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diff --git a/old/55286-0.txt b/old/55286-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0be2f81..0000000 --- a/old/55286-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12305 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Lancashire Plays: The Game; The -Northerners; Zack, by Harold Brighouse - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Three Lancashire Plays: The Game; The Northerners; Zack - -Author: Harold Brighouse - -Release Date: August 7, 2017 [EBook #55286] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE LANCASHIRE PLAYS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THREE LANCASHIRE PLAYS - -The Game; The Northerners; Zack - -By Harold Brighouse - -London: Samuel French, Ltd. Publishers - -1920 - -[Illustration: 0007] - - - - -PREFACE - -|In another age than ours play-books were a favourite, if not the only, -form of light reading, and the novel, now almost universally preferred, -is the development of the last century. But a writer of plays should be -the last person in the world to resent the novelist's victory, for plays -are written to be acted, and reach a full completeness only by means of -the collaboration of author with producer, scene-painter, actors and, -finally and essentially, audience. The author's script bears to the -completed play a relationship similar to that of an architect's plan to -a completed building. - -Architect's plans, however, are not unintelligible to the layman, -especially to the layman who is not devoid of imagination, the layman -who is ready to spend a trifling mental effort and to become, be it ever -so little, expert. And so with printed plays, those ground-plans of -the drama. There must have been in the eighteenth century, a larger -percentage of the reading public than obtains to-day that was expert in -reading plays; plays were thought--you can find ample proof of it in -the Diarists--easier reading than the novels of Fielding, Richardson and -Smollett. Perhaps the comparative brevity of a play was, even in those -unhurried days, a point in its favour; certainly the play-reading habit -was strong and one likes to think that it is not lost. To read dully -the script of a spectacular play is desolating weariness, but the same -script read with sympathetic imagination becomes the key to fairyland, -and from an armchair one sees more marvels than ever stagecraft could -present. There are abominable limitations on the stage; producers are -tedious pedants; but the reader mentally producing a play from the book -in his hand looks through a magic casement at what he gloriously will -instead of through a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a merely human -producer. Play-reading, in fact, obeys the law that as a man sows so -shall he reap; a little trouble, rapidly eased by practice, leads one to -a great deal of pleasure. - -It depends, of course, upon the play as well as upon the reader, and -though one has rather romantically instanced spectacular plays, their -scripts do, as a rule, belong to the class of play which is not worth -reading. They are, or are apt to become, the libretto to some specific -scenery or stage effect and the imaginative reader, failing to hit upon -the particular staging intended, is lost in puzzlement. Nor do plays of -action make the best reading. There are no plays but plays of action, -but action is of many kinds, and the play whose first concern is -situation and rapid physical movement is so specifically a stage-play, -so sketchy in its ground-plan until the collaborators work in unison -upon it, as to make reading more of a torment than a pleasure. While -you must have wordless pantomime at the basis of every play, it is those -plays which exhibit in high degree the use of action in the form of -dialogue that are the more comfortable reading; and, always postulating -that a play is a play--not necessarily a playwright's play, the -admiration of his brother craftsmen, but a thing practicable, actable -and effective on the stage--the more physical action is subordinated to -character, to the exploration of the springs of human motive, the better -it is for reading purposes and the better for all purposes. - -Ibsen led the modern play, where the modern novel followed it, to the -investigation of character rather than to the unfolding of a story, -and one suggests that readers who find satisfaction in the modern -psychological novel should find the reading of modern plays to their -taste for the reason that the dramatists, though they haven't in a play -the same opportunities for analysis as the novelists find in their more -spacious pages, are essentially "out for" the same thing. - -The type of play one is here writing about is one which has not, in the -past, flourished extensively in the popular theatres; it is the type -known, rather obscurely, as the "Repertory" play. It was called by -that name, probably in derision, and the Repertory play was held to -be synonymous with the un-commercial play. Then queer things happened. -"Hindle Wakes" broke out of the Repertory palisade, made dramatic -history and, what from the amazed commercial manager's standpoint was -even more startling, a fortune; "The Younger Generation" followed into -the commercial camp; and in the rent profiteer's year of 1919, when -managers seemed forced by ruthless circumstance more even than by -inclination to play the safest game and to offer the Big Public nothing -but repetitions of the tried and true, two plays from the Repertories -came to town. "The Lost Leader" filled the Court Theatre in a very heat -wave, and "Abraham Lincoln" took the King to Hammersmith--with many -thousands of his subjects. So that it will not do to speak of plays as -commercial on the one hand and Repertory on the other. Repertory has -golden possibilities, if you don't expect too much of it. It would be -fallacious to expect the same pay-dust from "Abraham Lincoln" as from -"Chu Chin Chow." Nor would one expect Joseph Conrad to sell like Nat -Gould. - -Sincerity is a virtue possessed, as a rule, by the Repertory play, but -it will by no means do to claim for this sort of play a monopoly of -sincerity. The most popular type of drama (and the most English), -melodrama, is rigidly sincere--to the confounding of the Intellectual. -There is plenty of dishonest thinking and unscrupulous play-making, but -not in popular melodrama. In melodrama which pretends to be something -other than what it is, there is immediate and obvious insincerity, but -there is no writing with the tongue in the cheek in downright, unabashed -melodramas of the old Adelphi, and the present Lyceum type. It will not -do to call the "highbrow" plays sincere, with the implication that -all other plays are insincere, any more than they can themselves be -sweepingly characterized as uncommercial. Sincerity, anyhow, may be -beside the point, and the term Repertory play, though unsatisfactory, -stands for something perfectly well understood. No definition would -be apt to the whole body of Repertory plays, but one would like, -diffidently, to suggest that Repertory plays are written by men and -women of intellectual honesty who postulate that their audience will be -composed of educated people--and that attempt at a definition fails. It -has a snobbish ring. - -And now, after generalizing about Repertory plays and reading plays, -to come down to the particular instance of the Lancashire plays here -printed. They are three of seven plays which their author has written -about the people of his native county, and reasons for publishing them -now are that nobody wanted to publish plays during the war, and that the -author is an optimist about the future of Repertory. Which last is only -a sort of reason for publishing some of Repertory's step-children--that, -at any rate, the new men may know, if they care to know, these workaday -examples deriving from the only Repertory Theatre in Great Britain which -created a local drama. Though none of these three plays was, in fact, -produced by Miss Horniman's Company, they nevertheless belong to the -"Manchester School," which was a by-product of her Company. - -The "Manchester School" was never conscious of itself, as the Irish -School was. The Irishmen had a country, a patriotic sentiment, a -national mythology; they had, so soon after the beginning that it seemed -they had it from the first, the already classical tradition of Synge; -they had in the Deidre legend a subject made to their hands, a subject -which it appeared every Irishman must tackle in order to pass with -honours as an Irish dramatist; and there was explicit endeavour to -create an Irish Drama. In Manchester, so far were we from any explicit -ambition to create a Lancashire Drama that we denied the fact of its -creation. What reputation it had was not home-made in Manchester and -exported, but made in London and America. At Miss Horniman's theatre -in Manchester, there were so many bigger things being done than the -earlier, technically weak plays of the local authors. And it is worth -pointing out that the authors went (it was admirable, it was almost -original in them) for their material to what was immediately under their -noses; they took as models the Lancashire people of their daily life, -and in their plays they did not always flatter their models. The models -saw themselves in the theatre rather as they were than as they liked -to think they were, and they hadn't the quixotry to praise too highly -authors who held up to them a mirror of disconcerting truthfulness. -It came upon the authors unexpectedly, as even something a little -preposterous, to be taken seriously, to be labelled, heaven knows by -whom, the "Manchester School," as if they had a common aim.. - -That, surely, is the significance of the "Manchester School," that -the phenomenon and the hope. Miss Horniman established her Company in -Manchester, with Mr. B. Iden Payne, a genius, as her producer of plays. -What she gave to Manchester was perhaps more, perhaps not more, than the -aftermath of the historic Vedrenne-Barker campaign at the Court Theatre; -at any rate, she gave a series of Repertory plays--plays which had -no likelihood of being seen in the provinces under the touring -system--notably well acted; she demonstrated that drama was a -living art, and in the light of that demonstration there outcropped -spontaneously, un-self-consciously, the body of local drama now known -as the "Manchester School." Whatever the individual merits of the -Lancashire plays may be, whatever, even, their collective importance or -unimportance, they have this significance of localization. Stimulated by -Miss Horniman's catholic repertoire, local authors sought to express in -drama local characteristics. - -There are no two questions in the writer's mind, nor, he thinks, in -anybody's, as to whether local drama is or is not a good thing. It is -more than ever good in to-day's special London conditions, but it was -always good in and for its own locality, and very good when it broke -away from home, travelled to London and introduced to Londoners -authentic representations of natives of their country. It brought -variety where variety was needed. Not all the plays of the "Manchester -School," of course, have travelled. One or two, indeed, hardly travelled -across the Gaiety Theatre footlights, and in the case of a few others, -mostly one-act plays, there was never the least chance of their emerging -from Lancashire owing to the fact that they were written deliberately -in dialect. A most racy little piece, "Complaints," by Mr. -Ernest Hutchinson, with its scene laid in the office of an Oldham -spinning-mill, is a case in point. One doubts, even, if the -comparatively urbane Manchester audience grasped the whole of its -idiomatic dialogue. But these are the extremes of local drama, and -generally, the Lancashire writers have avoided dialect as, in the first -place, impracticable, and in the second place, disused, except (to -quote Houghton) "amongst the roughest class in the most out-of-the way -districts." Accent is not dialect though possibly originates in it. Even -when one wishes to use dialect one must not, for stage purposes, write -it as it is spoken. The dramatist selects his material from dialect as -he selects his larger material from life. Dramatically correct dialect -is literally incorrect; it is highly selected dialogue which indicates, -but does not obscure, and the true dialect dramatist is not the man who -exactly imitates the speech of a district, but he who most skilfully -adapts its rhythms and picks out its salient words. Synge invented an -Irish dialect which is false in detail and infinitely true in broad -effect, and the "Manchester School," faced with the same difficulty, has -solved it in the same way, hoping, though without much confidence, that -the Lancashire cadences it adopted and used in its very few dialect -plays may sound to alien ears as aptly as the language of Synge's Irish -sounds to our own. Though you may search in vain the dialogue of Mr. -Allan Monkhouse's plays for local characteristics, the "Manchester -School" has as a rule indicated by the use, in greater or less degree, -of local idioms that the speech of Lancashire has a well-marked -individuality; but dialect, as a distinctive variant of the national -language, can hardly be said to exist in Lancashire. - -One labours the point a little in order to make clear that the -"Manchester School" had no accidental advantage, over writers who lived -near other provincial Repertory Theatres, in the existence of a language -whose dramatic literature they felt urged to create; there was no -such language. And its absence makes a curiosity of the fact that from -Manchester alone of the Repertory centres has any considerable body of -local drama emerged. (Dublin is another matter; one speaks here of Great -Britain.) Other Repertory centres, like Birmingham and Bristol, must -have local characteristics: Liverpool is, geographically at any rate, -in Lancashire; and Glasgow has a language of its own. None of these -Repertories was sterile, but even Birmingham, despite Mr. John -Drinkwater and "Abraham Lincoln," was economical in creativeness and -fathered no local drama. Must the conclusion be that the Manchester -atmosphere has, with its soot, a vitalizing dramatic principle? - -Possibly; but a less fantastic theory is that Manchester had Miss -Horniman, and other Repertories had not. Again one insists that the -Lancashire plays were a by-product, and a by-product only, of Miss -Horniman's Company. Who in their senses would go to Manchester expecting -to evoke a local drama? And if she had gone there with a prejudice in -favour of poetic plays, it is more than likely that no local drama -would have been evoked. Modern Lancashire is industrial Lancashire--one -forgets the large agricultural oases, while nobody but map-makers -and administrators remembers that a slice of the Lake District is in -Lancashire--and industrialism does not inspire the poetic play. Miss -Horniman began, on the contrary, with a season whose best productions, -though it included Maeterlinck, were Shaw's "Widower's Houses" and -McEvoy's "David Ballard." Those two productions seemed, rightly or -wrongly, to fix the type of play preferred by Miss Horniman's Company; -it happened--let us call it realistic comedy--to be the type by which -the life of Lancashire could be best expressed in drama and the future -authors of the "Manchester School," most of them of an impressionable -age, some of them already fumbling their way to dramatic expression, -seized avidly the type and the opportunity. They were not so provincial -as to have to wait for Miss Horniman to come to be introduced to Shaw: -but there are worlds of difference between reading Shaw, even between -seeing him indifferently produced, and a Shaw play transmuted by the -handling of such a producer as Iden Payne. It is putting the -case without hyperbole to say that Miss Horniman's Company was an -inspiration. - -The Repertory whose "note" is the poetic play will probably evoke no -local drama, because, until we get the village Repertory, local drama is -the drama of the modern town, wherein the stuff of poetry exists, if at -all, only as a forced revival of folk-lore. Anything can be great -poetry to the great poet; one speaks here of the average playwright, the -observer of his fellow man in a provincial town, seeking his medium of -expression in drama; and such a man is unlikely to find it in the poetic -play or to find encouragement and inspiration from a Repertory where -poetic plays are visibly preferred. It is almost to be said that Miss -Horniman's Company and the Birmingham Repertory Theatre stand for rival -theories of the drama, but not quite; they have too much, including -Shakespeare, in common. - -Local drama is too important to be left so specially in the hands of -Miss Horniman and the "Manchester School." It is important for the -localities and important, too, for London; London is quite as ready to -be interested in good plays about people in Aberdeen or Halifax as in -plays about people in New York, but the New York author lives in a -city where plays are produced and the Aberdeen author does not. The -stimulation of local drama is possible only where a local producing -theatre exists; the education of a dramatist is unfinished until he -has heard his lines spoken and watched his puppets move. Drama in the -capitals is standardized to some half-dozen patterns which alter slowly -and, failing the local producing theatre, what is the provincial author -to do but to suppress his originality and to write plays, in hopes of -London production, as near as he can make them to one of the approved -current designs? It is said that were it not for the continued -influx from the provinces, London would die out in three--or is it -two?--generations; and if that is true of life, it is true also of -drama, and the plain duty of those who control British Drama, the -Napoleons of the theatre, is to dig channels whereby healthy provincial -blood may flow to London to revitalize its Drama. - -This, which means that Sir Alfred Butt ought to seek out a number of -intelligent producers and endow them in provincial Repertory theatres to -work without interference from above, but always with the vigilant eye -for that byproduct of a rightly inspired Repertory, local drama, is a -simple matter of commercial self-interest, on a par with the action of -the magnates of scientific trade who endow research not out of love -of science, but in the expectation that they will be able some day to -exploit profitably the resulting discoveries. So might Sir Alfred Butt -exploit local authors discovered by the producers of his far-flung -Repertories. The theatre is either a business or a gamble, and in the -hands of men like Sir Alfred Butt it looks less like a gamble every day. -Enlightened business self-interest would look a little to the future, to -the fostering of authorship in provincial towns, to the establishment of -many Repertories. - -To come back to the windfalls of the "Manchester School" printed here. -They fell, one of them in the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, at a time -when Miss Horniman's Company was on vacation; another at the Liverpool -Repertory Theatre, which was in origin a secession from Manchester -headed by the late Miss Darragh, with the plays produced by Mr. Basil -Dean, later the first Liverpool Director; and the third so far away from -Manchester as the Empire Theatre, Syracuse, New York State, linked with -Manchester, for all that, through being produced by Mr. Iden Payne. -In reading them again, one is startled for the thousandth time by the -difference between stage and study. The third act of "The Northerners" -makes curious reading, because it depends partly upon the juxtaposition -of the characters on the stage, partly upon the suggestion "off" of -a ruse plagiarized from the Punic Wars, partly upon a spectacular -"curtain," but it is--production proved it--in the focus of the theatre. -It "came off" on the stage. Laughter in the theatre is, again, a -mystery. It is possible that the Lancashire plays in general have the -characteristic of acting more amusingly than they read. "Hindle Wakes" -reads positively austerely; acted, it is full of humour; and one's -recollections of "The Game" on the stage make for the same conclusion. -It has, in the theatre, a far more pronounced tendency to set its -audience laughing than seems apparent in its text. In the case of -"Zack" the funis, one would say, hardly of a subtle kind. Taking the -"Manchester School," bye and large, and remembering the charge against -it that it was "grey" or "dreary," one is forced to believe either that -Lancashire humour is not everybody's humour--Mrs. Metherell in "The Game" -might almost be set as a test--or else that the "Manchester School" has -been confused with the whole body of Miss Horniman's productions; and, -even if so, the charge fails. - -There was an Icelandic tragedy produced in the early days of her -Company, which depressed the thermometer alarmingly; there was -Verhaeren's "The Cloister," a great play performed to empty houses, -adding insult to injury by being popularly called "dreary," and the -chill resulting from those two productions, one a mistake of management, -the other a mistake of the public, lasted for years. The case of the -Lancashire Plays is clear; their authors aimed at presenting the human -comedy of Lancashire, and if their dramatic purpose was to be achieved -by the alternative uses of laughter or of tears, they preferred to -achieve it by the ruthless light of laughter. Many of the plays have not -been printed and the appended bibliography includes no examples of the -comedy of Mr. H. M. Richardson, Dr. F. E. Wynne or Mr. M. A. Arabian. -Incomplete record of the Lancashire Plays as it is, it serves to drive -home the contention that the "Manchester School" are, in the main, comic -writers. - -Bibliography: - -(1) Stanley Houghton--"The Works of Stanley Houghton," three volumes -(Constable & Co.); "Hindle Wakes" (Sidgwick and Jackson); "The Younger -Generation," "Five Short Plays," "Independent Means," "The Dear -Departed," "Fancy Free" (Samuel French, Ltd.). - -(2) Allan Monkhouse--"Mary Broome," "The Education of Mr. Surrage" -(Sidgwick & Jackson); "Four Tragedies" (Duckworth & Co); "War Plays" -(Constable & Co.). - -(3) Harold Brighouse--"Hobson's Choice," "Garside's Career" (Constable & -Co.); "Dealing in Futures," "Graft" (Samuel French, Ltd. ); -"Lonesome-Like," "The Price of Coal," "Converts," (Gowans & Grey, Ltd). - -(4) Judge E. A. Parry;--"The Tallyman and other Plays" (Sherratt & -Hughes). - -(5) J. Sackville Martin--"Cupid and the Styx" (Samuel French, Ltd.). - - - - - -THE GAME - -A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS - - -CHARACTERS - -Austin Whitworth. - -Edmund Whitworth. - -Leo Whitworth. - -Jack Metherell. - -Hugh Martin. - -Dr. Wells. - -Barnes. - -Elsie Whitworth. - -Florence Whitworth. - -Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Wilmot. - -Mrs. Norbury. - - - - -ACT I - -_The Action of the Play takes place in a Lancashire town on the last -Saturday in April between the hours of one and five in the afternoon._ - -_Austin Whitworth's house in Blackton was built by his father in 1870 -and the library is a stately room. The door is on the right. Centre is -a deep bay with a mullioned window and padded window seat. A brisk fire -burns in the elaborate fireplace, with its high club fender. Shelves -line the walls. All the furniture dates from the original period of the -house, and though the chairs may have been upholstered in the meantime, -they would repay fresh attention. Solidity is the keynote of the roomy -but its light wood and bright rugs save it from heaviness._ - -_The time is one o'clock on the last Saturday in April. A painting of -old John Whitworth is over the fireplace._ - -_In the armchair is Edmund Whitworth, a prosperous London solicitor. A -bachelor, his habit of dining well has marked his waist-line. Pompous -geniality is his manner. In his hand is a sheet of notepaper which, as -the curtain rises, he finishes reading. Sitting facing him on the -fender is Leo Whitworth, his nephew. Leo is twenty-one and dresses with -fastidious taste y beautifully and unobtrusively. He is small. Just now -he awaits Edmund's verdict with anxiety. Edmund removes his pince-nez -and hands the paper to Leo._ - -***** - -Edmund. I like it, Leo. - -Leo. Really, uncle? I asked you to be candid. - -Edmund. Yes. I do like It. It's immature, but it's the real thing. -(_Rising and patting his shoulder patronizingly._) There's stuff in you, -my boy. - -Leo. You're the first Whitworth who's ever praised my work. The usual -thing's to laugh at me for trying to be a poet. - -Edmund. A prophet in his own country, eh? Perhaps they don't know very -much about poetry, Leo. - -Leo. (_excitedly, walking about, while Edmund takes his place by the -fire_). Is that any reason for laughing at me? I don't know anything -about hockey, but I don't laugh at Flo and Elsie for playing. As I tell -them, mutual tolerance is the only basis for family life. If I were -a large-limbed athlete they'd bow down and worship, but as I've got a -sense of beauty and no brawn they simply bully the life out of me. - -Edmund. You're sure you do tolerate them? - -Leo. Of course I do. I'd rather have a sister who's a football maniac -any day than a sister who's a politician. There's some beauty in -catching balls, but there's no beauty in catching votes. What I complain -of is that there's no seriousness in this house about the things that -matter. - -Edmund. Such as--poetry? - -Leo. Oh, now _you're_ getting at me. All right. I'm used to it. Being -serious about poetry's better than being serious about football, anyhow. - -Edmund. Sonnets have their place in the scheme of things. - -Leo. A high place, too. - -Edmund. I agree with you in putting them above football. - -Leo. Then you'll find yourself unpopular here, - -Edmund. At the same time, it's possible to overdo the sonnets, Leo. - -Leo. Never. Art demands all. - -Edmund. My dear boy, if you're going to talk about art and temperament, -and all the other catchwords---- - -Leo. I'm not. I'm only asking you to tell them you believe in my genius -and then they'll drop thinking I'm making an ass of myself. - -Edmund. I see. By the way, what are you making of yourself, Leo? - -Leo. A poet, I hope. - -Edmund. I meant for a living. - -Leo. I have a weak lung. - -Edmund. Is that your occupation? - -Leo. It is my tragedy. - -Edmund. Um. - -Leo. You will speak to them for me, uncle? They'll listen to you. At -least you come from London, where people are civilized. - -Edmund. Are they? In London I hold a brief for the culture of the -provinces. - -Leo. You took jolly good care to get away from the provinces, yourself. -And you mustn't tell me you think Blackton is cultured. - -Edmund. I heard my first Max Reger sonata in Blackton long before London -had found him. - -Leo. Music's another matter. - -Edmund. Yes. Your father played it to me. - -Leo. Well, there you are again. Music and football are the only things -he cares about. That's just what I complain of. I've tried to raise his -tastes, but I find generally a lack of seriousness in men of his age. Of -course' there are exceptions. - -Edmund. Thank you. - -(_Enter Florence Whitworth, in golfing tweeds with bag, and without hat, -hair tumbled by the wind. She is a largemade girl of eighteen, supremely -healthy and athletic._) - -Florence. May I hide in here? - -Leo. What's there to hide from? - -Florence. Eleanor Smith is tackling Elsie in the hall to play hockey for -the High School Old Girls this afternoon. When she finds Elsie won't, -she'll want to try me, so I'll keep out of the way, please. - -Edmund. And why won't Elsie? - -Florence. We never do when the Rovers are playing at home. I wouldn't -miss seeing the match this afternoon for the best game of hockey I ever -had. (_Slinging the golf-bag in a corner._) Topping round on the links, -uncle. You ought to have come. - -Edmund. I'm a sedentary animal, Flo. - -Florence. Yes. And you're putting on weight. It's six years since you -were here, and I'll bet you've gone up a stone a year. - -Edmund. In my profession a portly figure is an asset. If you have a lean -and hungry look, clients think it's because you sit up late running up -bills of costs. If you look comfortable, they imagine you're too busy -dining to think of the six and eightpences. - -Florence. Yes. I never met a slacker yet who wasn't full of excellent -excuses. Leo calls his poetry. You call yours business. Wait till you'll -retire. You'll find it out then if you haven't a decent hobby. - -Edmund. But I have. - -Florence. It's invisible to the naked eye. You don't golf, and you don't -play tennis or cricket or---- - -Edmund. I collect postage stamps. - -Florence. No wonder you're in bad condition with a secret vice like -that. (_Goes to open window._) - -Leo (_sharply_). Don't do that. - -Florence. It's blazing hot. I can't imagine what you want a fire for. - -Leo. Uncle felt chilly. - -Florence. Sorry I spoke. No, I'm not. It serves him right for taking no -exercise. - -(_Enter Elsie Whitworth, who, like Florence, is tall and muscular, but -with a slim beauty which, contrasted with Florence's loose limbs and -occasional gawkishness, is, at twenty-two, comparatively mature. Her -indoor dress, to honour the visiting uncle, is elaborate and bright._) - -Elsie. Flo, Eleanor Smith wants you. - -Florence. I know she does. That's why I'm hiding in here. - -Elsie. They're a man short on the team, and---- - -Florence. Didn't you tell her I can't play to-day? Elsie. She thinks she -can persuade you. - -Florence. She can't. - -Elsie. You'd better go and tell her so. - -Florence (_gathering up her golf-bag_). Blow Eleanor Smith! She thinks -hockey's everything. I hate fanatics. Elsie. She's waiting for you. - -Florence. All right. I'll go. (_Exit Florence._) - -Elsie. Heard the news, Leo? - -Leo. Not particularly. - -Elsie (_excitedly_). Jack Metherell's coming in to see father before the -match. Father told me. - -Leo. Oh? My pulse remains normal. - -Elsie. You've no more blood in you than a cauliflower. I'm tingling all -over at the thought of being under the same roof with Metherell. - -Edmund. May I enquire who Mr. Metherell is? - -Elsie. Do you mean to say you've never heard of Metherell? - -Edmund. I apologise for being a Londoner. - -Elsie. That's no excuse. They can raise a decent crowd at Chelsea -nowadays. - -Edmund. Indeed? I live at Sevenoaks. - -Elsie. You must have heard of Metherell. - -Edmund. No. Who is he? - -Leo. Metherell is a professional footballer, uncle. - -Edmund. Oh! - -Elsie (_indignantly_). A professional footballer! He's the finest centre -forward in England. - -Edmund (_politely_). Really? Quite a great man. - -Leo. Quite. He's the idol of my sisters and the Black-ton roughs. For -two hours every Saturday and Bank Holiday through eight months of -the year forty thousand pairs of eyes are glued on Metherell and the -newspapers of Saturday night, Sunday and Monday chronicle his exploits -in about two columns; but if you don't know what "agitating the spheroid -towards the sticks" means, you'd better not try to read them. - -(_Elsie approaches him threateningly._) - -He is also good looking and a decent fellow. - -Elsie. You'd better add that. - -Leo. I will add more. He spends the rest of his time training for those -two hours, and when he's thirty he'll retire and keep a pub; and in -three years eighteen stone of solid flesh will bury the glory that was -Metherell. - -Elsie (_threatening him_). You viperous little skunk. - -Leo. I appeal to you, uncle. Can a skunk possess the attributes of a -viper? - -Elsie. If you say another word against Jack Metherell, I'll knock -you into the middle of next week. You're frightened of the sight of a -football yourself and you dare to libel a man who---- - -Leo. The greater the truth the greater the libel. You're a solicitor, -uncle. Isn't that so? - -Edmund. Do you want my professional opinion? - -Leo (_dodging round the table from Elsie_). I want your personal -protection. - -Elsie (_giving Leo up_). Uncle, Jack Metherell's the truest sportsman -who ever stepped on to a football field. He's the straightest shooter -and the trickiest dribbler in the game. I'd walk barefooted over thorns -to watch him play, and for Leo to say he'll retire at thirty and grow -fat is nothing but a spiteful idiotic lie. - -Edmund (_making peace_) Well, suppose we say he'll retire at thirty-five -and just put on a little flesh and live to a ripe old age, fighting his -battles over again. - -Leo. Over a gallon of beer in the saloon bar. - -Elsie. If your head wasn't too full of poetry for anything important, -you'd know Jack's a teetotaller. He's never entered a public house and -he never will. - -Edmund. If I were you, Leo, I wouldn't quarrel. I should make a poem -about it. - -Elsie. It's all he's fit for. Lampooning a great man. I tell you, uncle, -Jack Metherell can do what he likes in Blackton. If he cared to put up -for Parliament, no other man would make a show. - -Leo. Oh, the fellow's popular. They all love Jack. - -Elsie. Popular. There isn't a woman in the town but would sell her soul -to marry him. - -Edmund. This seems to be the old Pagan worship of the body. - -Leo. The mob must have a hero. Prize-fighting's illegal and cricket's -slow, so it's the footballer's turn to-day to be an idol. - -Elsie. Look here, you can judge for yourself this afternoon. - -Leo. Are you coming to the match, uncle? - -Edmund. Yes. I'm curious to see it. I suppose you're not going? - -Leo. Oh, I shall go. - -Edmund. Really? I had gathered that you don't like football. - -Leo. I don't like funerals or weddings either, but they're all the sort -of family function one goes to as a duty. - -Elsie. A duty. Will you believe me, he never misses a match, uncle? - -Leo. If you want to know, I go for professional reasons. - -Edmund. Professional? - -Leo. I am training myself to be a close observer of my fellow men, -and in a football crowd I can study human passions in the raw. To the -earnest student of psychology the interest is enormous. - -Elsie. Yes. You wait for his psychological shout when Blackton score a -goal. You'll know then if his lungs are weak. We go because we like it -and so does he, only we're not ashamed of our tastes and he is. Wait -till Jack Metherel comes on the field this afternoon in the old red and -gold of the Blackton Rovers and---- - -(_Austin Whitworth enters while she speaks and interrupts her. Without -being grossly fat, Austin is better covered than Edmund, whose elder -brother he is. Without exaggeration, his lounge suit suggests sporting -tendencies. His manner is less confident than that of Edmund, the -successful carver-out of a career, and at times curiously deferential -to his brother. Obviously a nice fellow and, not so obviously, in some -difficulty. With his children he is on friendly chaffing terms, so -habitually getting the worst of the chaff that he is in danger of -becoming a nonentity in his own house. He wears a moustache, which, like -his remaining hair, is grey. Florence follows him._). - -Austin. But Metherell won't. - -Elsie. What. Has Jack hurt himself at practice? Austin. No. - -Leo. What's up with him? - -Austin. Nothing. - -Elsie. Then why isn't he playing? - -Austin. He is playing. - -Elsie. You just said---- - -Austin. He won't wear the Blackton colours. He's playing for Birchester. -He's transferred. - -Elsie. You've transferred Jack Metherell! Father, you're joking. - -Austin. No. - -Elsie (_tensely_). I'll never forgive you. He's the only man on the team -who's Blackton born and bred. The rest are all foreigners. - -Florence. Who've you got to put in his place? There isn't another centre -forward amongst them. - -Austin. There's Angus. - -Florence. Angus! He can't sprint for toffee, and his shooting's the -limit. - -Austin. Well, you've to make the best you can of Angus. Metherell -belongs to Birchester now. - -Elsie. I don't know what you're thinking about, father. Are you mad? -What did you do it for? - -Austin. Money, my dear, which the Club needs badly. - -Elsie. It'll need it worse if we lose to-day and drop to the second -division. - -Austin. We must not lose to-day. - -Florence. You're asking for it. Transferring Metherell. The rest are a -pack of rotters. - -Austin. They've got to fight for their lives to-day. Birchester offered -a record fee on condition I fixed at once. I was there last night with -Metherell and he signed on for them. - -Florence. It's a howling shame. - -Leo. And over Blackton Rovers was written Ichabod, their glory is -departed. - -Elsie. Father, do you mind if I go? I might say some of the things I'm -thinking if I stayed. - -Florence. I'll come too. I wish to goodness I was playing hockey. It -won't be fun to see Jack Metherell play against us. - -(_Florence at door,_) - -Austin. It wasn't for fun that I transferred him. - -Elsie. No. Worse. For money. You've told us that and--oh, I'd better go. - -(_Exeunt Flo and Elsie._) - -Austin. Go with them, Leo. - -Leo. Shall I? - -Austin. Please. - -(_Exit Leo._) - -Well, Edmund? - -Edmund (_puzzled_). Well, Austin? - -Austin. Now you can judge exactly how pressing my necessities are. -You've heard it all. - -Edmund. Really? You've only talked football. - -Austin. Football is all. I'm sorry I got in last night too late to have -a chat with you, but (_shuddering_) what I was doing yesterday is public -property this morning. - -Edmund. You mean about the man Metherell? - -Austin. Yes. - -Edmund. I understand some other club has bought him from you. Are -footballers for sale? - -Austin. Er--in a sense. - -Edmund. And why have you sold him if he's a valuable man? - -Austin. He's invaluable. If ever there was a one-man team, that team is -ours. I've seen the others stand around and watch Metherell win matches -by himself. But to-day money is more essential than the man. - -Edmund. I'm still puzzled. Is football a business then? - -Austin. Of course. That's the worst of burying yourself in London. You -never know anything. Football clubs to-day are limited companies. - -Edmund. I fancy I had heard that. - -Austin. Well, broadly speaking, and not so broadly either, I am the -limited company that runs Blackton Rovers. You never cared for sport. -I was always keen. In the old amateur days, I played for Blackton while -you went country walks and studied law. Football's always meant a lot to -me. It means life or death to-day. - -Edmund. That's a strong way of talking about a game, Austin. - -Austin. Life or death, Edmund. Blackton's been my passion. It's not a -town that's full of rich men, and the others buttoned up their pockets. -Employers of labour too, who know as well as I do that football is an -antidote to strikes, besides keeping the men in better condition by -giving them somewhere to go instead of pubs. I've poured money out like -water, but the spring's run dry and other Clubs are richer. They can buy -better players. They bought them from me. - -Edmund. Have the men no choice? - -Austin. Up to a point. But footballers aren't sentimentalists and rats -desert a sinking ship. The one man who stuck to me was Metherell. He's -a Blackton lad, and he liked to play for his native town. To-day, he's -gone. I made him go for the money I needed. The Club's been losing -matches. We were knocked out of the Cup Tie in the first round. Lose -to-day and Blackton Rovers go down to the second division. My Club in -the second division! - -Edmund. Does that matter so much--apart from sentimental reasons? - -Austin. It matters this much. That there'll never be another dividend. -The gate money for the second division game's no use to me. - -Edmund. But surely, if your public's got the football habit they'll go -on coming. - -Austin. Not to a second division team. They'll drink a pint or two less -during the week and travel on Saturdays to the nearest first division -match. - -Edmund. So much for their loyalty. - -Austin. They don't want loyalty. They want first class football, and if -I can't give it them, they'll go where they can get it. As it is, the -Club's on the brink of bankruptcy, and I'm the Club. - -Edmund. Then your men had better win to-day. - -Austin. They must. - -Edmund. And if--supposing they don't? - -Austin. That's why I brought you here. To look into things. I can't face -ruin myself. - -Edmund. Ruin? It's as bad as that? - -Austin. Oh, I daresay you're thinking me a fool. - -Edmund. I think your sense of proportion went astray. - -Austin. All my money's in it. I don't care for myself. I had value for -it all the day four years ago when Blackton won the Cup at the Crystal -Palace, but it's been a steady decline ever since. What troubles me is, -it's so rough on the children. - -Edmund. Have you told them? - -Austin. What's the use? Leo's got no head for business and the girls -are--girls. - -Edmund. Yes. Tell me, what are you doing with Leo? - -Austin. Doing? Well, Leo's is a decorative personality, and he has a -lung, poor lad. Leo's not made for wear. - -Edmund. Rubbish! If he's made you feel that, he's a clever scamp, with a -taste for laziness and a gift for deception. - -Austin. Well, I do feel about Leo like a barndoor fowl that has hatched -out a peacock. - -Edmund. Peacock! Yes, for vanity. A little work would do the feathers no -harm. - -Austin. I can't be hard on a boy with his trouble. - -Edmund. I foresee a full week-end, Austin. And I thought I was coming -down for a quiet time in the bosom of my family. - -Austin. Yes, we've been great family men, Edmund, you and I. - -Edmund (_hastily_). Well, we won't go into that again. - -Austin. Yes, we will. We quarrelled over Debussy. Come into the -music-room and I'll play the thing over to you now. If you don't admit -it's great, I'll---- - -Edmund. We've other matters to discuss, Austin. This isn't the time for -music. - -Austin. Yes, it is. Music makes me forget. Some men take to drink. I go -to the piano. - -(_Enter Florence and Elsie._) - -Elsie. Father, do you want any lunch? - -Austin (_looking at watch_). By Jove, yes. Time's getting on. I'll play -that Debussy thing afterwards, Edmund. Coming, girls? - -Elsie. No, thank you, father. Neither Flo nor I feel we can sit down to -table with you just yet. We've had ours. - -Austin. You've been quick about it. Where's Leo? - -Florence. Stuffing himself with cold beef. Men have no feelings. - -Edmund. Surely Leo must have a feeling of hunger. - -Elsie. It's indecent to be hungry after hearing of father's treachery to -Blackton. - -Austin. Treachery! - -Florence. Some of my tears fell in the salad bowl, and I hope they'll -poison you. - -Edmund. Be careful what you're saying, Florence. Is that the way to talk -to your father? - -Florence. No. That's nothing to the way I ought to talk to him. - -Edmund. Well, I know if I'd addressed my father like that---- - -Florence. It's a long time since you had a father to address, Uncle -Edmund. We bring our fathers up differently to-day. - -Edmund. If you only knew what your father---- - -Austin (_taking his arm_). It doesn't matter, Edmund. Come to lunch. - -(_Exeunt Edmund and Austin._) - -Florence. Yes, it doesn't matter if the Rovers are defeated, but there's -beef and beer in the next room and the heavens would fall if food were -neglected. - -Elsie. Oh, I don't care if they are beaten. The Rovers don't interest me -without Metherell. - -Florence. I don't believe they ever did. You're no true sportswoman, -Elsie. You always thought more about the man than the game. You might be -in love with Metherell. - -Elsie. Yes, I might. - -Florence. Perhaps you are. - -Elsie. Is there a woman in Blackton who doesn't admire him? - -Florence. Oh, I admire him. But that's not loving. - -Elsie. No. That isn't loving. - -Florence. You sound jolly serious about it. - -Elsie. Do you realize that now he's transferred he'll have to live in -Birchester--two hundred miles away? - -Florence. Yes, I suppose so. - -Elsie. What are our chances of seeing him? - -Florence. Once a year or so when Birchester play here, instead of about -every alternate Saturday. - -Elsie. I've been seeing him oftener than that. - -Florence. Do you mean you've been meeting him? - -Elsie (_breaking down on Flo's shoulder, to her great embarrassment_). -Flo, I do love him and I don't care who knows it, and now he'll have to -leave Blackton, and I---- - -Florence. Steady, old girl. I'm a bit out of my depth myself, but I'll -do my best for you with father. - -Elsie (_braced up_). Father wouldn't stop me. - -Florence. He might try. Jack isn't quite our class, in a general way of -speaking, is he? - -Elsie. Class! What is our class? We're nobodies. - -Florence. Still, as things go in Blackton we're rather upper crust, -wouldn't you say? - -Elsie. Grandfather began life as a mechanic's labourer. - -Florence. Did he? I've never worried about our pedigree, but you -wouldn't think it to look at him. (_Looking at his portrait._) - -Elsie. Oh, he made money. One of the good old grinding, saving sort. -But he began a good deal lower down than Jack. Jack's father was an -undertaker. - -Florence. An undertaker! - -Elsie (_hotly_). Well, I suppose undertakers can have children like -other people. - -Florence. Oh, I've no objections - -Elsie. I've no objections either. - -Florence. I daresay not--to the father. He's dead. But the mother isn't. - -Elsie. What's the matter with his mother? - -Florence. Haven't you seen her? - -Elsie. Jack's shirked introducing me, if you want to know. - -Florence. Well, I _have_ seen her, and---- - -Elsie. Well? - -Florence. She's a hard nut to crack. - -Elsie. I'll crack her if she needs it. If I want to marry a man, I -marry him. I don't mind telling parents about it, but I don't ask their -permission. That sort of thing went out about the time motor cars came -in. - -Florence. Then why haven't you told father before this? - -Elsie. Because Jack's old-fashioned and thinks he ought to speak to -father first. He's got a perfectly ridiculous respect for father. - -Florence. Father's his employer. _We_ don't think much of father, but I -expect there _are_ people who regard him as quite a big man. - -Elsie. That needn't have made Jack a coward. As father's ceased to -employ him perhaps he'll get his out-of-date interview over now. (_She -runs suddenly to window._) - -Florence. What's the matter? - -Elsie. I'm sure I heard a ring. - -Florence. You've got sharp ears. Do you mean to tell me that in this -room you can hear a bell in the kitchen? - -Elsie (_opening window_). It might be Jack. - -Florence (_following her_). Don't you know whether it is? - -Elsie. I can't see any one. - -Florence. But I thought people in your case didn't need to see. Don't -you feel his unseen presence in your bones like you feel a thunderstorm? - -(_They are both in the window bay. Barnes, the butler, shows in Jack -Metherell. Jack is dark and handsome with traces of coarseness, tall -and of strong appearance, clean-shaven, dressed rather cheaply hut -not vulgarly. A modest fellow, unspoiled by popular acclaim and -simple-minded though successful. He remains near the door, not seeing -the girls. Florence restrains Elsie._) - -Barnes. I will let Mr. Whitworth know you are here. Jack. Thank you. - -(_Barnes half closes door, then returns._) - -Barnes. Mr. Metherell, I was thinking of having a little money on the -team this afternoon. Can I take it from you that it's safe? - -Jack. It depends which team you put it on. - -Barnes. Why, the Rovers, of course. - -Jack. Do you want to win your bet? - -Barnes. I do that. - -Jack. Then put it on Birchester. - -Barnes. Really, Mr. Metherell? - -Jack. Really. - -(_Barnes pauses, then._) - -Barnes. I will inform Mr. Whitworth that you are here. - -(_Exit Barnes. Jack watches him close door, then goes to bookcase, -examines books, takes one out and begins to read studiously. Florence -motions Elsie to remain and comes forward._) - -Florence. Good-morning, Mr. Metherell. - -Jack (_closing book quietly_). Good morning, Miss Florence. Florence. -Are you much of a reader? - -Jack. I'm striving to improve my mind. - -Florence (_taking the book_). Good gracious, you've got hold of Plato. - -Jack. Yes. I have read him in the Everyman Edition, but I see this is a -different translation by a Mr. Jowett. - -Florence. How learned you must be. - -Jack. Not I, more's the pity. We've two members in the Mutual -Improvement League at our Sunday School who can read Plato in the -original. I wish I could. - -Florence. Do you? I'll put it back (_replacing book_). You'll have no -use for Plato in a minute. - -Jack. Why not, Miss Florence? - -(_Florence laughs and exit, leaving him looking after her. Elsie comes -forward and puls her hands over his eyes._) - -Jack. It's Elsie. - -Elsie. Yes. It's Elsie. (_Facing him._) Aren't you going to kiss me, -Jack? - -Jack. In your father's house? - -Elsie. It's as good as any other place. - -Jack. No, it isn't. Not till I have asked his leave. - -Elsie. You've kissed me in the fields. - -Jack. I know. I've compromised with my conscience. - -Elsie. Jack, if the rest of you was as antiquated as your conscience, -you'd be a doddering octogenarian instead of the liveliest player in the -League. Have you come now to ask father's leave? - -Jack. I've come because he told me to last night. I might ask his leave -though, now. But I think I ought to ask my mother first. - -Elsie. They'd better both be told at once. If you're going to -Birchester, I'm coming with you. - -Jack. You've heard that then? - -Elsie. Yes. Did you hear what I said? - -Jack. About coming with me? - -Elsie. Yes. - -Jack. I'm willing if they are. - -Elsie. Who are "they"? - -Jack. Your father, and my mother. Suppose the banns go up next Sunday, -we could get married in a month and make one bite of the wedding and the -testimonial do they'll want to give me. - -Elsie. I couldn't be ready in a month, Jack. - -Jack. Well, I'm ready any time. - -(_She kisses him._) - -Oh, now Elsie, that's a foul. You know---- - -Elsie. You didn't kiss me. I kissed you. I do what I like in this house. - -Jack. It's a big house, lass. You'll find less breathing space in my -seven-and-six a week house in a row, with my mother in it, and all. - -Elsie (_pulling him to the arm-chair and sitting herself on its arm_). -I've thought it all out, Jack. It won't be a house in a row. There are -moors round Birchester, and we're going to live outside the town in a -dinky little cottage where the air will always keep you at the top of -your form, and I shall have a garden to look after and be handy for -the links. I'm going to teach you golf. I shall drop hockey when I'm -married. Married life demands sacrifices. - -Jack. Yes. You're going to sacrifice a lot. - -Elsie. You're not going to begin all that over again, are you? Do you -want to marry me? - -Jack. Like nothing on earth. - -Elsie. Then I get you and nothing that I lose counts against that gain. - -Jack. You've a fine sweet way of putting things. I just go funny-like -all over and the words won't come. But I love you, lass, I love you. -I'll be a good husband to you. - -Elsie. It's heaven to hear you say you love me. I want no sweeter words -to come than those, I don't deserve it, Jack. Who am I? Elsie Whitworth. -Nothing. And you're the grandest, strongest player of your time. - -Jack (_rising_). You think too much of football, Elsie. - -Elsie. That's impossible. - -Jack. You do. Football's as good a way as another of earning a week's -wages, but that's all it is. - -Elsie. It's the thing you do supremely well. - -Jack. Yes. Now and for a few more years maybe, but I'll be an old man -for football soon. - -Elsie. That's why I mean to teach you golf. Don't I tell you I have -thought about it, Jack? You're going to be as brilliant at golf as now -you are at football. I'll never lose my pride in you, your huge, hard -muscles and your clean fit body. - -Jack. It's a great thing to be strong and master of your strength. - -Elsie. Your splendid strength! Your swiftness and your grace. - -Jack. But it's a greater to be clever, and I'd give up all my strength -if I could write a poem like the one your brother wrote in the _Blackton -Evening Times_. - -Elsie (_contemptuously_). Leo! That weakling. - -Jack. He may be, but he's got a brain. - -Elsie. You're twenty times the cleverer. - -Jack. Then I'm good for something better than football. I'm up in -football now as high as I can get. I used to dream of being called -the finest player in the League. They've called me that these last two -seasons and my dream's grown bigger. I'm honoured for my play. I'd like -to gain some honour now for work. - -Elsie. You've just told me football _is_ work. - -Jack. I mean brain work. A footballer's a labouring man. And I want you, -Elsie. I look to you to lead me to the higher path. - -Elsie (_dejectedly_). You think I can! - -Jack. I know you can. You've got a fancy now for football, but it's not -your real self. You're a cultured woman. - -Elsie (_interrupting_). Culture doesn't count. - -Jack (_proceeding_). You've gone beyond the things that puzzle me. -You're at the other side. Why, Elsie, there are things in Browning that -I can't make out, and Walter Pater has me beat to atoms. - -Elsie. Those aren't the real things, Jack. - -Jack. They're real enough to be the things that made me want you. I -could pick and choose from lots of women fit to talk of football to me, -but I'm tired of football. You're the only woman who can talk to me of -other things--and you won't. - -Elsie. You're tired of football! - -Jack. Not of the game. Sick of the eternal jaw about it. - -Elsie. Well, I'm sick of books. - -Jack. You can't be that. Books last. - -Elsie. Your fame will last. Books aren't the real thing. - -Jack. Then what is real? - -Elsie. Blood. Flesh and blood. I'd burn every book in this room for the -glory of another rush like yours when you scored your second goal -last Saturday. It may have lasted thirty seconds, but it was worth a -wilderness of books. - -Jack. It was worth just half a column in the _Athletic News_. - -Elsie. It's worth my love for you. It's not your brain I'm wanting, -Jack. It's you. You're splendid as you are. Don't try to hide behind a -dreary cloud of culture. It's better fun to be alive all over than to -crawl through life with a half-dead body and a half-baked mind. - -Jack. Life's not all fun. - -Elsie. It isn't, but it ought to be, and for you and me it's going to -be, and if you don't stop looking serious, I'll upset you by kissing you -again. - -Jack. Don't do that, Elsie. It isn't right yet. - -Elsie. Jack, you've a bilious conscience. It's the only part of you that -isn't gloriously fit. - -Jack. Give me till I've seen your father and then perhaps you'll tire of -being kissed a long while sooner than I tire of kissing you. - -Elsie It's so stupid to ask father about a thing like that. It's not his -lips you're going to kiss. It's mine. - -Jack. I've to satisfy my conscience, Elsie. - -Elsie. The poor thing needs a lot of nourishment. - -(_Enter Austin and Edmund._) - -Don't stint it. - -Austin. Good morning, Metherell. Elsie, we've to talk business. - -Elsie. Mayn't I stay? Men are so funny when they're serious. - -Austin (_holding door_). You would find no entertainment this time. - -Elsie (_passing him_). That's all you know about it. - -(_Exit Elsie._) - -Austin. Sit down, Metherell. Oh, this is my brother, Mr. Edmund -Whitworth. - -Edmund (_shaking_). I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. -Metherell. - -(_They sit down, Austin commanding, the room from the club-fender._) - -Austin. Very busy that train we came home by last night, Metherell. - -Jack. Yes, very full. - -Austin. I couldn't get a chance of talking to you. Now, it's about this -match to-day. - -Jack. Yes? - -Austin. You know how tremendously important it is for Blackton. - -Jack. Blackton _'_ull be a second division team next season. - -Austin. I hope not, Metherell. - -Jack (_without arrogance_). With me playing against them? - -Austin. I still hope not. Blackton must not lose today. - -Jack. I don't see how they can help it. - -Edmund. You've a good opinion of yourself, I notice, Mr. Metherell. - -Jack. Blackton Rovers without me aren't a team at all. They're certain -to be beaten. - -Austin. You say that as if you don't mind if they are. - -Jack. I belong to Birchester now, Mr. Whitworth. - -Austin. Come, Metherell, you've belonged to Birchester for half a -day. You belonged to Blackton for five years. This match can make no -difference to Birchester. They're half way up the list. It's critical -for Blackton. You've played all these years for Blackton and you've -thought Blackton all your life. You can't change your allegiance all in -a moment. You can't pretend you'd like to see Blackton go down. - -Jack. Oh, I've a fondness for Blackton. I don't deny it. - -Austin. Metherell, Blackton must win to-day. - -Jack. They might have done if you hadn't transferred me. - -Austin. My hand was forced. - -Jack. So you told me. - -Austin. At heart you're still a Blackton man, Metherell. - -Jack. Maybe. But at Football I've signed on to play with Birchester. I -may be just as sorry as yourself to see Blackton go down to-day, but as -centre forward of Birchester United it's my bounden duty to do my best -to send the Rovers down. - -Austin. Look here, Metherell, you see the hole I'm in. What am I to do? - -Jack. I've no suggestions. - -Austin. What about the referee? - -Jack. Eh? - -Austin. Anything to be done there? - -Jack. I don't understand. - -Austin. Could I square him? - -Jack. Not unless you want to see him lynched. - -Austin. Then you're the only hope. - -Jack. It's a poor hope if you're looking for anything of that from me. - -Austin. I'm asking you to be loyal to Blackton for another day. - -Jack. Were you loyal when you transferred me? - -Austin. Yes: loyal to Blackton's very existence. Don't play your best -this afternoon. That's all I ask. - -Jack. I always play my best. - -Edmund. Are you never out of form, Mr. Metherell? - -Jack. I play at the top of whatever form I'm in. - -Edmund. Couldn't you make it convenient to be in particularly bad form -to-day? After your long journey to and from Birchester yesterday, a -tired feeling's only natural. - -Jack. I'm feeling very fit. Do you know you're asking me to sell a -match? - -Austin (_firmly_). Yes. - -Jack. I couldn't square it with my conscience. I really couldn't, Mr. -Whitworth. I know it means a lot to you, but I'm not that sort, and you -ought to know it. - -Austin. Your conscience might be--salved. - -Jack. Salved? - -Edmund. Yes. Just let us know how much you consider will cover all moral -and intellectual damages, will you? - -Jack (_to Austin_). I'm glad it wasn't you who spoke that word. - -Austin. I endorse it, Metherell. I told you last night how I stood. The -loss of to-day's match may involve my ruin. - -Jack. As bad as that? I'm sorry. - -Austin. Man, can't you see I'm not romancing? Do you think I'd come to -you with this if I wasn't desperate? - -Jack. It's a pretty desperate thing to do. Suppose I blabbed? - -Austin. Yes. There's that. It ought to show you just how desperate I am. -You know, and no one better, how this Club's been run. You know there's -blackguardism in the game, but Blackton hasn't stooped. Whatever other -clubs have done, Blackton has stood for sport, the straight, the honest -game. The Blackton Club's my life's work, Metherell. I might have done a -nobler thing, but there it is. I chose the Club. I gave it life and kept -it living, and the time's come now when I can't keep it living any more. -Twice top of the League and once winners of the Cup. It's had a great -past, Metherell, an honourable past. It's earned the right to live, and -now it's in your hands to kill the Blackton Club and end the thing I've -fostered till it's seemed I only lived for that one thing. It isn't much -to ask. A little compromise to save the Club you've played for all these -years, to save the club and me. - -Jack. I cannot do it, Mr. Whitworth. - -(_Austin sinks hopelessly into armchair._) - -Edmund (_briskly_). Now you referred to your conscience, Mr. Metherell. -My experience is that when a man does that he's open to negotiation. - -Jack. Money won't buy my conscience, sir. - -Edmund (_half mockingly_). Well, are you open to barter? - -Jack. No. The thing I want from you is no more to be bought than my -conscience is. - -Austin (_without hope_). You do want something from me, then? - -Jack. I want to marry Elsie. - -Edmund (_shocked_). My God! - -Austin. Does she know? (_Rising._) - -Jack. Does she know? She says we're to be married and that's all about -it, but I'm old-fashioned and I want your leave. - -Edmund. My niece and a professional footballer! - -Austin. Steady, Edmund. Now, Metherell, just let us see where we stand. -You propose to help Birchester to beat Blackton. - -Jack. I'll do my best. - -Austin. And you think I'll let you ruin me first and marry my daughter -afterwards? - -Jack. I won't buy Elsie from you at the price of my professional honour. - -Austin. Professional fiddlesticks! The thing's done every day. - -Jack. Not by a Blackton lad. I've learnt the game you taught me, Mr. -Whitworth, the straight, clean Blackton game. I'll not forget my school -even at the bidding of the head. I'm not anxious to be suspended for -dishonest play. - -Austin. Only incompetents get suspended. You needn't fear. You're -skilful. - -Jack. Not at roguery. - -Edmund. You're talking straight, Mr. Metherell. - -Jack. Yes. It's you that's talking crooked. - -(_Enter Elsie._) - -Elsie. May I come in now? - -Austin. No. We're busy. - -Elsie. Thank you. (_Closing door._) You don't get rid of me twice with -that dear old business bogey. I expect Jack's made an awful mess of it. -Has he told you about us, father? - -Austin. No. Yes. Go away. We're talking seriously. - -Elsie. Yes. You all look very foolish. Is it settled, Jack? - -Jack. No. - -Elsie. What's the trouble? Is father being ridiculous? - -Edmund. Upon my word, Elsie---- - -Elsie. Oh, that's all right, uncle Ed. It does father no end of good -to be talked to like that. Jack, I find I can be ready in a month after -all, so that's all right. - -Edmund. Ready for what, girl? - -Elsie. My wedding, uncle. You'd better start thinking about your -present. - -Austin. But---- - -Elsie. Hasn't Jack told you we're to be married? - -Austin. He's told me he wants to marry you, but---- - -Elsie. Then what is there to argue about? Men do love making a fuss -about nothing and fancying themselves important. Come along, Jack. -You're going to take me down to the ground. - -Edmund. Well, I'm---- - -Elsie. Oh, dear no, Uncle. You're not. - -(_Elsie goes off with Jack. They reach door._) - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT II - -_The office of Blackton Football Club is situated under a stand, the -slope of which forms its roof, down to some eight feet from its floor. -In the perpendicular side are the windows, overlooking the ground. Used -as much for the entertainment of visitors as for office work, the room -contains only a desk with revolving chair, and a sofa to indicate its -titular purpose, and for the rest is a comfortably appointed club-room. -On the walls are sporting prints and, by the desk, a file of posters, -the uppermost advertising the day's match. A door gives access, and a -second door leads to the ambulance-room._ - -(_Hugh Martin, the Club Secretary, sits at the open desk. Austin -enters._) - -Austin. Well, Martin. - -Martin. Good afternoon, Mr. Whitworth. - -Austin. What do you estimate the gate at? Five hundred pounds? - -Martin (_rising_). The returns are not in yet, but hardly that much. - -Austin (_looking out of window_). I should call it a twenty thousand -crowd by the looks of it. - -Martin (_not looking out_). Not far short. But (_awkwardly_) there's -been a little accident, sir. - -Austin. Accident? - -Martin. Oh, it's happened before. They rushed the turnstiles on the -shilling side. - -Austin. I say, Martin, that's too bad. Just when we need every penny we -can screw. - -Martin. About three thousand got in free before the police could master -the rush. - -Austin. That Chief Constable's an incompetent ass. He never sends us -enough men. - -Martin. Fewer than usual to-day. There's a socialist demonstration on -the recreation ground, and that's taken away a lot of police. - -Austin. Idiot! Does he think Blackton people will go to a political -meeting when there's a football match? - -Martin. As you say, sir, he's a fool. - -Austin (_sitting at desk_). No use claiming for the loss either. Pass -me the cheque-book, Martin. Those people with the mortgage on the -stands threaten to foreclose unless we pay on Monday. I'd a letter this -morning. - -Martin (_opening safe and passing cheque-book from it_). Can we meet it, -sir? - -Austin. Yes. Metherell's transfer fee is in the Bank. - -Martin. That brightens our sky. - -Austin. Think so, Martin? - -(_Martin replaces Austin at desk, signs cheque, tears it out and then -puts book back in safe._) - -Martin. I never thought we should live through the season. And here we -are at the end of it still alive and kicking. - -Austin. They'd better kick to some purpose to-day, Martin, or----- - -Martin. It'll be all right, sir. - -Austin. You're a sanguine fellow. Suppose we lose. Second Division. No -dividends. No dividends, no Club. No Club, no Secretary, Martin. - -Martin. Don't talk about it, sir. It's not losing my job. That doesn't -matter. But the thought of Blackton going down is more than I can bear. - -Austin. Yes. It's ugly. You're a good fellow, Martin. - -Martin. Don't mention it, sir. I love the game. - -Austin. The game! Yes. Always the game. - -Martin. I often wish this side didn't exist, though it is my bread and -butter.... That's the whistle. They're playing. - -Austin. Yes. Didn't you know? They'd begun before I came in here. - -Martin (_reproachfully_). Oh, sir! - -Austin. Don't let me keep you from your place. - -Martin. Aren't you coming? - -Austin. No. I shan't see much of this match, Martin. - -Martin. When so much depends upon it! - -Austin. Yes. That's why. - -Martin (_consolingly_). But you forget things when you watch the game. - -Austin (_kindly_). Go and forget them, Martin. - -(_Enter Florence, in outdoor spring costume, excitedly._) - -Florence. Father, aren't you coming? You've missed it all. We've scored -a goal in the first five minutes. - -Austin. Scored already! Thank God. - -Florence. The most glorious goal you ever saw. Black-ton are playing up -like little heroes. It's the match of the season. - -(_Martin slips out._) - -Angus is in terrific form. I take back what I said about him. Metherell -himself couldn't do better. He had the Birchester goalee beat to -smithereens. I tell you it's tremendous. - -Austin. How's Metherell playing? - -Florence. Against us. - -Austin (_impatiently_). Yes. But how? - -Florence. How does he generally play? - -Austin. Like that? He's in form? - -Florence. It's worth a guinea a minute to watch him. And you're missing -it. - -Austin. I'll go on missing it, Flo. - -Florence (_looking through window_). Well, I won't. - -(_Exit Florence. Austin sits down in desk-chair, staring at the wall, -blankly._) - -Austin. Metherell! - -(_Enter from the ambulance-room Dr. Wells, a young sporting doctor, -nice-looking, with dark hair and moustache. He is passing through to the -outer door. Austin starts._) - -Oh, it's you, Doctor. You startled me. - -Wells. I beg your pardon, Mr. Whitworth. - -Austin. My fault for day-dreaming. (_Rising._) Ready for contingencies -in your torture chamber? - -Wells. All clear. You look rather like a contingency yourself. - -Austin. I'm--I'm nervous. - -Wells (_sympathetically_). It's a trying occasion. Don't you keep a -bottle of whisky in that desk? - -Austin (_smiling_). Don't you know I do? - -Wells (_grinning_). I have some recollection of it. Take my strictly -unprofessional advice and have a good strong nip. - -Austin (_at desk cupboard_). Have one yourself? - -Wells. No, thanks. I'm going to look out for accidents. - -Austin. Ghoul! - -Wells. Every man to his trade. - -(_Exit Wells. Austin mixes drink. Enter Edmund._) - -Edmund. Hullo! That's bad, Austin. - -Austin. Doctor's orders, Edmund. Will you? - -Edmund. No, thanks. - -Austin. How's the game? - -Edmund. Rowdy. You're not watching it? - -Austin. No. I'm praying for it. - -Edmund. So far the gods have heard your prayer. - -Austin. Metherell hasn't. I hear he's playing his best game against us. - -Edmund. I'm no judge. - -Austin. Are you tired of it already? - -Edmund. I find it just a trifle wearing. Perhaps I'm tod old to -appreciate a new sensation. The excitement's too concentrated. And the -noise! I'm deafened. - -Austin. It's quiet enough in here. Those windows are double. - -Edmund. They need to be. Austin, about Elsie. - -Austin. Yes? - -Edmund. And this footballer. You'll have to put your foot down. - -Austin. I don't flatter myself I shall have much to say in the matter. - -Edmund. Hang it, you're her father. - -Austin. You heard what she said. - -Edmund. To my blank astonishment, I did. - -Austin. Oh, I'm used to it. - -Edmund. Pull yourself together, Austin. You've drifted till your -authority's flouted by your own children. - -Austin. You know, Edmund, that sort of talk was all right in our day, -but my children belong to the new generation, and the new generation -regards parental authority as a played-out superstition. - -Edmund. Nonsense. Be supine and they'll tread on you. You've only your -own slackness to blame for it if you're flouted. - -Austin. That, again, is the view of our time. We're old codgers to-day, -Edmund, you and I. - -Edmund. Confound it, Austin, you're not going to take this lying down! - -Austin. No. I shall fight the fight of my generation against the next. I -shall lose, of course. - -Edmund. You mustn't lose. - -Austin. Why should I be an exception to a natural law? - -Edmund. Natural law! Natural laziness, you mean. You've simply let your -children get out of hand through sheer weakness, and if you don't care -to exert yourself to save Elsie from a gross _mésalliance_, I will. - -Austin. Why's it a _mésalliance_? - -Edmund. Good heavens, man--a footballer! - -Austin. There spoke the acclimatized Londoner. Black-ton won't be -scandalized like Sevenoaks. - -Edmund. Oh, hang your smug imitation democracy! You don't believe that, -Austin. - -Austin. I always believe in the inevitable. - -Edmund. It's not inevitable, It's incredible. Now, I'll tell you what -I'll do, Austin. I'll take Elsie back with me to London and cure her of -this infatuation with a jolly good round of the theatres and the shops. - -Austin. My dear fellow! The theatres where she'll see nothing but -romantic love stories and the shops where she'll go under your nose to -buy her trousseau. Try it, Edmund. You'll be astonished at the result. - -Edmund. It seems my _métier_ to be astonished to-day. First I assist -at an attempted bribery, and now it seems I'm to see my niece marry the -incorruptible footballer. - -Austin. You're a bachelor. The modern child surprises you. As a father, -I have ceased to be surprised. - -Edmund. As a father your idea of your duty is to stand idle while your -daughter makes a sentimental mess of her life. I begin to thank my stars -I'm a bachelor. At least I'm not henpecked by a rebellious family. - -Austin. There's no rebellion about it, Edmund. I date from the sixties, -they from the nineties, and we rub along quite peacefully in mutual -toleration of the different attitudes. - -Edmund. Tolerating the difference means that you give in to them every -time. - -Austin. Not quite. - -Edmund. Then you won't give in to Elsie? - -Austin. I shall be loyal to my generation, Edmund. She will be loyal to -hers,--and youth will fight for her. - -Edmund. That means you'll put up a protest for form's sake and give in -gracefully when you think you've said enough to save your face. - -Austin. No. Not if I can help it. - -Edmund. Austin, you must help it. The thing's unthinkable. I'll help you -to help it. - -Austin. I shall be glad of any assistance you can give me. - -(_Austin turns a little wistfully to window._) - -Edmund. You think I can't give much. - -Austin. Hullo! The game's stopped. I hadn't heard the whistle go. - -Edmund. I fancy I did a minute ago, without knowing its significance. -What does it mean? - -Austin. Probably an accident. Heaven help us if it's one of our men! - -(_Enter Wells and Jack, who is in green-and-white football costume, -soiled on the left side, with his left arm in an emergency sling. Elsie -follows._) - -Elsie (_anxiously_). Father, Jack's broken his arm. Wells. Nothing very -serious, Mr. Whitworth. I think it's only a simple fracture. - -Elsie. Only! - -Wells (_taking Jack across_). Come along in here, Metherell. I'll have -it set before you know where you are. - -Austin (_impulsively_). Metherell. - -Jack (_as Wells opens door_). Accidents will happen, Mr. Whitworth. - -(_Exit Wells with him, closing door._) - -Elsie. Doctors are callous beasts. (_She opens door rand goes out with -determination after them._) - -Austin (_scoffing_). Accident! - -Edmund. Why not? Don't they happen? - -Austin. After my proposition? - -Edmund. He scorned it. - -Austin. Second thoughts. I asked for bad play, but he's thinking of his -reputation and he's broken his arm. - -Edmund. Deliberately? - -Austin. Yes. - -Edmund. Heroic measures, Austin. - -Austin. It's the last match of the season. He's all the summer months to -get right in. - -(_Elsie returns._) - -Elsie. That doctor's turned me out. - -Austin. Of course. You've no right in there. - -Elsie. I've every right to be where Jack is suffering. - -Austin. He can suffer very well without your assistance. - -Elsie. You needn't be brutal about it, father. - -Austin. I'm not being brutal. The man's a professional footballer. -He accepts the risk of a broken limb as a part of his occupation. -Metherell's not a wounded hero. - -Edmund. No. He's simply a workman who'll doubtless receive proper -compensation from his employers. - -Elsie. And from me. - -Austin. You! - -Elsie. This will hurry on our marriage, father. Jack needs attention -now. - -Austin. Hasn't he got a mother? - -Elsie. No mother could love him as I do. No one can nurse him as -tenderly as I shall. - -Austin. Nurse! A broken arm doesn't make an invalid of any one, -especially a man in first-class physical condition. - -Elsie. I think it's very cruel of you to belittle Jack's injuries. - -Edmund. I wish you would stop calling him Jack. - -Elsie. It's his name. He wasn't christened John. - -Edmund. I refer to the impropriety of a young lady calling a workman by -his Christian name. - -Elsie. As the young lady is going to be married to the workman in the -shortest possible time, I fail to see where the impropriety comes in. - -Edmund. That is where we differ, my dear. - -Elsie. About impropriety? - -Edmund. No. About marriage. - -Elsie. Would you rather I lived with him without being married? - -Austin. Elsie! - -Elsie (_coolly_). Oh, it's all right, father. Uncle deserves a good -shock. He's hopelessly suburban. - -Edmund (_pompously_). Elsie, I am older than you and---- - -Elsie (_pertly_). Yes. That's your misfortune. - -Edmund (_angrily_). Will you allow me to speak without interrupting? - -(_Austin sits in the armchair._) - -Elsie. Yes, if you'll speak sensibly and won't put on side because your -mind's grown old and pompous as well as your body. - -Austin. Elsie, I won't have this rudeness to your uncle. - -Elsie. My dear father, uncle is being stupid. The only way to combat -stupidity is rudeness. Therefore, I am rude. - -Edmund (_humouring her_). I propose to speak sensibly according to my -lights. - -Elsie (_under her breath_). Ancient lights. - -Edmund (_reasoning_). Now, suppose we do permit you to marry this---- - -Elsie (_reproducing his reasonable tone_). Be careful, uncle. Talking of -permission is on the border line. - -Edmund (_avoiding irritability_). Suppose you marry him, what interests -can you have in common? I grant you he's a handsome specimen of manhood -to-day, but retired athletes always run to seed. - -Austin (_self-consciously_). Hem! - -Edmund. And apart from the attraction of the flesh, what's left? - -Elsie (_cordially_). Oh, you are talking sense this time. It's -difficult, but I shall manage him. - -Edmund. Shall you? - -Elsie (_confidently_). Oh yes. I couldn't do it if he were as old as -you, because at your age a man's in a groove and sticks in it till he -dies. Jack's not a modern, but he's young enough to learn. It's hardly -credible, but at present he believes in Ruskin and Carlyle and reads -Browning. Well, you know, I can't have a husband with a taste for -Victorianism. - -Austin. Then why have him at all? - -Elsie. It's a curable disease. - -Edmund. He reads Browning! - -Elsie. Yes, but you needn't worry about that. I shall make a modern of -him all right. - -Edmund. Do you mean to tell me a footballer reads Browning? - -Elsie. He can't always be at football. Oh yes. And Plato, only not in -the original. - -Edmund. Why, the man's a scholar. - -Elsie. Did you think he was illiterate? - -Edmund. I'm afraid I have underrated him. Still, that only proves him an -estimable member of his class. It doesn't alter the fact that his class -isn't yours. - -Elsie (_hotly_). Class! What do I care for class? Elemental passions -sweep away class distinctions. - -Edmund. That's a high falutin' name for a flirtation with a footballer. - -Elsie. It's a name I thought you'd understand. Personally I'd say I've -got the sex clutch on and other things don't matter. Any more shots, -uncle? - -Edmund. You needn't flatter yourself you've talked me into consenting to -this marriage. - -Elsie. Nobody asked you, sir, she said. - -Edmund (_angrily_). Nobody---- - -Elsie (_easily conversational_). Wouldn't it interest you to see how the -game's going, uncle? - -Edmund (_relieved_). I think it would. But don't you think you've heard -the last of me. - -Elsie (_sympathetically_). No, but you want time to think out a few more -objections. - -Edmund. I am going purely out of desire to witness the match. - -(_Exit Edmund._) - -Elsie (_looking after him_). Poor dear. He tried his best. - -Austin (_half rising_). And I am going to try now. - -Elsie (_pushing him gently hack into chair and sitting on its arm_). Oh, -I don't mind you. He tried like an outraged relation. You'll try like a -pal. - -Austin. No. I'm going to be firm. - -Elsie. What a bore. - -Austin (_seriously_). You didn't expect me to be pleased about this, did -you? - -Elsie (_pouting_). Why not, if I'm pleased? Jack isn't marrying you. - -Austin. Nor you, if I can help it. - -Elsie. But you can't help it, you know. - -Austin. Oh, I'm quite aware the stern parent isn't my game. But as pals, -Elsie---- - -Elsie (_nestling up to him_). Yes, father, as pals. - -Austin. As goose to goose, it's not the thing. Now, frankly, is Jack -Metherell up to our weight? - -Elsie. He's above it. - -Austin. Above it? - -Elsie. Certainly. The condescension's his. He's a better footballer than -ever you were, and you were no fool at football. - -Austin. Football isn't everything, Elsie! - -Elsie. Well, you play a decent hand at Bridge, but that's not much. Your -golf's rotten. What else do you do well? - -Austin (_pushing her aside, and rising_). Really, Elsie! - -Elsie (_still on the arm_). Don't say "really." Tell me. - -Austin. I hope I'm fairly good at being a gentleman. - -Elsie. Doing, I said, not being. - -Austin (_humbly_). I--er--play the piano, you know. - -Elsie. Yes, but you're not a musician within the meaning of the Act. -You play the piano like a third-rate professional, too good for a -public-house and not good enough for the concert platform, whereas -Jack's football makes him a certainty for the England team in any -international match. You may have more money than he has---- - -Austin (_glancing at window_). I'm not even sure of that. - -Elsie (_triumphantly_). Then you've absolutely nothing on your side -except a stupid and obsolete class prejudice. - -Austin. Upon my word, Elsie---- - -Elsie (_coming to him, gently_). Yes, I know I'm crushing, dear. - -Austin. You're pitiless. Youth always is. - -Elsie. Not always, father, but you shouldn't try to argue about love. - -Austin. I was arguing about marriage. - -Elsie (_away from him_). I suppose at your age it's natural to be -cynical about marriage and pretend it's nothing to do with love. And -then of course when you were young it used to be the fashion to mock at -marriage. We take our duties to society seriously to-day. - -Austin. Are you proposing to marry Jack from a sense of duty? - -Elsie (_wistfully_). You'll be awfully proud of your grandchildren, -father. They'll be most beautiful babies. - -Austin. You look ahead, young woman. - -Elsie. It's just as well I do. You're still worrying about a thing I -settled weeks ago. - -Austin. Then why didn't you tell me weeks ago? - -Elsie. I hadn't told Jack then. - -(_Wells opens door, and enters with Jack, whose arm is in a splint and -sling._) - -Wells (_entering_). You'd better go straight home now. Never mind about -the match. I want you to avoid excitement for a awhile. - -Jack. The match doesn't excite me. - -Wells. Then you can leave it without regret. - -Jack (_indicating his costume_). In these? - -Wells. I'll go round to the dressing-room and bring your clothes here if -you'll trust me not to pick your pockets. - -Jack. There's nothing to pick. I've more sense than to take money into a -dressing-tent. - -Austin. Can't you trust the others, Metherell? - -Jack (_drily_). Yes, so long as they're not tempted. - -Wells. I won't be long. (_Exit._) - -Elsie (_watching Wells resentfully till he goes_). Did he hurt you much, -Jack? - -Jack. Not to speak of. - -(_Austin watches her scornfully._) - -Elsie. Oh, you're brave. But you shall come to no more harm. I'll see -you home safely. - -Austin (_sarcastically, indicating door of the ambulance-room_). You'll -find cotton wool in there. - -Elsie. What for? - -Austin. To wrap him up in. - -Elsie. Don't be spiteful, father. - -Austin. Good heavens, girl, a broken arm is nothing. - -(_Jack sits wearily._) - -Elsie. Except that the arm happens to be Jack's. - -Austin. The civilized world will gasp at the great event. - -Elsie. The athletic world certainly will. It's all very well for you to -joke. Your arm's not hurt. It's all a gain to you. If Blackton don't -win with only ten men against them, they deserve shooting. This accident -means a lot. - -Austin. I know what it means--better than you do. (_Looking at Jack._) - -Jack (_jerking his head up_). What's that? - -Austin. As you tactfully remarked, Metherell, accidents will happen. - -Jack (_rising_). Don't you believe it was an accident? - -Elsie. What else could it be? Do you think he broke his arm for fun? - -Jack (_straight at Austin_). It was an accident. - -Austin. No, my lad. It was a bargain. - -Jack. I made no bargain. - -Austin (_sneering_). But you broke your arm. - -Jack. By accident. - -Austin. A singularly opportune coincidence. - -Elsie. Father, what do you mean? - -Austin. You'd better ask Metherell that. - -Elsie (_in puzzled appeal_). Jack! - -Jack. I'll say nothing. - -Elsie. Then what am I to think? - -Jack. Think what you like. - -Elsie. I think you're a sportsman, Jack, and---- - -Austin. I've known a sportsman do a bigger thing than break his arm for -a woman. - -Elsie (_suspiciously_). A woman! What woman? - -Austin. You, my dear. And, as you said, Blackton are safe to win now. - -(_Wells, entering with Jack's clothes and boots, overhears Austin._) - -Wells. I'm not so sure of that, Mr. Whitworth. It's anybody's game. The -score's one all. - -Austin (_startled_). Birchester have scored! - -Wells. Yes. Didn't you know? I'll look after Metherell. You're missing a -good game. - -Elsie. Then you'd better go and watch it, Dr. Wells. - -Wells (_slightly surprised_). I will when I've helped Metherell to -change. - -Jack. I'm in no hurry. Don't put yourself about for me. Half time _'_ull -do. - -Wells. Well, it can't be far off that now. (_Putting Jack's clothes -over chair._) I should like to see something of this match. Is the arm -painful? - -Jack. It's sharpish. - -Wells (_by desk_). Pull yourself together with a dose of this. (_Lifting -whisky bottle._) - -Jack. No, thanks. I'm a teetotaller. - -(_Austin is lighting a cigar._) - -Wells (_authoritatively_). And I'm a doctor, man. - -Jack. That doesn't help my principles. - -Wells. Oh, all right. If you like to be stubborn. Are you coming, Mr. -Whitworth? (_Crossing to door._) - -Elsie. Yes. Do go, father. They'll be expecting to see you outside. - -Austin (_grim_). Yes--I'm going--to show them I can smile. Come along, -Doctor. - -(_Exeunt Wells and Austin._) - -Elsie. Now, Jack. What's this all about? - -Jack. Your father's making a mistake. - -Elsie. About what? - -Jack (_exasperated_). It's a confidential matter, Elsie. - -Elsie. That means there's something you're afraid to tell me. - -Jack. I'm not afraid. He spoke to me in private, and it's giving him -away. - -Elsie. You can't give him away to me. I've lived at home too long for -that. - -Jack. I can't abuse his confidence. - -Elsie. Are you going to talk about your conscience again? Father said -you broke your arm for my sake and I want to know what it means. - -Jack. But I didn't, Elsie. It was an accident. - -Elsie. He thought not. - -Jack. Yes. He's wrong. - -Elsie. Why should he think you did it intentionally? Jack (_sullenly_). -Ask him. - -Elsie. He's just told me to ask you. Now stop being absurd, Jack, and -tell me all about it. - -Jack (_reluctantly_). I told him we wanted to be married-- - -(_Elsie nods, smiling approval._) - ---and he offered to strike a bargain. He wants Blackton to win, so I was -to play a rotten game for Birchester. - -Elsie. And you couldn't do it. - -Jack. No. - -Elsie (_enthusiastically_). No. You couldn't play badly if you tried, -and so you broke your arm instead, for me. Jack, if I was proud of you -before, I could worship you now. (_Patting the sling._) Your arm, your -poor, hurt arm, mangled for me. My hero, my lover and my king. - -Jack (_disgustedly_). You think that too! - -Elsie. Think it! I know it. Don't pretend. It's too late now for -modesty. - -Jack. Modesty! Don't you see if I'd done that, forgotten my -sportsmanship and sold a match for my private gain, I'd deserve to be -kicked round the county? - -Elsie. No. I don't see it. You've hurt yourself for my sake, and that's -enough to make of me the proudest woman in the land. - -Jack. It's enough to prove me dishonest if it were true. Elsie -(_touching the arm_). Isn't that true? - -Jack. Don't I tell you that's an accident? - -Elsie. You've never had an accident before. - -Jack. Not a serious one. - -Elsie. No. You're too great a master of the game. Accidents happen to -the careless and incompetent. - -Jack. Then I must be both. I fell and my arm twisted under me. - -Elsie. And you really didn't do it on purpose? - -Jack (_hurt_). Elsie, don't you believe me? - -Elsie. It's so beastly to have to. I thought you were a perfect player, -and you have an accident; and I thought you were a perfect lover, and -you've been afraid to prove your love. - -Jack (_stirred up_). Elsie, there are twenty thousand folk about this -ground to-day and some of them have come to see the match, but more to -see me play an honest game. They're just a football crowd, but there -isn't a man upon this ground to-day but knows Jack Metherell is -straight. It's left for you to say I ought to be a crook. You're great -at golf and hockey. Is that the way you play the game? - -Elsie. Forgive me, Jack. I did want things to be right for us. - -Jack. At any price? - -Elsie. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking of the game. I only thought of you. - -Jack. I know. But I want things to be right and rightly right. - -Elsie (_smiling_). And now they are. - -Jack (_puzzled_). Your father---- - -Elsie. We've only to let him go on thinking you did it on purpose. - -Jack. But I didn't. - -Elsie (_soothingly_). I know. _I_ know it was pure accident. But he -doesn't. - -Jack. He must be told. - -Elsie. I thought you wanted his consent to our marriage - -Jack. I do. - -Elsie. Then let him think you've kept the bargain he proposed. - -Jack. Let him think I'm dishonest? - -Elsie. What was he? What does it matter what he thinks if I know the -truth? - -Jack. He's got to know the truth. If he'd have me as a scoundrel for -your husband, he should be glad to have me as an honest man. (_Smiling -sourly._) My arm's broke either way. - -Elsie. I don't care tuppence for his consent. - -Jack. It's not the square thing to get married without. - -Elsie. Oh, leave him to me. - -Jack. You bustle him so. It's not respectful, Elsie. - -Elsie. Well, you needn't take him under your wing as well. It's not the -custom in this family to split hairs about filial piety. I'll make it -all right, Jack. - -Jack. It's my job, Elsie. - -Elsie. It's our job, and you've had your innings. Now it's mine. But I'm -going to take you home first to your mother. - -Jack. But my mother doesn't know about you, yet. - -Elsie (_drily_). It's time I made her acquaintance. - -Jack (_doubtfully_). I don't know what she'll say. - -Elsie. We'll find out when she says it. You think a great deal of your -mother, Jack. - -Jack. My father's dead. She's both to me. That's why I'm anxious. - -Elsie. Anxious! But your mother wouldn't stop us, Jack. - -Jack (_doubtfully_). You will be careful with her, Elsie. - -Elsie. Careful? - -Jack. Yes. Not like you go on with your father. She's used to my way. - -(_She has his unhurt arm, urging him to door, when it opens and Austin, -Florence and Leo enter._) - -Austin. Still here, Metherell! - -Elsie. I'm just going to take him home. - -Austin (_to Jack_). Wasn't the doctor going to help you into your -clothes? (_To Leo and Florence._) Where is Wells? Have either of you -seen him? - -Leo. Last seen disappearing in the direction of the bar with an eminent -London solicitor. - -Elsie. Oh, never mind him. Jack's clothes can follow. We'll take a taxi. - -Austin. But---- - -Elsie. Come along, Jack. - -(_Exeunt Elsie and Jack._) - -Leo. I say, father, it's a jolly rough game. This must be one of the -referee's slack days or he'd pull Angus up sharp. - -Austin (_genially_). The score's two--one for Blackton, my boy. - -Florence. Blackton play against the wind next half. - -Austin (_confidently_). The match is all right. I've something else to -talk about to you two. You saw Metherell and Elsie? - -Leo (_grinning_). Yes. It's a case. - -Austin. What? - -Leo (_the grin fading_). Well, isn't it? - -Austin. So you know. - -Leo. I've got eyes. - -Austin. You take it philosophically. - -Leo. I don't see that it matters how I take it. - -Austin. To my mind it matters considerably. He'll be your brother-in-law -if he marries her. - -Leo. That had occurred to me. - -Austin. Don't you mind? - -Leo. I don't mind. Metherell's a stupendous nut at football. - -Austin. I understood football didn't interest you. - -Leo. Merely academically. - -Austin. It's really far more your concern than mine, you know, Leo. In -the natural course of things Elsie's husband will be your brother-in-law -for a longer period than he'll be my son-in-law. Yours too, Flo. - -Florence. Yes. (_Pause._) - -Austin (_exasperated_). Well? Have neither of you anything to say? - -Florence (_rather bored_). Not much in my line, dad. - -Leo. Nor in mine. As I'm her brother I can't cut the other fellow out -and marry her myself. I'm rather thankful, too. Elsie takes a lot of -stopping when she's got the bit between her teeth. - -Austin. I don't get much help from you. - -Florence. Why should you? - -Leo. It's no use jibbing, father. Much easier to give them your blessing -and a cheque. - -Austin. It is always easiest to give way, Leo. - -Leo. Yes. Isn't it? - -Austin (_wildly_). Good heavens, do you young people care about nothing? - -Leo. We're tremendously in earnest about a lot of things, only -they're not the things you're in earnest about. There are fashions in -shibboleths just as much as in socks, and you're a little out of date in -both. - -Austin. Possibly. But blood is still thicker than water, Leo. Metherell -is a man of the people and---- - -Leo. Oh, my dear father, don't talk about the people as if they -inhabited an inferior universe. The class bogey is one of the ghosts -we've laid to-day. - -Austin. Indeed. I'd an idea it was rather rampant. - -Leo. I believe it used to be. As a matter of fact, I do object to -Metherell. - -Austin. Oh! You have some sense left. - -Florence. I don't. I only wish I was in Elsie's shoes. - -Leo. Was I speaking, Flo, or were you? - -Florence. You were, too much. - -Leo. I object theoretically on aesthetic grounds because of the destined -fatness of the retired footballer. But I have Elsie's assurance that -Metherell's a teetotaller and I trust her to give him a lively enough -time to keep him decently thin, so that practically my objection falls -to pieces. - -Austin. Leo, I didn't expect much help from you, but upon my word your -cynicism is disgusting. - -Leo. I expect, you know, that's pretty much what grandfather thought of -you. - -(_Enter Elsie and Jack._) - -Hullo! are there no taxis? - -Elsie (_angry_). I think every taxi in the town is outside the ground, -but the men are too keen on getting a free sight of the game from the -roofs of their cabs to take a fare. - -Florence. It's a sporting town, Blackton. - -Leo. I should have thought they'd take it as an honour to drive -Metherell home. - -Jack (_bitterly_). Not in the Birchester colours. - -Leo (_sarcastically_). Sporting town, Blackton, - -Elsie (_at white heat_). They're beasts. Beasts. They jeered. They're -glad he's hurt. - -Jack. That's what you've done for me, Mr. Whitworth. I'm laughed at in -Blackton. Last Saturday I was their idol, and now---- - -Austin. You've done it for yourself, my boy. - -Jack (_hotly_). You transferred me. - -Austin. I meant the broken arm, not the broken idol. Jack -(_scornfully_). Do you still think I did it purposely? Austin. I don't -think, Metherell. I know. And I'm very much obliged to you. The chances -are it's won the match. - -Jack (_sulkily_). It was an accident. - -Austin (_playing his last card_). Oh, you needn't keep that up before -the family. That reminds me. (_Turning to them._) Leo, Florence, this -is your future brother-in-law, Jack Metherell, the sporting footballer, -who's sold a match to buy my consent to his marrying Elsie. - -(_He watches Leo and Florence for the effect. Jack steps forward, but -Elsie stops him._) - -Elsie. Hush, Jack. - -Florence (_coldly_). I don't believe it, father. That consenting -business went out with the flood. - -Leo (_to Jack_). Did you ask my father's consent? - -Jack. Yes. - -Leo. It's just credible, Flo. - -Florence. In England? In the twentieth century? Leo. These quaint old -customs linger. Half the world doesn't know how the other half thinks. - -Austin (_who has been looking on amazed_). But aren't you horrified? - -Leo. At his asking? No. Merely interested in the survival of an -archaism. - -Austin. At his selling a match, man! - -Leo. A man who would ask papa is capable of anything. - -Elsie. He's not capable of dishonesty. - -Austin. Oh, you're blind with love. - -Elsie. I have his word. - -Austin (_scoffing_). His word! - -Elsie. Yes. Jack Metherell's word. The word of the man I'm going to -marry. - -Austin (_indicating Jack's arm_). Deeds speak louder than words. - -Jack (_with resolution_). Yes, Mr. Whitworth, they do. You think you've -won this match. We'll see. - -Elsie (_frightened_). Jack, what are you going to do? - -Jack. Play. Play for Birchester as I've never played for Blackton. I'll -show him if I sold the match. - -Leo. No. I say. You mustn't do that with a broken arm. - -Jack. Yes. Broken arm and all. - -Leo. It's madness. Look here, I believe you. So does Elsie. - -Florence. And I. - -Leo. We all do, except father, and I assure you he's subject to -hallucinations. Thinks he can play the piano. Thinks my poetry's bad. -Thinks you're a rotter. All sorts of delusions. - -Jack (_stubbornly_). Birchester must win. I'm going on that field to -show them all what football is. - -(_As he speaks Wells and Edmund enter._) - -Wells (_with calm authority_). I think not, Metherell. - -Jack. Out of my way, Doctor. - -Wells. I forbid it. - -Jack. Much I care for your forbidding. - -Wells. One moment, Metherell. The play is extraordinarily rough. It's -Blackton's game to lame their opponents. - -Edmund. More like a shambles than a game. - -Wells (_to Austin_). The referee is strangely kind to Blackton, Mr. -Whitworth. - -Austin. Oh? - -Jack (_suspiciously_). What? What's that you said? - -Wells. I say if I were referee I'd have ordered off half the Blackton -team for rough play. This is no match for a damaged man, Metherell. - -Jack. So you did try the referee, Mr. Whitworth. - -Austin. I don't understand you. - -Jack. Don't you? Well, rough or smooth, I'm going through it now. (_To -Wells._) Thanks for your warning. (_To Austin._) And I warn _you_ that -referee had best be careful now, or I'll report him. - -Elsie (_holding him_). For my sake, Jack. - -Jack (_gently shaking her off_). It is for your sake, Elsie, not for -his. His consent's nothing to me after this. My record's going to be -clean. - -(_Exit Jack._) - -Austin (_rubbing his hands_). Ah! Splendid. Edmund, I've brought you -down from town for nothing. The match is ours. - -Edmund (_drily_). Then I can devote my undivided attention to the -problem of my niece. But why's the match yours? - -Austin. Metherell is kind enough to give it us. An injured player is a -nuisance to his side--no use and only in the way. - -Elsie. You don't know Jack. - -Austin. Oh yes, I do. You think he's a hero. I know he's a fool. - -Elsie. Then he's an honest fool, and---- - -Austin. I haven't time to argue the point now. I want a word with the -referee before the game recommences. (_Going._) - -Elsie. So Jack was right. You did bribe the referee! - -Austin. Elsie, if you don't want us all to starve, you'll keep a tight -hold of your tongue. - -Leo. Starve! - -Elsie. Starve! What---- - -Austin. Oh, ask your uncle. - -Elsie. I haven't time. I'm going to Jack's home to see that all's -prepared for him. - -Austin. Oh, go to---- Go where you like. - -Elsie. I usually do. - -(_Exit Austin._) - -Edmund. Now, Elsie, about this footballer. - -Elsie (_moving_). I shall be rather busy turning his bedroom into a -hospital for the next hour, uncle. - -Edmund. You're to do nothing so compromising. - -Elsie (_scornfully_). Compromising! - -Edmund. If you insist on going, I shall come with you. - -Elsie. You will look funny in Elizabeth Street. - -Edmund. I prefer to look ridiculous than that you should look -indiscreet. - -Leo (_at window, crossing_). There's the whistle. Come along, Flo. - -Florence. Yes. They're playing. - -(_Exeunt Florence and Leo._) - -Elsie. You mean to come? - -Edmund. I don't mean you to go alone. - -Elsie. I wish you were in London, uncle. Your intentions are so good. - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT III - -_At 41 Elizabeth Street the combined kitchen and living-room opens -directly to the street, the street door being centre, with the window -next to it. Through the window the other side of the drab street is -seen. A door leads to the stairs, while another gives access to the -scullery. The room is fairly comfortable. A handsome presentation clock -is on the mantel over the fireplace. The plate-rack is well furnished. -Rocking-chair by fireplace. Sofa under window, behind which is a plant -on a stand. Table round which three Old Women sit at tea. Mrs. Wilmot -and Mrs. Norbury, as visitors, wear outdoor clothes and bonnets, of -which they have loosened the strings. Mrs. Metherell has grey hair, -a small person, and an indomitable will. She is too hearty to be -ill-natured, but she is mistress of her house and knows it. She wears -her after-work dress of decent black. The remains of a substantial meal -are on the table. Smoke-blackened kettle on fire._ - -Mrs. Wilmot (_sighing_). Eh, yes. Elizabeth Street isn't what it was. - -Mrs. Metherell. It's not the street, Amy, it's the people in it. - -Mrs. Norbury. It used to be known for a saving street when I first came -to live here. Every house had a bank-book. - -Mrs. Wilmot. And there's more money coming into the street to-day than -there was then. - -Mrs. Norbury. And going out. They spend more in an ordinary week than -ever me and my old man spent in a holiday week one time, and if they -don't spend, they gamble, and nothing to show for it all at the finish. - -Mrs. Wilmot. Yes, and come begging off their mother as soon as they fall -sick or out of work. And that uppish with it all! - -Mrs. Norbury. Do you think I can get my girls to stay at home and -give me a lift with the house of an evening? Not they. They've always -something on that's more important than me. I'm nobody. And the money -those girls spend on their clothes! - -Mrs. Wilmot. Time was when a man _'_ud come straight home when he'd -finished work and be satisfied with doing a bit in his garden. Most he'd -ever think of, barring Saturday night of course, was one night a week at -his club. Nowadays it's every night the same. - -(_Mrs. Metherell moves impatiently._) - -Mrs. Norbury. I know. You did know where to lay your hand on them once, -but there's no telling where they get to now. - -Mrs. Wilmot. It's all these picture shows and music halls. - -Mrs. Metherell (_roughly_). It's all your own fault, Amy. - -Mrs. Wilmot. Why? - -Mrs. Metherell. You let them put upon you. - -Mrs. Norbury. I suppose you don't? - -Mrs. Metherell. Our Jack doesn't carry on that road. - -Mrs. Wilmot. He'll have it out of you yet. He's quiet and deep. - -Mrs. Metherell (_confidently_). He's safe enough. - -Mrs. Wilmot. Till he breaks out. - -Mrs. Metherell. He's never broken yet. - -Mrs. Norbury. You're lucky, then. - -Mrs. Metherell. It isn't luck. It's the way you go about it with them. - -Mrs. Norbury (_enviously_). Yours gets good money, too. - -Mrs. Metherell. And I see it all. We've a use for a bank-book in this -house. - -Mrs. Wilmot. I wish I saw the half of what mine get. Always crying -out for more, but not to give it me. Some of them wouldn't be happy if -they'd their own motor-car. - -Mrs. Metherell. Yes. That's the way. When I was young a man could start -poor and end rich. He'd save and stick to what he got. These lads to-day -_'_ull never rise. They're too busy spending what they have. My Jack -knows a game worth two of that. He's improving his mind. His bedroom's -full of books. Fitting himself to rise, Jack is. - -Mrs. Norbury. There are a few like that. They're rare and scarce. - -(_Knock at street door,_) - -(_She rises._) I'm nearest. - -Mrs. Metherell (_rising_). Sit you still. (_Crosses and opens door._) - -(_Elsie and Edmund are there._) - -Edmund. Mrs. Metherell? - -Mrs. Metherell (_gruffly_). Yes? - -(_Immediately on the "Yes," Elsie enters past her._) - -Edmund. May we come in? - -Mrs. Metherell. Looks as if you were in. - -(_Edmund enters hesitatingly._) - -Elsie. Have you heard about Jack's accident? - -(_Mrs. Wilmot and Mrs. Norbury remain seated, eyeing Elsie's clothes._) - -Mrs. Metherell (_closing door calmly_). Yes. There was a special out. -They get papers out for anything nowadays. - -Elsie (_indignantly_). You take it very easily. - -Mrs. Metherell. He'll be looked after. There's a doctor on the ground. - -Edmund (_politely awkward_). Perhaps I ought to introduce myself, Mrs. -Metherell. My name is Whitworth--Mr. Austin Whitworth's brother. This -is Miss Whitworth. - -Mrs. Metherell (_with some anxiety_). Is Jack hurt worse? - -Elsie (_gravely_). Not that we _know_ of. - -Mrs. Wilmot (_rising_). I think we'd best be going. Mrs. Metherell. No. -It's all right. - -Mrs. Norbury (_rising and tying bonnet-strings_), I can see we're not -wanted. We'll be seeing you again before you flit to Birchester. - -Mrs. Metherell (_by door with them_). Many a time. We don't go yet. -(_Opening door._) - -Mrs. Wilmot. Good-bye. - -Mrs. Metherell. Good-bye. - -(_Exeunt Mrs. Wilmot and Mrs. Norbury. Mrs. Metherell closes door and -turns to Elsie._) - -Now, what is it? If it's bad news I can stand it. - -Elsie. Is Jack's bed prepared? - -Mrs. Metherell (_righteously indignant_). Jack's bed was made at eight -o'clock this morning. Do you take me for a slut? - -Elsie. Oh yes, but he'll need special nursing, and the room--which is -his room? (_Looking at doors left and right._) - -Mrs. Metherell (_drily_). His room's upstairs. - -Elsie. I'm going to see that it's right. - -Mrs. Metherell. His room's my job. - -Elsie. Yes, yes. I know. But I must make sure. Don't you realize he's -gone on playing with a broken arm? - -Mrs. Metherell. He was always a fool. But he's not so soft as to take to -his bed for a damaged arm. - -Elsie (_wildly_). Anything may have happened. Complications. Fever. I'm -going to his room. Which is it, please? - -Mrs. Metherell (_guarding the door_). You're not going. Elsie. I am. -Please don't be stupid, Mrs. Metherell. Edmund. Elsie! - -Mrs. Metherell. Do you think I'll have a girl I've never set eyes on -before ferreting round my house? - -Elsie. But--oh, you tell her, uncle. (_Darts past Mrs. Metherell and -exit._) - -Mrs. Metherell (_calling after her_). Here, you come back. Cheek! - -Edmund. I think perhaps in the circumstances, Mrs. Metherell---- - -Mrs. Metherell (_with the door handle in her hand_). What circumstances? - -Edmund. Don't you know about my niece? - -Mrs. Metherell. I know she's a forward hussy, like most young girls -to-day. That's all I know. - -Edmund. Then I must explain. - -Mrs. Metherell (_glancing off_). You'd better. - -Edmund. You see, she and your son are engaged to be married. - -Mrs. Metherell (_pausing, astonished, then closing door_). It's the -first I've heard of it. - -Edmund (_pleased to find her hostile_). Perhaps I ought rather to say -they think they're engaged. - -Mrs. Metherell. No. You oughtn't. Jack doesn't think he's tied to any -woman till he's told me first and got my leave. - -Edmund (_delighted_). Ah, now that's quite splendid, Mrs. Metherell. I'm -glad to find that you agree with me. - -Mrs. Metherell. In what? - -Edmund. In opposing the engagement. - -Mrs. Metherell. Why do you? - -Edmund (_easily_). Well, on grounds, shall we say, of general -unsuitability. - -Mrs. Metherell. I don't oppose. (_Sitting in rocking-chair._) - -(_Edmund remains standing._) - -Edmund. I understood---- - -Mrs. Metherell. I don't know owt about the girl. She's made a bad start -with me, but she's excited and I'll give fair play. She may be good -enough for Jack. I cannot tell you yet. What makes you think she isn't? - -Edmund. I didn't exactly think that. - -Mrs. Metherell. What did you think? Out with it. You're her uncle, you -know more about the girl than I can. - -Edmund. Well, the fact is I don't consider she would be a suitable wife -for your son. - -Mrs. Metherell. That's what you said before. I want to know why not. Has -she a temper? - -Edmund (_on his dignity_). Certainly not. - -Mrs. Metherell. Flirts then? Not steady? Extravagant? - -Edmund. No, no. - -Mrs. Metherell. Well, is she deformed or does she drink? - -Edmund. Good heavens, woman, no. - -Mrs. Metherell. If you won't tell me what's wrong with her, I must find -out for myself. - -Edmund. There is nothing wrong with her. - -Mrs. Metherell. Then, where's your objection? - -Edmund. My objection, stated explicitly, is---- (_Hesitating._) - -Mrs. Metherell. Yes? Go on. - -Edmund. I find it rather difficult to explain to you. - -Mrs. Metherell. I've a thick skin. - -Edmund (_desperately_). My niece's training and upbringing do not make -her a fit wife for your son, Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Metherell. Did you make a mess of her upbringing? - -Edmund. No, but---- - -Mrs. Metherell. How did you bring her up? - -Edmund. As a lady. - -Mrs. Metherell. Then she's handicapped for life. But I have seen some -grow out of it. - -(_Enter Elsie. She has a towel over her arm._) - -Elsie. Mrs. Metherell, will you come upstairs a minute? - -Mrs. Metherell. What for? - -Elsie. We ought to have hot water ready and I can't find the bath-room. - -Mrs. Metherell. You'd have a job to find one in Elizabeth Street. - -Elsie (_blankly_). How do you get hot water? - -Mrs. Metherell (_drily_). You heat it. - -(_Edmund stands, looking on._) - -Elsie (_crossing to fireplace and making for kettle_). Then I'll take -this. - -Mrs. Metherell (_rising and getting kettle first_). That's for his tea. -(_Glancing at clock, kettle in hand._) I'll make it too. He always comes -in hungry from a match. (_She replaces kettle, takes tea-pot from table, -empties the used tea-leaves behind the fire, fills generously from -canister on mantel and makes tea, replacing kettle and leaving tea-pot -on the hob._) - -Elsie. Oh, what have you got for him? He'll need nourishing. - -Mrs. Metherell. There's a bit of steak-pie in the cupboard left over -from dinner. He'll have it cold. - -Elsie. But meat is so indigestible with tea, and he's an invalid. - -(_Edmund sits on sofa._) - -Mrs. Metherell. Eh, stop moithering, lass. You don't know owt about it. -(_Suddenly noticing._) What's that over your arm? - -Elsie. Oh, I'm sorry. It was upstairs. - -Mrs. Metherell. That's my towel when you've done with it. (_Takes it, -then surprised._) Where did you get this from? - -Elsie. The bedroom. - -Mrs. Metherell. That's one of my best towels. It isn't out of Jack's -room. - -Elsie. I've arranged the front bedroom for him. - -Mrs. Metherell (_angrily_). I'd have you to know that's my room. - -Elsie. The other is such a cheerless, poky little place. It's dark, -there's no fireplace, no proper carpet, nothing but a camp-bed and a -second-hand bookstall. - -Mrs. Metherell. It's good enough for him. - -Elsie. Nothing but the best is good enough for a man who plays football -like Jack. - -Mrs. Metherell. Football's one thing. Home's another. He's at home here. -Do you think he sleeps in the best bedroom? - -Elsie. He must have the best-lighted room just now. - -Mrs. Metherell. So I'm to turn out for him, am I? - -Elsie. That isn't asking very much. I don't believe you care for him at -all. How can you sit at home when he's playing football? - -Mrs. Metherell. Custom's everything. (_Sitting in rocking-chair._) -I'm used to my men being before the public. Jack's father was a public -man--an undertaker, (_Edmund winces_) and I've known him have as many as -six funerals on a Saturday afternoon, but I didn't go to the cemetery -to see he buried them properly, and I reckon it's the same with Jack. -He can kick a ball without my watching him. (_Changing tone._) And now -perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by interfering in my house? - -Elsie (_to Edmund_). Haven't you told her, uncle? - -Edmund. Oh yes. I told her. - -Elsie (_smilingly sure of herself_). Well, Mrs. Metherell, will I do? -(_Standing before her._) - -Mrs. Metherell (_still sitting_). You said yourself just now that -nothing but the best is good enough for Jack, so you'll excuse my being -particular. I've been asking your uncle about you and he tells me you're -a lady, born and bred. - -Elsie. You mustn't blame me for my relations, Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Metherell. Nay, I don't. Mine's a respectable family, but there's a -Metherell doing time at this moment, and another to my certain knowledge -who ought to be. But this is where it comes in. If you're going to be -Jack's wife, you've to know your way about a house. - -Elsie (_agreeing_). Yes. - -Mrs. Metherell. Your father _'_ull keep a servant, I suppose. - -Elsie. Oh, but I do my share. Servants require a lot of management. - -Mrs. Metherell (_dryly_). I'll take your word for it. I never had any. -And Jack _'_ull have none, either. - -Elsie. I didn't expect it. - -Mrs. Metherell (_graciously_). You may be handier than you look. I'll -try. Those pots want washing. Let me see you shape. - -(_Elsie eagerly begins to put the used cups together._) - -There's a tray. (_Pointing to plate-rack._) The sink's in yonder. -(_Pointing._) - -Edmund (_protesting_). Really, Mrs. Metherell---- (_He rises._) - -Elsie. It's all right, uncle. (_The tray is loaded and she lifts it._) -In there, Mrs. Metherell? (_Starting to go._) Mrs. Metherell. Yes. - -(_Edmund opens door. Elsie is going through._) - -That'll not do. You won't have a man about the place to wait on you. -Close that door, Mr. Whitworth, and let me see her get out by herself. - -(_Edmund closes it, and comes away. Elsie tries to open it, the tray is -troublesome and the pots slip together on it. Mrs. Metherell rises and -crosses rapidly._) - -Those are my cups, you know. Here, give it to me. (_Takes tray and exit, -opening door with the ease of familiarity._) Elsie. I'm sorry, Mrs. -Metherell. But I can learn. Mrs. Metherell (_off_). Maybe. You've shown -willing. (_She closes door from outside._) - -Edmund. Come away, Elsie. You've seen enough of the Metherell standard -to show you it will never do. - -Elsie (_her confidence a little shaken, but still fighting_). I shall -alter the standard. - -Edmund. It's fixed. You can't alter it. It's impossible. Elsie. The -modern eye is blind to impossibilities. Have you ever been to an Ideal -Home Exhibition? - -Edmund. A what? - -Elsie. They show you little houses fitted up with the cutest dodges for -saving labour. I know Mrs. Metherell will have to make her home with -us, but it'll be a very different home from this. You can credit me with -some imagination. - -Edmund. I do, if you think Mrs. Metherell will ever believe her house -is clean unless she or some one else has drudged in it all day. Seeing's -believing, and you can't see the dust fly in a vacuum cleaner. - -Elsie. She'll have to use her common sense. - -Edmund. The scrubbing brush survives in spite of common sense. - -(_Enter Jack, dressed as Act I., left arm in splint. He opens and enters -without knocking, but he hasn't time to get his cap off before Elsie is -with him._) - -Elsie. You're safe. - -Jack. And sound, too, but for this. (_Glancing at his arm._) - -Elsie (_hysterically_). Thank God. - -Edmund. Is the match over? - -Jack. Three--two for Birchester. - -Edmund (_distressed_). Birchester have won! - -Jack. I won the match for Birchester, if it gives you any satisfaction -to know it. I haven't been a man. I've been a miracle. - -Elsie. You always were. - -Jack. I've only done my human best before to-day. To-day I've been a -superman, a thing inspired, protected guarded by a greater mastery than -I have ever known. It wasn't football as it is in life. It's been the -football of my dreams. - -Edmund. It makes you talk. - -Jack. I'm still intoxicated with the glamour of that game. - -Edmund. Yes, Metherell, success is sweet. But somebody is suffering for -this. - -Elsie. Who? - -Edmund. If Birchester have won, Blackton have lost. - -Elsie. For an outsider, you take it seriously. - -Edmund. I take it seriously for your father. I ought to be with him now. - -Elsie. Haven't you done enough here for the proprieties? - -Edmund. I must go to your father, Elsie. Come. - -Elsie. I stay here with Jack. - -Edmund (_after a struggle_). Very well. - -(_Exit Edmund._) - -Jack (_taking cap off_). Elsie, what are you doing here? - -Elsie. I came to--to see your mother. - -Jack. You've told her about us? - -Elsie. Yes. - -Jack. It should have come from me. She'd expect that. But no matter, now -she knows. What did she say? - -Elsie (_hesitating, then plunging_). It's--it's all right, Jack. - -Jack. Hurrah! Then we've a clear road now. I was a bit afraid. Mother -has a will of her own, and she's not easy to please. But I might have -known she couldn't resist you. Tell me what she said when you pleaded to -her with the loveliest eyes in the world and told her you loved me. - -Elsie (_awkwardly_). Well---- - -Jack (_interrupting enthusiastically_). Yes, I know--you needn't tell -me. I can see it all. You there, she here, and then you fell into each -other's arms, and she kissed you, and what you said to each other I'm -not to know, for it was women's talk not meant for men to hear. - -Elsie. Jack, you've never been like this before. - -Jack. No, I've never played a great game with a broken arm and come -through it unscathed. I've never--oh, but it's you that's done the -greatest thing for me. You've won my mother for us. That was the cloud -that used to get between. - -Elsie. And made you talk of self-improvement instead of my eyes? It's -only now I learn you know my eyes are good. - -Jack. I have always known the beauty of your eyes. - -Elsie. You couldn't tell me about them. - -Jack. Not till it was all made right with mother. I thought last night -to-day would be the saddest day I've known. I had to play for Birchester -and go away from Blackton and from you. And there was mother, but you -were brave and took that burden from me, and I'm glad, Elsie, I'm glad -of everything. - -Elsie. Even of that? (_Touching his arm._) - -Jack. It's brought me luck. It's brought me you, safely secure at last. -I wish I had a dozen arms to break. - -Elsie (_smiling_). To get a dozen me's? - -Jack. To suffer with for you. - -Elsie (_quickly_). You are suffering? - -Jack. This bit of pain is nothing to a bad conscience, and it's that -I had meeting you and knowing I'd not the pluck to have it out with -mother. (_With a touch of brutality._) But now I've got you for my own. -No, not a dozen of you, Elsie. One's good enough for me. (_He puts his -arm round her, kissing roughly._) - -Elsie (_frightened_). Jack, you're very strong. - -Jack (_squeezing masterfully_). I've only one arm, but it's strong. - -Elsie. I love your strength, Jack, but you do take my breath away. -You've never kissed me like that before. - -Jack (_still holding her against her will_). I've not been free before. -I've kissed you guiltily, not as a free man kisses when he can give his -whole mind to it. - -Elsie. Jack, let me go. - -Jack. Don't you like it? I said you'd be the first to tire of kissing. - -Elsie (_free of him_). It's--it's almost terrifying, Jack. - -Jack (_roughly_). Rubbish, lass, you're not made of glass. You can stand -it. I needn't kiss you like I kiss my mother. - -Elsie. How do you kiss your mother? - -Jack. Why, respectfully. - -Elsie. You don't respect me, then? - -Jack. It's not the same. I love you. - -Elsie (_rather more hopefully_). And you don't love her? - -Jack. It's different. Where is she now? - -Elsie (_indicating_). She went in there to wash some pots. - -Jack (_nodding, anxiously_). She does too much of that. The work comes -heavy at her age. - -Elsie. We'll change all that. - -Jack (_eagerly_). Yes. Four hands _'_ull make it easy. - -Elsie. My methods will be very different. - -Jack. Different? She'll not like changing her ways. Old people don't -like change. - -Elsie (_callously_). No, but it's good for them. - -Jack. My getting married _'_ull be change enough. We must be careful not -to upset her. - -Elsie. You're very fond of your mother, Jack. - -Jack. I try to do my duty. - -Elsie (_gladly_). It's only duty, then? - -Jack. Only! Honour thy father and thy mother that-- - -Elsie. Yes, but I don't want to make old bones. And that honouring -business is a bit fly-blown. We spell it humour your parents nowadays -and not too much of that. A badly brought up parent's worse than a -spoilt child. - -Jack. Of course, you're joking, Elsie, and I know I'm not a judge of -taste, but I don't somehow think we ought to make fun of our parents. - -Elsie. I wasn't joking, Jack. If your mother's going to stay with us, -she'll have to realize the century she's living in. - -Jack (_reprovingly_). My mother's mistress of this house, Elsie. - -Elsie. This house. Yes. But we're going to be happy in a cottage on the -moors by Birchester, and if people who've forgotten what it is to be -young try any interference, so much the worse for them. - -Jack (_angrily_). Did you tell her that before you asked about the -marrying? - -Elsie. Tell her what? - -Jack. That you expected her to take a back seat and watch you -interfering with her arrangements? - -Elsie. Interfering's not the word. They'll be revolutionized. Our -cottage will be run on rational and hygienic principles. - -Jack. I'd rather have it comfortable. - -Elsie. It will be comfortable. - -Jack. With you and her squabbling all the time? - -Elsie (_very discouraged, but still brave_). We shan't squabble if -she'll be sensible. - -Jack. Her idea of sense mayn't be the same as yours. - -Elsie. It probably won't. It's all right, Jack. I've had practice in -handling parents. - -Jack. I've seen a bit of it, too. You shan't treat mother that way. If -we're to marry, Elsie-- - -Elsie. _If_ we're to marry! - -Jack. My mother's first with me. I take my orders from her and you'll -just have to do the same. - -(_Enter Mrs. Metherell. She has an apron on which she wipes her hands -and then takes it off, hanging up behind door._) - -Mrs. Metherell. So you've broken your arm, I hear. - -Jack (_his attitude is that of a weak-willed child. He almost cowers -before her_). Yes, mother. - -Mrs. Metherell. Wasn't there work enough with a flitting without -fetching and carrying for you? Who's going to break the coals now? - -Elsie. Mrs. Metherell! - -Jack. It's all right, Elsie. It's just her way. - -Mrs. Metherell (_turning on Elsie_). And you've been turning my house -upside down upstairs. A lot of need you have to talk, my girl. You've -been in here ten minutes with a famished man and not so much as lifted a -hand to put out his food. I told you where it was. - -Elsie. I'm sorry. (_Going in terrified alacrity to cupboard, and finding -plate of cold steak pie, which she puts on table._) - -Mrs. Metherell (_with rough kindness_). Sit you down, Jack. (_Lifts -teapot to table and pours._) - -Elsie. Oh, that tea's been made so long. - -Jack. I like it black. - -Elsie. I'm sure Jack ought to have---- - -Mrs. Metherell. Jack _'_ull have what I provide for him, and be thankful -he's got it. - -(_Elsie fusses over Jack's plate, cutting up small._) - -Elsie (_to Jack_). You'll be having late dinners in a month. - -(_Mrs. Metherell is returning teapot to hob._) - -Jack. She'll never let us. - -Mrs. Metherell (_returning_). I'll do that. - -(_Elsie moves away._) - -If he's to be spoon-fed, I'll feed him. - -Elsie (_timidly_). I was doing it to help you, Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Metherell. You were doing it to show how fond you are. What's this -I hear about you, Jack? - -Jack (_his mouth full_). Well, she's told you. - -Mrs. Metherell. Hadn't you a tongue in your own mouth? - -Jack. I'd have told you to-night. - -Mrs. Metherell. Going courting behind my back. - -Jack. You will have your grumble, mother. - -Mrs. Metiierell. I'd do more than grumble if you hadn't gone and hurt -yourself. You might have done it on purpose just to get on the soft side -of me. - -Elsie. Is this your soft side, Mrs. Metiierell? - -Mrs. Metiierell. Yes. Company manners. I'm keeping what I have to say to -Jack till you've gone. - -Elsie. Jack's ill. You're not to bully him. - -Mrs. Metherell. Is he your son or mine? Because if he's mine I'll not -ask your leave to say what I like to him. I'm mistress here. - -Else. Yes, but, Mrs. Metherell---- - -Mrs. Metiierell. That'll do from you. I've had enough of your back -answers. You talk too much. - -(_Knock at door. Mrs. Metherell, eyeing Elsie as she goes, opens door. -Austin is outside._) - -Austin. Mrs. Metherell? - -Mrs. Metherell. Yes. - -Elsie (_coming forward on hearing the voice_). Father! Austin. You here, -Elsie! (_Entering--to Mrs. Metherell._) Thank you. - -(_Mrs. Metherell closes door grimly._) - -Well, Metherell, I've come to see how you are. - -Jack (_rising_). I wasn't carried off the field, but it isn't you I have -to thank for it. - -Austin (_sincerely_). No. It's your own magnificent skill. I never saw -such play. - -Mrs. Metiierell (_coming between them_). You'll excuse me, but I don't -allow that kind of talk in here. - -Austin (_surprised_). But I was praising your son, Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Metherell. He's buttered up too much outside. In here he get's his -makeweight of the other thing. - -Jack. There's no more praise for me in this town, mother. I'm not -popular. They've lost a lot of money on this match. - -Mrs. Metherell. Was that your fault? - -Jack. I played for Birchester. The bets were made on Blackton before -they knew I was transferred. - -Mrs. Metherell (_indignantly_). They're blaming _you_ for that? - -Austin. Fair weather sportsmen! - -Jack. There's no denying I won the match for Birchester. - -Mrs. Metherell (_indignantly_). Whose fault was it you played for -Birchester? Yours? No. There stands the man you have to thank for that. - -Austin (_taken aback_). Really, Mrs. Metherell, I was hardly -prepared---- - -Mrs. Metherell (_accusingly_). You've made my Jack unpopular. That's -what you've done. (_Looking at Jack proudly, while he expresses blank -astonishment._) There never was a favourite like Jack. Not a man in the -whole of Blackton but looked up to Jack, nor a woman but envied me my -son. - -Jack. But, mother, I didn't know you cared. You've always---- - -Mrs. Metherell. You didn't know I cared! Because I haven't gone and -shouted with the others round the field, because I haven't dinned it in -your ears and did my level best to stop them spoiling you, do you think -I took no pride in knowing you're the idol of the town? I'll show you if -I care. Out of that door, Mr. Whitworth. Out of that door, I say. You've -brought trouble on this house. - -Austin. Really, this is very embarrassing. - -Mrs. Metherell. I'll embarrass you. You've made my Jack unpopular. What -do you want here? Your daughter? Take her and go. - -Austin. What I wanted was a little private conversation with your son, -Mrs Metherell. - -Mrs. Metiierell. You've finished with my son. You're not his master now. - -Austin. No. But as a friend, I hoped---- - -Mrs. Metherell. And you're not his friend. - -Austin. I can't make things clear if you won't let me, Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Metherell. They're clear enough. - -Austin (_desperately_). Metherell, will you do me the favour of stepping -outside with me for three minutes' business conversation? - -Mrs. Metherell (_scoffing_). Business! - -Elsie. You have no business now with Jack that doesn't include me. If -Jack goes, I go. - -Austin. This includes you. - -Mrs. Metherell. Jack doesn't go. Jack stays where he is. - -Austin (_trying to be dignified_). Do you know who I am? - -Mrs. Metherell. You're the man who's flitting me to Birchester. Turning -me out of my house, me that's lived in Blackton all my life, to go to -a strange town and buy in strange shops where'll they rob me, and live -beside strangers instead of here where everybody knew me for the mother -of Jack Metherell. - -Elsie. But from what Jack says, Mrs. Metherell, Black-ton won't be very -pleasant for you now. - -Mrs. Metherell (_hotly_). Who's made it so? - -Austin. Mrs. Metherell, can't we be friends? I've always been on -friendly terms in Club affairs with Jack, until to-day. - -Mrs. Metherell. A lot can happen in a day. - -Austin. Yes. To-day the club has died. - -Elsie. Died! - -Austin. Yes. You know something of what the club has meant to me. I made -it, built it, fostered it, and now it's dead. There's been a meeting -since the match. The other directors had pence in where I had pounds. -They won't put another farthing down to save the club, and I can't. I'm -ruined. But that isn't what I'm here for now. I've lost to-day a greater -thing than money. - -Elsie. Ruined! Father, what do you mean? - -Mrs. Metherell. You needn't fret. Ruined is a way of talking. He'll have -a nest-egg left to pay your servants and your milliner's bills. - -Austin. No. It means literally ruined. Metherell has cause to know my -case was pretty desperate. - -Jack. I didn't know how bad. - -Austin. Could you have acted any differently if you had? - -Jack. You know I couldn't. - -Austin (_sincerely_). No. You've showed up well to-day, and I've showed -badly. - -Jack (_sympathetically_). You were in a hole. - -Austin. A man can never tell beforehand what he'll do in a tight corner, -but he can be ashamed afterwards if he's done the wrong thing. And -I'm--I'm trying now to snatch some rags of self-respect. Won't you help -me, Mrs. Metherell? - -Mrs. Metherell (_graciously_). Well, maybe a drowning man can't be -particular what straw he clutches at. What can I do? - -Austin. Jack was the straw I clutched. I tempted him, and, to his honour -and my own dishonour, he withstood me. But I owe him reparation, and I -want to pay. If I can see these two young people happy, I shan't feel -utterly debased. I shall have rescued from the wreck enough to give me -back my soul. - -Mrs. Metherell (_hardening again_). That's a grand high way to talk -about a bit of conscience-money. - -Austin (_humbly_). Yes, call it conscience-money if you like, although -I have no money now, and money won't buy me back my peace of mind. I'm -going to do the one thing in my power to right the wrong I did to Jack -this afternoon. I'm going to put this marriage through. - -Mrs. Metherell (_ironically_). Oh? What marriage may that be? - -Austin. Don't you know? - -Elsie. Of course she knows. - -Austin. Then that's all right, and a load's gone off my mind. - -Elsie. One moment, father. - -Austin. Yes. What is it? - -Elsie. I'm not so confident about it as I was. - -Austin. As you were when? It's not an hour since you defied the world to -stand between you and Jack. - -Elsie. It's not the world that stands between. It's Mrs. Metherell. - -Jack. Elsie! (_Going towards her, then standing bewildered._) - -Austin. Mrs. Metherell! (_Turning to her genially_). Oh, come, we -parents have to make this sacrifice to see our children happy. - -Mrs. Metherell. I care as much about Jack's happiness as you. - -Austin. Then we're unanimous. That's settled then. - -Elsie, (_quietly_). Not quite. - -Austin. Why not. (_Looking at Jack._) You told me my consent was all you -wanted. - -Mrs. Metherell (_eyeing Jack_). Did you? - -Jack. No. I said I'd want yours too. - -Austin. Of course. Well, you've got my consent now, freely, gladly -given. - -Jack. Yes, I wanted that. - -Austin. Isn't that everything? - -Elsie. No. I've been thinking. - -Austin. I thought you knew your own mind, Elsie. - -Elsie. I didn't know Mrs. Metherell. Perhaps I didn't know Jack. - -Austin (_still with confidence_). There's been some lovers' tiff between -you. Come, Elsie, I divided you this afternoon. Let me unite you now. -What is the difficulty? I'm sure it's just a temporary trifle. - -Elsie. Whether it's temporary depends on how long Mrs. Metherell -proposes to live. - -Mrs. Metherell (_enjoying herself_). I'm hearty, thank you. Mine's a -long-lived family. - -Austin (_brushing the difficulty aside_). Mrs. Metherell won't stand in -your way, Elsie. - -Mrs. Metherell. Speak for yourself. - -Austin. Oh, now I see. You're feeling as I did. It took me by surprise. -But I'm converted now, and you'll find you'll soon grow used to the -idea. Once you and I were young ourselves, and---- - -Elsie. Father, it's no use talking to Mrs. Metherell as if she was a -reasonable being. It rests with Jack to choose. - -Jack. To choose? - -Elsie. Yes. Me or your mother. Which is it to be? - -Jack. I--I don't know. (_Glancing shiftily at Mrs. Metherell._) - -Mrs. Metherell (_menacingly_). You'd better know, and sharp. - -Jack. She's my mother, Elsie. - -Elsie. Yes. Who comes first? Your mother or the woman you--the woman I -used to think you loved. - -Jack (_hurt_). Elsie, you know I love you. - -Elsie. Do I? Is it love? Love hasn't widened your horizon. Love should -break through, but you can't see beyond your mother for all your love. - -Austin (_peace-making_). Elsie, you mustn't ask a man to make a choice -like that. These relationships don't clash. They sort themselves out. - -Elsie. That's all you know about it. If you'd been here earlier, you'd -have seen the clash all right. - -Austin. I didn't see it, but I know you're very capable of looking after -yourself. - -Elsie. Oh, I can manage you. And I can manage Jack. You're men, but---- - -Mrs. Metherell. You can't manage me. - -Elsie (_agreeing_). I've met my match. - -Austin (_earnestly_). Elsie, I've set my heart on seeing you happy. My -future's black. I see no future for myself at all, but I hoped that this -one satisfaction would be granted me. You wanted Jack. - -Elsie. Yes, but---- - -Austin. Do you still want him? - -Elsie. He's got a mother. - -Austin. Never mind her. Do you want him? - -Elsie. Yes. By himself. - -Austin. Very well. Metherell, do you want her? - -Jack. My mother doesn't want me to want her. - -Austin. No. But do you? - -Jack. It's like this---- - -Elsie. It's no good, father. If wishing could kill Mrs. Metherell, she'd -be dead at my feet. - -Jack. Elsie! - -Mrs. Metherell. Plain speaking breaks no bones. I can give as good as I -get. - -Austin. May I speak plainly, then? Frankly, don't you think your -attitude is selfish. We've all to see our children go from us, or the -world would never get on. Let me appeal to you--and I think you will -acknowledge that a man of my position is not accustomed to appeal to -a woman of--well, you'll admit the difference between us, and the fact -that I make very earnestly this petition should---- - -Mrs. Metherell. Yes. I'll admit the difference between us. You're -ruined. I'm not. - -Austin (_taken aback_). Ruined! - -Mrs. Metherell. Didn't you say so? - -Austin (_bitterly_). Yes. I'm ruined. - -Mrs. Metherell. You've a family. It's a good lift to a ruined man with -a family to get a daughter off his hands. That's why you've come to push -her on to us. We mayn't be swells, but we can keep her, and that's more -than you can do, so---- - -Austin (_to Jack_). Metherell, you don't believe that, do you? - -Jack (_avoiding Mrs. Metherell's eye_). No. I think you're sorry you -forgot yourself this morning. - -Austin. I've done my best to make amends. - -Jack. Yes. - -Austin. Is it----? - -Elsie. Yes, father. It's impossible. - -Jack. Elsie! - -Elsie (_to Jack_). Isn't it impossible? - -Jack (_after a pause while he looks from Elsie to Mrs. Metherell, -finally meeting Mrs. Metherell's eye and bending his head._) Yes. - -(_Edmund knocks and enters without waiting._) - -Edmund. May I come in? - -Austin. You here, Edmund! - -Edmund. I came back for Elsie. I've been looking for you everywhere. - -Mrs. Metherell. Well, now you've found him, you'd better take him away. -I'll be charging some of you rent for the use of my room. - -Edmund. But what's happened? - -Elsie. Oh, you've won. - -Edmund. I've won? - -Elsie. Yes. The old guard. You and Mrs. Metherell. - -Mrs. Metherell. Yes. You saw it wouldn't do. You're the only Whitworth -in your senses. - -Edmund. Thank you, Mrs. Metherell. - -Austin (_cornering Edmund, anxiously_). You know we lost the match. - -Edmund. Yes. What are you going to do? - -Austin. I've not had time to think about myself. This affair came first. - -Edmund. Well, this is where I come in. - -Austin (_with a touch of an elder brother's contempt_). What can you do? -The club's wound up. - -Edmund. If I like, I can do a good deal. I'm a bachelor with a good city -practice, and no expensive hobbies, Austin. - -Austin (_bitterly_). I never thought it would come to this. My young -brother. - -Edmund. Not so young. Oh, if it stings a bit, perhaps it ought to. You'd -the old man's house and the lion's share of his money, and I've got -to pull you out of the hole you dug yourself. There's only one person -who'll like it less than you, and that's my energetic nephew. - -Austin. Leo! - -Edmund. I'll present Master Leo with his articles. The law's a splendid -cure for lungs and laziness. - -Jack (_approaching Edmund_). Mr. Whitworth, there's no ill feeling, is -there? - -Edmund. Not a bit. - -Jack. And Mr. Austin fancies he owes me something. - -Edmund. Oh? - -Austin. I have that bribery business badly on my mind. - -Edmund. What do you want, Metherell? - -Jack. I'm a man with ambitions, sir, and I heard what you said about Mr. -Leo. Would you give me my articles? - -Edmund. My friend, you're an excellent footballer, but you'd make a -shocking lawyer with that delicate conscience of yours. - -Mrs. Metherell. You'll go on living honestly, Jack. - -Jack (_submissively_). Yes, mother. - -Mrs. Metherell. And when you marry I'll choose you a decent hard-working -girl who'll look after you properly, and not a butter-fingered lass -who'll break your crockery and want waiting on hand and foot and---- - -Edmund. Mrs. Metherell! - -Mrs. Metherell. Oh, I forgot you were there. I was just talking -privately to my son, same as you've been doing amongst yourselves. - -Edmund. We've earned that. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Metherell. - -Elsie. Good-bye, Jack. - -Jack (_taking her hand_). Good-bye, Miss Whitworth. - -(_Elsie turns her face away. Edmund opens door._) - -Austin (_shaking his hand_). Metherell, I'm sorry. - -Jack. You did your best to make it right. - -(_Exit Austin._) - -Edmund (_at door_). Elsie. - -Elsie (_going to him_). Yes, uncle? - -Edmund (_going out with his arm round her_). London! (_Elsie smiles -gladly at him as they go out. Mrs. Metherell places teapot on table. -Jack sits and resumes his tea._) - - -CURTAIN. - - -Note.--_The "transfer" of a football player from one team to another -cannot now be made with the rapidity shown in this play. At the time -when "The Game" was written, such a transfer was possible. A year or -two earlier, indeed transfers were made at least as quickly as in the -play--and one is allowed a certain licence of compression in a play. The -instance in point is recorded in the "World's Work" for September, 1912, -In an article entitled, "Is Football a Business?"_ - -_Mr. J. J. Bentley, ex-president and life member of the Football League, -tells how he effected the transfer of a player named Charles Roberts -from Grimsby to Manchester United on a Friday night, the player being at -Grimsby, and Mr. Bentley in London. The matter was settled by telephone -at midnight, and in sixteen hours after signing Roberts appeared in the -Manchester United Colours._ - -***** - - - - -THE NORTHERNERS - -A DRAMA OF THE EIGHTEEN-TWENTIES - - -CHARACTERS. - - -_Factory Owners_. Ephraim Barlow; John Heppenstall - -Guy Barlow, _Ephraim's son_. - -Captain Las celles. - -Matthew Butterworth - -_Weavers_. Martin Kelsall; Joseph Healey; Henri Callard - -Mary Butterworth, _Matthew's wife._ - -Ruth Butterworth, _his daughter._ - - - -_The Scene is laid in Lancashire in 1820_. - - - -Act I. _Evening in Matt Butterworth's Cottage_. - -Act II.--_An evening six months later in Ephraim Barlow's house._ - -Act III.--_The next night. A quarry on the moors_. - -Act IV.--_Later the same night in Ephraim Barlow's house._ - - - - -ACT I. - -_Interior of Matthew Butterworth's cottage. The room has three doors, -one leading directly outside, one to the lean-to shed which holds the -hand-loom, the third to the stairs. The cottage is that of a prosperous -artisan of 1820, and the general standard of comfort little higher than -that of a modern slum. The room is in darkness and through the door is -heard the monotonous clickety-clackety of a handloom. A brisk knock -is heard at the front door, and as Mary Butterworth opens the door l., -carrying a dip candle in an iron candlestick, the sound of the loom -increases. She crosses, leaving candle on table and opens the front -door. Outside are Joseph Healey, Martin Kelsall and Henri Callard._ - -_Mary is fifty, dressed in a dark dress of linsey woolsey, with -neckerchief of indigo blue printed cotton over her shoulders and a full -apron of blue-and-white check round her waist. The men who enter are all -obviously poorer. Joe Healey, the oldest of them, for instance, hopes in -vain by buttoning high his waistcoat to hide the absence of a shirt. All -wear clogs, breeches and coats more or less ragged and patched. Martin -is twenty-four, thin to emaciation, but handsome and fervent. Henri -carries himself well, wears his rags gallantly and his clothes are -lighter coloured._ - -***** - -Joe (_as Mary opens door_). Is Matthew in, Mrs. Butterworth? - -Mary (_without standing from door_). Yes. You'll hear his loom if you -hearken. - -Joe. It's a sound that isn't often heard outside the factory nowadays. - -Mary. It's one that isn't often hushed in here. Matthew's busy. - -Henri (_half entering. Mary gives back_). Too busy to see us, Madame -Butterworth? - -Joe (_entering and speaking importantly_). Tell him the 'Friends of the -People are here to see him on the people's business. - -(_Henri and Martin enter, Martin closing the door._) - -Mary (_raising the candle to their faces_). I know you. I know you all. -You, Joe Healey and young Martin Kendall, and you--you're the Frenchman. - -Henri (_bowing_). I am the Frenchman, madame. - -Mary (_replacing the candle, disgustedly_). Radicals, the three of you. - -Joe (_reprovingly_). We are Friends of the People. - -Mary. Yes. Friends of yourselves. - -Joe. Yes, of ourselves and of you and of Matthew there. We are the -people. - -Mary (_militantly_). You're Radicals. And my Matthew's not a redcap like -that Frenchie there that's fled his country to come disturbing quiet -English folk with his nonsense. - -Henri. I left my country when the Bourbons entered it again. -(_Rhetorically._) The blood I'd shed for freedom---- - -Joe (_interrupting_). We'll talk to Matthew about all that. - -Mary (_standing, barring the door_). You will not talk to Matthew. I'll -not have my man made a Radical, and run his head into a noose for the -sake of---- - -Martin (_quietly_). For the sake of freedom. - -Mary. We're free enough. - -Henri. You are free to starve. To be slaves of the cotton masters, who -treat you worse than any grand seigneur would have treated his peasants -under the Bourbons. - -Mary (_dryly_). Well, Matthew's busy. - -Joe. He's not too busy to attend to us. We want him out. - -Mary. And you'll not get him. - -Joe. I think we shall. (_Calling._) Matthew! Matthew Butterworth! - -Mary. Yes, you may call. You'll burst your lungs before he'll hear in -there. He's working. You're idling. Don't try to interrupt a better man. - -(_Henri makes as if to force her from door, Joe checks him._) - -Joe. That's why we want him with us. Because we know him for the best -weaver in these parts. Because he's treated by the master different from -us and works at home instead of being driven into the factory. We want -the best man on the people's side and none of us but gives old Matthew -best. That's what we think of your husband, Mrs. Butterworth. - -Mary. And it's what I think, so you needn't fancy that it's news to me. -He's better sense than to go wasting time on a pack of crazy Radicals. - -(_The loom stops, the door is thrown open and Matthew speaks off_) - -Matthew. Mary, fetch that candle back. I cannot see to weave properly -with only one. - -Joe. Let your loom be, Matthew, and come here. We've need of you. - -(_Matthew enters in his shirt sleeves, stout waistcoat and breeches. He -is a man of sixty, solidly built with square face and grey hair, bowed -with bending to his loom._) Matthew. What's the to-do about? - -Mary (_holding his arm_). They've come to trap you, Matthew. - -Matthew. Trap me? They'll be wide awake. - -Mary. Don't listen to them, Matt. They're Radicals. - -Joe We're Reformers. You know us, Matthew. - -Matthew. Aye, I know you. You, Martin! You become -a Radical? - -Martin. Empty bellies make Radicals, Mr. Butterworth. Empty bellies and -the Corn Tax and bread at thirteenpence the quartern loaf. - -Matthew. Empty bellies make fools then. I can hear you've picked up the -Radical cant. What do you want with me? - -Joe. We've come to reason with you, Matthew. - -Mary. Oh, if you're going to listen to them, I'll sit in yonder. - -Matthew (_sharply_). Don't touch the loom, now. - -(_Exit Mary._) - -Well, what is it? I haven't time to spend on argument. - -Henri. Then give us your advice, Mr. Butterworth, your help. - -Matthew. I'm not a politician. - -(_Martin sits wearily on settle._) - -Joe. Maybe you're not. But you're a man. And you know how things are -with us. They're different with you. - -Matthew. And why? - -Henri. Because you're the favourite of Mr. Barlow. - -Matthew. If you weren't an ignorant Frenchman you'd suffer for those -words. I'm not a favourite. It isn't me. It's my work. There's never -been a yard of faulty cloth made on my loom. It's good. It's the honest -work of a man that takes a pride in making it good, not like your rotten -machine-made muck that's turned out at the factory. That's why Mr. -Barlow sends me yarn to weave. He gets his special price for the cloth -I weave and he knows it pays to let me weave it. That's not making a -favourite of me. It's business. - -Joe (_quietly_). It's making an exception of you, Matthew. You're -working all the hours God sends, but you're drawing good money every -week and you're living in comfort with your missus and your daughter -both at home. My girls are in the factory and the wages of the lot of us -don't keep the cold and hunger from our door. - -Matthew. What else do you expect but distress when you've let them get -machines to do the work of men? It's Arkwright's spinning frames and -Watt's steam engines that take the bread from your mouths. It isn't -Barlow's, nor Heppenstall's, nor Whitworth's over the hill, nor -Mottershead's, nor any of the manufacturers. It's steel and iron that -have got you down, and more fools you for letting them. - -Henri. You talk like one of us already. - -Matthew. Aye? Only I'm not one of you. - -Joe. Is it our fault? We can't all weave like you. We're not all master -craftsmen with looms of our own and no debts hanging round our necks. -The machines are there. We can't get beyond it. - -Henri. We can break the machines. - -Matthew (_sharply_). No violence. Violence never did anybody good. - -Henri. We did no good in France until we took the Bastille. - -Matthew. And did that do any good? You're here, in exile, because your -countrymen forgot the Bastille and welcomed Louis Bourbon back. - -Joe (_soberly_). I'm against violence myself till all else fails. That -what we want of you, Matt. Help us to escape violence. - -Matt. What help? - -Joe. Will you go to London? - -Matt. London? - -Joe. Yes. (_Very earnestly._) They don't know there. They cannot know or -else they wouldn't let things go on and let poor weavers starve. Eight -shillings have I taken from the factory this week. Eight shillings and -the loaf at thirteenpence! We want to tell the Government we're starving -while the masters stink of brass. Wages must go higher or taxes lower. -They must do something. - -Matthew. Why should I go? I'm not a factory hand. - -Henri. That's why they'll listen to a word from you. We'll go too, -some of us, but there's little use in that because we're known to be -reformers. There are Government spies in every Democratic Club. You can -hardly trust your nearest friend. The spies are everywhere. - -Matthew. How do you make out they don't know about us, then? - -Joe. They can't. Even Parliament men aren't fiends from Hell. - -Matthew. It's no good going to London. Think of the March of the -Blanketeers. - -Joe. Think of it! Wasn't I one of them? One of the thousands who met on -Ardwick Green, and the hundreds that met the Yeomanry at Stockport, and -the tens that struggled through to Macclesfield? - -Matthew (_scornfully_). Yes. You got as far as Macclesfield. Do you -think they'll let you get to London to tell them? Do you think -they _want_ to know? And if they do get there, and tell them, the -manufacturers will be there first telling them another tale, and whose -tale do you think they'll believe? Yours or theirs? Going to London's a -fool's errand. They _do_ know and they don't care. They're South, we're -North, and what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve at. You -made your beds, when you let Arkwright set up his machinery, and you've -to lie on them. - -Martin (_rising dejectedly_). God help the poor! - -Henri (_turning fiercely on him_). God helps those that help themselves. -I'll hear you weavers sing the Marseillaise before I die. - -Joe (_to Matthew_). You're against violence and you're against politics. -What _do_ you favour? - -Matthew (_grimly_). I favour work and I favour my loom, and if you've -said your say I'll be getting back to it. - -Joe. Aye, that's the old story. Work, and every man for himself and his -hand against his neighbour, while the masters join to keep us down. - -Matthew. I've something else to do than falling out with my bread and -cheese. I'm not a politician, I'm a weaver, and I've not got time for -two jobs. I'm not a Republican neither. I throw the shuttle and I don't -throw stones. - -Henri. Coward. It is because you do not dare. - -Matthew (_contemptuously_). It's well for you you're French and it's -known you'd break if an Englishman touched you with his hand. - -Joe. It's well for you you're prosperous with your loom at home and your -women at home and your daughter dressed like---- - -(_Enter Ruth Butterworth by the front door. She is twenty-one, dark, -passionate, tall, in a plain, narrow-skirted, short-sleeved gown of -woolsey, with a bright-coloured cotton handkerchief crossed over the -bust and tied at the back of the short waist, dress low at the neck, -straw bonnet and boots._)--like she is. (_Preparing to go._) I'm grieved -we've failed to move you, but you're better off than us, and it's the -skill of your hands you have to thank for it. Machinery has played the -very hangment with the rest of us. Good-night, Matt. - -Matthew. Good-night, Joe Healey. (_They shake. Matthew looks -contemptuously at Henri._) Take your Republican with you. I've a word in -season to say to young Martin Kelsall. - -(_Exeunt Joe and Henri. Ruth stands by settle._) - -Now, my lad, you came here to see me a week ago. - -Martin (_looking guiltily at Ruth, who shows surprise_). Yes, Mr. -Butterworth. - -Matthew. You said nowt about being a Radical then. Martin. I came on -other business. - -Matthew. And you said nowt about starving bellies. If you can't make -brass enough to fill one belly, you'll be hard put to it to fill two. - -Ruth. That's all over, father. - -Matthew. Is it? Did he speak to you? - -Ruth. Yes. I told him "no." - -Martin (_to Ruth_). Have I no chance? - -Matthew. A chance of what? Of taking Ruth from here, where she's all a -woman wants, and making her starve alongside of you and expecting her to -go into the factory to help you to make a livelihood. My daughter's not -for your sort, my lad. - -Ruth. I told him that. - -Martin. Yes, you told me, but I haven't finished hoping yet. - -Matthew. If you're hoping for a wife to work for you, you've come to the -wrong shop this time. - -Martin. You're a proud man, Mr. Butterworth, and, Ruth, you're proud and -all. I'm just a weaver lad that loves you and _'_ud work till I drop for -you. And maybe you'll find out your mistake some day. Proud you may be -and proud you are, but if you're not above taking a warning from me, -you'll be careful where you walk o' nights. There's company that's -dangerous for you. - -Matthew (_suspiciously_). What's that? - -Ruth (_quickly_). Who cares what a man says when he's sent about his -business? - -Matthew. You're right there, lass. It's not for me to take notice of his -words. - -Martin. Then take notice of this, Ruth. I love you. I always shall. No -matter what happens, I always shall. And I'm a patient man. I'm used to -waiting. - -Ruth. You'll be more used to it if you're going to wait for me. - -Martin (_doggedly_). I'm going to wait. - -Matthew (_opening the door, grimly_). Good-night to you. (_Slight pause, -then Martin moves to door._) - -Martin (_going_). Good-night. - -(_Exit Martin._) - -Matthew. I'll be getting back to my loom. I've wasted too much time -to-night. - -(_Exit Matthew. The sound of the loom is heard, and, immediately she -hears it, Ruth opens the front door and calls._) - -Ruth. Martin! Martin, come back a minute. - -(_After a moment Martin reciters._) - -Martin. You want me? - -Ruth. I want to speak to you before you go. - -Martin (_advancing_). Ruth! - -Ruth. No. Don't mistake me. I haven't changed my mind, but I want you to -understand. Just now, you tried to warn me. - -Martin. Yes? I warn you again. It isn't safe. - -Ruth. You mean Guy Barlow? - -Martin. Yes, you know I mean Guy Barlow. - -Ruth. That's what I wanted to be certain of. I wanted you to know that -what I do is done with open eyes. - -Martin. You're playing with fire. - -Ruth. It won't be me that's burnt. I've got my purpose clear and strong -before me, Martin. It's you put this thing in my mind and I'm going -through with it for your sake. - -Martin. For my sake! A lot you care for me. - -Ruth. That's neither here nor there. - -Martin. No more than a month ago I'd have broken the jaw of any man that -said you weren't my wench. We hadn't spoke it out to each other, but -I thought it was that sure it didn't need the speaking. And then you -changed and I found out what changed you. So I thought I'd save you if I -could. I asked you, and you said "No." I asked your father and I got -my answer to-night. And now, you'll go your way, the woman I love. God -knows what's changed you, but---- - -Ruth. Nothing has changed me, Martin. - -Martin. Then marry me. - -Ruth. No. - -Martin. You don't love me. - -Ruth. I haven't said I did. - -Martin. Yes, you have. Not in words, I grant you, but if looks mean -anything you've told it me a hundred times. Do you think he'll marry -you? He won't. Marriage is not what Guy Barlow wants. I could tell you -tales---- - -Ruth. You needn't. I'll make him marry me. - -Martin. He didn't marry the others. - -Ruth. Had they my beauty? - -Martin. Beauty! Yes, you're beautiful. By God, you are. - -Ruth. I've the gift of beauty, Martin, and I'm going to use it. - -Martin. Because he's rich, and I'm poor. - -Ruth. No, because he's powerful over others and I want power over him. -When you and I have gone our walks and been together on the moors, did -we talk of nothing but the stars? You told me dreams, dreams of all the -things you'd do if some great god gave you the power. It's I shall have -that power, Martin, and use it in the way you taught me. Your thoughts, -your dreams--and my pretty face gives me the chance to take your dreams -and make them live. That's what I'm going to do. - -Martin. It's nothing but another dream. - -Ruth. It's real this time, Martin. - -Martin. But we did talk of the stars sometimes, and of ourselves and---- - -Ruth. That was the dream. That was happiness. - -Martin. Why shouldn't we be happy? It's a crime to throw yourself away -on him for the sake of us. - -Ruth. No, it's a crusade. I hope We shall be happy, but not together, -Martin. I shan't do it all in a day, even after he has married me, but -I shall manage him in time, and all this misery shall cease. You do -believe I shall, don't you, Martin? You do approve? - -Martin (_after a pause_). God give you strength. - -Ruth. I think He will. You understand now, Martin? - -Martin. I understand. (_Slight pause._) Ruth, are you sure? - -Ruth (_calmly_). I'm going through with it. Good-night, Martin. - -Martin (_approaching her, then backing as she gives no encouragement_). -Good-night, Ruth. - -(_Exit Martin. Ruth closes the door, then takes off her hat as Mary -enters._) - -Mary (_sourly_). So you've come in. And where have you been? - -Ruth. Out. - -Mary. You've a fancy for going out o' nights. - -Ruth. I suppose I'm old enough to please myself when I go out. - -Mary. I suppose you think you are. Times are changed since I was young. -I'd have got the rolling-pin at my head if I'd answered your grandmother -back the way you answer me. I'd never any time for going out at nights. -Too busy spinning. (_She busies herself getting out crockery, etc., -putting it on table without cloth._) - -Ruth. Machines spin now. - -Mary. And women and children watch the machines. But of course I mustn't -say owt of that. Send you to the factory and I'd know where to put my -hand on you. But no. What's good enough for others isn't good enough for -you. - -Ruth. They're fitted for the factory. - -Mary. And what are you fitted for? Nowt, but to fancy yourself a fine -lady. I know if I was your father, I'd have you working for the bread -you eat and the clothes you wear, like every other girl about. But he's -got his way and made an idler of you. - -Ruth. Perhaps he's right. - -Mary. It's not my way of bringing up a girl. - -Ruth. Never mind, mother. I'll be surprising you one of these days. - -Mary. Yes. You're always in the right. You're like your father. Got -stiff neck with pride. - -Ruth. Maybe, I've cause for pride. - -Mary. And maybe you haven't, and all, and if you have I've never seen -cause for it. - -Ruth. You shall do very soon. - -Mary. You're hiding something. - -Ruth. It won't be hidden long. - -Mary. What is it now? Out with it, lass. - -Ruth. Not yet, mother. I'll tell you when there's anything to tell. - -(_A knock is heard. Mary opens door after momentary surprise. Outside -are Ephraim and Guy Barlow. Ephraim is a man of about sixty, well -covered with flesh, clean-shaven, grey, square in the face, but not too -strong of feature, wearing a short-bodied, long-tailed bottle-green -coat, breeches to match, waistcoat, ruffled shirt frill, low-crowned -black beaver hat with narrow curly rim, and thick draft top-coat, long -in the skirt and with a huge collar Guy is twenty-eight, with fair hair -and a stronger face than his father. He is clean-shaven and his clothes -more fashionable and of finer material than the stout durable cloth -Ephraim prefers. He has trousers instead of knee breeches._) - -Ephraim. Is this Matt Butterworth's? - -Mary. Surely, Mr. Barlow. Will you step inside? (_Holding door open._) - -Ephraim (_entering_). It's what I came to do. - -(_Guy follows. Mary closes door._) - -That'll be Matt at his loom? - -Mary. Yes. I'll bring him to you. (_Crosses, opens door._) Matt, here's -the master. - -Matthew (_entering, putting on his coat_). The master! Ephraim. Good -evening, Matt. - -Matthew. You'll sit down, won't you? - -Ephraim. Thanks. - -Matthew. And you too, Mr. Guy. - -Guy. Thank you. - -Matt. Well, I'm glad to see you here, and if so be as bread and cheese -and ale are not beneath you, there's enough for all. - -Ephraim (_half heartedly_). Well, thankee, Matt Butterworth---- - -Guy (_interrupting_). No. It's business brings us here, not eating. (_To -Matthew._) My father has something to say to you. - -(_At a glance from Matthew, Mary and Ruth go out._) - -Ephraim. Yes, I thought I'd come and tell you here instead of sending -for you up to factory. - -Matthew (_grimly_). It's as well you did come. You'd not have got me -there by sending. I've never entered factory gate and never will. - -Ephraim (_good-naturedly_). You're a pig-headed old stick in-the-mud, -Matt. You won't move with the times. - -Matthew. Not when the times move to factories. - -Ephraim. Well, well, you're an obstinate fellow. What's wrong with -factories? - -Matthew. What isn't wrong? They're bits of hell spewed up on earth. - -Guy. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your head. - -Matthew. I'm talking to your father, Mr. Guy, and we've known each other -long enough to speak what's in our minds. You're a young man and the -young get used to changes quickly. You find machines a natural state -of things. I'll tell you how things were before the factories came and -progress got a hold over everything. I'd open yon door in a morning -and I'd see children playing in the fields. Where are the children now? -Driven into your factory at five in the morning pretty nigh as soon as -they can walk and thrashed with a cane to keep the poor little devils -awake when all the nature in them's crying out for sleep. I'd go into -a neighbour's cottage and I'd see a loom with a warp on it and a weaver -taking pride in his work. You've taken the work away from men and given -it to machines. And the worst is the machines don't care. You send out -miles of cloth for every inch we used to weave, and every yard you send -as full of faults as an egg of meat. It's that you've done with your -factories, young sir. You've broken the weaver's spirit and you've -killed the joy he used to take in honest craftsmanship. It's quality -that used to count and a man _'_ud think shame to himself to produce a -cloth that's full of weaving faults. There are no weavers now. They're -servants of a steam engine. - -Guy. I'm sorry it upsets you, Mr. Butterworth, but facts are too much -for you. Hand looms are played out. - -Matthew (_intensely convinced_). Never, while good workmanship endures. -If they want the best, they'll come to the handloom weaver for it. - -Guy. Yes, but you see they don't want the best. - -Matthew. They want designs that a man conceives in joy and executes with -pride. They want a cloth that shows he's taken pride in making it, and -knows it's his design and not a copy of another's. - -Guy. We can sell a hundred pieces of the same design with as little -trouble as your one. - -Matthew. And which _'_ull wear longest? - -Guy. We don't want cloth to wear, we want it to sell. - -Matthew (_dismissing him, sadly_). Mr. Guy, it's a hard thing to say -of your father's son, but I've a fear you're a godless youth. (_To -Ephraim._) What was it you wanted of me, Mr. Barlow? - -Ephraim (_awkwardly_). You've made it rather hard to tell you that. I -didn't know you thought so badly of the factories. (_Turning._) Guy, I -think, perhaps---- - -Guy (_curtly_). No. If you won't speak out, I will. - -(_Slight pause. Then Ephraim gives Guy leave by a glance._) We want you -to come into the factory, Butterworth. - -Matthew (_startled_). I? In factory? - -Guy. Yes. - -Matthew. But---- - -Guy. You're the last man on our pay-sheets working out. We must have -uniformity. We want you in. - -Matthew. You want me, Mr. Guy. I can see who _'_tis I have to thank for -this. It's you that have brought the old master here to stand by while -you say these things to me. - -Guy. Well, as it happened, you're so far wrong that I'd no intention of -coming in at all, only I was going home from a walk (_glancing away, as -if after Ruth_), and met him on his way here. - -Matthew (_to Ephraim_). Mr. Barlow, it isn't _your_ wish that I---- - -Ephraim. Well, Matt, we've had complaints. (_Querulously._) Weavers -nowadays are a grumbling, discontented lot, and---- - -Matthew. Aye. Power-loom weavers are, and have cause to be. Before you -started factories folk could save. It was a saying here that every man -in the valley owned his own house and the one next door to it. - -Epiiraim. They complain I make a favourite of you, and, as Guy says, we -must have uniformity. It's just a point of discipline. - -Matthew. Yes, I know what discipline means. Discipline means ringing -them into your factory at five in the morning and out at seven in the -evening, and uniformity means fifty looms in rows all tied to a steam -engine and every loom weaving the same pattern. - -Guy. Look here, Butterworth, you were working when we came in. Working -at nine o'clock at night. - -Matthew. Do I complain of that? Not me. I can please myself what hours -I work. It's nowt to me what time the engine stops. My engine's here. -(_Indicating his arms._) - -Guy. Yes, and because it is, you never let it rest. Come into the -factory and you've finished at seven. - -Matthew. I'm _sent_ away at seven. I'm under orders. I'm my own master -here, Mr. Guy, and have been all my life. If I want to work, I work, and -if I want to play, I play, and there's nobody to stop me, whether it's -tramping over the moors getting my mind choke full of the new designs -that come to me when I'm walking through the green, resting my eyes, or -whether it's a cock-fight and a bellyful of ale--and you've no need -to look shocked neither, Mr. Barlow, for I've seen time afore you got -meddling with machines when you went cock-fighting yourself, and you -weren't too big in those days to drink with me, too. And now you're -telling me to come and weave in factory. - -Ephraim. Oh, nay, Matt, I'm not. - -Matthew. Well, I don't know. You've stood there and heard him tell me -I'm to come in. - -Ephraim. But not as weaver, Matt. - -Matthew. What then? - -Ephraim. As overlooker, and not a man in Lancashire that's better fitted -for it. - -Matthew (_soberly weighing it_). Aye. That's no more than truth. - -Ephraim. I'm not flattering. I'm a business man, and I'm choosing the -best man for the job. - -Matthew. And I'm refusing it, for I'm a business man and I've got a -better job. I've an old loom in yonder and as long as she hangs together -I'll go on weaving cloth as cloth should be woven, by the skilful hand -of a man to designs of his own contriving. To hell with uniformity. -There's beauty in a loom and nowt but beastly ugliness in a row of -looms. - -Guy (_coldly_). Where do you get your yarn from, Butter-worth? - -Matthew. Why, from you. - -Guy. And you've been selling your cloth to us? - -Matthew. Yes. - -Guy. We can take no more. - -Matthew (_staggered_). You can't take my cloth, my beautiful cloth? - -Ephraim (_with sympathy_). It's true, Matt. Good cloth means a good -price and people won't pay it. - -Matthew. It's your fault, then. That's what you've brought them to. -You've spoilt them with your factory rubbish. - -Guy. They want cheap cloth. We provide it. Yours is dear. We can't sell -it. - -Matthew. Then I'll sell my own. I'll find buyers. - -Ephraim. It's no use, Matt. Take my word for it, there are no customers -to-day for cloth like yours. What between paying the country's bill for -licking Bonaparte and power looms for silk and linen there's no demand -for cotton cloth of your quality. - -Guy. And you'll get no more yarn from us. - -Matthew. You're not the only ones. - -Guy. Nor from others. We're going to make an end of the whole breed of -hand-loom weavers. - -Matthew. We'll not be ended easy. - -Guy. We want you in the factories. The factories are hungering for the -right men. - -Matthew. And men are hungry because of the factories. Don't tell me my -cloth won't sell. It's cloth that sells itself. - -Ephraim. Don't you believe me, Matt? - -Matthew. I don't believe you know what my cloth's like. Do you see it -yourself up yonder? - -Ephraim. Well--no. - -Matthew (_going to door_). Then come in here and I'll show you. You'll -not be telling me then there are no decent housewives left to buy a -cloth like mine. (_Exit._) - -Guy (_to Ephraim, who is following_). Oh, what's the good of wasting -time on him? - -Ephraim. Best humour him, Guy. Don't come. I'll get him round. - -Guy. Psh! You're too soft with the old fool. - -Ephraim. And you're too hard. Matt and I were friends before you were -born. - -(_Exit Ephraim. Guy moves impatiently, then sits on table. Enter Ruth._) - -Ruth (_surprised and not cordial_). I thought you'd gone. I heard no -voices. - -Guy. I schemed to get them into there. Do you think I'd go without a -word with you? (_Approaching her._) - -Ruth (_coldly, holding him at arm's length_). We've parted once -to-night. What do you want with me? - -Guy. I want everything except to part again. You witch, what have you -done to me? I haven't a nerve but tingles for the touch of you. I'm all -burnt up. The night's a tossing fever, and the day's a cruel nightmare -till evening comes and brings me sight of you. - -Ruth (_backing_). Don't touch me, please. - -Guy. How long am I to hold myself in leash? It's more than flesh and -blood can stand. My God, I wonder if you know how beautiful you are. - -Ruth. I have a mirror in my room. - -Guy. I'm jealous of that mirror, Ruth. Jealous of a piece of glass -because it sees you every day. - -Ruth. You've seen me every evening for a month. - -Guy. And I'm no farther than when we began. You're hot and cold by turn. -You lead me on and thrust me off. You play with me. To-night you said -you wouldn't walk with me to-morrow. - -Ruth. And time I did. I've walked with you too much. A change of company -is good. - -Guy (_startled_). Company? What company? - -Ruth (_dryly_). My mother's. You say you're where you were when we -begun. Perhaps you are. But I am not. It's no new thing for you to go -your walks with a weaver's lass. But it's new for me to be the lass. Do -you think there are no wagging tongues about? - -Guy. It's news to me that you give heed to gossip. You're not going to -talk about your reputation, are you? - -Ruth. No. I shan't _talk_ about it, Guy. - -Guy (_scornfully_). I thought you made of finer stuff. - -Ruth. Than those others you have walked with? - -Guy (_sharply_). What's that to do with you? - -Ruth. Nothing, but that I find it good to know about them. - -Guy. This is strange talk for a woman. - -Ruth (_dryly_). Folk always say I should have been a man. - -Guy (_ardently_). Thank God, you're not. It's better to rule a man than -be one, Ruth. - -Ruth. Do I rule you? - -Guy. You've made a slave of me. I'm at your feet. - -Ruth. You told the others that. - -Guy. Had they your beauty? - -Ruth. Then I've the greater cause to guard it. - -Guy. You haven't talked like this outside. - -Ruth. I'm inside now. This is my father's cottage. - -Guy. You've been like this to-night. Perverse. As if you didn't know -what passion meant. As if you laughed at me for being on fire for you. -You've come half-way to meet me till to-night. You've answered love with -love. You've been a fine free glory of a woman that it was heaven to -be near and hell to be away from, that knew to be in love was to be -upraised above the talk of fools and what a pair of lovers do is right -because they do it for their love. - -Ruth (_absently_). Yes. What lovers do is right even if it's to -renounce. - -Guy. Renounce? What are you talking about? - -Ruth. I was thinking of a pair of lovers that I know. - -Guy (_roughly_). Then stop thinking of them. Think of us. - -Ruth. I'm thinking of myself. - -Guy. You're in a curious mood to-night. - -Ruth. To-night I'm being prudent. - -Guy (_scornfully_). Prudent! Love isn't prudent. Prudence was made for -cowards, not for lovers. Ruth, you're not a coward. - -Ruth (_absently_). I think that what I'm doing now is the bravest thing -I ever did. (_At him._) What do you make of it all? - -Guy (_trying to be light_). I think you're a mischievous tease, and---- - -Ruth. I'm quite in earnest. I was in earnest when I let you talk to me -of love and still in earnest when I told you I could walk with you no -more. - -Guy. Ruth! You didn't mean it? - -Ruth. I meant it all. Did you? - -Guy (_surprised_). Did I? - -Ruth. About your love. - -Guy. Why should you doubt me, Ruth? - -Ruth. I'll tell you. Because in all your talk of love, you have used -a lot of words, but there is one word that you haven't spoken yet, and -that I'd like to hear before I go my walks with you again. - -Guy. What word? - -Ruth. Marriage. - -Guy (_staggered, then recovering_). Marriage! Well, isn't it early days -for that? - -Ruth. With some men and some women it would be over early. When you're -the man and I the woman, it isn't early. - -Guy. Marriage! There's a directness about you. - -Ruth (_simply_). Yes, there is. - -Guy. I'm taken by surprise, but---- - -Ruth (_quietly_). Are you? - -Guy. I've been too busy simply loving you to think of marriage. -(_Quickly._) Yes, Ruth, of course we're going to be married. It would be -monstrous in me ever to have intended anything else. But--er--you know, -there's my father. We shall have to keep the marriage secret. Just the -clergyman and no witnesses to make quite sure of secrecy. - -Ruth (_moving to door as if leaving him and opening it_). Good-bye, Mr. -Barlow. - -Guy (_staring at her_). Ruth! - -Ruth. Good-bye. Yes. Look at me well. It's your last look at close -quarters. - -Guy (_by her_). No, by Heaven, it's not. - -Ruth (_still holding the door open_). You've told me much about my -beauty. You hold my beauty cheap. - -Guy. Your beauty is the richest, finest thing in all the world. - -Ruth. A secret marriage! - -Guy. What's changed you, Ruth? You've shown yourself to me a soft and -yielding woman. To-night, you're hard, suspicious. - -Ruth (_closing door_). To-night, I mean to strike a bargain with you. - -Guy. Lovers don't talk of bargains. - -Ruth. There's always time to talk of love. To-night, we'll talk of -marriage, if you please. - -Guy. You mean to be wilful. - -Ruth. I mean that if you want me there's a price to pay, and a secret -marriage by a puppet priest with no witnesses is too low a price for me. - -Guy (_blustering_). You thought that! - -Ruth (_calmly_). Wasn't I right? How badly do you want me, Mr. Guy -Barlow? You see me, and you know the price. - -Guy (_quite shocked_). You didn't talk this way outside. You've made it -all so ugly. You've taken all romance away. - -Ruth. Romance is safe for men. It's dangerous for women. You tell me I -was soft and yielding. What if I'd been too soft, and yielded further -than I should? You'd still have life, and life would still be beautiful -for you and you'd be looking for another woman with a pretty face to -make love beautifully with you. But I'd be dead. I should have killed -myself and you'd forget me in a little while. - -Guy (_genuinely moved_). Ruth, stop! I'm not a black-guard. - -Ruth. I'm hoping not, if I'm to be your wife. - -Guy. I never meant you harm. I simply didn't think. - -Ruth. You thought fast enough of a secret marriage. You remembered to be -prudent, and prudence, as I think you said, is made for cowards, not for -lovers. Are you a coward, Mr. Guy? - -Guy. I'm a lover, Ruth. Will you be my wife? - -Ruth (_with slight shudder_). Yes. - -Guy (_holding her_). I've got you now. - -Ruth. Yes. For better or for worse, you've got me now. - -Guy. For better than the best. I never knew till I met you what love -could do to a man. Ruth, you won't remember what you fancied that I -thought to-night? You won't have that against me? It really wasn't so. - -Ruth. I have only room for one thought now. I remember that you're going -to marry me. - -Guy (_lightly_). In a precious few days, you'll remember that I have -married you. I'm not cut out for waiting. - -Ruth. I shall not keep you waiting. - -(_Enter Ephraim and Matthew._) - -Ephraim. Well, that's settled now, Matt. - -Matthew (_like a beaten man_). Yes, it's settled. I'll be at factory -come five to-morrow morning. - -Guy. That's good. - -Matthew. Is it? I'll tell you this much, Mr. Barlow, it's a bad night's -work you've done. - -Guy. If you're talking to me, it's the best night's work I've ever done. - -Matthew (_morosely_). I was talking to your father. - -Ephraim. Well, well, we must agree to differ. - -Matthew. And it won't be the last of our differences, neither. It's my -punishment, this is. I've been a proud man and I'm humbled. Some weaver -lads come here this very night asking me to join in with them. - -Ephraim. Join? In what? - -Matthew. Ah, well, I'll leave you to guess in what. I sent them off with -a good big flea in their ear: told them a hand-loom weaver had nowt to -do with their sort. I've everything to do with their sort now. I'm one -of them, and if they have owt to say, or do against you and your ways, -I'll say and do it with them. You've made a Radical to-night. - -Ephraim. Now, Matt, don't try to threaten me. We've met as friends too -often in the days gone by for that. - -Matthew. Yes, before you started getting up in the world by climbing on -other men's shoulders. - -Ephraim. And if you'll let me, we'll go on being friends. - -Ruth. Of course you will. Now more than ever. - -Matthew (_roughly_). You don't know what you're talking about, lass. - -Ruth. Tell them, Guy. - -Ephraim. Guy? - -Guy. Mr. Butterworth, you and my father must be friends, because I'm -going to marry Ruth. - -Matthew. What's that? - -Ruth. Yes, father, it's true. - -Matthew (_excitedly calling and opening door_). Here, Mary! Mary, where -are you? - -(_Enter Mary._) - -Here's our Ruth going to wed the young master. What do you say to that? - -Mary (_judicially_). I say the young master's doing well for himself. - -Ephraim (_sourly_). Nobody asks what I think. - -Guy. That'll be all right, father. - -Ephraim. Will it? - -Guy. Oh, I'll tell you about it walking home. You've Mr. Butterworth's -hand to shake. - -Ephraim (_dryly_). It just depends if he's still a Radical. - -Matthew. Me? I'm a maze. I don't know what I am. - -Ephraim (_genially smiling_). I'll chance it then. (_They shake._) Good -night, Matt. (_Genially._) Good night. - -Guy. To-morrow, Ruth. - -Ruth. Yes, Guy, to-morrow. - -(_Exeunt Ephraim and Guy._) - -Mary (_going to Ruth as if to kiss her_). Well, lass, you said you'd -surprise us. You have and all. Biggest surprise I ever had. Wedding the -young master. Something like a match now this is. - -Ruth. Don't, mother. I'm so ashamed. - -Mary. Ashamed? Where's the shame in getting wed? We all come to it. - -Matthew. And you've come to it rare and well. And me thinking in yonder -while Mr. Barlow talked to me I'd have small cause now to send young -Kelsall off, for I'm a factory hand myself the same as he. - -Ruth. Poor Martin Kelsall. - -Matthew. Aye, poor he is and rich you're going to be. You've little need -to think of Kelsall now. - -Ruth. No. I mustn't think of Martin now. I'm doing what I meant to do. -I've got Guy Barlow. - -Mary. Ruth, there'll be a lot of sewing to be done. - -Ruth. Why? - -Mary. Why? The girl's a-dream. Against your wedding to be sure. What -else are you thinking of? - -Ruth. It's not my wedding that I'm thinking of. It's afterwards. Well, -I've begun. I'm going to see it through. - -(_Ruth stares straight out, as into the future. The others are looking -at her._) - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT II - -(_Six months later. Interior of Barlow's house at night. Doors on each -side of the roomy window, covered by drawn chintz curtains at the back. -Dark panelled walls. Polished oak floor with squares of carpet, dark -mahogany furniture, square table. Centre with four chairs, chairs by -fireplace and under window; right, basket-grate with high steel fender -and hand-irons. Bright fire._) - -(_Ruth, her whole appearance suggesting physical wellbeings sits by fire -reading by the light of four candles on table. She is well dressed in -sober colours. A manservant opens door and Mary enters, dressed as Act -I, with a heavy cloak, mittens, etc., suggesting winter. The servant -goes, closing the door._) - -Ruth (_rising_). Well, mother. - -Mary (_kissing her_). You're warm in here. - -Ruth. We need to be. - -Mary. It's bitter cold to-night. - -(_Ruth pulls chair from table and sits, putting Mary in her own chair. -Mary looks scornfully at the book placed on table._) Reading, were -you? Well, one way of idling's as bad as another and reading never did -anybody good that ever I heard of. That's what your father's always -doing with his spare time now. Tom Paine's _Rights of Man_ and _The -Age of Reason_. Stuffing his old head with all manner of new-fangled -politics. - -Ruth. But this isn't politics, mother. It's poetry. (_Mary sniffs._) -_The Corsair_. Lord Byron's poem. - -Mary. I've heard of him and nothing good neither. - -Ruth. Nothing good! Why, mother, he---- - -Mary. A lot of things, I dare say. Well, I've gone for fifty years -without the power of reading and I reckon I'll go through without it to -the end. I've no time to be idle. - -Ruth. I've no time to be anything else. - -Mary. You've taken to being a lady like a duck to water. Lazybones is -the name I'd give you if you were still Ruth Butterworth, but I suppose -this vain life is right for Mrs. Guy Barlow. - -Ruth (_rising_). It isn't right. Idleness is never right, and least -of all for me, because I know my idleness is paid for by the toil of -others. Something has changed me, mother. I can't think of the past. -I've forgotten what I was and what I used to think. I had ideals then, -when I was poor. I'd noble thoughts of my own. The only thoughts I have -to-day are thoughts of other's thinking. (_Picking Byron up._) You're -right, I'm lazy. Bone lazy, and I like it. I like fine clothes and soft -living and hands that aren't work-roughened. - -Mary. Small blame to you for that. I'd do the same myself. - -Ruth. I'm getting fat. I'm like a pig. I never want to go out. The house -is soft and warm and comfortable, and the sights I see outside are hard -and cold and comfortless. - -Mary. You may well say that. Things go from bad to worse, With wages -down and food up it's near impossible to make ends meet. And that's for -us, with your father an overlooker. What it is for the weavers, I don't -know. There's empty hearths and empty bellies this winter time. - -Ruth. I know. I know and I don't care. I used to care. Something's gone -dead inside me, killed by the comfort and the ease and the good living -and all the things I used to hate and despise until I had them for my -own. - -Mary. Eh, don't you worry! When a lass has got a good husband same as -you have it's little room she has in her mind for thoughts of other -things. - -Ruth. That's my punishment. Guy's good to me. (_Changing tone._) Mother, -I'll tell you something. I love my husband. - -Mary (_puzzled_). Well, don't tell me that as if it was news to me. What -did you marry him for if you didn't love him? - -Ruth. I married him to use him for an instrument. And I don't care now -for the things I cared for then. I only care for Guy, and what Guy does -is right because he does it. - -Mary. Well, I never let your father come over me like that. But there's -many wives do think that road of their husbands, especially young wives. -I'm a bit surprised at you being one of them for all that, Ruth. You'd -always a will of your own. - -Ruth. My will's asleep. - -Mary. Don't let it waken up too sudden. - -Ruth. No fear of that. I eat too much. - -Mary. There's a-many eat too little, Ruth. There was one you used to -know came in to us the other night. He'd been short of food for weeks -and looked it too, poor lad. - -Ruth. A friend of mine? What friend? - -Mary (_reluctantly_). Martin Kelsall, if you want to know. There was -him and others. Friends of the People they call themselves, and your -father's joined them now. I never heard such talk in my life. Proper -wild it was. Drilling on the moors, and knocking out the engine boiler -plugs and breaking the machinery and I don't know what. - -Ruth. And father, too? - -Mary. As savage as the worst of them, the silly old man. Got to threats -before they'd done. - -Ruth. Threats? - -Mary. Against your Guy. It's him they're bitterest against. - -Ruth (_indignantly_). What's Guy done? - -Mary. You'd think there was nothing he hadn't done. You'd better tell -him to be careful about going out at night. They've guns amongst them. - -Ruth. Guns! - -Mary. Oh, don't be frightened, lass. They won't _do_ owt. Men like to -talk. I don't take any notice of them. If they said less I'd fear them -more. - -Ruth. Has Martin Kelsall got a gun? - -Mary (_contemptuously_). Him! It's bread he wants, not a gun. Gave me a -message for you, Martin did. - -Ruth. A message? - -Mary. "Tell her to remember me," he says. - -Ruth. I understand. What must he think of me? - -Mary. What right has he to think of you at all? Impudence I call it. - -Ruth. He has the right to think me traitor. I'm a renegade. I'm---- - -Mary. You're Mrs. Guy Barlow, my lass, and don't you forget it and start -thinking of a famished weaver chap without a shirt to his back or a -mouthful of bread for his belly. - -Ruth. Is it as bad as that? - -Mary. It's hard times, Ruth, harder every day. - -Ruth. The men must be desperate. - -Mary. They _talk_ as if they were. But what's talking? They talked -before you wed. They're talking still and I tell you things are worse. - -Ruth. What's made them worse? - -Mary. They say Guy has. - -RutH. But how? - -Mary. You'd better ask him. Don't you talk to him of the factory? - -Ruth. No. I tried to do at first, but he stopped me, and I thought I'd -bide my time. - -Mary. You've a lot more sense than I ever gave you credit for. - -Ruth. Then I fell in love with Guy and I haven't cared for anything -since that. - -Mary. I don't suppose you'd do a scrap of good. (_Rising as if to -go._) Well, that's how it is. A terrible lot of barking, but not a bite -amongst the lot of them. - -Ruth (_detaining her_). But there is danger there, danger to Guy. - -Mary. I tell you they, don't mean it. - -Ruth. Perhaps all don't. But one man might, and one would be enough. One -man can press a trigger. - -Mary. There now! I've upset you. - -Ruth. Never mind that. You're sure that's all! - -Mary. All what? - -Ruth. All Martin said. - -Mary. You've got that fellow on the brain. No. _'_Twasn't all, then. He -wants to meet you. - -Ruth. Tell him I will. - -Mary. I'll tell him no such thing, and you a married woman. - -Ruth. You'll tell him I will see him. Not here, though. He mustn't come -here. - -Mary. And I'll not have my house put to such a use. So that settles it. - -Ruth. There is an old quarry on the moors. Martin knows. It's where -the stone was quarried when they built the factory. I'll meet him there -to-morrow night at eight. Will you tell him that, or must I write? - -Mary. Can Martin read? - -Ruth. I'm not sure. Tell him, mother. - -Mary. It isn't right, but---- - -Ruth. You will. I'm doing this for Guy. You've stirred me from my sleep -at last. To-morrow night at eight. Mary. Well, I'll tell him. - -Ruth. That's right. There's Guy's step now. - -Mary. Then I'll be going. God bless you, lass. (_ Kissing her._) - -(_Enter Guy._) - -Guy (_to Mary_). Good evening. - -Mary (_apologetically_). I was just going, sir. - -Guy (_warming himself by fire, speaking over his shoulder_). Oh, don't -hurry away. You'll find it cold outside. - -Mary. I must go sharp. If you're here it means factory's loosed and -Matt'll be at home looking for his supper. Good night, sir. - -(_Exit Mary. Guy goes to Ruth with lover-like attitude. They are on the -best of terms._) - -Guy. Well, little wife, how goes it? - -Ruth (_tensely_). Guy, I want to talk to you. - -Guy (_sitting by fire, lightly_). The sound of your voice is the -sweetest thing on earth. I'm all attention. - -Ruth. This is serious, Guy. I've tried before to talk to you about the -factory. You stopped me then. - -Guy (_still lightly_). Of course I did. I won't have you worrying your -pretty head about the factory. Besides, think of your long-suffering -husband. Don't you think I get all the business I can stand across the -way there? (_Waving hand towards window._) I want a change at home. Sit -down and tell me what you think of _The Corsair_. - -Ruth. No. You must listen to me, Guy. I won't be put off this time. - -Guy (_easily_). Oh, well, if I'm in for it, I'm in for it. What's it all -about? - -Ruth. You saw mother here. She's been telling me things. - -Guy. Really, Ruth, you can't expect me to take any notice of your -mother's old wives' tales. - -Ruth. You needn't notice them. But when I'm told you're in danger, I -notice them. - -Guy (_still lightly_). Danger? What of? - -Ruth. What have you been doing in the factory? - -Guy (_sternly_). Leave that alone. That's my affair. - -Ruth. And it's my affair if they murder you. - -Guy (_rising_). Oh! So they've got to talking about murder have they? -I'll teach them. - -Ruth (_taking his arm, pleadingly_). Guy, you must be careful. For my -sake. - -Guy. I shall look after myself, Ruth. (_Standing by fireplace, hand on -shelf._) - -Ruth. But what have you done to them? I know that since you married me -you've had more power, and your father's done less than he used to. It's -something you've done that's upset the weavers. - -Guv (_over his shoulder_). I found it necessary to make economies and -they don't like it. - -Ruth. Economies I You mean you've cut their wages down? - -Guy. That's it. - -RutH. And they were so pitifully low. They'd hardly enough for bread -before. - -Guy (_facing her_). I don't fix the price of bread. It's no use -discussing it with you. You can't understand. - -Ruth. I'm not thinking of them. At one time I should have done. That's -over now. To-day I only think of you. And you're in danger. I know it. I -know it. - -Guy. Nothing's going to happen to me. I've a rough idea of what they -think of me. I've taken my precautions. - -Ruth. No precautions are proof against desperate men. - -Guy. Then if nothing's any good, why worry? - -Ruth. Something would be good. Raise their wages. - -Guy. That's impossible. I've told you to drop discussing it. - -Ruth. Why is it impossible? They'd more before you reduced them and you -didn't starve. - -Guy. No. But I wasn't building another factory then. I want every penny -I can screw to-day. - -Ruth. Another factory! - -Guy (_with a touch of fanaticism_). Yes. I mean to have another. One -was good enough for my father, but it isn't good enough for me. What -was enterprising ten years ago isn't enterprising to-day. Machinery's -improved since then. - -Ruth. Then you're quite sure factories are right? - -Guy (_grimly_). I'm quite sure they're money-makers. - -Ruth. But money isn't all. - -Guy. I keep on telling you not to discuss it. With your upbringing and -your father's views, we're bound to differ, so for Heaven's sake talk -about Byron, or anything under the sun but factories. - -Ruth. I'm talking about your danger. You won't believe me. - -Guy. You won't believe me when I say there is no danger because I'm -prepared to meet anything. - -Ruth. Including bullets? Do you wear a coat of mail? - -Guy. That's the worst of reading _The Corsair_. Put this cock-and-bull -story of your mother's on the top of _The Corsair_ and you're ready to -imagine anything. We're in England now. - -Ruth. So is Nottingham. - -Guy. This is Lancashire. We don't have Luddites here. - -Ruth. We have plug riots. I've read it in the newspaper. - -Guy. Women shouldn't read newspapers. It's all right, Ruth. Our fellows -won't get out of hand. - -Ruth. You're driving them to desperation, Guy. I know the other side. -I've seen. Guy, won't you have mercy on them? - -Guy. I'll have another factory out of them. - -Ruth. Have mercy on yourself and me. I'm so happy here. You've made me -love you till I would cut off my hand to save you from a scratch upon -your little finger. I shan't know peace again whenever you're away. - -Guy. Upon my word, Ruth, it's too bad of your mother. She ought to keep -away, and not come here disturbing you with wild tales that haven't a -spark of truth in them. - -Ruth. Are they wild tales? - -Guy. They're wild as wind. - -Ruth. But you said you'd taken precautions. If there's no truth, why -take precautions? - -Guy. I said anything to comfort you. Are you satisfied now? - -Ruth. I'm silenced. - -Guy. That's good enough. - -(_Enter Ephraim and John Heppenstall, another factory owner, resembling -Ephraim in type, dress, and age. He is, however, a more timid man, and -his manner is irresolute._) - -Ephraim (_as they enter_). Come in here, Heppenstall. (_Seeing Ruth._) -Ah! you've met my son's wife? - -John (_bowing politely, with a touch of courtliness_). Good evening, -Mrs. Guy. (_To Guy._) Good evening. - -Guy. Good evening, Mr. Heppenstall. (_Taking Ruth's arm_). Ruth, my -dear, Mr. Heppenstall has called on a matter of business. - -Ruth. Oh, mayn't I stay and listen? I'll be as quiet as a mouse. - -Ephraim (_genially_). Never knew anybody like this lass of Guy's, -Heppenstall. She's interested in all manner of affairs. (_To Ruth._) You -promise to be quiet? - -Ruth (_eagerly_). Oh, yes, yes. - -Guy. No. Ruth's more interested in Byron than anything else. (_Holding -the book to her._) You can't read him here with us talking all the time. - -Ruth. You want me to go? - -Guy. Please. - -Ruth (_submissively_). Yes Guy. (_Takes book and exit._) - -Guy (_closing door behind her_). That's better. Women are sentimental, -and we've to talk business. Won't you sit, Mr. Heppenstall? - -John (_who has been eyeing Guy with disapproval_). Thank you, Mr. Guy, I -will. - -(_They sit round table._) - -Ephraim (_after clearing his throat_). Now, Heppenstall, I'll tell you -what it's all about. - -John. I'm waiting to hear. - -Ephraim. You and I are rival manufacturers, but that's no reason why -we shouldn't put our legs under the same table when we find the times -difficult. I suppose there's no denying, they _are_ difficult? - -John. They're more than difficult. - -Ephraim. Then we agree so far. What threatens us threatens you. In fact, -our interests are identical. - -John. Not quite, I think. - -Ephraim. Eh? Well, no. What's mine isn't thine. We've each to make a -profit for ourselves. But we get the profit out of weaving, and your -weavers are fractious; so are ours. - -John. But mine aren't--or not to anything like the extent yours are. - -Ephraim. I'm told the grumbling is universal. - -John. It's general up to a point, but there's a dead set at you. - -Ephraim. At me? - -John. Well, no, not at you, Barlow. It's this young gentleman who's the -mischief-maker. - -Guy. The mischief-maker, Mr. Heppenstall? - -John (_defending himself_). You reduced wages. You put down fresh -machinery, and got rid of men and---- - -Guy. And you've done the same. - -John. I had to follow suit or see you take my trade away. I didn't want -to do it. I believe in treating men as men. - -Guy. I believe in treating men as servants of the machines. It's all -they are. - -John. No. By your leave, young gentleman, it is not all they are. -They're flesh and blood. (_To Ephraim._) And I'm surprised, Barlow, at -your allowing your men to be reduced. - -Guy. The men can live on what they're paid. - -John. They can't. - -Guy. They do. I'm getting applications every day from men who want to be -taken on. - -John. Yes, so am I. And why? Because the steam power's taken away their -living and half a living's better than none to a starving man. (_To -Ephraim._) You ought to be ashamed of yourself to take advantage of -them. - -Ephraim. Well, Heppenstall, it's---- - -Guy (_interrupting_). I'm responsible, Mr. Heppenstall. If you've -anything to say about the management of Barlow's, say it to me. My -father's virtually retired. - -Ephraim (_with spirit_). Have I? I'm not dead yet, my lad. I've given -you a lot of rope, but be careful or you'll hang yourself. - -John (_approvingly, turning his shoulder on Guy_). That's better, -Barlow. I mislike seeing you knuckle under to a boy. - -(_Guy rises and goes to fireplace, standing with his back to table. John -speaks across table to Ephraim _) - -Now, look here, I had to follow your lead when you reduced. Will you -follow mine if I put them up again to what they were three months ago? - -Guy (_wheeling round_). And let the weavers fancy we're afraid of them? - -John (_not turning_). I'm not afraid of them. I'm sorry for them. - -Guy. They know better. Once give in, and they're the masters. Show them -they've only to ask and threaten to get what they ask and they'll ask -for more. They'll not stop at the old level. - -John. Oh, we can't go beyond the old figure. - -Guy. No. But you'll have to if once you start putting wages on the basis -of a benevolent Charity. I'm in business to buy cheap and sell dear. I -want my labour as cheap as I can get it and, by God, I'll get it cheap. - -Ephraim (_thumping table_). Are you the head of Barlow's or am I? - -Guy (_impatiently_). Oh, you are, I suppose. - -Ephraim. Then you'd better not forget it or I'll turn you out of the -room and finish this talk with Heppenstall alone. - -(_Guy throws himself in chair by fire._) - -Guy (_sighing to himself_). Oh, my God, these old men! - -Ephraim (_to John_). I agree to that. I'll raise them on condition you -do the same. - -Guy. I object. - -Ephraim. Your objection is overruled. - -Guy. I'm your partner. - -Ephraim (_hotly_). I am the head of Barlow's and---- - -(_Manservant enters with port, glasses, etc., places on table, and exit -in silence._) - -(_Ephraim pours out wine, and offers John, etc._) - -Guy. The old wages won't satisfy the weavers. They grumbled then. But -the point for Mr. Heppenstall is this. It may have hurt his tender -heart, but when we reduced, he did the same, and he needn't cant about -it now, for actions speak louder than words. The thing is that he acts -with us, and we manufacturers can present a solid front and---- - -John. Yes, but you set the bad example. I'm a business man and I had to -follow or you'd have cut me out with my customers. But as a humane man, -I protest, sir. - -Guy. Because you look at the men. I look at the system. The system's -magnificent, and if the factory system demands sacrifices, I shall -sacrifice men without scruple. - -John. Will you sacrifice yourself? - -Guy. I do sacrifice myself. I've sacrificed my personal security. I risk -my life every day and I value my life, Mr. Heppenstall. I value it so -much that I've taken protective measures at the factory. I've a few -stout fellows there--an odd prizefighter or two, an old soldier from the -French wars, nominally as watchmen, but they're men who can use their -fists and handle a gun too if the worst comes. - -John. Ah! You've a pretty good idea of looking after yourself. - -Guy. It isn't for my own sake. - -John (_sceptically_). No? - -Guy. Oh, I've a life I'd like to live. I've a wife and I'm young and so -on--but that doesn't matter. My value is as a factory owner. - -Epiiraim. Owner? - -Guy. Manager, then. I believe in the system, I'm here to spread -that system, to cover Lancashire with factories and make the county -manufacturing centre of the world. That is my dream, sir, the dream of -cheap production, and the triumph of machinery. - -John. You're talking very big, young man. It takes me all my time to run -one factory. - -Guy. I know I'm talking big. I'm seeing big, bigger than will come in -your lifetime or in mine. This thing's at the beginning. It's not secure -yet, but I mean to do my part to set it firmly on its legs before I die. - -John. There's nothing wonderful in bigness. A thousand factories are no -more wonderful than one. - -Guy. Oh, you've no vision. - -John. And maybe you've too much. The future isn't here. The present and -those weavers are. And they trouble me. - -Guy. They trouble me until they've learnt who's master. After that, -there'll be no trouble. - -(_Enter Ruth, excitedly, leaving door open behind her._) - -Ruth. Guy! The men. Don't you hear them? - -Guy. Men! Where? - -Ruth. They're in the hall. - -(_Enter Henri, Joseph, Matthew and Martin._) - -Henri. No, Madame Barlow, we are no longer in the hall. We are here. - -Ephraim (_on his feet_). What's the meaning of this? - -Joe (_insolently_). Meaning, Mr. Barlow? The meaning is, you'll either -listen to us here and now or you'll have your factory fired. You can -take your choice. - -Guy. Fire then, and be damned to you. - -Joe. Is that your answer, Mr. Barlow? - -Ephraim. No. Come here and be quiet, Guy. Who am I speaking to? - -Matthew. You know us, Mr. Barlow. - -Ephraim. You're in bad company, Matt. - -Matthew. I told you how _'_twould be if you forced me into factory. - -Ephraim. Are you the spokesman? I suppose there's a ringleader. Who is -he? - -Henri. We are all leaders. - -Guy (_sneering_), I've heard of armies that were all generals and no -privates. - -Martin (_quietly_). If you mean by leader who it is that's-kept back the -riot---- - -John (_badly frightened_). Riot? - -Martin. There are hundreds round your factories tonight. They're waiting -there, waiting for us. I'm leader enough to hold them back until we -get your answer. Take care lest I lead them in a different fashion on -another night. - -Guy. Mutiny, eh? - -Martin. Oh, names don't matter, _Mr_. Guy. We could call you names, and -true ones, if we liked. - -Ephraim. So you're their leader, Martin Kelsall? - -Martin. At your service, Mr. Barlow. - -Ephraim. I have my doubts of that. Well now, we'll just sit down and -talk this over quietly. - -Ruth. Father, you amongst the rioters! - -Matthew. We're here as peaceful delegates. - -Guy. With threats of fire and murder on your tongue. - -John (_querulously_). What's it all about? Never mind who they are. What -do they want? - -Henri. More wages. - -Joe. Less machinery. - -Martin. Close the factories. - -Matthew. And whatever you do, give a fellow-creature a chance of living, -Mr. Barlow. - -Ephraim. Will one of you speak for all? What are your complaints? - -Martin. I'll speak, Mr. Barlow. We complain of starvation, of being -driven into your factories and---- - -Ephraim. Stop there. We drive nobody. There's no compulsion to enter our -factories. - -Martin. There's the compulsion of need. You won't have hand-looms and -you've forced us into factories. You've got us there and we've been -helpless before you. We've to work your hours and take your pay, and the -pay's not fit to keep a dog alive. We're tired of factories. We want to -live. - -(_Murmurs of agreement from the men._) - -Guy (_rising_). Listen to me, men. Everything must have a beginning. A -great system is springing into birth. It isn't perfect yet---- - -Martin. Perfect! It's---- - -Guy (_proceeding_). You are suffering the lean years. The fat ones are -coming. - -Martin. We've heard all that before. You put it down to the war, not to -the machines that time. - -Guy. Even England can't recover in a moment from a war like this one. - -Martin. It was all the war last time we made complaint and when the war -was over you promised us fat times, and all of us were going to go hell -for leather for prosperity. - -Guy. Just wait a bit. Think what a great thing this system is. We're -going to make calico for the whole world. We've all a share in it. - -Henri. You get your share and ours as well. - -Guy. Do try to follow me. The cotton comes to us from the sun-kissed -fields of far America, grown there by planters descended from men of our -own blood and---- - -Martin. The cotton's grown by slaves. - -Guy. That's not my business. - -Matthew. No. Your business is to make slaves of us here. - -Guy. I'll tell you something, Mr. Butterworth. It's this, and it's from -a book you know. "Where there is no vision, the people perish." - -Matthew. I don't know about the vision, but I'm sure about the -perishing. And I know where we'll go when we've finished perishing. When -one of us gets up to the Golden Gate, Peter _'_ull ask him what he was -and he'll say a weaver, and Peter 'ull ask him no more questions. He'll -just open the gate quick and say, "Poor devil, get into heaven, you've -had your bellyful of hell on earth." - -Guy. You'll have prosperity on earth. - -Martin. Aye. So you've said before. - -Guy. You complain of the machines. You say they've turned men away. - -Joe. Aye. - -Guy. Those men will soon find work. - -Martin. Where? - -Guy. I'm going to build another factory. - -Martin. By God, you're not. - -Matthew. Another! Isn't one hell on earth enough for you? - -Guy. Patience, patience! I'm trying to explain. - -Martin. We've no time for patience. We're famishing. And you'll build -no other factory. You'll change your tune or you'll lose the one you've -got. Building new factories is no use to us. We're not builders. We're -weavers. - -Ephraim. Hold your tongue, Guy. I'll tackle this. - -(_Guy sits sulkily._) - -Matthew. We'll hear the old master. - -Ephraim. Now, my lads, the factory's there, and it's going to stop -there. - -(_Guy takes paper and pencil from his pocket and begins to draw -caricatures of the men._) - -Henri. Don't be too sure of it. - -Ephraim. Burn it and we build another. And while it's building you'll -have time to think and clear heads to think with, for you'll draw no -wages in the meantime. I'm still waiting to know why you're here. - -Matthew. If you'd not reduced wages, maybe we'd not be here. - -Ephraim. That's it, is it? - -Joe. Yes, that's it. - -Ephraim. Will it make you happy if I put the wages up again? - -Martin. It won't make us happy. There's been no happy weavers since -machines came in. - -John. Is that what you want? Wages back at the old level? - -Martin. No. We want more. The old level isn't good enough. Eight -shillings a week won't keep a man, let alone a man's family. - -Ephraim. We give your families work. You men aren't the only -wage-earners. Even your children can come to us and be paid. We not -only keep them away from mischief at home, but we pay them for it. -(_Rising._) You can take that answer back. We want willing workers and -if you'll go away and be satisfied with the old wages, we'll try to pay -them, though it's little less than ruin for the manufacturers. - -Martin (_scornfully_). This looks a ruined house, and you look badly -fed and all with your wine, and your servants, and your money to build -another factory. To hell with your eight shillings! We want ten. - -John. And we want cent, per cent, profits, my man, only we don't get -them. - -Ephraim (_sternly_). This is no time for jesting, Kelsall. - -Martin. I wasn't jesting. Ten shillings a week is what we want. - -Ephraim. Ten is out of the question. - -Matthew. I've made double ten with my old hand-loom. Where's the good of -factories to us if that's what they bring us to? - -(_Guy rises with his drawings comes round to John and gives it him._) - -John (_laughing_). Ha! Very good. I didn't know you drew. - -Guy. I've had practice lately. Drawing plans for my new factory. - -(_John passes it on to Ephraim._) - -Ephraim (_glancing at it_). Pssh! (_To men._) Well, that's what you're -here for, is it? Ten shillings. - -Martin. Yes. - -Ephraim. We offer eight. - -Martin. Then I warn you there'll be consequences. - -Guy. We're ready for your consequences. - -Ephraim. Guy, I've told you to hold your tongue. (_Reasonably._) We've -made a big concession, Kelsall. Martin. You'll make a bigger if you -want us satisfied. John. We do want you satisfied. We want this valley -peaceful and contented. - -Martin. Then you know what to do. - -Ephraim. Suppose we talk it over and give you an answer to-morrow? - -Joe. We've come here for an answer to-night, Mr. Barlow. - -Ephraim. Very well. Stay here and we'll come back with an answer. Come -into the other room, Mr. Heppenstall. (_The men give way sullenly._) -Come, Guy. - -(_Heppenstall passes out, as Ephraim holds door open. Guy catches -Ephraim at door._) - -Guy. Do you want your silver stolen? - -Ephraim. Guy, I'd trust Matt Butterworth with everything I own. - -Guy. And the others? - -Ephraim. Matt will be there. - -(_Exeunt Guy and Ephraim. Neither thinks of Ruth, who now rises from -her chair by fire, crosses, and speaks with Matthew, while the rest -appreciate the fire and examine curiously the fire-irons, etc._) - -Ruth. Father, what are you doing with these men? Matthew. Mind your own -business, my lass. - -Ruth. I am minding it. I'm minding Guy. If anything happens to Guy, -I shall hold you responsible. Matthew. Guy has the remedy in his own -hands. Ruth. The remedy's in your hands. You have influence with the -men. See how they wanted you on their side. They came to you at home -before I married. They'll listen to you. - -Matthew. I've no great influence, Ruth. I'm one of the crowd. Martin -Kelsall's the man they listen to. - -Ruth (_glancing at the three who are now gathered round the drawing -Ephraim left on table_). Yes. I'm going to talk to Martin. But not here. -I sent him a message to-night. Can you do nothing, father? - -Matthew. I can do nothing but what's right. - -Ruth. Violence is never right. - -Matthew. Oh, yes, it is. Often. I've counselled peace, but there's a -time for war, and if the time comes, old as I am, I'll do my share. - -Joe (_coming across with drawing_). Look here, Butter-worth. See that? -He drew it. Guy Barlow drew that. That's what he thinks of us. - -Matthew (_taking it_). A drawing? - -Joe (_pointing_). That's me. - -Matthew. Nay, never. - -Joe. I pin my waistcoat up that road 'cause all the world don't need to -know I haven't got a shirt. - -Matthew (_looking at drawing_). Yes. He's spotted that right enough. - -Martin (_over Matthew's shoulder_). And that scarecrow's meant for me. - -Matthew (_smiling in spite of himself_). Well, he's a clever drawer, Mr. -Guy. - -Henri. What is that writing, Matt? You can read. - -Matthew (_half turning away_). Yes, I can read. - -(_Ruth comes as if to try to secure the paper. Martin turns his shoulder -to her and the three men surround Matthew as he stands C._) - -Joe. What is it? - -Matthew (_reluctantly_). Something cruel, Joe. It's under your picture. - -Joe. I can see that. - -Martin. Out with it Matt. - -Matthew. No need to cry aloud the shame of what a young man does in his -pride. - -Henri. You think to shield him because he is your son-in-law. You are a -traitor, Butterworth. - -Joe. Best read it, Matt. We'll get it done outside, in any ease. - -Matthew. It isn't much. He's wrote "No shirt but dirt" below you. - -Joe (_as the group breaks up_). Dirt! If I'm dirty who's fault is that -but his? I don't like dirt. I'd like to be clean like him. How can a man -wash properly when his belly's crying out for bread and they've put the -tax on soap? I'd like a shirt. I'm weaving yards and yards of Barlow's -cloth and I haven't got a shirt. - -Matthew. It's wrong to make a jest of starving men. We've come to ask -for fire for our hearths and clothes to cover our nakedness, and food -for the children. We don't want fine raiment nor grand houses, nor wine -like that. The simple things are good enough for us, and we come here -to ask the masters for them, and all we get is a mocking picture and a -cruel jest, and I'm sick and sorry that the son of Mr. Barlow and the -husband of my lass should be the one that's done it. We're asking for -the right to live, and all we get is contumely and shame. - -Martin (_triumphantly_). That's brought you round at last. We'll have no -more peace-preaching from you. You know now what they think of us. We're -dogs and worse than dogs. Well, dogs can bite. - -Ruth (_her hand on Martin's arm_). Martin! - -Martin (_roughly shaking her off_). I've no word for you. You've gone -wrong. (_Moving._) Let's clear away. No need to wait. We've got their -answer here in this. (_Tapping picture in Matthew's hand._) To-morrow -night we'll meet up on the moors and march down on the factory. - -Henri. I said I'd hear you frozen English sing the Marseillaise. - -Ruth. The moors! - -Matthew. It's not a lawful thing to meet like that. Joe. Lawful! Who -cares for the laws of London here? I'd take the Luddites' oath to-night, -and that's an oath no man can dare to break. - -Martin. Swear by your vacant concave belly, man. (_Tapping Joe's -stomach._) You'll find no stronger oath than that. - -Matthew. They'll have the law of you. - -Martin. The law doesn't care for us. The law lets us starve. We've -finished with palaver now. We've got to _do_. - -(_They are reaching the door when Ephraim, John and Guy enter by the -opposite door._) - -Ephraim. Where are you going? - -Martin. We're tired of waiting. - -Ephraim. Come, come! We had to consider our answer. (_The men come -back._) - -Joe (_closing door, l._). Well, have you got your answer? - -Epiiraim. Yes. Go back to your fellows and tell them this: We will raise -wages to the old figure---- - -Martin. We've refused that. - -Ephraim. Let me finish, my man. And as to a further increase, when -you've tried how you go on and we've all of us thought it over and feel -a little calmer than we do now, well, we'll see if we can't do something -more for you. - -Henri. You will see now if you mean to see at all. - -Ephraim. That's my last word, men. You've got a lot. Now go away and be -reasonable. - -Martin. And this is my last word, Mr. Barlow. You've refused, and -refused with scorn. - -Ephraim. Scorn? I've not---- - -Martin. If you haven't, he has (_pointing at Guy_), and we know which -of the pair is boss. You think you are, but we and Mr. Guy know better. -He's boss and (_taking picture from Matthew_) he calls us dirty and -makes insulting pictures of us for you to laugh at. We shan't do -anything to-night. To-morrow night we're meeting on the moors. Look to -your factory, then. - -Guy. If I'm boss, listen to me. I've told you I believe in factories. - -Martin. And I tell you you'll have no factory to believe in. We're tired -of machinery. - -Guy. The machines are going on. Factories are going on. It's my life's -work to push them on. - -Henri. Then look to your life. - -Guy. The system's going on. It may break men in the making. It may break -me. But, by God, I'll break you first. Ideas are greater than men. They -conquer men. You can burn and kill and scotch the system _here_, but the -idea will go on in spite of you and anything you rioters can do to us. -You can crush us perhaps, but you can't kill the idea. Factories will -spring up and men will live and die for them and roll themselves against -them like waves against the rocks, but the factories are permanent -because the world is crying for our cloth. - -Joe. And I haven't got a shirt. - -Guy. A shirt! The world doesn't care for you. It's cloth by the hundred -thousand yards they want. It's not your petty wants the system cares -about. It's---- - -Martin. Then to hell with the system. We're petty, and, as you say, we -can't do much. We can't stop factories being built elsewhere. But we -can stop them here. We're broken men, but our spirit isn't broken yet. -You've set up your last machine. Your system may be all you think, but -men come first. - -Guy. Your men or mine? - -Martin. The men you've driven desperate. The starving, ragged men with -wives and children hunger-mad, with everything to win and nowt to lose. -It's men like that that win. Men with the choice of fighting hard or -dying slow. Men with a bitter hatred in their hearts and knowledge -in their heads that machinery's the cause of all. Men fighting for -themselves against the men that fight for money and for you. Your hired -bullies won't last long. We know they're there, and know we'll see them -run. - -Guy (_soberly_). You'll waste your blood. You may waste life. I've -got men there. I don't deny it. And I ask you not to break yourselves -against them. You're thinking me a coward, but it isn't that. - -Martin (_sneering_). Oh? What is it then? - -Guy. It's that I _know_. I won't be you and it won't be I who will win -this fight. - -Joe. It must be one of us. - -Guy. No. We may have ups and downs, but the system will conquer us both. - -Martin. To-morrow night your factory will burn. We meet up on the -moors, not tens or twenties of us, but every man of Barlow's and of -Heppenstall's, and---- - -Guy. And we'll be glad to see you. Good night. - -Matthew (_to Ephraim_). Mr. Barlow---- - -Ephraim (_shaking his head_). My son speaks for me, Matt. - -(_Exeunt Martin, Henri, Joe, Matthew._) - -Guy. The blazing fools! To give away their meeting-place. - -John. The moors are wide. - -Guy. They meet beneath the quarry. I know their place. We'll get them -there. One good surprise attack and we shall hear no more of meetings. - -Ruth. Guy, you're going into danger. - -Guy. Not I while there are redcoats to fight my battles for me. - -Ruth. Soldiers! - -Guy. What else are soldiers for? I ride to Blackburn barracks to-night. -We'll teach these rioters a lesson that they'll not forget. Write me the -summons to the barracks, father. You're a magistrate. - -Ephraim. It's a heavy responsibility, Guy. - -Guy. A flaming factory's the alternative. - -Ephraim. Pass me the paper. - -(_Sits at table and writes, John bending over him. Guy goes to -fireplace, takes a pair of spurs from mantel and straps them on. Ruth -follows him._) - -Ruth. Guy, must you ride yourself? Can't you send somebody you trust? - -Guy (_grimly_). I'm sending somebody I trust. - -Ruth. It's dangerous. - -Guy. Rioting's a dangerous pastime--for the rioters. - -Ruth (_appealingly_). But soldiers in the valley, Guy! You'll never be -forgiven. It always will be war between you and the weavers if you bring -soldiers here. They'll be revenged. - -Guy (_straightening his back and taking the second spur, bending to put -it on_). Meantime, I've got to save the factory. - -Ruth. And I have got to save the factory and you. - -Guy. You! - -Ruth (_tensely_). Can I do nothing, Guy? - -Ephraim (_holding out the paper, without rising_). The summons, Guy. - -Guy (_replying to Ruth_). Yes. You can pass me the summons. - -(_He bends, fastening the spur. Ruth goes slowly to Ephraim, takes the -paper and hesitates as if intending to tear it, then jerks her head and -takes it to Guy, who accepts, straightening himself and pocketing it._) - -Guy. Ah! That's all right. - -Ephraim (_who has been filling three wine glasses, rising with glass_). -Here's to your ride, Guy. - -Guy (_coming to table and filling a fourth glass_). I'll give you a -better toast than that. The factory. (_Passing Ruth glass._) - -Ephraim. (John and Guy). Ruth! (_drinking together_). The factory. -(_Ruth hesitates, meets Guy's eye until he masters her._) Ruth. The -factory. - -(_She gulps as if taking poison. Guy drinks his glass off and goes to -door._) - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT III - -_A rough road terminates in the quarry whose hewn crags rise high at the -right. Below them, behind the road is an old shed of planks, open to the -front. To the left, the quarrying has caused a steep dip. The road ends, -the rock descends to it and beyond, so that the opposite side of the -valley below is visible, seen dimly in the night. Gorse and heather -grow over the deserted workings. There is no moon, but the lighting is -sufficiently strong for faces to be seen._ - -_Ruth, warmly clad, sits on a stone by the shed, a lighted lantern at -her feet. After a moment, Martin, without greatcoat, enters._ - -***** - -Ruth (_as he comes_). Are you there, Martin? - -Martin. I am here. - -Ruth (_rising, nervously_). I had begun to fear you would not come. - -Martin. I know I'm late. To-night I'd work to do, for once in my useless -life. - -Ruth. Don't be bitter, Martin. - -Martin. The bitterness is past. My work is done, well done. I came -when I was free to come, Mrs. Barlow. Ruth. Is it to be names like that -between us two? Martin. I don't know what there is between us two, save -that I got a message from your mother to meet you here. - -Ruth. I chose this place because we used to meet here often. - -Martin. In happier days. - -Ruth. I chose it to remind you of them. - -Martin (_bitterly_). I don't need to be reminded. I'm striving to -forget. I want to kill their memory and I can't. - -Ruth. I thought you had. - -Martin. And why? - -Ruth. Last night. - -Martin. What has last night to do with it? - -Ruth. It seemed to me last night that you'd forgotten. - -Martin. It always seems to me that you forget. - -Ruth. I? It's you forget. Forget our hope of happiness together and why -we gave it up, forget the terms on which I gave myself to him. - -Martin. Your plan, your terms. Not mine. - -Ruth. We both agreed that it was best. - -Martin. Well, if we did? Now you've had your way, now you are Guy -Barlow's wife? Have you done anything? Does the plan work, or----? - -Ruth (_interrupting_). It all takes time. - -(_Martin moves impatiently._) - -And you agreed to that. That it would take time. That I was to be given -my chance. And now, last night, you spoilt it all. You---- - -Martin (_harshly_). Your plan's been tried and failed. You've done -nothing. Less than nothing. Things have gone worse---- - -Ruth. And if they have---- - -Martin. They have. - -Ruth. Will what you're doing help? Are threats of violence better? - -Martin. No. But we don't threaten. - -Ruth (_surprised_) Not threaten! - -Martin (_coolly_). We burn the factory to-night. And if your--husband -tries to interfere, so much the worse for him. (_Producing pistol from -pocket._) There's food and drink for many a day gone to the buying of -this. - -Ruth. Martin! A pistol! You! - -Martin. He talks of putting up another factory. (_Grimly._) It's going -to stop at talk. - -Ruth. A pistol! (_Coaxing._) I've never had a pistol in my hand. Let me -feel it, Martin. - -Martin (_replacing it_). They're dangerous toys. - -Ruth. But I'll hold it by the handle. - -Martin. It's safer where it is. It's no good, Ruth You haven't wheedled -Guy Barlow into being soft with us, and you won't wheedle me into being -soft with him. You're no great hand at wheedling for all your pretty -face. - -Ruth (_feigning indignation_). Oh, do you think it's Guy I care about? - -Martin (_drily_). I think somehow it is. - -Ruth. You have no right---- - -Martin. What else am I to think? For all these months I get no word from -you. Your mother talks of nothing but your happiness with him. I know -you're living there in luxury with him, and I see you dressed the way -you are. What can I think but that he's won you round? - -Ruth. I'm not a cat to be won over with caresses. - -Martin. You always fancied finery. - -Ruth. Finery! It's good for finery to bring it on the moors to-night. - -Martin. It keeps you warm. - -Ruth. So does my fire. And yet I've left my fire I'm here. - -Martin. Why are you here? - -Ruth. To see you. - -Martin. Only that? - -Ruth. What else? - -Martin. Why do you choose this night of all the nights that have gone by -since--since we made our plan and you took him for husband? - -Ruth. To-night's the first since yesterday. - -Martin. Why yesterday? - -Ruth. You sent a message by my mother. She gave it to me yesterday. - -Martin. I'd forgotten that. So much has happened since. - -Ruth. Then you should trust me all the more. I'm here in spite of -all. I'm risking everything to come to tell you what you do is wrong, -utterly, hopelessly wrong. - -Martin. What do you risk? - -Ruth. I risk my plan. Let Guy find out I meet you, and where's my chance -of influencing him? Where's my reward for sending you away? I risk my -life, my hope, my all. - -Martin (_sceptically_). It sounds a lot. - -Ruth. It is a lot. - -Martin. Well, I too take risks to-night. - -Ruth. Yes, greater than you know. - -Martin. Ah! - -Ruth. But you shall not take them. That's why I'm here. To stop you. -You'll ruin all if this goes on to-night. - -Martin. We'll ruin his factory. - -Ruth. You'll bring black ruin on yourselves. Oh, listen to me, Martin. I -know. I know. Guy's got the soldiers coming. - -Martin (_eagerly_). They're coming _here?_ - -Ruth. Yes. Didn't you say you all met here below to-night? - -Martin. Yes. - -Ruth. Soldiers, Martin. Can you fight soldiers? - -Martin. After to-night there'll be no factory to fight about. - -Ruth. There always will be factories. - -Martin. Yes? So he said last night. But we know better. - -Ruth. There will, there will. They'll build others, and while they're -building you'll be starving, and when they're built, do you think -there'll be work for you or my father or any man who lifts a hand -to-night? You'll all be hanged or rotting in some gaol, and wages for -the rest lower than ever to pay them out for the doings of this night. -Don't do it, Martin. Leave Guy to me. I'll manage him, but I must bide -my time. - -Martin. And meantime we must live a living death. A bullet's better, -Ruth. - -Ruth. Oh, maybe better for the few they hit. Death's not important. -Think of the others who'll live on. Don't be selfish, Martin. - -Martin. Selfish! I'm doing all for others. I don't care for myself. - -Ruth. You do. You care to be the leader. You care for your pride, the -pride that won't let you draw back because you dare not seem to have -an afterthought, the pride that's going to strew that valley with the -ruined lives of men and corpses of the dead. - -Martin. I can't draw back now. It's too late, Ruth. - -Ruth. It's never too late. (_Suddenly terrified._) You _are_ their -leader, Martin? They won't do anything without your word? - -Martin. I am their leader, Ruth. To-night's plan is mine. - -Ruth. Then so long as you stay here nothing can happen. - -Martin. I shan't stay long. - -Ruth. You will. I've got you and I mean to keep you here. Thank God, I -came. - -Martin. You've come, but I've told you it's too late now. - -Ruth. Oh, no, it's not. You can't deceive me, Martin. I know this is the -meeting-place. I heard you all say so last night. The moors below the -quarry. Are the men there, Martin? - -Martin. There are men there. Listen. - -(_Faintly, the strains of the Marseillaise are heard from below l., and -with them the barking of dogs._) - -The song that Henri Callard brought from France and made into an English -song to put the spirit of a revolution into us. The song of life and -hope. - -Ruth. No, Martin, the song of death. - -Martin. Perhaps it is, for Barlow's bullies at the factory. - -Ruth. Martin, don't go. Don't give the word. For my sake, Martin. - -Martin. The song is calling. - -Ruth. Are we English to be French and lose our senses for a song? Is all -that you and I have said and done to go for naught? - -Martin. Ruth, tell the truth - -Ruth. The truth? - -Martin. Is it you and I or you and that other? - -Ruth. Other? - -Martin. You know whom I mean. Guy Barlow. - -Ruth. I love him, Martin. - -Martin. At last! The truth. - -Ruth. I love him, and you're going to kill my husband. If when you said -you couldn't lose the memory of me you spoke the truth, you'll spare -him, Martin. You won't go down amongst those men and lead them to the -factory. I tried my best to carry out our plan. You told me that he -wouldn't marry me, but I made him do it. And afterwards I tried. I did -try, Martin. Only Guy's my husband and I love him now. I've learnt to -love him till my love's the greatest thing in all the world. Don't kill -him, Martin. - -Martin. It will not be killing, Ruth. It won't be murder if a bullet -finds its way in Guy Barlow's heart. Not murder, but an accident. - -Ruth. You mean to kill him. - -Martin. Not man's vengeance, Ruth, but God's. - -Ruth. You mean to murder him. What shall I do? (_Changing her tone._) -Martin, you loved me once. Is that love dead? - -Martin. Dead? Love needs nourishment and you have starved my love. - -Ruth. What if I said I'm here to nourish it? Would you go down there -then? - -Martin. Nourish? How? - -Ruth (_holding up lantern_). Am I still beautiful, Martin? - -Martin. Yes. So Guy Barlow thinks. - -Ruth. Don't you? - -Martin. Delilah! - -Ruth. Was Delilah married? - -Martin. No. - -(_ The Marseillaise is heard again, more loudly. Below l., torches -appear. Martin's attention is attracted._) - -Ruth. Don't look down there. They're singing. Let them sing. - -Martin. And if I stay? - -(_Ruth makes a gesture of surrender._) - -You mean it, Ruth? - -Ruth. I mean--everything. - -Martin. My God, you're beautiful! (_Harshly._) Put out the lantern. - -Ruth. Give me your pistol first. - -Martin. My pistol? - -Ruth. Yes. - -(_A pause. Martin takes it out, half offers it, then, with a suspicious -look, gives it her._) - -Martin. The lantern. - -(_Ruth blows it out. As Martin draws her towards the shed, voices are -heard._) - -Ephraim. I'm convinced your men won't be needed, Captain. - -Guy. We shall soon see. - -(_Enter Ephraim, Guy and Captain Lascelles, a youngish officer. Guy has -a lantern which he places on the ground._) - -Personally I fancy we shall show you a little sport. - -Captain. Sorry sport, Mr. Barlow. I fought the French with a relish. -They're our natural foes. But this setting English at English goes -against the grain with me. - -Ephraim. Excellent sentiments, Captain Lascelles. - -Guy (_sneering_). I used to think the whole duty of a soldier was to -fight. - -Captain. The duty of a soldier is to obey orders. That, sir, is why I am -at the disposal of your father, who represents the civil authority. But -I've no stomach for firing on unarmed men. - -(_The Marseillaise and the dogs are heard._) - -Guy. Listen! That's very near. - -Captain. So are the singers. Look there. - -(_Epiiraim and Guy look over with him._) - -Ephraim. Torches! There's a big crowd there. Why didn't we hear them? - -Captain. We came uphill. The hill cut off the sound. - -Ephraim. Dogs? What are the dogs for? - -Guy (_well satisfied_). Well, Captain, like it or not, you'll have warm -work to-night. - -Captain. To be candid with you, I don't like it at all. - -Guy. You make me alter my opinion of the British officer. - -Captain. Sir! I saw service in the Peninsular and I was under fire at -Waterloo---- - -Guy. But a handful of scarecrow weavers is too much for you because -they're English. - -Captain. A few are not, Mr. Barlow. But those torches don't indicate a -few, but a very much larger number than I have force to cope with. - -Ephraim (_timidly_). There certainly is a great number. - -Guy (_to Captain_). In other words, you shirk your duty. - -Captain (_controlling himself_). I don't want to quarrel with a -civilian. (_Turning to Ephraim._) Am I to get my men into position, sir? - -Ephraim (_hesitating_). Well--their number is certainly alarming. -(_Turning to Guy for a lead._) - -Guy (_curtly_). Yes. - -Ephraim (_to Captain_). If you please, Captain. - -Captain. Very well. You've a copy of the Riot Act with you? - -Ephraim (_nervously_). Yes. I hope I shall not have to read it. - -Captain. That is for you to decide. - -Ephraim. Yes. (_Calling._) Guy! - -Guy (_by the shed_). One minute, sir. There's a smell of tallow here. - -Captain (_without suspicion_). Your lantern. - -Guy. That didn't smell before. - -Captain (_impatiently_). The torches below there, then. The wind would -carry their reek. - -Guy. Yes. Only there doesn't happen to be a wind. Captain (_suspicious -now_). The shed? - -Guy (_picking up lantern_). I'll see. - -(_He holds up lantern, disclosing Ruth and Martin at opposite ends of -the shed._) - -There's no one there. Must have been our lantern. What did you want, -father? - -Ephraim. Guy, hadn't we better leave it? I don't want bloodshed. They're -decent fellows at heart, and we don't know they mean to attack. I can't -believe it of them. Wait till they do and use the soldiers to guard the -factory. Guy. What's the use of waiting till they attack? Take them here -unprepared and you make a thorough job of it. - -Captain. Yes: only I can't promise to take them unprepared. - -Guy. Why not? Have I to teach you your business? Get your men round them -in the dark and---- - -Captain. It won't be dark. The clouds will be off the moon soon. - -Guy (_sarcastically_). Then as Nature won't assist you, Captain, you'll -have to draw upon the great store of military tactics you no doubt -acquired in your numerous campaigns. How long will it take to get your -men placed between that crowd and the factory? - -Captain. Oh, say ten minutes. The moon will be clear before then. - -Guy. I hope it won't. They'll run like hares at the sight of a uniform, -and I want them taught a lesson they'll not forget in a hurry. - -Ephraim (_picking up lantern_). Shall we go? - -Guy. Yes. I'll join you below. - -Ephraim. Join? Aren't you coming? - -Guy. In a minute. For the moment I have business here. - -Captain. What business are we to imagine that can keep you here alone? - -Guy. You can imagine any business you like. You can imagine me praying -for the British Army when it is officered by men like you, but, at any -rate, you can leave me here. - -Captain (_sneering_). Yes. You'll be quite out of danger here, Mr. -Barlow. - -Ephraim (_appealingly_). Gentlemen! - -Guy (_to Captain_). Hadn't you better look after your men? Your ten -minutes are flying. - -Captain (_turning to go_). I shall deal with you afterwards. - -Guy (_smoothly_). With pleasure. My business is to deal in cotton cloth -with all comers. I don't discriminate. - -Captain. Pah! Shopman! - -(_Exeunt Captain and Ephraim._) - -Guy (_by shed_). Come out. - -(_Martin and Ruth emerge, Martin crosses l. and looks down._) - -Yes. It's steep, isn't it? You'll not escape that way unless you've -wings. - -Martin. Escape? I don't want to escape. - -Guy. You're looking for a way. - -Martin. I'm looking at the great crowd your father saw. - -Guy. Yes. You've brought your ragamuffins out, but you'll find it a -tougher job to make them fight. - -Martin. I don't intend to let those lads down there fight soldiers. - -Guy (_barring the way, though Martin doesn't move_). And I don't intend -to let you warn them. You're going to stay here. - -Martin (_limply_). I can shout. - -Guy. Why don't you? Shout till you brast your lungs, my lad. It won't -carry downhill. - -Martin (_acquiescing very easily_). Then you must do your butcher's -handiwork. (_With energy._) Butchers! Yes. That's just the word. - -Guy. Ah! So you do know when you're beaten. Well, Kelsall, as you heard -while you were eavesdropping, I've ten minutes to fill in. Ten minutes -isn't long. There's no margin for lies. - -Martin. The truth about your factory is the last thing you'll listen to. - -Guy. The truth about my wife is what I'm waiting for. - -Martin. Hadn't you better ask her? - -Guy. I don't question my wife before a workman. - -Martin. Shall I leave you? (_But he doesn't move._) - -Guy. You don't seem in any hurry. - -Martin (_easily_). No. The time for that is past. I've stayed here too -long for going now. - -Ruth. Thank God, then I've succeeded. - -Guy (_coldly_). Succeeded? How? - -Ruth. I've kept him here until the danger passed. He meant to burn -the factory and murder you. He told me so and I--I kept him here. I've -played with him. I've---- - -Martin. You played with fire, and it's not your fault you haven't burnt -yourself. - -Ruth (_to Guy_). What did it matter what I said? I've saved your life. -I've kept him here. - -Guy. How did you get him here? - -Ruth. I sent for him. - -Guy. Why should he come for your sending? - -Martin. You don't question your wife before a workman, do you? - -Guy. No. You're right. This can wait. - -Ruth. Guy, I sent because last night I heard him threaten you. I wanted -to persuade him---- - -Guy. Your methods of persuasion are peculiar. - -Ruth. They kept him here. That was what I had to do. At any cost to keep -him here. - -Guy. Ruth, I begin to think that reading Byron isn't good for you. - -Martin. Why put it on to Byron? Hasn't his noble Lordship sins enough of -his own? - -Ruth. Guy, don't you see? He's the men's leader. - -They won't do anything without him. He told me that. That they would -wait for him to give the word. - -Martin. I told you that it was too late. I came up here to-night without -imperilling my plans. It didn't matter that (_snapping his fingers_) how -long you kept me here. Succeeded! The only thing you've succeeded in is -in arousing your husband's suspicions. - -Guy. Be careful, Kelsall. - -Martin. I've nothing to be careful about. I could be at Jericho for all -the difference it'll make. - -Ruth. You told me you were their leader. - -Martin. The leader of a movement is the brain of it. - -Brain is scarcer than brawn, and therefore---- - -Guy. Therefore it skulks up here in safety. - -Martin. Yes, that's what that soldier said to you. - -(_Guy makes a threatening gesture._) - -Oh, but he's wrong, of course. You don't suppose Lord Wellington was in -the firing line at Waterloo? He left fools like your soldier friend to -feed the powder. A leader's business is direction. - -Guy. Am I to understand that you direct? You? Martin (_quietly_). I have -directed. In no long time I hope to see the fruits of my direction. - -Guy. Down there? (_Pointing l._) There'll be a crop of broken heads if -that's the fruit you're looking for. Martin. I'm looking up, not down. - -Guy. Up? - -Martin. A sign in the heavens. - -Guy (_bewildered_). The heavens! - -Martin (_passionately_). Don't you believe in heaven? Sometimes I don't. -I find it difficult to believe in a just God who lets you live and lets -your machinery be made and lets you starve your weavers. But I have -faith to-night, Guy Barlow, a mighty faith in the all-seeing God who's -brought us face to face, oppressor and oppressed, avenger and----- - -Ruth (_as Martin approaches Guy_). Be careful, Guy, he means to do you -harm. - -Guy (_gently putting her aside_). My dear Ruth, I'm quite convinced -you read too much. Romance and Mrs. Radcliffe are fitting for your -withdrawing-room, but please don't bring them out of doors. You told me -once romance was dangerous for women. I find it is. - -Ruth. But he was armed. Thank God, I've got his pistol. - -Guy (_losing temper_). You got his pistol! Confound you, what did you do -that for? I can't shoot the fellow in cold blood. - -Martin. Oh, you needn't scruple. Life's no use to a weaver in Barlow's -factory, and my work is finished now. - -Guy (_to Ruth_). Give it him back. - -Ruth. You'll fight together if I do. - -Guy. Do as I tell you, Ruth. - -(_Ruth holds out the pistol to Martin, who doesn't take it._) - -Martin. I warn you this is murder. - -Guy. You shouldn't carry firearms if you're not competent to use them. - -Martin. The murder is of you. This is my night, Guy Barlow. You've had -the power to starve and sweat the weavers of the valley, but the tide -has turned at last. The luck's on my side now, and if we fight and one -of us should fall, it won't be I that has to die to-night. - -Ruth, You shall not fight. This pistol's mine, I won it from you. I do -what I like with my own. (_She flings it down the cliff. It is heard to -strike and rebounding, strike again._) - -Guy. Rebellion is in the air to-night. You've caught the prevalent -disease, my Ruth. - -Ruth. Guy, this man means to kill you. - -Guy. I mean to kill this man. But I've a scruple that prevents my -shooting down an unarmed man. - -Ruth. You're both safe then. - -Guy. Not while my pistol's left. He seems to think the luck is on his -side. We'll put that to the test by tossing for the first shot. - -Ruth. But he might win. - -Guy. That will decide the point at issue. Luck will be on his side. -You've got your chance now, Kelsall. (_Taunting him._) What was it? -Oppressor and oppressed, avenger and avenged? - -Martin. My God, I wish I had your coolness. - -Guy. Blood will tell, you know. Do you accept? Martin (_in a rush_). -Yes, I accept. - -Guy. Good. Shall I spin a coin or you? - -Martin. I don't bring money out. It's scarce with me. Guy. Then I -provide both pistol and coin. - -Martin. And corpse. - -Guy. You're getting back your spirit. Will you call? - -(_He spins a coin. Ruth puts her foot on it as it falls. At the same -time the moon lights up the scene._) - -Now that's really very thoughtful of the moon. The target will be -visible, and we can see the coin as soon as you remove your foot. - -Ruth. I shall not remove my foot. - -Guy. And Kelsall quite forgot to call. He's too busy shivering. - -Martin. I'm cold. - -Guy (_taking another coin, spinning and catching rapidly_). This time, -Kelsall. - -Martin. Heads. - -Guy (_looking_). The pistol's yours. - -(_Martin crosses doubtfully and takes it._) - -Oh yes, it's loaded. - -Ruth (_facing Martin, covering Guy, melodramatically_) Martin, you'll -shoot him through my body. - -Guy. I'm sure that's out of Mrs. Radcliffe, Ruth. It has the true -romantic ring. Will you help me to tie her up, Kelsall? It's a bore to -have to ask the favour, but---- - -Martin. You're smiling and you're going to die. - -Guy. It's possible, but these cold nights do make a man's hand shake, -don't they? Your luck may not be altogether in. The heavens do not send -the sign you look for. - -Martin. They sent the moon to shoot you by. - -Guy. Yes. Get out of the way, Ruth, unless you want to be tied up. Stand -clear. This fellow's hand's so shaky he might hit you by mistake. Go -ahead, Kelsall. Remember your wrongs and your faith and blaze away. - -Martin (_half raising the pistol, then dropping it_). I can't do it. -It's the chance I've prayed for and I can't do it. - -Guy. Oh come, Kelsall. Remember what's expected of a leader of the men. - -Martin (_jerking up his head_). I've beaten you there. Yes, now I -understand. I'm not afraid to shoot. - -Guy. My mistake. - -Martin. Oh, I've a sweeter revenge than that, Shoot, and you'd never -know the way that you've been fooled this night. - -Guy. You didn't shoot because you lacked the pluck. - -Martin. The thing I didn't lack was brain to outwit you and bring you on -a fool's errand to the moors while---- - -(_Pausing._) - -Guy (_alarmed_). While what? - -Martin. Oh, while the moon came out and showed your military friends the -truth. - -Guy. The truth? What is the truth? - -Martin. Oh, you shall know. I'm keeping you alive that you may know. - -Guy. What is it, you-------- - -(_Enter Captain and Ephraim._) - -Captain (_entering_). Are you there, Barlow? (_Seeing him._) Oh---- -(_Saluting Ruth._) - -Guy. Never mind these people. What is it? - -Captain. Confound it, that's what _I_ want to know. - -Guy. What are you doing here? Why aren't you down there surrounding -those weavers? - -Captain. Well, you see, the fact is, there are no weavers. - -Ephraim. Dogs, Guy. You remember I noticed the dogs. - -Guy. Dogs? Have you both gone mad? My patience! What is it? - -Captain (_drawing him to look_). You see those torches? - -Guy (_impatiently_). Of course. - -Captain. But you can't see who's carrying them from here. - -Guy. I don't need to see. I know. It's the weavers' meeting. - -Captain. Weavers! They're sheep, sir. Sheep with torches fastened to -them and not a man in sight. - -Guy. Sheep! - -Martin (_quietly_). You'll remember I said butchers was the right word. - -Guy. Sheep! But we heard singing; - -Martin. A dozen men can make a noise. They'll have sore throats -to-morrow. - -Guy. Sheep! - -Martin (_ringingly_). Look up! I've got my sign in the heavens. - -(_The sky is illuminated by the great leaping glare of a distant fire_) - -Captain. Fire! - -Martin. This is my night after all, Guy Barlow. The factory's ablaze. - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT IV - -_Later the same night. Scene as Act II. Wine and glasses on table. The -curtains are drawn apart and the glare of the burning factory is seen. -Ephraim and John are in the window._ - - -John. It's a sad sight, Barlow. - -Ephraim. A sight I cannot bear to see. Shut it out. Shut it out. (_He -draws curtains._) - -(_John lays a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, and Ephraim goes slowly -to chair by fireplace._) - -I built it, Heppenstall, the first factory in these parts, fifteen -years ago, and there it's stood through all these years a monument of -enterprise, until I'd grown to love the very stone of it. They mocked -me when I put it up. They called it Barlow's Folly. But I knew. I knew -machinery had come to stay, and now new factories are springing up, and -building one to-day is not the same great thing it was. The glamour's -gone. - -John. But you'll rebuild. - -Ephraim. Guy will rebuild. I doubt if I shall care for what he does. -This night has broken me. - -John. Come, come, now, don't give way like that. Ephraim. It's easy talk -for you. Your factory is sound. They've left it standing. - -John. Aye. You were the scapegoats. - -Ephraim. And all my business checked. Customers to disappoint. -Connections broken and---- - -John. They will come back to you. - -Ephraim. And when? You can burn fast, but you rebuild slowly. And the -misery, Heppenstall, the misery of it. - -John. You're thinking of your men? - -Ephraim. Aye and their families. - -John. A merciful man, Barlow. - -Ephraim. Oh, let the leaders swing for it. It's their desert. But all -the others, just the heedless fools they've led astray. I'm sorry for -them in the bitter days to come. Guy's been too hard on them. - -John. Yes. Guy's been hard. A wilful, headstrong man. But, hearkee, -Barlow, I've a plan that will smooth out the crookedness for you. - -Ephraim. A plan? - -John. You've been a rival of me, and your son has made the rivalry -no pleasant thing. But you and I are friends, and sooner than see you -suffer for your son, I'll run my place by night as well as day, and you -can put your people there by night and keep faith with your customers. - -Ephraim (_rising_). Why, Heppenstall, that's generous. - -John. There's something in the doctrine which that fighting-cock -of yours was preaching here last night. We manufacturers must cling -together, Barlow, only he wanted us to cling to his policy and, by your -leave, we'll cling to mine. It lets you satisfy your customers and -keep your weavers living, and it gives me the chance of rapping Mr. Guy -Barlow on the knuckles. - -Ephraim (_timidly_). Do you think he'll let--? - -John. Why, man alive, I hope that you are master here. - -Ephraim. I shall take no pleasure in it now. - -(_Enter Guy._) - -That old factory was like another son to me. - -Guy (_in high spirits_). And a damned rickety child it was. - -Ephraim. Guy! - -Guy (_good-humouredly_). You will get a new son, father A lusty son with -new machinery in the guts of him. - -Ephraim. It will not be my old factory. - -Guy. No, by the Lord, it won't. It will be efficient. Come, father, bear -up. We'll soon have that site covered up again with another son for you, -and there's no love like the love of a man for the child of his old age. - -Ephraim. It won't be my child, Guy. - -Guy. Then call it your grandson and dote upon him as a grandad should. - -John. Is this a time for your jesting, Mr. Guy? - -Guy. Maybe you think you've the laugh of me, Mr. Heppenstall, you with -your factory unburnt. Wait till my new building is complete with all the -last word in machinery, Look to your business then. I'll show you what a -factory should be. - -Ephraim. Guy, you sound--almost--as if you are glad. - -Guy. Why not? We're well insured. - -Ephraim. And our customers, meantime? - -Guy. Customers? Fire breaks all contracts. - -Ephraim. Not mine. Not while there exists a way of carrying them out. - -Guy. There is no way. - -John. You'll pardon me, there is. I have offered your father the use of -my factory by night. - -Guy. By night? We should lose money. There would be you to pay, and -weaving by candlelight is expensive. - -Ephraim. Then let us lose money. I will carry out my contracts. -And--think of the weavers, Guy. - -Guy. Let them starve. - -Ephraim. I won't. I will hang the leaders. But the rest shall live. - -Guy. They will live somehow. When we want them again, they will be -there. Meantime, they shall be punished. - -Ephraim. I say they shall not, and by our good friend's help they need -not be. - -Guy. Our good friend is to run his factory by day and night and take his -profit out of us. So much for friendship. - -Ephraim. He must certainly be compensated for turning his place upside -down. - -Guy. Why turn it upside down? - -Ephraim. For the sake of the weavers whom I will not desert. - -Guy. Did I burn their livelihood? No. They did. Let them suffer for it. - -Ephraim. Guy, I have to remind you again that I am the head of the firm. - -Guy. Very well, then. I break my connection with the firm. - -Ephraim. Guy! Barlow & Son. - -Guy. In future there will be two firms. The first is a charitable -institution which penalizes itself to find work for riotous weavers who -burn its factory. The second firm exists to make money. - -Ephraim. You mustn't do that, Guy. Not the factory and the firm on one -black night. I can't stand both. - -Guy. Then the firm goes on on my terms. - -Ephraim. You mustn't leave me, Guy. - -Guy. Very well. Barlow & Son decline your offer with thanks, Mr. -Heppenstall. (_He turns to table, pours wine and drinks._) - -John. Barlow, do you mean to tell me----? - -Ephraim. I give him best, Heppenstall. The lad is a stronger man than I -am. Henceforth I am a looker-on. - -Guy (_seated at table_). Father, hand me those plans. - -Ephraim. Plans, Guy? - -Guy. The new factory, man. Do you think there's time to waste? (_He -finds pistol uncomfortable in his pocket, takes out and puts on table._) -Hah! That's finished with. I use a stronger weapon. This. (_Taking up -pen and bending over the plans which Ephraim has put before him._) - -John. Come away, Barlow. - -Ephraim. Yes. Yes. I think--(_he follows John haltingly to door._) - -(_Exeunt Ephraim and John. Guy is busy with the plans. Enter Ruth -quickly. She closes door and leans against it, panting._) - -Ruth. Guy! - -Guy (_not looking up_). I am busy, Ruth. - -Ruth. Guy, they have got my father. The soldiers, Guy. They've got my -father. - -Guy (_still bending_). Yes, I can hear. - -Ruth. My father! - -Guy (_leaning back in chair_). Why not? Your father joined the rest. - -Ruth. What will they do to him? - -Guy. The law has a strong arm, Ruth. - -Ruth. You mean---- - -Guy. Fools pay for their folly. - -Ruth (_coming to him_). Guy, Guy, you will not let my father---- Oh---- - -Guy. Captain Lascelles has charge of all the prisoners till they are -handed over to the civil authorities. If you wish to communicate with -any of them, you must apply to him. - -Ruth. But--Guy--they say the prisoners will be hanged. - -Guy. It's more than likely. - -Ruth. And my father---- - -Guy (_rising and standing with hack to fire_). Arson is a hanging -matter, Ruth. If your father chose to be a riotous incendiary, he must -pay the penalty. - -Ruth (_standing by table_). Guy, don't you love me? - -Guy. I have loved you, Ruth. I find you are the kind of woman men do -love. - -Ruth. What do you mean? - -Guy. There was a man to-night, Ruth, upon the moors. - -Ruth. That? But you know. - -Guy. I am waiting to know. - -Ruth. I went to save your life from him. I heard him speak in here, -last night, when you and Mr. Heppenstall had gone in there, and he--he -threatened and---- - -Guy. Threatened! He! And if he did, do you imagine it a woman's job to -guard my life? - -Ruth. He threatened and he meant to do. - -Guy. And what had you to do with him? - -Ruth. That is all over now. - -Guy. It may be, but it has left its mark. Why did you go to him? - -Ruth. I went because of what is past. Before I knew you, Guy, I knew him -and---- - -Guy. You went to beg my life. From him, your lover, Martin Kelsall! - -Ruth. Yes. He was my lover once. - -Guy. A fine strong lover for you, wife of mine. A brave, grand lover, -Ruth. - -Ruth. Oh, you outfaced him in the quarry there. I saw the fear he had -for you. - -Guy. The starveling rat. - -Ruth. Yes, starveling and a coward when he met you face to face, you -with your strength and he an ill and starving man. Maybe it's easy for -a strong man to be brave, but, in the end, he won. His starveling brain -had made a plan. His---- - -Guy. Damn him. Do you defend him? - -Ruth. No, Guy, I don't defend. I prove him dangerous. I prove that -when I went, I went with reason. I prove that if he fooled me there, he -fooled you here. The factory is burnt. - -Guy. I am not talking of the factory just now. It's you I'm talking of. -You say you prove him dangerous. You do. You say he fooled you there, me -here. I am not certain that he did not fool us both at once, up there. - -Ruth. Guy! But I told you. - -Guy. What? - -Ruth. You came in time. - -Guy. In time for what? I want to know. It seems to me that you were -ready---- - -Ruth. Yes. I was ready, ready then and there to save your life. - -Guy. At the price------? - -Ruth. To save your life. You see, I loved you, Guy. - -Guy. You loved me! - -Ruth. Could I have proved it more? - -Guy. There is a price which no man pays for life. You got his pistol -from him. How? - -Ruth. By promising. And then you came. Guy, Guy, I loved you and I -wanted you to live. - -Guy. And you? - -Ruth. The quarry cliff is steep. I should have died. - -Guy. Come here, Ruth. Look at me. Look into my eyes and tell me that -again. - -(_She comes to him._) - -Ruth. I should have died. Death's easy, Guy. - -Guy. Yes. I believe you now. (_From her._) By heaven, what a fool you -are. - -Ruth. A loving fool, then, Guy. - -Guy, A fool in love's the worst of fools. There, there it's over, Ruth. -But Kelsall? Yes, I've got Kelsall. Kelsall shall pay for this. - -Ruth. They'll hang him, Guy? - -Guy. Oh yes, they'll hang what's left. - -Ruth. What's left? - -Guy. When I have done with Martin Kelsall, the gallows will be welcome -to the rest. - -Ruth. Guy, you---- - -Guy. Be careful, Ruth, or you will have me doubting you again. - -Ruth. And there's my father, Guy. Is he to hang as well? - -Guy. You come of a race of fools. - -Ruth. I believe that you can save him, Guy. For my sake, won't you let -that old man live. My father, Guy? Your father's friend when they were -young together. - -Guy. Come here, Ruth. I'll strike a bargain with you. (_He sits._) - -Ruth. A bargain? - -Guy. Yes, for your father's neck. We mustn't let our father hang, must -we, my pretty? - -Ruth. If what you want is in my power to grant---- - -Guy. It's in your power. We'll have a straightening out of things, my -girl. They've got askew, and this night's work of yours is just the last -knot that you'll tie. You meddle, girl. You are come of weavers' stock -and weavers tend to meddling. You used to ask me questions, you worried -me about the factory. I stopped your asking, but I didn't change your -ways. You kept them, saved them up for this fine piece of meddling of -to-night. Now Ruth, it's this. You're my wife. You're Mrs Barlow, -not Ruth Butterworth. Your thoughts should be of my making, not your -father's. You will give up attending other people's business and attend -your own. Maybe if you had done that earlier we should have seen by now -some sign of what I'm looking for from you. You know what that is, lass. -I want an heir. Give me obedience, my Ruth, bear me a son, and this -night's work shall be forgotten. - -Ruth. And, my father? - -Guy. Your father shall escape the hangman, Ruth. What do you say to me? - -Ruth. I--I will be your slave. (_She sinks at his feet in utter -surrender._) - -Guy. You will be my wife. You won't ask questions. You will know that -what I do is good because I do it, and the sooner you bring me an heir -the better I shall be pleased with you. - -Ruth. That is in God's hand, Guy. - -Guy. Aye, but meddling women make bad mothers, Ruth. - -Ruth. I will not meddle more. I'll be your--your wife. - -(_Enter Captain Lascelles. Ruth struggles up._) - -Captain. Oh, I--I beg your pardon--I---- - -Guy (_rising and pouring wine_). Come in, Captain, come in. - -(_Captain closes door and advances._) - -Captain, a loving cup. I apologize to the British Army and congratulate -you on the round-up. (_Holding glass out._) - -Captain (_taking glass_). Why, thank you, Mr. Barlow. Here's your -health, sir. To your eyes, madam. - -Guy (_drinking_). A very gallant piece of work, Captain. - -(_They sit at table. Ruth is by fire, looking into it._) - -Captain. Gallant? Nay, to my mind, sir, the policing of your valley -is no work for a man of Wellington's. It is a sorry soldier who takes -pleasure in the harrying of half-starved weavers. - -Guy. All work well done is good work, Captain. - -Captain. I do not share your pleasure in this night. And let me tell -you, sir, your father's with me in the view I take. - -Guy. My father? Aye, old men resent a change, especially a change that -is forced on them. But for myself, why, good out of evil, captain. A -new factory, up to date in every detail with new machines to cut my wage -list down, and---- - -Captain. Do you think it's safe to build again? - -Guy. Safe? - -Captain. Yes. Will they let you? - -Guy. The weavers? Man, they'll help. - -Captain. Will they now? - -Guy. They will come and ask to be allowed to help They'll sit round -watching stone go on to stone and thank their God for every story -raised. - -Captain. That's not their mood to-night. - -Guy. To-night they have a supper in them, They'll be starving then. - -Ruth (_without turning_). Starving! - -Captain. You are somewhat drastic, sir. - -Guy. Well, sir, and are not you? In the army you've the noble -institution of flogging to keep your men to heel. We can't flog weavers. -It's against the law and so we have to keep them disciplined by other -means. And now, captain, about your prisoners. - -Captain. Yes? - -Guy. You would count them carefully? Suppose, I mean, that one were -missing. Would you take it very much to heart? - -Captain. On the contrary, sir, I should be glad to see the whole lot go. - -Guy. What, all of them? And go away with nothing to show for your -night's work? - -Captain. I don't regard this as a creditable night, Mr. Barlow. Your -father was saying just now that the simplest way is to let them all -escape. They will have had the scare of their lives and are not likely -to forget the lesson. - -Ruth (_turning to Guy_). Oh, if you would! - -Guy (_ignoring her_). And what did you say? - -The Northerners - -Captain. I agreed with him. - -Guy. You're a man of heart, Captain. Only you would be cashiered. - -Captain. I would risk cashiering. And I may remind you, sir, that it is -not you, but your father, who's the magistrate. - -Guy. I speak here for my father. We settled that between us half an hour -ago. - -Captain. That's true. He sent me to you. - -Guy. On your errand of--mercy? - -Captain. Yes. - -Guy (_rising_). Captain, oblige me by sending two of your prisoners -here. Butterworth and Kelsall. One of them may escape. He is my wife's -father. - -Captain (_rising_). Your wife's father! I'm sorry, Mrs. Barlow. I had -so few men that I had to bind the prisoners, and your father must be -pinioned like the rest. - -Guy. He acted like the rest. I will see to his bindings, Captain. - -Captain. And as to the other question? - -Guy. What other? - -Captain. Letting them all escape. - -Guy. There is no other question. - -Captain. Your father, sir----- - -Guy. Your duty, Captain Lascelles, is to hand your prisoners to the -authorities to be dealt with as the law provides. Meanwhile, send me the -men I want. - -Captain. Very well. - -(_Exit Captain Lascelles. Guy sits to his plans. After a moment Ruth -comes to him and touches his arm._) - -Ruth. Guy! - -Guy (_not looking up_). Don't go, Ruth. I want you here. - -Ruth. I was not going, but---- - -Guy. Then oblige me by silence. These plans of mine must reach an -architect to-morrow. (_Takes knife from pocket and erases something on -plan._) And the new machinery must be ordered to-night. - -Ruth. Guy, how soon will the new factory be built? - -Guy (_still at work_). With luck, six months, if frost does not hold up -the masons. - -Ruth. Six months. Six wintry months and in the mean time all the -weavers---- - -Guy. Those who are not hanged will be starving for their sins. I've told -you to keep quiet, Ruth. - -Ruth. I have kept quiet, Guy, kept quiet while you made me love you like -your dog because you warmed my body well and fed me till my eyes -were closed with fat and all my will was lulled to sleep. I asked you -questions of the factory, and when you gave me poetry books to read, -I read them and forgot. You told me not to meddle and I have obeyed. -I gave up asking questions till in all the valley there was none more -ignorant than me. Than me, who---- - -Guy (_rising_). Than you who made a bargain with me here. Is this your -way of keeping it? - -Ruth. Guy, let me ask you things. If it is the last time, for just this -once, be kind and tell me what you mean to do. - -Guy. If it is the last time? Ruth, I keep my bargains. There is your -father's life at stake. - -Ruth. Still, I must know. For the sake of our future, Guy, I must know -what you mean to do. I have been quiet, Guy. I will again. I might have -spoken now while Captain Lascelles spoke with you. I kept my silence -then, But tell me, Guy. It's you who are the master now? You, not your -father? - -Guy. It is I. - -Ruth. Lord of the Valley. Master of their lives. Guy, Guy, what will you -do with them? - -Guy. Break them. - -Ruth. Your father would be merciful. - -Guy. Old men grow soft with age. - -Ruth. Have you not broken them enough? Have they not starved for you -till desperation made them turn and do the deed they did to-night? - -Guy. They did the deed. They turned. Therefore they are not broken, -Ruth. But, by the Lord, they're going to be. I'll have them meek. I'll -crush their spirits till their children's children rue the day their -fathers tried to thwart Guy Barlow. - -Ruth. Yes. You can do it. You've the strength. - -Guy. And the power. The dogs don't know their master yet. - -Ruth. You can do it, Guy. But will you? - -Guy. Will I? - -Ruth. Hear me. A woman can't do much. A woman's handicapped. But what -she can do, Guy, all that I'll do---- - -Guy. Where is your bargain now? - -Ruth. Yes. I made a bargain, didn't I? I bargained for my father's life. -My life for his. - -Guy. Your--life? - -Ruth. I said I'd be your slave. I said that I would give you sons. I -said I would not ask you questions. - -Guy. And you have asked. You have asked and had your answers, For the -last time, Ruth. - -Ruth. Yes. I shall ask no more. I shall----Guy. What? - -(_Enter soldier with Matthew and Martin, whose wrists are bound behind -their backs._) - -Soldier. Captain Lascelles' orders, sir. - -Guy. Thank you. You may go. - -(_Soldier salutes and goes. Ruth snatches knife from table and cuts -Matthew's bonds._) - -Ruth. Father, you shall not be bound. - -Guy (_watching cynically and firmly taking knife from her._) No. Our -father must not be in bonds, must he? But we will stop there, Ruth. It -is not Kelsall's turn just yet. - -Matthew. I am not wishful to be treated differently from the rest. - -Guy. No? And yet, do you know, Father-in-law Butterworth, you are -going to be. Martyrs are going cheap to-night. I have another use than -martyrdom for you. Matthew. Well, seemingly, I'm in your hands. - -Guy. You are precisely in my hands, Father-in-law. What would you say -now if I let you go scot free for this? - -Ruth (_half-incredulously_). Guy! - -Matthew. I'd say the wench had talked to you. - -Guy. Yes. She has talked. And then, Butterworth? After I had let you go? - -Matthew. You want a promise from me? Well, I'll make you none until you -put away from you the abomination of machinery. I'll fight till I can -fight no more against your factories and ugliness. I'll fight for honest -craftsmanship and joy and pride in work until there's not a factory left -in the land, until we've made an end to all the makers and the users of -machines that take the weaver's handiwork away, until---- - -Ruth (_holding him back as he advances towards Guy_). Father! Guy has -the power of life or death. You could be hanged for what you've done -to-night. - -Guy. And dead men burn no factories, Butterworth. - -Matthew. Dead men can speak, speak from their graves back to the living, -Mr. Guy. - -Guy. I have told you you are not to die. You're going to live, because I -will it so. - -Matthew. And ask me to submit? - -Guy. I don't remember asking. I know you will submit. - -Matthew. Never. - -Guy. The door is there. Get out of it and go. You'll not be stayed. Go -out and show yourself alive. Go out and prove to all the valley that Guy -Barlow has the power of life or death. - -Matthew. So that's the use you have for me. To show myself a coward, -who---- - -Guy. To show yourself sent back to life by me. - -Matthew. To life! The life you send me to is not worth having. - -Guy. Perhaps that's why I send you back to it. - -Matthew. No. I will---- - -Ruth. You will think of my mother. - -Martin. Go, Butterworth. There is still work for you to do. - -Matthew. To take my life from him! - -Ruth. He will not taunt you with it, father. - -Guy (_going impatiently to door and opening it_). Go, man, before I -change my mind, and thank your God it's you I choose to take my message -out--the message that Guy Barlow has the power to send men to the -gallows or the loom. For you, the loom. For him, the gallows. Go. - -(_Ruth goes with Matthew to door._) - -Ruth. Go, father. - -Guy. Ruth, not you. - -Ruth. No. - -(_Gently pushing Matthew out. He goes. Guy closes door, then crosses to -window and throws curtains hack. Then turns bullyingly on Martin._) - -Guy. Well, Martin Kelsall, do you like your handiwork? A pretty bonfire -for a winter's night. Look at it, Kelsall. Drink it in, for it is like -to be the last you'll see of earthly fire. They don't waste coal in -jail. - -Martin. I have two things will keep me warm. - -Guy. You will need them both before the hangman fits a noose about your -neck. - -Martin. Two things, Guy Barlow. Hatred. Hatred of you and satisfaction -for to-night. We've made a clean sweep of your factory. - -Guy. And I could almost find it in my heart to shake your dirty hand -for doing it. You've left the less to clear away before we can commence -rebuilding. - -Martin. Rebuilding! - -Guy. Why, did you think we'd sit down still and mourn? You will not live -to see it, Kelsall, but there will be a grand new factory in six months' -time. There'll be machines which eat up work as if they liked it. -Machines to do the work of many men. They're cunning things, those new -machines. They are not rebellious and a little child can guide them by -the hand. Kelsall, I think a factory should have a name. I shall call -mine the Phoenix Factory, because it's going to rise more glorious upon -the ashes you have sown. - -Martin. Oh, you can kill me---- - -Guy. And I shall. I'm not like you. I'm not afraid to kill. - -Martin. But my work will go on. - -Guy. It will. And shall I tell you what that work of yours will be? -Death, Kelsall, Death and---- - -Martin. Yes, death for me, but for the others--those for whom I give my -life--there will be---- - -Guy. There will be the slower death which you escape by hanging. They -will thank you for it, won't they, Kelsall? While they starve, they'll -bless your name for burning down the factory that brought them bread. - -Martin. It did not bring them bread enough for life. - -Guy. Oh, some of them will live the winter through and come to work my -new looms in the spring. They'll be the strong men who survive, strong -weavers for my factory and, by the Lord, they will be meek. They will -have learnt the cost of yonder carnival. They---- - -Ruth. Stop, Guy. - -Guy. What? - -Ruth. I'm telling you to stop your blasphemy. - -Guy. You asked me questions, Ruth. I thought you liked to listen to my -plans. - -Ruth. Yes. I have asked you questions and I have my answer now. - -Guy. True, but you interrupt me, Ruth. You interrupt my telling Mr. -Kelsall of the future which he will not be fortunate enough to see. - -Ruth. You are baiting a helpless man, and---- - -Guy. If you prefer to go, the door is open. I've got a crow to pick with -Kelsall here. - -Ruth. I do not prefer to go. I told you what a woman could, I'd do to -stop your infamies. - -Guy (_sneering_). Women can do so much. - -Ruth. Sometimes they can do much. Martin, I am glad that they have bound -your hands. Glad of it now, because---- - -Martin (_understanding_). No. No. Not that way, Ruth. - -Ruth. Is there another? - -Martin. Yes. Loose my hands and I---- - -Guy. I think not, Kelsall. So. You are Ruth and Martin to each other, -are you? And Ruth met Martin on the moors to-night. Ruth is my wife, and -Martin--Martin is---- (_He approaches with fist clenched to strike._) - -Ruth (_in front of Martin, protecting him_). Martin is the man I should -have married if---- - -Guy (_restraining himself with the mastery of one who feels he can take -his time_). If you hadn't seen a better chance in me. - -Martin. A better chance! - -Ruth (_with a protective arm across his chest, watching Guy by fire, -over her shoulder_). Yes, Martin, for it was a chance. - -Martin (_bitterly_) What have you made of it? - -Ruth. Oh, in the end it comes to this. Could it have come to any other -thing? - -Martin. We might have had this time together, Ruth. Some sort of -happiness, some little sort. - -Ruth. I've had some happiness with him. The sort of happiness you have -when you're asleep. I loved him in my sleep, and in my dreams he seemed -a proper man to love. But you--you've had no happiness. You have been -lonely, Martin, lonely and cold and hungry. You should have had me -working with you all this while. I've been a traitor to you in my sleep. -But now--now I am awake and in the death to which they'll make you -go, you shall be stainless to the end. And in their hearts you'll live -again--the man who planned and did and died upon a gallows for the -people's sake. I will keep you pure for that, my Martin. I----- - -Guy (_from fire_). I am being very patient, Ruth. - -Ruth (_to Martin, not turning_). You see, I've had my happiness, so it -is right that I should pay. (_She turns to Guy._) - -Guy. So? You have finished your farewell? - -Ruth. Yes, Guy, it is all over now. - -Guy (_suddenly ferocious_). Then come here, Ruth. Come here and scream. -Scream loudly, Ruth, or I shall cheat the hangman of his prey before -they drag me off. - -Ruth (_between them_) You shall not touch him, Guy. A fettered man. - -Guy. Shan't! Shall I not? Come to me, Ruth, I tell you. Come away. I'm -master here. - -Ruth. Yes. You are master here where your father was. And if you die, -your father would be master still. - -Guy. You are standing in my way. - -Ruth. Your father's merciful and you--you shall not have your vengeance, -Guy. The hard, hard laws will take revenge and men will pay in blood and -tears and life for what they've done to-night. You shall not make the -women pay in agony. (_She takes pistol from table and points._) You -shall not starve the valley, Guy. - -Guy. So. That is what you mean. The pistol's loaded, and your aim is -true. (_He comes round table._) - -Ruth. I do not shake with hunger, Guy. - -Guy. Not by my death nor by a hundred deaths of such as me will you -delay the spread of factories. They will go on--go on--I may not see it, -but---- (_He leaps._) - -Ruth. You will not see it, Guy. (_She fires._) And I--I only see the -valley here and you who would be master of their lives. - -Guy (_falling_). You--you've got me, Ruth. - -Ruth (_dropping pistol_). The plans. The plans. (_She burns plans in -fire._) - -Guy. Ruth! - -Ruth. Yes. (_By him._) I have killed the man I loved. Lest he became the -beast I'd hate. - -Martin. Ruth! For God's sake, loose my hands. Ruth (_looking at Guy_). -Good-bye, Martin. They will be coming for me now. - -(_Captain Lascelles, Ephraim and John are seen in the doorway._) - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ZACK - - -CHARACTERS. - -Paul Munning. - -Zachariah Munning. - -Joe Wrigley. - -James Abbott. - -Thomas Mowatt - -Harry Shoebridge - -Mrs. Munning. - -Virginia Cavender. - -Martha Wrigley. - -Sally Teale - - -Act I.--_Mrs. Munnings Parlour--an afternoon in early June_. - -Act II.--_The Refreshment Room--morning a fortnight later_. - -Act III.--_Mrs. Munnings Parlour--evening a month later._ - - -In the Village of Little Hulton, Lancashire. - - - - -ACT I. - -_The parlour in Mrs. Munning's house, the window of which looks out to -a bowling green. The room is furnished with chairs and sofa, upholstered -in horsehair. It is not quite shabby, but well used. The ornaments -crowded on the mantelpiece are Mid-Victorian survivals. There is a -bookshelf on the wall above the bureau. The wall-paper is flowered; -there is no gas, but lamp on table. In the window is a small model in -plaster of a wedding-cake. It should be quite small and unostentatious. -Men's coats are hung behind door. The light is of a spring afternoon._ - -_As the curtain rises, Mrs. Munning, who is fifty-five and hard -featured, is dusting the ornaments on the mantel. She is in her best -clothes, which are black, protected by a dirty apron. She looks at the -clock impatiently. It strikes four. She goes to window and looks out. -She mutters, "And time too" and goes to door. She opens it and speaks -through it._ - -***** - -Mrs. Munning. Get a move on, now. Take your things off in there and come -along quick. - -Sally (_off_). Yes, Mrs. Munning. - -Mrs. Munning. Hurry up when I tell you. This is a nice time of day to -come. - -Sally (_entering, a pretty, country girl of eighteen in print frock_). -You told me to come o' Thursday and Thursday _'_tis. - -Mrs. Munning. It's been Thursday a long time. - -Sally. You never said no hour. And mother said to me, she says---- - -Mrs. Munning. Never mind what she said. You take hold of that duster and -let me see you shape. - -Sally. Yes, Mrs. Munning. (_She takes it and dusts at mantel._) - -Mrs. Munning. Take care of those ornaments now, Sally. - -Sally. Now don't you fret yourself. I'm not the breaking sort. You can -stop my wages for all I'm like to break. - -Mrs. Munning. That's of course. - -Sally. I was telling you. Mother, she says to me, you stay at home for -your dinner, she says, and that'll save Mrs. Munning a bit; and I stayed -willing because we'd trotters to-day and they're a dish that I've a -relish for. - -Mrs. Munning. You could have gone home to your dinner. - -Sally. And I couldn't. Not when I'd once begun with you. Meals and all, -you said, and a bargain's a bargain. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, you should have come this morning. Leaving me all to -do. - -Sally. Mother didn't know you were in a hurry. - -Mrs. Munning. She ought to, then. I told her. I told her that when Miss -Cavender came this afternoon I wanted her to take you for a regular -maid. And don't you forget it neither, Sally, and go giving it away -you're not always here. - -Sally. Suppose she asks me, Mrs. Munning? - -Mrs. Munning. If you'll shape properly, she'll never think but what -you're regular. That's what I wanted you early for. To run you round and -show you the ways of the house. - -Sally. Eh, but I don't need showing. Didn't I spring-clean for you last -year? I'll manage easy. - -Mrs. Munning. You'll have to now. And don't come asking me where things -are kept, not when Miss Cavender can hear you ask. - -Sally. Oh, don't you worry, Mrs. Munning. If any one gives it away to -Miss Cavender that I've not been here for years and years, it'll not be -me. Find my way about a strange house blindfold, I can. It's a natural -gift. - -(_Paul Munning enters, a man of thirty, well-built, but with meanness -stamped upon an otherwise not unattractive face. He wears light clothes -with a grey bowler hat, and a buttonhole._) - -Sally. Here's Mr. Paul. Good-afternoon, sir. - -(_Paul grunts. Mrs. Munning turns._) - -Paul. Has she come yet? - -Mrs. Munning. Not yet. Have you----? - -(_Paul indicates Sally._) - -Um. This room will do now, Sally. - -Sally. It will, though I says it that did it. - -Mrs. Munning. Did you! I fancied I did it myself. - -Sally. You did the rough, Mrs. Munning, but I always say it's the -finishing touch that counts with dusting and I reckon I did that. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, now you can go to the kitchen and get the kettle on -for tea. - -Sally. You'll be having your tea in here, won't you? - -Mrs. Munning. Yes. - -Sally. All right. You needn't raise a hand to it. I'll see to -everything. - -(_Sally goes out._) - -Mrs. Munning. She's a Miss Know-all, she is. - -Paul. Won't she do? - -Mrs. Munning. She'll have to do. Virginia's got to think we keep a maid, -and Sally's the only one who'd come at our price. - -Paul (_sitting, gloomily_). It's great expense. - -Mrs. Munning. No helping that. It's got to be. We can't have Virginia -going home and telling all her aunt's too poor to keep a servant. Did -you get that order? - -Paul. No. - -Mrs. Munning. Not Taylor's? - -Paul. Wilson, of Norton Parva, is catering for Mrs. Taylor's wedding. - -Mrs. Munning. You mean to say that Wilson got there first? - -Paul. He hadn't been. - -Mrs. Munning. Then how's he got the order? - -Paul. He's going to get it. It's the same old tale. They'd heard our -weddings aren't as pleasant as they used to be. Knew we were nearest, -but they thought they'd give Wilson a chance. A good ten pounds gone -from us there. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, I don't know. - -Paul. And I don't know. If I knew I'd alter it. We're doing things no -different from what we always did, and yet it's got about our style's -gone off. It's not gone off. - -Mrs. Munning. I'm sure it's not. What do they say? Do they tell you -anything? - -Paul. Folks with a wedding in their house are too uplifted to say much. -They don't explain. What I make out is we're not so hearty as we used to -be. - -Mrs. Munning. Hearty? - -Paul. I've heard it said so. God knows what it means. I'm sure I try to -be hearty. It's prejudice, and nothing else. - -Mrs. Munning. And word's passed round against us. - -Paul. Seems so. - -Mrs. Munning. It's very bad, Paul. - -Paul. Bad? Don't I know it's bad? Couldn't be worse if it tried. We'll -have the shutters up altogether at this rate. The joinery business -doesn't keep us alive, and if the catering goes to ruin, we'll go along -with it. That's all. - -Mrs. Munning. That's all, is it? Can't you up and fight it? You're -losing heart. - -Paul. Enough to make me, too. You can fight a thing you see, but you -can't fight a prejudice. It's like hitting air. I tell you what, mother, -this is no time to have a guest, and a guest that calls for a servant. - -Mrs. Munning. We can't afford to lose a chance. - -Paul. Chance of what? - -Mrs. Munning. There's money in that family, and when my sister writes -to me and says Virginia's not been well and needs the country air, I say -it's folly not to have her here, cost what it may. - -Paul. There's money and they'll keep it to themselves. - -Mrs. Munning. I'm not the one to go expecting much, but you never know, -and it _'_ud be no more than sisterly of Annie to remember me in her -will. - -Paul. Oh well, she's coming and we're in for it. How long before we see -the back of her? - -Mrs. Munning. The doctor told her mother it'll take a month to put her -right. - -Paul. A month! A month! Good Lord! There's Sally at six shillings a week -wages, that's one pound four, and as much again for keep, is two pounds -eight, and Virginia an invalid _'_ll cost---- - -Mrs. Munning. She's not an invalid. She's just run down. - -Paul. I know, and the Lord knows what it'll cost in fancy goods to wind -her up. You'll see no change from five pounds for this affair. - -Mrs. Munning. I say it's worth it. - -Paul. And I hope you're right. - -Mrs. Munning. We'll see. You'd better change your clothes now, Paul. - -Paul. Change? What for? - -Mrs. Munning. When I married your father I married a joiner and I didn't -see cause to tell our Annie that he couldn't make ends meet till -I turned to and made a catering business for him as well, me being -apprenticed to the confectionery when he came courting me. I didn't tell -them and I haven't told to this day. - -Paul. Yes, but if the girl's to stay a month she's bound to know it soon -or late. - -Mrs. Munning. Then let her know it late. There's a lot in first -impressions. - -Paul. Why, there's Mr. Abbott's wedding-party tomorrow. - -Mrs. Munning. That's not to-day, is it? And we'll send her for a walk -to-morrow with Zack, out of the way. - -Paul. About all he's fit for. - -Mrs. Munning. You get your gay clothes changed, - -Paul, or she'll ask questions at once. I've tea to see to now. (_Opening -door._) Sally! - -Sally (_appearing with folded cloth_). Now it's all right, Mrs. Munning. -I'm finding all I want. - -(_Paul goes out. Sally unfolds and lays on table a ragged white cloth._) - -Mrs. Munning. What do you call that? - -Sally. Tea-cloth, isn't it? - -Mrs. Munning. Yes, for the kitchen. I've got one here for this room. -(_She opens drawer in table and takes out cloth._) - -Sally (_watching_). Oh! Company cloth, like. - -Mrs. Munning. Take the other back. - -(_Sally is going._) - -And here, Sally. - -Sally (_turning_). Yes, Mrs. Munning. - -Mrs. Munning (_going to window, getting the wedding-cake model_). Take -this with you and put it in the dresser drawer. Sally. The dresser -drawer! - -Mrs. Munning. And mind you close it. - -Sally. Well I---- Oh, I see. You're hiding it. - -Mrs. Munning. We don't want Miss Cavender to be learning everything at -once. - -Sally. A nod's as good as a wink to me. I'm mum. - -(_Sally goes out, with model and cloth, nodding sagely. Mrs. Munning -carefully spreads the new cloth on table, putting the lamp on the -bureau. Sally re-enters with tray, which she places on the table with a -flourish. Mrs. Munning surveys the tray._) - -Mrs. Munning. That'll not do, Sally. - -Sally. What's wrong now? - -Mrs. Munning. You mustn't bring in the loaf like that. I want cut bread -and butter. - -Sally. Oh, well I call that making work, especially with a loaf like -that, all over nobbly bits of crust that's twice as sweet to eat for -tearing off. - -Mrs. Munning. And that cress? - -Sally (_bridling_). Well? - -Mrs. Munning. It's for cress sandwiches. - -Sally. Oh? I didn't see no ham nor nothink. - -Mrs. Munning. Cress sandwiches, Sally. - -Sally. How can they be sandwiches without there's meat? - -Mrs. Munning. Can you cut them or must I do it myself? - -Sally. Can I? Of course I can. But I call it a finicky way of doing -things. Making a nuisance of a simple job like eating cress. What are -fingers for? - -Mrs. Munning. That will do, Sally. I want no grumbling. - -(_Sally takes up loaf and cress._) - -Sally. Grumbling? There never was nobody less of a grumbler than me. I -only speak my mind. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, you get along and cut that bread up now. I want -things looking nice. Lord I If that isn't the fly now. Quick, Sally! -Put those plates down in yonder and get back to the door. (_She hustles -Sally out. By the door she takes off her apron, and pitches it through -door._) Hang that up sometime. Come along, now. Get to the front door. - -(_Sally re-enters._) - -Sally. It's all right, Mrs. Munning. Don't you get yourself into a tear. -There's another day to-morrow. (_Sally crosses to front door and exit._) - -(_Mrs. Munning becomes very much the lady of leisure. She pats her hair, -takes a book from shelf and sits in arm-chair, reading. Sally re-enters -with Virginia, a well-dressed girl of the urban type with plenty of high -spirits and some little indication of recent illness._) - -Sally. The young lady's here. - -(_Sally remains, an interested spectator._) - -Mrs. Munning (_marking her place in the book, and rising_). Well, so -this is Virginia. How you've grown! - -Virginia. How are you, Aunt Elizabeth? - -Mrs. Munning. I'm strong and hearty, child. It's you that's not. - -Virginia. Oh, I'm all right now, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning. You're pale. - -Virginia. But not for long in this air of yours. There isn't much the -matter with me. - -Mrs. Munning. Your mother wrote a different tale from that. - -Virginia. Mother's a dear old fuss. - -Mrs. Munning. How is she? - -Virginia. She's splendid, thanks. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, give Sally your coat and sit down. Virginia. Thanks. - -(_Sally takes her coat, then stands examining it._) - -Mrs. Munning. That's right. And now, Virginia---- - -Virginia. Jenny, please, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning. Jenny! - -Virginia. Virginia's no name to live with. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, as you like. Why don't you sit? - -Virginia. I didn't pay the flyman. - -Mrs. Munning. As if we'd let you! It'll be a pleasure to Paul to see to -that. You'll remember Paul? - -Virginia. Very vaguely. As a tiny boy. - -Mrs. Munning. He's a big man now. He'll be helping the flyman up -with your boxes, only we don't hear them because this house is so -extraordinarily well-built you can't hear sounds in it at all. It's a -perfect refuge of peace. Just what you want to cure your nerves with -quiet and---- - -(_Several loud bumps are heard above. Mrs. Munning looks disconcerted._) - -Virginia (_quickly_). I'm afraid my box is very heavy. Mrs. Munning -(_recovering_). Oh, Paul won't mind. He's wonderfully strong. Will you -have tea now or would you rather go to your room first? Sally shall show -you. Virginia (_rising_). Thank you. - -Mrs. Munning (_speaking at Sally_). Our guest room is directly over -here. - -(_Virginia nods and goes out._) - -Sally. That's your room, Mrs. Munning. - -Mrs. Munning. You keep that to yourself. - -(_Sally nods, and goes out after Virginia. Mrs. Munning fusses a moment -at the tea tablet then suddenly thinking, goes to the window and opens -it._) - -(_Calling softly_). Zack! Zack! Zack! - -(_Paul enters. He has changed to a brown suit of country cut._) - -Paul. What do you want Zack for? (_He speaks at her back._) - -Mrs. Munning (_turning violently_). Eh? Oh, it's you. - -Paul. Yes. What's to do? - -Mrs. Munning. I've had so much on hand with that Sally turning up so -late that it slipped my mind about Zack. - -Paul. What about Zack? - -Mrs. Munning. I've forgotten to warn him. - -Paul. Warn? - -Mrs. Munning. About the catering, and Sally and so on. If we don't make -it as plain to him as Monday's dinner he'll give us away in the inside -of two minutes. You know what Zack is. - -Paul. I'd leave him alone. He's safer out of the way than in it. - -Mrs. Munning. That'll not do. He'll chose the best wrong time for -turning up. Trust Zack for doing something awkward. - -Paul (_going l._). I'll have a look round. - -Mrs. Munning. As like as not the wastrel's sleeping somewhere. - -Paul. Or reading in a book. - -Mrs. Munning. I'll give him read. - -(_Enter Sally_). - -You've been a fine time showing Miss Cavender her room. (_Exit Paul._) - -Sally. I've been helping her undo her box, Mrs. Munning. - -Mrs. Munning. Trust you for prying, I suppose. Sally. I didn't look -before she asked me. But when I did, I saw some sights. The ironing -she'll make. Frills! They're the width of my hand and more. - -Mrs. Munning (_angrily_). Will you go into the kitchen and get those -sandwiches cut? - -Sally. I'm going. (_She gets to door, then turns._) But I'll tell you -this much, Mrs. Munning, that there'll be a row of eyes on washing day -a-watching me hang Miss Cavender's underlinen on the line. This village -hasn't seen such sights before. - -Mrs. Munning. You mind your own business in there and don't waste time. -I'll ring for tea. (_She pushes Sally out, then goes to window._) Can't -you find him, Paul? Paul. Not yet. (_He is outside window._) - -Mrs. Munning. Best leave it, then. If he's asleep he may sleep on till -after tea and then we'll tell him quietly. Paul. What! Zack sleep while -there's eating going on? Mrs. Munning. We'll have to chance it, Paul. I -want you here when she comes down wherever Zack may be. You didn't see -her upstairs? - -Paul. No. Dodged her. - -Mrs. Munning. That's right. - -(_Paul comes from window and enters by door. Mrs. Munning closes window, -and then arranges table again, fussily._) - -Paul (_grumbling_). Tea in here. - -Mrs. Munning. Why, of course. - -(_Paul sits sulkily in arm-chair, legs outstretched, hands in pocket._) - -Paul. It's a sight more comfortable in the kitchen. This is a foul upset -of all our ways. - -Mrs. Munning. Wait till you see Virginia. - -Paul. I don't need seeing her. I carried up her traps and that's enough -to tell me all I want to know. - -Mrs. Munning. A girl must have clothes, Paul. - -Paul. I'd rather carry them than pay for them, that's true. A -dressed-up, peeked and pampered town girl with a head full of fancies -and---- - -Mrs. Munning. I'm sure she isn't peeked. - -Paul. Oh? Isn't she ill, or was her mother lying? - -Mrs. Munning. She's been ill and she's getting better now. - -Paul. That's worse. She'll eat us out of house and home Convalescents -always eat like elephants. - -Mrs. Munning. I wish you'd think ahead. - -Paul. I do. To the grocer's bills she'll make. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, you think to something a bit more pleasant that'll -bring a smile to your face. You've a sour look on you sometimes. - -Paul. Enough to make me sour, too. - -Mrs. Munning. I've told you why she's here. It's not because I love her, -nor her mother neither, but there's money at that end of the family and -I'm a believer in keeping on the sweet side of rich relations and giving -Providence a friendly lead. - -Paul. I can look pleasant all right when I'm being photographed with a -wedding-group, but looking pleasant for a month on end! It'll take some -doing, I give you my word. - -(_Virginia enters in a light spring frock. Paul rises._) - -Mrs. Munning. This is Paul, Jenny. - -Virginia. I'm very glad to see you, Cousin Paul. It's a long time since -we met. - -Paul (_not ungraciously_). I don't remember meeting you at all. - -Mrs. Munning (_up to bureau, from which she gets a large old-fashioned -portrait album_). Don't you? I'll show you when you met. Sit down, -Jenny. - -Virginia (_sitting_). Thanks. - -Mrs. Munning (_sitting by her with the album. Paul stands behind_). I've -got you both in this album. Taken together. - -Paul. Oh? - -(_Mrs. Munning finds the photograph._) - -Virginia. Oh yes. Mother has one of that at home. - -Mrs. Munning. It was taken at your house. Look at it, Paul. Weren't you -a loving pair? - -Paul. Is that me? - -Mrs. Munning. That's you. - -Virginia. Don't you look funny? - -Paul. You a baby and me a little lad. No wonder I'd forgotten it. - -Mrs. Munning. You've both come on a bit since then. Ring the bell for -tea, Paul. - -(_Paul looks surprised, then rings._) - -Virginia (_turning over leaves_). Is this Paul, too? - -Mrs. Munning. Yes. Paul at five. (_Turning_). And there he is at ten, -and there at twelve and---- - -Virginia. Yes. But haven't I another cousin, Aunt Elizabeth? - -Mrs. Munning. Yes. Yes, but---- - -Paul. He makes a bad photograph. - -Virginia. Some people do. But they are often all the better in the -flesh. Will he be in to tea? - -Mrs. Munning. Well---- - -Virginia. Isn't he at home? - -(_Sally enters with tea, sandwiches, etc._) - -Paul. Oh yes. But we're very busy in the joiner's shop just now. - -(_Sally stops short and looks at him._) - -Mrs. Munning. Come along, Sally. - -Virginia. Oh, dear! But of course I'm glad to know your business does -so well. I mean I suppose it does if my cousin is too busy to come in to -tea. - -Mrs. Munning. We'll send for him. Sally, tell Mr. Zachary to come. - -Sally. Mr. Zachary? - -Mrs. Munning. Yes. - -Sally. Do you mean Zack? - -Mrs Munning. Tell Mr. Zachary tea's ready and his cousin's come. - -Sally. But I don't know where he is. He's such a one for getting into -holes and corners and---- - -Paul. You can find him, can't you? - -Sally. I can try. And I'll start with his bed, and all. It's ten to one -he's lying on it. - -Mrs. Munning. Sally, he's---- - -Sally. Are you finding him or am I? Because if it's me, I'll look in the -likeliest place first. - -(_Exit Sally._) - -Mrs. Munning. You mustn't expect town courtesy from our country -servants, Jenny. May I give you sugar? Virginia. One lump, please. - -Mrs. Munning. And cream? - -Virginia. Thanks. - -Mrs. Munning. Paul, Jenny's cup. - -(_Paul hands it clumsily. While they are occupied the door opens, -and Zack enters. He is younger than Paul, but neglect makes him look -middle-aged. He wears spectacles and a beard and is dressed shabbily -with a carpenter's apron on. Under his left arm is the wedding-cake -model._) - -Zack. I knew that was the smell of tea-time, but what are we having it -in here for? - -Mrs. Munning. Zack, don't you see your cousin? - -(_Mrs. Munning pours tea, etc. Virginia rises._) - -Zack. Why, if I'd not forgotten all about her. I am a careless chap. -Do you know, Miss Virginia, I forgot to come in to dinner one day last -week. - -Paul. That doesn't often happen. - -Zack. It _'_ud better not, neither. Gives you a nasty sinking feel -towards tea-time to go without your dinner. Well, how are you, Miss -Virginia? I'm pleased to meet you. - -(_Till now Virginia has stood slightly embarrassed and amused. He comes -forward now, and Virginia puts out her hand._) - -Mrs. Munning. You'll wash your hand before you touch Jenny's. - -Zack. Maybe I ought. I'm not so frequent at the soap as I might be. - -Virginia. I think we'll shake hands as you are. - -Zack. Will you? That's hearty. - -(_They shake hands. Virginia sits, Zack is about to._) - -But----- Oh, Lord! - -Virginia. What is it? - -Zack (_fingering his coat_). I'm not dressed up for a parlour tea. I---- -Eh? - -(_Paul is taking the model from under Zack's arm._) - -Oh, yes. Do you know where I found that? - -Mrs. Munning. Put it down. - -Zack (_up to window with it_). I'll put it in its place. But do you know -where I found it? - -Mrs. Munning. Never mind, Zack. It doesn't matter. (_To Jenny._) It's -only a little window ornament, Jenny. - -Zack (_imperviously_). I found that on the kitchen dresser. Picked it up -as I came through. - -(_Sally enters. Mrs. Munning's feelings get too much for her. She rises -to meet Sally. Paul sees and distracts Virginia's attention._) - -Paul. Will you have more bread and butter, Jenny? Virginia. Thank you, -Paul. - -Sally. I can't find---- (_Seeing Zack._) Oh, there you are! - -Mrs. Munning (_to Sally_). I told you to put that model in the dresser -drawer. - -Sally. And you told me to cut sandwiches and bread and I've one pair of -hands and not a hundred. I left it atop till I'd a minute to spare, and -if it's not where I left it some one's moved it. It didn't walk. - -(_She crosses speaking and exit. Mrs. Munning returns speechlessly to -her seat._) - -Zack. Well, I'll change my coat and chance it. - -(_He changes to a slightly less old coat which hangs behind the door._) - -Parlour ways is parlour ways. - -Virginia. I do hope you're not going to make a stranger of me, Aunt -Elizabeth. - -Zack. And that's no use in here. (_Taking off the apron,_) Paul. You'll -have to make allowances for Zack, Jenny. Virginia. Is he a little----? - -Paul. We don't let it go beyond the family, of course. Virginia. I hope -I'm one of you. - -Paul. He was born lazy. That's what's the matter. Zack (_returning to -table, sitting and eating. Zack can talk and eat at once_). I've done -a job of work to-day and chance it. Mended that pig-stye at Ballbrook -farm. - -Paul. Did you? I daresay there was all of ten minutes' work in that. - -Zack. Took me a couple of hour. - -Mrs. Munning. Then I hoped you charged according. Zack. I charged a -shilling. - -Mrs. Munning. For a couple of hour! It's worth half a crown. - -Zack. I charged what I thought fair. - -Mrs. Munning. What you----! Oh well, it's done now. - -Where's the shilling? - -Zack (_feeling_). Oh, it's in my other coat. (_He is about to rise._) - -Paul. All right. All right. That'll do later. - -Zack. But I can see I've done wrong thing again. It's like this, Miss -Virginia, there's some folk born to do right. They can't do the wrong -thing if they tried. Like mother and Paul. I'm different. It's just the -other way with me. I can't do right. - -Mrs. Munning. You never spoke a truer word. - -Zack. Same time, you know, I have my use. Oh yes, I've got a use. - -Mrs. Munning. I haven't noticed it. - -Zack. I'll tell you then. Suppose a thing goes wrong. - -They do sometimes. Very well. It couldn't be Paul and it couldn't be -you, because you're born the other way. It's always me. You don't need -to look round for some one to put the blame on. You know it's me. And -that's a sort of use now, isn't it? - -Virginia. Is it? - -Zack. Think of the time it saves. I'm always handy to be cussed at. Like -a cat, you know. Some folks keep a cat or a dog, and when their feelings -get too much to hold, they kick the cat. Well, I'm the cat in this -house. (_He speaks entirely without bitterness. It is all accepted -fact._) - -Paul. You sleep like one, but a cat's more use than you. You don't catch -mice. - -Zack. I eat more, too. And that's a thing I've tried to master and I -can't. You'd be surprised the way I've tried to fight my appetite. - -Mrs. Munning. It's news to me. - -Zack. I own it didn't show. It beat me every time Eating agrees with -me. That's where it is. I'm a natural-born eater and I can't go against -nature. - -Mrs. Munning. You needn't talk about it. - -Zack. No. But it's like my other ways. It can't be hid. I'm eating now -in the parlour as hearty as if it were in the kitchen. And that's not -right, is it? - -Virginia. I don't know. - -Zack. Parlour's for eating like you didn't mean it, and only played with -food to pass the time. I wish I could pretend with food. But the habit's -got too strong a hold on me for that. I'll never be a gentleman. - -Mrs. Munning. That'll do, Zack. Talking about yourself with your mouth -full. Jenny's heard quite enough. - -Paul. What would you like to do after tea, Jenny? - -Virginia. Anything you like. I must just write to mother first to tell -her I got here all right. - -Mrs. Munning. Of course. - -Virginia. What time does the post go? - -Mrs. Munning. Six o'clock. - -Virginia. I'd better write at once. Then I shall be quite at your -disposal, cousin. - -Paul. I thought you and mother might go out. The country's looking quite -like spring. - -Zack. I've noticed the celandine's in bud. - -Mrs. Munning. Are you too tired for a walk, Jenny? - -Virginia. Not at all. - -Mrs. Munning. Then Paul shall take you. Youth with youth. - -Paul. I'm rather busy at the works. - -Zack. Works! And busy! - -Paul (_silencing him_). Yes, busy. So if you'll excuse me now------ - -Virginia. Of course. - -Zack. Well! that's a oner. - -Paul. I'll just clear off my work as quickly as I can. - -(_Exit Paul._) - -Zack. That'll not take long. Busy! - -Mrs. Munning. Paul's busy if you're not. Hadn't you better go and help -him? - -Zack. There's no wurk in to help him at. We've never been so slack. - -Mrs. Munning. It's there if you'll go and look for it, and stop making -an exhibition of your laziness to your cousin. - -Zack. I haven't finished my tea. - -Mrs. Munning. Every one else has. It's not our fault you came in late. -Will you write your letter here, Jenny? (_Indicates bureau._) - -Virginia. I have notepaper upstairs, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning. And you don't use it in this house. We can run to a sheet -of notepaper, I should hope. Oh, I was thinking---- (_She opens the -portrait album._) - -Virginia. Yes? - -Mrs. Munning. No, there's a better one than that. I'll get it for you. I -thought you might like to send your mother a photograph of Paul. - -Virginia. I'm sure she'll like to have it, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning. Yes. I'll run upstairs and get it you. I've one up there -that's better than any of these. - -(_Exit Mrs. Munning._) - -Zack. There's queer things happening here to-day, Miss Virginia. - -Virginia. Are there? Why do you call me Miss Virginia? - -Zack. You're not a married woman, are you? - -Virginia. Of course not. But I don't call you Mr. Zachary. - -Zack. Nor nobody else neither. Mr. Zachary! I'd not know who you meant. - -Virginia. Why don't you call me Jenny, like the others do? - -Zack. I'm not same as the others, you see. - -Virginia. You're my cousin just as much as Paul is. - -Zack. I suppose that's true. There's funny things in nature, too. By -gum, there are. To think of the likes of me being own cousin to the -likes of you. - -Virginia. So you'll call me Jenny. - -Zack. I'd _like_ to, if you think it's quite respectful. - -Virginia. Bother respect. I'm Jenny and you're Zack, and that's settled. - -Zack. Well, I never thought--eh, but we're getting on champion, Jenny. -I'm still a bit worried in my mind, though. - -Virginia. Not about my name? - -Zack. Oh no. Settled's settled. It's, well--this for a start. (_He takes -up the model._) What did mother want to hide it away for? - -Virginia. What is it, Zack? - -Zack (_holding it towards her_). You can see what it is. - -Virginia. A wedding cake? - -Zack. Aye, but you wouldn't thank me for a slice of this. It's plaster. -How are folks to know we are caterers unless they can see that in the -window? It's like keeping a pub and putting your sign away. - -Virginia. But I thought you were joiners. - -Zack. We crack to be because joinery was father's trade. But it's -mother's trade we mostly live by. She's a masterpiece at cooking, only -the business isn't thriving. Wedding spreads are the best part of it. -Folk are a bit slow at getting wed, some road. - -Virginia. I don't think aunt wanted me to know about this, Zack. - -Zack. She's no cause to hide it, then. Father was a bit like me, not -much inclined to work, and I reckon I'm proud of my mother for working -for two. But things aren't what they were. Folks won't spend like -they used to. They buy furniture instead of feasting so much. And our -weddings have a bad name, too. I don't know how it is. I'm sure Paul -tries. - -Virginia. And do you go to them? - -Zack. Not now, with things so bad. I used to go until my clothes -wore out--well, they weren't mine at all properly speaking. They were -father's when he was alive and then I had them, but I'm hard on clothes -somehow. I'm a great expense all ways there are, with being a big eater -and all. And when my dress coat gave out at the seams and got that shiny -you could see your face in it, mother wouldn't buy me another, and so -I don't go now. It's been a sorrow to me, too. I used to take a lot of -pleasure in seeing others enjoy themselves. But I wasn't any use, not -real use, like Paul. I couldn't boss things like he does. I just was -there and tried to tell the old maids that their day would come. But I -couldn't even do my fair share of waiting because of a weakness that I -have. - -Virginia. A weakness! Zack, it isn't---- - -Zack. Oh, no. Not that. I'm a teetotaller, Jenny. I get that worked -up with the hearty feeling of it that I break the plates. My hand's -unsteady. (_Takes plates from table._) See! That's steady enough? Yes, -but get me waiting at a table full of wedding guests and it seems I've -got to break the plates to show my pleasure. And it's not wilful. It's -not indeed. It's just anxiety to do things right that makes me do them -wrong. Mother's quite right. I'm not a bit of good, but I do miss the -outings all the same. - -Virginia. Poor Zack. I really must get to my letter now, and I think -I'll go upstairs after all. - -Zack. I'm not driving you away? - -Virginia. Of course you're not. - -(_Mrs. Munning enters r._) - -Mrs. Munning. I'm sorry I've been so long, Jenny, I couldn't lay my -hands on the one I wanted. There it is. (_Giving photograph._) - -Virginia. Oh! It's very good of him. - -Mrs. Munning. I think your mother will be glad to see it. . - -Virginia. Yes. (_She isn't interested, and puts the photograph on the -table._) I was just going upstairs to write. It will be quieter in my -room. - -Mrs. Munning. Has Zack been talking to you? - -Zack. I did a bit. - -Mrs. Munning. Oh, then I'm not surprised you want some quiet for a -change. - -Virginia. I thought I'd not be interrupted there. I won't be long. -(_Going._) - -Mrs. Munning. You're forgetting the photograph. - -Virginia. I'm sorry, aunt. I was thinking of the other things I had to -say to mother. (_She glances at Zack and goes out._) - -Mrs. Munning (_reflectively, looking after her_). I'd give something to -know what she's saying about our Paul in that letter. (_She turns._) Why -isn't the table cleared? Couldn't you stir yourself to ring the bell for -Sally? - -Zack. I didn't know I ought. A servant girl's a novelty to me. - -Mrs. Munning. You didn't let that out to Jenny? - -Zack. Let what out? - -Mrs. Munning. Why, that Sally isn't always here. - -Zack. I don't remember that we mentioned her at all. Aren't we to let -that out? - -Mrs. Munning. Of course we're not, you moon-struck natural! What do you -think she's here for? - -Zack. Well, I dunno. Unless she's here to do the work that Jenny makes. - -Mrs. Munning. Work I I'd do all Jenny makes with one hand tied behind -me. Sally's here for show, but I'll watch she does some work as well. -And I've a word to say to her about that model there. And you as well. - -Zack. Yes, mother. - -Mrs. Munning. I'll see her first. You can wait. Your time's worth -nothing and I'm paying her for hers. Now don't you dare to stir from -here till I come back. - -Zack. No, mother. - -(_Exit Mrs. Munning. Zack stands stock-still for a minute, then his eye -catches the last piece of bread and butter. Tempted, he falls and gets -it. Then tiptoes to a chair, takes one large bite out of the slice, gets -sleepy, half raises the slice for another bite, lets his hand drop -and settles as if to sleep. A knock at the door. Zack half-hearst but -decides not to move. The knock repeated. This time he does not hear at -all. Martha Wrigley opens the door, and puts a timid head round it. She -enters shyly, half child, half woman of eighteent slovenly and down at -heel. She carries a dress suit over her arm. She sees Zack and stops._) - -Martha. Oh! Zack! - -Zack. Eh? (_He rouses slowly, not as if from sleep, but from sloth._) -Who's there? - -Martha. It's Martha Wrigley. And if you please I knocked, and knocked, -and nobody came and so---- - -Zack (_stirring lazily in his chair_). Just when I had a moment for a -bit of rest. - -Martha. I'm sorry, Zack. I am sorry. Only I had to make somebody hear, - -Zack (_noticing the bread in his hand, and finishing it_). It needn't -have been me. I can't tell you anything. - -Martha (_matter of fact, without malice_). No. I know you're nobody -here. But you can tell them that are somebody. - -Zack. Tell 'em what? - -Martha. Oh, Zack, we're in such trouble at home. - -Zack (_sitting up straight with ready sympathy_). What's to do, Martha? - -Martha. I don't know what Mrs. Munning will say. It's my father, Zack. - -Zack. What's he done? - -Martha. He's fallen down and broke his arm and he won't be able to wait -at the wedding to-morrow. - -Zack. Joe Wrigley's broke his arm! Well, there's carelessness for you. - -Martha. Yes. Please, he knows it's careless of him and he'll lose -the half-a-crown he gets from you for waiting, and we did need that -half-crown so bad. - -Zack (_rising_). You'd better see my mother, Martha. - -Martha. Couldn't you tell her, Zack. She'll be so mad. - -Zack (_shaking head_). It's not a job I'm pining for. - -Martha. We've done our best. I've brought my father's suit for some one -else to wear. And Zack---- (_She puts the clothes on a chair._) - -Zack. Nay. This is getting too much for me. I'll fetch my mother. - -Martha. Yes, but Zack---- - -Zack. Well? - -Martha. We did so hope that Mrs. Munning would see her way to paying -father all the same. - -Zack. Paying him when he's not there! - -Martha. He would be if he could. We do need his money that bad. - -Zack. You'll not get owt from mother. Nothing for nothing's her way of -seeing things. - -Martha. There's been so little lately with you having so few parties. - -Zack. You'll get none out of mother. That's a certain fact. - -Martha (_blubbering_). And I was so looking forward to a bite of meat. -We've not seen butcher's meat at our house not for a month and more. - -Zack (_really hit where he's soft_). My word, that's bad, Martha. - -Martha. And me anæmic too, and never can get food enough to satisfy me. - -Zack. Not food enough! - -Martha. I'm always hungry, and this did look a chance of getting my -teeth into a bit of meat at last. - -Zack. Well, I dunno. That's very bad. (_He looks at coat behind door._) - -Martha. You try it and you'd know. - -Zack. Look here, Martha. This'll get me into trouble, but I got a -shilling to-day at Ballbrook Farm, and if it's any use to you well--dang -it, mother can't kill me. Here it is--(_He goes to coat, gets shilling, -and brings it to her._) - -(_She takes it and expresses thanks, mostly by crying on his shoulder._) - -Martha. Oh, Mr. Zack. You are the good one. - -Zack. There! There! There I There! There! Don't take on so. - -Martha. Oh! - -(_She kisses him. Mrs. Munning enters._) - -Mrs. Munning (_grimly sarcastic_). Oh? When's the wedding, Zack? - -Zack (_humouring her_). Oh, I dunno. In about a month, eh, Martha? - -Mrs. Munning. You're fool enough for anything. - -Zack (_seriously_). I was only consoling her a bit. - -Mrs. Munning. If you want to console young women with your arm around -their waists, my lad, you'll not be long for this house. You've enough -bad habits now without beginning new ones. - -Zack. Martha was a bit upset, mother. - -Mrs. Munning. It _'_ud be a bad case that called for you to set it -right. What is it, Martha? - -Martha. Father's broke his arm and he can't wait tomorrow, and I've -brought his clothes, and, please Mrs. Munning, he's very sorry. - -Mrs. Munning. Sorry! Here! Paul! Paul! (_Opens door._) Paul! - -Paul (_off_). Coming. - -Mrs. Munning. And you consoled her for a thing like that! Console! I'd -use a stick and---- - -(_Paul enters._) - -Paul. What is it, mother? - -Mrs. Munning. A nice upset, that's what it is. Joe Wrigley's gone and -broke his arm when we wanted him tomorrow. - -Paul (_savagely_). The meddling fool! Disturbing our arrangements. How -dare he break his arm? - -Martha. Please, Mr. Paul, he didn't mean to. It was an accident. - -Paul. Accident! Didn't he know it was Mr. Abbott's wedding to-morrow? - -Martha. Yes, sir. - -Paul. Then he shouldn't have an accident. You go and tell your father -he's engaged by me to-morrow and if he doesn't come and do his job, -he'll get no more work from us. You understand? - -Martha. But father can't wait to-morrow with a broken arm. - -Paul. That's not my fault. I didn't break it. You tell him what I said. - -Martha (_turning, then_). Then you won't be paying him his money, sir? - -Paul. What? - -Mrs. Munning. Paying him! I like your impudence - -Zack. You'd better go home, Martha. - -Martha. Yes, Mr. Zack (_Crying._) But I am so---- - -Zack (_his arm about her_). There! There! (_Leading her towards door._) - -Mrs. Munning. Keep your hands off the girl, Zack. - -Zack. I was only consoling her a bit. (_He opens r. door._) - -Mrs. Munning. Then don't do it. - -Zack. No, mother. - -(_Exit Martha._) - -Mrs. Munning. This is' a pretty how do you do. - -Paul. Confound Joe Wrigley. I don't know where to get another man at -such short notice. - -Mrs. Munning. And labour scarce, and all. Can you manage it with a man -short? - -(_Zack shyly approaches the clothes on chair and, not lifting them, -fingers them lovingly._) - -Paul. No, I can't. - -Mrs. Munning. You'll have to get somebody to-night, then. That's all. - -Paul. If I can. It's going to take some doing to find a steady man. - -Zack. Paul! - -Paul. What's the matter? - -Zack. Could I go? - -Paul. You! - -Zack. I'd dearly love to. - -Paul. You're no use. - -Zack. I know my hands are awkward, but I will try, Paul. I'll try so -hard not to break anything. - -Mrs. Munning. He'd be better than nothing, Paul. - -Paul. I doubt it. - -Zack. Give me another chance. - -Paul. I gave you chance on chance. You're more trouble than you're -worth. - -Zack. I'm not worth anything, and nobody knows it more than me. But -couldn't I go this once, just to fill up? I'll be so careful, Paul. - -Mrs. Munning. It's saving a man's wages for the day. - -Paul. It's not a saving if he makes a mess of things. Our catering's -got bad name enough without our making bad to worse. He's got no proper -clothes. - -Zack. I'll wear Joe Wrigley's willing. (_He goes to them._) - -Paul. Joe Wrigley's a big man. - -Zack. Can I try them, Paul? Do let me try them on. - -Paul. Well, you can try, and show us what sort of a lout you look. - -Zack. Oh, hurrah! (_He jerks his coat off and fastens on the clothes._) - -Mrs. Munning. It's the best road out, Paul. - -Paul. A rotten best. - -Zack (_putting on the dress coat. It is far too large for him_). It will -be splendid to be wearing black again. - -Paul. It's only for to-morrow, mind. - -(_Paul does not yet turn to look at Zack._) - -Mrs. Munning. Joe Wrigley's out of it six weeks or more. Paul. Joe -Wrigley's finished himself with me. Zack can go to-morrow till I've time -to look round. - -Zack. Suppose I'm not so bad to-morrow, Paul? - -Paul. Supposing pigs _'_ull fly. Let's have a look at you. Good Lord! -Hold the trousers to you and let us know the worst. Now, I ask you---- - -Mrs. Munning. I can tack the bottoms up, Paul, and the rest is not so -bad. - -(_Enter Virginia. She has a hat on and her letter in her hand._) - -Virginia. I've finished my---- Oh, Zack, you do look funny. - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT II. - -_Morning a fortnight later. The Scene is the refreshment-room attached -to Mrs. Munning's house. Walls whitewashed, roof of glass. Long deal -table at the lower end of which Paul sits writing a letter. Ink and a -few papers on the table. In one corner is a quantity of cane-bottomed -chairs. Below them, another table. Centre is a knife-cleaning machine, -which badly needs oil. Knives on table. At the machine Zack stands in -shirt-sleeves and apron. He is not energetic and turns lazily with many -glances towards Paul. He sees Paul look at him and his efforts increase -for a moment. Paul seals and stamps envelope and crosses to house door. -Zack, left alone, mops his brow and sits. A low knock at the street -door. Zack rises promptly and opens door with the air of a conspirator. -Martha Wrigley is there._ - -***** - -Zack. You've just come at the right time. - -(_Martha enters, but stays by door. Zack hurries behind the chairs and -returns with a small newspaper parcel which he gives Martha._) - -Martha. Thank you, Zack. - -Zack (_referring to the parcel_). It's a bit mixed-up on account of me -putting bits of things into my pocket at table when nobody's watching, -but it's all good food, Martha. - -Martha. I'm sure I'm very grateful to you, Zack. - -Zack. Well, I often get up famished from my meals, and it's a fight to -keep from feeling in my pocket, but I'm managing without. - -Martha. Yes, and I---- Oh, Zack, I'm grateful. I am, really. - -Zack. I know you are. - -Martha. Yes, but I want you to know I am, and if anything's going to -come to you unpleasant, it's not my fault. - -Zack. Unpleasant? - -Martha. I'm being driven, Zack. I'd never dream of such a thing myself. - -Zack. What ever is it? - -Martha. It's father, Zack. - -Zack. Again? What's he broke now? - -Martha. He's not broke anything, but you know your brother sacked him, -and my father says he'll be revenged and---- - -Zack. That's a nasty spirit, Martha. - -Martha. And a nasty thing that Mr. Paul did, and all. - -Zack. I'm not denying that. - -Martha. And I'd not mind whatever father did to Mr. Paul---- - -Zack. Oh, Martha! - -Martha. I wouldn't. Not for sacking him because he hurt himself. But -father's doing it to you and I've to help him to do it, and--oh dear! -(_Her handkerchief comes out._) - -Zack. Don't cry. No, don't do it, Martha, because if you do, I'll have -to console you, and you know what mother said to me the other day. (_He -is itching to "console," but restrains himself visibly._) - -Martha. But it's------- - -Zack. Paul's coming back. Quick, Martha. - -Martha (_sniffing as she goes_). Oh! - -(_Zack hustles her out c. and returns to his cleaning, not so quickly -that Paul does not see his return. Paul opens the door and Virginia -enters. Paul follows her in._) - -Virginia. You do look busy, Zack. - -Paul. He's good at looking it. I'd guarantee he hasn't raised his hand -while I've been out of the room. - -Virginia (_who is obviously quite fond of Zack_). Oh, but you must be -kind to Zack to-day. - -Paul. Why? What's to-day? - -Virginia. I knew you didn't know. Do you, Zack? - -Zack (_up to wall, consulting calendar_). Tuesday. - -Virginia. It's your birthday and I hope you'll have a very lucky day. - -Zack. My birthday! The twentieth of June. So it is. - -(_Paul returns to his correspondence at the table, half occupied, half -listening._) - -Virginia. Yes. I was sure you didn't know. - -Zack. How did you know? Did mother tell you? Virginia. No. - -Zack. Who did? - -Virginia (_with mock impressiveness_). The family Bible, Zack! Your -mother lent it me to look at something yesterday, and there I found it. -Zachariah Manning, June 20th, 1886. Zack. - -Zack. Yes. - -Virginia. You knew? - -Zack. Yes. That's the year all right. - -Virginia. Then how dare you look forty when you're only twenty-nine? - -Zack. Do I? - -Virginia. You do, and I'm taking you in hand. Tell me, are your eyes so -very bad? - -Zack. They're weak for reading with. - -Virginia. You're not always reading. Why do you wear your glasses when -you're not? - -Zack. It's a trouble to be taking them off and putting them on. - -Virginia. So you keep them on all the time and damage your eyes. Come -here, Zack. (_She takes them off and gives them him._) There! Don't -put those on again until you want to read. You look at least five years -younger than you did. - -Zack. Do I? - -Virginia. You do. And now about the rest? - -Zack. What rest? - -Virginia. The other six years that we've got to wipe away. I've got a -present for you upstairs to do that. - -Zack. A present! - -Virginia. Yes. Don't you usually get presents on your birthday? - -Paul. What! Between grown-ups? - -Virginia. Why not? It's just those little pleasant things that keep life -sweet. - -Zack. I used to get a bag of humbugs when I was a tiny lad. - -Virginia. Oh, we keep on doing it at home and I shall do it here. Only I -want a ha'penny from you first. - -Zack. A ha'penny! - -Virginia. My present cuts, and so you'll have to pay me for it to keep -bad luck away. Ha'penny, please, (_She holds hand out._) - -Zack (_rather hurt at having to confess_). I haven't got a ha'penny, -Jenny. - -Virginia. What, have you spent last Saturday's wages already? It's only -Tuesday. - -Zack. I don't get any wages. - -Paul. We've given up trusting Zack with money. He lost a shilling on the -day you came. - -Virginia. Oh dear, then what's to be done? I know. You give Zack the -ha'penny for a birthday present. Then he can give it me. - -Paul. What is your present, Jenny? - -Virginia. It's a shaving-set. - -Paul. Zack's no use for shaving. He's never shaved in his life. - -Virginia. His beard looks that kind of beard. That's why I want him to -begin. Give him the ha'penny, Paul. Paul. Oh, it'll not matter. Zack -isn't superstitious. Virginia. But I am. All decent-minded women are. -And I won't cut my friendship for Zack. - -Paul. Well, if you insist. (_Taking coins from pocket._) Oh, no good. -I've got no change. - -Virginia. You've got a sixpence there. That will do. (_She takes it and -hands it Zack._) There you are, Zack. Now you give it me and I'll get -your present from upstairs. - -Paul. But--Jenny--sixpence! - -(_Mrs. Munning opens door l. and enters with James Abbott, a pleasant -gentleman, dressed in good country clothes._) - -(_The little episode is suspended. Paul becomes the shopman with a -customer. Zack stands away and Virginia sits on the pile of wood._) - -Mrs. Munning. Paul. - -Paul. Good morning, Mr. Abbott. - -Abbott. Good morning, Munning. - -Mrs. Munning. Mr. Abbott's called to settle his account, Paul. - -Paul. Account! You are prompt, sir. I only sent it out last night. - -Abbott. Any objections to prompt settlement, Munning? (_Paying out notes -and gold._) - -Paul. Not at all. I only wish I could find everybody so quick at paying. - -(_Paul writes receipt at table._) - -Abbott. It's like this, Munning. When I'm satisfied I believe in showing -it, and paying promptly is my way of showing that you've pleased me. - -Mrs. Munning. I'm very glad to hear that, Mr. Abbott. - -Abbott. And I'm glad too, for I don't mind telling you now it's over -that I had my doubts. The last once or twice that I've attended weddings -where you did the catering I've not been well impressed at all. There's -been a harshness, Munning, and when I got married I was in two minds -about putting it with you or going to those people over at Norton Parva. -Wilson's, isn't it? - -Paul. Yes. - -(_Paul comes out with receipt, which Abbott takes and pockets._) - -Abbott. But I decided to support a neighbour and you rewarded me for -it. There was a--I don't know how you'd put it in words--a very pleasant -atmosphere. I wanted things to go well. - -Paul. Naturally, sir. - -Abbott. But I've no complaints at all. It went off with a--a -sprightliness. Yes. Sunny's the word. - -Mrs. Munning. Thank you very much, Mr. Abbott. - -Abbott. But mind you, Mrs. Munning, you don't always do it. - -Paul. I'm sure we try to make no difference. - -Abbott. You don't always succeed as you did for me. There was a jolly -feeling that I'm sure has not been there for some time past. Still, I -was pleased, and I've told others I was pleased. - -Paul. Thanks very much. We _have_ had more orders in this last -fortnight. - -Abbott. Well, I daresay some of them are due to me. Don't let me down -now I've been recommending you. I can get out this way? - -Zack (_opening door_). Yes, Mr. Abbott. - -Abbott (_ignoring him, to Paul_). Good-day, Munning. - -Paul and Mrs. Munning. Good-day, sir. - -(_Exit Abbott._) - -Mrs. Munning. Well, here's a change. - -Paul. He's not the first who's talked like that these last few times. -But why they do it is a mystery to me. - -Mrs. Munning. I've got a guess. Jenny, you've brought us luck. - -Virginia. I? - -Mrs. Munning. It's since you came that things have taken this turn. - -Virginia. I'm very glad to hear it aunt, - -Mrs. Munning. You've been a blessing to us. - -Paul. I think I'll send some more accounts out, mother. They might fetch -other people's money in like Mr. Abbott's. - -Virginia. Oh yes. I'm in your way here. - -Mrs. Munning. And you're not. You're never in the way. - -Paul. As if I'd mean a thing like that to you, Virginia. - -Virginia. But I was just going, aunt. I've something upstairs that I -want to bring for Zack. - -Mrs. Munning. Zack? - -Virginia. You'd forgotten it's his birthday. - -(_Paul sits at the table._) - -Mrs. Munning. No, I hadn't, Jenny. Mothers don't forget a thing like -that. But I'd not seen cause to mention it. - -Virginia. I'll get Zack's present. (_She opens door._) By the way, -wasn't it at Mr. Abbott's wedding that Zack began to go again? - -Mrs. Munning. I fancy it was. - -Virginia. And he's been going to the others since? - -Mrs. Munning. Yes. But he's still on trial. Why, Jenny? - -Virginia. I only wondered. - -(_Exit Virginia._) - -Paul. Get on with your work, Zack. - -Zack. Yes, Paul. (_He turns the handle once or twice, and is then -occupied testing the result._) - -Mrs. Munning. Come here a minute, Paul. You're not that busy. - -Paul. I'm not busy at all. I just made a show of it before Virginia. A -good thing she heard him talk like that. - -Mrs. Munning. I'll tell you something better for the business than Mr. -Abbott's talk. - -Paul. If you'll tell me what it is that makes people say one thing of -us one week and change their minds the next, you'll be doing me a good -turn. - -Mrs. Munning. I'll do you a better turn. I'd a chat with Virginia in her -room last night. - -Paul. I heard your voices going late. You kept me awake. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, it was worth it, Paul. I knew they were well off, -but there's more than I thought. The girl's got money of her own besides -her mother's. - -(_Zack turns the handle._) - -Paul. Some folk get all the luck. - -Mrs. Munning. Well? - -Paul. Well what? - -Mrs. Munning. Don't you take me, Paul? - -(_Zack works the machine. Mrs. Munning turns on him._) - -Oh, will you hush your noise, Zack? Get away out of this while I talk to -Paul. - -Zack (_going l._). Yes, mother. - -Paul. Go round to Bealey's and ask him if those nails have come. Don't -be all day. - -Zack. No, Paul. (_He turns to door and goes out._) - -Mrs. Munning. Look here, Paul, you could do a lot to this business if -you had the capital. We could start a temperance hotel and give up the -joinery altogether. Zack could clean boots. - -Paul. Aye. If---- - -Mrs. Munning. She's got it. - -Paul. Well for her. - -Mrs. Munning. You're not slow to see your interests as a rule. - -Paul. Slow? I'd call it quick myself and very quick. I've known the girl -a fortnight. - -Mrs. Munning. Oh, you do see what I'm driving at. - -Paul. I saw it days ago. - -Mrs. Munning. And anything the matter with it? - -Paul. Only Virginia. - -Mrs. Munning. What's wrong with her? - -Paul. She don't show willing. - -Mrs. Munning. Have you asked? - -Paul. Asked? I haven't. It's not a thing to rush at, mother. I've to -look at every side before I take a leap like that. - -Mrs. Munning. What are you frightened of? - -Paul. I wouldn't like to get refused. I don't so much as know she thinks -of me at all. - -Mrs. Munning. And what do you think I'm doing all these days? I've done -nothing else but keep you in her mind. She knows it all from A to Z. -Why, only yesterday I gave her the Bible to look at, and you know what's -written in the front of it. There's every prize you ever won at school -on record with the date and---- - -Paul. And what she found in the Bible was that it's Zack's birthday -to-day and she's giving him a present. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, she's got a kind heart. I saw her give a beggar -sixpence yesterday. - -Paul. That isn't kindness. It's extravagance, and I've no taste for a -wife who throws her money away. - -Mrs. Munning. She couldn't throw it if she hadn't got it first. And I'd -trust you to let her know that charity begins at home when she's your -wife. - -Paul. There's something in that. - -Mrs. Munning. There's all in it. I say we've got a golden chance, and I -don't know what you're shirking for. Our luck's well in all round with -people talking sensibly about us and the orders coming in. - -Paul. That's not to say Virginia _'_ull have me. - -Mrs. Munning. You'll get to know by asking, Paul. And I tell you she's -ripe for it. - -Paul. Ripe? - -Mrs. Munning. The girl's in love. She's got the signs of it all over -her. It only needs a bit of enterprise from you, and all's as good as -done. - -Paul. I've seen no signs of love. She's got a thumping appetite, if -that's your meaning. - -Mrs. Munning. Where's your eyes? The girl's another creature since she's -been with us. - -Paul. The country air did that. I thought love made them pale. - -Mrs. Munning. Quit talking, Paul. Are you in love with any other girl? - -Paul. What, me in love? I've got more sense. - -Mrs. Munning. Then marry Virginia. - -Paul. All right. I'll try. - -(_Enter Virginia. She has a small brown-papered parcel._) - -Virginia. Oh! is Zack not here? - -Mrs. Munning. He's gone out on an errand. Did you want him? - -Virginia. Yes. To give him this. But it will do later. (_She turns -away._) - -Mrs. Munning. Oh, don't go, Jenny. - -Virginia. But Paul's busy here. - -Mrs. Munning. Paul's never too busy to have some time for you. But I've -got to see Sally myself, so I'll leave you two together. - -(_Exit Mrs. Munning._) - -Paul. I'll make you comfortable here. (_He fusses at the chairs and -places one for her._) - -Virginia. Oh, please don't trouble, Paul. - -Paul. There's no trouble about it, Jenny. It's always a pleasure to do -things for you. - -Virginia. Why, Paul, I didn't know. - -Paul. Know what? - -Virginia. That you did things for me. - -Paul. You didn't? Well, I haven't boasted up to now. - -Virginia. No. Then it's you, and I've been thinking it was Zack. - -Paul. Thought what was Zack? - -Virginia. I thought Zack brought the roses that I'm always finding in my -room and---- - -Paul (_uneasy, but bluffing_). Zack? Did you ever see him doing it? - -Virginia. No. And it was you. (_Hand out._) Paul, I apologize. - -Paul. Apologize? For what? (_He touches her hand._) - -Virginia. I imagined you too businesslike to think of doing anything -like that. - -Paul. Well, Jenny, you were wrong that time. I've got an eye to -business, but I'm not quite blind to other things. I've eyes to see the -roses coming to your cheeks to match the roses in your room. - -Virginia. Yes. I do look better for my stay with you, don't I? - -Paul. It's working wonders, Jenny. The country is the place for you. - -Virginia. I shall be sorry to go. - -Paul. Oh, that's too bad. To talk of going. - -Virginia. Not yet, of course. - -Paul. And not at all, if I'd my way. - -Virginia. Not at all? - -Paul. Are you so set on towns? - -Virginia. I live in one. - -Paul. Yes, but I wonder why. It beats me why you and your mother want to -live in ugliness with noise and bad air, Jenny. Where's the need for it? - -Virginia. Friends. Associations. That's all. - -Paul. You'd never want for friends anywhere. - -Virginia. But I've to think of mother. She's like an old tree, firmly -rooted and she's hard to move. So we stay where we are. - -Paul. And you'll grow ill again. - -Virginia. Oh no. I shall be all right now. - -Paul. You'd be better here. - -Virginia. I can't stay here for ever. - -Paul. We might find out a way, Jenny. - -Virginia. How? - -Paul. Don't you see? (_Takes her hand._) - -Virginia. Paul! I never thought of this. - -Paul. I've thought of nothing else since I set eyes on you. - -Virginia (_withdrawing hand_). But I must think a little now and--and -confess. - -Paul. Confess! You mean that in the town---- - -Virginia. Not in the town, Paul. Here! - -Paul. You don't mean---- - -Virginia. Yes. I thought I was so clever and could see what you and aunt -were blind to. It was just a bad mistake, but I have had Zack in my mind -a lot. So much, Paul, that I didn't think of you, or if I did it was as -something not quite---- I liked Zack, and I fancied you were wrong to -make so little of him. Why, even now, when Mr. Abbott came to say how -pleased he'd been and you were puzzled at it all, I thought I'd guessed -the cause and put it down to Zack. - -Paul. Well--that's a queer idea. - -Virginia. I know it must seem queer to you. I'm sorry I was stupid, -Paul. Of course you must know best, living with Zack for all these -years. But--isn't it just a little hard to keep him without money? - -Paul. You don't know all the truth. We do. We've had experience of Zack. - -Virginia. Yes. I suppose I'm being rash again. - -Paul. I think we've got the size of him, Virginia. He's bone-lazy. - -Virginia. Yes. - -Paul. Well, that's Zack. But I was talking of myself--and you. - -Virginia. You'll have to give me time for that, please, Paul. I made a -false start and I have to see things all over again before I get them -right. - -Paul. You're not convinced that Zack's a fool. - -Virginia. I have your word now, Paul. But that doesn't quite mean that -I--I-- - -Paul. That you love me. - -Virginia. It doesn't follow, does it, Paul? - -Paul. I hoped it might. - -Virginia. Some day, when I'm used to knowing that it's you who've done -the little things that made me happy here, it might come, Paul. I cannot -say just yet. - -(_The door c. is burst open violently and Joe Wrigley stands in the -doorway. Behind him, both very reluctant, are Zack and Martha. Joe is a -big man, with his left arm in a sling. He is strong in body and purpose, -and has a useful gift of sly humour. He can dominate, and in the ensuing -scene, he does. He advances. Zack closes the door, and he and Martha try -to look effaced in the background._) - -Wrigley. Good morning. - -Paul. Wrigley! - -Wrigley. That's me. - -Paul. Get out of this. There's nothing here for you. Wrigley. I beg to -differ, Mr. Paul. We've things to settle here, have you and me. - -Paul. Well, you can't settle them now. I'm busy. Wrigley. I'm not, and -so I'll wait your pleasure. Paul. I've finished with you, Wrigley. - -Wrigley. No, you haven't, Mr. Paul. You only think you have. - -Virginia. I'd better go, Paul. - -Paul. No. I'll get rid of him. - -Wrigley. When things are settled, you'll get rid of me. And not before. - -Paul. You're trespassing in here. I tell you to get out. - -Wrigley. You'll do yourself no good by quarrelling. It's him I've come -about. Him and her. Your Zack and my Martha. - -Paul. Zack? What about him? - -Wrigley. They've got to be married. - -Paul. What! - -Virginia. Oh, how horrid! (_She turns away._) - -Zack (_following her_). No, no! Please, Virginia! It isn't true. - -Wrigley (_growling_). What isn't true? - -Zack. I mean you're twisting it. - -Wrigley. You're going to marry her. - -Zack. Yes. If you say so, but you make it sound so bad the way you're -putting it. I mean, you'll make Virginia think that I---- - -Wrigley. And who cares what she thinks? - -Zack. I care, Mr. Wrigley, I do indeed. - -Wrigley. Oh! Then you're blacker than I took you for. Carrying on with -two young women at once. - -Virginia. Upon my word! - -Wrigley. It's he that said he cared, miss. It wasn't me. - -Paul. Let's have this from the beginning, Wrigley. - -Wrigley. Beginning? I reckon this began when the Lord made him a male -and her a female. - -Paul. Oh yes. That's very funny, but---- - -Wrigley. It's not. There's nothing funny in the ways of sex. They've -been the worry of the world for ever since the world grew bigger than -the Garden of Eden, and if you think they're funny, you've a lot to -learn. - -Paul. Wrigley, do you know who you're speaking to? - -Wrigley. Aye. Brother of my future son-in-law. Makes you a kind of -sideways son of mine yourself. - -Paul. We'll have this tale from Zack if you won't tell it straight. - -Wrigley. I'd rather; and I'll just be here to know he tells it straight. - -(_Wrigley sits._) - -Paul. Now, Zack. No. Wait a minute. Mother had best be in at this. -(_Opening door._) Mother! - -Virginia. And I had better not. (_She follows to door._) - -Paul. Are you afraid to know the worst of him? (_Call-ing._) Mother! - -Mrs. Munning (_off_). I'm coming, Paul. - -Virginia. Oh, Zack, Zack, I am so disappointed in you. - -Zack. I meant no harm, Virginia. It's a thing that's grown from nothing -like, and I don't know how it grew so fast. - -Mrs. Munning (_entering_). What is it, Paul? - -Paul. Zack and Joe Wrigley's girl. Now go on, Zack. What have you done? - -Zack. I've got to speak it out before you all and with Virginia hearing, -too? - -Virginia. I'll go. - -Paul. Why should you? - -Virginia. Because I prefer it, Paul. - -(_Exit Virginia._) - -Mrs. Munning. We're waiting, Zack. - -Zack. Well, there isn't much to tell that you don't know about, mother. - -Mrs. Munning. I! - -Zack. You started the whole thing off. - -Mrs. Munning. When? - -Zack. You mind that day when Martha came to tell us Joe had broke his -arm and Martha took on so in our parlour. - -Mrs. Munning. Well? - -Zack. Well, that's it. - -Mrs. Munning. That! - -Zack. Yes. You came in when I was trying to console her and---- - -Mrs. Munning. I caught you kissing her, if that's what you mean. - -Wrigley. Ah! That's a point. I'd been waiting for that to come. - -Zack. I know I kissed her, but it wasn't a meaning kiss. She was -blubbing and she wouldn't hush and so I kissed her like I'd kiss a baby -to console it. - -Wrigley. You kissed her. That's enough. - -Zack. But it weren't for pleasure, Mr. Wrigley. She was too wet. - -Mrs. Munning. He kissed her all right. I saw it. What about it? - -Wrigley. He's got to marry her. That's all. - -Mrs. Munning. Now what has kissing a girl to do with marriage? - -Wrigley. A lot. He's going to marry her because you said so. - -Mrs. Munning. I? - -Zack. That's the trouble, mother. You did say something, joking like. -You said, "When's the wedding?" and I joked back and said, "About a -month," and Martha took it serious and told her father, and he told -other people and it's all over the village. It's expected of me now, and -I suppose---- - -Mrs. Munning. Be quiet, Zack. - -Zack. You told me to tell you. - -Mrs. Munning. Keep your mouth shut when I tell you. You only open it to -give yourself away. - -Wrigley. You needn't trouble, missus. He's done all that. - -Mrs. Munning. Done what? You know he'd no intentions, and he hasn't any -now. He's made no promises. - -Wrigley. He's promised and he's made her presents. - -Mrs. Munning. You'll have to prove that first. - -Wrigley. Prove? Where's that parcel, Martha? - -(_Martha comes timidly forward with it._) - -Open it. See that? - -Mrs. Munning. This? Crusts of bread and bits of meat! - -Wrigley. That's it. Bread you baked and meat from what you had for -dinner yesterday. - -Mrs. Munning. How did you come by this? - -Zack. I saved them from my food. She told me she was always hungry and I -felt that sorry for her. - -Mrs. Munning (_giving the parcel to Martha_). You're too soft to live. -Well, that's only giving charity, Joe Wrigley. - -Wrigley. With lots of folk it might be, but it's something else than -charity when one of your family starts giving things away. - -Mrs. Munning. It's nowt to do with marrying and promising, so what it -is. - -Wrigley. He promised her not half an hour ago in Tim Bealey's shop, with -witnesses and all. There was Tim Bealey there and his missus and the -errand lad and me. - -Mrs. Munning. Is that true, Zack? - -Zack. I did say something, mother. - -Mrs. Munning. You silly fool! - -Zack. But it was only to save argument. I do hate argument when people -have a voice as loud as Joe's. - -Mrs. Munning. That means you forced him, Wrigley. - -Wrigley. It means he promised before witnesses, and I'll take good care -he keeps his word. - -Mrs. Munning. Come here, Martha. Do you want to marry him? - -Wrigley. Of course she does. - -Mrs. Munning. Let the girl speak for herself. - -Martha. I'd like to, Mrs. Munning. Only not if Zack don't want as well. -I'd not expect it. - -Wrigley. But I expect it. - -Paul. Yes, Joe, we know it's you we've got to thank for this. - -Wrigley. I reckon it's me all right. You'll think twice before you sack -a man for getting hurt another time. I'll teach you something. - -Paul (_quietly_). Will you? By marrying your girl to Zack? - -Wrigley. That's it. I'll break your pride. - -Paul. It might break you. I wouldn't swear that this wouldn't make me, -Joe. - -Martha (_up to Zack_). I didn't go to do it, Zack. I don't want to be no -trouble to nobody. - -Mrs. Munning. Do you want her, Zack? - -Zack. I'd rather not say, mother. I wouldn't like to hurt her feelings. - -Paul. Do you want to marry her? - -Zack. I'd rather drown myself. - -Martha. Oh! - -Zack (_to her_). There, there, Martha. I didn't mean to hurt you. There! - -Mrs. Munning. Keep your great hands to yourself, Zack, can't you? - -Zack. I've hurt her feelings, mother. - -Mrs. Munning. And I'll hurt yours if you don't do what I tell you sharp. - -Wrigley. Come, Mrs. Munning. What's to do with a chap putting his arm -round the girl he's going to marry? - -Mrs. Munning. He's just about the same chance of marrying her as you -have of coming back to work here, Joe. - -Wrigley. I fancy both our chances then. - -Mrs. Munning. You'd lose your money. - -Wrigley. I think not, Mrs. Munning. I've a notion that you'll weigh -things up and come to seeing this my way. I've not come here to quarrel -with my relations to be, but I'll just point out that Wilson's of Norton -are getting business off you every day and you can't afford a scandal in -your line of trade. - -Mrs. Munning. Be careful, Wrigley. Threats of that kind have a nasty -name. - -Wrigley. I'm not afraid of names. Come here, Martha. We've given them -enough to think about. - -Martha. Yes, father. - -Wrigley. I'll look in later for your answer. (_Opens door._) - -Paul. You needn't. You can have it now. - -Mrs. Munning. You can. I'll give it you. It's this, that---- - -Paul. Zack can go with you now to see the vicar, Joe. - -Wrigley. Eh? - -Mrs. Munning. What? - -Zack. Paul! - -Mrs. Munning. Paul, are you mad? - -Zack. But I don't want to marry her. I don't indeed. - -Paul. You've made your bed and you'll lie on it. I'll stir no hand to -save you. - -Mrs. Munning. But, Paul---- - -Paul. I've got my reasons, mother, and they're sound. - -Zack. There's no great hurry, is there, Paul? - -Paul. If a thing's to be done, it's best done quick. We'll have the -banns put up on Sunday. - -Wrigley. You're in a mighty haste. It's giving things a queerish twist -to me. - -Paul. When I've to take a dose of physic, I don't play round because -it's got a filthy taste. I get it down. - -Zack. But it's my physic, Paul. - -Paul. You'll do as you're told. - -Martha. I'm sure I'll try to make you a good wife, Zack. - -Zack. If it comes to the worst, I'll try and all. But we might both try -and make a mess of it for all we tried. I'm against this, Martha, and -it's no good wrapping up the truth. I don't favour it and I can't see -sense in it at all. - -Paul. You've gone a bit too far to talk like that, my lad. - -Zack. I wouldn't say I'd gone at all, not knowingly, I mean. It's -happened like, somehow, and I'll say this much or brast for it. It'll -be the mistake of your life, Martha. I'm not cut out for a husband of -yours. If ever you get wed---- - -Paul. She's wedding you. - -Zack. Well, I don't favour it. I've as good a right to my opinion as -anybody else and I say it's not fair doing to Martha. - -Wrigley. Is Martha all you're thinking of? - -Zack. There's me as well, and I tell you what I told you down in -Bealey's shop. I'm always one to take the short road out of trouble and -I'm ready to oblige you. But I don't like it and the more I think about -Martha the worse it looks to saddle her with me. Martha's the helpless -sort and I'm the helpless sort and you don't make two soft people into -strong by wedding them together. She'd try to lean on me and I'd try to -lean on her and there'd be nothing there to lean on. It's like trying -to make weak tea strong by watering the pot. Martha'll only wed with -trouble when she weds a gormless chap like me, and I don't favour it. I -see no sense in it at all, and it's no use saying I do, because I don't. - -Mrs. Munning. And I don't see the sense in doing things to please Joe -Wrigley. - -Paul. I'm doing this to please myself, not him. What are you waiting -for, Wrigley? You've got your answer. - -Wrigley. I dunno. - -Paul. Then don't wait. If you want to see Mr. Andrews, it's a good time -to catch him now before his lunch. - -Wrigley. Come along. - -(_Wrigley and Martha move towards door._) - -Zack. Paul! You're going to have me called in church? - -Paul. It's the usual place. - -Zack. Me and Martha Wrigley! And everybody listening! - -Paul. Take him with you, Joe. - -Zack (_going slowly_). Well, I don't favour it at all. I'll do my best -for Martha, but I'm a silly best for any girl. I've got no heart in -this. - -(_Mrs. Munning goes up towards Zack. Paul stops her with a gesture. Exit -Zack, after Wrigley and Martha._) - -Mrs. Munning (_turning angrily._) You're crossing me in this. I've not -said much so far because there's time to stop it yet. - -Paul. You won't want to stop it, mother. - -Mrs. Munning. Won't I? I'm not particular fond of Zack, but he's my son -as much as you, and I've no taste to see a Munning standing up in church -with a daughter of Joe Wrigley's. - -Paul. I've just two things to say to that. The first is that you started -it with joking about marriage, and the second's what you're planning now -for Virginia and me. - -Mrs. Munning. Virginia? - -Paul. I've had that talk with her. - -Mrs. Munning. Well? Is it right? - -Paul. It isn't right, and it was very wrong. I've got her coming round. -No more than that. But this affair of Zack's chimes in with what we -want. - -Mrs. Munning. What's Zack to do with her? - -Paul. That's where the queerness comes. What do you think, mother? - -Mrs. Munning. I'm getting past all thought to-day. - -Paul. She'd him in mind. - -Mrs. Munning. Zack! Well, I don't know! What's Zack been doing that -takes her fancy? - -Paul. Did you ever know Zack do anything? Oh, she told me one thing. -He's been putting flowers in her room. - -Mrs. Munning. In her room! The impudence. - -Paul. I put those flowers there. You understand? - -Mrs. Munning. You? Oh, I see. - -Paul. And I'll tell you something else. She thinks the weddings have got -a better name because Zack's going to them now. - -Mrs. Munning. But Zack does nothing but break things when he goes. - -Paul. I'm telling you what she thinks, not what we know. She's got a -fancy picture of him in her mind, and while it's there, she'll never -marry me. That's why he'll marry Martha. - -Mrs. Munning. I'm not at ease about it, Paul. - -Paul. Whose scheme was it for me to marry Jenny? Mine or yours? - -Mrs. Munning. It's mine, I know. - -Paul. Then you shouldn't scheme if you're not prepared to put things -through. I am prepared. I didn't think seriously of this until you -set me on. But now I'm on, I'm on, and it'll not be Zack will stop me, -neither. - -Mrs. Munning. We'll have to set them up. - -Paul. That won't cost much. - -Mrs. Munning. I'll never bear the sight of Zack living along of Martha -in the village here. - -Paul. We might get over that. It's costing something, but there'll be -Virginia's money soon, and so-- - -Mrs. Munning. What's in your mind? - -Paul. A clean sweep, mother. Getting rid of them. It's much the best. -Zack's never any use to us. - -Mrs. Munning. Get rid? - -Paul. We'll emigrate them when they're married. - -Mrs. Munning. You're thinking fast. - -Paul. Leave it to me, mother. I'll arrange it. Yes. It's all plain -sailing now. Zack married and in Canada, and me and Jenny here with you. -I'll see that steamship agency at Bollington to-morrow and find out the -cost. - -(_Zack enters._) - -What on earth-----? You've never seen Mr. Andrews in this time? - -Zack. No. - -Paul. Then what do you mean by coming back? - -Zack. Well, I wasn't satisfied we were doing right, Paul, and I got a -notion as I went along with Joe and Martha. - -Paul. A notion? - -Zack. I made my mind up I'd consult somebody before it got to doing -things so final as the banns. - -Paul. But we've decided. - -Zack. I know you have, but I'm still doubtful, and I thought I'd ask -Virginia to tell me what to do. - -Mrs. Munning. Ask Virginia? - -Zack. Yes. Tell her all about it and just see what she advises me to do. -I've a great respect for her opinions. - -Paul. More than you have for ours? - -Zack. I can't say that until I know what her opinion is. - -Mrs. Munning. She'll be disgusted with you. - -Paul. You'll keep your foolishness to yourself, Zack, do you hear? - -Zack. I'm hard put to it to see I have been foolish, Paul. Virginia will -tell me, I expect. - -Mrs. Munning. Where have you left Joe Wrigley? At the Vicarage? - -Zack. No. At the "Bunch of Grapes." - -Paul. The "Bunch of Grapes"! The crazy fool. Drinking when he'd a job -like this to do. - -Zack. I suppose he'd have a drink. - -Paul. Oh, yes, he'd money for that. They've never any money, but there's -always some for drink. - -Zack. It wasn't his fault,|Paul. I gave it him, - -Mrs. Munning. You! Where did you get money from? - -Zack. I gave him sixpence that Paul gave me this morning for a birthday -present. - -Mrs. Munning. Paul gave you sixpence! - -Paul. Yes, I did, as it happens. For a purpose, though. (_Turns on -Zack._) What gets me is Joe Wrigley's letting loose of you at any price. - -Zack. I gave him an explanation of that. I told him I'd forgotten -something important. - -Paul. And he believed you for sixpence? - -Zack. But I _had_ forgotten something, Paul. - -Paul. What? - -Zack. Well---- - -Mrs. Munning. What's that you're hiding behind you all this time? - -Zack. I'd forgotten these. (_He discloses a small bunch of roses._) -They're wild roses from the hedge and I came back to put them in -Virginia's room when she's not there, same as I have done every day, -only I'd forgotten them this morning. - -Mrs. Munning. You can just leave off doing it then. Virginia's room! -Have you no sense of decency? - -Zack. I'm sure she likes them, mother. - -Paul (_anxiously_). She never told you so? - -Zack. No, but I've seen her smiling at me and---- - -Mrs. Munning. She may well smile. Your ways would make a cat laugh. - -Zack. I'll--I'll throw the flowers away. (_He turns towards door._) - -Paul. Give me those flowers! (_Following him to door._) - -Zack. But---- - -Paul. Go back and get your business done. - -(_Enter Virginia from the house. She has a small parcel. There is a -conflict of wills at the street door. Then Zack steps into the room -again. Paul closes the door. Virginia notices the flowers. She goes -towards Paul, smiling._) - -Paul. Oh! You've--you've caught me this time. - -Virginia. But you needn't look ashamed, Paul. - -Paul. I didn't know I did. I'll--I'll take them away now. - -Virginia. That's very sweet of you. - -(_Zack watches agape. Paul goes out with the roses._) - -Virginia. Now, Zack, I don't think you deserve it, but I brought your -birthday present down, and here it is. A shaving-set. - -Zack. I'm sorry, but I haven't got a coin to give you now for luck. - -Virginia. That doesn't matter now. - -Zack. Oh, Jenny! - -Mrs. Munning. I'd think not, too, with you disgraced. Haven't you got a -word of thanks for your razor? - -Zack. Yes. It's the best gift you could make me, Jenny. - -Virginia. And you promise me you'll use it, Zack? - -Zack. I'll use it right enough. I'll cut my throat with it. - -Mrs. Munning. Zack! He doesn't know what he's saying, Jenny. - -Zack. I do know, and I mean it, too. (_Tearing at paper of the parcel._) - -Virginia (_dryly_). You'd have some trouble, Zack. It's a safety razor. - -Zack. You're all against me, all of you, and I don't care what happens -to me. - -Virginia. Zack, listen to me. I'm not against you, though I'm very, very -sorry for what you've done. - -Zack. I haven't done anything and nobody will let me tell you and---- - -Mrs. Munning. Your cousin doesn't want to hear about that, Zack. - -Zack. You're trying to stop her hearing and I'm going to tell her now. -She's got it all so wrong. I know I'm not an angel in trousers, but I'm -not a wrong _'_un neither, and---- - -Mrs. Munning. That will do, Zack. You've said enough. - -Zack. You'll none of you be sorry when I'm dead. - -Virginia. I should be very sorry, Zack. What is it that you want to tell -me? - -Zack. Mother won't let me speak. - -Virginia. I'm sure she will. She's leaving us together now, so that you -may tell me what you want to say. - -Mrs. Munning. I doubt it's safe for you, Jenny. He's a bit beside -himself. - -Virginia. It's quite the best way, aunt. To let him open his heart to -me. He'll be much better after that. - -Mrs. Munning. He'll tell a pack of lies to get the soft side of you. - -Virginia. I'll make all due allowances, aunt, if you will leave me with -him now. - -Mrs. Munning. I'm loth to, Jenny. - -Virginia. Then Zack and I will take a walk and he shall tell me as we -go. - -Mrs. Munning. Oh, if you're keen set like that, I'll go. - -Virginia. Thank you, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning (_at door_). But don't you go believing half of what he -says. - -(_Exit Mrs. Munning._) - -Zack. I'm wonderful obliged to you, Jenny. I'll get some good advice -now. - -Virginia. Sit down and tell me what you want to. Zack. I dunno where to -begin. It's so mixed up. But I'm not a desperate bad lad, Virginia. I'm -really not. Virginia. No. Begin at the beginning, Zack. - -Zack. It's like this, Jenny. On the day you came, Martha Wrigley came -here to let us know her father had broke his arm, and I---- - -(_The street door opens violently and Wrigley enters. Silently he goes -to Zack and points to door._) - -Zack. I'm busy just now, Joe. - -Wrigley. Are you coming? - -Zack. But---- Yes, Joe. - -Virginia (_stopping Zack as he goes_). I want Zack, Mr. Wrigley. - -Wrigley. You can have him when I've done with him. - -Virginia. Mr. Wrigley, I ask you as a favour. - -Wrigley. I'm sorry to disoblige a lady, but my affair comes first. - -Virginia. I think not. - -Zack. Let me go with him, Jenny. - -Virginia. But, Zack, you were going to tell me---- - -Zack. I know. But he'll only argue, and I do hate argument. It wouldn't -be any good, Virginia. My luck's dead out. - -Wrigley (_by door_). Come on. - -Zack. Yes, Joe. Oh, what a birthday! - -(_Wrigley and Zack go out._) - - -CURTAIN. - - - - -ACT III - -_The parlour as Act I. The time is seven o'clock on a sunny evening -three weeks later. The stage is empty. Then Martha opens a door, looks -in, enters, comes c., hesitates and sits. She is dressed in her best -and looks like a country servant girl on a Sunday evening. She carries a -small handbag. Sally enters from house._ - - -Sally (_crossing and pulling up short on seeing Martha_). Well, I never -did see the like of you, Martha Wrigley. Strolling in and sitting you -down as if you owned the place. Martha. Are you speaking to me? - -Sally. I'm not addressing my remarks to the table. Martha (_with great -hauteur_). I believe I'm speaking to Mrs. Munning's kitchen-maid. - -Sally. Kitchen-maid! I'm a lady-help. And you couldn't get a job at -cleaning steps yourself. - -Martha. I want some of your impudence, my girl. Sally. Impudence! From -me to you! I've known when you came begging a slice of bread from my -lunch when we were at school, and---- - -Martha. Times change, don't they, Sally? I'm sitting in the parlour now, -and your place is in the kitchen. You'll keep it, too. - -Sally. You know very well I'm only obliging Mrs. Munning temporarily. - -Martha. I know you're idling your time in here and if you don't want -me to show you up to Mrs. Munning for a dawdling slouch, you'll keep the -sweet side of me. - -Sally. You do think you're some one because you're going to marry Zack. -It might be Mr. Paul the fuss you make. - -Martha (_rising_). It's a pity that folk can't control themselves. - -Sally. If that's meant for me, let me tell you I never lost control of -myself in my life. - -Martha. If the cap fits you can put it on. - -Sally. You'll please to tell me what you mean by that, Martha Wrigley. - -Martha. Everybody knows you'd hopes of Zack yourself. You're only -showing your jealousy. - -Sally. Me jealous of you! You'll take that back. Do you hear? You'll -take that back. - -Martha. Not me. It's a well-known fact. - -Sally. Who says? - -Martha. I say. - -Sally. Then I call you a liar. You're a liar, and a mean, spiteful -spitting cat, and---- - -(_Martha gives back before her. Zack enters._) - -Martha. Zack! - -Zack. Hullo, Martha. I just came in here for a bit of a sit-down. I -favour a spell of peace and quiet at the close of the day. - -(_He just touches Martha without affection in passing and sits._) - -Sally. And all day too. - -Martha. You hold your hush, Sally Teale. Am I to come in here to be -insulted by your servant, Zack? - -Zack. Nay, I've got no servant that I ever heard of. - -Martha. Sally. - -Zack. Eh, Martha, Sally's a decent body. She'd never insult nobody. - -Martha. Are you going to take her side against me? Zack. I've not seen -anything to take anybody's side about as yet. - -Sally. She says I'm jealous and she'll take it back. - -Martha. I won't. As true as true, you are. - -Sally. I'm not. - -Martha. You are. - -Sally. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. - -(_Zack rises, comes between, puts finger in mouth and whistles._) - -Sally. I'm not. - -Zack. That's enough, lass. Whistle's gone. I'm referee and I look at it -like this. You can't both be right. - -Sally. No, I'm---- - -Zack. And you can't both be wrong. - -Martha. She's---- - -Zack. So it's a draw. - -Martha. That doesn't help. She called me a liar. Zack (_impressed_). No. -Did you, Sally? - -Sally. Yes, I did, and---- - -Zack. I'm sorry to hear that of you, Sally. - -Sally (_contrite_). Well, she shouldn't have said---- - -Zack. Maybe she spoke beyond her meaning. You did, didn't you, Martha? - -Martha. I spoke hasty. - -Zack (_to Sally_). And you answered hasty, didn't you? - -Sally. I might. - -Zack. I thought so. Haste! It's the cause of half the trouble in the -world. I never hurry. It's a principle with me. - -Martha (_tearfully_). Zack, I'm sorry I put on airs. I won't do it -again. (_Comes to him. He puts arm round her_). - -Sally. I'll--I'll not lose my temper again, Zack. (_Comes to him. He -puts his other arm round her._) - -Zack. There, there, Martha. There, there, Sally. I never did believe in -arguing. It's wear and tear for nothing, and----- - -(_Virginia and Mrs. Munning enter, Virginia in light dress, with hat and -gloves._) - -Virginia. Oh! - -Mrs. Munning. Going in for being a Mormon, Zack? - -Zack. No, mother. I dunno how it is, cousin Virginia, but the awkwardest -things do keep happening to me. I was only reconciling them like. - -Mrs. Munning. You haven't done the bedrooms for the night, Sally. - -Sally. I'm on my way there now. - -Mrs. Munning. You'll arrive a lot sooner if you'll try going upstairs. - -(_Sally is about to reply, thinks better of it and goes out._) - -Zack. I'm the unluckiest chap alive, Virginia. I'd give the world to -have you thinking well of me, and things fall out wrong road every time. - -Mrs. Munning. That'll do, Zack. Martha's waiting to speak to me. What is -it, Martha? - -Martha (_opening her bag_). This is what I came in for, Mrs. Munning. -Your invitation to the wedding. Oh! (_She drops some cards._) - -Mrs. Munning. Pick them up, Zack. - -(_Zack picks them up._) - -Martha. I thought Zack and me might go round tonight delivering them. - -(_Zack, on his knee picking up cards, reverently kisses the hem of -Virginia's skirt._) - -Mrs. Munning. Oh yes. (_Sharply._) What are you doing, Zack? - -Zack (_scrambling up_). Picking up cards. (_Giving them to Mrs. -Munning._) - -Mrs Munning. Why, you've had cards printed. (_Returns cards to Martha._) - -Martha. They are stylish, aren't they? (_Giving a card_). That's yours, -Mrs. Munning. And I brought you one, Miss Virginia. - -Virginia. Thanks. - -Mrs. Munning. Waste of money. - -Martha. You can't be genteel without spending a bit of money. A -wedding's a wedding, Mrs. Munning, and folk have to spread themselves -sometimes. Are you ready, Zack? - -Zack. I'm not so anxious, Martha. It'll mean a lot of walking. - -Mrs. Munning. I suppose you'd rather good money went on postage? - -Zack. All right, mother. I'll go. Only you know, Martha, you're tying -this knot firm. A printed card's an awful binding thing. - -Martha. My father's got to see there's no mistake. - -Zack. He's doing pretty well so far. - -Martha. Yes. My wedding-dress is coming home tonight, too. I'll show it -you if you like. - -Zack (_swallowing, then_), I'm like a cat on hot bricks till I see that -dress. - -(_Martha and Zack go out._) - -Virginia. Poor Zack! - -Mrs. Munning. Fools pay for their folly. Did you come down for your walk -with Paul? - -Virginia. Yes. It's about the usual time. - -Mrs. Munning. He'll be late this evening. He'd to go to Bollington this -afternoon, but he'll bring you back a fairing, Jenny. He mostly went on -your account. - -Virginia. On mine? - -Mrs. Munning. Paul's fretting because the roses he's putting in your -room each day aren't good enough for you. He's gone to Bollington to see -if he can't find better at the flower shop there. - -Virginia (_coldly_). He needn't have troubled, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning. Paul doesn't count it trouble to do things for you. - -Virginia. So he's told me. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, truth's truth, and I'm not bound to hide it. He's -missed his proper bedtime every night with seeking roses here to suit -him. They've got to be so fine and large before they'll do for Paul. - -(_Sally enters with a vase of very faded roses in her hand._) - -Sally. Do you want these leaving in your room any longer, Miss Virginia? -They're that faded and done they'll stink the place out soon. - -Virginia. I think they might be thrown away now, Sally. - -Sally. I'd think so, too. Been there a week if it's a minute. Some one -used to change them every day, but they've seemingly got tired of the -job. - -Virginia. Yes. Put them away, please. - -(_Sally nods and goes out._) - -Mrs. Munning (_making the best of it_). I didn't know he'd given it up -here altogether. - -Virginia. I expect he preferred a proper night's rest, aunt. - -Mrs. Munning. Not he. But that's Paul all over. If he can't get the best -he'll have none. Look at the engagement ring he gave you. - -Virginia. Yes. It's--an engagement ring. - -Mrs. Munning. Ah, but you're like myself, Jenny. You don't value things -for their appearance, but for what they mean to you. - -Virginia (_doubtfully, fingering the ring_). Yes. - -(_Paul enters, with hat and coat on._) - -Paul. Good evening. - -Mrs. Munning. Why, you're sooner than I expected. - -Paul. Well, I've settled it. I've done my business. I've got them -mother. How are you, Jenny? (_Comes round and kisses her._) - -Mrs. Munning. Have you brought them with you, Paul? - -Paul. I'll show you. Let me get my coat off. - -Mrs. Munning. The roses, I mean. - -Paul (_blankly_). Oh the roses. - -Mrs. Munning (_quickly_). They'll be sending them, I suppose. - -Paul. Well---- - -Virginia. I'm just going upstairs. - -Mrs. Munning. You needn't run away from him the moment he comes back. - -Virginia. No. But I shan't be going out for a walk to-night, aunt. I'll -take my hat off. (_Exit Virginia._) - -Mrs. Munning. Have you no sense at all? Couldn't you tell her the roses -were coming? - -Paul. They're not. - -Mrs. Munning. Not coming? And me just telling her they were all you went -to Bollington for! - -Paul. You shouldn't tell her lies. You know they weren't all I went for. - -Mrs. Munning. She liked to think they were. You've got a memory like a -sieve. - -Paul. I didn't forget. I went to the shop and asked the price. They -wanted sixpence each. Sixpence for a single rose. Have you any idea what -a lot of roses it takes to make a decent-looking bunch? - -Mrs. Munning. Will you never get it into your thick head that it's worth -spending money to gain money? - -Paul. You've got the spending habit lately. There's no need to spend for -the sake of spending. I'm engaged to Virginia. What more do you want? - -Mrs. Munning. I want you to keep engaged till you're married. You're -growing careless and neglecting her. - -Paul. Neglecting! I gave her a kiss just now. - -Mrs. Munning. That cost you nothing. What made you stop putting flowers -in her room? - -Paul. I'm not marrying a wife to stand at her heels with silly flowers. -And there isn't a woman on earth worth buying roses for at sixpence a -bloom. - -Mrs. Munning. Virginia's five hundred a year's worth it. - -Paul. It's not. Selling flowers at that price is robbery, and I'll be -robbed by no one. Look at Joe Wrigley. - -Mrs. Munning. That won't last long. - -Paul. You're right. It won't. Zack will be married on Wednesday and off -to Canada on Saturday. Just let Joe Wrigley come here after that. I'll -teach him something. - -Mrs. Munning. You've got their tickets? - -Paul (_showing them_). I told you I had. - -Mrs. Munning. Steerage, I see. - -Paul. Of course they're steerage. Why, do you know we've to give them a -matter of ten pounds before they'll let them load? - -Mrs. Munning. Well, we have to start them off with something, Paul. - -Paul. Ten pounds isn't something. It's a thundering lot. - -Mrs. Munning. In a good cause. - -Paul. A good cause is a better cause when it's cheap, and this is coming -out a bit expensive. - -(_Enter Sally._) - -Mrs. Munning. What is it, Sally? - -Sally. The door bell, Mrs. Munning. - -(_Sally crosses and exit._) - -Paul. An order, if we're lucky. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, you are lucky, lately, aren't you? Everything you -can think of _'_s going right, (_Sally re-enters._) - -Sally. It's Mr. Wrigley and some friends. - -(_Wrigley enters with Thomas Mowatt and Harry Shoe-bridge. Mowatt is a -fat, red-faced dairyman and Shoe-bridge is a farmer, tall, with brown -face and mutton-chop whiskers. Wrigley has a large jug of ale and puts -it on table._) - -(_Exit Sally._) - -Wrigley. Good evening, Mrs. Munning. Come in, Thomas, Harry. You see, -Mrs. Munning, you've been so amazing good to me lately over a bit of -supper at nights that I thought I'd bring a friend or two this time to -test the vittles. - -Mrs. Munning. You---- - -Wrigley. Ay, and you needn't tire your tongue with welcoming words. I -can read your genial thoughts. And knowing you hadn't got it here, -we brought our own ale with us. (_Lifting jug._) It's a real drop of -stimulant is this. Now sit down, Thomas. There you are, Harry. (_Places -chairs._) Well, now what shall it be? (_Sits._) Seeing we're unexpected -like, I think a bit of bread and cheese, eh Thomas? - -Thomas. It'll go sweetly with the ale. - -Wrigley. So it will. Bread and cheese, Mrs. Munning. I'd not say "no" to -biscuits myself. - -Paul (_advancing_). Joe Wrigley---- - -Wrigley. Eh, Paul, I didn't just notice you, but you're the man we -want. We've really come on business, but we'll get on better when we're -fortified with a bite and a sup. You know what Thomas and Harry are, -don't you? - -Paul (_surrendering_). You'd better get the bread and cheese out, -mother. - -(_Mrs. Munning goes reluctantly and opens door._) - -Mrs. Munning. Sally! Sally! - -(_Exit Mrs. Munning._) - -Wrigley. That's right, Paul. When the Executive Committee of the Little -Hulton Savings Club pay a call upon you it's a matter of common sense -for you to make them feel at home. - -Paul. Mr. Mowatt and Mr. Shoebridge are on the Executive and they're -welcome here, but you---- - -Wrigley. I'm on as well. - -Harry. Since last night. - -Wrigley. As you say, Harry, since last night. I'm coopted under rule -17. Cost me a gallon of beer, but I'm co-opted. We're the Executive -and we're here on a matter of business concerned with the work of the -Society. - -Paul (_with deference_). What can I do for you, Mr. Shoebridge? - -Harry. Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Munning. - -(_Mrs. Munning and Sally enter. They put food and glasses on table. -Wrigley pours ale. They eat and drink during the ensuing. Exit Sally._) - -Harry. You do the catering for our annual picnic, and there's a -resolution standing on our minute book, recommending our members to -employ you at times of private merrymaking. Thank you, Mrs. Munning. - -Paul. We've done all catering for your members at contract prices for -many years. - -Thomas. That's so. And no one likes to break an old connection without -warning. - -Paul. Break? - -Thomas. I reckon first to last you've made a pretty penny by us. - -Paul. I'm sure our charges to you are moderate, Mr. Mowatt. - -Thomas. They'll do. They'll do--so long as you're giving us what we -want. - -Harry. It's not the charges that we're here about exactly. - -Mrs. Munning. Then what is it? - -Harry. I'm telling you as fast as I can. This is a tasty bit of cheese, -Mrs. Munning. - -Wrigley. Aye. I thought you'd relish it. It's full-flavoured but it -doesn't rasp the tongue. It's mellow. - -Thomas. Meller's a great word, Joe. I like things to be meller. I like -meller women and meller cheese and meller ale and meller festivals. - -Harry. Did you go to see Mr. Abbott married the other day? - -Thomas. Did I go? I'd say so. That was a proper meller occasion. - -Harry. It was that. Mellow right through. He married his wife with port -wine, did Mr. Abbott. - -Thomas. I'm not partial to port wine myself. I favour ale at all times -and all occasions. Ale's a beverage. - -Wrigley. And Mr. Abbott's wedding isn't the point to-night. - -Thomas. It was a meller wedding and we want things meller always. - -Harry. That's it in a nutshell, Mr. Munning. - -Paul. I'm sure we make no differences, Mr. Shoebridge. - -Harry. Oh yes, you do. You may not know it, but you do. You have two -sorts of catering, and our members want the best, or the Executive will -pass a resolution advising all to patronize Wilson's of Norton. - -Mrs. Munning. I hope you won't do that, Mr. Shoebridge. - -Harry. Well, if you want to keep our connection, you'll have to do the -thing our way. - -Paul. But you don't tell us what your way is. What is it we do wrong? - -Harry. I'm coming to it, lad. I'm going to touch the spot. From what we -hear, your Zack's a-wedding Martha Wrigley. - -Paul. Yes? - -Harry. Well, I've nowt against it. Martha's doing unexpected well, but -if Zack's satisfied I'm sure I am. But Joe Wrigley tells me that it -doesn't stop at that, and being her father he ought to know. You want to -emigrate them off to Canada. Now where's the sense in that? - -Paul. It seems best to us. - -Thomas. Well, I think it's rotten. - -Paul. You must allow us to be judges. - -Mrs. Munning. I think that's our business and nobody else's. - -Wrigley (_pushing back chair and rising_). Come on, let's be getting -over to Wilson's and making our arrangements with him. - -Thomas (_rising_). Yes, that's the only thing if they're going to talk -that road. - -Paul. But I do wish you'd explain. What has Zack's going to Canada to do -with it? - -Harry. You want a lot of telling. You have two sorts of jollifications -here. Jollifications with Zack Munning and jollifications without. We -want them _with_. - -Mrs. Munning. With Zack? - -Harry. He's the difference I've been telling you about. - -Mrs. Munning. Zack is! He never does anything. - -Harry. He does enough. I know what you mean. He's a bit of a fool at -doing most things is Zack, but he's got a gift for jollifications. I -couldn't point to where it is myself. Zack's just to come and moon about -and drop a word into an ear there and take a woman's arm here and the -thing's done. You might call it a knack he has. - -Thomas. He mellers things. That's where it is. It's like this, Mrs. -Munning. You can eat cheese without supping ale to it, but you don't get -satisfaction. And Paul can run a wedding without Zack being there, but -it's not hearty--not what I'd call a jollification. It's stiff and hard. -No feeling in it. No mellerness. - -Harry. Zack's got a way with him. He's an artist. If the talk's going -flat, or anybody recalls a subject that's not fit to be recalled at a -wedding--an old quarrel or such like,--what does Zack do but break a -plate? and smiles that smile of his, and all's well in a moment. - -Mrs. Munning. Well, this is a revelation to me. I don't know what to -say. - -Paul. I do. He'll go to Canada. - -Wrigley. Is that your last word? - -Mrs. Munning. No. We'll talk this over, Paul. - -Paul. It's gone too far for talking now. I've bought their tickets. - -Wrigley. They'll do to light a fire with. - -Mrs. Munning. We'll let you have your answer later, Mr. Shoebridge. - -Harry (_by door_). All right, Mrs. Munning. You're wise enough to know a -hasty temper doesn't pay in business. I could give a good guess at your -answer. - -Wrigley. I'm not fond of guessing myself, so I'll stay here to get it. -I'm concerned twice over. As a member of the Executive and as father of -the bride to be. - -Thomas. We'll leave it to you, Joe. - -Wrigley. I reckon you can. - -Harry. Good evening, Mrs. Munning. - -Mrs. Munning. Good evening to you. - -(_Exeunt Thomas and Harry._) - -Mrs. Munning. I suppose we can put this down to you, Joe Wrigley. - -Wrigley. You might be farther out. - -Paul. You'd nothing to say against emigrating them when I mentioned it. - -Wrigley. No, but I thought a lot. I'd a father's feelings, and they went -too deep for words. - -Mrs. Munning. What have you done this for, Joe? - -Wrigley. Two reasons, and I don't know which is bigger of the two. -Zack's worth good money here. If I'd a mind to ruin your trade I'd let -him go, and make you find out what you've missed. But that's not Joseph -Wrigley's way. I kill no geese that lay me golden eggs. And reason -number two. Aye, and this weighs heaviest. I want the pleasure of -knowing they're living in the village here and the satisfaction of -watching your face look sour and sourer for the sight of them. I'll -teach you something for sacking me. - -(_Virginia enters, during this speech._) - -Paul. Will you, Joe? You've given me two reasons why you think you will. -I'll give you two why you won't. - -Wrigley. You will? - -Mrs. Munning. Be careful, Paul. (_She puts hand on his arm._) - -Paul (_shaking her off_). The first's Zack isn't married yet to Martha -and the second is he isn't going to be. Their engagement's served my -purpose. - -Virginia. What was your purpose, Paul? - -Paul. Oh! I didn't see you, Jenny. - -Wrigley. Never mind her. You're speaking to me. Zack shall marry Martha -or I'll make your name a stink in Little Hutton. - -Paul. Get out. - -Wrigley. You'll eat a lot of dirt for this, Paul Munning. Banns called -and wedding fixed and people asked. (_By door, then turns_). Is Zack to -marry Martha? - -Paul. He's not. - -Wrigley. Then the band is going to play and, by George, I'll make you -dance to it. - -(_Exit Wrigley._) - -Virginia (_quietly_). You must tell me what this is, Paul. - -Paul. It's Joe Wrigley making a mistake. Thinks he can bounce me, does -he? - -Mrs. Munning. You'd better be careful, Paul. Joe Wrigley's one thing -when he's one of our men, but he's another now he's got on that -committee. - -Paul. I'd like to wring his neck. The cunning swine. - -Mrs. Munning. Zack's not to go to Canada. - -Paul. All right. He's not. I'll go to Bollington tomorrow and get the -money back on the tickets. But he shan't marry Martha either. I'll get -even with Joe Wrigley there. - -Virginia. What does Zack say? - -Paul. Zack? What's Zack to do with it? - -Virginia. It's his marriage, you know. - -Paul. Zack _'_ll do as he's told. He wasn't marrying her because he -wanted to. - -Virginia. Why was he marrying? - -Paul. Because I wanted it. I don't want it now. - -Mrs. Munning. We're in a ticklish corner with Joe Wrigley, Paul. - -Paul. Do you want me to hold my hands up to Joe Wrigley? - -Mrs. Munning. You'll take care what you do? I don't want my business -damaged worse than it is. - -Paul. _Your_ business? - -Mrs. Munning. It is my business, I believe. You're only my manager, and -I warn you to be careful or I'll set about making a change. I've learnt -something to-night. - -Virginia. So have I. - -Paul. Mother, you don't believe Joe's tales of Zack! - -Mrs. Munning. I'd not believe a sacked man's tales of anything, but I -believe Mowatt and Shoebridge, and I know who it is they want at the -weddings. It's been a shock to me to find they favour Zack, but it's -Zack they want and Zack they're going to get. - -Paul. A nice mess he'll make of things. - -Mrs. Munning. That remains to be seen. He's never had his chance till -now, but he's just as much my son as you are, Paul. - -Virginia. Yes, he was just as much your son when you neglected him and -kept him down and gave Paul all your love. And just as much when you and -Paul let Zack walk into Wrigley's trap and never raised a hand to save -him, and when you schemed to send him out to Canada to save your pride -from being hurt, and when you changed your mind about him now--not from -regret or any love for Zack, but when you found your business would do -better with him here. Oh, I've been stupid too. I let myself be blinded -by the dust you both threw in my eyes, but I'm not blinded now and---- - -Paul. Will you be quiet, Virginia? - -Mrs. Munning. If I made a mistake; Jenny, I've owned to it. - -Virginia. You've owned to it! Does that make up to Zack for all the -years you've slighted him, for the chances that he might have had and -Paul has robbed him of? For---- - -Paul. Robbed! I think you're forgetting whose ring you're wearing on -your finger. - -Virginia. Your ring? Yes. There's your ring. - -(_She takes it off and throws it at him. Zack and Martha enter. Martha -is in a stupidly elaborate wedding-dress. The ring misses Paul, hits -Zack and falls._) - -Zack. I think I heard something drop. - -Virginia. Yes. I've dropped Paul. - -Mrs. Munning. Jenny! - -Paul. You might have damaged that ring badly. It cost me thirty -shillings. - -Virginia. You are having an expensive time, lately. - -Martha (_picking up ring_). Oh, it's a beautiful ring. - -Paul. Yes. Give it to me. - -Virginia. No. Put it on, Martha. - -Paul. What! - -Virginia. Put it on. - -(_Martha puts it on._) - -Do you like the look of it on your finger? - -Martha It's a vision. - -Virginia. Is it? Do you like the man that goes with that ring? - -Paul. That's my ring, Virginia. - -Virginia. I'm quite aware of that. Do you like Paul, Martha? Will you -take Paul Munning for your lawful wedded husband? - -Zack. I'm not very quick at thinking, Virginia, but I think you're -getting things mixed up like. - -Paul. She's gone mad. - -Virginia. Have I aunt? - -Mrs. Munning. I don't know, Jenny. - -Virginia. You do know. You know Joe Wrigley has the power to ruin you -unless Martha becomes Mrs. Munning. She's going to become Mrs. Munning, -but not Mrs. Zack Munning. - -Zack. But I've passed my word to Martha. We've had banns called in -church. - -Virginia. Are you in love with Martha, Zack? - -Zack. Well---- - -Virginia. Are you or are you not? - -Zack. You do ask the awkwardest questions, Virginia. - -Virginia. That's good enough for me. Martha, it's a pity to waste that -wedding-dress. Would you rather marry Zack or Paul? - -Martha. I've never dared to lift my eyes as high as Mr. Paul. - -Virginia. It's not so high. Stand on a chair if it'll make you feel -easier. It's like this, Martha. Paul's missing something by not marrying -me, but there's a matter of five hundred pounds that I'll give him in -the vestry on his wedding-day with you. Of course if he doesn't marry -you there's no five hundred pounds, and there is your father. - -Mrs. Munning. And a new manager for my business too. - -Paul. Mother! - -Virginia. So you've got it all three ways, Paul. Martha, you needn't be -afraid. Canada with Zack was the riskiest gamble a woman ever thought -of, but England with Paul is something solid. You'll have friends to -Watch you and to watch Paul, too. - -Paul. But--but---- - -Virginia. That's all right, Paul. You needn't thank me now. And if you'd -like to take Martha out for a walk, I shan't prevent you. - -Martha. Me walk through Little Hulton by the side of Mr. Paul! Oh, Miss -Virginia, I'd never have the face. - -Virginia. I've told you you're bringing him good money. You give and he -takes. - -Paul. Do I take? - -Virginia. Don't you? - -Paul. Mother, have you nothing to say? - -Virginia. She's come down on the right side of the fence at last, Paul. - -Mrs. Munning. I'll not pretend I'm pleased, but it's a way out. - -Paul. You'd see me sacrificed like this? - -Mrs. Munning. You'll not forget that Martha's in the room, will you? - -Zack. I suppose I'll do wrong thing if I open my mouth, but I'll speak -my mind for once and chance it. - -Virginia. What's the matter, Zack? You didn't want to marry Martha? - -Zack. I didn't and I did. I've no right to be selfish, and I didn't like -the thought of it at first. I'm the wrong sort of husband for her as I -am. - -Virginia. Very well, then------ - -Zack. Aye. As I am I'm wrong, and I know I'm wrong. But I might not -be so wrong in Canada. I've never had a chance afore, and this thing's -grown on me a bit. I've wanted my chance, and it looked like I was -getting it. You never know what a foreign country will do for a man, and -Canada began to look a chance to me. I'd hopes of Canada. And now you -say I'm not to marry Martha, and I'll never get a chance again. - -Martha. I'd rather marry Mr. Paul, if he's willing, Zack. - -Virginia. He's willing. - -Zack. Maybe you're right, Martha. Paul's a bigger man than me and I -mustn't be selfish. But I'd begun to be hopeful, and I own this is a -blow to me. I'll go out for a breath of air. - -Virginia. Stay where you are, Zack. Paul and Martha are going out -together. - -Paul. That's advertising it a bit, and her in her wedding-gown and all. - -Virginia. It's meant to advertise it, Paul. There's your hat. Give her -your arm now. - -Martha. Oh, Mr. Paul! - -(_They go up to door, arm in arm._) - -Virginia. And I'll tell you something, Paul. You're great at talking of -the cost of things. A pleasant look costs no more than a sour one, so -see what you can do. - -(_Exeunt Paul and Martha. Virginia closes door._) - -Now then, aunt, is there anything you'd like to say to Zack? - -Mrs. Munning. He's the cause of more trouble than he's worth, and has -been since the day he was born. - -Zack. Yes, mother. I knew it must be all my fault some road. - -Virginia. I suppose that way of speaking to him is force of habit, aunt. -But it's time you changed your habits now. Don't you think you'd feel -better if you apologized to Zack? - -Mrs. Munning. Apologized! - -Virginia. I've a belief myself in paying debts. - -Mrs. Munning. I don't owe Zack for much. - -Virginia. Only thirty years' neglect. - -Zack. You mustn't talk like that to mother, Jenny. You can't expect a -great soft thing like me to get same care taken of him as she took of -Paul. You don't treat carthorses like you'd treat a racer. - -Virginia (_to Mrs. Munning, ignoring Zack_). So you've nothing to say to -him? - -Mrs. Munning. I don't know that I have. - -Virginia. You're leaving quite a lot to me. - -Mrs. Munning. We know what's good for Zack. Some folk don't pay for -kindness. - -Virginia. Some never get a chance. Zack's had your method long enough. -We'll try mine now. - -Mrs. Munning. And what is yours? - -Virginia. Bring me some hot water and a towel, Zack. - -Zack. Hot water? - -Virginia. In a jug. - -Zack. Yes, Jenny. I knew there'd be hot water in it somewhere. (_Exit -Zack._) - -Mrs. Munning. What's this for? - -Virginia. A clean start and a clean chin and Zack's first lesson in the -art of self-respect. - -Mrs. Munning. Meaning you're going to swell his head. - -Virginia. No, aunt. Only to shave his beard. I'm going to talk to Zack -and a lather-brush will be a handy thing to stop his mouth with if he -tries to answer back before I've done. - -(_Zack re-enters with steaming jug and a towel._) - -Zack. It's very hot. I found the kettle on the boil. - -Virginia. All the better. - -Zack (_apprehensively_). Yes, Jenny. - -Mrs. Munning. And you think I'll stay here and watch you do it? - -Virginia. Well, aunt, I rather hoped you wouldn't. - -Mrs. Munning. You're taking charge of things, young lady. - -Virginia. I've come to the conclusion that it's time. (_Mrs. Munning -meets her eye, quails and goes out._) Zack, go upstairs and bring me -down the birthday present that I gave you. - -Zack. It's not upstairs, Jenny. - -Virginia. Where is it, then? I want it. - -Zack. I keep it in my pocket. - -Virginia. No wonder your coat fits like a sack. Give it me. - -Zack. You're not going to take it off me because I didn't use it, are -you? - -Virginia. I'm going to use it. Sit down. (_She pushes him into chair -and puts towel round his neck._) Tell me why you carried this about with -you. - -Zack. It's because I------ (_hesitates._) - -Virginia. Well? - -Zack. Because you gave it me. - -Virginia. I gave it you for use. Keep still now. (_She trims his beard -with scissors._) - -Zack. Yes, Jenny. I know, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. They're -too grand for using on the likes of me. Oh! (_She deliberately pricks -him._) - -Virginia. What is it? - -Zack. You ran the scissors into me. It doesn't matter though. - -(_She pricks again._) - -Oh, Jenny, that did hurt a bit. - -Virginia. I meant it to. Don't you dare to say it doesn't matter when -you're hurt or I'll hurt you again. - -Zack. No, Jenny. - -(_She turns to table and makes lather._) - -Virginia. And when I give you anything and tell you to use it, you -won't imagine it's too grand for you. You'll use it; (_Her back is still -turned to him. He fingers the stubble on his chin and nervously holds -the chair-arms, watching her timorously._) - -Zack. Yes, Jenny. - -Virginia (_turning with lather-brush_). Very well. Now I can start -talking to you. (_She holds brush poised. He eyes it._) - -Zack. You've not done badly up to now for a non-starter. (_She puts -brush in his mouth_). Oof! - -Virginia (_lathering_). If you open your mouth again unless I tell you -to, that's what you'll get. Now, Zack Munning, who do you think you are? -(_Stands from him_). You may answer. - -Zack. Well I suppose I'm---- I dunno. I'm nobody much. - -Virginia (_approaching and lathering_). You can't answer. Then I'll tell -you. You are not nobody. You're a person of considerable importance. For -one thing, you're the mainstay of your mother's business. When you go -to weddings, they're liked, and when you don't they're disliked. Paul is -not popular. You are. You may speak. - -Zack. You've no right to run down Paul like that, Jenny. - -Virginia. I'm not running him down. I'm putting him in his place in -comparison with you. Now, is that understood? You're of more value here -than he is. - -Zack. Oh, but, Jenny--oof! (_He gets the brush in his mouth._) - -Virginia. If you like a mouthful of soap at every word I utter you can -have it. If you don't, sit quiet and listen. Where was I coming to? Oh -yes. Martha Wrigley. You didn't love her, Zack. Why did you let them -force her on to you? - -Zack. I do hate argument, Jenny. Paul argued and Joe argued and he's a -powerful voice for arguing has Joe, and so I just said "yes" to make an -end of it. - -Virginia (_taking razor_). You'd better turn round to the light now. I -don't want to plough your face. Carry the chair to the window. - -Zack. Yes, Jenny. - -Virginia. Sit down and let me see what I can make of you. (_She -shaves._) You just said "Yes" to save yourself the trouble of saying -"No" and never thought of anybody else but Paul and Joe. - -Zack (_moving in protest_). Oh yes, I did, Jenny. - -Virginia (_alarmed_). Be careful, Zack. I don't want to cut you. - -Zack. Well, I did think of some one else. - -Virginia. Who? - -Zack. I thought of Martha. - -Virginia. Never mind Martha. - -Zack. But I must mind her. She looked to me for consolation did Martha, -and I don't think Paul's as good at consoling a wench as I am. - -Virginia. Oh? So we've found something we're better at than he is, have -we? - -Zack. I'm bound to think of Martha's feelings, Jenny. - -Virginia. Martha's parading the high street with Paul. Her feelings are -all right. - -Zack. My conscience isn't easy about her, Jenny. We've been called in -church together and---- - -Virginia (_holding out razor_). And you can finish shaving by yourself. - -Zack. But I don't know how. I've never used a razor in my life. - -(_Virginia puts razor on table. Zack rises, half shaved._) - -Virginia. It's time you learned. - -Zack. You were getting on so well. - -Virginia. So were you till you began to talk rubbish about Martha -Wrigley. Go and ask her to finish shaving you. - -Zack. Have I said anything to offend you, Jenny? - -Virginia. Have you said----? You think a lot about other people, Zack. -Do you never think of me? - -Zack. I do that. But it's not the same. - -Virginia. The same as what? - -Zack. It's common thinking when I think of them. When I think of you -it's something a bit special. It's thinking with my hat off, like going -into church. It's Sunday best and I couldn't bring myself to talk of it -the same way as I'd talk of them. It's not for talking of at all. It's -holylike. That's why I haven't mentioned it. - -Virginia (_takes up razor. Zack flinches_). Sit down again. I'll finish -shaving you. - -Zack. Will you, Jenny? (_He sits._) - -Virginia. Yes. Don't talk or you'll get cut. Now listen, Zack. Martha -Wrigley's getting what she wants. She's marrying Paul and she'll be the -proudest woman in the place. So you can put her out of mind. If you -want to say "good-bye" to her, you can go and say it when I've finished -shaving you. Only you'll say it in words. You're a bit too free with -your consolations, and I've not shaved you for Martha Wrigley to have -the benefit of your virgin chin. You've finished with her, Zack, you -understand? - -Zack. Yes, Jenny. - -Virginia. Very well. Now you can get up and look at yourself in that -glass. - -Zack (_peering into glass in lid of shaving set_). Why, Jenny, I'd not -have known myself. Is yon lad me? - -Virginia. It's you. - -Zack. Well, I tell you what, Jenny, if I'd met that face in the lane on -anybody else but me, I'd have said he wasn't a bad looking chap at all. - -Virginia. It's not a face you're meeting in the lane. It's your face. - -Zack. That's the surprising part about it. Why, it's very near worth -taking the trouble to shave every day. - -Virginia. I'll see you take the trouble. - -Zack. And I'll look like this every day! - -Virginia. You will. - -Zack. Well, but if that's so, and I'm free of Martha, why.... No. I'm -getting ahead too fast. - -Virginia. Not you. Take another look at yourself if you're afraid about -anything. - -Zack (_looking_). I'm pretty near good-looking enough to chance it. Dang -it, I will chance it, and all--No. No. I'm not quite bold enough for -that. - -Virginia (_holding glass in front of him_). Look again. - -Zack. Well, you can't eat me anyhow. Jenny, I've got a heap of love -for you. I've loved you since the day I met you, and I've been the -miserablest chap on earth because of what's been happening since. Things -always do go wrong with me, and they've been going the wrongest road -they could, but, by gum, there's just a chance to put them right this -time, and I'll dash at it if I'm hanged for it. Jenny it's the most -bowdacious thing to come from me to you, but I'm wrought up to point and -I've got to speak or bust. Will you have me, lass? - -Virginia. Kiss me, Zack. - -Zack. But--but--do you mean to say you'll---- - -Virginia. You great baby. - -Zack (_embracing her_). Eh, I could hug you till you broke. Love? Love's -the finest state of man. I'm--I'm---- No. There aren't words made -for this. Its too tremendous big for words. Jenny, it's true? You're -not--You're not just playing with me. - -Virginia. No. It's true. Oh, Zack! - -Zack. Jenny! (_Kiss._) - - -CURTAIN. - - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Lancashire Plays: The Game; The -Northerners; Zack, by Harold Brighouse - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE LANCASHIRE PLAYS *** - -***** This file should be named 55286-0.txt or 55286-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/8/55286/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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