin' in they +model dwellin's. Therr's no air for 'em," I used to say. "Well," 'e +used to say, "what can I du, Mother? Can't afford to live in Park +Lane:" An' 'e take an' went to Ameriky. [Her voice for the first +time is truly doleful] An' never came back. Fine feller. So that's +my four sons--One's dead, an' one's in--That, an' one's in Ameriky, +an' Bob 'ere, poor boy, 'e always was a talker. + + [LEMMY, who has re-seated himself in the window and taken up his + fiddle, twangs the strings.] + +PRESS. And now a few words about your work, Mrs. Lemmy? + +MRS. L. Well, I sews. + +PRESS. [Writing] "Sews." Yes? + +MRS. L. [Holding up her unfinished pair of trousers] I putt in the +button'oles, I stretches the flies, I lines the crutch, I putt on +this bindin', [She holds up the calico that binds the top] I sews on +the buttons, I press the seams--Tuppence three farthin's the pair. + +PRESS. Twopence three farthings a pair! Worse than a penny a line! + +MRS. L. In a gude day I gets thru four pairs, but they'm gettin' +plaguey 'ard for my old fengers. + +PRESS. [Writing] "A monumental figure, on whose labour is built the +mighty edifice of our industrialism." + +LEMMY. I sy--that's good. Yer'll keep that, won't yet? + +MRS. L. I finds me own cotton, tuppence three farthin's, and other +expension is a penny three farthin's. + +PRESS. And are you an exception, Mrs. Lemmy? + +MRS. L. What's that? + +LEMMY. Wot price the uvvers, old lydy? Is there a lot of yer sewin' +yer fingers orf at tuppence 'ypenny the pair? + +MRS. L. I can't tell yu that. I never sees nothin' in 'ere. I pays +a penny to that little gell to bring me a dozen pair an' fetch 'em +back. Poor little thing, she'm 'ardly strong enough to carry 'em. +Feel! They'm very 'eavy! + +PRESS. On the conscience of Society! + +LEMMY. I sy put that dahn, won't yer? + +PRESS. Have things changed much since the war, Mrs. Lemmy? + +MRS. L. Cotton's a lot dearer. + +PRESS. All round, I mean. + +MRS. L. Aw! Yu don' never get no change, not in my profession. +[She oscillates the trousers] I've a-been in trousers fifteen year; +ever since I got to old for laundry. + +PRESS. [Writing] "For fifteen years sewn trousers." What would a +good week be, Mrs. Lemmy? + +MRS. L. 'Tes a very gude week, five shellin's. + +LEMMY. [From the window] Bloomin' millionairess, Muvver. She's +lookin' forward to 'eaven, where vey don't wear no trahsers. + +MRS. L. [With spirit] 'Tidn for me to zay whether they du. An' +'tes on'y when I'm a bit low-sperrity-like as I wants to go therr. +What I am a-lukin' forward to, though, 'tes a day in the country. +I've not a-had one since before the war. A kind lady brought me in +that bit of 'eather; 'tes wonderful sweet stuff when the 'oney's in +et. When I was a little gell I used to zet in the 'eather gatherin' +the whorts, an' me little mouth all black wi' eatin' them. 'Twas in +the 'eather I used to zet, Sundays, courtin'. All flesh is grass-- +an' 'tesn't no bad thing--grass. + +PRESS. [Writing] "The old paganism of the country." What is your +view of life, Mrs. Lemmy? + +LEMMY. [Suddenly] Wot is 'er voo of life? Shall I tell yer mine? +Life's a disease--a blinkin' oak-apple! Daon't myke no mistyke. An' +'umen life's a yumourous disease; that's all the difference. Why-- +wot else can it be? See the bloomin' promise an' the blighted +performance--different as a 'eadline to the noos inside. But yer +couldn't myke Muvver see vat--not if yer talked to 'er for a wok. +Muvver still believes in fings. She's a country gell; at a 'undred +and fifty she'll be a country gell, won't yer, old lydy? + +MRS. L. Well, 'tesn't never been 'ome to me in London. I lived in +the country forty year--I did my lovin' there; I burried father +therr. Therr bain't nothin' in life, yu know, but a bit o' lovin'-- +all said an' done; bit o' lovin', with the wind, an' the stars out. + +LEMMY. [In a loud apologetic whisper] She 'yn't often like this. I +told yer she'd got a glawss o' port in 'er. + +MRS. L. 'Tes a brave pleasure, is lovin'. I likes to zee et in +young folk. I likes to zee 'em kissin'; shows the 'eart in 'em. +'Tes the 'eart makes the world go round; 'tesn't nothin' else, in my +opinion. + +PRESS. [Writing] "--sings the swan song of the heart."---- + +MRS. L. [Overhearing] No, I never yeard a swan sing--never! But I +tell 'ee what I 'eve 'eard; the Bells singin' in th' orchard 'angin' +up the clothes to dry, an' the cuckoos callin' back to 'em. +[Smiling] There's a-many songs in the country-the 'eart is freelike +in th' country! + +LEMMY. [Soto voce] Gi' me the Strand at ar' past nine. + +PRESS. [Writing] "Town and country----" + +MRS. L. 'Tidn't like that in London; one day's jest like another. +Not but what therr's a 'eap o' kind'eartedness 'ere. + +LEMMY. [Gloomily] Kind-'eartedness! I daon't fink "Boys an' Gells +come out to play." + + [He plays the old tune on his fiddle.] + +MRS. L. [Singing] "Boys an' Gells come out to play. The mune is +shinin' bright as day." [She laughs] I used to sing like a lark +when I was a gell. + + [LITTLE AIDA enters.] + +L. AIDA. There's 'undreds follerin' the corfin. 'Yn't you goin', +Mr. Lemmy--it's dahn your wy! + +LEMMY. [Dubiously] Well yus--I s'pose they'll miss me. + +L. AIDA. Aoh! Tyke me! + +PRESS. What's this? + +LEMMY. The revolution in 'Yde Pawk. + +PRESS. [Struck] In Hyde Park? The very thing. I'll take you down. +My taxi's waiting. + +L. AIDA. Yus; it's breathin' 'ard, at the corner. + +PRESS. [Looking at his watch] Ah! and Mrs. Lemmy. There's an Anti- +Sweating Meeting going on at a house in Park Lane. We can get there +in twenty minutes if we shove along. I want you to tell them about +the trouser-making. You'll be a sensation! + +LEMMY. [To himself] Sensytion! 'E cawn't keep orf it! + +MRS. L. Anti-Sweat. Poor fellers! I 'ad one come to see we before +the war, an' they'm still goin' on? Wonderful, an't it? + +PRESS. Come, Mrs. Lemmy; drive in a taxi, beautiful moonlit night; +and they'll give you a splendid cup of tea. + +MRS. L. [Unmoved] Ah! I cudn't never du without my tea. There's +not an avenin' but I thinks to meself: Now, me dear, yu've a-got one +more to fennish, an' then yu'll 'eve yore cup o' tea. Thank you for +callin', all the same. + +LEMMY. Better siccumb to the temptytion, old lydy; joyride wiv the +Press; marble floors, pillars o' gold; conscientious footmen; lovely +lydies; scuppers runnin' tea! An' the revolution goin' on across the +wy. 'Eaven's nuffink to Pawk Lyne. + +PRESS. Come along, Mrs. Lemmy! + +MRS. L. [Seraphically] Thank yu,--I'm a-feelin' very comfortable. +'Tes wonderful what a drop o' wine'll du for the stomach. + +PRESS. A taxi-ride! + +MRS. L. [Placidly] Ah! I know'em. They'm very busy things. + +LEMMY. Muvver shuns notority. [Sotto voce to THE PRESS] But you +watch me! I'll rouse 'er. + + [He takes up his fiddle and sits on the window seat. Above the + little houses on the opposite side of the street, the moon has + risen in the dark blue sky, so that the cloud shaped like a + beast seems leaping over it. LEMMY plays the first notes of the + Marseillaise. A black cat on the window-sill outside looks in, + hunching its back. LITTLE AIDA barks at her. MRS. LEMMY + struggles to her feet, sweeping the empty dish and spoon to the + floor in the effort.] + +The dish ran awy wiv the spoon! That's right, old lydy! [He stops +playing.] + +MRS. L. [Smiling, and moving her hands] I like a bit o' music. It +du that move 'ee. + +PRESS. Bravo, Mrs. Lemmy. Come on! + +LEMMY. Come on, old dear! We'll be in time for the revolution yet. + +MRS. L. 'Tes 'earin' the Old 'Undred again! + +LEMMY. [To THE PRESS] She 'yn't been aht these two years. [To his +mother, who has put up her hands to her head] Nao, never mind yer +'at. [To THE PRESS] She 'yn't got none! [Aloud] No West-End lydy +wears anyfink at all in the evenin'! + +MRS. L. 'Ow'm I lukin', Bob? + +LEMMY. First-clawss; yer've got a colour fit to toast by. We'll +show 'em yer've got a kick in yer. [He takes her arm] Little Aida, +ketch 'old o' the sensytions. + + [He indicates the trousers THE PRESS takes MRS. LEMMY'S other + arm.] + +MRS. L. [With an excited little laugh] Quite like a gell! + +And, smiling between her son and THE PRESS, she passes out; LITTLE +AIDA, with a fling of her heels and a wave of the trousers, follows. + + + CURTAIN + + + +ACT III + + An octagon ante-room of the hall at LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S. + A shining room lighted by gold candelabra, with gold-curtained + pillars, through which the shining hall and a little of the + grand stairway are visible. A small table with a gold-coloured + cloth occupies the very centre of the room, which has a polished + parquet floor and high white walls. Gold-coloured doors on the + left. Opposite these doors a window with gold-coloured curtains + looks out on Park Lane. LADY WILLIAM standing restlessly + between the double doors and the arch which leads to the hall. + JAMES is stationary by the double doors, from behind which come + sounds of speech and applause. + +POULDER. [Entering from the hall] His Grace the Duke of Exeter, my +lady. + + [His GRACE enters. He is old, and youthful, with a high colour + and a short rough white beard. LADY WILLIAM advances to meet + him. POULDER stands by.] + +LADY W. Oh! Father, you ARE late. + +HIS G. Awful crowd in the streets, Nell. They've got a coffin-- +couldn't get by. + +LADY W. Coin? Whose? + +HIS G. The Government's I should think-no flowers, by request. I +say, have I got to speak? + +LADY W. Oh! no, dear. + +HIS G. H'm! That's unlucky. I've got it here. [He looks down his +cuff] Found something I said in 1914--just have done. + +LADY W. Oh! If you've got it--James, ask Lord William to come to me +for a moment. [JAMES vanishes through the door. To THE DUKE] Go in, +Grand-dad; they'll be so awfully pleased to see you. I'll tell Bill. + +HIS G. Where's Anne? + +LADY W. In bed, of course. + +HIS G. I got her this--rather nice? + + [He has taken from his breast-pocket one of those street toy-men + that jump head over heels on your hand; he puts it through its + paces.] + +LADY W. [Much interested] Oh! no, but how sweet! She'll simply +love it. + +POULDER. If I might suggest to Your Grace to take it in and operate +it. It's sweated, Your Grace. They-er-make them in those places. + +HIS G. By Jove! D'you know the price, Poulder? + +POULDER. [Interrogatively] A penny, is it? Something paltry, Your +Grace! + +HIS G. Where's that woman who knows everything; Miss Munday? + +LADY W. Oh! She'll be in there, somewhere. + + [His GRACE moves on, and passes through the doors. The sound of + applause is heard.] + +POULDER. [Discreetly] would you care to see the bomb, my lady? + +LADY W. Of course--first quiet moment. + +POULDER. I'll bring it up, and have a watch put on it here, my lady. + + [LORD WILLIAM comes through the double doom followed by JAMES. + POULDER retires.] + +LORD W. Can't you come, Nell? + +LADY W. Oh! Bill, your Dad wants to speak. + +LORD W. The deuce he does--that's bad. + +LADY W. Yes, of course, but you must let him; he's found something +he said in 1914. + +LORD W. I knew it. That's what they'll say. Standing stock still, +while hell's on the jump around us. + +LADY W. Never mind that; it'll please him; and he's got a lovely +little sweated toy that turns head over heels at one penny. + +LORD W. H'm! Well, come on. + +LADY W. No, I must wait for stragglers. There's sure to be an +editor in a hurry. + +POULDER. [Announcing] Mis-ter Gold-rum! + +LADY W. [Sotto voce] And there he is! [She advances to meet a thin, +straggling man in eyeglasses, who is smiling absently] How good of +you! + +MR. G. Thanks awfully. I just er--and then I'm afraid I must--er-- +Things look very----Thanks----Thanks so much. + + [He straggles through the doors, and is enclosed by JAMES.] + +POULDER. Miss Mun-day. + +LORD W. There! I thought she was in--She really is the most +unexpected woman! How do you do? How awfully sweet of you! + +MISS M. [An elderly female schoolboy] How do you do? There's a +spiffing crowd. I believe things are really going Bolshy. How do +you do, Lord William? Have you got any of our people to show? I +told one or two, in case--they do so simply love an outing. + +JAMES. There are three old chips in the lobby, my Lord. + +LORD W. What? Oh! I say! Bring them in at once. Why--they're the +hub of the whole thing. + +JAMES. [Going] Very good, my Lord. + +LADY W. I am sorry. I'd no notion; and they're such dears always. + +MISS M. I must tell you what one of them said to me. I'd told him +not to use such bad language to his wife. "Don't you worry, Ma!" he +said, "I expert you can do a bit of that yourself!" + +LADY W. How awfully nice! It's SO like them. + +MISS M. Yes. They're wonderful. + +LORD W. I say, why do we always call them they? + +LADY W. [Puzzled] Well, why not? + +LORD W. THEY! + +MISS M. [Struck] Quite right, Lord William! Quite right! Another +species. They! I must remember that. THEY! [She passes on.] + +LADY W. [About to follow] Well, I don't see; aren't they? + +LORD W. Never mind, old girl; follow on. They'll come in with me. + + [MISS MUNDAY and LADY WILLIAM pass through the double doors.] + +POULDER. [Announcing] Some sweated workers, my Lord. + + [There enter a tall, thin, oldish woman; a short, thin, very + lame man, her husband; and a stoutish middle-aged woman with a + rolling eye and gait, all very poorly dressed, with lined and + heated faces.] + +LORD W. [Shaking hands] How d'you do! Delighted to see you all. +It's awfully good of you to have come. + +LAME M. Mr. and Mrs. Tomson. We 'ad some trouble to find it. You +see, I've never been in these parts. We 'ad to come in the oven; and +the bus-bloke put us dahn wrong. Are you the proprietor? + +LORD W. [Modestly] Yes, I--er-- + +LAME M. You've got a nice plyce. I says to the missis, I says: +"'E's got a nice plyce 'ere," I says; "there's room to turn rahnd." + +LORD W. Yes--shall we--? + +LAME M. An' Mrs. Annaway she says: "Shouldn't mind livin 'ere +meself," she says; "but it must cost'im a tidy penny," she says. + +LORD W. It does--it does; much too tidy. Shall we--? + +MRS. ANN. [Rolling her eye] I'm very pleased to 'ave come. I've +often said to 'em: "Any time you want me," I've said, "I'd be pleased +to come." + +LORD W. Not so pleased as we are to see you. + +MRS. ANN. I'm sure you're very kind. + +JAMES. [From the double doors, through which he has received a +message] Wanted for your speech, my Lord. + +LORD W. Oh! God! Poulder, bring these ladies and gentleman in, and +put them where everybody can--where they can see everybody, don't you +know. + + [He goes out hurriedly through the double doors.] + +LAME M. Is 'e a lord? + +POULDER. He is. Follow me. + + [He moves towards the doors, the three workers follow.] + +MRS. ANN. [Stopping before JAMES] You 'yn't one, I suppose? +[JAMES stirs no muscle.] + +POULDER. Now please. [He opens the doors. The Voice of LORD +WILLIAM speaking is heard] Pass in. + + [THE THREE WORKERS pass in, POULDER and JAMES follow them. The + doors are not closed, and through this aperture comes the voice + of LORD WILLIAM, punctuated and supported by decorous applause.] + + [LITTLE ANNE runs in, and listens at the window to the confused + and distant murmurs of a crowd.] + +VOICE OF LORD W. We propose to move for a further advance in the +chain-making and--er--er--match-box industries. [Applause.] + + [LITTLE ANNE runs across to the door, to listen.] + +[On rising voice] I would conclude with some general remarks. +Ladies and gentlemen, the great natural, but--er--artificial +expansion which trade experienced the first years after the war has-- +er--collapsed. These are hard times. We who are fortunate feel more +than ever--er--responsible--[He stammers, loses the thread of his +thoughts.]--[Applause]--er--responsible--[The thread still eludes +him]--er---- + +L. ANNE. [Poignantly] Oh, Daddy! + +LORD W. [Desperately] In fact--er--you know how--er--responsible we +feel. + +L. ANNE. Hooray! [Applause.] + + [There float in through the windows the hoarse and distant + sounds of the Marseillaise, as sung by London voices.] + +LORD W. There is a feeling in the air--that I for one should say +deliberately was--er--a feeling in the air--er--a feeling in the +air---- + +L. ANNE. [Agonised] Oh, Daddy! Stop! + + [Jane enters, and closes the door behind him. JAMES. Look + here! 'Ave I got to report you to Miss Stokes?] + +L. ANNE. No-o-o! + +JAMES. Well, I'm goin' to. + +L. ANNE. Oh, James, be a friend to me! I've seen nothing yet. + +JAMES. No; but you've eaten a good bit, on the stairs. What price +that Peach Melba? + +L. ANNE. I can't go to bed till I've digested it can I? There's +such a lovely crowd in the street! + +JAMES. Lovely? Ho! + +L. ANNE. [Wheedling] James, you couldn't tell Miss Stokes! It +isn't in you, is it? + +JAMES. [Grinning] That's right. + +L. ANNE. So-I'll just get under here. [She gets under the table] +Do I show? + +JAMES. [Stooping] Not 'arf! + + [POULDER enters from the hall.] + +POULDER. What are you doin' there? + +JAMES. [Between him and the table--raising himself] Thinkin'. + + [POULDER purses his mouth to repress his feedings.] + +POULDER. My orders are to fetch the bomb up here for Lady William to +inspect. Take care no more writers stray in. + +JAMES. How shall I know 'em? + +POULDER. Well--either very bald or very hairy. + +JAMES. Right-o! [He goes.] + + [POULDER, with his back to the table, busies himself with the + set of his collar.] + +POULDER. [Addressing an imaginary audience--in a low but important +voice] The--ah--situation is seerious. It is up to us of the--ah-- +leisured classes---- + + [The face of LITTLE ANNE is poked out close to his legs, and + tilts upwards in wonder towards the bow of his waistcoat.] + +to--ah--keep the people down. The olla polloi are clamourin'---- + + [Miss STOKES appears from the hall, between the pillars.] + +Miss S. Poulder! + +POULDER. [Making a volte face towards the table] Miss? + +MISS S. Where is Anne? + +POULDER. [Vexed at the disturbance of his speech] Excuse me, Miss-- +to keep track of Miss Anne is fortunately no part of my dooties. + + [Miss S. She really is naughty.] + +POULDER. She is. If she was mine, I'd spank her. + + [The smiling face of LITTLE ANNE becomes visible again close to + his legs.] + +MISS S. Not a nice word. + +POULDER. No; but a pleasant haction. Miss Anne's the limit. In +fact, Lord and Lady William are much too kind 'earted all round. +Take these sweated workers; that class o' people are quite 'opeless. +Treatin' them as your equals, shakin 'ands with 'em, givin 'em tea-- +it only puffs 'em out. Leave it to the Church, I say. + +MISS S. The Church is too busy, Poulder. + +POULDER. Ah! That "Purity an' Future o' the Race Campaign." I'll +tell you what I thinks the danger o' that, Miss. So much purity that +there won't be a future race. [Expanding] Purity of 'eart's an +excellent thing, no doubt, but there's a want of nature about it. +Same with this Anti-Sweating. Unless you're anxious to come down, +you must not put the lower classes up. + +MISS S. I don't agree with you at all, Poulder. + +POULDER. Ah! You want it both ways, Miss. I should imagine you're +a Liberal. + +MISS S. [Horrified] Oh, no! I certainly am not. + +POULDER. Well, I judged from your takin' cocoa. Funny thing that, +about cocoa-how it still runs through the Liberal Party! It's +virtuous, I suppose. Wine, beer, tea, coffee-all of 'em vices. But +cocoa you might drink a gallon a day and annoy no one but yourself! +There's a lot o' deep things in life, Miss! + +Miss S. Quite so. But I must find Anne. + + [She recedes. ] + +POULDER. [Suavely] Well, I wish you every success; and I hope +you'll spank her. This modern education--there's no fruitiness in +it. + +L. ANNE. [From under the table] Poulder, are you virtuous? + +POULDER. [Jumping] Good Ged! + +L. ANNE. D'you mind my asking? I promised James I would. + +POULDER. Miss Anne, come out! + + [The four footmen appear in the hall, HENRY carrying the wine + cooler.] + +JAMES. Form fours-by your right-quick march! + + [They enter, marching down right of table.] + +Right incline--Mark time! Left turn! 'Alt! 'Enry, set the bomb! +Stand easy! + + [HENRY places the wine cooler on the table and covers it with a + blue embroidered Chinese mat, which has occupied the centre of + the tablecloth.] + +POULDER. Ah! You will 'ave your game! Thomas, take the door there! +James, the 'all! Admit titles an' bishops. No literary or Labour +people. Charles and 'Enry, 'op it and 'ang about! + + [CHARLES and HENRY go out, the other too move to their + stations.] + + [POULDER, stands by the table looking at the covered bomb. The + hoarse and distant sounds of the Marseillaise float in again + from Park Lane.] + +[Moved by some deep feeling] And this house an 'orspital in the war! +I ask you--what was the good of all our sacrifices for the country? +No town 'ouse for four seasons--rustygettin' in the shires, not a +soul but two boys under me. Lord William at the front, Lady William +at the back. And all for this! [He points sadly at the cooler] It +comes of meddlin' on the Continent. I had my prognostications at the +time. [To JAMES] You remember my sayin' to you just before you +joined up: "Mark my words--we shall see eight per cent. for our money +before this is over!" + +JAMES. [Sepulchrally] I see the eight per cent., but not the money. + +POULDER. Hark at that! + + [The sounds of the Marseillaise grow louder. He shakes his + head.] + +I'd read the Riot Act. They'll be lootin' this house next! + +JAMES. We'll put up a fight over your body: "Bartholomew Poulder, +faithful unto death!" Have you insured your life? + +POULDER. Against a revolution? + +JAMES. Act o' God! Why not? + +POULDER. It's not an act o' God. + +JAMES. It is; and I sympathise with it. + +POULDER. You--what? + +JAMES. I do--only--hands off the gov'nor. + +POULDER. Oh! Really! Well, that's something. I'm glad to see you +stand behind him, at all events. + +JAMES. I stand in front of 'im when the scrap begins! + +POULDER. Do you insinuate that my heart's not in the right place? + +JAMES. Well, look at it! It's been creepin' down ever since I knew +you. Talk of your sacrifices in the war--they put you on your +honour, and you got stout on it. Rations--not 'arf. + +POULDER. [Staring at him] For independence, I've never seen your +equal, James. You might be an Australian. + +JAMES. [Suavely] Keep a civil tongue, or I'll throw you to the +crowd! [He comes forward to the table] Shall I tell you why I +favour the gov'nor? Because, with all his pomp, he's a gentleman, as +much as I am. Never asks you to do what he wouldn't do himself. +What's more, he never comes it over you. If you get drunk, or--well, +you understand me, Poulder--he'll just say: "Yes, yes; I know, +James!" till he makes you feel he's done it himself. [Sinking his +voice mysteriously] I've had experience with him, in the war and out. +Why he didn't even hate the Huns, not as he ought. I tell you he's +no Christian. + +POULDER. Well, for irreverence----! + +JAMES. [Obstinately] And he'll never be. He's got too soft a +heart. + +L. ANNE. [Beneath the table-shrilly] Hurrah! + +POULDER. [Jumping] Come out, Miss Anne! + +JAMES. Let 'er alone! + +POULDER. In there, under the bomb? + +JAMES. [Contemptuously] Silly ass! You should take 'em lying down! + +POULDER. Look here, James! I can't go on in this revolutionary +spirit; either you or I resign. + +JAMES. Crisis in the Cabinet! + +POULDER. I give you your marchin' orders. + +JAMES. [Ineffably] What's that you give me? + +POULDER. Thomas, remove James! + + [THOMAS grins.] + +L. ANNE. [Who, with open mouth, has crept out to see the fun] Oh! +Do remove James, Thomas! + +POULDER. Go on, Thomas. + + [THOMAS takes one step towards JAMES, who lays a hand on the + Chinese mat covering the bomb.] + +JAMES. [Grimly] If I lose control of meself. + +L. ANNE. [Clapping her hands] Oh! James! Do lose control! Then I +shall see it go off! + +JAMES. [To POULDER] Well, I'll merely empty the pail over you! + +POULDER. This is not becomin'! + + [He walks out into the hall.] + +JAMES. Another strategic victory! What a Boche he'd have made. As +you were, Tommy! + + [THOMAS returns to the door. The sound of prolonged applause + cornea from within.] + +That's a bishop. + +L. ANNE. Why? + +JAMES. By the way he's drawin'. It's the fine fightin' spirit in +'em. They were the backbone o' the war. I see there's a bit o' the +old stuff left in you, Tommy. + +L. ANNE. [Scrutinizing the widely--grinning THOM] Where? Is it in +his mouth? + +JAMES. You've still got a sense of your superiors. Didn't you +notice how you moved to Poulder's orders, me boy; an' when he was +gone, to mine? + +L. ANNE. [To THOMAS] March! + + [The grinning THOMAS remains immovable.] + +He doesn't, James! + +JAMES. Look here, Miss Anne--your lights ought to be out before ten. +Close in, Tommy! + + [He and THOMAS move towards her.] + +L. ANNE. [Dodging] Oh, no! Oh, no! Look! + + [The footmen stop and turn. There between the pillars, stands + LITTLE AIDA with the trousers, her face brilliant With + surprise.] + +JAMES. Good Lord! What's this? + + [Seeing L. ANNE, LITTLE AIDA approaches, fascinated, and the two + children sniff at each other as it were like two little dogs + walking round and round.] + +L. ANNE. [Suddenly] My name's Anne; what's yours? + +L. AIDA. Aida. + +L. ANNE. Are you lost? + +L. AIDA. Nao. + +L. ANNE. Are those trousers? + +L. AIDA. Yus. + +L. Arms. Whose? + +L. AIDA. Mrs. Lemmy's. + +L. ANNE. Does she wear them? + + [LITTLE AIDA smiles brilliantly.] + +L. AIDA. Nao. She sews 'em. + +L. ANNE. [Touching the trousers] They are hard. James's are much +softer; aren't they, James? [JAMES deigns no reply] What shall we +do? Would you like to see my bedroom? + +L. AIDA. [With a hop] Aoh, yus! + +JAMES. No. + +L. ANNE. Why not? + +JAMES. Have some sense of what's fittin'. + +L. ANNE. Why isn't it fittin'? [To LITTLE AIDA] Do you like me? + +L. AIDA. Yus-s. + +L. ANNE. So do I. Come on! + + [She takes LITTLE AIDA'S hand.] + +JAMES. [Between the pillars] Tommy, ketch 'em! + + [THOMAS retains them by the skirts.] + +L. ANNE. [Feigning indifference] All right, then! [To LITTLE AIDA] +Have you ever seen a bomb? + +L. AIDA. Nao. + +L. ANNE. [Going to the table and lifting a corner of the cover] +Look! + +L. AIDA. [Looking] What's it for? + +L. ANNE. To blow up this house. + +L. AIDA. I daon't fink! + +L. ANNE. Why not? + +L. AIDA. It's a beautiful big 'Ouse. + +L. ANNE. That's why. Isn't it, James? + +L. AIDA. You give the fing to me; I'll blow up our 'ouse--it's an +ugly little 'ouse. + +L. ANNE [Struck] Let's all blow up our own; then we can start fair. +Daddy would like that. + +L. AIDA. Yus. [Suddenly brilliant] I've 'ad a ride in a taxi, an' +we're goin' 'ome in it agyne! + +L. ANNE. Were you sick? + +LITTLE AIDA. [Brilliant] Nao. + +L. ANNE I was; when I first went in one, but I was quite young then. +James, could you get her a Peche Melba? There was one. + +JAMES. No. + +L. ANNE. Have you seen the revolution? + +L. AIDA. Wot's that? + +L. ANNE. It's made of people. + +L. AIDA. I've seen the corfin, it's myde o' wood. + +L. ANNE. Do you hate the rich? + +L. AIDA. [Ineffably] Nao. I hates the poor. + +L. ANNE. Why? + +L. AIDA. 'Cos they 'yn't got nuffin'. + +L. ANNE. I love the poor. They're such dears. + +L. AIDA. [Shaking her head with a broad smile] Nao. + +L. ANNE. Why not? + +L. AIDA. I'd tyke and lose the lot, I would. + +L. ANNE. Where? + +L. AIDA. In the water. + +L. ANNE. Like puppies? + +L. AIDA. Yus. + +L. ANNE. Why? + +L. AIDA. Then I'd be shut of 'em. + +L. ANNE. [Puzzled] Oh! + + [The voice of THE PRESS is heard in the hall. "Where's the + little girl?"] + +JAMES. That's you. Come 'ere! + + [He puts a hand behind LITTLE AIDA'S back and propels her + towards the hall. THE PRESS enters with old MRS. LEMMY.] + +PRESS. Oh! Here she is, major domo. I'm going to take this old +lady to the meeting; they want her on the platform. Look after our +friend, Mr. Lemmy here; Lord William wants to see him presently. + +L. ANNE. [In an awed whisper] James, it's the little blighter! + + [She dives again under the table. LEMMY enters.] + +LEMMY. 'Ere! 'Arf a mo'! Yer said yer'd drop me at my plyce. +Well, I tell yer candid--this 'yn't my plyce + +PRESS. That's all right, Mr. Lemmy. [He grins] They'll make you +wonderfully comfortable, won't you, major domo? + + [He passes on through the room, to the door, ushering old MRS. + LEMMY and LITTLE AIDA.] + + [POULDER blocks LEMMY'S way, with CHARLES and HENRY behind him.] + +POULDER. James, watch it; I'll report. + + [He moves away, following THE PRESS through the door. JAMES + between table and window. THOMAS has gone to the door. HENRY + and CHARLES remain at the entrances to the hall. LEMMY looks + dubiously around, his cockney assurrance gradually returns.] + +LEMMY. I think I knows the gas 'ere. This is where I came to-dy, +'yn't it? Excuse my hesitytion--these little 'ouses IS so much the +syme. + +JAMES. [Gloomily] They are! + +LEMMY. [Looking at the four immovable footmen, till he concentrates +on JAMES] Ah! I 'ad a word wiv you, 'adn't I? You're the four +conscientious ones wot's wyin' on your gov'nor's chest. 'Twas you I +spoke to, wasn't it? [His eyes travel over them again] Ye're so +monotonous. Well, ye're busy now, I see. I won't wyste yer time. + + [He turns towards the hall, but CHARLES and HENRY bar the way in + silence.] + + [Skidding a little, and regarding the four immovables once more] + +I never see such pytient men? Compared wiv yer, mountains is +restless. + + [He goes to the table. JAMES watches him. ANNE barks from + underneath.] + +[Skidding again] Why! There's a dawg under there. [Noting the grin +on THOMAS'S face] Glad it amooses yer. Yer want it, daon't yer, wiv +a fyce like that? Is this a ply wivaht words? 'Ave I got into the +movies by mistyke? Turn aht, an' let's 'ave six penn'orth o' +darkness. + +L. ANNE. [From beneath the cable] No, no! Not dark! + +LEMMY. [Musingly] The dawg talks anywy. Come aht, Fido! + + [LITTLE ANNE emerges, and regards him with burning curiosity.] + +I sy: Is this the lytest fashion o' receivin' guests? + +L. ANNE. Mother always wants people to feel at home. What shall we +do? Would you like to hear the speeches? Thomas, open the door a +little, do! + +JAMES. 'Umour 'er a couple o' inches, Tommy! + + [THOMAS draws the door back stealthily an inch or so.] + +L. ANNE. [After applying her eye-in a loud whisper] There's the old +lady. Daddy's looking at her trousers. Listen! + + [For MRS. LEMMY'S voice is floating faintly through: "I putt in + the buttonholes, I stretches the flies; I 'ems the bottoms; I + lines the crutch; I putt on this bindin'; I sews on the buttons; + I presses the seams--Tuppence three farthin's the pair."] + +LEMMY. [In a hoarse whisper] That's it, old lydy: give it 'em! + +L. ANNE. Listen! + +VOICE OF LORD W. We are indebted to our friends the Press for giving +us the pleasure--er--pleasure of hearing from her own lips--the +pleasure---- + +L. ANNE. Oh! Daddy! + + [THOMAS abruptly closes the doors.] + +LEMMY. [To ANNE] Now yer've done it. See wot comes o' bein' +impytient. We was just gettin' to the marrer. + +L. ANNE. What can we do for you now? + +LEMMY. [Pointing to ANNE, and addressing JAMES] Wot is this one, +anywy? + +JAMES. [Sepulchrally] Daughter o' the house. + +LEMMY. Is she insured agynst 'er own curiosity? + +L. ANNE. Why? + +LEMMY. As I daon't believe in a life beyond the gryve, I might be +tempted to send yer there. + +L. ANNE. What is the gryve? + +LEMMY. Where little gells goes to. + +L. ANNE. Oh, when? + +LEMMY. [Pretending to look at a match, which is not there] Well, I +dunno if I've got time to finish yer this minute. Sy to-mower at. +'arf past. + +L. ANNE. Half past what? + +LEMMY. [Despairingly] 'Arf past wot! + + [The sound of applause is heard.] + +JAMES. That's 'is Grace. 'E's gettin' wickets, too. + + [POULDER entering from the door.] + +POULDER. Lord William is slippin' in. + + [He makes a cabalistic sign with his head. Jeers crosses to the + door. LEMMY looks dubiously at POULDER.] + +LEMMY. [Suddenly--as to himself] Wot oh! I am the portly one! + +POULDER. [Severely] Any such allusion aggeravates your offence. + +LEMMY. Oh, ah! Look 'ere, it was a corked bottle. Now, tyke care, +tyke care, 'aughty! Daon't curl yer lip! I shall myke a clean +breast o' my betryal when the time comes! + + [There is a alight movement of the door. ANNE makes a dive + towards the table but is arrested by POULDER grasping her + waistband. LORD WILLIAM slips in, followed by THE PRESS, on + whom JAMES and THOMAS close the door too soon.] + +HALF OF THE PRESS. [Indignantly] Look out! + +JAMES. Do you want him in or out, me Lord? + +LEMMY. I sy, you've divided the Press; 'e was unanimous. + + [The FOOTMEN let THE PRESS through.] + +LORD W. [To THE PRESS] I'm so sorry. + +LEMMY. Would yer like me to see to 'is gas? + +LORD W. So you're my friend of the cellars? + +LEMMY. [Uneasy] I daon't deny it. + + [POULDER begins removing LITTLE ANNE.] + +L. ANNE. Let me stay, Daddy; I haven't seen anything yet! If I go, +I shall only have to come down again when they loot the house. +Listen! + + [The hoarse strains of the Marseillaise are again heard from the + distance.] + +LORD W. [Blandly] Take her up, Poulder! + +L. ANNE. Well, I'm coming down again--and next time I shan't have +any clothes on, you know. + + [They vanish between the pillars. LORD WILLIAM makes a sign of + dismissal. The FOOTMAN file out.] + +LEMMY. [Admiringly] Luv'ly pyces! + +LORD W. [Pleasantly] Now then; let's have our talk, Mr.---- + +LEMMY. Lemmy. + +PRESS. [Who has slipped his note-book out] "Bombed and Bomber face +to face----" + +LEMMY. [Uneasy] I didn't come 'ere agyne on me own, yer know. The +Press betryed me. + +LORD W. Is that old lady your mother? + +LEMMY. The syme. I tell yer stryte, it was for 'er I took that old +bottle o' port. It was orful old. + +LORD W. Ah! Port? Probably the '83. Hope you both enjoyed it. + +LEMMY. So far-yus. Muvver'll suffer a bit tomower, I expect. + +LORD W. I should like to do something for your mother, if you'll +allow me. + +LEMMY. Oh! I'll allow yer. But I dunno wot she'll sy. + +LORD W. I can see she's a fine independent old lady! But suppose +you were to pay her ten bob a week, and keep my name out of it? + +LEMMY. Well, that's one wy o' YOU doin' somefink, 'yn't it? + +LORD W. I giving you the money, of course. + +PRESS. [Writing] "Lord William, with kingly generosity----" + +LEMMY. [Drawing attention to THE PRESS with his thumb] I sy-- +I daon't mind, meself--if you daon't---- + +LORD W. He won't write anything to annoy me. + +PRESS. This is the big thing, Lord William; it'll get the public +bang in the throat. + +LEMMY. [Confidentially] Bit dyngerous, 'yn't it? trustin' the +Press? Their right 'ands never knows wot their left 'ands is +writin'. [To THE PRESS] 'Yn't that true, speakin' as a man? + +PRESS. Mr. Lemmy, even the Press is capable of gratitude. + +LEMMY. Is it? I should ha' thought it was too important for a +little thing like that. [To LORD WILLIAM] But ye're quite right; we +couldn't do wivaht the Press--there wouldn't be no distress, no +coffin, no revolution--'cos nobody'd know nuffin' abaht it. Why! +There wouldn't be no life at all on Earf in these dyes, wivaht the +Press! It's them wot says: "Let there be Light--an' there is Light." + +LORD W. Umm! That's rather a new thought to me. [Writes on his +cuff.] + +LEMMY. But abaht Muvver, I'll tell yer 'ow we can arrynge. You send +'er the ten bob a week wivaht syin' anyfink, an' she'll fink it comes +from Gawd or the Gover'ment yer cawn't tell one from t'other in +Befnal Green. + +LORD W. All right; we'll' do that. + +LEMMY. Will yer reely? I'd like to shyke yer 'and. + + [LORD WILLIAM puts out his hand, which LEMMY grasps.] + +PRESS. [Writing] "The heartbeat of humanity was in that grasp +between the son of toil and the son of leisure." + +LEMMY. [Already ashamed of his emotion] 'Ere, 'arf a mo'! Which is +which? Daon't forget I'm aht o' wori; Lord William, if that's 'is +nyme, is workin 'ard at 'is Anti-Sweats! Wish I could get a job like +vat--jist suit me! + +LORD W. That hits hard, Mr. Lemmy. + +LEMMY. Daon't worry! Yer cawn't 'elp bein' born in the purple! + +LORD W. Ah! Tell me, what would you do in my place? + +LEMMY. Why--as the nobleman said in 'is well-known wy: "Sit in me +Club winder an' watch it ryne on the dam people!" That's if I was a +average nobleman! If I was a bit more noble, I might be tempted to +come the kind'earted on twenty thou' a year. Some prefers yachts, or +ryce 'orses. But philanthropy on the 'ole is syfer, in these dyes. + +LORD W. So you think one takes to it as a sort of insurance, Mr. +Lemmy? Is that quite fair? + +LEMMY. Well, we've all got a weakness towards bein' kind, somewhere +abaht us. But the moment wealf comes in, we 'yn't wot I call single- +'earted. If yer went into the foundytions of your wealf--would yer +feel like 'avin' any? It all comes from uvver people's 'ard, +unpleasant lybour--it's all built on Muvver as yer might sy. An' if +yer daon't get rid o' some of it in bein' kind--yer daon't feel syfe +nor comfy. + +LORD W. [Twisting his moustache] Your philosophy is very pessimistic. + +LEMMY. Well, I calls meself an optimist; I sees the worst of +everyfink. Never disappynted, can afford to 'ave me smile under the +blackest sky. When deaf is squeezin' of me windpipe, I shall 'ave a +laugh in it! Fact is, if yer've 'ad to do wiv gas an' water pipes, +yer can fyce anyfing. [The distant Marseillaise blares up] 'Ark at +the revolution! + +LORD W. [Rather desperately] I know--hunger and all the rest of it! +And here am I, a rich man, and don't know what the deuce to do. + +LEMMY. Well, I'll tell yer. Throw yer cellars open, an' while the +populyce is gettin' drunk, sell all yer 'ave an' go an' live in +Ireland; they've got the millennium chronic over there. + + [LORD WILLIAM utters a short, vexed laugh, and begins to walk + about.] + +That's speakin' as a practical man. Speakin' as a synt "Bruvvers, +all I 'ave is yours. To-morrer I'm goin' dahn to the Lybour Exchynge +to git put on the wytin' list, syme as you!" + +LORD W. But, d---it, man, there we should be, all together! Would +that help? + +LEMMY. Nao; but it'd syve a lot o' blood. + + [LORD WILLIAM stops abruptly, and looks first at LEMMY, then at + the cooler, still cohered with the Chinese mat.] + +Yer thought the Englishman could be taught to shed blood wiv syfety. +Not 'im! Once yer git 'im into an 'abit, yer cawn't git 'im out of +it agyne. 'E'll go on sheddin' blood mechanical--Conservative by +nyture. An' 'e won't myke nuffin' o' yours. Not even the Press wiv +'is 'oneyed words'll sty 'is 'and. + +LORD W. And what do you suggest we could have done, to avoid +trouble? + +LEMMY. [Warming to his theme] I'll tell yer. If all you wealfy +nobs wiv kepitel 'ad come it kind from the start after the war yer'd +never 'a been 'earin' the Marseillaisy naow. Lord! 'Ow you did talk +abaht Unity and a noo spirit in the Country. Noo spirit! Why, soon +as ever there was no dynger from outside, yer stawted to myke it +inside, wiv an iron'and. Naow, you've been in the war an' it's given +yer a feelin' 'eart; but most of the nobs wiv kepitel was too old or +too important to fight. They weren't born agyne. So naow that bad +times is come, we're 'owlin' for their blood. + +LORD W. I quite agree; I quite agree. I've often said much the same +thing. + +LEMMY. Voice cryin' in the wilderness--I daon't sy we was yngels-- +there was faults on bofe sides. [He looks at THE PRESS] The Press +could ha' helped yer a lot. Shall I tell yer wot the Press did? +"It's vital," said the Press, "that the country should be united, or +it will never recover." Nao strikes, nao 'omen nature, nao nuffink. +Kepitel an' Lybour like the Siamese twins. And, fust dispute that +come along, the Press orfs wiv its coat an' goes at it bald'eaded. +An' wot abaht since? Sich a riot o' nymes called, in Press--and +Pawlyement. Unpatriotic an' outrygeous demands o' lybour. Blood- +suckin' tyranny o' Kepitel; thieves an' dawgs an 'owlin Jackybines-- +gents throwin' books at each other; all the resources of edjucytion +exhausted! If I'd bin Prime Minister I'd 'ave 'ad the Press's gas +cut 'orf at the meter. Puffect liberty, of course, nao Censorship; +just sy wot yer like--an' never be 'eard of no more. + + [Turning suddenly to THE PRESS, who has been scribbling in pace + with this harangue, and now has developed a touch of writer's + cramp.] + +Why! 'Is 'end's out o' breath! Fink o' vet! + +LORD W. Great tribute to your eloquence, Mr. Lemmy! + + [A sudden stir of applause and scraping of chairs is heard; the + meeting is evidently breaking up. LADY WILLIAM comes in, + followed by MRS. LEMMY with her trousers, and LITTLE AIDA. + LEMMY stares fixedly at this sudden, radiant apparition. His + gaze becomes as that of a rabbit regarding a snake. And + suddenly he puts up his hand and wipes his brow.] + + [LADY WILLIAM, going to the table, lifts one end of the Chinese + mat, and looks at LEMMY. Then she turns to LORD WILLIAM.] + +LADY W. Bill! + +LEMMY. [To his mother--in a hoarse whisper] She calls 'im Bill. +'Ow! 'Yn't she IT? + +LADY W. [Apart] Have you--spoken to him? + + [LORD WILLIAM shakes his head.] + +Not? What have you been saying, then? + +LORD W. Nothing, he's talked all the time. + +LADY W. [Very low] What a little caution! + +LORD W. Steady, old girl! He's got his eye on you! + + [LADY WILLIAM looks at LEMMY, whose eyes are still fixed on + her.] + +LADY W. [With resolution] Well, I'm going to tackle him. + + [She moves towards LEMMY, who again wipes his brow, and wrings + out his hand.] + +MRS. LEMMY. Don't 'ee du that, Bob. Yu must forgive'im, Ma'am; it's +'is admiration. 'E was always one for the ladies, and he'm not used +to seein' so much of 'em. + +LADY W. Don't you think you owe us an explanation? + +MRS. LEMMY. Speak up, Bob. + + [But LEMMY only shifts his feet.] + +My gudeness! 'E've a-lost 'is tongue. I never knu that 'appen to 'e +before. + +LORD W. [Trying to break the embarrassment] No ill-feeling, you +know, Lemmy. + + [But LEMMY still only rolls his eyes.] + +LADY W. Don't you think it was rather--inconsiderate of you? + +LEMMY. Muvver, tyke me aht, I'm feelin' fynte! + + [Spurts of the Marseillaise and the mutter of the crowd have + been coming nearer; and suddenly a knocking is heard. POULDER + and JAMES appear between the pillars.] + +POULDER. The populace, me Lord! + +LADY W. What! + +LORD W. Where've you put 'em, Poulder? + +POULDER. They've put theirselves in the portico, me Lord. + +LORD W. [Suddenly wiping his brow] Phew! I say, this is awful, +Nell! Two speeches in one evening. Nothing else for it, I suppose. +Open the window, Poulder! + +POULDER. [Crossing to the window] We are prepared for any +sacrifice, me Lord. + + [He opens the window.] + +PRESS. [Writing furiously] "Lady William stood like a statue at +bay." + +LORD W. Got one of those lozenges on you, Nell? + + [But LADY WILLIAM has almost nothing on her.] + +LEMMY. [Producing a paper from his pocket] 'Ave one o' my gum +drops? + + [He passes it to LORD WILLIAM.] + +LORD W. [Unable to refuse, takes a large, flat gum drop from the +paper, and looks at it in embarrassment.] Ah! thanks! Thanks +awfully! + + [LEMMY turns to LITTLE AIDA, and puts a gum drop in her mouth. + A burst of murmurs from the crowd.] + +JAMES. [Towering above the wine cooler] If they get saucy, me Lord, +I can always give 'em their own back. + +LORD W. Steady, James; steady! + + [He puts the gum drop absently in his mouth, and turns up to the + open window.] + +VOICE. [Outside] 'Ere they are--the bally plutocrats. + + [Voices in chorus: "Bread! Bread!"] + +LORD W. Poulder, go and tell the chef to send out anything there is +in the house--nicely, as if it came from nowhere in particular. + +POULDER. Very good, me Lord. [Sotto voce] Any wine? If I might +suggest--German--'ock? + +LORD W. What you like. + +POULDER. Very good, me Lord. [He goes.] + +LORD W. I say, dash it, Nell, my teeth are stuck! [He works his +finger in his mouth.] + +LADY W. Take it out, darling. + +LORD W. [Taking out the gum drop and looking at it] What the deuce +did I put it in for? + +PRESS. ['Writing] "With inimitable coolness Lord William prepared +to address the crowd." + + [Voices in chorea: "Bread! Bread!"] + +LORD W. Stand by to prompt, old girl. Now for it. This ghastly gum +drop! + + [LORD WILLIAM takes it from his agitated hand, and flips it + through the window.] + +VOICE. Dahn with the aristo----[Chokes.] + +LADY W. Oh! Bill----oh! It's gone into a mouth! + +LORD W. Good God! + +VOICE. Wet's this? Throwin' things? Mind aht, or we'll smash yer +winders! + + [As the voices in chorus chant: "Bread! Bread!" LITTLE ANNE, + night-gowned, darts in from the hall. She is followed by MISS + STOKES. They stand listening.] + +LORD W. [To the Crowd] My friends, you've come to the wrong shop. +There's nobody in London more sympathetic with you. [The crowd +laughs hoarsely.] [Whispering] Look out, old girl; they can see your +shoulders. [LORD WILLIAM moves back a step.] If I were a speaker, I +could make you feel---- + +VOICE. Look at his white weskit! Blood-suckers--fattened on the +people! + + [JAMES dives his hand at the wine cooler.] + +LORD W. I've always said the Government ought to take immediate +steps---- + +VOICE. To shoot us dahn. + +LORD W. Not a bit. To relieve the--er---- + +LADY W. [Prompting] Distress. + +LADY W. Distress, and ensure--er--ensure + +LADY W. [Prompting] Quiet. + +LORD W. [To her] No, no. To ensure--ensure---- + +L. ANNE. [Agonized] Oh, Daddy! + +VOICE. 'E wants to syve 'is dirty great 'ouse. + +LORD W. [Roused] D----if I do! + + [Rude and hoarse laughter from the crowd.] + +JAMES. [With fury] Me Lord, let me blow 'em to glory! + + [He raises the cooler and advances towards the window.] + +LORD W. [Turning sharply on him] Drop it, James; drop it! + +PRESS. [Jumping] No, no; don't drop it! + + [JAMES retires crestfallen to the table, where he replaces the + cooler.] + +LORD W. [Catching hold of his bit] Look here, I must have fought +alongside some of you fellows in the war. Weren't we jolly well like +brothers? + +A VOICE. Not so much bloomin' "Kamerad"; hand over yer 'Ouse. + +LORD W. I was born with this beastly great house, and money, and +goodness knows what other entanglements--a wife and family---- + +VOICE. Born with a wife and family! + + [Jeers and laughter.] + +LORD W. I feel we're all in the same boat, and I want to pull my +weight. If you can show me the way, I'll take it fast enough. + +A DEEP VOICE. Step dahn then, an' we'll step up. + +ANOTHER VOICE. 'Ear, 'Ear! + + [A fierce little cheer.] + +LORD W. [To LADY WILLIAM--in despair] By George! I can't get in +anywhere! + +LADY W. [Calmly] Then shut the window, Bill. + +LEMMY. [Who has been moving towards them slowly] Lemme sy a word to +'em. + + [All stare at him. LEMMY approaches the window, followed by + LITTLE AIDA. POULDER re-enters with the three other footmen.] + +[At the window] Cheerio! Cockies! + + [The silence of surprise falls on the crowd.] + +I'm one of yer. Gas an' water I am. Got more grievances an' out of +employment than any of yer. I want to see their blood flow, syme as +you. + +PRESS. [writing] "Born orator--ready cockney wit--saves situation." + +LEMMY. Wot I sy is: Dahn wiv the country, dahn wiv everyfing. Begin +agyne from the foundytions. [Nodding his head back at the room] But +we've got to keep one or two o' these 'ere under glawss, to show our +future generytions. An' this one is 'armless. His pipes is sahnd, +'is 'eart is good; 'is 'ead is not strong. Is 'ouse will myke a +charmin' palace o' varieties where our children can come an' see 'ow +they did it in the good old dyes. Yer never see rich waxworks as 'is +butler and 'is four conscientious khaki footmen. Why--wot dyer think +'e 'as 'em for--fear they might be out o'-works like you an' me. +Nao! Keep this one; 'e's a Flower. 'Arf a mo'! I'll show yer my +Muvver. Come 'ere, old lydy; and bring yer trahsers. [MRS. LEMMY +comes forward to the window] Tell abaht yer speech to the meetin'. + +MRS. LEMMY. [Bridling] Oh dear! Well, I cam' in with me trousers, +an' they putt me up on the pedestory at once, so I tole 'em. +[Holding up the trousers] "I putt in the button'oles, I stretches +the flies; I lines the crutch; I putt on this bindin', I presses the +seams--Tuppence three farthin's a pair." + + [A groan from tote crowd, ] + +LEMMY. [Showing her off] Seventy-seven! Wot's 'er income? Twelve +bob a week; seven from the Gover'ment an' five from the sweat of 'er +brow. Look at 'er! 'Yn't she a tight old dear to keep it goin'! No +workus for 'er, nao fear! The gryve rather! + + [Murmurs from the crowd, at Whom MRS. LEMMY is blandly smiling.] + +You cawn't git below 'er--impossible! She's the foundytions of the +country--an' rocky 'yn't the word for 'em. Worked 'ard all 'er life, +brought up a family and buried 'em on it. Twelve bob a week, an' +given when 'er fingers goes, which is very near. Well, naow, this +torf 'ere comes to me an' says: "I'd like to do somefin' for yer +muvver. 'Ow's ten bob a week?" 'e says. Naobody arst 'im--quite on +'is own. That's the sort 'e is. [Sinking his voice confidentially] +Sorft. You bring yer muvvers 'ere, 'e'll do the syme for them. I +giv yer the 'int. + +VOICE. [From the crowd] What's 'is nyme? + +LEMMY. They calls 'im Bill. + +VOICE. Bill What? + +L. ANNE. Dromondy. + +LADY W. Anne! + +LEMMY. Dromedary 'is nyme is. + +VOICE. [From the crowd] Three cheers for Bill Dromedary. + +LEMMY. I sy, there's veal an' 'am, an' pork wine at the back for +them as wants it; I 'eard the word passed. An' look 'ere, if yer +want a flag for the revolution, tyke muvver's trahsers an' tie 'em to +the corfin. Yer cawn't 'ave no more inspirin' banner. Ketch! [He +throws the trousers out] Give Bill a double-barrel fast, to show +there's no ill-feelin'. Ip, 'ip! + + [The crowd cheers, then slowly passes away, singing at a hoarse + version of the Marseillaise, till all that is heard is a faint + murmuring and a distant barrel-organ playing the same tune.] + +PRESS. [Writing] "And far up in the clear summer air the larks were +singing." + +LORD W. [Passing his heard over his hair, and blinking his eyes] +James! Ready? + +JAMES. Me Lord! + +L. ANNE. Daddy! + +LADY W. [Taking his arm] Bill! It's all right, old man--all right! + +LORD W. [Blinking] Those infernal larks! Thought we were on the +Somme again! Ah! Mr. Lemmy, [Still rather dreamy] no end obliged +to you; you're so decent. Now, why did you want to blow us up before +dinner? + +LEMMY. Blow yer up? [Passing his hand over his hair in travesty] +"Is it a dream? Then wykin' would be pyne." + +MRS. LEMMY. Bo-ob! Not so saucy, my boy! + +LEMMY. Blow yet up? Wot abaht it? + +LADY W. [Indicating the bomb] This, Mr. Lemmy! + + [LEMMY looks at it, and his eyes roll and goggle.] + +LORD W. Come, all's forgiven! But why did you? + +LEMMY. Orl right! I'm goin' to tyke it awy; it'd a-been a bit +ork'ard for me. I'll want it to-mower. + +LORD W. What! To leave somewhere else? + +LEMMY. 'Yus, of course! + +LORD W. No, no; dash it! Tell us what's it filled with? + +LEMMY. Filled wiv? Nuffin'. Wot did yet expect? Toof-pahder? +It's got a bit o' my lead soldered on to it. That's why it's 'eavy! + +LORD W. But what is it? + +LEMMY. Wot is it? [His eyes are fearfully fixed on LADY WILLIAM] I +fought everybody knew 'em. + +LADY W. Mr. Lemmy, you must clear this up, please. + +LEMMY. [TO LORD WILLIAM, With his eyes still held On LADY WILLIAM-- +mysteriously] Wiv lydies present? 'Adn't I better tell the Press? + +LORD W. All right; tell someone--anyone! + + [LEMMY goes down to THE PRESS, who is reading over his last + note. Everyone watches and listens with the utmost discretion, + while he whispers into the ear of THE PRESS; who shakes his head + violently.] + +PRESS. No, no; it's too horrible. It destroys my whole---- + +LEMMY. Well, I tell yer it is. + + [Whispers again violently.] + +PRESS. No, no; I can't have it. All my article! All my article! +It can't be--no---- + +LEMMY. I never see sick an obstinate thick-head! Yer 'yn't worvy of +yet tryde. + + [He whispers still more violently and makes cabalistic signs.] + + [LADY WILLIAM lifts the bomb from the cooler into the sight of + all. LORD WILLIAM, seeing it for the first time in full light, + bends double in silent laughter, and whispers to his wife. LADY + WILLIAM drops the bomb and gives way too. Hearing the sound, + LEMMY turns, and his goggling eyes pan them all in review. LORD + and LADY WILLIAM in fits of laughter, LITTLE ANNE stamping her + feet, for MISS STOKES, red, but composed, has her hands placed + firmly over her pupil's eyes and ears; LITTLE AIDA smiling + brilliantly, MRS. LEMMY blandly in sympathy, neither knowing + why; the FOUR FOOTMAN in a row, smothering little explosions. + POULDER, extremely grave and red, THE PRESS perfectly haggard, + gnawing at his nails.] + +LEMMY. [Turning to THE PRESS] Blimy! It amooses 'em, all but the +genteel ones. Cheer oh! Press! Yer can always myke somefin' out o' +nufun'? It's not the fust thing as 'as existed in yer imaginytion +only. + +PRESS. No, d---it; I'll keep it a bomb! + +LEMMY. [Soothingly] Ah! Keep the sensytion. Wot's the troof +compared wiv that? Come on, Muvver! Come on, Little Aida! Time we +was goin' dahn to 'Earf. + + [He goes up to the table, and still skidding a little at LADY + WILLIAM, takes the late bomb from the cooler, placing it under + his arm.] + +MRS. LEMMY. Gude naight, sir; gude naight, ma'am; thank yu for my +cup o' tea, an' all yore kindness. + + [She shakes hands with LORD and LADY WILLIAM, drops the curtsey + of her youth before Mr. POULDER, and goes out followed by LITTLE + AIDA, who is looking back at LITTLE ANNE.] + +LEMMY. [Turning suddenly] Aoh! An' jist one frog! Next time yer +build an 'ouse, daon't forget--it's the foundytions as bears the +wyte. + + [With a wink that gives way, to a last fascinated look at LADY + WILLIAM, he passes out. All gaze after them, except THE PRESS, + who is tragically consulting his spiflicated notes.] + +L. ANNE. [Breaking away from Miss STOKES and rushing forward] Oh! +Mum! what was it? + + +CURTAIN + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE FOUNDATIONS, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +THE SKIN GAME + +(A TRAGI-COMEDY) + +"Who touches pitch shall be defiled" + + + +CHARACTERS + +HILLCRIST ...............A Country Gentleman +AMY .....................His Wife +JILL ....................His Daughter +DAWKER ..................His Agent +HORNBLOWER ..............A Man Newly-Rich +CHARLES .................His Elder Son +CHLOE ...................Wife to Charles +ROLF ....................His Younger Son +FELLOWS .................Hillcrist's Butler +ANNA ....................Chloe's Maid +THE JACKMANS ............Man and Wife + +AN AUCTIONEER +A SOLICITOR +TWO STRANGERS + + + +ACT I. HILLCRIST'S Study + +ACT II. + SCENE I. A month later. An Auction Room. + SCENE II. The same evening. CHLOE'S Boudoir. + +ACT III + + SCENE I. The following day. HILLCRIST'S Study. Morning. + SCENE II. The Same. Evening. + + + + +ACT I + + HILLCRIST'S study. A pleasant room, with books in calf + bindings, and signs that the HILLCRIST'S have travelled, such + as a large photograph of the Taj Mahal, of Table Mountain, and + the Pyramids of Egypt. A large bureau [stage Right], devoted + to the business of a country estate. Two foxes' masks. + Flowers in bowls. Deep armchairs. A large French window open + [at Back], with a lovely view of a slight rise of fields and + trees in August sunlight. A fine stone fireplace [stage Left]. + A door [Left]. A door opposite [Right]. General colour + effect--stone, and cigar-leaf brown, with spots of bright + colour. + + [HILLCRIST sits in a swivel chair at the bureau, busy with + papers. He has gout, and his left foot is encased accord: He + is a thin, dried-up man of about fifty-five, with a rather + refined, rather kindly, and rather cranky countenance. Close + to him stands his very upstanding nineteen-year-old daughter + JILL, with clubbed hair round a pretty, manly face.] + +JILL. You know, Dodo, it's all pretty good rot in these days. + +HILLCRIST. Cads are cads, Jill, even in these days. + +JILL. What is a cad? + +HILLCRIST. A self-assertive fellow, without a sense of other +people. + +JILL. Well, Old Hornblower I'll give you. + +HILLCRIST. I wouldn't take him. + +JILL. Well, you've got him. Now, Charlie--Chearlie--I say--the +importance of not being Charlie---- + +HILLCRIST. Good heavens! do you know their Christian names? + +JILL. My dear father, they've been here seven years. + +HILLCRIST. In old days we only knew their Christian names from +their tombstones. + +JILL. Charlie Hornblower isn't really half a bad sport. + +HILLCRIST. About a quarter of a bad sport I've always thought out +hunting. + +JILL. [Pulling his hair] Now, his wife--Chloe--- + +HILLCRIST. [Whimsical] Gad! your mother'd have a fit if she knew +you called her Chloe. + +JILL. It's a ripping name. + +HILLCRIST. Chloe! H'm! I had a spaniel once---- + +JILL. Dodo, you're narrow. Buck up, old darling, it won't do. +Chloe has seen life, I'm pretty sure; THAT'S attractive, anyway. +No, mother's not in the room; don't turn your uneasy eyes. + +HILLCRIST. Really, my dear, you are getting---- + +JILL. The limit. Now, Rolf---- + +HILLCRIST. What's Rolf? Another dog? + +JILL. Rolf Hornblower's a topper; he really is a nice boy. + +HILLCRIST. [With a sharp look] Oh! He's a nice boy? + +JILL. Yes, darling. You know what a nice boy is, don't you? + +HILLCRIST. Not in these days. + +JILL. Well, I'll tell you. In the first place, he's not amorous. + +HILLCRIST. What! Well, that's some comfort. + +JILL. Just a jolly good companion. + +HILLCRIST. To whom? + +JILL. Well, to anyone--me. + +HILLCRIST. Where? + +JILL. Anywhere. You don't suppose I confine myself to the home +paddocks, do you? I'm naturally rangey, Father. + +HILLCRIST. [Ironically] You don't say so! + +JILL. In the second place, he doesn't like discipline. + +HILLCRIST. Jupiter! He does seem attractive. + +JILL. In the third place, he bars his father. + +HILLCRIST. Is that essential to nice girls too? + +JILL. [With a twirl of his hair] Fish not! Fourthly, he's got +ideas. + +HILLCRIST. I knew it! + +JILL. For instance, he thinks--as I do---- + +HILLCRIST. Ah! Good ideas. + +JILL. [Pulling gently] Careful! He thinks old people run the show +too much. He says they oughtn't to, because they're so damtouchy. +Are you damtouchy, darling? + +HILLCRIST. Well, I'm----! I don't know about touchy. + +JILL. He says there'll be no world fit to live in till we get rid +of the old. We must make them climb a tall tree, and shake them off +it. + +HILLCRIST. [Drily] Oh! he says that! + +JILL. Otherwise, with the way they stand on each other's rights, +they'll spoil the garden for the young. + +HILLCRIST. Does his father agree? + +JILL. Oh! Rolf doesn't talk to him, his mouth's too large. Have +you ever seen it, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. Of course. + +JILL. It's considerable, isn't it? Now yours is--reticent, +darling. [Rumpling his hair.] + +HILLCRIST. It won't be in a minute. Do you realise that I've got +gout? + +JILL. Poor ducky! How long have we been here, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. Since Elizabeth, anyway. + +JILL. [Looking at his foot] It has its drawbacks. D'you think +Hornblower had a father? I believe he was spontaneous. But, Dodo, +why all this--this attitude to the Hornblowers? + + [She purses her lips and makes a gesture as of pushing persons + away.] + +HILLCRIST. Because they're pushing. + +JILL. That's only because we are, as mother would say, and they're +not--yet. But why not let them be? + +HILLCRIST. You can't. + +JILL. Why? + +HILLCRIST. It takes generations to learn to live and let live, +Jill. People like that take an ell when you give them an inch. + +JILL. But if you gave them the ell, they wouldn't want the inch. +Why should it all be such a skin game? + +HILLCRIST. Skin game? Where do you get your lingo? + +JILL. Keep to the point, Dodo. + +HILLCRIST. Well, Jill, all life's a struggle between people at +different stages of development, in different positions, with +different amounts of social influence and property. And the only +thing is to have rules of the game and keep them. New people like +the Hornblowers haven't learnt those rules; their only rule is to +get all they can. + +JILL. Darling, don't prose. They're not half as bad as you think. + +HILLCRIST. Well, when I sold Hornblower Longmeadow and the +cottages, I certainly found him all right. All the same, he's got +the cloven hoof. [Warming up] His influence in Deepwater is +thoroughly bad; those potteries of his are demoralising--the whole +atmosphere of the place is changing. It was a thousand pities he +ever came here and discovered that clay. He's brought in the modern +cutthroat spirit. + +JILL. Cut our throat spirit, you mean. What's your definition of a +gentleman, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. [Uneasily] Can't describe--only feel it. + +JILL. Oh! Try! + +HILLCRIST. Well--er--I suppose you might say--a man who keeps his +form and doesn't let life scupper him out of his standards. + +JILL. But suppose his standards are low? + +HILLCRIST. [With some earnestness] I assume, of course, that he's +honest and tolerant, gentle to the weak, and not self-seeking. + +JILL. Ah! self-seeking? But aren't we all, Dodo? I am. + +HILLCRIST. [With a smile] You! + +JILL. [Scornfully] Oh! yes--too young to know. + +HILLCRIST. Nobody knows till they're under pretty heavy fire, Jill. + +JILL. Except, of course, mother. + +HILLCRIST. How do you mean--mother? + +JILL. Mother reminds me of England according to herself--always +right whatever she does. + +HILLCRIST. Ye-es. Your mother it perhaps--the perfect woman. + +JILL. That's what I was saying. Now, no one could call you +perfect, Dodo. Besides, you've got gout. + +HILLCRIST. Yes; and I want Fellows. Ring that bell. + +JILL. [Crossing to the bell] Shall I tell you my definition of a +gentleman? A man who gives the Hornblower his due. [She rings the +bell] And I think mother ought to call on them. Rolf says old +Hornblower resents it fearfully that she's never made a sign to +Chloe the three years she's been here. + +HILLCRIST. I don't interfere with your mother in such matters. She +may go and call on the devil himself if she likes. + +JILL. I know you're ever so much better than she is. + +HILLCRIST. That's respectful. + +JILL. You do keep your prejudices out of your phiz. But mother +literally looks down her nose. And she never forgives an "h." +They'd get the "hell" from her if they took the "hinch." + +HILLCRIST. Jill-your language! + +JILL. Don't slime out of it, Dodo. I say, mother ought to call on +the Hornblowers. [No answer.] Well? + +HILLCRIST. My dear, I always let people have the last word. It +makes them--feel funny. Ugh! My foot![Enter FELLOWS, Left.] +Fellows, send into the village and get another bottle of this stuff. + +JILL. I'll go, darling. + + [She blow him a kiss, and goes out at the window.] + +HILLCRIST. And tell cook I've got to go on slops. This foot's +worse. + +FELLOWS. [Sympathetic] Indeed, sir. + +HILLCRIST. My third go this year, Fellows. + +FELLOWS. Very annoying, sir. + +HILLCRIST. Ye-es. Ever had it? + +FELLOWS. I fancy I have had a twinge, sir. + +HILLCRIST. [Brightening] Have you? Where? + +FELLOWS. In my cork wrist, sir. + +HILLCRIST. Your what? + +FELLOWS. The wrist I draw corks with. + +HILLCRIST. [With a cackle] You'd have had more than a twinge if +you'd lived with my father. H'm! + +FELLOWS. Excuse me, sir--Vichy water corks, in my experience, are +worse than any wine. + +HILLCRIST. [Ironically] Ah! The country's not what it was, is it, +Fellows? + +FELLOWS. Getting very new, sir. + +HILLCRIST. [Feelingly] You're right. Has Dawker come? + +FELLOWS. Not yet, sir. The Jackmans would like to see you, sir. + +HILLCRIST. What about? + +FELLOWS. I don't know, sir. + +HILLCRIST. Well, show them in. + +FELLOWS. [Going] Yes, sir. + + [HILLCRIST turns his swivel chair round. The JACKMANS come in. + He, a big fellow about fifty, in a labourer's dress, with eyes + which have more in then than his tongue can express; she, a + little woman with a worn face, a bright, quick glance, and a + tongue to match.] + +HILLCRIST. Good morning, Mrs. Jackman! Morning, Jackman! Haven't +seen you for a long time. What can I do? + + [He draws in foot, and breath, with a sharp hiss.] + +HILLCRIST. [In a down-hearted voice] We've had notice to quit, +sir. + +HILLCRIST. [With emphasis] What! + +JACKMAN. Got to be out this week. + +MRS. J. Yes, sir, indeed. + +HILLCRIST. Well, but when I sold Longmeadow and the cottages, it +was on the express understanding that there was to be no disturbance +of tenancies: + +MRS. J. Yes, sir; but we've all got to go. Mrs. 'Arvey, and the +Drews, an' us, and there isn't another cottage to be had anywhere in +Deepwater. + +HILLCRIST. I know; I want one for my cowman. This won't do at all. +Where do you get it from? + +JACKMAN. Mr. 'Ornblower, 'imself, air. Just an hour ago. He come +round and said: "I'm sorry; I want the cottages, and you've got to +clear." + +MRS. J. [Bitterly] He's no gentleman, sir; he put it so brisk. We +been there thirty years, and now we don't know what to do. So I +hope you'll excuse us coming round, sir. + +HILLCRIST. I should think so, indeed! H'm! [He rises and limps +across to the fireplace on his stick. To himself] The cloven hoof. +By George! this is a breach of faith. I'll write to him, Jackman. +Confound it! I'd certainly never have sold if I'd known he was +going to do this. + +MRS. J. No, sir, I'm sure, sir. They do say it's to do with the +potteries. He wants the cottages for his workmen. + +HILLCRIST. [Sharply] That's all very well, but he shouldn't have +led me to suppose that he would make no change. + +JACKMAN. [Heavily] They talk about his havin' bought the Centry to +gut up more chimneys there, and that's why he wants the cottages. + +HINT. The Centry! Impossible! + + [Mrs. J. Yes, air; it's such a pretty spot-looks beautiful + from here. [She looks out through the window] Loveliest spot + in all Deepwater, I always say. And your father owned it, and + his father before 'im. It's a pity they ever sold it, sir, + beggin' your pardon.] + +HILLCRIST. The Centry! [He rings the bell.] + +Mrs. J. [Who has brightened up] I'm glad you're goin' to stop it, +sir. It does put us about. We don't know where to go. I said to +Mr. Hornblower, I said, "I'm sure Mr. Hillcrist would never 'eve +turned us out." An' 'e said: "Mr. Hillcrist be----" beggin' your +pardon, sir. "Make no mistake," 'e said, "you must go, missis." He +don't even know our name; an' to come it like this over us! He's a +dreadful new man, I think, with his overridin notions. And sich a +heavyfooted man, to look at. [With a sort of indulgent contempt] +But he's from the North, they say. + + [FELLOWS has entered, Left.] + +HILLCRIST. Ask Mrs. Hillcrist if she'll come. + +FELLOWS. Very good, sir. + +HILLCRIST. Is Dawker here? + +FELLOWS. Not yet, sir. + +HILLCRIST. I want to see him at once. + + [FELLOWS retires.] + +JACKMAN. Mr. Hornblower said he was comin' on to see you, sir. So +we thought we'd step along first. + +HILLCRIST. Quite right, Jackman. + +MRS. J. I said to Jackman: "Mr. Hillcrist'll stand up for us, I +know. He's a gentleman," I said. "This man," I said, "don't care +for the neighbourhood, or the people; he don't care for anything so +long as he makes his money, and has his importance. You can't +expect it, I suppose," I said; [Bitterly] "havin' got rich so +sudden." The gentry don't do things like that. + +HILLCRIST. [Abstracted] Quite, Mrs. Jackman, quite! +[To himself] The Centry! No! + + [MRS. HILLCRIST enters. A well-dressed woman, with a firm, + clear-cut face.] + +Oh! Amy! Mr. and Mrs. Jackman turned out of their cottage, and +Mrs. Harvey, and the Drews. When I sold to Hornblower, I stipulated +that they shouldn't be. + +MRS. J. Our week's up on Saturday, ma'am, and I'm sure I don't know +where we shall turn, because of course Jackman must be near his +work, and I shall lose me washin' if we have to go far. + +HILLCRIST. [With decision] You leave it to me, Mrs. Jackman. Good +morning! Morning, Jackman! Sorry I can't move with this gout. + +MRS. J. [For them both] I'm sure we're very sorry, sir. Good +morning, sir. Good morning, ma'am; and thank you kindly. [They go +out.] + +HILLCRIST. Turning people out that have been there thirty years. I +won't have it. It's a breach of faith. + +MRS. H. Do you suppose this Hornblower will care two straws about +that Jack? + +HILLCRIST. He must, when it's put to him, if he's got any decent +feeling. + +MRS. H. He hasn't. + +HILLCRIST. [Suddenly] The Jackmans talk of his having bought the +Centry to put up more chimneys. + +MRS. H. Never! [At the window, looking out] Impossible! It would +ruin the place utterly; besides cutting us off from the Duke's. Oh, +no! Miss Mullins would never sell behind our backs. + +HILLCRIST. Anyway I must stop his turning these people out. + +Mrs. H. [With a little smile, almost contemptuous] You might have +known he'd do something of the sort. You will imagine people are +like yourself, Jack. You always ought to make Dawker have things in +black and white. + +HILLCRIST. I said quite distinctly: "Of course you won't want to +disturb the tenancies; there's a great shortage of cottages." +Hornblower told me as distinctly that he wouldn't. What more do you +want? + +Mrs. H. A man like that thinks of nothing but the short cut to his +own way. [Looking out of the window towards the rise] If he buys +the Centry and puts up chimneys, we simply couldn't stop here. + +HILLCRIST. My father would turn in his grave. + +MRS. H. It would have been more useful if he'd not dipped the +estate, and sold the Centry. This Hornblower hates us; he thinks we +turn up our noses at him. + +HILLCRIST. As we do, Amy. + +MRS. H. Who wouldn't? A man without traditions, who believes in +nothing but money and push. + +HILLCRIST. Suppose he won't budge, can we do anything for the +Jackmans? + +MRS. H. There are the two rooms Beaver used to have, over the +stables. + +FELLOWS. Mr. Dawker, sir. + + [DAWKERS is a short, square, rather red-faced terrier of a man, + in riding clothes and gaiters.] + +HILLCRIST. Ah! Dawker, I've got gout again. + +DAWKER. Very sorry, sir. How de do, ma'am? + +HILLCRIST. Did you meet the Jackmans? + +DAWKERS. Yeh. + + [He hardly ever quite finishes a word, seeming to snap of their + tails.] + +HILLCRIST. Then you heard? + +DAWKER. [Nodding] Smart man, Hornblower; never lets grass grow. + +HILLCRIST. Smart? + +DAWKER. [Grinning] Don't do to underrate your neighbours. + +MRS. H. A cad--I call him. + +DAWKER. That's it, ma'am-got all the advantage. + +HILLCRIST. Heard anything about the Centry, Dawker? + +DAWKER. Hornblower wants to buy. + +HILLCRIST. Miss Mullins would never sell, would she? + +DAWKER. She wants to. + +HILLCRIST. The deuce she does! + +DAWKER. He won't stick at the price either. + +MRS. H. What's it worth, Dawker? + +DAWKER. Depends on what you want it for. + +MRS. H. He wants it for spite; we want it for sentiment. + +DAWKER. [Grinning] Worth what you like to give, then; but he's a +rich man. + +MRS. H. Intolerable! + +DAWKER. [To HILLCRIST] Give me your figure, sir. I'll try the old +lady before he gets at her. + +HILLCRIST. [Pondering] I don't want to buy, unless there's nothing +else for it. I should have to raise the money on the estate; it +won't stand much more. I can't believe the fellow would be such a +barbarian. Chimneys within three hundred yards, right in front of +this house! It's a nightmare. + +MRS. H. You'd much better let Dawker make sure, Jack. + +HILLCRIST. [Uncomfortable] Jackman says Hornblower's coming round +to see me. I shall put it to him. + +DAWKER. Make him keener than ever. Better get in first. + +HILLCRIST. Ape his methods!--Ugh! Confound this gout! [He gets +back to his chair with difficulty] Look here, Dawker, I wanted to +see you about gates---- + +FELLOWS. [Entering] Mr. Hornblower. + + [HORNBLOWER enters-a man of medium, height, thoroughly + broadened, blown out, as it were, by success. He has thick, + coarse, dark hair, just grizzled, wry bushy eyebrow, a wide + mouth. He wears quite ordinary clothes, as if that department + were in charge of someone who knew about such, things. He has + a small rose in his buttonhole, and carries a Homburg hat, + which one suspects will look too small on his head.] + +HORNBLOWER. Good morning! good morning! How are ye, Dawker? Fine +morning! Lovely weather! + + [His voice has a curious blend in its tone of brass and oil, + and an accent not quite Scotch nor quite North country.] + +Haven't seen ye for a long time, Hillcrist. + +HILLCRIST. [Who has risen] Not since I sold you Longmeadow and +those cottages, I believe. + +HORNBLOWER. Dear me, now! that's what I came about. + +HILLCRIST. [Subsiding again into his chair] Forgive me! Won't you +sit down? + +HORNBLOWER. [Not sitting] Have ye got gout? That's unfortunate. +I never get it. I've no disposition that way. Had no ancestors, +you see. Just me own drinkin' to answer for. + +HILLCRIST. You're lucky. + +HORNBLOWER. I wonder if Mrs. Hillcrist thinks that! Am I lucky to +have no past, ma'am? Just the future? + +MRS. H. You're sure you have the future, Mr. Hornblower? + +HORNBLOWER. [With a laugh] That's your aristocratic rapier thrust. +You aristocrats are very hard people underneath your manners. Ye +love to lay a body out. But I've got the future all right. + +HILLCRIST. [Meaningly] I've had the Dackmans here, Mr. Hornblower. + +HORNBLOWER. Who are they--man with the little spitfire wife? + +HILLCRIST. They're very excellent, good people, and they've been in +that cottage quietly thirty years. + +HORNBLOWER. [Throwing out his forefinger--a favourite gesture] Ah! +ye've wanted me to stir ye up a bit. Deepwater needs a bit o' go +put into it. There's generally some go where I am. I daresay you +wish there'd been no "come." [He laughs]. + +MRS. H. We certainly like people to keep their word, Mr. +Hornblower. + +HILLCRIST. Amy! + +HORNBLOWER. Never mind, Hillcrist; takes more than that to upset +me. + + [MRS. HILLCRIST exchanges a look with DAWKER who slips out + unobserved.] + +HILLCRIST. You promised me, you know, not to change the tenancies. + +HORNBLOWER. Well, I've come to tell ye that I have. I wasn't +expecting to have the need when I bought. Thought the Duke would +sell me a bit down there; but devil a bit he will; and now I must +have those cottages for my workmen. I've got important works, ye +know. + +HILLCRIST. [Getting heated] The Jackmans have their importance +too, sir. Their heart's in that cottage. + +HORNBLOWER. Have a sense of proportion, man. My works supply +thousands of people, and my, heart's in them. What's more, they +make my fortune. I've got ambitions--I'm a serious man. Suppose I +were to consider this and that, and every little potty objection-- +where should I get to?--nowhere! + +HILLCRIST. All the same, this sort of thing isn't done, you know. + +HORNBLOWER. Not by you because ye've got no need to do it. Here ye +are, quite content on what your fathers made for ye. Ye've no +ambitions; and ye want other people to have none. How d'ye think +your fathers got your land? + +HILLCRIST. [Who has risen] Not by breaking their word. + +HORNBLOWER. [Throwing out his, finger] Don't ye believe it. They +got it by breaking their word and turnin' out Jackmans, if that's +their name, all over the place. + +MRS. H. That's an insult, Mr. Hornblower. + +HORNBLOWER. No; it's a repartee. If ye think so much of these +Jackmans, build them a cottage yourselves; ye've got the space. + +HILLCRIST. That's beside the point. You promised me, and I sold on +that understanding. + +HORNBLOWER. And I bought on the understandin' that I'd get some +more land from the Duke. + +HILLCRIST. That's nothing to do with me. + +HORNBLOWER. Ye'll find it has; because I'm going to have those +cottages. + +HILLCRIST. Well, I call it simply---- + + [He checks himself.] + +HORNBLOWER. Look here, Hillcrist, ye've not had occasion to +understand men like me. I've got the guts, and I've got the money; +and I don't sit still on it. I'm going ahead because I believe in +meself. I've no use for sentiment and that sort of thing. Forty of +your Jackmans aren't worth me little finger. + +HILLCRIST. [Angry] Of all the blatant things I ever heard said! + +HORNBLOWER. Well, as we're speaking plainly, I've been thinkin'. +Ye want the village run your oldfashioned way, and I want it run +mine. I fancy there's not room for the two of us here. + +MRS. H. When are you going? + +HORNBLOWER. Never fear, I'm not going. + +HILLCRIST. Look here, Mr. Hornblower--this infernal gout makes me +irritable--puts me at a disadvantage. But I should be glad if you'd +kindly explain yourself. + +HORNBLOWER. [With a great smile] Ca' canny; I'm fra' the North. + +HILLCRIST. I'm told you wish to buy the Centry and put more of your +chimneys up there, regardless of the fact [He Points through the +window] that it would utterly ruin the house we've had for +generations, and all our pleasure here. + +HORNBLOWER. How the man talks! Why! Ye'd think he owned the sky, +because his fathers built him a house with a pretty view, where he's +nothing to do but live. It's sheer want of something to do that +gives ye your fine sentiments, Hillcrist. + + +HILLCRIST. Have the goodness not to charge me with idleness. +Dawker--where is he?----[He shows the bureau] When you do the +drudgery of your works as thoroughly as I do that of my estate---- +Is it true about the Centry? + +HORNBLOWER. Gospel true. If ye want to know, my son Chearlie is +buyin' it this very minute. + +MRS. H. [Turning with a start] What do you say? + +HORNBLOWER. Ay, he's with the old lady she wants to sell, an' +she'll get her price, whatever it is. + +HILLCRIST. [With deep anger] If that isn't a skin game, Mr. +Hornblower, I don't know what is. + +HORNBLOWER. Ah! Ye've got a very nice expression there. "Skin +game!" Well, bad words break no bones, an' they're wonderful for +hardenin' the heart. If it wasn't for a lady's presence, I could +give ye a specimen or two. + +MRS. H. Oh! Mr. Hornblower, that need not stop you, I'm sure. + +HORNBLOWER. Well, and I don't know that it need. Ye're an +obstruction--the like of you--ye're in my path. And anyone in my +path doesn't stay there long; or, if he does, he stays there on my +terms. And my terms are chimneys in the Centry where I need 'em. +It'll do ye a power of good, too, to know that ye're not almighty. + +HILLCRIST. And that's being neighbourly! + +HORNBLOWER. And how have ye tried bein' neighbourly to me? If I +haven't a wife, I've got a daughter-in-law. Have Ye celled on her, +ma'am? I'm new, and ye're an old family. Ye don't like me, ye +think I'm a pushin' man. I go to chapel, an' ye don't like that. +I make things and I sell them, and ye don't like that. I buy land, +and ye don't like that. It threatens the view from your windies. +Well, I don't lie you, and I'm not goin' to put up with your +attitude. Ye've had things your own way too long, and now ye're not +going to have them any longer. + +HILLCRIST. Will you hold to your word over those cottages? + +HORNBLOWER. I'm goin' to have the cottages. I need them, and more +besides, now I'm to put up me new works. + +HILLCRIST. That's a declaration of war. + +HORNBLOWER. Ye never said a truer word. It's one or the other of +us, and I rather think it's goin' to be me. I'm the risin' and +you're the settin' sun, as the poet says. + +HILLCRIST. [Touching the bell] We shall see if you can ride rough- +shod like this. We used to have decent ways of going about things +here. You want to change all that. Well, we shall do our damnedest +to stop you. [To FELLOWS at the door] Are the Jackmans still in +the house? Ask them to be good enough to come in. + +HORNBLOWER. [With the first sign of uneasiness] I've seen these +people. I've nothing more to say to them. I told 'em I'd give 'em +five pounds to cover their moving. + +HILLCRIST. It doesn't occur to you that people, however humble, +like to have some say in their own fate? + +HORNBLOWER. I never had any say in mine till I had the brass, and +nobody ever will. It's all hypocrisy. You county folk are fair +awful hypocrites. Ye talk about good form and all that sort o' +thing. It's just the comfortable doctrine of the man in the saddle; +sentimental varnish. Ye're every bit as hard as I am, underneath. + +MRS. H. [Who had been standing very still all this time] You +flatter us. + +HORNBLOWER. Not at all. God helps those who 'elp themselves-- +that's at the bottom of all religion. I'm goin' to help meself, and +God's going to help me. + +MRS. H. I admire your knowledge. + +HILLCRIST. We are in the right, and God helps---- + +HORNBLOWER. Don't ye believe it; ye 'aven't got the energy. + +MRS. H. Nor perhaps the conceit. + +HORNBLOWER. [Throwing out his forefinger] No, no; 'tisn't conceit +to believe in yourself when ye've got reason to. [The JACKMAN'S +have entered.] + +HILLCRIST. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Jackman, but I just wanted you to +realise that I've done my best with this gentleman. + +MRS. J. [Doubtfully] Yes, sir. I thought if you spoke for us, +he'd feel different-like. + +HORNBLOWER. One cottage is the same as another, missis. I made ye +a fair offer of five pounds for the moving. + +JACKMAN. [Slowly] We wouldn't take fifty to go out of that 'ouse. +We brought up three children there, an' buried two from it. + +MRS. J. [To MRS. HILLCRIST] We're attached to it like, ma'am. + +HILLCRIST. [To HORNBLOWER.] How would you like being turned out of +a place you were fond of? + +HORNBLOWER. Not a bit. But little considerations have to give way +to big ones. Now, missis, I'll make it ten pounds, and I'll send a +wagon to shift your things. If that isn't fair--! Ye'd better +accept, I shan't keep it open. + + [The JACKMANS look at each other; their faces show deep anger-- + and the question they ask each other is which will speak.] + +MRS. J. We won't take it; eh, George? + +JACKMAN. Not a farden. We come there when we was married. + +HORNBLOWER. [Throwing out his finger] Ye're very improvident folk. + +HILLCRIST. Don't lecture them, Mr. Hornblower; they come out of +this miles above you. + +HORNBLOWER. [Angry] Well, I was going to give ye another week, but +ye'll go out next Saturday; and take care ye're not late, or your +things'll be put out in the rain. + +MRS. H. [To MRS. JACKMAN] We'll send down for your things, and you +can come to us for the time being. + + [MRS. JACKMAN drops a curtsey; her eyes stab HORNBLOWERS.] + +JACKMAN. [Heavily, clenching his fists] You're no gentleman! +Don't put temptation in my way, that's all, + +HILLCRIST. [In a low voice] Jackman! + +HORNBLOWER. [Triumphantly] Ye hear that? That's your protegee! +Keep out o' my way, me man, or I'll put the police on to ye for +utterin' threats. + +HILLCRIST. You'd better go now, Jackman. + + [The JACKMANS move to the door.] + +MRS. J. [Turning] Maybe you'll repent it some day, sir. + + [They go out, MRS. HILLCRIST following.] + +HORNBLOWER. We-ell, I'm sorry they're such unreasonable folk. I +never met people with less notion of which side their bread was +buttered. + +HILLCRIST. And I never met anyone so pachydermatous. + +HORNBLOWER. What's that, in Heaven's name? Ye needn' wrap it up in +long words now your good lady's gone. + +HILLCRIST. [With dignity] I'm not going in for a slanging match. +I resent your conduct much too deeply. + +HORNBLOWER. Look here, Hillcrist, I don't object to you personally; +ye seem to me a poor creature that's bound to get left with your +gout and your dignity; but of course ye can make yourself very +disagreeable before ye're done. Now I want to be the movin' spirit +here. I'm full of plans. I'm goin' to stand for Parliament; I'm +goin' to make this a prosperous place. I'm a good-matured man if +you'll treat me as such. Now, you take me on as a neighbour and all +that, and I'll manage without chimneys on the Centry. Is it a +bargain? [He holds out his hand.] + +HILLCRIST. [Ignoring it] I thought you said you didn't keep your +word when it suited you to break it? + +HORNBLOWER. Now, don't get on the high horse. You and me could be +very good friends; but I can be a very nasty enemy. The chimneys +will not look nice from that windie, ye know. + +HILLCRIST. [Deeply angry] Mr. Hornblower, if you think I'll take +your hand after this Jackman business, you're greatly mistaken. You +are proposing that I shall stand in with you while you tyrannise +over the neighbourhood. Please realise that unless you leave those +tenancies undisturbed as you said you would, we don't know each +other. + +HORNBLOWER. Well, that won't trouble me much. Now, ye'd better +think it over; ye've got gout and that makes ye hasty. I tell ye +again: I'm not the man to make an enemy of. Unless ye're friendly, +sure as I stand here I'll ruin the look of your place. + + [The toot of a car is heard.] + +There's my car. I sent Chearlie and his wife in it to buy the +Centry. And make no mistake--he's got it in his packet. It's your +last chance, Hillcrist. I'm not averse to you as a man; I think +ye're the best of the fossils round here; at least, I think ye can +do me the most harm socially. Come now! + + [He holds out his hand again.] + +HILLCRIST. Not if you'd bought the Centry ten times over. Your +ways are not mine, and I'll have nothing to do with you. + +HORNBLOWER. [Very angry] Really! Is that so? Very well. Now +ye're goin' to learn something, an' it's time ye did. D'ye realise +that I'm 'very nearly round ye? [He draws a circle slowly in the +air] I'm at Uphill, the works are here, here's Longmeadow, here's +the Centry that I've just bought, there's only the Common left to +give ye touch with the world. Now between you and the Common +there's the high road. + +I come out on the high road here to your north, and I shall come out +on it there to your west. When I've got me new works up on the +Centry, I shall be makin' a trolley track between the works up to +the road at both ends, so any goods will be running right round ye. +How'll ye like that for a country place? + + [For answer HILLCRIST, who is angry beyond the power of speech, + walks, forgetting to use his stick, up to the French window. + While he stands there, with his back to HORNBLOWER, the door L. + is flung open, and Jim enters, preceding CHARLES, his wife + CHLOE, and ROLF. CHARLES is a goodish-looking, moustached + young man of about twenty-eight, with a white rim to the collar + of his waistcoat, and spats. He has his hand behind CHLOE'S + back, as if to prevent her turning tail. She is rather a + handsome young woman, with dark eyes, full red lips, and a + suspicion of powder, a little under-dressed for the country. + ROLF, mho brings up the rear, is about twenty, with an open + face and stiffish butter-coloured hair. JILL runs over to her + father at the window. She has a bottle.] + +JILL. [Sotto voce] Look, Dodo, I've brought the lot! Isn't it a +treat, dear Papa? And here's the stuff. Hallo! + + [The exclamation is induced by the apprehension that there has + been a row. HILLCRIST gives a stiff little bow, remaining + where he is in the window. JILL, stays close to him, staring + from one to the other, then blocks him off and engages him in + conversation. CHARLES has gone up to his father, who has + remained maliciously still, where he delivered his last speech. + CHLOE and ROLF stand awkwardly waiting between the fireplace + and the door.] + +HORNBLOWER. Well, Chearlie? + +CHARLES. Not got it. + +HORNBLOWER. Not! + +CHARLES. I'd practically got her to say she'd sell at three +thousand five hundred, when that fellow Dawker turned up. + +HORNBLOWER. That bull-terrier of a chap! Why, he was here a while +ago. Oh--ho! So that's it! + +CHARLES. I heard him gallop up. He came straight for the old lady, +and got her away. What he said I don't know; but she came back +looking wiser than an owl; said she'd think it over, thought she had +other views. + +HORNBLOWER. Did ye tell her she might have her price? + +CHARLES. Practically I did. + +HORNBLOWER. Well? + +CHARLES. She thought it would be fairer to put it up to auction. +There were other enquiries. Oh! She's a leery old bird--reminds me +of one of those pictures of Fate, don't you know. + +HORNBLOWER. Auction! Well, if it's not gone we'll get it yet. +That damned little Dawker! I've had a row with Hillcrist. + +CHARLES. I thought so. + + [They are turning cautiously to look at HILLCRIST, when JILL + steps forward.] + +JILL. [Flushed and determined] That's not a bit sporting of you, +Mr. Hornblower. + + [At her words ROLE comes forward too.] + +HORNBLOWER. Ye should hear both sides before ye say that, missy. + +JILL. There isn't another side to turning out the Jackmans after +you'd promised. + +HORNBLOWER. Oh! dear me, yes. They don't matter a row of +gingerbread to the schemes I've got for betterin' this +neighbourhood. + +JILL. I had been standing up for you; now I won't. + +HOUNBLOWER. Dear, dear! What'll become of me? + +JILL. I won't say anything about the other thing because I think +it's beneath, dignity to notice it. But to turn poor people out of +their cottages is a shame. + +HORNBLOWER. Hoity me! + +ROLF. [Suddenly] You haven't been doing that, father? + +CHARLES. Shut up, Rolf! + +HORNBLOWER. [Turning on ROLF] Ha! Here's a league o' Youth! My +young whipper-snapper, keep your mouth shut and leave it to your +elders to know what's right. + + [Under the weight of this rejoinder ROLF stands biting his + lips. Then he throws his head up.] + +ROLF. I hate it! + +HORNBLOWER. [With real venom] Oh! Ye hate it? Ye can get out of +my house, then. + +JILL. Free speech, Mr. Hornblower; don't be violent. + +HORNBLOWER. Ye're right, young lady. Ye can stay in my house, +Rolf, and learn manners. Come, Chearlie! + +JILL. [Quite softly] Mr. Hornblower! + +HILLCRIST. [From the window] Jill! + +JILL. [Impatiently] Well, what's the good of it? Life's too short +for rows, and too jolly! + +ROLF. Bravo! + +HORNBLOWER. [Who has shown a sign of weakening] Now, look here! +I will not have revolt in my family. Ye'll just have to learn that +a man who's worked as I have, who's risen as I have, and who knows +the world, is the proper judge of what's right and wrong. I'll +answer to God for me actions, and not to you young people. + +JILL. Poor God! + +HORNBLOWER. [Genuinely shocked] Ye blasphemous young thing! [To +ROLF] And ye're just as bad, ye young freethinker. I won't have +it. + +HILLCRIST. [Who has come down, Right] Jill, I wish you would +kindly not talk. + +JILL. I can't help it. + +CHARLES. [Putting his arm through HORNBLOWER'S] Come along, +father! Deeds, not words. + +HORNBLOWER. Ay! Deeds! + + [MRS. HILLCRIST and DAWKERS have entered by the French window.] + +MRS. H. Quite right! + + [They all turn and look at her.] + +HORNBLOWER. Ah! So ye put your dog on to it. [He throws out his +finger at DAWKERS] Very smart, that--I give ye credit. + +MRS. H. [Pointing to CHLOE, who has stood by herself, forgotten and +uncomfortable throughout the scene] +May I ask who this lady is? + + [CHLOE turns round startled, and her vanity bag slips down her + dress to the floor.] + +HORNBLOWER. No, ma'am, ye may not, for ye know perfectly well. + +JILL. I brought her in, mother [She moves to CHLOE's side.] + +MRS. H. Will you take her out again, then. + +HILLCRIST. Amy, have the goodness to remember---- + +MRS. H. That this is my house so far as ladies are concerned. + +JILL. Mother! + + [She looks astonished at CHLOE, who, about to speak, does not, + passing her eyes, with a queer, half-scarred expression, from + MRS. HILLCRIST to DAWKER.] + + [To CHLOE] I'm awfully sorry. Come on! + + [They go out, Left. ROLF hurries after them.] + +CHARLES. You've insulted my wife. Why? What do you mean by it? + + [MRS. HILLCRIST simply smiles.] + +HILLCRIST. I apologise. I regret extremely. There is no reason +why the ladies of your family or of mine should be involved in our +quarrel. For Heaven's sake, let's fight like gentlemen. + +HORNBLOWER. Catchwords--sneers! No; we'll play what ye call a skin +game, Hillcrist, without gloves on; we won't spare each other. Ye +look out for yourselves, for, begod, after this morning I mean +business. And as for you, Dawker, ye sly dog, ye think yourself +very clever; but I'll have the Centry yet. Come, Chearlie! + + [They go out, passing JILL, who is coming in again, in the + doorway.] + +HILLCRIST. Well, Dawker? + +DAWKER. [Grinning] Safe for the moment. The old lady'll put it up +to auction. Couldn't get her to budge from that. Says she don't +want to be unneighbourly to either. But, if you ask me, it's money +she smells! + +JILL. [Advancing] Now, mother + +MRS. H. Well? + +JILL. Why did you insult her? + +MRS. H. I think I only asked you to take her out. + +JILL. Why? Even if she is Old Combustion's daughter-in-law? + +MRS. H. My dear Jill, allow me to judge the sort of acquaintances I +wish to make. [She looks at DAWKER.] + +JILL. She's all right. Lots of women powder and touch up their +lips nowadays. I think she's rather a good sort; she was awfully +upset. + +MRS. H. Too upset. + +JILL. Oh! don't be so mysterious, mother. If you know something, +do spit it out! + +MRS. H. Do you wish me to--er--"spit it out," Jack? + +HILLCRIST. Dawker, if you don't mind---- + + [DAWKER, with a nod, passes away out of the French window.] + +Jill, be respectful, and don't talk like a bargee. + +JILL. It's no good, Dodo. It made me ashamed. It's just as--as +caddish to insult people who haven't said a word, in your own house, +as it is to be--old Hornblower. + +MRS. H. You don't know what you're talking about. + +HILLCRIST. What's the matter with young Mrs. Hornblower? + +MRS. H. Excuse me, I shall keep my thoughts to myself at present. + + [She looks coldly at JILL, and goes out through the French + window.] + +HILLCRIST. You've thoroughly upset your mother, Jill. + +JILL. It's something Dawker's told her; I saw them. I don't like +Dawker, father, he's so common. + +HILLCRIST. My dear, we can't all be uncommon. He's got lots of go, +You must apologise to your mother. + +JILL. [Shaking-her clubbed hair] They'll make you do things you +don't approve of, Dodo, if you don't look out. Mother's fearfully +bitter when she gets her knife in. If old Hornblower's disgusting, +it's no reason we should be. + +HILLCRIST. So you think I'm capable--that's nice, Jill! + +JILL. No, no, darling! I only want to warn you solemnly that +mother'll tell you you're fighting fair, no matter what she and +Dawker do. + +HILLCRIST. [Smiling] Jill, I don't think I ever saw you so +serious. + +JILL. No. Because--[She swallows a lump in her throat] Well--I +was just beginning to enjoy, myself; and now--everything's going to +be bitter and beastly, with mother in that mood. That horrible old +man! Oh, Dodo! Don't let them make you horrid! You're such a +darling. How's your gout, ducky? + +HILLCRIST. Better; lot better. + +JILL. There, you see! That shows! It's going to be half- +interesting for you, but not for--us. + +HILLCRIST. Look here, Jill--is there anything between you and young +what's-his-name--Rolf? + +JILL. [Biting her lip] No. But--now it's all spoiled. + +HILLCRIST. You can't expect me to regret that. + +JILL. I don't mean any tosh about love's young dream; but I do like +being friends. I want to enjoy things, Dodo, and you can't do that +when everybody's on the hate. You're going to wallow in it, and so +shall I--oh! I know I shall!--we shall all wallow, and think of +nothing but "one for his nob." + +HILLCRIST. Aren't you fond of your home? + +JILL. Of course. I love it. + +HILLCRIST. Well, you won't be able to live in it unless we stop +that ruffian. Chimneys and smoke, the trees cut down, piles of +pots. Every kind of abomination. There! [He points] Imagine! +[He points through the French window, as if he could see those +chimneys rising and marring the beauty of the fields] I was born +here, and my father, and his, and his, and his. They loved those +fields, and those old trees. And this barbarian, with his +"improvement" schemes, forsooth! I learned to ride in the Centry +meadows--prettiest spring meadows in the world; I've climbed every +tree there. Why my father ever sold----! But who could have +imagined this? And come at a bad moment, when money's scarce. + +JILL. [Cuddling his arm] Dodo! + +HILLCRIST. Yes. But you don't love the place as I do, Jill. You +youngsters don't love anything, I sometimes think. + +JILL. I do, Dodo, I do! + +HILLCRIST. You've got it all before you. But you may live your +life and never find anything so good and so beautiful as this old +home. I'm not going to have it spoiled without a fight. + + [Conscious of batting betrayed Sentiment, he walks out at the + French window, passing away to the right. JILL following to + the window, looks. Then throwing back her head, she clasps her + hands behind it.] + +JILL. Oh--oh-oh! + + [A voice behind her says, "JILL!" She turns and starts back, + leaning against the right lintel of the window. ROLF appears + outside the window from Left.] + +Who goes there? + +ROLE. [Buttressed against the Left lintel] Enemy--after Chloe's +bag. + +JILL. Pass, enemy! And all's ill! + + [ROLF passes through the window, and retrieves the vanity bag + from the floor where CHLOE dropped it, then again takes his + stand against the Left lintel of the French window.] + +ROLF. It's not going to make any difference, is it? + +JILL. You know it is. + +ROLF. Sins of the fathers. + +JILL. Unto the third and fourth generations. What sin has my +father committed? + +ROLF. None, in a way; only, I've often told you I don't see why you +should treat us as outsiders. We don't like it. + +JILL. Well, you shouldn't be, then; I mean, he shouldn't be. + +ROLF. Father's just as human as your father; he's wrapped up in us, +and all his "getting on" is for us. Would you like to be treated as +your mother treated Chloe? Your mother's set the stroke for the +other big-wigs about here; nobody calls on Chloe. And why not? Why +not? I think it's contemptible to bar people just because they're +new, as you call it, and have to make their position instead of +having it left them. + +JILL. It's not because they're new, it's because--if your father +behaved like a gentleman, he'd be treated like one. + +ROLF. Would he? I don't believe it. My father's a very able man; +he thinks he's entitled to have influence here. Well, everybody +tries to keep him down. Oh! yes, they do. That makes him mad and +more determined than ever to get his way. You ought to be just, +Jill. + +JILL. I am just. + +ROLF. No, you're not. Besides, what's it got to do with Charlie +and Chloe? Chloe's particularly harmless. It's pretty sickening +for her. Father didn't expect people to call until Charlie married, +but since---- + +JILL. I think it's all very petty. + +ROLF. It is--a dog-in-the-manger business; I did think you were +above it. + +JILL. How would you like to have your home spoiled? + +ROLE. I'm not going to argue. Only things don't stand still. +Homes aren't any more proof against change than anything else. + +JILL. All right! You come and try and take ours. + +ROLF. We don't want to take your home. + +JILL. Like the Jackmans'? + +ROLF. All right. I see you're hopelessly prejudiced. + + [He turns to go.] + +JILL. [Just as he is vanishing--softly] Enemy? + +ROLF. [Turning] Yes, enemy. + +JILL. Before the battle--let's shake hands. + + [They move from the lintels and grasp each other's hands in the + centre of the French window.] + + + CURTAIN + + + + +ACT II + + +SCENE I + + A billiard room in a provincial hotel, where things are bought + and sold. The scene is set well forward, and is not very + broad; it represents the auctioneer's end of the room, having, + rather to stage Left, a narrow table with two chairs facing the + audience, where the auctioneer will sit and stand. The table, + which is set forward to the footlights, is littered with green- + covered particulars of sale. The audience are in effect public + and bidders. There is a door on the Left, level with the + table. Along the back wall, behind the table, are two raised + benches with two steps up to them, such as billiard rooms often + have, divided by a door in the middle of a wall, which is + panelled in oak. Late September sunlight is coming from a + skylight (not visible) on to these seats. The stage is empty + when the curtain goes up, but DAWKERS, and MRS. HILLCRIST are + just entering through the door at the back. + +DAWKER. Be out of their way here, ma'am. See old Hornblower with +Chearlie? + + [He points down to the audience.] + +MRS. H. It begins at three, doesn't it? + +DAWKER. They won't be over-punctual; there's only the Centry +selling. There's young Mrs. Hornblower with the other boy-- +[Pointing] over at the entrance. I've got that chap I told you of +down from town. + +MRS. H. Ah! make sure quite of her, Dawker. Any mistake would be +fatal. + +DAWKER. [Nodding] That's right, ma'am. Lot of peopled--always +spare time to watch an auction--ever remark that? The Duke's +agent's here; shouldn't be surprised if he chipped in. + +MRS. H. Where did you leave my husband? + +DAWKER. With Miss Jill, in the courtyard. He's coming to you. In +case I miss him; tell him when I reach his limit to blow his nose if +he wants me to go on; when he blows it a second time, I'll stop for +good. Hope we shan't get to that. Old Hornblower doesn't throw his +money away. + +MRS. H. What limit did you settle? + +DAWKER. Six thousand! + +MRS. H. That's a fearful price. Well, good luck to you, Dawker! + +DAWKER. Good luck, ma'am. I'll go and see to that little matter of +Mrs. Chloe. Never fear, we'll do them is somehow. + + [He winks, lays his finger on the side of his nose, and goes + out at the door.] + + [MRS. HILLCRIST mounts the two steps, sits down Right of the + door, and puts up a pair of long-handled glasses. Through the + door behind her come CHLOE and ROLF. She makes a sign for him + to go, and shuts the door.] + +CHLOE. [At the foot of the steps in the gangway--with a slightly +common accent] Mrs. Hillcrist! + +MRS. H. [Not quite starting] I beg your pardon? + +CHLOE. [Again] Mrs. Hillcrist---- + +MRS. H. Well? + +CHLOE. I never did you any harm. + +MRS. H. Did I ever say you did? + +CHLOE. No; but you act as if I had. + +MRS. H. I'm not aware that I've acted at all--as yet. You are +nothing to me, except as one of your family. + +CHLOE. 'Tisn't I that wants to spoil your home. + +MRS. H. Stop them then. I see your husband down there with his +father. + +CHLOE. I--I have tried. + +MRS. H. [Looking at her] Oh! I suppose such men don't pay +attention to what women ask them. + +CHLOE. [With a flash of spirit] I'm fond of my husband. I---- + +MRS. H. [Looking at her steadily] I don't quite know why you spoke +to me. + +CHLOE. [With a sort of pathetic sullenness] I only thought perhaps +you'd like to treat me as a human being. + +MRS. H. Really, if you don't mind, I should like to be left alone +just now. + +CHLOE. [Unhappily acquiescent] Certainly! I'll go to the other +end. + + [She moves to the Left, mounts the steps and sits down.] + + [ROLF, looking in through the door, and seeing where she is, + joins her. MRS. HILLCRIST resettles herself a little further + in on the Right.] + +ROLF. [Bending over to CHLOE, after a glance at MRS. HILLCRIST.] +Are you all right? + +CHLOE. It's awfully hot. + + [She fans herself wide the particulars of sale.] + +ROLF. There's Dawker. I hate that chap! + +CHLOE. Where? + +ROLF. Down there; see? + + [He points down to stage Right of the room.] + +CHLOE. [Drawing back in her seat with a little gasp] Oh! + +ROLF. [Not noticing] Who's that next him, looking up here? + +CHLOE. I don't know. + + [She has raised her auction programme suddenly, and sits + fanning herself, carefully screening her face.] + +ROLE. [Looking at her] Don't you feel well? Shall I get you some +water? [He gets up at her nod.] + + [As he reaches the door, HILLCRIST and JILL come in. HILLCRIST + passes him abstractedly with a nod, and sits down beside his + wife.] + +JILL. [To ROLF] Come to see us turned out? + +ROLF. [Emphatically] No. I'm looking after Chloe; she's not well. + +JILL. [Glancing at her] Sorry. She needn't have come, I suppose? + [RALF deigns no answer, and goes out.] + + [JILL glances at CHLOE, then at her parents talking in low + voices, and sits down next her father, who makes room for her.] + +MRS. H. Can Dawker see you there, Jack? + + [HILLCRIST nods.] + +What's the time? + +HILLCRIST. Three minutes to three. + +JILL. Don't you feel beastly all down the backs of your legs. +Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. Yes. + +JILL. Do you, mother? + +MRS. H. No. + +JILL. A wagon of old Hornblower's pots passed while we were in the +yard. It's an omen. + +MRS. H. Don't be foolish, Jill. + +JILL. Look at the old brute! Dodo, hold my hand. + +MRS. H. Make sure you've got a handkerchief, Jack. + +HILLCRIST. I can't go beyond the six thousand; I shall have to +raise every penny on mortgage as it is. The estate simply won't +stand more, Amy. + + [He feels in his breast pocket, and pulls up the edge of his + handkerchief.] + +JILL. Oh! Look! There's Miss Mullins, at the back; just come in. +Isn't she a spidery old chip? + +MRS. H. Come to gloat. Really, I think her not accepting your +offer is disgusting. Her impartiality is all humbug. + +HILLCRIST. Can't blame her for getting what she can--it's human +nature. Phew! I used to feel like this before a 'viva voce'. +Who's that next to Dawker? + +JILL. What a fish! + +MRS. H. [To herself] Ah! yes. + + [Her eyes slide round at CHLOE, silting motionless and rather + sunk in her seat, slowly fanning herself with they particulars + of the sale. Jack, go and offer her my smelling salts.] + +HILLCRIST. [Taking the salts] Thank God for a human touch! + +MRS. H. [Taken aback] Oh! + +JILL. [With a quick look at her mother, snatching the salts] I +will. [She goes over to CHLOE with the salts] Have a sniff; you +look awfully white. + +CHLOE. [Looking up, startled] Oh! no thanks. I'm all right. + +JILL. No, do! You must. [CHLOE takes them.] + +JILL. D'you mind letting me see that a minute? + + [She takes the particulars of the sale and studies it, but + CHLOE has buried the lower part of her face in her hand and the + smelling salts bottle.] + +Beastly hot, isn't it? You'd better keep that. + +CHLOE. [Her dark eyes wandering and uneasy] Rolf's getting me some +water. + +JILL. Why do you stay? You didn't want to come, did you? + + [CHLOE shakes her head.] + +All right! Here's your water. + + [She hands back the particulars and slides over to her seat, + passing ROLF in the gangway, with her chin well up.] + + [MRS. HILLCRIST, who has watched CHLOE and JILL and DAWKER, and + his friend, makes an enquiring movement with her hand, but gets + a disappointing answer.] + +JILL. What's the time, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. [Looking at his watch] Three minutes past. + +JILL. [Sighing] Oh, hell! + +HILLCRIST. Jill! + +JILL. Sorry, Dodo. I was only thinking. Look! Here he is! +Phew!--isn't he----? + +MRS. H. 'Sh! + + The AUCTIONEER comes in Left and goes to the table. He is a + square, short, brown-faced, common looking man, with clipped + grey hair fitting him like a cap, and a clipped grey moustache. + His lids come down over his quick eyes, till he can see you + very sharply, and you can hardly see that he can see you. He + can break into a smile at any moment, which has no connection + with him, as it were. By a certain hurt look, however, when + bidding is slow, he discloses that he is not merely an + auctioneer, but has in him elements of the human being. He can + wink with anyone, and is dressed in a snug-brown suit, with a + perfectly unbuttoned waistcoat, a low, turned down collar, and + small black and white sailor knot tie. While he is settling + his papers, the HILLCRISTS settle themselves tensely. CHLOE + has drunk her water and leaned back again, with the smelling + salts to her nose. ROLF leans forward in the seat beside her, + looking sideways at JILL. A SOLICITOR, with a grey beard, has + joined the AUCTIONEER, at his table. + +AUCTIONEER. [Tapping the table] Sorry to disappoint you, +gentlemen, but I've only one property to offer you to-day, No. 1, +The Centry, Deepwater. The second on the particulars has been +withdrawn. The third that's Bidcot, desirable freehold mansion and +farmlands in the Parish of Kenway--we shall have to deal with next +week. I shall be happy to sell it you then with out reservation. +[He looks again through the particulars in his hand, giving the +audience time to readjust themselves to his statements] Now, +gen'lemen, as I say, I've only the one property to sell. Freehold +No. 1--all that very desirable corn and stock-rearing and parklike +residential land known as the Centry, Deepwater, unique property an +A.1. chance to an A.1. audience. [With his smile] Ought to make +the price of the three we thought we had. Now you won't mind +listening to the conditions of sale; Mr. Blinkard'll read 'em, and +they won't wirry you, they're very short. + + [He sits down and gives two little tape on the table.] + + [The SOLICITOR rises and reads the conditions of sale in a + voice which no one practically can hear. Just as he begins to + read these conditions of sale, CHARLES HORNBLOWER enters at + back. He stands a moment, glancing round at the HILLCRIST and + twirling his moustache, then moves along to his wife and + touches her.] + +CHARLES. Chloe, aren't you well? + + [In the start which she gives, her face is fully revealed to + the audience.] + +CHARLES. Come along, out of the way of these people. + + [He jerks his head towards the HILLCRISTS. CHLOE gives a swift + look down to the stage Right of the audience.] + +CHLOE. No; I'm all right; it's hotter there. + +CHARLES. [To ROLF] Well, look after her--I must go back. + + [ROLF node. CHARLES, slides bank to the door, with a glance at + the HILLCRISTS, of whom MRS. HILLCRIST has been watching like a + lynx. He goes out, just as the SOLICITOR, finishing, sits + down.] + +AUCTIONEER. [Rising and tapping] Now, gen'lemen, it's not often a +piece of land like this comes into the market. What's that? [To a +friend in front of him] No better land in Deepwater--that's right, +Mr. Spicer. I know the village well, and a charming place it is; +perfect locality, to be sure. Now I don't want to wirry you by +singing the praises of this property; there it is--well-watered, +nicely timbered--no reservation of the timber, gen'lemen--no tenancy +to hold you up; free to do what you like with it to-morrow. You've +got a jewel of a site there, too; perfect position for a house. It +lies between the Duke's and Squire Hillcrist's--an emerald isle. +[With his smile] No allusion to Ireland, gen'lemen--perfect peace +in the Centry. Nothing like it in the county--a gen'leman's site, +and you don't get that offered you every day. [He looks down +towards HORNBLOWER, stage Left] Carries the mineral rights, and as +you know, perhaps, there's the very valuable Deepwater clay there. +What am I to start it at? Can I say three thousand? Well, anything +you like to give me. I'm sot particular. Come now, you've got more +time than me, I expect. Two hundred acres of first-rate grazin' and +cornland, with a site for a residence unequalled in the county; and +all the possibilities! Well, what shall I say? + + [Bid from SPICER.] + +Two thousand? [With his smile] That won't hurt you, Mr. Spicer. +Why, it's worth that to overlook the Duke. For two thousand? + + [Bid from HORNBLOWER, stage Left.] + +And five. Thank you, sir. Two thousand five hundred bid. + + [To a friend just below him.] + +Come, Mr. Sandy, don't scratch your head over it. + + [Bid from DAWKER, Stage Right.] + +And five. Three thousand bid for this desirable property. Why, +you'd think it wasn't desirable. Come along, gen'lemen. A little +spirit. + + [A alight pause.] + +JILL. Why can't I see the bids, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. The last was Dawker's. + +AUCTIONEER. For three thousand. [HORNBLOWER] Three thousand five +hundred? May I say--four? [A bid from the centre] No, I'm not +particular; I'll take hundreds. Three thousand six hundred bid. +[HORNBLOWER] And seven. Three thousand seven hundred, and---- + + [He pauses, quartering the audience.] + +JILL. Who was that, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. Hornblower. It's the Duke in the centre. + +AUCTIONEER. Come, gen'lemen, don't keep me all day. Four thousand +may I say? [DAWKER] Thank you. We're beginning. And one? [A bid +from the centre] Four thousand one hundred. [HORNBLOWER] Four +thousand two hundred. May I have yours, sir? [To DAWKER] And +three. Four thousand three hundred bid. No such site in the +county, gen'lemen. I'm going to sell this land for what it's worth. +You can't bid too much for me. [He smiles] [HORNBLOWER] Four +thousand five hundred bid. [Bid from the centre] And six. [DAWKER] +And seven. [HORNBLOWER] And eight. Nine, may I say? [But the +centre has dried up] [DAWKER] And nine. [HORNBLOWER] Five +thousand. Five thousand bid. That's better; there's some spirit in +it. For five thousand. + + [He pauses while he speak& to the SOLICITOR] + +HILLCRIST. It's a duel now. + +AUCTIONEER. Now, gen'lemen, I'm not going to give this property +away. Five thousand bid. [DAWKER] And one. [HORNBLOWER] And two. +[DAWKER] And three. Five thousand three hundred bid. And five, +did you say, sir? [HORNBLOWER] Five thousand five hundred bid. + + [He looks at hip particulars.] + +JILL. [Rather agonised] Enemy, Dodo. + +AUCTIONEER. This chance may never come again. + + "How you'll regret it + If you don't get it," + +as the poet says. May I say five thousand six hundred, sir? +[DAWKER] Five thousand six hundred bid. [HORNBLOWER] And seven. +[DAWKER] And eight. For five thousand eight hundred pounds. We're +gettin' on, but we haven't got the value yet. + +[A slight pause, while he wipes his brow at the success of his own +efforts.] + +JILL. Us, Dodo? + + [HILLCRIST nods. JILL looks over at ROLF, whose face is + grimly set. CHLOE has never moved. MRS. HILLCRIST whispers to + her husband.] + +AUCTIONEER. Five thousand eight hundred bid. For five thousand +eight hundred. Come along, gen'lemen, come along. We're not +beaten. Thank you, sir. [HORNBLOWER] Five thousand nine hundred. +And--? [DAWKER] Six thousand. Six thousand bid. Six thousand +bid. For six thousand! The Centry--most desirable spot in the +county--going for the low price of six thousand. + +HILLCRIST. [Muttering] Low! Heavens! + +AUCTIONEER. Any advance on six thousand? Come, gen'lemen, we +haven't dried up? A little spirit. Six thousand? For six +thousand? For six thousand pounds? Very well, I'm selling. For +six thousand once--[He taps] For six thousand twice--[He taps]. + +JILL. [Low] Oh! we've got it! + +AUCTIONEER. And one, sir? [HORNBLOWER] Six thousand one hundred +bid. + + [The SOLICITOR touches his arm and says something, to which the + AUCTIONEER responds with a nod.] + +MRS. H. Blow your nose, Jack. + + [HILLCRIST blows his nose.] + +AUCTIONEER. For six thousand one hundred. [DAWKER] And two. +Thank you. [HORNBLOWER] And three. For six thousand three +hundred. [DAWKER] And four. For six thousand four hundred pounds. +This coveted property. For six thousand four hundred pounds. Why, +it's giving it away, gen'lemen. [A pause.] + +MRS. H. Giving! + +AUCTIONEER. Six thousand four hundred bid. [HORNBLOWER] And five. +[DAWKER] And six. [HORNBLOWER] And seven. [DAWKER] And eight. + + [A pause, during which, through the door Left, someone beckons + to the SOLICITOR, who rises and confers.] + +HILLCRIST. [Muttering] I've done if that doesn't get it. + +AUCTIONEER. For six thousand eight hundred. For six thousand eight +hundred-once--[He taps] twice--[He tape] For the last time. This +dominating site. [HORNBLOWER] And nine. Thank you. For six +thousand nine hundred. + + [HILLCRIST has taken out his handkerchief.] + +JILL. Oh! Dodo! + +MRS. H. [Quivering] Don't give in! + +AUCTIONEER. Seven thousand may I say? [DAWKER] Seven thousand. + +MRS. H. [Whispers] Keep it down; don't show him. + +AUCTIONEER. For seven-thousand--going for seven thousand--once-- +[Taps] twice [Taps] [HORNBLOWER] And one. Thank you, sir. + + [HILLCRIST blows his nose. JILL, with a choke, leans back in + her seat and folds her arms tightly on her chest. MRS. + HILLCRIST passes her handkerchief over her lips, sitting + perfectly still. HILLCRIST, too, is motionless.] + + [The AUCTIONEER, has paused, and is talking to the SOLICITOR, + who has returned to his seat.] + +MRS. H. Oh! Jack. + +JILL. Stick it, Dodo; stick it! + +AUCTIONEER. Now, gen'lemen, I have a bid of seven thousand one +hundred for the Centry. And I'm instructed to sell if I can't get +more. It's a fair price, but not a big price. [To his friend MR. +SPICER] A thumpin' price? [With his smile] Well, you're a judge +of thumpin', I admit. Now, who'll give me seven thousand two +hundred? What, no one? Well, I can't make you, gen'lemen. For +seven thousand one hundred. Once--[Taps] Twice--[Taps]. + + [JILL utters a little groan.] + +HILLCRIST. [Suddenly, in a queer voice] Two. + +AUCTIONEER. [Turning with surprise and looking up to receive +HILLCRIST'S nod] Thank you, sir. And two. Seven thousand two +hundred. [He screws himself round so as to command both HILLCRIST +and HORNBLOWER] May I have yours, sir? [HORNBLOWER] And three. +[HILLCRIST] And four. Seven thousand four hundred. For seven +thousand four hundred. [HORNBLOWER] Five. [HILLCRIST] Six. For +seven thousand six hundred. [A pause] Well, gen'lemen, this is. +better, but a record property shid fetch a record price. The +possibilities are enormous. [HORNBLOWER] Eight thousand did you +say, sir? Eight thousand. Going for eight thousand pounds. +[HILLCRIST] And one. [HORNBLOWER] And two. [HILLCRIST] And +three. [HORNBLOWER] And four. [HILLCRIST] And five. For eight +thousand five hundred. A wonderful property for eight thousand five +hundred. + +[He wipes his brow.] + +JILL. [Whispering] Oh, Dodo! + +MRS. H. That's enough, Jack, we must stop some time. + +AUCTIONEER. For eight thousand five hundred. Once--[Taps]--twice-- +[Taps] [HORNBLOWER] Six hundred. [HILLCRIST] Seven. May I have +yours, sir? [HORNBLOWER] Eight. + +HILLCRIST. Nine thousand. + + [MRS. HILLCRIST looks at him, biting her lips, but he is quite + absorbed.] + +AUCTIONEER. Nine thousand for this astounding property. Why, the +Duke would pay that if he realised he'd be overlooked. Now, Sir? +[To HORNBLOWER. No response]. Just a little raise on that. [No +response.] For nine thousand. The Centry, Deepwater, for nine +thousand. Once--[Taps] Twice----[Taps]. + +JILL. [Under her breath] Ours! + +A VOICE. [From far back in the centre] And five hundred. + +AUCTIONEER. [Surprised and throwing out his arms towards the voice] +And five hundred. For nine thousand five hundred. May I have +yours, sir? [He looks at HORNBLOWER. No response.] + + [The SOLICITOR speaks to him. MRS. H. [Whispering] It must + be the Duke again.] + +HILLCRIST. [Passing his hand over his brow] That's stopped him, +anyway. + +AUCTIONEER. [Looking at HILLCRIST] For nine thousand five hundred? +[HILLCRIST shakes his head.] Once more. The Centry, Deepwater, for +nine thousand five hundred. Once--[Taps] Twice--[Taps] [He pauses +and looks again at HORNBLOWER and HILLCRIST] For the last time--at +nine thousand five hundred. [Taps] [With a look towards the +bidder] Mr. Smalley. Well! [With great satisfaction] That's +that! No more to-day, gen'lemen. + + [The AUCTIONEER and SOLICITOR busy themselves. The room begins + to empty.] + +MRS. H. Smalley? Smalley? Is that the Duke's agent? Jack! + +HILLCRIST. [Coming out of a sort of coma, after the excitement he +has been going through] What! What! + +JILL. Oh, Dodo! How splendidly you stuck it! + +HILLCRIST. Phew! What a squeak! I was clean out of my depth. A +mercy the Duke chipped in again. + +MRS. H. [Looking at ROLF and CHLOE, who are standing up as if about +to go] Take care; they can hear you. Find DAWKER, Jack. + + [Below, the AUCTIONEER and SOLICITOR take up their papers, and + move out Left.] + + [HILLCRIST stretches himself, standing up, as if to throw off + the strain. The door behind is opened, and HORNBLOWER + appears.] + +HORNBLOWER. Ye ran me up a pretty price. Ye bid very pluckily, +Hillcrist. But ye didn't quite get my measure. + +HILLCRIST. Oh! It was my nine thousand the Duke capped. Thank +God, the Centry's gone to a gentleman! + +HORNBLOWER. The Duke? [He laughs] No, the Gentry's not gone to a +gentleman, nor to a fool. It's gone to me. + +HILLCRIST. What! + +HOUNBLOWER. I'm sorry for ye; ye're not fit to manage these things. +Well, it's a monstrous price, and I've had to pay it because of your +obstinacy. I shan't forget that when I come to build. + +HILLCRIST. D'you mean to say that bid was for you? + +HORNBLOWER. Of course I do. I told ye I was a bad man to be up +against. Perhaps ye'll believe me now. + +HILLCRIST. A dastardly trick! + +HORNBLOWER. [With venom] What did ye call it--a skin game? +Remember we're playin' a skin game, Hillcrist. + +HILLCRIST. [Clenching his fists] If we were younger men---- + +HORNBLOWER. Ay! 'Twouldn't Look pretty for us to be at fisticuffs. +We'll leave the fightin' to the young ones. [He glances at ROLF and +JILL; suddenly throwing out his finger at ROLF] No makin' up to +that young woman! I've watched ye. And as for you, missy, you +leave my boy alone. + +JILL. [With suppressed passion] Dodo, may I spit in his eye or +something? + +HILLCRIST. Sit down. + + [JILL sits down. He stands between her and HORNBLOWER.] + + [Yu've won this round, sir, by a foul blow. We shall see + whether you can take any advantage of it. I believe the law + can stop you ruining my property.] + +HORNBLOWER. Make your mind easy; it can't. I've got ye in a noose, +and I'm goin' to hang ye. + +MRS. H. [Suddenly] Mr. Hornblower, as you fight foul--so shall we. + +HILLCRIST. Amy! + +MRS. H. [Paying no attention] And it will not be foul play towards +you and yours. You are outside the pale. + +HORNBLOWER. That's just where I am, outside your pale all round ye. +Ye're not long for Deepwater, ma'am. Make your dispositions to go; +ye'll be out in six months, I prophesy. And good riddance to the +neighbourhood. [They are all down on the level now.] + +CHLOE. [Suddenly coming closer to MRS. HILLCRIST] Here are your +salts, thank you. Father, can't you----? + +HORNBLOWER. [Surprised] Can't I what? + +CHLOE. Can't you come to an arrangement? + +MRS. H. Just so, Mr. Hornblower. Can't you? + +HORNBLOWER. [Looking from one to the other] As we're speakin' out, +ma'am, it's your behaviour to my daughter-in-law--who's as good as +you--and better, to my thinking--that's more than half the reason +why I've bought this property. Ye've fair got my dander up. Now +it's no use to bandy words. It's very forgivin' of ye, Chloe, but +come along! + +MRS. H. Quite seriously, Mr. Hornblower, you had better come to an +arrangement. + +HORNBLOWER. Mrs. Hillcrist, ladies should keep to their own +business. + +MRS. H. I will. + +HILLCRIST. Amy, do leave it to us men. You young man [He speaks to +ROLF] do you support your father's trick this afternoon? + + [JILL looks round at ROLF, who tries to speak, when HORNBLOWER + breaks in.] + +HORNBLOWER. My trick? And what dye call it, to try and put me own +son against me? + +JILL. [To ROLF] Well? + +ROLF. I don't, but---- + +HORNBLOWER. Trick? Ye young cub, be quiet. Mr. Hillcrist had an +agent bid for him--I had an agent bid for me. Only his agent bid at +the beginnin', an' mine bid at the end. What's the trick in that? + +[He laughs.] + +HILLCRIST. Hopeless; we're in different worlds. + +HORNBLOWER. I wish to God we were! Come you, Chloe. And you, +Rolf, you follow. In six months I'll have those chimneys up, and me +lorries runnin' round ye. + +MRS. H. Mr. Hornblower, if you build---- + +HORNBLOWER. [Looking at MRS. HILLCRIST] Ye know--it's laughable. +Ye make me pay nine thousand five hundred for a bit o' 1and not +worth four, and ye think I'm not to get back on ye. I'm goin' on +with as little consideration as if ye were a family of blackbeetles. +Good afternoon! + +ROLF. Father! + +JILL. Oh, Dodo! He's obscene. + +HILLCRIST. Mr. Hornblower, my compliments. + + [HORNBLOWER with a stare at HILLCRIST'S half-smiling face, + takes CHLOE'S arm, and half drags her towards the door on the + Left. But there, in the opened doorway, are standing DAWKER + and a STRANGER. They move just out of the way of the exit, + looking at CHLOE, who sways and very nearly falls.] + +HORNBLOWER. Why! Chloe! What's the matter? + +CHLOE. I don't know; I'm not well to-day. + + [She pulls herself together with a great, effort.] + +MRS. H. [Who has exchanged a nod with DAWKER and the STRANGER] Mr. +Hornblower, you build at your peril. I warn you. + +HORNBLOWER. [Turning round to speak] Ye think yourself very cool +and very smart. But I doubt this is the first time ye've been up +against realities. Now, I've been up against them all my life. +Don't talk to me, ma'am, about peril and that sort of nonsense; it +makes no impression. Your husband called me pachydermatous. I +don't know Greek, and Latin, and all that, but I've looked it out in +the dictionary, and I find it means thick-skinned. And I'm none +the worse for that when I have to deal with folk like you. Good +afternoon. + + [He draws CHLOE forward, and they pass through the door, + followed quickly by ROLF.] + +MRS. H. Thank you; Dawker. + + [She moves up to DAWKER and the STRANGER, Left, and they + talk.] + +JILL. Dodo! It's awful! + +HILLCRIST. Well, there's nothing for it now but to smile and pay +up. Poor old home! It shall be his wash-pot. Over the Centry will +he cast his shoe. By Gad, Jill, I could cry! + +JILL. [Pointing] Look! Chloe's sitting down. She nearly fainted +just now. It's something to do with Dawker, Dodo, and that man with +him. Look at mother! Ask them! + +HILLCRIST. Dawker! + + [DAWKER comes to him, followed by MRS. HILLCRIST.] + +What's the mystery about young Mrs. Hornblower? + +DAWKER. No mystery. + +HILLCRIST. Well, what is it? + +MRS. H. You'd better not ask. + +HILLCRIST. I wish to know. + +MRS. H. Jill, go out and wait for us. + +JILL. Nonsense, mother! + +MRS. H. It's not for a girl to hear. + +JILL. Bosh! I read the papers every day. + +DAWKER. It's nothin' worse than you get there, anyway. + +MRS. H. Do you wish your daughter---- + +JILL. It's ridiculous, Dodo; you'd think I was mother at my age. + +MRS. H. I was not so proud of my knowledge. + +JILL. No, but you had it, dear. + +HILLCRIST. What is it----what is it? Come over here, Dawker. + + [DAWKER goes to him, Right, and speaks in a low voice.] + +What! [Again DAWKER speaks in, a low voice.] + +Good God! + +MRS. H. Exactly! + +JILL. Poor thing--whatever it is! + +MRS. H. Poor thing? + +JILL. What went before, mother? + +MRS. H. It's what's coming after that matters; luckily. + +HILLCRIST. How do you know this? + +DAWKER. My friend here [He points to the STRANGER] was one of the +agents. + +HILLCRIST. It's shocking. I'm sorry I heard it. + +MRS. H. I told you not to. + +HILLCRIST. Ask your friend to come here. + + [DAWKER beckons, and the STRANGER joins the group.] + +Are you sure of what you've said, sir? + +STRANGER. Perfectly. I remember her quite well; her name then +was---- + +HILLCRIST. I don't want to know, thank you. I'm truly sorry. I +wouldn't wish the knowledge of that about his womenfolk to my worst +enemy. This mustn't be spoken of. [JILL hugs his arm.] + +MRS. H. It will not be if Mr. Hornblower is wise. If he is not +wise, it must be spoken of. + +HILLCRIST. I say no, Amy. I won't have it. It's a dirty weapon. +Who touches pitch shall be defiled. + +MRS. H. Well, what weapons does he use against us? Don't be +quixotic. For all we can tell, they know it quite well already, and +if they don't they ought to. Anyway, to know this is our salvation, +and we must use it. + +JILL: [Sotto voce] Pitch! Dodo! Pitch! + +DAWKER. The threat's enough! J.P.--Chapel--Future member for the +constituency----. + +HILLCRIST. [A little more doubtfully] To use a piece of knowledge +about a woman--it's repugnant. I--I won't do it. + + [Mrs. H. If you had a son tricked into marrying such a woman, + would you wish to remain ignorant of it?] + +HILLCRIST. [Struck] I don't know--I don't know. + +MRS. H. At least, you'd like to be in a position to help him, if +you thought it necessary? + +HILLCRIST. Well--that perhaps. + +MRS. H. Then you agree that Mr. Hornblower at least should be told. +What he does with the knowledge is not our affair. + +HILLCRIST. [Half to the STRANGER and half to DAWKER] Do you realise +that an imputation of that kind may be ground for a criminal libel +action? + +STRANGER. Quite. But there's no shadow of doubt; not the faintest. +You saw her just now? + +HILLCRIST. I did. [Revolting again] No; I don't like it. + + [DAWKER has drawn the STRANGER a step or two away, and they + talk together.] + +MRS. H. [In a low voice] And the ruin of our home? You're +betraying your fathers, Jack. + +HILLCRIST. I can't bear bringing a woman into it. + +MRS. H. We don't. If anyone brings her in; it will be Hornblower +himself. + +HILLCRIST. We use her secret as a lever. + +MRS. H. I tell you quite plainly: I will only consent to holding my +tongue about her, if you agree to Hornblower being told. It's a +scandal to have a woman like that in the neighbourhood. + +JILL. Mother means that, father. + +HILLCRIST. Jill, keep quiet. This is a very bitter position. I +can't tell what to do. + +MRS. H. You must use this knowledge. You owe it to me--to us all. +You'll see that when you've thought it over. + +JILL. [Softly] Pitch, Dodo, pitch! + +MRS. H. [Furiously] Jill, be quiet! + +HILLCRIST. I was brought up never to hurt a woman. I can't do it, +Amy--I can't do it. I should never feel like a gentleman again. + +MRS. H. [Coldly] Oh! Very well. + +HILLCRIST. What d'you mean by that? + +MRS. H. I shall use the knowledge in my own way. + +HILLCRIST. [Staring at her] You would--against my wishes? + +MRS. H. I consider it my duty. + +HILLCRIST. If I agree to Hornblower being told---- + +MRS. H. That's all I want. + +HILLCRIST. It's the utmost I'll consent to, Amy; and don't let's +have any humbug about its being, morally necessary. We do it to +save our skins. + +MRS. H. I don't know what you mean by humbug? + +JILL. He means humbug; mother. + +HILLCRIST. It must stop at old Hornblower. Do you quite +understand? + +MRS. H. Quite. + +JILL. Will it stop? + +MRS. H. Jill, if you can't keep your impertinence to yourself---- + +HILLCRIST. Jill, come with me. + + [He turns towards door, Back.] + +JILL. I'm sorry, mother. Only it is a skin game, isn't it? + +MRS. H. You pride yourself on plain speech, Jill. I pride myself +on plain thought. You will thank me afterwards that I can see +realities. I know we are better people than these Hornblowers. +Here we are going to stay, and they--are not. + +JILL. [Looking at her with a sort of unwilling admiration] Mother, +you're wonderful! + +HILLCRIST. Jill! + +JILL. Coming, Dodo. + + [She turns and runs to the door. They go out.] + + [MRS. HILLCRIST, with a long sigh, draws herself up, fine and + proud.] + +MRS. H. Dawker! [He comes to her.] + + [I shall send him a note to-night, and word it so that + he will be bound to come and see us to-marrow morning. Will + you be in the study just before eleven o'clock, with this + gentleman?] + +DAWKER. [Nodding] We're going to wire for his partner. I'll bring +him too. Can't make too sure. + + [She goes firmly up the steps and out.] + +DAWKER. [To the STRANGER, with a wink] The Squire's squeamish--too +much of a gentleman. But he don't count. The grey mare's all +right. You wire to Henry. I'm off to our solicitors. We'll make +that old rhinoceros sell us back the Centry at a decent price. +These Hornblowers--[Laying his finger on his nose] We've got 'em + + + CURTAIN + + + + + +SCENE II + + CHLOE's boudoir at half-past seven the same evening. A pretty + room. No pictures on the walls, but two mirrors. A screen and + a luxurious couch an the fireplace side, stage Left. A door + rather Right of Centre Back; opening inwards. A French window, + Right forward: A writing table, Right Back. Electric light + burning. + + CHLOE, in a tea-gown, is standing by the forward end of the + sofa, very still, and very pale. Her lips are parted, and her + large eyes stare straight before them as if seeing ghosts: The + door is opened noiselessly and a WOMAN'S face is seen. It + peers at CHLOE, vanishes, and the door is closed. CHLOE raises + her hands, covers her eyes with them, drops them with a quick + gesture, and looks round her. A knock. With a swift movement + she slides on to the sofa, and lies prostrate, with eyes + closed. + +CHLOE. [Feebly] Come in! + + [Her Maid enters; a trim, contained figure of uncertain years, + in a black dress, with the face which was peering in.] + +Yes, Anna? + +ANNA. Aren't you going in to dinner, ma'am? + +CHLOE. [With closed eyes] No. + +ANNA. Will you take anything here, ma'am? + +CHLOE. I'd like a biscuit and a glass of champagne. + + [The MAID, who is standing between sofa and door, smiles. + CHLOE, with a swift look, catches the smile.] + +Why do you smile? + +ANNA. Was I, ma'am? + +CHLOE. You know you were. [Fiercely] Are you paid to smile at me? + +ANNA. [Immovable] No, ma'am, Would you like some eau de Cologne on +your forehead? + +CHLOE. Yes.--No.--What's the good? [Clasping her forehead] My +headache won't go. + +ANNA. To keep lying down's the best thing for it. + +CHLOE. I have been--hours. + +ANNA. [With the smile] Yes, ma'am. + +CHLOE. [Gathering herself up on the sofa] Anna! Why do you do it? + +ANNA. Do what, ma'am? + +CHLOE. Spy on me. + +ANNA. I--never! I----! + +CHLOE. To spy! You're a fool, too. What is there to spy on? + +ANNA. Nothing, ma'am. Of course, if you're not satisfied with me, +I must give notice. Only--if I were spying, I should expect to have +notice given me. I've been accustomed to ladies who wouldn't stand +such a thing for a minute. + +CHLOE: [Intently] Well, you'll take a month's wages and go +tomorrow. And that's all, now. + + [ANNA inclines her head and goes out.] + + [CHLOE, with a sort of moan, turns over and buries her face in + the cushion.] + +CHLOE. [Sitting up] If I could see that man--if only--or Dawker--- + + [She springs up and goes to the door, but hesitates, and comes + back to the head of the sofa, as ROLF comes in. During this + scene the door is again opened stealthily, an inch or too.] + +ROLF. How's the head? + +CHLOE. Beastly, thanks. I'm not going into dinner. + +ROLF. Is there anything I can do for you? + +CHLOE. No, dear boy. [Suddenly looking at him] You don't want +this quarrel with the Hillcrists to go on, do you, Rolf? + +ROLF. No; I hate it. + +CHLOE. Well, I think I might be able to stop it. Will you slip +round to Dawker's--it's not five minutes--and ask him to come and +see me. + +ROLF. Father and Charlie wouldn't---- + +CHLOE. I know. But if he comes to the window here while you're at +dinner, I'll let him in, and out, and nobody'd know. + +ROLF. [Astonished] Yes, but what I mean how---- + +CHLOE. Don't ask me. It's worth the shot that's all. [Looking at +her wrist-watch] To this window at eight o'clock exactly. First +long window on the terrace, tell him. + +ROLF. It's nothing Charlie would mind? + +CHLOE. No; only I can't tell him--he and father are so mad about it +all. + +ROLF. If there's a real chance---- + +CHLOE. [Going to the window and opening it] This way, Rolf. If +you don't come back I shall know he's coming. Put your watch by +mine. [Looking at his watch] It's a minute fast, see! + +ROLF. Look here, Chloe + +CHLOE. Don't wait; go on. + + [She almost pushes him out through the window, closes it after + him, draws the curtains again, stands a minute, thinking hard; + goes to the bell and rings it; then, crossing to the writing + table, Right Back, she takes out a chemist's prescription.] + + [ANNA comes in.] + +CHLOE. I don't want that champagne. Take this to the chemist and +get him to make up some of these cachets quick, and bring them back +yourself. + +ANNA. Yes, ma'am; but you have some. + +CHLOE. They're too old; I've taken two--the strength's out of them. +Quick, please; I can't stand this head. + +ANNA. [Taking the prescription--with her smile] Yes, ma'am. It'll +take some time--you don't want me? + +CHLOE. No; I want the cachets. + + [ANNA goes out.] + + [CHLOE looks at her wrist-watch, goes to the writing-table, + which is old-fashioned, with a secret drawer, looks round her, + dives at the secret drawer, takes out a roll of notes and a + tissue paper parcel. She counts the notes: "Three hundred." + Slips them into her breast and unwraps the little parcel. It + contains pears. She slips them, too, into her dress, looks + round startled, replaces the drawer, and regains her place on + the sofa, lying prostrate as the door opens, and HORNBLOWER + comes in. She does not open her ages, and he stands looking at + her a moment before speaking.] + +HORNBLOWER. [Almost softly] How are ye feelin'. Chloe? + +CHLOE. Awful head! + +HORNBLOWER: Can ye attend a moment? I've had a note from that +woman. + + [CHLOE sits up.] + +HORNBLOWER. [Reading] "I have something of the utmost importance +to tell you in regard to your daughter-in-law. I shall be waiting +to see you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. The matter is so +utterly vital to the happiness of all your family, that I cannot +imagine you will fail to come." Now, what's the meaning of it? Is +it sheer impudence, or lunacy, or what? + +CHLOE. I don't know. + +HORNBLOWER. [Not unkindly] Chloe, if there's anything--ye'd better +tell me. Forewarned's forearmed. + +CHLOE. There's nothing; unless it's--[With a quick took at him,]-- +Unless it's that my father was a--a bankrupt. + +HORNBLOWER. Hech! Many a man's been that. Ye've never told us +much about your family. + +CHLOE. I wasn't very proud of him. + +HORNBLOWER. Well, ye're not responsible for your father. If that's +all, it's a relief. The bitter snobs! I'll remember it in the +account I've got with them. + +CHLOE. Father, don't say anything to Charlie; it'll only worry him +for nothing. + +HORNBLOWER. No, no, I'll not. If I went bankrupt, it'd upset +Chearlie, I've not a doubt. [He laugh. Looking at her shrewdly] +There's nothing else, before I answer her? + + [CHLOE shakes her head.] + +Ye're sure? + +CHLOE. [With an efort] She may invent things, of course. + +HORNBLOWER. [Lost in his feud feeling] Ah! but there's such a +thing as the laws o' slander. If they play pranks, I'll have them +up for it. + +CHLOE. [Timidly] Couldn't you stop this quarrel; father? You said +it was on my account. But I don't want to know them. And they do +love their old home. I like the girl. You don't really need to +build just there, do you? Couldn't you stop it? Do! + +HORNBLOWER. Stop it? Now I've bought? Na, no! The snobs defied +me, and I'm going to show them. I hate the lot of them, and I hate +that little Dawker worst of all. + +CHLOE. He's only their agent. + +HORNBLOWER. He's a part of the whole dog-in-the-manger system that +stands in my way. Ye're a woman, and ye don't understand these +things. Ye wouldn't believe the struggle I've had to make my money +and get my position. These county folk talk soft sawder, but to get +anything from them's like gettin' butter out of a dog's mouth. If +they could drive me out of here by fair means or foul, would they +hesitate a moment? Not they! See what they've made me pay; and +look at this letter. Selfish, mean lot o' hypocrites! + +CHLOE. But they didn't begin the quarrel. + +HORNBLOWER. Not openly; but underneath they did--that's their way. +They began it by thwartin' me here and there and everywhere, just +because I've come into me own a bit later than they did. I gave 'em +their chance, and they wouldn't take it. Well, I'll show 'em what a +man like me can do when he sets his mind to it. I'll not leave much +skin on them. + + [In the intensity of his feeling he has lost sight of her face, + alive with a sort of agony of doubt, whether to plead with him + further, or what to do. Then, with a swift glance at her + wristwatch, she falls back on the sofa and closes her eyes.] + +It'll give me a power of enjoyment seein' me chimneys go up in front +of their windies. That was a bonnie thought--that last bid o' mine. +He'd got that roused up, I believe, he, never would a' stopped. +[Looking at her] I forgot your head. Well, well, ye'll be best +tryin' quiet. [The gong sounds.] Shall we send ye something in +from dinner? + +CHLOE. No; I'll try to sleep. Please tell them I don't want to be +disturbed. + +HORNBLOWER. All right. I'll just answer this note. + + [He sits down at her writing-table.] + + [CHLOE starts up from the sofa feverishly, looking at her + watch, at the window, at her watch; then softly crosses to the + window and opens it.] + +HORNBLOWER. [Finishing] Listen! [He turns round towards the sofa] +Hallo! Where are ye? + +CHLOE. [At the window] It's so hot. + +HORNBLOWER. Here's what I've said: + + "MADAM,--You can tell me nothing of my daughter-in-law which + can affect the happiness of my family. I regard your note as + an impertinence, and I shall not be with you at eleven o'clock + to-morrow morning. + + "Yours truly----" + +CHLOE. [With a suffering movement of her head] Oh!--Well!--[The +gong is touched a second time.] + +HORNBLOWER. [Crossing to the door] Lie ye down, and get a sleep. +I'll tell them not to disturb ye; and I hope ye'll be all right to- +morrow. Good-night, Chloe. + +CHLOE. Good-night. [He goes out.] + + [After a feverish turn or two, CHLOE returns to the open window + and waits there, half screened by the curtains. The door is + opened inch by inch, and ANNA'S head peers round. Seeing where + CHLOE is, she slips in and passes behind the screen, Left. + Suddenly CHLOE backs in from the window.] + +CHLOE. [In a low voice] Come in. + + [She darts to the door and locks it.] + + [DAWKER has come in through the window and stands regarding her + with a half smile.] + +DAWKER. Well, young woman, what do you want of me? + + [In the presence of this man of her own class, there comes a + distinct change in CHLOE'S voice and manner; a sort of frank + commonness, adapted to the man she is dealing with, but she + keeps her voice low.] + +CHLOE. You're making a mistake, you know. + +DAWKER. [With a broad grin] No. I've got a memory for faces. + +CHLOE. I say you are. + +DAWKER. [Turning to go] If that's all, you needn't have troubled +me to come. + +CHLOE. No. Don't go! [With a faint smile] You are playing a game +with me. Aren't you ashamed? What harm have I done you? Do you +call this cricket? + +DAWKER. No, my girl--business. + +CHLOE. [Bitterly] What have I to do with this quarrel? I couldn't +help their falling out. + +DAWKER. That's your misfortune. + +CHLOE. [Clasping her hands] You're a cruel fellow if you can spoil +a woman's life who never did you an ounce of harm. + +DAWKER. So they don't know about you. That's all right. Now, look +here, I serve my employer. But I'm flesh and blood, too, and I +always give as good as I get. I hate this family of yours. There's +no name too bad for 'em to call me this last month, and no looks too +black to give me. I tell you frankly, I hate. + +CHLOE. There's good in them same as in you. + +DAWKER. [With a grin] There's no good Hornblower but a dead +Hornblower. + +CHLOE. But--but Im not one. + +DAWKER. You'll be the mother of some, I shouldn't wonder. + +CHLOE. [Stretching out her hand-pathetically] Oh! leave me alone, +do! I'm happy here. Be a sport! Be a sport! + +DAWKER. [Disconcerted for a second] You can't get at me, so don't +try it on. + +CHLOE. I had such a bad time in old days. + + [DAWKER shakes his head; his grin has disappeared and his face + is like wood.] + +CHLOE. [Panting] Ah! do! You might! You've been fond of some +woman, I suppose. Think of her! + +DAWKER. [Decisively] It won't do, Mrs. Chloe. You're a pawn in +the game, and I'm going to use you. + +CHLOE. [Despairingly] What is it to you? [With a sudden touch of +the tigress] Look here! Don't you make an enemy, of me. I haven't +dragged through hell for nothing. Women like me can bite, I tell +you. + +DAWKER. That's better. I'd rather have a woman threaten than +whine, any day. Threaten away! You'll let 'em know that you met me +in the Promenade one night. Of course you'll let 'em know that, +won't you?--or that---- + +CHLOE. Be quiet! Oh! Be quiet! [Taking from her bosom the notes +and the pearls] Look! There's my savings--there's all I've got! +The pearls'll fetch nearly a thousand. [Holding it out to him] +Take it, and drop me out--won't you? Won't you? + +DAWKER. [Passing his tongue over his lips with a hard little laugh] +You mistake your man, missis. I'm a plain dog, if you like, but I'm +faithful, and I hold fast. Don't try those games on me. + +CHLOE. [Losing control] You're a beast!--a beast! a cruel, +cowardly beast! And how dare you bribe that woman here to spy on +me? Oh! yes, you do; you know you do. If you drove me mad, you +wouldn't care. You beast! + +DAWKER. Now, don't carry on! That won't help you. + +CHLOE. What d'you call it--to dog a woman down like this, just +because you happen to have a quarrel with a man? + +DAWKER. Who made the quarrel? Not me, missis. You ought to know +that in a row it's the weak and helpless--we won't say the innocent- +that get it in the neck. That can't be helped. + +CHLOE. [Regarding him intently] I hope your mother or your sister, +if you've got any, may go through what I'm going through ever since +you got on my track. I hope they'll know what fear means. I hope +they'll love and find out that it's hanging on a thread, and--and-- +Oh! you coward, you persecuting coward! Call yourself a man! + +DAWKER. [With his grin] Ah! You look quite pretty like that. By +George! you're a handsome woman when you're roused. + + [CHLOE'S passion fades out as quickly as it blazed up. She + sinks down on the sofa, shudders, looks here and there, and + then for a moment up at him.] + +CHLOE. Is there anything you'll take, not to spoil my life? +[Clasping her hands on her breast; under her breath] Me? + +DAWKER. [Wiping his brow] By God! That's an offer. [He recoils +towards the window] You--you touched me there. Look here! I've +got to use you and I'm going to use you, but I'll do my best to let +you down as easy as I can. No, I don't want anything you can give +me--that is--[He wipes his brow again] I'd like it--but I won't +take it. + + [CHLOE buries her face in her hands.] + +There! Keep your pecker up; don't cry. Good-night! [He goes +through the window.] + +CHLOE. [Springing up] Ugh! Rat in a trap! Rat----! + + [She stands listening; flies to the door, unlocks it, and, + going back to the sofa, lies down and doses her eyes. CHARLES + comes in very quietly and stands over her, looking to see if + she is asleep. She opens her eyes.] + +CHARLES. Well, Clo! Had a sleep, old girl? + +CHLOE. Ye-es. + +CHARLES. [Sitting on the arm of the sofa and caressing her] Feel +better, dear? + +CHLOE. Yes, better, Charlie. + +CHARLES. That's right. Would you like some soup? + +CHLOE. [With a shudder] No. + +CHARLES. I say-what gives you these heads? You've been very on and +off all this last month. + +CHLOE. I don't know. Except that--except that I am going to have a +child, Charlie. + +CHARLES. After all! By Jove! Sure? + +CHLOE. [Nodding] Are you glad? + +CHARLES. Well--I suppose I am. The guv'nor will be mighty pleased, +anyway. + +CHLOE. Don't tell him--yet. + +CHARLES. All right! [Bending over and drawing her to him] My poor +girl, I'm so sorry you're seedy. Give us a kiss. + + [CHLOE puts up her face and kisses him passionately.] + +I say, you're like fire. You're not feverish? + + +CHLOE. [With a laugh] It's a wonder if I'm not. Charlie, are you +happy with me? + +CHARLES. What do you think? + +CHLOE. [Leaning against him] You wouldn't easily believe things +against me, would you? + +CHARLES. What! Thinking of those Hillcrists? What the hell that +woman means by her attitude towards you--When I saw her there to- +day, I had all my work cut out not to go up and give her a bit of my +mind. + +CHLOE. [Watching him stealthily] It's not good for me, now I'm +like this. It's upsetting me, Charlie. + +CHARLES. Yes; and we won't forget. We'll make 'em pay for it. + +CHLOE. It's wretched in a little place like this. I say, must you +go on spoiling their home? + +CHARLES. The woman cuts you and insults you. That's enough for me. + +CHLOE. [Timidly] Let her. I don't care; I can't bear feeling +enemies about, Charlie, I--get nervous--I---- + +CHARLES. My dear girl! What is it? + + [He looks at her intently.] + +CHLOE. I suppose it's--being like this. [Suddenly] But, Charlie, +do stop it for my sake. Do, do! + +CHARLES. [Patting her arm] Come, come; I say, Chloe! You're +making mountains. See things in proportion. Father's paid nine +thousand five hundred to get the better of those people, and you +want him to chuck it away to save a woman who's insulted you. +That's not sense, and it's not business. Have some pride. + +CHLOE. [Breathless] I've got no pride, Charlie. I want to be +quiet--that's all. + +CHARLES. Well, if the row gets on your nerves, I can take you to +the sea. But you ought to enjoy a fight with people like that. + +CHLOE. [With calculated bitterness] No, it's nothing, of course-- +what I want. + +CHARLES. Hello! Hello! You are on the jump! + +CHLOE. If you want me to be a good wife to you, make father stop +it. + +CHARLES. [Standing up] Now, look here, Chloe, what's behind this? + +CHLOE. [Faintly] Behind? + +CHARLES. You're carrying on as if--as if you were really scared! +We've got these people: We'll have them out of Deepwater in six +months. It's absolute ruination to their beastly old house; we'll +put the chimneys on the very edge, not three hundred yards off, and +our smoke'll be drifting over them half the time. You won't have +this confounded stuck-up woman here much longer. And then we can +really go ahead and take our proper place. So long as she's here, +we shall never do that. We've only to drive on now as fast as we +can. + +CHLOE. [With a gesture] I see. + +CHARLES. [Again looking at her] If you go on like this, you know, +I shall begin to think there's something you---- + +CHLOE [softly] Charlie! [He comes to her.] Love me! + +CHARLES. [Embracing her] There, old girl! I know women are funny +at these times. You want a good night, that's all. + +CHLOE. You haven't finished dinner, have you? Go back, and I'll go +to bed quite soon. Charlie, don't stop loving me. + +CHARLES. Stop? Not much. + + [While he is again embracing her, ANNA steals from behind the + screen to the door, opens it noiselessly, and passes through, + but it clicks as she shuts it.] + +CHLOE. [Starting violently] Oh-h! + + [He comes to her.] + +CHARLES. What is it? What is it? You are nervy, my dear. + +CHLOE. [Looking round with a little laugh] I don't know. Go on, +Charlie. I'll be all right when this head's gone. + +CHARLES. [Stroking her forehead and, looking at her doubtfully] +You go to bed; I won't be late coming up. + + [He turn, and goes, blowing a kiss from the doorway. When he + is gone, CHLOE gets up and stands in precisely the attitude in + which she stood at the beginning of the Act, thinking, and + thinking. And the door is opened, and the face of the MAID + peers round at her.] + + + CURTAIN + + + + +ACT III + + +SCENE I + + HILLCRIST'S study next morning. + + JILL coming from Left, looks in at the open French window. + +JILL. [Speaking to ROLF, invisible] Come in here. There's no one. + + [She goes in. ROLF joins her, coming from the garden.] + +ROLF. Jill, I just wanted to say--Need we? + + [JILL. nodes.] + +Seeing you yesterday--it did seem rotten. + +JILL. We didn't begin it. + +ROLF. No; but you don't understand. If you'd made yourself, as +father has---- + +JILL. I hope I should be sorry. + +ROLF. [Reproachfully] That isn't like you. Really he can't help +thinking he's a public benefactor. + +JILL. And we can't help thinking he's a pig. Sorry! + +ROLF. If the survival of the fittest is right---- + +JILL. He may be fitter, but he's not going to survive. + +ROLF. [Distracted] It looks like it, though. + +JILL. Is that all you came to say? + +ROLF. Suppose we joined, couldn't we stop it? + +JILL. I don't feel like joining. + +ROLF. We did shake hands. + +JILL. One can't fight and not grow bitter. + +ROLF. I don't feel bitter. + +JILL. Wait; you'll feel it soon enough. + +ROLF. Why? [Attentively] About Chloe? I do think your mother's +manner to her is---- + +JILL. Well? + +ROLF. Snobbish. [JILL laughs.] +She may not be your class; and that's just why it's +snobbish. + +JILL. I think you'd better shut up. + +ROLF. What my father said was true; your mother's rudeness to her +that day she came here, has made both him and Charlie ever so much +more bitter. + + [JILL whistles the Habanera from "Carmen."] + + [Staring at her, rather angrily] + +Is it a whistling matter? + +JILL. No. + +ROLF. I suppose you want me to go? + +JILL. Yes. + +ROLF. All right. Aren't we ever going to be friends again? + +JILL. [Looking steadily at him] I don't expect so. + +ROLF. That's very-horrible. + +JILL. Lots of horrible things in the world. + +ROLF. It's our business to make them fewer, Jill. + +JILL. [Fiercely] Don't be moral. + +ROLF. [Hurt] That's the last thing I want to be.--I only want to +be friendly. + +JILL. Better be real first. + +ROLF. From the big point of view---- + +JILL. There isn't any. We're all out, for our own. And why not? + +ROLF. By jove, you have got---- + +JILL. Cynical? Your father's motto--"Every man for himself." +That's the winner--hands down. Goodbye! + +ROLF. Jill! Jill! + +JILL. [Putting her hands behind her back, hums]-- + "If auld acquaintance be forgot + And days of auld lang syne"---- + +ROLF. Don't! + + [With a pained gesture he goes out towards Left, through the + French window.] + + [JILL, who has broken off the song, stands with her hands + clenched and her lips quivering.] + + [FELLOWS enters Left.] + +FELLOWS. Mr. Dawker, Miss, and two gentlemen. + +JILL. Let the three gentlemen in, and me out. + + [She passes him and goes out Left. And immediately. DAWKER + and the two STRANGERS come in.] + +FELLOWS. I'll inform Mrs. Hillcrist, sir. The Squire is on his +rounds. [He goes out Left.] + + [The THREE MEN gather in a discreet knot at the big bureau, + having glanced at the two doors and the open French window.] + +DAWKER. Now this may come into Court, you know. If there's a screw +loose anywhere, better mention it. [To SECOND STRANGE] You knew +her personally? + +SECOND S. What do you think? I don't, take girls on trust for that +sort of job. She came to us highly recommended, too; and did her +work very well. It was a double stunt--to make sure--wasn't it, +George? + +FIRST S. Yes; we paid her for the two visits. + +SECOND S. I should know her in a minute; striking looking girl; had +something in her face. Daresay she'd seen hard times. + +FIRST S. We don't want publicity. + +DAWKER. Not Likely. The threat'll do it; but the stakes are heavy +--and the man's a slugger; we must be able to push it home. If you +can both swear to her, it'll do the trick. + +SECOND S. And about--I mean, we're losing time, you know, coming +down here. + +DAWKER. [With a nod at FIRST STRANGER] George here knows me. +That'll be all right. I'll guarantee it well worth your while. + +SECOND S. I don't want to do the girl harm, if she's married. + +DAWKER. No, no; nobody wants to hurt her. We just want a cinch on +this fellow till he squeals. + + [They separate a little as MRS. HILLCRIST enters from Right.] + +DAWKER. Good morning, ma'am. My friend's partner. Hornblower +coming? + +MRS. H. At eleven. I had to send up a second note, Dawker. + +DAWKER. Squire not in? + +MRS. H. I haven't told him. + +DAWKER. [Nodding] Our friends might go in here [Pointing Right] +and we can use 'em as the want 'em. + +MRS. H. [To the STRANGERS] Will you make yourselves comfortable? + + [She holds the door open, and they pass her into the room, + Right.] + +DAWKER. [Showing document] I've had this drawn and engrossed. +Pretty sharp work. Conveys the Centry, and Longmeadow; to the +Squire at four thousand five hundred: Now, ma'am, suppose Hornblower +puts his hand to that, hell have been done in the eye, and six +thousand all told out o' pocket.--You'll have a very nasty neighbour +here. + +MRS. H. But we shall still have the power to disclose that secret +at any time. + +DAWKER. Yeh! But things might happen here you could never bring +home to him. You can't trust a man like that. He isn't goin' to +forgive me, I know. + +MRS. H. [Regarding him keenly] But if he signs, we couldn't +honourably---- + +DAWKER. No, ma'am, you couldn't; and I'm sure I don't want to do +that girl a hurt. I just mention it because, of course, you can't +guarantee that it doesn't get out. + +MRS. H. Not absolutely, I suppose. + + [A look passes between them, which neither of them has quite + sanctioned.] + + [There's his car. It always seems to make more noise than any + other.] + +DAWKER. He'll kick and flounder--but you leave him to ask what you +want, ma'am; don't mention this [He puts the deed back into his +pocket]. The Centry's no mortal good to him if he's not going to +put up works; I should say he'd be glad to save what he can. + + [MRS. HILLCRIST inclines her head. FELLOWS enters Left.] + +FELLOWS. [Apologetically] Mr. Hornblower, ma'am; by appointment, +he says. + +MRS. H. Quite right, Fellows. + + [HORNBLOWER comes in, and FELLOWS goes out.] + +HORNBLOWER. [Without salutation] I've come to ask ye point bleak +what ye mean by writing me these letters. [He takes out two +letters.] And we'll discus it in the presence of nobody, if ye, +please. + +MRS. H. Mr. Dawker knows all that I know, and more. + +HORNBLOWER. Does he? Very well! Your second note says that my +daughter-in-law has lied to me. Well, I've brought her, and what +ye've got to say--if it's not just a trick to see me again--ye'll +say to her face. [He takes a step towards the window.] + +MRS. H. Mr. Hornblower, you had better, decide that after hearing +what it is--we shall be quite ready to repeat it in her presence; +but we want to do as little harm as possible. + +HORNBLOWER. [Stopping] Oh! ye do! Well, what lies have ye been +hearin'? Or what have ye made up? You and Mr. Dawker? Of course +ye know there's a law of libel and slander. I'm, not the man to +stop at that. + +MRS. H. [Calmly] Are you familiar with the law of divorce, Mr. +Hornblower? + +HORNBLOWER. [Taken aback] No, I'm not. That is-----. + +MRS. H. Well, you know that misconduct is required. And I suppose +you've heard that cases are arranged. + +HORNBLOWER. I know it's all very shocking--what about it? + +MRS. H. When cases are arranged, Mr. Hornblower, the man who is to +be divorced often visits an hotel with a strange woman. I am +extremely sorry to say that your daughter-in-law, before her +marriage, was in the habit of being employed as such a woman. + +HORNBLOWER. Ye dreadful creature! + +DAWKER. [Quickly] All proved, up to the hilt! + +HORNBLOWER. I don't believe a word of it. Ye're lyin' to save your +skins. How dare ye tell me such monstrosities? Dawker, I'll have +ye in a criminal court. + +DAWKER. Rats! You saw a gent with me yesterday? Well, he's +employed her. + +HORNBLOWER. A put-up job! Conspiracy! + +MRS. H. Go and get your daughter-in-law. + +HORNBLOWER. [With the first sensation of being in a net] It's a +foul shame--a lying slander! + +MRS. H. If so, it's easily disproved. Go and fetch her. + +HORNBLOWER. [Seeing them unmoved] I will. I don't believe a word +of it. + +MRS. H. I hope you are right. + + [HORNBLOWER goes out by the French window, DAWKER slips to the + door Right, opens it, arid speaks to those within. MRS. + HILLCRIST stands moistening her lips, and passim her + handkerchief over them. HORNBLOWER returns, preceding CHLOE, + strung up to hardness and defiance.] + +HORNBLOWER. Now then, let's have this impudent story torn to rags. + +CHLOE. What story? + +HORNBLOWER. That you, my dear, were a woman--it's too shockin--I +don't know how to tell ye---- + +CHLOE. Go on! + +HORNBLOWER. Were a woman that went with men, to get them their +divorce. + +CHLOE. Who says that? + +HORNBLOWER. That lady [Sneering] there, and her bull-terrier here. + +CHLOE. [Facing MRS. HILLCRIST] That's a charitable thing to say, +isn't it? + +MRS. H. Is it true? + +CHLOE. No. + +HORNBLOWER. [Furiously] There! I'll have ye both on your knees to +her! + +DAWKER. [Opening the door, Right] Come in. + + [The FIRST STRANGER comes in. CHLOE, with a visible effort, + turns to face him.] + +FIRST S. How do you do, Mrs. Vane? + +CHLOE. I don't know you. + +FIRST S. Your memory is bad, ma'am: You knew me yesterday well +enough. One day is not a long time, nor are three years. + +CHLOE. Who are you? + +FIRST S. Come, ma'am, come! The Caster case. + +CHLOE. I don't know you, I say. [To MRS. HILLCRIST] How can you +be so vile? + +FIRST S. Let me refresh your memory, ma'am. [Producing a notebook] +Just on three years ago; "Oct.3. To fee and expenses Mrs. Vane with +Mr. C----, Hotel Beaulieu, Twenty pounds. Oct. 10, Do., Twenty +pounds." [To HORNBLOWER] Would you like to glance at this book, +sir? You'll see they're genuine entries. + + [HORNBLOWER makes a motion to do so, but checks himself and + looks at CHLOE.] + +CHLOE. [Hysterically] It's all lies--lies! + +FIRST S. Come, ma'am, we wish you no harm. + +CHLOE. Take me away. I won't be treated like this. + +MRS. H. [In a low voice] Confess. + +CHLOE. Lies! + +HORNBLOWER. Were ye ever called Vane? + +CHLOE. No, never. + + [She makes a movement towards the window, but DAWKER is in the + way, and she halts. FIRST S. [Opening the door, Right] + Henry.] + + [The SECOND STRANGER comes in quickly. At sight of him CHLOE + throws up her hands, gasps, breaks down, stage Left, and stands + covering her face with her hands. It is so complete a + confession that HORNBLOWER stands staggered; and, taking out a + coloured handkerchief, wipes his brow.] + +DAWKER. Are you convinced? + +HORNBLOWER. Take those men away. + +DAWKER. If you're not satisfied, we can get other evidence; plenty. + +HORNBLOWER. [Looking at CHLOE] That's enough. Take them out. +Leave me alone with her. + + [DAWKER takes them out Right. MRS. HILLCRIST passes HORNBLOWER + and goes out at the window. HORNBLOWER moves down a step or + two towards CHLOE.] + +HORNBLOWER. My God! + +CHLOE. [With an outburst] Don't tell Charlie! Don't tell Charlie! + +HORNBLOWER. Chearlie! So, that was your manner of life. + + [CHLOE utters a moaning sound.] + +So that's what ye got out of by marryin' into my family! Shame on +ye, ye Godless thing! + +CHLOE. Don't tell Charlie! + +HORNBLOWER. And that's all ye can say for the wreck ye've wrought. +My family, my works, my future! How dared ye! + +CHLOE. If you'd been me!---- + +HORNBLOWER. An' these Hillcrists. The skin game of it! + +CHLOE. [Breathless] Father! + +HORNBLOWER. Don't call me that, woman! + +CHLOE. [Desperate] I'm going to have a child. + +HORNBLOWER. God! Ye are! + +CHLOE. Your grandchild. For the sake of it, do what these people +want; and don't tell anyone--DON'T TELL CHARLIE! + +HORNBLOWER. [Again wiping his forehead] A secret between us. I +don't know that I can keep it. It's horrible. Poor Chearlie! + +CHLOE. [Suddenly fierce] You must keep it, you shall! I won't +have him told. Don't make me desperate! I can be--I didn't live +that life for nothing. + +HORNBLOWER. [Staring at her resealed in a new light] Ay; ye look a +strange, wild woman, as I see ye. And we thought the world of ye! + +CHLOE. I love Charlie; I'm faithful to him. I can't live without +him. You'll never forgive me, I know; but Charlie----! [Stretching +out her hands.] + + [HORNBLOWER makes a bewildered gesture with his large hands.] + +HORNBLOWER. I'm all at sea here. Go out to the car and wait for +me. + + [CHLOE passes him and goes out, Left.] + +[Muttering to himself] So I'm down! Me enemies put their heels upon +me head! Ah! but we'll see yet! + + [He goes up to the window and beckons towards the Right.] + + [MRS. HILLCRIST comes in.] + +What d'ye want for this secret? + +MRS. H. Nothing. + +HORNBLOWER. Indeed! Wonderful!--the trouble ye've taken for-- +nothing. + +MRS. H. If you harm us we shall harm you. Any use whatever of the +Centry. + +HORNBLOWER. For which ye made me pay nine thousand five hundred +pounds. + +MRS. H. We will buy it from you. + +HORNBLOWER. At what price? + +MRS. H. The Centry at the price Miss Muffins would have taken at +first, and Longmeadow at the price you--gave us--four thousand five +hundred altogether. + +HORNBLOWER. A fine price, and me six thousand out of pocket. Na, +no! I'll keep it and hold it over ye. Ye daren't tell this secret +so long as I've got it. + +MRS. H. No, Mr. Hornblower. On second thoughts, you must sell. +You broke your word over the Jackmans. We can't trust you. We +would rather have our place here ruined at once, than leave you the +power to ruin it as and when you like. You will sell us the Centry +and Longmeadow now, or you know what will happen. + +HORNBLOWER. [Writhing] I'll not. It's blackmail. + +MRS. H. Very well then! Go your own way and we'll go ours. There +is no witness to this conversation. + +HORNBLOWER. [Venomously] By heaven, ye're a clever woman. Will ye +swear by Almighty God that you and your family, and that agent of +yours, won't breathe a word of this shockin' thing to mortal soul. + +MRS. H. Yes, if you sell. + +HORNBLOWER. Where's Dawker? + +MRS. H. [Going to the door, Right] Mr. Dawker + + [DAWKER comes in.] + +HORNBLOWER. I suppose ye've got your iniquity ready. + + [DAWKER grins and produces the document.] + +It's mighty near conspiracy, this. Have ye got a Testament? + +MRS. H. My word will be enough, Mr. Hornblower. + +HORNBLOWER. Ye'll pardon me--I can't make it solemn enough for you. + +MRS. H. Very well; here is a Bible. + + [She takes a small Bible from the bookshelf.] + +DAWKER. [Spreading document on bureau] This is a short conveyance +of the Centry and Longmeadow--recites sale to you by Miss Mulling, +of the first, John Hillcrist of the second, and whereas you have +agreed for the sale to said John Hillcrist, for the sum of four +thousand five hundred pounds, in consideration of the said sum, +receipt whereof, you hereby acknowledge you do convey all that, etc. +Sign here. I'll witness. + +HORNBLOWER [To MRS. HILLCRIST] Take that Book in your hand, and +swear first. I swear by Almighty God never to breathe a word of +what I know. concerning Chloe Hornblower to any living soul. + +MRS. H. No, Mr. Hornblower; you will please sign first. We are not +in the habit of breaking our word. + + [HORNBLOWER after a furious look at them, seizes a pen, runs + his eye again over the deed, and signs, DAWKER witnessing.] + +To that oath, Mr. Hornblower, we shall add the words, "So long as +the Hornblower family do us no harm." + +HORNBLOWER. [With a snarl] Take it in your hands, both of ye, and +together swear. + +MRS. H. [Taking the Book] I swear that I will breathe no word of +what I know concerning Chloe Hornblower to any living soul, so long +as the Hornblower family do us no harm. + +DAWKER. I swear that too. + +MRS. H. I engage for my husband. + +HORNBLOWER. Where are those two fellows? + +DAWKER. Gone. It's no business of theirs. + +HORNBLOWER. It's no business of any of ye what has happened to a +woman in the past. Ye know that. Good-day! + + [He gives them a deadly look, and goes out, left, followed by + DAWKER.] + +MRS. H. [With her hand on the Deed] Safe! + + [HILLCRIST enters at the French window, followed by JILL.] + +[Holding up the Deed] Look! He's just gone! I told you it was +only necessary to use the threat. He caved in and signed this; we +are sworn to say nothing. We've beaten him. + + [HILLCRIST studies the Deed.] + +JILL. [Awed] We saw Chloe in the car. How did she take it, +mother? + +MRS. H. Denied, then broke down when she saw our witnesses. I'm +glad you were not here, Jack. + +JILL. [Suddenly] I shall go and see her. + +MRS. H. Jill, you will not; you don't know what she's done. + +JILL. I shall. She must be in an awful state. + +HILLCRIST. My dear, you can do her no good. + +JILL. I think I can, Dodo. + +MRS. H. You don't understand human nature. We're enemies for life +with those people. You're a little donkey if you think anything +else. + +JILL. I'm going, all the same. + +MRS. H. Jack, forbid her. + +HILLCRIST. [Lifting an eyebrow] Jill, be reasonable. + +JILL. Suppose I'd taken a knock like that, Dodo, I'd be glad of +friendliness from someone. + +MRS. H. You never could take a knock like that. + +JILL. You don't know what you can do till you try, mother. + +HILLCRIST. Let her go, Amy. Im sorry for that young woman. + +MRS. H. You'd be sorry for a man who picked your pocket, I believe. + +HILLCRIST. I certainly should! Deuced little he'd get out of it, +when I've paid for the Centry. + +MRS. H. [Bitterly] Much gratitude I get for saving you both our +home! + +JILL. [Disarmed] Oh! Mother, we are grateful. Dodo, show your +gratitude. + +HILLCRIST. Well, my dear, it's an intense relief. I'm not good at +showing my feelings, as you know. What d'you want me to do? Stand +on one leg and crow? + +JILL. Yes, Dodo, yes! Mother, hold him while I [Suddenly she +stops, and all the fun goes out of her] No! I can't--I can't help +thinking of her. + + + CURTAIN falls for a minute. + + + +SCENE II + + + When it rises again, the room is empty and dark, same for + moonlight coming in through the French window, which is open. + + The figure of CHLOE, in a black cloak, appears outside in the + moonlight; she peers in, moves past, comes bank, hesitatingly + enters. The cloak, fallen back, reveals a white evening dress; + and that magpie figure stands poised watchfully in the dim + light, then flaps unhappily Left and Right, as if she could not + keep still. Suddenly she stands listening. + +ROLF'S VOICE. [Outside] Chloe! Chloe! + + [He appears] + +CHLOE. [Going to the window] What are you doing here? + +ROLF. What are you? I only followed you. + +CHLOE. Go away. + +ROLF. What's the matter? Tell me! + +CHLOE. Go away, and don't say anything. Oh! The roses! [She has +put her nose into some roses in a bowl on a big stand close to the +window] Don't they smell lovely? + +ROLF. What did Jill want this afternoon? + +CHLOE. I'll tell you nothing. Go away! + +ROLF. I don't like leaving you here in this state. + +CHLOE. What state? I'm all right. Wait for me down in the drive, +if you want to. + + [ROLF starts to go, stops, looks at her, and does go. CHLOE, + with a little moaning sound, flutters again, magpie-like, up + and down, then stands by the window listening. Voices are + heard, Left. She darts out of the window and away to the + Right, as HILLCRIST and JILL come in. They have turned up the + electric light, and come down in frond of the fireplace, where + HILLCRIST sits in an armchair, and JILL on the arm of it. They + are in undress evening attire.] + +HILLCRIST. Now, tell me. + +JILL. There isn't much, Dodo. I was in an awful funk for fear I +should meet any of the others, and of course I did meet Rolf, but I +told him some lie, and he took me to her room-boudoir, they call it +--isn't boudoir a "dug-out" word? + +HILLCRIST. [Meditatively] The sulking room. Well? + +JILL. She was sitting like this. [She buries her chin in her +hands, wide her elbows on her knees] And she said in a sort of +fierce way: "What do you want?" And I said: "I'm awfully sorry, but +I thought you might like it." + +HILLCRIST. Well? + +JILL. She looked at me hard, and said: "I suppose you know all +about it." And I Said: "Only vaguely," because of course I don't. +And she said: "Well, it was decent of you to come." Dodo, she looks +like a lost soul. What has she done? + +HILLCRIST. She committed her real crime when she married young +Hornblower without telling him. She came out of a certain world to +do it. + +JILL. Oh! [Staring in front of her] Is it very awful in that +world, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. [Uneasy] I don't know, Jill. Some can stand it, I +suppose; some can't. I don't know which sort she is. + +JILL. One thing I'm sure of: she's awfully fond of Chearlie. + +HILLCRIST. That's bad; that's very bad. + +JILL. And she's frightened, horribly. I think she's desperate. + +HILLCRIST. Women like that are pretty tough, Jill; don't judge her +too much by your own feelings. + +JILL. No; only----Oh! it was beastly; and of course I dried up. + +HILLCRIST. [Feelingly] H'm! One always does. But perhaps it was +as well; you'd have been blundering in a dark passage. + +JILL. I just said: "Father and I feel awfully sorry; if there's +anything we can do----" + +HILLCRIST. That was risky, Jill. + +JILL. (Disconsolately) I had to say something. I'm glad I went, +anyway. I feel more human. + +HILLCRIST. We had to fight for our home. I should have felt like a +traitor if I hadn't. + +JILL. I'm not enjoying home tonight, Dodo. + +HILLCRIST. I never could hate proper; it's a confounded nuisance. + +JILL. Mother's fearfully' bucked, and Dawker's simply oozing +triumph. I don't trust him. Dodo; he's too--not pugilistic--the +other one with a pug-naceous. + +HILLCRIST. He is rather. + +JILL. I'm sure he wouldn't care tuppence if Chloe committed +suicide. + +HILLCRIST. [Rising uneasily] Nonsense! Nonsense! + +JILL. I wonder if mother would. + +HILLCRIST. [Turning his face towards the window] What's that? I +thought I heard--[Louder]--Is these anybody out there? + + [No answer. JILL, springs up and runs to the window.] + +JILL. You! + + [She dives through to the Right, and returns, holding CHLOE'S + hand and drawing her forward] + +Come in! It's only us! [To HILLCRIST] Dodo! + +HILLCRIST. [Flustered, but making a show of courtesy] Good +evening! Won't you sit down? + +JILL. Sit down; you're all shaky. + + [She makes CHLOE sit down in the armchair, out of which they + have risen, then locks the door, and closing the windows, draws + the curtains hastily over them.] + +HILLCRIST. [Awkward and expectant] Can I do anything for you? + +CHLOE. I couldn't bear it he's coming to ask you---- + +HILLCRIST. Who? + +CHLOE. My husband. [She draws in her breath with a long shudder, +then seem to seize her courage in her hands] I've got to be quick. +He keeps on asking--he knows there's something. + +HILLCRIST. Make your mind easy. We shan't tell him. + +CHLOE. [Appealing] Oh! that's not enough. Can't you tell him +something to put him back to thinking it's all right? I've done him +such a wrong. I didn't realise till after--I thought meeting him +was just a piece of wonderful good luck, after what I'd been +through. I'm not such a bad lot--not really. + + [She stops from the over-quivering of her lips. JILL, standing + beside the chair, strokes her shoulder. HILLCRIST stands very + still, painfully biting at a finger.] + +You see, my father went bankrupt, and I was in a shop---- + +HILLCRIST. [Soothingly, and to prevent disclosures] Yes, yes; Yes, +yes! + +CHLOE. I never gave a man away or did anything I was ashamed of--at +least--I mean, I had to make my living in all sorts of ways, and +then I met Charlie. + + [Again she stopped from the quivering of her lips.] + +JILL. It's all right. + +CHLOE. He thought I was respectable, and that was such a relief, +you can't think, so--so I let him. + +JILL. Dodo! It's awful + +HILLCRIST. It is! + +CHLOE. And after I married him, you see, I fell in love. If I had +before, perhaps I wouldn't have dared only, I don't know--you never +know, do you? When there's a straw going, you catch at it. + +JILL. Of course you do. + +CHLOE. And now, you see, I'm going to have a child. + +JILL. [Aghast] Oh! Are you? + +HILLCRIST. Good God! + +CHLOE. [Dully] I've been on hot bricks all this month, ever since +that day here. I knew it was in the wind. What gets in the wind +never gets out. [She rises and throws out her arms] Never! It +just blows here and there [Desolately] and then--blows home. [Her +voice changes to resentment] But I've paid for being a fool-- +'tisn't fun, that sort of life, I can tell you. I'm not ashamed and +repentant, and all that. If it wasn't for him! I'm afraid he'll +never forgive me; it's such a disgrace for him--and then, to have +his child! Being fond of him, I feel it much worse than anything I +ever felt, and that's saying a good bit. It is. + +JILL. [Energetically] Look here! He simply mustn't find out. + +CHLOE. That's it; but it's started, and he's bound to keep on +because he knows there's something. A man isn't going to be +satisfied when there's something he suspects about his wife, Charlie +wouldn't never. He's clever, and he's jealous; and he's coming +here. + + [She stops, and looks round wildly, listening.] + +JILL. Dodo, what can we say to put him clean off the scent? + +HILLCRIST. Anything--in reason. + +CHLOE. [Catching at this straw] You will! You see, I don't know +what I'll do. I've got soft, being looked after--he does love me. +And if he throws me off, I'll go under--that's all. + +HILLCRIST. Have you any suggestion? + +CHLOE. [Eagerly] The only thing is to tell him something positive, +something he'll believe, that's not too bad--like my having been a +lady clerk with those people who came here, and having been +dismissed on suspicion of taking money. I could get him to believe +that wasn't true. + +JILL. Yes; and it isn't--that's splendid! You'd be able to put +such conviction into it. Don't you think so, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. Anything I can. I'm deeply sorry. + +CHLOE. Thank you. And don't say I've been here, will you? He's +very suspicious. You see, he knows that his father has re-sold that +land to you; that's what he can't make out--that, and my coming here +this morning; he knows something's being kept from him; and he +noticed that man with Dawker yesterday. And my maid's been spying +on me. It's in the air. He puts two and two together. But I've +told him there's nothing he need worry about; nothing that's true. + +HILLCRIST. What a coil! + +CHLOE. I'm very honest and careful about money. So he won't +believe that about me, and the old man wants to keep it from +Charlie, I know. + +HILLCRIST. That does seem the best way out. + +CHLOE. [With a touch of defiance] I'm a true wife to him. + +CHLOE. Of course we know that. + +HILLCRIST. It's all unspeakably sad. Deception's horribly against +the grain--but---- + +CHLOE. [Eagerly] When I deceived him, I'd have deceived God +Himself--I was so desperate. You've never been right down in the +mud. You can't understand what I've been through. + +HILLCRIST. Yes, Yes. I daresay I'd have done the same. I should +be the last to judge + + [CHLOE covers her eyes with her hands.] + +There, there! Cheer up! [He puts his hand on her arm.] + +CHLOE. [To herself] Darling Dodo! + +CHLOE. [Starting] There's somebody at the door. I must go; I must +go. + + [She runs to the window and slips through the curtains.] + + [The handle of the door is again turned.] + +JILL. [Dismayed] Oh! It's locked--I forgot. + + [She spring to the door, unlocks and opens it, while HILLCRIST + goes to the bureau and sits down.] + +It's all right, Fellows; I was only saying something rather +important. + +FELLOWS. [Coming in a step or two and closing the door behind him] +Certainly, Miss. Mr. Charles 'Ornblower is in the hall. Wants to +see you, sir, or Mrs. Hillcrist. + +JILL. What a bore! Can you see him, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. Er--yes. I suppose so. Show him in here, Fellows. + + [As FELLOWS goes out, JILL runs to the window, but has no time + to do more than adjust the curtains and spring over to stand by + her father, before CHARLES comes in. Though in evening + clothes, he is white arid disheveled for so spruce a young + mean.] + +CHARLES. Is my wife here? + +HILLCRIST. No, sir. + +CHARLES. Has she been? + +HILLCRIST. This morning, I believe, Jill? + +JILL. Yes, she came this morning. + +CHARLES. [staring at her] I know that--now, I mean? + +JILL. No. + + [HILLCRIST shakes has head.] + +CHARLES. Tell me what was said this morning. + +HILLCRIST. I was not here this morning. + +CHARLES. Don't try to put me off. I know too much. [To JILL] +You. + +JILL. Shall I, Dodo? + +HILLCRIST. No; I will. Won't you sit down? + +CHARLES. No. Go on. + +HILLCRIST. [Moistening his lips] It appears, Mr. Hornblower, that +my agent, Mr. Dawker-- + + [CHARLES, who is breathing hard, utters a sound of anger.] + +--that my agent happens to know a firm, who in old days employed +your wife. I should greatly prefer not to say any more, especially +as we don't believe the story. + +JILL. No; we don't. + +CHARLES. Go on! + +HILLCRIST. [Getting up] Come! If I were you, I should refuse to +listen to anything against my wife. + +CHARLES. Go on, I tell you. + +HILLCRIST. You insist? Well, they say there was some question +about the accounts, and your wife left them under a cloud. As I +told you, we don't believe it. + +CHARLES. [Passionately] Liars! + + [He makes a rush for the door.] + +HILLCRIST. [Starting] What did you say? + +JILL. [Catching his arm] Dodo! [Sotto voce] We are, you know. + +CHARLES. [Turning back to them] Why do you tell me that lie? When +I've just had the truth out of that little scoundrel! My wife's +been here; she put you up to it. + + [The face of CHLOE is seen transfixed between the curtains, + parted by her hands.] + +She--she put you up to it. Liar that she is--a living lie. For +three years a living lie! + + [HILLCRIST whose face alone is turned towards the curtains, + sees that listening face. His hand goes up from uncontrollable + emotion.] + +And hasn't now the pluck to tell me. I've done with her. I won't +own a child by such a woman. + + [With a little sighing sound CHLOE drops the curtain and + vanishes.] + +HILLCRIST. For God's sake, man, think of what you're saying. She's +in great distress. + +CHARLES. And what am I? + +JILL. She loves you, you know. + +CHARLES. Pretty love! That scoundrel Dawker told me--told me-- +Horrible! Horrible! + +HILLCRIST. I deeply regret that our quarrel should have brought +this about. + +CHARLES. [With intense bitterness] Yes, you've smashed my life. + + [Unseen by them, MRS. HILLCRIST has entered and stands by the + door, Left.] + +MRS. H. Would you have wished to live on in ignorance? [They all +turn to look at her.] + +CHARLES. [With a writhing movement] I don't know. But--you--you +did it. + +MRS. H. You shouldn't have attacked us. + +CHARLES. What did we do to you--compared with this? + +MRS. H. All you could. + +HILLCRIST. Enough, enough! What can we do to help you? + +CHARLES. Tell me where my wife is. + + [JILL draws the curtains apart--the window is open--JILL looks + out. They wait in silence.] + +JILL. We don't know. + +CHARLES. Then she was here? + +HILLCRIST. Yes, sir; and she heard you. + +CHARLES. All the better if she did. She knows how I feel. + +HILLCRIST. Brace up; be gentle with her. + +CHARLES. Gentle? A woman who--who---- + +HILLCRIST. A most unhappy creature. Come! + +CHARLES. Damn your sympathy! + + [He goes out into the moonlight, passing away.] + +JILL. Dodo, we ought to look for her; I'm awfully afraid. + +HILLCRIST. I saw her there--listening. With child! Who knows +where things end when they and begin? To the gravel pit, Jill; I'll +go to the pond. No, we'll go together. [They go out.] + + [MRS. HILLCRIST comes down to the fireplace, rings the bell + and stands there, thinking. FELLOWS enters.] + +MRS. H. I want someone to go down to Mr. Dawker's. + +FELLOWS. Mr. Dawker is here, ma'am, waitin' to see you. + +MRS. H. Ask him to come in. Oh! and Fellows, you can tell the +Jackmans that they can go back to their cottage. + +FELLOWS. Very good, ma'am. [He goes out.] + + [MRS. HILLCRIST searches at the bureau, finds and takes out the + deed. DAWKERS comes in; he has the appearance of a man whose + temper has been badly ruffled.] + +MRS. H. Charles Hornblower--how did it happen? + +DAWKER. He came to me. I said I knew nothing. He wouldn't take +it; went for me, abused me up hill and down dale; said he knew +everything, and then he began to threaten me. Well, I lost my +temper, and I told him. + +MRS. H. That's very serious, Dawker, after our promise. My husband +is most upset. + +DAWKER. [Sullenly] It's not my fault, ma'am; he shouldn't have +threatened and goaded me on. Besides, it's got out that there's a +scandal; common talk in the village--not the facts, but quite enough +to cook their goose here. They'll have to go. Better have done +with it, anyway, than have enemies at your door. + +MRS. H. Perhaps; but--Oh! Dawker, take charge of this. [She hands +him the deed] These people are desperate--and--I'm sot sure of my +husband when his feelings are worked on. + + [The sound of a car stopping.] + +DAWKER. [At the window, looking to the Left] Hornblower's, I +think. Yes, he's getting out. + +MRS. H. [Bracing herself] You'd better wait, then. + +DAWKER. He mustn't give me any of his sauce; I've had enough. + + [The door is opened and HORNBLOWER enters, pressing so on the + heels of FELLOWS that the announcement of his name is lost.] + +HORNBLOWER. Give me that deed! Ye got it out of me by false +pretences and treachery. Ye swore that nothing should be heard of +this. Why! me own servants know. + +MRS. H. That has nothing to do with us. Your son came and wrenched +the knowledge out of Mr. DAWKER by abuse and threats; that is all. +You will kindly behave yourself here, or I shall ask that you be +shown out. + +HORNBLOWER. Give me that deed, I say! [He suddenly turns on +DAWKER] Ye little ruffian, I see it in your pocket. + + [The end indeed is projecting from DAWKER'S breast pocket.] + +DAWKER. [Seeing red] Now, look 'ere, 'Ornblower, I stood a deal +from your son, and I'll stand no more. + +HORNBLOWER. [To MRS. HILLCRIST] I'll ruin your place yet! [To +DAWKER] Ye give me that deed, or I'll throttle ye. + + [He closes on DAWKER, and makes a snatch at the deed. DAWKER, + springs at him, and the two stand swaying, trying for a grip at + each other's throats. MRS. HILLCRIST tries to cross and reach + the bell, but is shut off by their swaying struggle.] + + [Suddenly ROLF appears in the window, looks wildly at the + struggle, and seizes DAWKER'S hands, which have reached + HORNBLOWER'S throat. JILL, who is following, rushes up to him + and clutches his arm.] + +JILL. Rolf! All of you! Stop! Look! + + [DAWKER'S hand relaxes, and he is swung round. HORNBLOWER + staggers and recovers himself, gasping for breath. All turn to + the window, outside which in the moonlight HILLCRIST and + CHARLES HORNBLOWER have CHLOE'S motionless body in their arms.] + +In the gravel pit. She's just breathing; that's all. + +MRS. H. Bring her in. The brandy, Jill! + +HORNBLOWER. No. Take her to the car. Stand back, young woman! I +want no help from any of ye. Rolf--Chearlie--take her up. + + [They lift and bear her away, Left. JILL follows.] + +Hillcrist, ye've got me beaten and disgraced hereabouts, ye've +destroyed my son's married life, and ye've killed my grandchild. +I'm not staying in this cursed spot, but if ever I can do you or +yours a hurt, I will. + +DAWKER. [Muttering] That's right. Squeal and threaten. You began +it. + +HILLCRIST. Dawker, have the goodness! Hornblower, in the presence +of what may be death, with all my heart I'm sorry. + +HORNBLOWER. Ye hypocrite! + + [He passes them with a certain dignity, and goes out at the + window, following to his car.] + + [HILLCRIST who has stood for a moment stock-still, goes slowly + forward and sits in his swivel chair.] + +MRS. H. Dawker, please tell Fellows to telephone to Dr. Robinson to +go round to the Hornblowers at once. + + [DAWKER, fingering the deed, and with a noise that sounds like + "The cur!" goes out, Left.] + + [At the fireplace] + +Jack! Do you blame me? + +HILLCRIST. [Motionless] No. + +MRS. H. Or Dawker? He's done his best. + +HILLCRIST. No. + +MRS. H. [Approaching] What is it? + +HILLCRIST. Hypocrite! + + [JILL comes running in at the window.] + +JILL. Dodo, she's moved; she's spoken. It may not be so bad. + +HILLCRIST. Thank God for that! + + [FELLOWS enters, Left.] + +FELLOWS. The Jackmans, ma'am. + +HILLCRIST. Who? What's this? + + [The JACKMANS have entered, standing close to the door.] + +MRS. J. We're so glad we can go back, sir--ma'am, we just wanted to +thank you. + + [There is a silence. They see that they are not welcome.] + +Thank you kindly, sir. Good night, ma'am. + + [They shuffle out. ] + +HILLCRIST. I'd forgotten their existence. [He gets up] What is it +that gets loose when you begin a fight, and makes you what you think +you're not? What blinding evil! Begin as you may, it ends in this- +skin game! Skin game! + +JILL. [Rushing to him] It's not you, Dodo; it's not you, beloved +Dodo. + +HILLCRIST. It is me. For I am, or should be, master in this house! + +MRS. H. I don't understand. + +HILLCRIST. When we began this fight, we had clean hands--are they +clean' now? What's gentility worth if it can't stand fire? + + +CURTAIN + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE SKIN GAME, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +FROM THE SERIES OF SIX SHORT PLAYS + + + +THE FIRST AND THE LAST + +A DRAMA IN THREE SCENES + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +KEITH DARRANT, K.C. +LARRY DARRANT, His Brother. +WANDA. + + + +SCENE I. KEITH'S Study. + +SCENE II. WANDA's Room. + +SCENE III. The Same. + +Between SCENE I. and SCENE II.--Thirty hours. +Between SCENE II. and SCENE III.--Two months. + + + + +SCENE I + +It is six o'clock of a November evening, in KEITH DARRANT'S +study. A large, dark-curtained room where the light from a single +reading-lamp falling on Turkey carpet, on books beside a large +armchair, on the deep blue-and-gold coffee service, makes a sort of +oasis before a log fire. In red Turkish slippers and an old brown +velvet coat, KEITH DARRANT sits asleep. He has a dark, clean-cut, +clean-shaven face, dark grizzling hair, dark twisting eyebrows. + + [The curtained door away out in the dim part of the room behind + him is opened so softly that he does not wake. LARRY DARRANT + enters and stands half lost in the curtain over the door. A + thin figure, with a worn, high cheek-boned face, deep-sunk blue + eyes and wavy hair all ruffled--a face which still has a certain + beauty. He moves inwards along the wall, stands still again and + utters a gasping sigh. KEITH stirs in his chair.] + +KEITH. Who's there? + +LARRY. [In a stifled voice] Only I--Larry. + +KEITH. [Half-waked] Come in! I was asleep. [He does not turn his +head, staring sleepily at the fire.] + + The sound of LARRY's breathing can be heard. + + [Turning his head a little] Well, Larry, what is it? + + LARRY comes skirting along the wall, as if craving its support, + outside the radius of the light. + + [Staring] Are you ill? + + LARRY stands still again and heaves a deep sigh. + +KEITH. [Rising, with his back to the fire, and staring at his +brother] What is it, man? [Then with a brutality born of nerves +suddenly ruffled] Have you committed a murder that you stand there +like a fish? + +LARRY. [In a whisper] Yes, Keith. + +KEITH. [With vigorous disgust] By Jove! Drunk again! [In a +voice changed by sudden apprehension] What do you mean by coming +here in this state? I told you---- If you weren't my brother----! +Come here, where I can we you! What's the matter with you, Larry? + + [With a lurch LARRY leaves the shelter of the wall and sinks into + a chair in the circle of light.] + +LARRY. It's true. + + [KEITH steps quickly forward and stares down into his brother's + eyes, where is a horrified wonder, as if they would never again + get on terms with his face.] + +KEITH. [Angry, bewildered-in a low voice] What in God's name is +this nonsense? + + [He goes quickly over to the door and draws the curtain aside, to + see that it is shut, then comes back to LARRY, who is huddling + over the fire.] + +Come, Larry! Pull yourself together and drop exaggeration! What on +earth do you mean? + +LARRY. [In a shrill outburst] It's true, I tell you; I've killed a +man. + +KEITH. [Bracing himself; coldly] Be quiet! + + LARRY lifts his hands and wrings them. + +[Utterly taken aback] Why come here and tell me this? + +LARRY. Whom should I tell, Keith? I came to ask what I'm to do-- +give myself up, or what? + +KEITH. When--when--what----? + +LARRY. Last night. + +KEITH. Good God! How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from +the beginning. Here, drink this coffee; it'll clear your head. + + He pours out and hands him a cup of coffee. LARRY drinks it + off. + +LARRY. My head! Yes! It's like this, Keith--there's a girl---- + +KEITH. Women! Always women, with you! Well? + +LARRY. A Polish girl. She--her father died over here when she was +sixteen, and left her all alone. There was a mongrel living in the +same house who married her--or pretended to. She's very pretty, +Keith. He left her with a baby coming. She lost it, and nearly +starved. Then another fellow took her on, and she lived with him two +years, till that brute turned up again and made her go back to him. +He used to beat her black and blue. He'd left her again when--I met +her. She was taking anybody then. [He stops, passes his hand over +his lips, looks up at KEITH, and goes on defiantly] I never met a +sweeter woman, or a truer, that I swear. Woman! She's only twenty +now! When I went to her last night, that devil had found her out +again. He came for me--a bullying, great, hulking brute. Look! +[He touches a dark mark on his forehead] I took his ugly throat, and +when I let go--[He stops and his hands drop.] + +KEITH. Yes? + +LARRY. [In a smothered voice] Dead, Keith. I never knew till +afterwards that she was hanging on to him--to h-help me. [Again he +wrings his hands.] + +KEITH. [In a hard, dry voice] What did you do then? + +LARRY. We--we sat by it a long time. + +KEITH. Well? + +LARRY. Then I carried it on my back down the street, round a corner, +to an archway. + +KEITH. How far? + +LARRY. About fifty yards. + +KEITH. Was--did anyone see? + +LARRY. No. + +KEITH. What time? + +LARRY. Three in the morning. + +KEITH. And then? + +LARRY. Went back to her. + +KEITH. Why--in heaven's name? + +LARRY. She way lonely and afraid. So was I, Keith. + +KEITH. Where is this place? + +LARRY. Forty-two Borrow Square, Soho. + +KEITH. And the archway? + +LARRY. Corner of Glove Lane. + +KEITH. Good God! Why, I saw it in the paper this morning. They +were talking of it in the Courts! [He snatches the evening paper +from his armchair, and runs it over anal reads] Here it is again. +"Body of a man was found this morning under an archway in Glove Lane. +>From marks about the throat grave suspicion of foul play are +entertained. The body had apparently been robbed. "My God! +[Suddenly he turns] You saw this in the paper and dreamed it. D'you +understand, Larry?--you dreamed it. + +LARRY. [Wistfully] If only I had, Keith! + + [KEITH makes a movement of his hands almost like his brother's.] + +KEITH. Did you take anything from the-body? + +LARRY. [Drawing au envelope from his pocket] This dropped out while +we were struggling. + +KEITH. [Snatching it and reading] "Patrick Walenn"--Was that his +name? "Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London." [Stooping, he puts it +in the fire] No!--that makes me----[He bends to pluck it out, stays +his hand, and stamps it suddenly further in with his foot] What in +God's name made you come here and tell me? Don't you know I'm--I'm +within an ace of a Judgeship? + +LARRY. [Simply] Yes. You must know what I ought to do. I didn't, +mean to kill him, Keith. I love the girl--I love her. What shall I +do? + +KEITH. Love! + +LARRY. [In a flash] Love!--That swinish brute! A million creatures +die every day, and not one of them deserves death as he did. But but +I feel it here. [Touching his heart] Such an awful clutch, Keith. +Help me if you can, old man. I may be no good, but I've never hurt a +fly if I could help it. [He buries his face in his hands.] + +KEITH. Steady, Larry! Let's think it out. You weren't seen, you +say? + +LARRY. It's a dark place, and dead night. + +KEITH. When did you leave the girl again? + +LARRY. About seven. + +KEITH. Where did you go? + +LARRY. To my rooms. + +KEITH. To Fitzroy Street? + +LARRY. Yes. + +KEITH. What have you done since? + +LARRY. Sat there--thinking. + +KEITH. Not been out? + +LARRY. No. + +KEITH. Not seen the girl? + + [LARRY shakes his head.] + +Will she give you away? + +LARRY. Never. + +KEITH. Or herself hysteria? + +LARRY. No. + +KEITH. Who knows of your relations with her? + +LARRY. No one. + +KEITH. No one? + +LARRY. I don't know who should, Keith. + +KEITH. Did anyone see you go in last night, when you first went to +her? + +LARRY. No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys. + +KEITH. Give them to me. + + LARRY takes two keys from his pocket and hands them to his + brother. + +LARRY. [Rising] I can't be cut off from her! + +KEITH. What! A girl like that? + +LARRY. [With a flash] Yes, a girl like that. + +KEITH. [Moving his hand to put down old emotion] What else have you +that connects you with her? + +LARRY. Nothing. + +KEITH. In your rooms? + + [LARRY shakes his head.] + +Photographs? Letters? + +LARRY. No. + +KEITH. Sure? + +LARRY. Nothing. + +KEITH. No one saw you going back to her? + + [LARRY shakes his head. ] +Nor leave in the morning? You can't be certain. + +LARRY. I am. + +KEITH. You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think. + + He turns to the fire and leans his elbows on the mantelpiece and + his head on his hands. LARRY Sits down again obediently. + +KEITH. It's all too unlikely. It's monstrous! + +LARRY. [Sighing it out] Yes. + +KEITH. This Walenn--was it his first reappearance after an absence? + +LARRY. Yes. + +KEITH. How did he find out where she was? + +LARRY. I don't know. + +KEITH. [Brutally] How drunk were you? + +LARRY. I was not drunk. + +KEITH. How much had you drunk, then? + +LARRY. A little claret--nothing! + +KEITH. You say you didn't mean to kill him. + +LARRY. God knows. + +KEITH. That's something. + +LARRY. He hit me. [He holds up his hands] I didn't know I was so +strong. + +KEITH. She was hanging on to him, you say?--That's ugly. + +LARRY. She was scared for me. + +KEITH. D'you mean she--loves you? + +LARRY. [Simply] Yes, Keith. + +KEITH. [Brutally] Can a woman like that love? + +LARRY. [Flashing out] By God, you are a stony devil! Why not? + +KEITH. [Dryly] I'm trying to get at truth. If you want me to help, +I must know everything. What makes you think she's fond of you? + +LARRY. [With a crzay laugh] Oh, you lawyer! Were you never in a +woman's arms? + +KEITH. I'm talking of love. + +LARRY. [Fiercely] So am I. I tell you she's devoted. Did you ever +pick up a lost dog? Well, she has the lost dog's love for me. And I +for her; we picked each other up. I've never felt for another woman +what I feel for her--she's been the saving of me! + +KEITH. [With a shrug] What made you choose that archway? + +LARRY. It was the first dark place. + +KEITH. Did his face look as if he'd been strangled? + +LARRY. Don't! + +KEITH. Did it? + + [LARRY bows his head.] + +Very disfigured? + +LARRY. Yes. + +KEITH. Did you look to see if his clothes were marked? + +LARRY. No. + +KEITH. Why not? + +LARRY. [In an outburst] I'm not made of iron, like you. Why not? +If you had done it----! + +KEITH. [Holding up his hand] You say he was disfigured. Would he +be recognisable? + +LARRY. [Wearily] I don't know. + +KEITH. When she lived with him last--where was that? + +LARRY. In Pimlico, I think. + +KEITH. Not Soho? + + [LARRY shakes his head.] + +How long has she been at this Soho place? + +LARRY. Nearly a year. + +KEITH. Living this life? + +LARRY. Till she met me. + +KEITH. Till, she met you? And you believe----? + +LARRY. [Starting up] Keith! + +KEITH. [Again raising his hand] Always in the same rooms? + +LARRY. [Subsiding] Yes. + +KEITH. What was he? A professional bully? + + [LARRY nods.] + +Spending most of his time abroad, I suppose. + +LARRY. I think so. + +KEITH. Can you say if he was known to the police? + +LARRY. I've never heard. + + KEITH turns away and walks up and down; then, stopping at + LARRY's chair, he speaks. + +KEITH. Now listen, Larry. When you leave here, go straight home, +and stay there till I give you leave to go out again. Promise. + +LARRY. I promise. + +KEITH. Is your promise worth anything? + +LARRY. [With one of his flashes] "Unstable as water, he shall not +excel!" + +KEITH. Exactly. But if I'm to help you, you must do as I say. +I must have time to think this out. Have you got money? + +LARRY. Very little. + +KEITH. [Grimly] Half-quarter day--yes, your quarter's always spent +by then. If you're to get away--never mind, I can manage the money. + +LARRY. [Humbly] You're very good, Keith; you've always been very +good to me--I don't know why. + +KEITH. [Sardonically] Privilege of A brother. As it happens, I'm +thinking of myself and our family. You can't indulge yourself in +killing without bringing ruin. My God! I suppose you realise that +you've made me an accessory after the fact--me, King's counsel--sworn +to the service of the Law, who, in a year or two, will have the +trying of cases like yours! By heaven, Larry, you've surpassed +yourself! + +LARRY. [Bringing out a little box] I'd better have done with it. + +KErra. You fool! Give that to me. + +LARRY. [With a strange smite] No. [He holds up a tabloid between +finger and thumb] White magic, Keith! Just one--and they may do +what they like to you, and you won't know it. Snap your fingers at +all the tortures. It's a great comfort! Have one to keep by you? + +KEITH. Come, Larry! Hand it over. + +LARRY. [Replacing the box] Not quite! You've never killed a man, +you see. [He gives that crazy laugh.] D'you remember that hammer +when we were boys and you riled me, up in the long room? I had luck +then. I had luck in Naples once. I nearly killed a driver for +beating his poor brute of a horse. But now--! My God! [He covers +his face.] + + KEITH touched, goes up and lays a hand on his shoulder. + +KEITH. Come, Larry! Courage! + + LARRY looks up at him. + +LARRY. All right, Keith; I'll try. + +KEITH. Don't go out. Don't drink. Don't talk. Pull yourself +together! + +LARRY. [Moving towards the door] Don't keep me longer than you can +help, Keith. + +KEITH. No, no. Courage! + + LARRY reaches the door, turns as if to say something-finds no + words, and goes. + +[To the fire] Courage! My God! I shall need it! + + + CURTAIN + + + + +SCENE II + + At out eleven o'clock the following night an WANDA'S room on the + ground floor in Soho. In the light from one close-shaded + electric bulb the room is but dimly visible. A dying fire burns + on the left. A curtained window in the centre of the back wall. + A door on the right. The furniture is plush-covered and + commonplace, with a kind of shabby smartness. A couch, without + back or arms, stands aslant, between window and fire. + + [On this WANDA is sitting, her knees drawn up under her, staring + at the embers. She has on only her nightgown and a wrapper over + it; her bare feet are thrust into slippers. Her hands are + crossed and pressed over her breast. She starts and looks up, + listening. Her eyes are candid and startled, her face alabaster + pale, and its pale brown hair, short and square-cut, curls + towards her bare neck. The startled dark eyes and the faint + rose of her lips are like colour-staining on a white mask.] + + [Footsteps as of a policeman, very measured, pass on the + pavement outside, and die away. She gets up and steals to the + window, draws one curtain aside so that a chink of the night is + seen. She opens the curtain wider, till the shape of a bare, + witch-like tree becomes visible in the open space of the little + Square on the far side of the road. The footsteps are heard + once more coming nearer. WANDA closes the curtains and cranes + back. They pass and die again. She moves away and looking down + at the floor between door and couch, as though seeing something + there; shudders; covers her eyes; goes back to the couch and + down again just as before, to stare at the embers. Again she is + startled by noise of the outer door being opened. She springs + up, runs and turns the light by a switch close to the door. By + the glimmer of the fire she can just be seen standing by the + dark window-curtains, listening. There comes the sound of + subdued knocking on her door. She stands in breathless terror. + The knocking is repeated. The sound of a latchkey in the door + is heard. Her terror leaves her. The door opens; a man enters + in a dark, fur overcoat.] + +WANDA. [In a voice of breathless relief, with a rather foreign +accent] Oh! it's you, Larry! Why did you knock? I was so +frightened. Come in! [She crosses quickly, and flings her arms +round his neck] [Recoiling--in a terror-stricken whisper] Oh! Who +is it? + +KEITH. [In a smothered voice] A friend of Larry's. Don't be +frightened. + + She has recoiled again to the window; and when he finds the + switch and turns the light up, she is seen standing there + holding her dark wrapper up to her throat, so that her face has + an uncanny look of being detached from the body. + +[Gently] You needn't be afraid. I haven't come to do you harm-- +quite the contrary. [Holding up the keys] Larry wouldn't have given +me these, would he, if he hadn't trusted me? + + WANDA does not move, staring like a spirit startled out of the + flesh. + +[After looking round him] I'm sorry to have startled you. + +WANDA. [In a whisper] Who are you, please? + +KEITH. Larry's brother. + + WANDA, with a sigh of utter relief, steals forward to the couch + and sinks down. KEITH goes up to her. + +He'd told me. + +WANDA. [Clasping her hands round her knees.] Yes? + +KEITH. An awful business! + +WANDA. Yes; oh, yes! Awful--it is awful! + +KEITH. [Staring round him again.] In this room? + +WANDA. Just where you are standing. I see him now, always falling. + +KEITH. [Moved by the gentle despair in her voice] You--look very +young. What's your name? + +WANDA. Wanda. + +KEITH. Are you fond of Larry? + +WANDA. I would die for him! + + [A moment's silence.] + +KEITH. I--I've come to see what you can do to save him. + +WANDA, [Wistfully] You would not deceive me. You are really his +brother? + +KEITH. I swear it. + +WANDA. [Clasping her hands] If I can save him! Won't you sit down? + +KEITH. [Drawing up a chair and sitting] This, man, your--your +husband, before he came here the night before last--how long since +you saw him? + +WANDA. Eighteen month. + +KEITH. Does anyone about here know you are his wife? + +WANDA. No. I came here to live a bad life. Nobody know me. I am +quite alone. + +KEITH. They've discovered who he was--you know that? + +WANDA. No; I have not dared to go out. + +KEITH: Well, they have; and they'll look for anyone connected with +him, of course. + +WANDA. He never let people think I was married to him. I don't know +if I was--really. We went to an office and signed our names; but he +was a wicked man. He treated many, I think, like me. + +KEITH. Did my brother ever see him before? + +WANDA. Never! And that man first went for him. + +KEITH. Yes. I saw the mark. Have you a servant? + +WANDA. No. A woman come at nine in the morning for an hour. + +KEITH. Does she know Larry? + +WANDA. No. He is always gone. + +KEITH. Friends--acquaintances? + +WANDA. No; I am verree quiet. Since I know your brother, I see no +one, sare. + +KEITH. [Sharply] Do you mean that? + +WANDA. Oh, yes! I love him. Nobody come here but him for a long +time now. + +KEITH. How long? + +WANDA. Five month. + +KEITH. So you have not been out since----? + + [WANDA shakes her head.] + +What have you been doing? + +WANDA. [Simply] Crying. [Pressing her hands to her breast] He is +in danger because of me. I am so afraid for him. + +KEITH. [Checking her emotion] Look at me. + + [She looks at him.] + +If the worst comes, and this man is traced to you, can you trust +yourself not to give Larry away? + +WANDA. [Rising and pointing to the fire] Look! I have burned all +the things he have given me--even his picture. Now I have nothing +from him. + +KEITH. [Who has risen too] Good! One more question. Do the police +know you--because--of your life? + + [She looks at him intently, and shakes her, head.] + +You know where Larry lives? + +WANDA. Yes. + +KEITH. You mustn't go there, and he mustn't come to you. + + [She bows her head; then, suddenly comes close to him.] + +WANDA. Please do not take him from me altogether. I will be so +careful. I will not do anything to hurt him. But if I cannot see +him sometimes, I shall die. Please do not take him from me. + + [She catches his hand and presses it desperately between her + own.] + +KEITH. Leave that to me. I'm going to do all I can. + +WANDA. [Looking up into his face] But you will be kind? + + Suddenly she bends and kisses his hand. KEITH draws his hand + away, and she recoils a little humbly, looking up at him again. + Suddenly she stands rigid, listening. + +[In a whisper] Listen! Someone--out there! + + She darts past him and turns out the light. There is a knock on + the door. They are now close together between door and window. + + [Whispering] Oh! Who is it? + +KEITH. [Under his breath] You said no one comes but Larry. + +WANDA. Yes, and you have his keys. Oh! if it is Larry! I must open! + + KEITH shrinks back against the wall. WANDA goes to the door. + +[Opening the door an inch] Yes? Please? Who? + + A thin streak of light from a bull's-eye lantern outside plays + over the wall. A Policeman's voice says: "All right, Miss. + Your outer door's open. You ought to keep it shut after dark, + you know." + +WANDA. Thank you, air. + + [The sound of retreating footsteps, of the outer door closing. + WANDA shuts the door.] + +A policeman! + +KEITH. [Moving from the wall] Curse! I must have left that door. +[Suddenly-turning up the light] You told me they didn't know you. + +WANDA. [Sighing] I did not think they did, sir. It is so long I +was not out in the town; not since I had Larry. + + KEITH gives her an intent look, then crosses to the fire. He + stands there a moment, looking down, then turns to the girl, who + has crept back to the couch. + +KEITH. [Half to himself] After your life, who can believe---? Look +here! You drifted together and you'll drift apart, you know. Better +for him to get away and make a clean cut of it. + +WANDA. [Uttering a little moaning sound] Oh, sir! May I not love, +because I have been bad? I was only sixteen when that man spoiled +me. If you knew---- + +KEITH. I'm thinking of Larry. With you, his danger is much greater. +There's a good chance as things are going. You may wreck it. And +for what? Just a few months more of--well--you know. + +WANDA. [Standing at the head of the couch and touching her eyes with +her hands] Oh, sir! Look! It is true. He is my life. Don't take +him away from me. + +KEITH. [Moved and restless] You must know what Larry is. He'll +never stick to you. + +WANDA. [Simply] He will, sir. + +KEITH. [Energetically] The last man on earth to stick to anything! +But for the sake of a whim he'll risk his life and the honour of all +his family. I know him. + +WANDA. No, no, you do not. It is I who know him. + +KEITH. Now, now! At any moment they may find out your connection +with that man. So long as Larry goes on with you, he's tied to this +murder, don't you see? + +WANDA. [Coming close to him] But he love me. Oh, sir! he love me! + +KEITH. Larry has loved dozens of women. + +WANDA. Yes, but----[Her face quivers]. + +KEITH. [Brusquely] Don't cry! If I give you money, will you +disappear, for his sake? + +WANDA. [With a moan] It will be in the water, then. There will be +no cruel men there. + +KEITH. Ah! First Larry, then you! Come now. It's better for you +both. A few months, and you'll forget you ever met. + +WANDA. [Looking wildly up] I will go if Larry say I must. But not +to live. No! [Simply] I could not, sir. + + [KEITH, moved, is silent.] + +I could not live without Larry. What is left for a girl like me-- +when she once love? It is finish. + +KEITH. I don't want you to go back to that life. + +WANDA. No; you do not care what I do. Why should you? I tell you I +will go if Larry say I must. + +KEITH. That's not enough. You know that. You must take it out of +his hands. He will never give up his present for the sake of his +future. If you're as fond of him as you say, you'll help to save +him. + +WANDA. [Below her breath] Yes! Oh, yes! But do not keep him long +from me--I beg! [She sinks to the floor and clasps his knees.] + +KEITH. Well, well! Get up. + + [There is a tap on the window-pane] + +Listen! + + [A faint, peculiar whistle. ] + +WANDA. [Springing up] Larry! Oh, thank God! + + [She runs to the door, opens it, and goes out to bring him in. + KEITH stands waiting, facing the open doorway.] + + [LARRY entering with WANDA just behind him.] + +LARRY. Keith! + +KEITH. [Grimly] So much for your promise not to go out! + +LARRY. I've been waiting in for you all day. I couldn't stand it +any longer. + +KEITH. Exactly! + +LARRY. Well, what's the sentence, brother? Transportation for life +and then to be fined forty pounds'? + +KEITH. So you can joke, can you? + +LARRY. Must. + +KEITH. A boat leaves for the Argentine the day after to-morrow; you +must go by it. + +LARRY. [Putting his arms round WANDA, who is standing motionless +with her eyes fixed on him] Together, Keith? + +KEITH. You can't go together. I'll send her by the next boat. + +LARRY. Swear? + +KEITH. Yes. You're lucky they're on a false scent. + +LARRY. What? + +KEITH. You haven't seen it? + +LARRY. I've seen nothing, not even a paper. + +KEITH. They've taken up a vagabond who robbed the body. He pawned a +snake-shaped ring, and they identified this Walenn by it. I've been +down and seen him charged myself. + +LARRY. With murder? + +WANDA. [Faintly] Larry! + +KEITH. He's in no danger. They always get the wrong man first. +It'll do him no harm to be locked up a bit--hyena like that. Better +in prison, anyway, than sleeping out under archways in this weather. + +LARRY. What was he like, Keith? + +KEITH. A little yellow, ragged, lame, unshaven scarecrow of a chap. +They were fools to think he could have had the strength. + +LARRY. What! [In an awed voice] Why, I saw him--after I left you +last night. + +KEITH. You? Where? + +LARRY. By the archway. + +KEITH. You went back there? + +LARRY. It draws you, Keith. + +KErra. You're mad, I think. + +LARRY. I talked to him, and he said, "Thank you for this little +chat. It's worth more than money when you're down." Little grey man +like a shaggy animal. And a newspaper boy came up and said: "That's +right, guv'nors! 'Ere's where they found the body--very spot. They +'yn't got 'im yet." + + [He laughs; and the terrified girl presses herself against him.] + +An innocent man! + +KEITH. He's in no danger, I tell you. He could never have +strangled----Why, he hadn't the strength of a kitten. Now, Larry! +I'll take your berth to-morrow. Here's money [He brings out a pile +of notes and puts them on the couch] You can make a new life of it +out there together presently, in the sun. + +LARRY. [In a whisper] In the sun! "A cup of wine and thou." +[Suddenly] How can I, Keith? I must see how it goes with that poor +devil. + +KEITH. Bosh! Dismiss it from your mind; there's not nearly enough +evidence. + +LARRY. Not? + +KEITH. No. You've got your chance. Take it like a man. + +LARRY. [With a strange smile--to the girl] Shall we, Wanda? + +WANDA. Oh, Larry! + +LARRY. [Picking the notes up from the couch] Take them back, Keith. + +KEITH. What! I tell you no jury would convict; and if they did, no +judge would hang. A ghoul who can rob a dead body, ought to be in +prison. He did worse than you. + +LARRY. It won't do, Keith. I must see it out. + +KEITH. Don't be a fool! + +LARRY. I've still got some kind of honour. If I clear out before I +know, I shall have none--nor peace. Take them, Keith, or I'll put +them in the fire. + +KEITH. [Taking back the notes; bitterly] I suppose I may ask you +not to be entirely oblivious of our name. Or is that unworthy of +your honour? + +LARRY. [Hanging his head] I'm awfully sorry, Keith; awfully sorry, +old man. + +KEITH. [sternly] You owe it to me--to our name--to our dead mother- +-to do nothing anyway till we see what happens. + +LARRY. I know. I'll do nothing without you, Keith. + +KEITH. [Taking up his hat] Can I trust you? [He stares hard at his +brother.] + +LARRY. You can trust me. + +KEITH. Swear? + +LARRY. I swear. + +KEITH. Remember, nothing! Good night! + +LARRY. Good night! + + KEITH goes. LARRY Sits down on the couch sand stares at the + fire. The girl steals up and slips her arms about him. + +LARRY. An innocent man! + +WANDA. Oh, Larry! But so are you. What did we want--to kill that +man? Never! Oh! kiss me! + + [LARRY turns his face. She kisses his lips.] + +I have suffered so--not seein' you. Don't leave me again--don't! +Stay here. Isn't it good to be together?--Oh! Poor Larry! How +tired you look!--Stay with me. I am so frightened all alone. So +frightened they will take you from me. + +LARRY. Poor child! + +WANDA. No, no! Don't look like that! + +LARRY. You're shivering. + +WANDA. I will make up the fire. Love me, Larry! I want to forget. + +LARRY. The poorest little wretch on God's earth--locked up--for me! +A little wild animal, locked up. There he goes, up and down, up and +down--in his cage--don't you see him?--looking for a place to gnaw +his way through--little grey rat. [He gets up and roams about.] + +WANDA. No, no! I can't bear it! Don't frighten me more! + + [He comes back and takes her in his arms.] + +LARRY. There, there! [He kisses her closed eyes.] + +WANDA. [Without moving] If we could sleep a little--wouldn't it be +nice? + +LARRY. Sleep? + +WANDA. [Raising herself] Promise to stay with me--to stay here for +good, Larry. I will cook for you; I will make you so comfortable. +They will find him innocent. And then--Oh, Larry! in the sun-right +away--far from this horrible country. How lovely! [Trying to get +him to look at her] Larry! + +LARRY. [With a movement to free 'himself] To the edge of the +world-and---over! + +WANDA. No, no! No, no! You don't want me to die, Larry, do you? I +shall if you leave me. Let us be happy! Love me! + +LARRY. [With a laugh] Ah! Let's be happy and shut out the sight of +him. Who cares? Millions suffer for no mortal reason. Let's be +strong, like Keith. No! I won't leave you, Wanda. Let's forget +everything except ourselves. [Suddenly] There he goes-up and down! + +WANDA. [Moaning] No, no! See! I will pray to the Virgin. She will +pity us! + + She falls on her knees and clasps her hands, praying. Her lips + move. LARRY stands motionless, with arms crossed, and on his + face are yearning and mockery, love and despair. + +LARRY. [Whispering] Pray for us! Bravo! Pray away! + + [Suddenly the girl stretches out her arms and lifts her face + with a look of ecstasy.] + +What? + +WANDA. She is smiling! We shall be happy soon. + +LARRY. [Bending down over her] Poor child! When we die, Wanda, +let's go together. We should keep each other warm out in the dark. + +WANDA. [Raising her hands to his face] Yes! oh, yes! If you die I +could not--I could not go on living! + + + CURTAIN + + + +SCENE III. + +TWO MONTHS LATER + + WANDA'S room. Daylight is just beginning to fail of a January + afternoon. The table is laid for supper, with decanters of + wine. + + WANDA is standing at the window looking out at the wintry trees + of the Square beyond the pavement. A newspaper Boy's voice is + heard coming nearer. + +VOICE. Pyper! Glove Lyne murder! Trial and verdict! [Receding] +Verdict! Pyper! + + WANDA throws up the window as if to call to him, checks herself, + closes it and runs to the door. She opens it, but recoils into + the room. KEITH is standing there. He comes in. + +KEITH. Where's Larry? + +WANDA. He went to the trial. I could not keep him from it. The +trial--Oh! what has happened, sir? + +KEITH. [Savagely] Guilty! Sentence of death! Fools!--idiots! + +WANDA. Of death! [For a moment she seems about to swoon.] + +KEITH. Girl! girl! It may all depend on you. Larry's still living +here? + +WANDA. Yes. + +KEITH. I must wait for him. + +WANDA. Will you sit down, please? + +KEITH. [Shaking his head] Are you ready to go away at any time? + +WANDA. Yes, yes; always I am ready. + +KEITH. And he? + +WANDA. Yes--but now! What will he do? That poor man! + +KEITH. A graveyard thief--a ghoul! + +WANDA. Perhaps he was hungry. I have been hungry: you do things +then that you would not. Larry has thought of him in prison so much +all these weeks. Oh! what shall we do now? + +KEITH. Listen! Help me. Don't let Larry out of your sight. I must +see how things go. They'll never hang this wretch. [He grips her +arms] Now, we must stop Larry from giving himself up. He's fool +enough. D'you understand? + +WANDA. Yes. But why has he not come in? Oh! If he have, already! + +KEITH. [Letting go her arms] My God! If the police come--find me +here--[He moves to the door] No, he wouldn't without seeing you +first. He's sure to come. Watch him like a lynx. Don't let him go +without you. + +WANDA. [Clasping her hands on her breast] I will try, sir. + +KEITH. Listen! + + [A key is heard in the lock.] + +It's he! + + LARRY enters. He is holding a great bunch of pink lilies and + white narcissus. His face tells nothing. KEITH looks from him + to the girl, who stands motionless. + +LARRY. Keith! So you've seen? + +KEITH. The thing can't stand. I'll stop it somehow. But you must +give me time, Larry. + +LARRY. [Calmly] Still looking after your honour, KEITH! + +KEITH. [Grimly] Think my reasons what you like. + +WANDA. [Softly] Larry! + + [LARRY puts his arm round her.] + +LARRY. Sorry, old man. + +KEITH. Tnis man can and shall get off. I want your solemn promise +that you won't give yourself up, nor even go out till I've seen you +again. + +LARRY. I give it. + +KEITH. [Looking from one to the other] By the memory of our mother, +swear that. + +LARRY. [With a smile] I swear. + +KEITH. I have your oath--both of you--both of you. I'm going at +once to see what can be done. + +LARRY. [Softly] Good luck, brother. + + KEITH goes out. + +WANDA. [Putting her hands on LARRY's breast] What does it mean? + +LARRY. Supper, child--I've had nothing all day. Put these lilies in +water. + + [She takes the lilies and obediently puts them into a vase. + LARRY pours wine into a deep-coloured glass and drinks it off.] + +We've had a good time, Wanda. Best time I ever had, these last two +months; and nothing but the bill to pay. + +WANDA. [Clasping him desperately] Oh, Larry! Larry! + +LARRY. [Holding her away to look at her.] Take off those things and +put on a bridal garment. + +WANDA. Promise me--wherever you go, I go too. Promise! Larry, you +think I haven't seen, all these weeks. But I have seen everything; +all in your heart, always. You cannot hide from me. I knew--I knew! +Oh, if we might go away into the sun! Oh! Larry--couldn't we? [She +searches his eyes with hers--then shuddering] Well! If it must be +dark--I don't care, if I may go in your arms. In prison we could not +be together. I am ready. Only love me first. Don't let me cry +before I go. Oh! Larry, will there be much pain? + +LARRY. [In a choked voice] No pain, my pretty. + +WANDA. [With a little sigh] It is a pity. + +LARRY. If you had seen him, as I have, all day, being tortured. +Wanda,--we shall be out of it. [The wine mounting to his head] We +shall be free in the dark; free of their cursed inhumanities. I hate +this world--I loathe it! I hate its God-forsaken savagery; its pride +and smugness! Keith's world--all righteous will-power and success. +We're no good here, you and I--we were cast out at birth--soft, +will-less--better dead. No fear, Keith! I'm staying indoors. [He +pours wine into two glasses] Drink it up! + + + [Obediently WANDA drinks, and he also.] + +Now go and make yourself beautiful. + +WANDA. [Seizing him in her arms] Oh, Larry! + +LARRY. [Touching her face and hair] Hanged by the neck until he's +dead--for what I did. + + [WANDA takes a long look at his face, slips her arms from him, + and goes out through the curtains below the fireplace.] + + [LARRY feels in his pocket, brings out the little box, opens it, + fingers the white tabloids.] + +LARRY. Two each--after food. [He laughs and puts back the box] Oh! +my girl! + + [The sound of a piano playing a faint festive tune is heard afar + off. He mutters, staring at the fire.] + + [Flames-flame, and flicker-ashes.] + +"No more, no more, the moon is dead, And all the people in it." + + [He sits on the couch with a piece of paper on his knees, adding + a few words with a stylo pen to what is already written.] + + [The GIRL, in a silk wrapper, coming back through the curtains, + watches him.] + +LARRY. [Looking up] It's all here--I've confessed. [Reading] + +"Please bury us together." +"LAURENCE DARRANT. +"January 28th, about six p.m." + +They'll find us in the morning. Come and have supper, my dear love. + + [The girl creeps forward. He rises, puts his arm round her, and + with her arm twined round him, smiling into each other's faces, + they go to the table and sit down.] + + The curtain falls for a few seconds to indicate the passage of + three hours. When it rises again, the lovers are lying on the + couch, in each other's arms, the lilies stream about them. The + girl's bare arm is round LARRY'S neck. Her eyes are closed; his + are open and sightless. There is no light but fire-light. + + A knocking on the door and the sound of a key turned in the + lock. KEITH enters. He stands a moment bewildered by the half- + light, then calls sharply: "Larry!" and turns up the light. + Seeing the forms on the couch, he recoils a moment. Then, + glancing at the table and empty decanters, goes up to the couch. + +KEITH. [Muttering] Asleep! Drunk! Ugh! + + [Suddenly he bends, touches LARRY, and springs back.] + +What! [He bends again, shakes him and calls] Larry! Larry! + + [Then, motionless, he stares down at his brother's open, + sightless eyes. Suddenly he wets his finger and holds it to the + girl's lips, then to LARRY'S.] + + [He bends and listens at their hearts; catches sight of the + little box lying between them and takes it up.] + +My God! + + [Then, raising himself, he closes his brother's eyes, and as he + does so, catches sight of a paper pinned to the couch; detaches + it and reads:] + +"I, Lawrence Darrant, about to die by my own hand confess that I----" + + [He reads on silently, in horror; finishes, letting the paper + drop, and recoils from the couch on to a chair at the + dishevelled supper table. Aghast, he sits there. Suddenly he + mutters:] + +If I leave that there--my name--my whole future! + + [He springs up, takes up the paper again, and again reads.] + +My God! It's ruin! + + [He makes as if to tear it across, stops, and looks down at + those two; covers his eyes with his hand; drops the paper and + rushes to the door. But he stops there and comes back, + magnetised, as it were, by that paper. He takes it up once more + and thrusts it into his pocket.] + + [The footsteps of a Policeman pass, slow and regular, outside. + His face crisps and quivers; he stands listening till they die + away. Then he snatches the paper from his pocket, and goes past + the foot of the couch to the fore.] + +All my----No! Let him hang! + + [He thrusts the paper into the fire, stamps it down with his + foot, watches it writhe and blacken. Then suddenly clutching + his head, he turns to the bodies on the couch. Panting and like + a man demented, he recoils past the head of the couch, and + rushing to the window, draws the curtains and throws the window + up for air. Out in the darkness rises the witch-like skeleton + tree, where a dark shape seems hanging. KEITH starts back.] + +What's that? What----! + + [He shuts the window and draws the dark curtains across it + again.] + +Fool! Nothing! + + [Clenching his fists, he draws himself up, steadying himself + with all his might. Then slowly he moves to the door, stands a + second like a carved figure, his face hard as stone.] + + [Deliberately he turns out the light, opens the door, and goes.] + + [The still bodies lie there before the fire which is licking at + the last blackened wafer.] + + +CURTAIN + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE FIRST AND LAST, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +THE LITTLE MAN + +A FARCICAL MORALITY IN THREE SCENES + + + +CHARACTERS + +THE LITTLE MAN. +THE AMERICAN. +THE ENGLISHMAN. +THE ENGLISHWOMAN. +THE GERMAN. +THE DUTCH BOY. +THE MOTHER. +THE BABY. +THE WAITER. +THE STATION OFFICIAL. +THE POLICEMAN. +THE PORTER. + + + + +SCENE I + + Afternoon, on the departure platform of an Austrian railway + station. At several little tables outside the buffet persons + are taking refreshment, served by a pale young waiter. On a + seat against the wall of the buffet a woman of lowly station is + sitting beside two large bundles, on one of which she has placed + her baby, swathed in a black shawl. + +WAITER. [Approaching a table whereat sit an English traveller and +his wife] Two coffee? + +ENGLISHMAN. [Paying] Thanks. [To his wife, in an Oxford voice] +Sugar? + +ENGLISHWOMAN. [In a Cambridge voice] One. + +AMERICAN TRAVELLER. [With field-glasses and a pocket camera from +another table] Waiter, I'd like to have you get my eggs. I've been +sitting here quite a while. + +WAITER. Yes, sare. + +GERMAN TRAVELLER. 'Kellner, bezahlen'! [His voice is, like his +moustache, stiff and brushed up at the ends. His figure also is +stiff and his hair a little grey; clearly once, if not now, a +colonel.] + +WAITER. 'Komm' gleich'! + + [The baby on the bundle wails. The mother takes it up to soothe + it. A young, red-cheecked Dutchman at the fourth table stops + eating and laughs.] + +AMERICAN. My eggs! Get a wiggle on you! + +WAITER. Yes, sare. [He rapidly recedes.] + + [A LITTLE MAN in a soft hat is seen to the right of tables. He + stands a moment looking after the hurrying waiter, then seats + himself at the fifth table.] + +ENGLISHMAN. [Looking at his watch] Ten minutes more. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Bother! + +AMERICAN. [Addressing them] 'Pears as if they'd a prejudice against +eggs here, anyway. + + [The ENGLISH look at him, but do not speak. ] + +GERMAN. [In creditable English] In these places man can get +nothing. + + [The WAITER comes flying back with a compote for the DUTCH + YOUTH, who pays.] + +GERMAN. 'Kellner, bezahlen'! + +WAITER. 'Eine Krone sechzig'. + + [The GERMAN pays.] + +AMERICAN. [Rising, and taking out his watch--blandly] See here. If +I don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, there'll be +another waiter in heaven. + +WAITER. [Flying] 'Komm' gleich'! + +AMERICAN. [Seeking sympathy] I'm gettin' kind of mad! + + [The ENGLISHMAN halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement + half to his wife. The BABY wails. The MOTHER rocks it.] + + [The DUTCH YOUTH stops eating and laughs. The GERMAN lights a + cigarette. The LITTLE MAN sits motionless, nursing his hat. + The WAITER comes flying back with the eggs and places them + before the AMERICAN.] + +AMERICAN. [Putting away his watch] Good! I don't like trouble. +How much? + + [He pays and eats. The WAITER stands a moment at the edge of + the platform and passes his hand across his brow. The LITTLE + MAN eyes him and speaks gently.] + +LITTLE MAN. Herr Ober! + + [The WAITER turns.] + +Might I have a glass of beer? + +WAITER. Yes, sare. + +LITTLE MAN. Thank you very much. + + [The WAITER goes.] + +AMERICAN. [Pausing in the deglutition of his eggs--affably] Pardon +me, sir; I'd like to have you tell me why you called that little bit +of a feller "Herr Ober." Reckon you would know what that means? +Mr. Head Waiter. + +LITTLE MAN. Yes, yes. + +AMERICAN. I smile. + +LITTLE MAN. Oughtn't I to call him that? + +GERMAN. [Abruptly] 'Nein--Kellner'. + +AMERICAN. Why, yes! Just "waiter." + + [The ENGLISHWOMAN looks round her paper for a second. The DUTCH + YOUTH stops eating and laughs. The LITTLE MAN gazes from face + to face and nurses his hat.] + +LITTLE MAN. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. + +GERMAN. Gott! + +AMERICAN. In my country we're very democratic--but that's quite a +proposition. + +ENGLISHMAN. [Handling coffee-pot, to his wife] More? + +ENGLISHWOMAN. No, thanks. + +GERMAN. [Abruptly] These fellows--if you treat them in this manner, +at once they take liberties. You see, you will not get your beer. + + [As he speaks the WAITER returns, bringing the LITTLE MAN'S + beer, then retires.] + +AMERICAN. That 'pears to be one up to democracy. [To the LITTLE +MAN] I judge you go in for brotherhood? + +LITTLE MAN. [Startled] Oh, no! + +AMERICAN. I take considerable stock in Leo Tolstoi myself. Grand +man--grand-souled apparatus. But I guess you've got to pinch those +waiters some to make 'em skip. [To the ENGLISH, who have carelessly +looked his way for a moment] You'll appreciate that, the way he +acted about my eggs. + + [The ENGLISH make faint motions with their chins and avert their + eyes.] + + [To the WAITER, who is standing at the door of the buffet] + +Waiter! Flash of beer--jump, now! + +WAITER. 'Komm' gleich'! + +GERMAN. 'Cigarren'! + +WAITER. 'Schon'! + + [He disappears.] + +AMERICAN. [Affably--to the LITTLE MAN] Now, if I don't get that +flash of beer quicker'n you got yours, I shall admire. + +GERMAN. [Abruptly] Tolstoi is nothing 'nichts'! No good! Ha? + +AMERICAN. [Relishing the approach of argument] Well, that is a +matter of temperament. Now, I'm all for equality. See that poor +woman there--very humble woman--there she sits among us with her +baby. Perhaps you'd like to locate her somewhere else? + +GERMAN. [Shrugging]. Tolstoi is 'sentimentalisch'. Nietzsche is +the true philosopher, the only one. + +AMERICAN. Well, that's quite in the prospectus--very stimulating +party--old Nietch--virgin mind. But give me Leo! [He turns to the +red-cheeked YOUTH] What do you opine, sir? I guess by your labels +you'll be Dutch. Do they read Tolstoi in your country? + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs.] + +AMERICAN. That is a very luminous answer. + +GERMAN. Tolstoi is nothing. Man should himself express. He must +push--he must be strong. + +AMERICAN. That is so. In America we believe in virility; we like a +man to expand. But we believe in brotherhood too. We draw the line +at niggers; but we aspire. Social barriers and distinctions we've +not much use for. + +ENGLISHMAN. Do you feel a draught? + +ENGLISHWOMAN. [With a shiver of her shoulder toward the AMERICAN] I +do--rather. + +GERMAN. Wait! You are a young people. + +AMERICAN. That is so; there are no flies on us. [To the LITTLE MAN, +who has been gazing eagerly from face to face] Say! I'd like to +have you give us your sentiments in relation to the duty of man. + + [The LITTLE MAN, fidgets, and is about to opens his mouth.] + +AMERICAN. For example--is it your opinion that we should kill off +the weak and diseased, and all that can't jump around? + +GERMAN. [Nodding] 'Ja, ja'! That is coming. + +LITTLE MAN. [Looking from face to face] They might be me. + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs.] + +AMERICAN. [Reproving him with a look] That's true humility. +'Tisn't grammar. Now, here's a proposition that brings it nearer the +bone: Would you step out of your way to help them when it was liable +to bring you trouble? + +GERMAN. 'Nein, nein'! That is stupid. + +LITTLE MAN. [Eager but wistful] I'm afraid not. Of course one +wants to--There was St Francis d'Assisi and St Julien L'Hospitalier, +and---- + +AMERICAN. Very lofty dispositions. Guess they died of them. [He +rises] Shake hands, sir--my name is--[He hands a card] I am an +ice-machine maker. [He shakes the LITTLE MAN's hand] I like your +sentiments--I feel kind of brotherly. [Catching sight of the WAITER +appearing in the doorway] Waiter; where to h-ll is that glass of +beer? + +GERMAN. Cigarren! + +WAITER. 'Komm' gleich'! + +ENGLISHMAN. [Consulting watch] Train's late. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Really! Nuisance! + + [A station POLICEMAN, very square and uniformed, passes and + repasses.] + +AMERICAN. [Resuming his seat--to the GERMAN] Now, we don't have so +much of that in America. Guess we feel more to trust in human +nature. + +GERMAN. Ah! ha! you will bresently find there is nothing in him +but self. + +LITTLE MAN. [Wistfully] Don't you believe in human nature? + +AMERICAN. Very stimulating question. + + [He looks round for opinions. The DUTCH YOUTH laughs.] + +ENGLISHMAN. [Holding out his half of the paper to his wife] Swap! + + [His wife swaps.] + +GERMAN. In human nature I believe so far as I can see him--no more. + +AMERICAN. Now that 'pears to me kind o' blasphemy. I believe in +heroism. I opine there's not one of us settin' around here that's +not a hero--give him the occasion. + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! Do you believe that? + +AMERICAN. Well! I judge a hero is just a person that'll help +another at the expense of himself. Take that poor woman there. +Well, now, she's a heroine, I guess. She would die for her baby any +old time. + +GERMAN. Animals will die for their babies. That is nothing. + +AMERICAN. I carry it further. I postulate we would all die for that +baby if a locomotive was to trundle up right here and try to handle +it. [To the GERMAN] I guess you don't know how good you are. [As +the GERMAN is twisting up the ends of his moustache--to the +ENGLISHWOMAN] I should like to have you express an opinion, ma'am. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. I beg your pardon. + +AMERICAN. The English are very humanitarian; they have a very high +sense of duty. So have the Germans, so have the Americans. [To the +DUTCH YOUTH] I judge even in your little country they have that. +This is an epoch of equality and high-toned ideals. [To the LITTLE +MAN] What is your nationality, sir? + +LITTLE MAN. I'm afraid I'm nothing particular. My father was +half-English and half-American, and my mother half-German and +half-Dutch. + +AMERICAN. My! That's a bit streaky, any old way. [The POLICEMAN +passes again] Now, I don't believe we've much use any more for those +gentlemen in buttons. We've grown kind of mild--we don't think of +self as we used to do. + + [The WAITER has appeared in the doorway.] + +GERMAN. [In a voice of thunder] 'Cigarren! Donnerwetter'! + +AMERICAN. [Shaking his fist at the vanishing WAITER] That flash of +beer! + +WAITER. 'Komm' gleich'! + +AMERICAN. A little more, and he will join George Washington! I was +about to remark when he intruded: In this year of grace 1913 the +kingdom of Christ is quite a going concern. We are mighty near +universal brotherhood. The colonel here [He indicates the GERMAN] is +a man of blood and iron, but give him an opportunity to be +magnanimous, and he'll be right there. Oh, sir! yep! + + [The GERMAN, with a profound mixture of pleasure and cynicism, + brushes up the ends of his moustache.] + +LITTLE MAN. I wonder. One wants to, but somehow--[He shakes his +head.] + +AMERICAN. You seem kind of skeery about that. You've had experience, +maybe. I'm an optimist--I think we're bound to make the devil hum in +the near future. I opine we shall occasion a good deal of trouble to +that old party. There's about to be a holocaust of selfish +interests. The colonel there with old-man Nietch he won't know +himself. There's going to be a very sacred opportunity. + + [As he speaks, the voice of a RAILWAY OFFICIAL is heard an the + distance calling out in German. It approaches, and the words + become audible.] + +GERMAN. [Startled] 'Der Teufel'! [He gets up, and seizes the bag +beside him.] + + [The STATION OFFICIAL has appeared; he stands for a moment + casting his commands at the seated group. The DUTCH YOUTH also + rises, and takes his coat and hat. The OFFICIAL turns on his + heel and retires still issuing directions.] + +ENGLISHMAN. What does he say? + +GERMAN. Our drain has come in, de oder platform; only one minute we +haf. + + [All, have risen in a fluster.] + +AMERICAN. Now, that's very provoking. I won't get that flash of +beer. + + [There is a general scurry to gather coats and hats and wraps, + during which the lowly WOMAN is seen making desperate attempts + to deal with her baby and the two large bundles. Quite + defeated, she suddenly puts all down, wrings her hands, and + cries out: "Herr Jesu! Hilfe!" The flying procession turn + their heads at that strange cry.] + +AMERICAN. What's that? Help? + + [He continues to run. The LITTLE MAN spins round, rushes back, + picks up baby and bundle on which it was seated.] + +LITTLE MAN. Come along, good woman, come along! + + [The WOMAN picks up the other bundle and they run.] + + [The WAITER, appearing in the doorway with the bottle of beer, + watches with his tired smile.] + + + CURTAIN + + + + +SCENE II + + A second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, in motion. + In it are seated the ENGLISHMAN and his WIFE, opposite each + other at the corridor end, she with her face to the engine, he + with his back. Both are somewhat protected from the rest of the + travellers by newspapers. Next to her sits the GERMAN, and + opposite him sits the AMERICAN; next the AMERICAN in one window + corner is seated the DUTCH YOUTH; the other window corner is + taken by the GERMAN'S bag. The silence is only broken by the + slight rushing noise of the train's progression and the + crackling of the English newspapers. + +AMERICAN. [Turning to the DUTCH YOUTH] Guess I'd like that window +raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run they gave us. + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs, and goes through the motions of raising + the window. The ENGLISH regard the operation with uneasy + irritation. The GERMAN opens his bag, which reposes on the + corner seat next him, and takes out a book.] + +AMERICAN. The Germans are great readers. Very stimulating practice. +I read most anything myself! + + [The GERMAN holds up the book so that the title may be read.] + +"Don Quixote"--fine book. We Americans take considerable stock in +old man Quixote. Bit of a wild-cat--but we don't laugh at him. + +GERMAN. He is dead. Dead as a sheep. A good thing, too. + +AMERICAN. In America we have still quite an amount of chivalry. + +GERMAN. Chivalry is nothing 'sentimentalisch'. In modern days--no +good. A man must push, he must pull. + +AMERICAN. So you say. But I judge your form of chivalry is +sacrifice to the state. We allow more freedom to the individual +soul. Where there's something little and weak, we feel it kind of +noble to give up to it. That way we feel elevated. + + [As he speaks there is seen in the corridor doorway the LITTLE + MAN, with the WOMAN'S BABY still on his arm and the bundle held + in the other hand. He peers in anxiously. The ENGLISH, acutely + conscious, try to dissociate themselves from his presence with + their papers. The DUTCH YOUTH laughs.] + +GERMAN. 'Ach'! So! + +AMERICAN. Dear me! + +LITTLE MAN. Is there room? I can't find a seat. + +AMERICAN. Why, yes! There's a seat for one. + +LITTLE MAN. [Depositing bundle outside, and heaving BABY] May I? + +AMERICAN. Come right in! + + [The GERMAN sulkily moves his bag. The LITTLE MAN comes in and + seats himself gingerly.] + +AMERICAN. Where's the mother? + +LITTLE MAN. [Ruefully] Afraid she got left behind. + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The ENGLISH unconsciously emerge from + their newspapers.] + +AMERICAN. My! That would appear to be quite a domestic incident. + + [The ENGLISHMAN suddenly utters a profound "Ha, Ha!" and + disappears behind his paper. And that paper and the one + opposite are seen to shake, and little sguirls and squeaks + emerge.] + +GERMAN. And you haf got her bundle, and her baby. Ha! [He cackles +drily.] + +AMERICAN. [Gravely] I smile. I guess Providence has played it +pretty low down on you. It's sure acted real mean. + + [The BABY wails, and the LITTLE MAN jigs it with a sort of + gentle desperation, looking apologetically from face to face. + His wistful glance renews the fore of merriment wherever it + alights. The AMERICAN alone preserves a gravity which seems + incapable of being broken.] + +AMERICAN. Maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore that +baby. There's nothing can act madder than a mother. + +LITTLE MAN. Poor thing, yes! What she must be suffering! + + [A gale of laughter shakes the carriage. The ENGLISH for a + moment drop their papers, the better to indulge. The LITTLE MAN + smiles a wintry smile.] + +AMERICAN. [In a lull] How did it eventuate? + +LITTLE MAN. We got there just as the train was going to start; and I +jumped, thinking I could help her up. But it moved too quickly, +and--and left her. + + [The gale of laughter blows up again.] + +AMERICAN. Guess I'd have thrown the baby out to her. + +LITTLE MAN. I was afraid the poor little thing might break. + + [The Baby wails; the LITTLE MAN heaves it; the gale of laughter + blows.] + +AMERICAN. [Gravely] It's highly entertaining--not for the baby. +What kind of an old baby is it, anyway? [He sniff's] I judge it's a +bit--niffy. + +LITTLE MAN. Afraid I've hardly looked at it yet. + +AMERICAN. Which end up is it? + +LITTLE MAM. Oh! I think the right end. Yes, yes, it is. + +AMERICAN. Well, that's something. Maybe you should hold it out of +window a bit. Very excitable things, babies! + +ENGLISHWOMAN. [Galvanized] No, no! + +ENGLISHMAN. [Touching her knee] My dear! + +AMERICAN. You are right, ma'am. I opine there's a draught out +there. This baby is precious. We've all of us got stock in this +baby in a manner of speaking. This is a little bit of universal +brotherhood. Is it a woman baby? + +LITTLE MAN. I--I can only see the top of its head. + +AMERICAN. You can't always tell from that. It looks kind of +over-wrapped up. Maybe it had better be unbound. + +GERMAN. 'Nein, nein, nein'! + +AMERICAN. I think you are very likely right, colonel. It might be a +pity to unbind that baby. I guess the lady should be consulted in +this matter. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Yes, yes, of course----! + +ENGLISHMAN. [Touching her] Let it be! Little beggar seems all +right. + +AMERICAN. That would seem only known to Providence at this moment. +I judge it might be due to humanity to look at its face. + +LITTLE MAN. [Gladly] It's sucking my' finger. There, there--nice +little thing--there! + +AMERICAN. I would surmise in your leisure moments you have created +babies, sir? + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! no--indeed, no. + +AMERICAN. Dear me!--That is a loss. [Addressing himself to the +carriage at large] I think we may esteem ourselves fortunate to have +this little stranger right here with us. Demonstrates what a hold +the little and weak have upon us nowadays. The colonel here--a man +of blood and iron--there he sits quite calm next door to it. [He +sniffs] Now, this baby is rather chastening--that is a sign of +grace, in the colonel--that is true heroism. + +LITTLE MAN. [Faintly] I--I can see its face a little now. + + [All bend forward.] + +AMERICAN. What sort of a physiognomy has it, anyway? + +LITTLE MAN. [Still faintly] I don't see anything but--but spots. + +GERMAN. Oh! Ha! Pfui! + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs.] + +AMERICAN. I am told that is not uncommon amongst babies. Perhaps we +could have you inform us, ma'am. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Yes, of course--only what sort of---- + +LITTLE MAN. They seem all over its----[At the slight recoil of +everyone] I feel sure it's--it's quite a good baby underneath. + +AMERICAN. That will be rather difficult to come at. I'm just a bit +sensitive. I've very little use for affections of the epidermis. + +GERMAN. Pfui! [He has edged away as far as he can get, and is +lighting a big cigar] + + [The DUTCH YOUTH draws his legs back.] + +AMERICAN. [Also taking out a cigar] I guess it would be well to +fumigate this carriage. Does it suffer, do you think? + +LITTLE MAN. [Peering] Really, I don't--I'm not sure--I know so +little about babies. I think it would have a nice expression--if--if +it showed. + +AMERICAN. Is it kind of boiled looking? + +LITTLE MAN. Yes--yes, it is. + +AMERICAN. [Looking gravely round] I judge this baby has the +measles. + + [The GERMAN screws himself spasmodically against the arm of the + ENGLISHWOMAN'S seat.] + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Poor little thing! Shall I----? + + [She half rises.] + +ENGLISHMAN. [Touching her] No, no----Dash it! + +AMERICAN. I honour your emotion, ma'am. It does credit to us all. +But I sympathize with your husband too. The measles is a very +important pestilence in connection with a grown woman. + +LITTLE MAN. It likes my finger awfully. Really, it's rather a sweet +baby. + +AMERICAN. [Sniffing] Well, that would appear to be quite a +question. About them spots, now? Are they rosy? + +LITTLE MAN. No-o; they're dark, almost black. + +GERMAN. Gott! Typhus! [He bounds up on to the arm of the +ENGLISHWOMAN'S Seat.] + +AMERICAN. Typhus! That's quite an indisposition! + + [The DUTCH YOUTH rises suddenly, and bolts out into the + corridor. He is followed by the GERMAN, puffing clouds of + smoke. The ENGLISH and AMERICAN sit a moment longer without + speaking. The ENGLISHWOMAN'S face is turned with a curious + expression--half pity, half fear--towards the LITTLE MAN. Then + the ENGLISHMAN gets up.] + +ENGLISHMAN. Bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't it? + + [He puts his arm through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her + through the doorway. She goes, still looking back.] + +AMERICAN. [Gravely] There's nothing I admire more'n courage. Guess +I'll go and smoke in the corridor. + + [As he goes out the LITTLE MAN looks very wistfully after him. + Screwing up his mouth and nose, he holds the BABY away from him + and wavers; then rising, he puts it on the seat opposite and + goes through the motions of letting down the window. Having + done so he looks at the BABY, who has begun to wail. Suddenly + he raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying. + Since, however, the BABY does not stop wailing, he hovers over + it in indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle + it, with his face turned toward the open window. Finding that + it still wails, he begins to sing to it in a cracked little + voice. It is charmed at once. While he is singing, the + AMERICAN appears in the corridor. Letting down the passage + window, he stands there in the doorway with the draught blowing + his hair and the smoke of his cigar all about him. The LITTLE + MAN stops singing and shifts the shawl higher to protect the + BABY'S head from the draught.] + +AMERICAN. [Gravely] This is the most sublime spectacle I have ever +envisaged. There ought to be a record of this. + + [The LITTLE MAN looks at him, wondering. You are typical, sir, + of the sentiments of modern Christianity. You illustrate the + deepest feelings in the heart of every man.] + + [The LITTLE MAN rises with the BABY and a movement of approach.] + +Guess I'm wanted in the dining-car. + + [He vanishes. The LITTLE MAN sits down again, but back to the + engine, away from the draught, and looks out of the window, + patiently jogging the BABY On his knee.] + + + CURTAIN + + + +SCENE III + + An arrival platform. The LITTLE MAN, with the BABY and the + bundle, is standing disconsolate, while travellers pass and + luggage is being carried by. A STATION OFFICIAL, accompanied by + a POLICEMAN, appears from a doorway, behind him. + +OFFICIAL. [Consulting telegram in his hand] 'Das ist der Herr'. + + [They advance to the LITTLE MAN.] + +OFFICIAL. 'Sie haben einen Buben gestohlen'? + +LITTLE MAN. I only speak English and American. + +OFFICIAL. 'Dies ist nicht Ihr Bube'? + + [He touches the Baby.] + +LITTLE MAN. [Shaking his head] Take care--it's ill. + + [The man does not understand.] + +Ill--the baby---- + +OFFICIAL. [Shaking his head] 'Verstehe nicht'. Dis is nod your baby? +No? + +LITTLE MAN. [Shaking his head violently] No, it is not. No. + +OFFICIAL. [Tapping the telegram] Gut! You are 'rested. [He signs +to the POLICEMAN, who takes the LITTLE MAN's arm.] + +LITTLE MAN. Why? I don't want the poor baby. + +OFFICIAL. [Lifting the bundle] 'Dies ist nicht Ihr Gepack'--pag? + +LITTLE Mary. No. + +OFFICIAL. Gut! You are 'rested. + +LITTLE MAN. I only took it for the poor woman. I'm not a thief-- +I'm--I'm---- + +OFFICIAL. [Shaking head] Verstehe nicht. + + [The LITTLE MAN tries to tear his hair. The disturbed BABY + wails.] + +LITTLE MAN. [Dandling it as best he can] There, there--poor, poor! + +OFFICIAL. Halt still! You are 'rested. It is all right. + +LITTLE MAN. Where is the mother? + +OFFICIAL. She comet by next drain. Das telegram say: 'Halt einen +Herren mit schwarzem Buben and schwarzem Gepack'. 'Rest gentleman +mit black baby and black--pag. + + [The LITTLE MAN turns up his eyes to heaven.] + +OFFICIAL. 'Komm mit us'. + + [They take the LITTLE MAN toward the door from which they have + come. A voice stops them.] + +AMERICAN. [Speaking from as far away as may be] Just a moment! + + [The OFFICIAL stops; the LITTLE MAN also stops and sits down on + a bench against the wall. The POLICEMAN stands stolidly beside + him. The AMERICAN approaches a step or two, beckoning; the + OFFICIAL goes up to him.] + +AMERICAN. Guess you've got an angel from heaven there! What's the +gentleman in buttons for? + +OFFICIAL. 'Was ist das'? + +AMERICAN. Is there anybody here that can understand American? + +OFFICIAL. 'Verstehe nicht'. + +AMERICAN. Well, just watch my gestures. I was saying [He points to +the LITTLE MAN, then makes gestures of flying] you have an angel +from heaven there. You have there a man in whom Gawd [He points +upward] takes quite an amount of stock. You have no call to arrest +him. [He makes the gesture of arrest] No, Sir. Providence has +acted pretty mean, loading off that baby on him. [He makes the +motion of dandling] The little man has a heart of gold. [He points +to his heart, and takes out a gold coin.] + +OFFICIAL. [Thinking he is about to be bribed] 'Aber, das ist zu +viel'! + +AMERICAN. Now, don't rattle me! [Pointing to the LITTLE MAN] Man +[Pointing to his heart] 'Herz' [Pointing to the coin] 'von' Gold. +This is a flower of the field--he don't want no gentleman in buttons +to pluck him up. + + [A little crowd is gathering, including the Two ENGLISH, the + GERMAN, and the DUTCH YOUTH.] + +OFFICIAL. 'Verstehe absolut nichts'. [He taps the telegram] 'Ich muss +mein' duty do. + +AMERICAN. But I'm telling you. This is a white man. This is +probably the whitest man on Gawd's earth. + +OFFICIAL. 'Das macht nichts'--gut or no gut, I muss mein duty do. +[He turns to go toward the LITTLE MAN.] + +AMERICAN. Oh! Very well, arrest him; do your duty. This baby has +typhus. + + [At the word "typhus" the OFFICIAL stops.] + +AMERICAN. [Making gestures] First-class typhus, black typhus, +schwarzen typhus. Now you have it. I'm kind o' sorry for you and +the gentleman in buttons. Do your duty! + +OFFICIAL. Typhus? Der Bub--die baby hat typhus? + +AMERICAN. I'm telling you. + +OFFICIAL. Gott im Himmel! + +AMERICAN. [Spotting the GERMAN in the little throng] here's a +gentleman will corroborate me. + +OFFICIAL. [Much disturbed, and signing to the POLICEMAN to stand +clear] Typhus! 'Aber das ist grasslich'! + +AMERICAN. I kind o' thought you'd feel like that. + +OFFICIAL. 'Die Sanitatsmachine! Gleich'! + + [A PORTER goes to get it. From either side the broken half-moon + of persons stand gazing at the LITTLE MAN, who sits unhappily + dandling the BABY in the centre.] + +OFFICIAL. [Raising his hands] 'Was zu thun'? + +AMERICAN. Guess you'd better isolate the baby. + + [A silence, during which the LITTLE MAN is heard faintly + whistling and clucking to the BABY.] + +OFFICIAL. [Referring once more to his telegram] + +"'Rest gentleman mit black baby." [Shaking his head] Wir must de +gentleman hold. [To the GERMAN] 'Bitte, mein Herr, sagen Sie ihm, +den Buben zu niedersetzen'. [He makes the gesture of deposit.] + +GERMAN. [To the LITTLE MAN] He say: Put down the baby. + + [The LITTLE MAN shakes his head, and continues to dandle the + BABY.] + +OFFICIAL. You must. + + [The LITTLE MAN glowers, in silence.] + +ENGLISHMAN. [In background--muttering] Good man! + +GERMAN. His spirit ever denies. + +OFFICIAL. [Again making his gesture] 'Aber er muss'! + + [The LITTLE MAN makes a face at him.] + +'Sag' Ihm': Instantly put down baby, and komm' mit us. + + [The BABY wails.] + +LITTLE MAN. Leave the poor ill baby here alone? Be--be--be d---d to +you! + +AMERICAN. [Jumping on to a trunk--with enthusiasm] Bully! + + [The ENGLISH clap their hands; the DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The + OFFICIAL is muttering, greatly incensed.] + +AMERICAN. What does that body-snatcher say? + +GERMAN. He say this man use the baby to save himself from arrest. +Very smart he say. + +AMERICAN. I judge you do him an injustice. [Showing off the LITTLE +MAN with a sweep of his arm.] This is a white man. He's got a black +baby, and he won' leave it in the lurch. Guess we would all act +noble that way, give us the chance. + + [The LITTLE MAN rises, holding out the BABY, and advances a step + or two. The half-moon at once gives, increasing its size; the + AMERICAN climbs on to a higher trunk. The LITTLE MAN retires + and again sits down.] + +AMERICAN. [Addressing the OFFICIAL] Guess you'd better go out of +business and wait for the mother. + +OFFICIAL. [Stamping his foot] Die Mutter sall 'rested be for taking +out baby mit typhus. Ha! [To the LITTLE MAN] Put ze baby down! + + [The LITTLE MAN smiles.] + +Do you 'ear? + +AMERICAN. [Addressing the OFFICIAL] Now, see here. 'Pears to me +you don't suspicion just how beautiful this is. Here we have a man +giving his life for that old baby that's got no claim on him. This +is not a baby of his own making. No, sir, this is a very Christ-like +proposition in the gentleman. + +OFFICIAL. Put ze baby down, or ich will gommand someone it to do. + +AMERICAN. That will be very interesting to watch. + +OFFICIAL. [To POLICEMAN] Dake it vrom him. + + [The POLICEMAN mutters, but does not.] + +AMERICAN. [To the German] Guess I lost that. + +GERMAN. He say he is not his officier. + +AMERICAN. That just tickles me to death. + +OFFICIAL. [Looking round] Vill nobody dake ze Bub'? + +ENGLISHWOMAN. [Moving a step faintly] Yes--I---- + +ENGLISHMAN. [Grasping her arm]. By Jove! Will you! + +OFFICIAL. [Gathering himself for a great effort to take the BABY, +and advancing two steps] Zen I goummand you--[He stops and his voice +dies away] Zit dere! + +AMERICAN. My! That's wonderful. What a man this is! What a +sublime sense of duty! + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The OFFICIAL turns on him, but as he + does so the MOTHER of the Busy is seen hurrying.] + +MOTHER. 'Ach! Ach! Mei' Bubi'! + + [Her face is illumined; she is about to rush to the LITTLE MAN.] + +OFFICIAL. [To the POLICEMAN] 'Nimm die Frau'! + + [The POLICEMAN catches hold of the WOMAN.] + +OFFICIAL. [To the frightened WOMAN] 'Warum haben Sie einen Buben mit +Typhus mit ausgebracht'? + +AMERICAN. [Eagerly, from his perch] What was that? I don't want to +miss any. + +GERMAN. He say: Why did you a baby with typhus with you bring out? + +AMERICAN. Well, that's quite a question. + + [He takes out the field-glasses slung around him and adjusts + them on the BABY.] + +MOTHER. [Bewildered] Mei' Bubi--Typhus--aber Typhus? [She shakes +her head violently] 'Nein, nein, nein! Typhus'! + +OFFICIAL. Er hat Typhus. + +MOTHER. [Shaking her head] 'Nein, nein, nein'! + +AMERICAN. [Looking through his glasses] Guess she's kind of right! +I judge the typhus is where the baby' slobbered on the shawl, and +it's come off on him. + + [The DUTCH YOUTH laughs.] + +OFFICIAL. [Turning on him furiously] Er hat Typhus. + +AMERICAN. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right here. + + [The OFFICIAL mounts, and looks through the glasses.] + +AMERICAN. [To the LITTLE MAN] Skin out the baby's leg. If we don't +locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. + + [The LITTLE MAN fumbles Out the BABY'S little white foot.] + +MOTHER. Mei' Bubi! [She tries to break away.] + +AMERICAN. White as a banana. [To the OFFICIAL--affably] Guess +you've made kind of a fool of us with your old typhus. + +OFFICIAL. Lass die Frau! + + [The POLICEMAN lets her go, and she rushes to her BABY.] + +MOTHER. Mei' Bubi! + + [The BABY, exchanging the warmth of the LITTLE MAN for the + momentary chill of its MOTHER, wails.] + +OFFICIAL. [Descending and beckoning to the POLICEMAN] 'Sie wollen +den Herrn accusiren'? + + [The POLICEMAN takes the LITTLE MAN's arm.] + +AMERICAN. What's that? They goin' to pitch him after all? + + [The MOTHER, still hugging her BABY, who has stopped crying, + gazes at the LITTLE MAN, who sits dazedly looking up. Suddenly + she drops on her knees, and with her free hand lifts his booted + foot and kisses it.] + +AMERICAN. [Waving his hat] Ra! Ra! [He descends swiftly, goes up +to the LITTLE MAN, whose arm the POLICEMAN has dropped, and takes his +hand] Brother; I am proud to know you. This is one of the greatest +moments I have ever experienced. [Displaying the LITTLE MAN to the +assembled company] I think I sense the situation when I say that we +all esteem it an honour to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere of +this station here Along with our little friend. I guess we shall all +go home and treasure the memory of his face as the whitest thing in +our museum of recollections. And perhaps this good woman will also +go home and wash the face of our little brother here. I am inspired +with a new faith in mankind. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to present +to you a sure-enough saint--only wants a halo, to be transfigured. +[To the LITTLE MAN] Stand right up. + + [The LITTLE MAN stands up bewildered. They come about him. The + OFFICIAL bows to him, the POLICEMAN salutes him. The DUTCH + YOUTH shakes his head and laughs. The GERMAN draws himself up + very straight, and bows quickly twice. The ENGLISHMAN and his + WIFE approach at least two steps, then, thinking better of it, + turn to each other and recede. The MOTHER kisses his hand. The + PORTER returning with the Sanitatsmachine, turns it on from + behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened by a ray of sunlight, + falls around the LITTLE MAN's head, transfiguring it as he + stands with eyes upraised to see whence the portent comes.] + +AMERICAN. [Rushing forward and dropping on his knees] Hold on just +a minute! Guess I'll take a snapshot of the miracle. [He adjusts +his pocket camera] This ought to look bully! + + + + +CURTAIN + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE LITTLE MAN, by John Galsworthy + + + + + + +FROM THE SERIES OF SIX SHORT PLAYS + + + +Four of the SIX SHORT PLAYS + + +CONTENTS: + + HALL-MARKED + DEFEAT + THE SUN + PUNCH AND GO + + + + +HALL-MARKED + +A SATIRIC TRIFLE + + + +CHARACTERS + +HERSELF. +LADY ELLA. +THE SQUIRE. +THE MAID. +MAUD. +THE RECTOR. +THE DOCTOR. +THE CABMAN. +HANNIBAL and EDWARD + + + + + HALL-MARKED + + + The scene is the sitting-room and verandah of HER bungalow. + + The room is pleasant, and along the back, where the verandah + runs, it seems all window, both French and casement. There is a + door right and a door left. The day is bright; the time + morning. + + [HERSELF, dripping wet, comes running along the verandah, + through the French window, with a wet Scotch terrier in her + arms. She vanishes through the door left. A little pause, and + LADY ELLA comes running, dry, thin, refined, and agitated. She + halts where the tracks of water cease at the door left. A + little pause, and MAUD comes running, fairly dry, stolid, + breathless, and dragging a bull-dog, wet, breathless, and stout, + by the crutch end of her 'en-tout-cas']. + +LADY ELLA. Don't bring Hannibal in till I know where she's put +Edward! + +MAUD. [Brutally, to HANNIBAL] Bad dog! Bad dog! + + [HANNIBAL snuffles.] + +LADY ELLA. Maud, do take him out! Tie him up. Here! [She takes +out a lace handkerchief ] No--something stronger! Poor darling +Edward! [To HANNIBAL] You are a bad dog! + + [HANNIBAL snuffles.] + +MAUD. Edward began it, Ella. [To HANNIBAL] Bad dog! Bad dog! + + [HANNIBAL snuffles.] + +LADY ELLA. Tie him up outside. Here, take my scarf. Where is my +poor treasure? [She removes her scarf] Catch! His ear's torn; I +saw it. + +MAUD. [Taking the scarf, to HANNIBAL] Now! + + [HANNIBAL snuffles.] + + [She ties the scarf to his collar] + +He smells horrible. Bad dog--getting into ponds to fight! + +LADY ELLA. Tie him up, Maud. I must try in here. + + [Their husbands, THE SQUIRE and THE RECTOR, come hastening along + the verandah.] + +MAUD. [To THE RECTOR] Smell him, Bertie! [To THE SQUIRE] You +might have that pond drained, Squire! + + [She takes HANNIBAL out, and ties him to the verandah. THE + SQUIRE and RECTOR Come in. LADY ELLA is knocking on the door + left.] + +HER VOICE. All right! I've bound him up! + +LADY ELLA. May I come in? + +HER VOICE. Just a second! I've got nothing on. + + [LADY ELLA recoils. THE SQUIRE and RECTOR make an involuntary + movement of approach.] + +LADY ELLA. Oh! There you are! + +THE RECTOR. [Doubtfully] I was just going to wade in---- + +LADY ELLA. Hannibal would have killed him, if she hadn't rushed in! + +THE SQUIRE. Done him good, little beast! + +LADY ELLA. Why didn't you go in, Tommy? + +THE SQUIRE. Well, I would--only she---- + +LADY ELLA. I can't think how she got Edward out of Hannibal's awful +mouth! + +MAUD. [Without--to HANNIBAL, who is snuffling on the verandah and +straining at the scarf] Bad dog! + +LADY ELLA. We must simply thank her tremendously! I shall never +forget the way she ran in, with her skirts up to her waist! + +THE SQUIRE. By Jove! No. It was topping. + +LADY ELLA. Her clothes must be ruined. That pond--ugh! [She +wrinkles her nose] Tommy, do have it drained. + +THE RECTOR. [Dreamily] I don't remember her face in church. + +THE SQUIRE. Ah! Yes. Who is she? Pretty woman! + +LADY ELLA. I must get the Vet. to Edward. [To THE SQUIRE] Tommy, +do exert yourself! + + [MAUD re-enters.] + +THE SQUIRE. All right! [Exerting himself] Here's a bell! + +HER VOICE. [Through the door] The bleeding's stopped. Shall I send +him in to you? + +LADY ELLA. Oh, please! Poor darling! + + [They listen.] + + [LADY ELLA, prepares to receive EDWARD. THE SQUIRE and RECTOR + stand transfixed. The door opens, and a bare arm gently pushes + EDWARD forth. He is bandaged with a smooth towel. There is a + snuffle--HANNIBAL has broken the scarf, outside.] + +LADY ELLA. [Aghast] Look! Hannibal's loose! Maud--Tommy. [To THE +RECTOR] You! + + [The THREE rush to prevent HANNIBAL from re-entering.] + +LADY ELLA. [To EDWARD] Yes, I know--you'd like to! You SHALL bite +him when it's safe. Oh! my darling, you DO----[She sniffs]. + + [MAUD and THE SQUIRE re-enter.] + +Have you tied him properly this time? + +MAUD. With Bertie's braces. + +LADY ELLA. Oh! but---- + +MAUD. It's all right; they're almost leather. + + [THE RECTOR re-enters, with a slight look of insecurity.] + +LADY ELLA. Rector, are you sure it's safe? + +THE RECTOR. [Hitching at his trousers] No, indeed, LADY Ella--I---- + +LADY ELLA. Tommy, do lend a hand! + +THE SQUIRE. All right, Ella; all right! He doesn't mean what you +mean! + +LADY ELLA. [Transferring EDWARD to THE SQUIRE] Hold him, Tommy. +He's sure to smell out Hannibal! + +THE SQUIRE. [Taking EDWARD by the collar, and holding his own nose] +Jove! Clever if he can smell anything but himself. Phew! She ought +to have the Victoria Cross for goin' in that pond. + + [The door opens, and HERSELF appears; a fine, frank, handsome + woman, in a man's orange-coloured motor-coat, hastily thrown on + over the substrata of costume.] + +SHE. So very sorry--had to have a bath, and change, of course! + +LADY ELLA. We're so awfully grateful to you. It was splendid. + +MAUD. Quite. + +THE RECTOR. [Rather holding himself together] Heroic! I was just +myself about to---- + +THE SQUIRE. [Restraining EDWARD] Little beast will fight--must +apologise--you were too quick for me---- + + [He looks up at her. She is smiling, and regarding the wounded + dog, her head benevolently on one side.] + +SHE. Poor dears! They thought they were so safe in that nice pond! + +LADY ELLA. Is he very badly torn? + +SHE. Rather nasty. There ought to be a stitch or two put in his +ear. + +LADY ELLA. I thought so. Tommy, do---- + +THE SQUIRE. All right. Am I to let him go? + +LADY ELLA. No. + +MAUD. The fly's outside. Bertie, run and tell Jarvis to drive in +for the Vet. + +THE RECTOR. [Gentle and embarrassed] Run? Well, Maud--I---- + +SHE. The doctor would sew it up. My maid can go round. + + [HANNIBAL. appears at the open casement with the broken braces + dangling from his collar.] + +LADY ELLA. Look! Catch him! Rector! + +MAUD. Bertie! Catch him! + + [THE RECTOR seizes HANNIBAL, but is seen to be in difficulties + with his garments. HERSELF, who has gone out left, returns, + with a leather strop in one hand and a pair of braces in the + other.] + +SHE. Take this strop--he can't break that. And would these be any +good to you? + + [SHE hands the braces to MAUD and goes out on to the verandah + and hastily away. MAUD, transferring the braces to the RECTOR, + goes out, draws HANNIBAL from the casement window, and secures + him with the strap. THE RECTOR sits suddenly with the braces in + his hands. There is a moment's peace.] + +LADY ELLA. Splendid, isn't she? I do admire her. + +THE SQUIRE. She's all there. + +THE RECTOR. [Feelingly] Most kind. + + [He looks ruefully at the braces and at LADY ELLA. A silence. + MAUD reappears at the door and stands gazing at the braces.] + +THE SQUIRE. [Suddenly] Eh? + +MAUD. Yes. + +THE SQUIRE. [Looking at his wife] Ah! + +LADY ELLA. [Absorbed in EDWARD] Poor darling! + +THE SQUIRE. [Bluntly] Ella, the Rector wants to get up! + +THE RECTOR. [Gently] Perhaps--just for a moment---- + +LADY ELLA. Oh! [She turns to the wall.] + + [THE RECTOR, screened by his WIFE, retires on to the verandah to + adjust his garments.] + +THE SQUIRE. [Meditating] So she's married! + +LADY ELLA. [Absorbed in EDWARD] Why? + +THE SQUIRE. Braces. + +LADY ELLA. Oh! Yes. We ought to ask them to dinner, Tommy. + +THE SQUIRE. Ah! Yes. Wonder who they are? + + [THE RECTOR and MAUD reappear.] + +THE RECTOR. Really very good of her to lend her husband's--I was-- +er--quite---- + +MAUD. That'll do, Bertie. + + [THEY see HER returning along the verandah, followed by a sandy, + red-faced gentleman in leather leggings, with a needle and + cotton in his hand.] + +HERSELF. Caught the doctor just starting, So lucky! + +LADY ELLA. Oh! Thank goodness! + +DOCTOR. How do, Lady Ella? How do, Squire?--how do, Rector? [To +MAUD] How de do? This the beastie? I see. Quite! Who'll hold him +for me? + +LADY ELLA. Oh! I! + +HERSELF. D'you know, I think I'd better. It's so dreadful when it's +your own, isn't it? Shall we go in here, doctor? Come along, pretty +boy! + + [She takes EDWARD, and they pass into the room, left.] + +LADY ELLA. I dreaded it. She is splendid! + +THE SQUIRE. Dogs take to her. That's a sure sign. + +THE RECTOR. Little things--one can always tell. + +THE SQUIRE. Something very attractive about her--what! Fine build +of woman. + +MAUD. I shall get hold of her for parish work. + +THE RECTOR. Ah! Excellent--excellent! Do! + +THE SQUIRE. Wonder if her husband shoots? She seems +quite-er--quite---- + +LADY ELLA. [Watching the door] Quite! Altogether charming; one of +the nicest faces I ever saw. + + [THE DOCTOR comes out alone.] + +Oh! Doctor--have you? is it----? + +DOCTOR. Right as rain! She held him like an angel--he just licked +her, and never made a sound. + +LADY ELLA. Poor darling! Can I---- + + [She signs toward the door.] + +DOCTOR. Better leave 'em a minute. She's moppin' 'im off. [He +wrinkles his nose] Wonderful clever hands! + +THE SQUIRE. I say--who is she? + +DOCTOR. [Looking from face to face with a dubious and rather +quizzical expression] Who? Well--there you have me! All I know is +she's a first-rate nurse--been helpin' me with a case in Ditch Lane. +Nice woman, too--thorough good sort! Quite an acquisition here. +H'm! [Again that quizzical glance] Excuse me hurryin' off--very +late. Good-bye, Rector. Good-bye, Lady Ella. Good-bye! + + [He goes. A silence.] + +THE SQUIRE. H'm! I suppose we ought to be a bit careful. + + [JARVIS, flyman of the old school, has appeared on the + verandah.] + +JARVIS. [To THE RECTOR] Beg pardon, sir. Is the little dog all +right? + +MAUD. Yes. + +JARVIS. [Touching his hat] Seein' you've missed your train, m'm, +shall I wait, and take you 'ome again? + +MAUD. No. + +JARVIS. Cert'nly, m'm. [He touches his hat with a circular gesture, +and is about to withdraw.] + +LADY ELLA. Oh, Jarvis--what's the name of the people here? + +JARVIS. Challenger's the name I've driven 'em in, my lady. + +THE SQUIRE. Challenger? Sounds like a hound. What's he like? + +JARVIS. [Scratching his head] Wears a soft 'at, sir. + +THE SQUIRE. H'm! Ah! + +JARVIS. Very nice gentleman, very nice lady. 'Elped me with my old +mare when she 'ad the 'ighsteria last week--couldn't 'a' been kinder +if they'd 'a' been angels from 'eaven. Wonderful fond o' dumb +animals, the two of 'em. I don't pay no attention to gossip, meself. + +MAUD. Gossip? What gossip? + +JARVIS. [Backing] Did I make use of the word, m'm? You'll excuse +me, I'm sure. There's always talk where there's newcomers. I takes +people as I finds 'em. + + +THE RECTOR. Yes, yes, Jarvis--quite--quite right! + +JARVIS. Yes, sir. I've--I've got a 'abit that way at my time o' +life. + +MAUD. [Sharply] How long have they been here, Jarvis? + +JARVIS. Well---er--a matter of three weeks, m'm. + + [A slight involuntary stir.] + +[Apologetic] Of course, in my profession I can't afford to take +notice of whether there's the trifle of a ring between 'em, as the +sayin' is. 'Tisn't 'ardly my business like. + + [A silence.] + +LADY ELLA. [Suddenly] Er--thank you, Jarvis; you needn't wait. + +JARVIS. No, m'lady. Your service, sir--service, m'm. + + [He goes. A silence.] + +THE SQUIRE. [Drawing a little closer] Three weeks? I say--er-- +wasn't. there a book? + +THE RECTOR. [Abstracted] Three weeks----I certainly haven't seen +them in church. + +MAUD. A trifle of a ring! + +LADY ELLA. [Impulsively] Oh, bother! I'm sure she's all right. +And if she isn't, I don't care. She's been much too splendid. + +THE SQUIRE. Must think of the village. Didn't quite like the +doctor's way of puttin' us off. + +LADY ELLA. The poor darling owes his life to her. + +THE SQUIRE. H'm! Dash it! Yes! Can't forget the way she ran into +that stinkin' pond. + +MAUD. Had she a wedding-ring on? + + [They look at each other, but no one knows.] + +LADY ELLA. Well, I'm not going to be ungrateful. + +THE SQUIRE. It'd be dashed awkward--mustn't take a false step, Ella. + +THE RECTOR. And I've got his braces! [He puts his hand to his +waist.] + +MAUD. [Warningly] Bertie! + +THE SQUIRE. That's all right, Rector--we're goin' to be perfectly +polite, and--and--thank her, and all that. + +LADY ELLA. We can see she's a good sort. What does it matter? + +MAUD. My dear Ella! "What does it matter!" We've got to know. + +THE RECTOR. We do want light. + +THE SQUIRE. I'll ring the bell. [He rings.] + + [They look at each other aghast.] + +LADY ELLA. What did you ring for, Tommy? + +THE SQUIRE. [Flabbergasted] God knows! + +MAUD. Somebody'll come. + +THE SQUIRE. Rector--you--you've got to---- + +MAUD. Yes, Bertie. + +THE RECTOR. Dear me! But--er--what--er----How? + +THE SQUIRE. [Deeply-to himself] The whole thing's damn delicate. + + [The door right is opened and a MAID appears. She is a + determined-looking female. They face her in silence.] + +THE RECTOR. Er--er----your master is not in? + +THE MAID. No. 'E's gone up to London. + +THE RECTOR. Er----Mr Challenger, I think? + +THE MAID. Yes. + +THE RECTOR. Yes! Er----quite so + +THE MAID. [Eyeing them] D'you want--Mrs Challenger? + +THE RECTOR. Ah! Not precisely---- + +THE SQUIRE. [To him in a low, determined voice] Go on. + +THE RECTOR. [Desperately] I asked because there was a--a--Mr. +Challenger I used to know in the 'nineties, and I thought--you +wouldn't happen to know how long they've been married? My friend +marr---- + +THE MAID. Three weeks. + +THE RECTOR. Quite so--quite so! I shall hope it will turn out to +be----Er--thank you--Ha! + +LADY ELLA. Our dog has been fighting with the Rector's, and Mrs +Challenger rescued him; she's bathing his ear. We're waiting to +thank her. You needn't---- + +THE MAID. [Eyeing them] No. + + [She turns and goes out.] + +THE SQUIRE. Phew! What a gorgon! I say, Rector, did you really +know a Challenger in the 'nineties? + +THE RECTOR. [Wiping his brow] No. + +THE SQUIRE. Ha! Jolly good! + +LADY ELLA. Well, you see!--it's all right. + +THE RECTOR. Yes, indeed. A great relief! + +LADY ELLA. [Moving to the door] I must go in now. + +THE SQUIRE. Hold on! You goin' to ask 'em to--to--anything? + +LADY ELLA. Yes. + +MAUD. I shouldn't. + +LADY ELLA. Why not? We all like the look of her. + +THE RECTOR. I think we should punish ourselves for entertaining that +uncharitable thought. + +LADY ELLA. Yes. It's horrible not having the courage to take people +as they are. + +THE SQUIRE. As they are? H'm! How can you till you know? + +LADY ELLA. Trust our instincts, of course. + +THE SQUIRE. And supposing she'd turned out not married--eh! + +LADY ELLA! She'd still be herself, wouldn't she? + +MAUD. Ella! + +THE SQUIRE. H'm! Don't know about that. + +LADY ELLA. Of course she would, Tommy. + +THE RECTOR. [His hand stealing to his waist] Well! It's a great +weight off my----! + +LADY ELLA. There's the poor darling snuffling. I must go in. + + [She knocks on the door. It is opened, and EDWARD comes out + briskly, with a neat little white pointed ear-cap on one ear.] + +LADY ELLA. Precious! + + [SHE HERSELF Comes out, now properly dressed in flax-blue + linen.] + +LADY ELLA. How perfectly sweet of you to make him that! + +SHE. He's such a dear. And the other poor dog? + +MAUD. Quite safe, thanks to your strop. + + [HANNIBAL appears at the window, with the broken strop dangling. + Following her gaze, they turn and see him.] + +MAUD. Oh! There, he's broken it. Bertie! + +SHE. Let me! [She seizes HANNIBAL.] + +THE SQUIRE. We're really most tremendously obliged to you. Afraid +we've been an awful nuisance. + +SHE. Not a bit. I love dogs. + +THE SQUIRE. Hope to make the acquaintance of Mr----of your husband. + +LADY ELLA. [To EDWARD, who is straining] + + [Gently, darling! Tommy, take him.] + + [THE SQUIRE does so.] + +MAUD. [Approaching HANNIBAL.] Is he behaving? + + [She stops short, and her face suddenly shoots forward at HER + hands that are holding HANNIBAL'S neck.] + +SHE. Oh! yes--he's a love. + +MAUD. [Regaining her upright position, and pursing her lips; in a +peculiar voice] Bertie, take Hannibal. + +THE RECTOR takes him. + +LADY ELLA. [Producing a card] I can't be too grateful for all +you've done for my poor darling. This is where we live. Do come-- +and see---- + + [MAUD, whose eyes have never left those hands, tweaks LADY + ELLA's dress.] + +LADY ELLA. That is--I'm--I---- + + [HERSELF looks at LADY ELLA in surprise.] + +THE SQUIRE. I don't know if your husband shoots, but if---- + + [MAUD, catching his eye, taps the third finger of her left + hand.] + +--er--he--does--er--er---- + + [HERSELF looks at THE SQUIRE surprised.] + +MAUD. [Turning to her husband, repeats the gesture with the low and +simple word] Look! + +THE RECTOR. [With round eyes, severely] Hannibal! [He lifts him +bodily and carries him away.] + +MAUD. Don't squeeze him, Bertie! + + [She follows through the French window.] + +THE SQUIRE. [Abruptly--of the unoffending EDWARD] That dog'll be +forgettin' himself in a minute. + + [He picks up EDWARD and takes him out.] + + [LADY ELLA is left staring.] + +LADY ELLA. [At last] You mustn't think, I----You mustn't think, we +----Oh! I must just see they--don't let Edward get at Hannibal. + + [She skims away.] + + [HERSELF is left staring after LADY ELLA, in surprise.] + +SHE. What is the matter with them? + + [The door is opened.] + +THE MAID. [Entering and holding out a wedding-ring--severely] You +left this, m'm, in the bathroom. + +SHE. [Looking, startled, at her finger] Oh! [Taking it] I hadn't +missed it. Thank you, Martha. + + [THE MAID goes.] + + [A hand, slipping in at the casement window, softly lays a pair + of braces on the windowsill. SHE looks at the braces, then at + the ring. HER lip curls.] + +Sue. [Murmuring deeply] Ah! + + + CURTAIN + + + + + + + +DEFEAT + +A TINY DRAMA + + + +CHARACTERS + +THE OFFICER. +THE GIRL. + + + DEFEAT + + During the Great War. Evening. + + + + An empty room. The curtains drawn and gas turned low. The + furniture and walls give a colour-impression as of greens and + beetroot. There is a prevalence of plush. A fireplace on the + Left, a sofa, a small table; the curtained window is at the + back. On the table, in a common pot, stands a little plant of + maidenhair fern, fresh and green. + + Enter from the door on the Right, a GIRL and a YOUNG OFFICER in + khaki. The GIRL wears a discreet dark dress, hat, and veil, and + stained yellow gloves. The YOUNG OFFICER is tall, with a fresh + open face, and kindly eager blue eyes; he is a little lame. The + GIRL, who is evidently at home, moves towards the gas jet to + turn it up, then changes her mind, and going to the curtains, + draws them apart and throws up the window. Bright moonlight + comes flooding in. Outside are seen the trees of a little + Square. She stands gazing out, suddenly turns inward with a + shiver. + +YOUNG OFF. I say; what's the matter? You were crying when I spoke +to you. + +GIRL. [With a movement of recovery] Oh! nothing. The beautiful +evening-that's all. + +YOUNG OFF. [Looking at her] Cheer up! + +GIRL. [Taking of hat and veil; her hair is yellowish and crinkly] +Cheer up! You are not lonelee, like me. + +YOUNG OFF. [Limping to the window--doubtfully] I say, how did you +how did you get into this? Isn't it an awfully hopeless sort of +life? + +GIRL. Yees, it ees. You haf been wounded? + +YOUNG OFF. Just out of hospital to-day. + +GIRL. The horrible war--all the misery is because of the war. When +will it end? + +YOUNG OFF. [Leaning against the window-sill, looking at her +attentively] I say, what nationality are you? + +GIRL. [With a quick look and away] Rooshian. + +YOUNG OFF. Really! I never met a Russian girl. [The GIRL gives him +another quick look] I say, is it as bad as they make out? + +GIRL. [Slipping her hand through his arm] Not when I haf anyone as +ni-ice as you; I never haf had, though. [She smiles, and her smile, +like her speech, is slow and confining] You stopped because I was +sad, others stop because I am gay. I am not fond of men at all. +When you know--you are not fond of them. + +YOUNG OFF. Well, you hardly know them at their best, do you? You +should see them in the trenches. By George! They're simply +splendid--officers and men, every blessed soul. There's never been +anything like it--just one long bit of jolly fine self-sacrifice; +it's perfectly amazing. + +GIRL. [Turning her blue-grey eyes on him] I expect you are not the +last at that. You see in them what you haf in yourself, I think. + +YOUNG OFF. Oh, not a bit; you're quite out! I assure you when we +made the attack where I got wounded there wasn't a single man in my +regiment who wasn't an absolute hero. The way they went in--never +thinking of themselves--it was simply ripping. + +GIRL. [In a queer voice] It is the same too, perhaps, with--the +enemy. + +YOUNG OFF. Oh, yes! I know that. + +GIRL. Ah! You are not a mean man. How I hate mean men! + +YOUNG OFF. Oh! they're not mean really--they simply don't +understand. + +GIRL. Oh! You are a babee--a good babee aren't you? + + [The YOUNG OFFICER doesn't like this, and frowns. The GIRL + looks a little scared.] + +GIRL. [Clingingly] But I li-ke you for it. It is so good to find a +ni-ice man. + +YOUNG OFF. [Abruptly] About being lonely? Haven't you any Russian +friends? + +GIRL. [Blankly] Rooshian? No. [Quickly] The town is so beeg. +Were you at the concert before you spoke to me? + +YOUNG OFF. Yes. + +GIRL. I too. I lofe music. + +YOUNG OFF. I suppose all Russians do. + +GIRL. [With another quick look tat him] I go there always when I +haf the money. + +YOUNG OFF. What! Are you as badly on the rocks as that? + +GIRL. Well, I haf just one shilling now! + + [She laughs bitterly. The laugh upsets him; he sits on the + window-sill, and leans forward towards her.] + +YOUNG OFF. I say, what's your name? + +GIRL. May. Well, I call myself that. It is no good asking yours. + +YOUNG OFF. [With a laugh] You're a distrustful little soul; aren't +you? + +GIRL. I haf reason to be, don't you think? + +YOUNG OFF. Yes. I suppose you're bound to think us all brutes. + +GIRL. [Sitting on a chair close to the window where the moonlight +falls on one powdered cheek] Well, I haf a lot of reasons to be +afraid all my time. I am dreadfully nervous now; I am not trusding +anybody. I suppose you haf been killing lots of Germans? + +YOUNG OFF. We never know, unless it happens to be hand to hand; I +haven't come in for that yet. + +GIRL. But you would be very glad if you had killed some. + +YOUNG OFF. Oh, glad? I don't think so. We're all in the same boat, +so far as that's concerned. We're not glad to kill each other--not +most of us. We do our job--that's all. + +GIRL. Oh! It is frightful. I expect I haf my brothers killed. + +YOUNG OFF. Don't you get any news ever? + +GIRL. News? No indeed, no news of anybody in my country. I might +not haf a country; all that I ever knew is gone; fader, moder, +sisters, broders, all; never any more I shall see them, I suppose, +now. The war it breaks and breaks, it breaks hearts. [She gives a +little snarl] Do you know what I was thinking when you came up to +me? I was thinking of my native town, and the river in the +moonlight. If I could see it again I would be glad. Were you ever +homeseeck? + +YOUNG OFF. Yes, I have been--in the trenches. But one's ashamed +with all the others. + +GIRL. Ah! Yees! Yees! You are all comrades there. What is it +like for me here, do you think, where everybody hates and despises +me, and would catch me and put me in prison, perhaps. [Her breast +heaves.] + +YOUNG OFF. [Leaning forward and patting her knee] Sorry--sorry. + +GIRL. [In a smothered voice] You are the first who has been kind to +me for so long! I will tell you the truth--I am not Rooshian at all +--I am German. + +YOUNG OFF. [Staring] My dear girl, who cares. We aren't fighting +against women. + +GIRL. [Peering at him] Another man said that to me. But he was +thinkin' of his fun. You are a veree ni-ice boy; I am so glad I met +you. You see the good in people, don't you? That is the first thing +in the world--because--there is really not much good in people, you +know. + +YOUNG OFF. [Smiling] You are a dreadful little cynic! But of +course you are! + +GIRL. Cyneec? How long do you think I would live if I was not a +cyneec? I should drown myself to-morrow. Perhaps there are good +people, but, you see, I don't know them. + +YOUNG OFF. I know lots. + +GIRL. [Leaning towards him] Well now--see, ni-ice boy--you haf +never been in a hole, haf you? + +YOUNG OFF. I suppose not a real hole. + +GIRL. No, I should think not, with your face. Well, suppose I am +still a good girl, as I was once, you know; and you took me to your +mother and your sisters and you said: "Here is a little German girl +that has no work, and no money, and no friends." They will say: "Oh! +how sad! A German girl!" And they will go and wash their hands. + + [The OFFICER, is silent, staring at her.] + +GIRL. You see. + +YOUNG OFF. [Muttering] I'm sure there are people. + +GIRL. No. They would not take a German, even if she was good. +Besides, I don't want to be good any more--I am not a humbug; I have +learned to be bad. Aren't you going to kees me, ni-ice boy? + +She puts her face close to his. Her eyes trouble him; he draws back. + +YOUNG OFF. Don't. I'd rather not, if you don't mind. [She looks at +him fixedly, with a curious inquiring stare] It's stupid. I don't +know--but you see, out there, and in hospital, life's different. +It's--it's--it isn't mean, you know. Don't come too close. + +GIRL. Oh! You are fun----[She stops] Eesn't it light. No Zeps +to-night. When they burn--what a 'orrble death! And all the people +cheer. It is natural. Do you hate us veree much? + +YOUNG OFF. [Turning sharply] Hate? I don't know. + +GIRL. I don't hate even the English--I despise them. I despise my +people too; even more, because they began this war. Oh! I know that. +I despise all the peoples. Why haf they made the world so miserable +--why haf they killed all our lives--hundreds and thousands and +millions of lives--all for noting? They haf made a bad world-- +everybody hating, and looking for the worst everywhere. They haf +made me bad, I know. I believe no more in anything. What is there +to believe in? Is there a God? No! Once I was teaching little +English children their prayers--isn't that funnee? I was reading to +them about Christ and love. I believed all those things. Now I +believe noting at all--no one who is not a fool or a liar can +believe. I would like to work in a 'ospital; I would like to go and +'elp poor boys like you. Because I am a German they would throw me +out a 'undred times, even if I was good. It is the same in Germany, +in France, in Russia, everywhere. But do you think I will believe in +Love and Christ and God and all that--Not I! I think we are animals +--that's all! Oh, yes! you fancy it is because my life has spoiled +me. It is not that at all--that is not the worst thing in life. The +men I take are not ni-ice, like you, but it's their nature; and--they +help me to live, which is something for me, anyway. No, it is the +men who think themselves great and good and make the war with their +talk and their hate, killing us all--killing all the boys like you, +and keeping poor People in prison, and telling us to go on hating; +and all these dreadful cold-blood creatures who write in the papers +--the same in my country--just the same; it is because of all of them +that I think we are only animals. + + [The YOUNG OFFICER gets up, acutely miserable.] + + [She follows him with her eyes.] + +GIRL. Don't mind me talkin', ni-ice boy. I don't know anyone to +talk to. If you don't like it, I can be quiet as a mouse. + +YOUNG OFF. Oh, go on! Talk away; I'm not obliged to believe you, +and I don't. + + [She, too, is on her feet now, leaning against the wall; her + dark dress and white face just touched by the slanting + moonlight. Her voice comes again, slow and soft and bitter.] + +GIRL. Well, look here, ni-ice boy, what sort of world is it, where +millions are being tortured, for no fault of theirs, at all? A +beautiful world, isn't it? 'Umbog! Silly rot, as you boys call it. +You say it is all "Comrades" and braveness out there at the front, +and people don't think of themselves. Well, I don't think of myself +veree much. What does it matter? I am lost now, anyway. But I +think of my people at 'ome; how they suffer and grieve. I think of +all the poor people there, and here, how lose those they love, and +all the poor prisoners. Am I not to think of them? And if I do, how +am I to believe it a beautiful world, ni-ice boy? + + [He stands very still, staring at her.] + +GIRL. Look here! We haf one life each, and soon it is over. Well, +I think that is lucky. + +YOUNG OFF. No! There's more than that. + +GIRL. [Softly] Ah! You think the war is fought for the future; you +are giving your lives for a better world, aren't you? + +YOUNG OFF. We must fight till we win. + +GIRL. Till you win. My people think that too. All the peoples +think that if they win the world will be better. But it will not, +you know; it will be much worse, anyway. + + [He turns away from her, and catches up his cap. Her voice + follows him.] + +GIRL. I don't care which win. I don't care if my country is beaten. +I despise them all--animals--animals. Ah! Don't go, ni-ice boy; I +will be quiet now. + + [He has taken some notes from his tunic pocket; he puts then on + the table and goes up to her.] + +YOUNG OFF. Good-night. + +GIRL. [Plaintively] Are you really going? Don't you like me +enough? + +YOUNG OFF. Yes, I like you. + +GIRL. It is because I am German, then? + +YOUNG OFF. No. + +GIRL. Then why won't you stay? + +YOUNG OFF. [With a shrug] If you must know--because you upset me. + +GIRL. Won't you kees me once? + + [He bends, puts his lips to her forehead. But as he takes them + away she throws her head back, presses her mouth to his, and + clings to him.] + +YOUNG OFF. [Sitting down suddenly] Don't! I don't want to feel a +brute. + +GIRL. [Laughing] You are a funny boy; but you are veree good. Talk +to me a little, then. No one talks to me. Tell me, haf you seen +many German prisoners? + +YOUNG OFF. [Sighing] A good many. + +GIRL. Any from the Rhine? + +YOUNG OFF. Yes, I think so. + +GIRL. Were they veree sad? + +YOUNG OFF. Some were; some were quite glad to be taken. + +GIRL. Did you ever see the Rhine? It will be wonderful to-night. +The moonlight will be the same there, and in Rooshia too, and France, +everywhere; and the trees will look the same as here, and people will +meet under them and make love just as here. Oh! isn't it stupid, the +war? As if it were not good to be alive! + +YOUNG OFF. You can't tell how good it is to be alive till you're +facing death. You don't live till then. And when a whole lot of you +feel like that--and are ready to give their lives for each other, +it's worth all the rest of life put together. + + [He stops, ashamed of such, sentiment before this girl, who + believes in nothing.] + +GIRL. [Softly] How were you wounded, ni-ice boy? + +YOUNG OFF. Attacking across open ground: four machine bullets got me +at one go off. + +GIRL. Weren't you veree frightened when they ordered you to attack? + + [He shakes his head and laughs.] + +YOUNG OFF. It was great. We did laugh that morning. They got me +much too soon, though--a swindle. + +GIRL. [Staring at him] You laughed? + +YOUNG OFF. Yes. And what do you think was the first thing I was +conscious of next morning? My old Colonel bending over me and giving +me a squeeze of lemon. If you knew my Colonel you'd still believe in +things. There is something, you know, behind all this evil. After +all, you can only die once, and, if it's for your country--all the +better! + + [Her face, in the moonlight, with, intent eyes touched up with + black, has a most strange, other-world look.] + +GIRL. No; I believe in nothing, not even in my country. My heart is +dead. + +YOUNG OFF. Yes; you think so, but it isn't, you know, or you +wouldn't have 'been crying when I met you. + +GIRL. If it were not dead, do you think I could live my life-walking +the streets every night, pretending to like strange men; never +hearing a kind word; never talking, for fear I will be known for a +German? Soon I shall take to drinking; then I shall be "Kaput" veree +quick. You see, I am practical; I see things clear. To-night I am a +little emotional; the moon is funny, you know. But I live for myself +only, now. I don't care for anything or anybody. + +YOUNG OFF. All the same; just now you were pitying your folk at +home, and prisoners and that. + +GIRL. Yees; because they suffer. Those who suffer are like me--I +pity myself, that's all; I am different from your English women. I +see what I am doing; I do not let my mind become a turnip just +because I am no longer moral. + +YOUNG OFF. Nor your heart either, for all you say. + +GIRL. Ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. But all that about love +is 'umbog. We love ourselves, noting more. + + At that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he gets up, + feeling stifled, and stands at the window. A newspaper boy some + way off is calling his wares. The GIRL's fingers slip between + his own, and stay unmoving. He looks round into her face. In + spite of make-up it has a queer, unholy, touching beauty. + +YOUNG OFF. [With an outburst] No; we don't only love ourselves; +there is more. I can't explain, but there's something great; there's +kindness--and--and----- + + [The shouting of newspaper boys grows louder and their cries, + passionately vehement, clash into each other and obscure each + word. His head goes up to listen; her hand tightens within his + arm--she too is listening. The cries come nearer, hoarser, more + shrill and clamorous; the empty moonlight outside seems suddenly + crowded with figures, footsteps, voices, and a fierce distant + cheering. "Great victory--great victory! Official! British! + 'Eavy defeat of the 'Uns! Many thousand prisoners! 'Eavy + defeat!" It speeds by, intoxicating, filling him with a fearful + joy; he leans far out, waving his cap and cheering like a + madman; the night seems to flutter and vibrate and answer. He + turns to rush down into the street, strikes against something + soft, and recoils. The GIRL stands with hands clenched, and + face convulsed, panting. All confused with the desire to do + something, he stoops to kiss her hand. She snatches away her + fingers, sweeps up the notes he has put down, and holds them out + to him.] + +GIRL. Take them--I will not haf your English money--take them. + + Suddenly she tears them across, twice, thrice, lets the bits. + flutter to the floor, and turns her back on him. He stands + looking at her leaning against the plush-covered table, her head + down, a dark figure in a dark room, with the moonlight + sharpening her outline. Hardly a moment he stays, then makes + for the door. When he is gone, she still stands there, her chin + on her breast, with the sound in her ears of cheering, of + hurrying feet, and voices crying: "'Eavy Defeat!" stands, in the + centre of a pattern made by the fragments of the torn-up notes, + staring out unto the moonlight, seeing not this hated room and + the hated Square outside, but a German orchard, and herself, a + little girl, plucking apples, a big dog beside her; and a + hundred other pictures, such as the drowning see. Then she + sinks down on the floor, lays her forehead on the dusty carpet, + and presses her body to it. Mechanically, she sweeps together + the scattered fragments of notes, assembling them with the dust + into a little pile, as of fallen leaves, and dabbling in it with + her fingers, while the tears run down her cheeks. + +GIRL. Defeat! Der Vaterland! Defeat!. . . . One shillin'! + + [Then suddenly, in the moonlight, she sits up, and begins to + sing with all her might "Die Wacht am Rhein." And outside men + pass, singing: "Rule, Britannia!"] + + + CURTAIN + + + + + + + +THE SUN + +A SCENE + + + + +CHARACTERS + +THE GIRL. +THE MAN. +THE SOLDIER. + + + THE SUN + + A Girl, sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a + river. A MAN with a silver badge stands beside her, clutching + the worn top plank. THE GIRL'S level brows are drawn together; + her eyes see her memories. THE MAN's eyes see THE GIRL; he has + a dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river + flows; the Cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along + the hedge that ends in the stile on the towing-path. + +THE GIRL. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim. + +THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all. + +THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o' +me. + +THE MAN. And aren't I fond of you? + +THE GIRL. I ought to 'a waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'. + +THE MAN. [Passionately] And what about me? Aren't I been in the +fightin'--earned all I could get? + +THE GIRL. [Touching him] Ah! + +THE MAN. Did you--? [He cannot speak the words.] + +THE GIRL. Not like you, Jim--not like you. + +THE MAN. Have a spirit, then. + +THE GIRL. I promised him. + +THE MAN. One man's luck's another's poison. + +THE GIRL. I ought to 'a waited. I never thought he'd come back from +the fightin'. + +THE MAN. [Grimly] Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave. + +THE GIRL. [Looking back along the tow-path] What'll he be like, I +wonder? + +THE MAN. [Gripping her shoulder] Daisy, don't you never go back on +me, or I should kill you, and 'im too. + + [THE GIRL looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his.] + +THE GIRL. I never could. + +THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us! + + [THE GIRL shakes her head.] + +THE MAN [Dully] What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide. + +THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him home. + +THE MAN. [Clenching his hands] It's temptin' Providence. + +THE GIRL. What's the time, Jim? + +THE MAN. [Glancing at the sun] 'Alf past four. + +THE GIRL. [Looking along the towing-path] He said four o'clock. +Jim, you better go. + +THE MAN. Not I. I've not got the wind up. I've seen as much of +hell as he has, any day. What like is he? + +THE GIRL. [Dully] I dunno, just. I've not seen him these three +years. I dunno no more, since I've known you. + +THE MAN. Big or little chap? + +THE GIRL. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along! + +THE MAN. No fear! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz's +shells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'll +go; not else. + + [Again she shakes her head.] + +THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? + + [For answer THE MAN takes her avidly in his arms.] + +I ain't ashamed--I ain't ashamed. If 'e could see me 'eart. + +THE MAN. Daisy! If I'd known you out there, I never could 'a stuck +it. They'd 'a got me for a deserter. That's how I love you! + +THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your hand to 'im! Promise! + +THE MAN. That's according. + +THE GIRL. Promise! + +THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--not +always, I tell you straight--not since I've been through that. + +THE GIRL. [With a shiver] Nor p'raps he isn't. + +THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynch pins out, I tell you. + +THE GIRL. God 'elp us! + +THE MAN. [Grimly] Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want +we take, now; there's no one else to give it us, and there's no +fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom of things. + +THE GIRL. P'raps he'll say that too. + +THE MAN. Then it'll be 'im or me. + +THE GIRL. I'm frightened: + +THE MAN. [Tenderly] No, Daisy, no! The river's handy. One more or +less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me neither. [He takes out a knife.] + +THE GIRL. [Seizing his hand] Oh, no! Give it to me, Jim! + +THE MAN. [Smiling] No fear! [He puts it away] Shan't 'ave no need +for it like as not. All right, little Daisy; you can't be expected +to see things like what we do. What's life, anyway? I've seen a +thousand lives taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on the +wires like flies on a flypaper. I've been as good as dead meself a +hundred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. He's safe, +if 'e don't get my blood up. If he does, nobody's safe; not 'im, nor +anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' sober. + +THE GIRL. [Softly] Jim, you won't go fightin' in the sun, with the +birds all callin'? + +THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daisy, I +love you. I love your hair. I love your eyes. I love you. + +THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than you +in all the world. + +THE MAN. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close! + + The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace. THE + GIRL starts from his arms, and looks behind her along the + towing-path. THE MAN draws back against, the hedge, fingering + his side, where the knife is hidden. The song comes nearer. + + + "I'll be right there to-night, + Where the fields are snowy white; + Banjos ringing, darkies singing, + All the world seems bright." + +THE GIRL. It's him! + +THE MAN. Don't get the wind up, Daisy. I'm here! + + [The singing stops. A man's voice says "Christ! It's Daisy; + it's little Daisy 'erself!" THE GIRL stands rigid. The figure + of a soldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is + tucked into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is + lean, wasted, brown, and laughing.] + +SOLDIER. Daisy! Daisy! Hallo, old pretty girl! + + [THE GIRL does not move, barring the way, as it were.] + +THE GIRL. Hallo, Jack! [Softly] I got things to tell you! + +SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things +that'd take me years to tell. Have you missed me, Daisy? + +THE GIRL. You been so long. + +SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. I +said when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself I used +to think of you, Daisy, when the trumps was comin' over, and the wind +was up. D'you remember that last night in the wood? "Come back and +marry me quick, Jack." Well, here I am--got me pass to heaven. No +more fightin', no more drillin', no more sleepin' rough. We can get +married now, Daisy. We can live soft an' 'appy. Give us a kiss, my +dear. + +THE GIRL. [Drawing back] No. + +SOLDIER. [Blankly] Why not? + + [THE MAN, with a swift movement steps along the hedge to THE + GIRL'S side.] + +THE MAN. That's why, soldier. + +SOLDIER. [Leaping over the stile] 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sun +don't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is he, Daisy? + +THE GIRL. My man. + +SOLDIER. Your-man! Lummy! "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a +thief!" Well, mate! So you've been through it, too. I'm laughin' +this mornin' as luck will 'ave it. Ah! I can see your knife. + +THE MAN. [Who has half drawn his knife] Don't laugh at me, I tell +you. + +SOLDIER. Not at you, not at you. [He looks from one to the other] +I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get it, mate? + +THE MAN. [Watchfully] Through the lung. + +SOLDIER. Think o' that! An' I never was touched. Four years an' +never was touched. An' so you've come an' took my girl! Nothin' +doin'! Ha! [Again he looks from one to the other-then away] Well! +The world's before me! [He laughs] I'll give you Daisy for a lung +protector. + +THE MAN. [Fiercely] You won't. I've took her. + +SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laugh in +me you can't put out, black as you look! Good-bye, little Daisy! + + [THE GIRL makes a movement towards him.] + +THE MAN. Don't touch 'im! + + [THE GIRL stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears.] + +SOLDIER. Look 'ere, mate; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a girl +cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much of +sorrer. You and me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our whack. +Shake! + +THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er! + +SOLDIER. [After a long moment's pause] Oh! I thought I did. + +THE MAN. I'll fight you for her. + + [He drops his knife. ] + +SOLDIER. [Slowly] Mate, you done your bit, an' I done mine. It's +took us two ways, seemin'ly. + +THE GIRL. [Pleading] Jim! ` + +THE MAN. [With clenched fists] I don't want 'is charity. I only +want what I can take. + +SOLDIER. Daisy, which of us will you 'ave? + +THE GIRL. [Covering her face] Oh! Him! + +SOLDIER. You see, mate! Put your 'ands down. There's nothin' for +it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, mate! + +THE MAN. You blarsted----! + + [THE GIRL springs to him and stops his mouth.] + +SOLDIER. It's no use, mate. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh +to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the stink +of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheerio, mate! The +sun's a-shinin'! He turns away. + +THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me! + +SOLDIER. [Looking back] No fear, my dear! Enjoy your fancy! So +long! Gawd bless you both! + +He sings, and goes along the path, and the song fades away. + + "I'll be right there to-night + Where the fields are snowy white; + Banjos ringing, darkies singing + All the world seems bright!" + + + +THE MAN. 'E's mad! + +THE GIRL. [Looking down the path with her hands clasped] The sun has +touched 'im, Jim! + + + CURTAIN + + + + + + +PUNCH AND GO + +A LITTLE COMEDY + +"Orpheus with his lute made trees +And the mountain tope that freeze....." + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +JAMES G. FRUST ..............The Boss +E. BLEWITT VANE .............The Producer +MR. FORESON .................The Stage Manager +"ELECTRICS"..................The Electrician +"PROPS" .....................The Property Man +HERBERT .....................The Call Boy + + + + +OF THE PLAY WITHIN THE PLAY + +GUY TOONE ...................The Professor +VANESSA HELLGROVE ...........The Wife +GEORGE FLEETWAY .............Orpheus +MAUDE HOPKINS ...............The Faun + + + + +SCENE: The Stage of a Theatre. + +Action continuous, though the curtain is momentarily lowered +according to that action. + + + + PUNCH AND GO + + The Scene is the stage of the theatre set for the dress + rehearsal of the little play: "Orpheus with his Lute." The + curtain is up and the audience, though present, is not supposed + to be. The set scene represents the end section of a room, with + wide French windows, Back Centre, fully opened on to an apple + orchard in bloom. The Back Wall with these French windows, is + set only about ten feet from the footlights, and the rest of the + stage is orchard. What is visible of the room would indicate + the study of a writing man of culture. ( Note.--If found + advantageous for scenic purposes, this section of room can be + changed to a broad verandah or porch with pillars supporting its + roof.) In the wall, Stage Left, is a curtained opening, across + which the curtain is half drawn. Stage Right of the French + windows is a large armchair turned rather towards the window, + with a book rest attached, on which is a volume of the + Encyclopedia Britannica, while on a stool alongside are writing + materials such as a man requires when he writes with a pad on + his knees. On a little table close by is a reading-lamp with a + dark green shade. A crude light from the floats makes the stage + stare; the only person on it is MR FORESON, the stage manager, + who is standing in the centre looking upwards as if waiting for + someone to speak. He is a short, broad man, rather blank, and + fatal. From the back of the auditorium, or from an empty box, + whichever is most convenient, the producer, MR BLEWITT VANE, a + man of about thirty four, with his hair brushed back, speaks. + +VANE. Mr Foreson? + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. We'll do that lighting again. + + [FORESON walks straight of the Stage into the wings Right.] + + [A pause.] + +Mr Foreson! [Crescendo] Mr Foreson. + + [FORESON walks on again from Right and shades his eyes.] + +VANE. For goodness sake, stand by! We'll do that lighting again. +Check your floats. + +FORESON. [Speaking up into the prompt wings] Electrics! + +VOICE OF ELECTRICS. Hallo! + +FORESON. Give it us again. Check your floats. + + [The floats go down, and there is a sudden blinding glare of + blue lights, in which FORESON looks particularly ghastly.] + +VANE. Great Scott! What the blazes! Mr Foreson! + + [FORESON walks straight out into the wings Left. Crescendo.] + +Mr Foreson! + +FORESON. [Re-appearing] Sir? + +VANE. Tell Miller to come down. + +FORESON. Electrics! Mr Blewitt Vane wants to speak to you. Come +down! + +VANE. Tell Herbert to sit in that chair. + + [FORESON walks straight out into the Right wings.] + +Mr Foreson! + +FORESON. [Re-appearing] Sir? + +VANE. Don't go off the stage. [FORESON mutters.] + + [ELECTRICS appears from the wings, Stage Left. He is a dark, + thin-faced man with rather spikey hair.] + +ELECTRICS. Yes, Mr Vane? + +VANE. Look! + +ELECTRICS. That's what I'd got marked, Mr Vane. + +VANE. Once for all, what I want is the orchard in full moonlight, +and the room dark except for the reading lamp. Cut off your front +battens. + + [ELECTRICS withdraws Left. FORESON walks off the Stage into the + Right wings.] + +Mr Foreson! + +FORESON. [Re-appearing] Sir? + +VANE. See this marked right. Now, come on with it! I want to get +some beauty into this! + + [While he is speaking, HERBERT, the call boy, appears from the + wings Right, a mercurial youth of about sixteen with a wide + mouth.] + +FORESON. [Maliciously] Here you are, then, Mr Vane. Herbert, sit +in that chair. + + [HERBERT sits an the armchair, with an air of perfect peace.] + +VANE. Now! [All the lights go out. In a wail] Great Scott! + + [A throaty chuckle from FORESON in the darkness. The light + dances up, flickers, shifts, grows steady, falling on the + orchard outside. The reading lamp darts alight and a piercing + little glare from it strikes into the auditorium away from + HERBERT.] + +[In a terrible voice] Mr Foreson. + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. Look--at--that--shade! + + [FORESON mutters, walks up to it and turns it round so that the + light shines on HERBERT'S legs.] + +On his face, on his face! + + [FORESON turns the light accordingly.] + +FORESON. Is that what you want, Mr Vane? + +VANE. Yes. Now, mark that! + +FORESON. [Up into wings Right] Electrics! + +ELECTRICS. Hallo! + +FORESON. Mark that! + +VANE. My God! + + [The blue suddenly becomes amber.] + + [The blue returns. All is steady. HERBERT is seen diverting + himself with an imaginary cigar.] + +Mr Foreson. + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. Ask him if he's got that? + +FORESON. Have you got that? + +ELECTRICS. Yes. + +VANE. Now pass to the change. Take your floats off altogether. + +FORESON. [Calling up] Floats out. [They go out.] + +VANE. Cut off that lamp. [The lamp goes out] Put a little amber in +your back batten. Mark that! Now pass to the end. Mr Foreson! + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. Black out + +FORESON. [Calling up] Black out! + + [The lights go out.] + +VANE. Give us your first lighting-lamp on. And then the two +changes. Quick as you can. Put some pep into it. Mr Foreson! + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. Stand for me where Miss Hellgrove comes in. FORESON crosses +to the window. No, no!--by the curtain. + + [FORESON takes his stand by the curtain; and suddenly the three + lighting effects are rendered quickly and with miraculous + exactness.] + +Good! Leave it at that. We'll begin. Mr Foreson, send up to Mr +Frust. + + [He moves from the auditorium and ascends on to the Stage, by + some steps Stage Right.] + +FORESON. Herb! Call the boss, and tell beginners to stand by. +Sharp, now! + + [HERBERT gets out of the chair, and goes off Right.] + + [FORESON is going off Left as VANE mounts the Stage.] + +VANE. Mr Foreson. + +FORESON. [Re-appearing] Sir? + +VANE. I want "Props." + +FORESON. [In a stentorian voice] "Props!" + + [Another moth-eaten man appears through the French windows.] + +VANE. Is that boulder firm? + +PROPS. [Going to where, in front of the back-cloth, and apparently +among its apple trees, lies the counterfeitment of a mossy boulder; +he puts his foot on it] If, you don't put too much weight on it, +sir. + +VANE. It won't creak? + +PROPS. Nao. [He mounts on it, and a dolorous creaking arises.] + +VANE. Make that right. Let me see that lute. + + [PROPS produces a property lute. While they scrutinize it, a + broad man with broad leathery clean-shaven face and small mouth, + occupied by the butt end of a cigar, has come on to the stage + from Stage Left, and stands waiting to be noticed.] + +PROPS. [Attracted by the scent of the cigar] The Boss, Sir. + +VANE. [Turning to "PROPS"] That'll do, then. + + ["PROPS" goes out through the French windows.] + +VANE. [To FRUST] Now, sir, we're all ready for rehearsal of +"Orpheus with his Lute." + +FRUST. [In a cosmopolitan voice] "Orphoos with his loot!" That his +loot, Mr Vane? Why didn't he pinch something more precious? Has +this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any "pep" in it? + +VANE. It has charm. + +FRUST. I'd thought of "Pop goes the Weasel" with little Miggs. We +kind of want a cock-tail before "Louisa loses," Mr Vane. + +VANE. Well, sir, you'll see. + +FRUST. This your lighting? It's a bit on the spiritool side. I've +left my glass. Guess I'll sit in the front row. Ha'f a minute. Who +plays this Orphoos? + +VANE. George Fleetway. + +FRUST. Has he got punch? + +VANE. It's a very small part. + +FRUST. Who are the others? + +VANE. Guy Toone plays the Professor; Vanessa Hellgrove his wife; +Maude Hopkins the faun. + +FRUST. H'm! Names don't draw. + +VANE. They're not expensive, any of them. Miss Hellgrove's a find, +I think. + +FRUST. Pretty? + +VANE. Quite. + +FRUST. Arty? + +VANE. [Doubtfully] No. [With resolution] Look here, Mr FRUST, +it's no use your expecting another "Pop goes the Weasel." + +FRUST. We-ell, if it's got punch and go, that'll be enough for me. +Let's get to it! + + [He extinguishes his cigar and descends the steps and sits in + the centre of the front row of the stalls.] + +VANE. Mr Foreson? + +FORESON. [Appearing through curtain, Right] Sir? + +VANE. Beginners. Take your curtain down. + + [He descends the steps and seats himself next to FRUST. The + curtain goes down.] + + [A woman's voice is heard singing very beautifully Sullivan's + song: "Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees and the + mountain tops that freeze'." etc.] + +FRUST. Some voice! + + The curtain rises. In the armchair the PROFESSOR is yawning, + tall, thin, abstracted, and slightly grizzled in the hair. He + has a pad of paper over his knee, ink on the stool to his right + and the Encyclopedia volume on the stand to his left-barricaded + in fact by the article he is writing. He is reading a page over + to himself, but the words are drowned in the sound of the song + his WIFE is singing in the next room, partly screened off by the + curtain. She finishes, and stops. His voice can then be heard + conning the words of his article. + +PROF. "Orpheus symbolized the voice of Beauty, the call of life, +luring us mortals with his song back from the graves we dig for +ourselves. Probably the ancients realized this neither more nor less +than we moderns. Mankind has not changed. The civilized being still +hides the faun and the dryad within its broadcloth and its silk. And +yet"--[He stops, with a dried-up air-rather impatiently] Go on, my +dear! It helps the atmosphere. + + [The voice of his WIFE begins again, gets as far as "made them + sing" and stops dead, just as the PROFESSOR's pen is beginning + to scratch. And suddenly, drawing the curtain further aside] + + [SHE appears. Much younger than the PROFESSOR, pale, very + pretty, of a Botticellian type in face, figure, and in her + clinging cream-coloured frock. She gazes at her abstracted + husband; then swiftly moves to the lintel of the open window, + and stands looking out.] + +THE WIFE. God! What beauty! + +PROF. [Looking Up] Umm? + +THE WIFE. I said: God! What beauty! + +PROF. Aha! + +THE WIFE. [Looking at him] Do you know that I have to repeat +everything to you nowadays? + +PROF. What? + +THE WIFE. That I have to repeat---- + +PROF. Yes; I heard. I'm sorry. I get absorbed. + +THE WIFE. In all but me. + +PROF. [Startled] My dear, your song was helping me like anything to +get the mood. This paper is the very deuce--to balance between the +historical and the natural. + +THE WIFE. Who wants the natural? + +PROF. [Grumbling] Umm! Wish I thought that! Modern taste! +History may go hang; they're all for tuppence-coloured sentiment +nowadays. + +THE WIFE. [As if to herself] Is the Spring sentiment? + +PROF. I beg your pardon, my dear; I didn't catch. + +WIFE. [As if against her will--urged by some pent-up force] Beauty, +beauty! + +PROF. That's what I'm, trying to say here. The Orpheus legend +symbolizes to this day the call of Beauty! [He takes up his pen, +while she continues to stare out at the moonlight. Yawning] Dash +it! I get so sleepy; I wish you'd tell them to make the after-dinner +coffee twice as strong. + +WIFE. I will. + +PROF. How does this strike you? [Conning] "Many Renaissance +pictures, especially those of Botticelli, Francesca and Piero di +Cosimo were inspired by such legends as that of Orpheus, and we owe a +tiny gem--like Raphael 'Apollo and Marsyas' to the same Pagan +inspiration." + +WIFE. We owe it more than that--rebellion against the dry-as-dust. + +PROF. Quite. I might develop that: "We owe it our revolt against +the academic; or our disgust at 'big business,' and all the grossness +of commercial success. We owe----". [His voice peters out.] + +WIFE. It--love. + +PROF. [Abstracted] Eh! + +WIFE. I said: We owe it love. + +PROF. [Rather startled] Possibly. But--er [With a dry smile] +I mustn't say that here--hardly! + +WIFE. [To herself and the moonlight] Orpheus with his lute! + +PROF. Most people think a lute is a sort of flute. [Yawning +heavily] My dear, if you're not going to sing again, d'you mind +sitting down? I want to concentrate. + +WIFE. I'm going out. + +PROF. Mind the dew! + +WIFE. The Christian virtues and the dew. + +PROF. [With a little dry laugh] Not bad! Not bad! The Christian +virtues and the dew. [His hand takes up his pen, his face droops +over his paper, while his wife looks at him with a very strange face] +"How far we can trace the modern resurgence against the Christian +virtues to the symbolic figures of Orpheus, Pan, Apollo, and Bacchus +might be difficult to estimate, but----" + + [During those words his WIFE has passed through the window into + the moonlight, and her voice rises, singing as she goes: + "Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees . . ."] + +PROF. [Suddenly aware of something] She'll get her throat bad. +[He is silent as the voice swells in the distance] Sounds queer at +night-H'm! [He is silent--Yawning. The voice dies away. Suddenly +his head nods; he fights his drowsiness; writes a word or two, nods +again, and in twenty seconds is asleep.] + + [The Stage is darkened by a black-out. FRUST's voice is heard + speaking.] + +FRUST. What's that girl's name? + +VANE. Vanessa Hellgrove. + +FRUST. Aha! + + [The Stage is lighted up again. Moonlight bright on the + orchard; the room in darkness where the PROFESSOR'S figure is + just visible sleeping in the chair, and screwed a little more + round towards the window. From behind the mossy boulder a + faun-like figure uncurls itself and peeps over with ears + standing up and elbows leaning on the stone, playing a rustic + pipe; and there are seen two rabbits and a fox sitting up and + listening. A shiver of wind passes, blowing petals from the + apple-trees.] + + [The FAUN darts his head towards where, from Right, comes slowly + the figure of a Greek youth, holding a lute or lyre which his + fingers strike, lifting out little wandering strains as of wind + whinnying in funnels and odd corners. The FAUN darts down + behind the stone, and the youth stands by the boulder playing + his lute. Slowly while he plays the whitened trunk of an + apple-tree is seen, to dissolve into the body of a girl with + bare arms and feet, her dark hair unbound, and the face of the + PROFESSOR'S WIFE. Hypnotized, she slowly sways towards him, + their eyes fixed on each other, till she is quite close. Her + arms go out to him, cling round his neck and, their lips meet. + But as they meet there comes a gasp and the PROFESSOR with + rumpled hair is seen starting from his chair, his hands thrown + up; and at his horrified "Oh!" the Stage is darkened with a + black-out.] + + [The voice of FRUST is heard speaking.] + +FRUST. Gee! + + The Stage is lighted up again, as in the opening scene. The + PROFESSOR is seen in his chair, with spilt sheets of paper round + him, waking from a dream. He shakes himself, pinches his leg, + stares heavily round into the moonlight, rises. + +PROF. Phew! Beastly dream! Boof! H'm! [He moves to the window +and calls.] Blanche! Blanche! [To himself] Made trees-made trees! +[Calling] Blanche! + +WIFE's VOICE. Yes. + +PROF. Where are you? + +WIFE. [Appearing by the stone with her hair down] Here! + +PROF. I say--I---I've been asleep--had a dream. Come in. I'll tell +you. + + [She comes, and they stand in the window.] + +PROF. I dreamed I saw a-faun on that boulder blowing on a pipe. [He +looks nervously at the stone] With two damned little rabbits and a +fox sitting up and listening. And then from out there came our +friend Orpheus playing on his confounded lute, till he actually +turned that tree there into you. And gradually he-he drew you like a +snake till you--er--put your arms round his neck and--er--kissed him. +Boof! I woke up. Most unpleasant. Why! Your hair's down! + +WIFE. Yes. + +PROF. Why? + +WIFE. It was no dream. He was bringing me to life. + +PROF. What on earth? + +WIFE. Do you suppose I am alive? I'm as dead as Euridice. + +PROF. Good heavens, Blanche, what's the matter with you to-night? + +WIFE. [Pointing to the litter of papers] Why don't we live, instead +of writing of it? [She points out unto the moonlight] What do we +get out of life? Money, fame, fashion, talk, learning? Yes. And +what good are they? I want to live! + +PROF. [Helplessly] My dear, I really don't know what you mean. + +WIFE. [Pointing out into the moonlight] Look! Orpheus with his +lute, and nobody can see him. Beauty, beauty, beauty--we let it go. +[With sudden passion] Beauty, love, the spring. They should be in +us, and they're all outside. + +PROF. My dear, this is--this is--awful. [He tries to embrace her.] + +WIFE. [Avoiding him--an a stilly voice] Oh! Go on with your +writing! + +PROF. I'm--I'm upset. I've never known you so--so---- + +WIFE. Hysterical? Well! It's over. I'll go and sing. + +PROF. [Soothingly] There, there! I'm sorry, darling; I really am. +You're kipped--you're kipped. [He gives and she accepts a kiss] +Better? + + [He gravitates towards his papers.] + +All right, now? + +WIFE. [Standing still and looking at him] Quite! + +PROF. Well, I'll try and finish this to-night; then, to-morrow we +might have a jaunt. How about a theatre? There's a thing--they say- +-called "Chinese Chops," that's been running years. + +WIFE. [Softly to herself as he settles down into his chair] Oh! +God! + + [While he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts himself, she + stands at the window staring with all her might at the boulder, + till from behind it the faun's head and shoulders emerge once + more.] + +PROF. Very queer the power suggestion has over the mind. Very +queer! There's nothing really in animism, you know, except the +curious shapes rocks, trees and things take in certain lights--effect +they have on our imagination. [He looks up] What's the matter now? + +WIFE. [Startled] Nothing! Nothing! + + [Her eyes waver to him again, and the FAUN vanishes. She turns + again to look at the boulder; there is nothing there; a little + shiver of wind blows some petals off the trees. She catches one + of them, and turning quickly, goes out through the curtain.] + +PROF. [Coming to himself and writing] "The Orpheus legend is the-- +er--apotheosis of animism. Can we accept----" [His voice is lost in +the sound of his WIFE'S voice beginning again: "Orpheus with his +lute--with his lute made trees----" It dies in a sob. The PROFESSOR +looks up startled, as the curtain falls]. + +FRUST. Fine! Fine! + +VANE. Take up the curtain. Mr Foreson? + + [The curtain goes up.] + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. Everybody on. + + [He and FRUST leave their seats and ascend on to the Stage, on + which are collecting the four Players.] + +VANE. Give us some light. + +FORESON. Electrics! Turn up your floats! + + [The footlights go up, and the blue goes out; the light is crude + as at the beginning.] + +FRUST. I'd like to meet Miss Hellgrove. [She comes forward eagerly +and timidly. He grasps her hand] Miss Hellgrove, I want to say I +thought that fine--fine. [Her evident emotion and pleasure warm him +so that he increases his grasp and commendation] Fine. It quite got +my soft spots. Emotional. Fine! + +MISS H. Oh! Mr Frust; it means so much to me. Thank you! + +FRUST. [A little balder in the eye, and losing warmth] Er--fine! +[His eye wanders] Where's Mr Flatway? + +VANE. Fleetway. + + [FLEETWAY comes up.] + +FRUST. Mr Fleetway, I want to say I thought your Orphoos very +remarkable. Fine. + +FLEETWAY. Thank you, sir, indeed--so glad you liked it. + +FRUST. [A little balder in the eye] There wasn't much to it, but +what there was was fine. Mr Toone. + + [FLEETWAY melts out and TOONE is precipitated.] + +Mr Toone, I was very pleased with your Professor--quite a character- +study. [TOONE bows and murmurs] Yes, sir! I thought it fine. [His +eye grows bald] Who plays the goat? + +MISS HOPK. [Appearing suddenly between the windows] I play the +faun, Mr Frost. + +FORESON. [Introducing] Miss Maude 'Opkins. + +FRUST. Miss Hopkins, I guess your fawn was fine. + +MISS HOPK. Oh! Thank you, Mr Frost. How nice of you to say so. I +do so enjoy playing him. + +FRUST. [His eye growing bald] Mr Foreson, I thought the way you +fixed that tree was very cunning; I certainly did. Got a match? + + [He takes a match from FORESON, and lighting a very long cigar, + walks up Stage through the French windows followed by FORESON, + and examines the apple-tree.] + + [The two Actors depart, but Miss HELLGROVE runs from where she + has been lingering, by the curtain, to VANE, Stage Right.] + +MISS H. Oh! Mr Vane--do you think? He seemed quite--Oh! Mr Vane +[ecstatically] If only---- + +VANE. [Pleased and happy] Yes, yes. All right--you were splendid. +He liked it. He quite---- + +MISS H. [Clasping her hand] How wonderful Oh, Mr Vane, thank you! + + [She clasps his hands; but suddenly, seeing that FRUST is coming + back, fits across into the curtain and vanishes.] + + [The Stage, in the crude light, as empty now save for FRUST, + who, in the French windows, Centre, is mumbling his cigar; and + VANE, Stage Right, who is looking up into the wings, Stage + Left.] + +VANE. [Calling up] That lighting's just right now, Miller. Got it +marked carefully? + +ELECTRICS. Yes, Mr Vane. + +VANE. Good. [To FRUST who as coming down] Well, sir? So glad---- + +FRUST. Mr Vane, we got little Miggs on contract? + +VANE. Yes. + +FRUST. Well, I liked that little pocket piece fine. But I'm blamed +if I know what it's all about. + +VANE. [A little staggered] Why! Of course it's a little allegory. +The tragedy of civilization--all real feeling for Beauty and Nature +kept out, or pent up even in the cultured. + +FRUST. Ye-ep. [Meditatively] Little Miggs'd be fine in "Pop goes +the Weasel." + +VANE. Yes, he'd be all right, but---- + +FRUST. Get him on the 'phone, and put it into rehearsal right now. + +VANE. What! But this piece--I--I----! + +FRUST. Guess we can't take liberties with our public, Mr Vane. They +want pep. + +VANE. [Distressed] But it'll break that girl's heart. I--really--I +can't---- + +FRUST. Give her the part of the 'tweeny in "Pop goes". + +VANE. Mr Frust, I--I beg. I've taken a lot of trouble with this +little play. It's good. It's that girl's chance--and I---- + +FRUST. We-ell! I certainly thought she was fine. Now, you 'phone +up Miggs, and get right along with it. I've only one rule, sir! +Give the Public what it wants; and what the Public wants is punch and +go. They've got no use for Beauty, Allegory, all that high-brow +racket. I know 'em as I know my hand. + + [During this speech MISS HELLGROVE is seen listening by the + French window, in distress, unnoticed by either of them.] + +VANE. Mr Frost, the Public would take this, I'm sure they would; I'm +convinced of it. You underrate them. + +FRUST. Now, see here, Mr Blewitt Vane, is this my theatre? I tell +you, I can't afford luxuries. + +VANE. But it--it moved you, sir; I saw it. I was watching. + +FRUST. [With unmoved finality] Mr Vane, I judge I'm not the average +man. Before "Louisa Loses" the Public'll want a stimulant. "Pop +goes the Weasel" will suit us fine. So--get right along with it. +I'll go get some lunch. + + [As he vanishes into the wings, Left, MISS HELLGROVE covers her + face with her hands. A little sob escaping her attracts VANE'S + attention. He takes a step towards her, but she flies.] + +VANE. [Dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up] +Damnation! + + [FORESON walks on from the wings, Right.] + +FORESON. Sir? + +VANE. "Punch and go!" That superstition! + + [FORESON walks straight out into the wings, Left.] + +VANE. Mr Foreson! + +FORESON. [Re-appearing] Sir? + +VANE. This is scrapped. [With savagery] Tell 'em to set the first +act of "Louisa Loses," and put some pep into it. + + [He goes out through the French windows with the wind still in + his hair.] + +FORESON. [In the centre of the Stage] Electrics! + +ELECTRICS. Hallo! + +FORESON. Where's Charlie? + +ELECTRICS. Gone to his dinner. + +FORESON. Anybody on the curtain? + +A VOICE. Yes, Mr Foreson. + +FORESON. Put your curtain down. + + [He stands in the centre of the Stage with eyes uplifted as the + curtain descends.] + +THE END + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Four of the SIX SHORT PLAYS +by John Galsworthy + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Complete Plays of Galsworthy +by John Galsworthy + |