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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5056.txt b/5056.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..141bd70 --- /dev/null +++ b/5056.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8065 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Second Series Plays, Complete, by John Galsworthy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Second Series Plays, Complete + +Author: John Galsworthy + +Release Date: October 27, 2006 [EBook #5056] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND SERIES PLAYS, COMPLETE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + +GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 + +By John Galsworthy + + + Contents: + + The Eldest Son + The Little Dream + Justice + + + +THE ELDEST SON + +BY JOHN GALSWORTHY + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet +LADY CHESHIRE, his wife +BILL, their eldest son +HAROLD, their second son +RONALD KEITH(in the Lancers), their son-in-law +CHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughter +DOT, their second daughter +JOAN, their third daughter +MABEL LANFARNE, their guest +THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan +OLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeper +FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid +YOUNG DUNNING, the under-keeper +ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl +JACKSON, the butler +CHARLES, a footman + + +TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8 at the +Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. + +ACT I SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. + SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. + +ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. + +ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. + + A night elapses between Acts I. and II. + + + + + + ACT I + +SCENE I + + The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with + an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The + dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and + under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In + a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins + on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against + the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty, + pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, + is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white + roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A + door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress, + comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, + rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, + whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He + speaks before he reaches the bottom. + +SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for? + +FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, Sir +William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening. + +SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Your +father coming up to-night? + +FREDA. Yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him +here after dinner, will you? + +FREDA. Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if +he's got it. + + He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly + tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of + skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a + nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress. + +CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU? + +FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine--Mrs. Keith, I mean. +My lady told me to give you these. + +CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother! + +FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. +My lady thought white would suit her better. + +CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress. + + [FREDA lowers the roses quickly.] + +What do you think of Joan's engagement? + +FREDA. It's very nice for her. + +CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals? + +FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing. + +CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. +Any news? + +FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, +won't marry Rose Taylor, after all. + +CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there +was--she was--I mean---- + +FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say. + +CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's +come? + +FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty. + + RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in + evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and + the air of a horseman. + +KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed +a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. +Where's that litter of little foxes? + +FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith. + +KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What? + +CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here +since the flood. + +KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat--eh, Freda? + +CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young +Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny. + +KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never +keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Bill +come? + + As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's + evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale + young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, + and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod. + HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three + steps at a time. + +HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have a +sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet? + +FREDA. No, Mr. Harold. + + HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the + drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a + voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her + head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes. + +JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot! + +FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan. + + DOT's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. + She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a + rebel. + +DOT. You little being! + +JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door] +Oh! Dot! You're pinching! + + As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL LANFARNE, a tall + girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down. And + at sight of her FREDA's whole figure becomes set and meaningfull. + +FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady. + +MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet! +[Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda? + +FREDA. Very well, thank you. + +MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the +guns again. + +FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure. + +MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face-last time. + +FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr. +Harold, or Captain Keith? + +MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day. + +FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best. + + A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a rather + inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. Left alone + without the roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming of a + door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the + stairs. BILL runs down, and comes on her suddenly. He is a + tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn + look of veiled choler. + +BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what's the +matter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away +from her] Aren't you glad to see me? + +FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. After dinner. + +BILL. Mister----? + + She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands + frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the + drawing-room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and MISS LANFARNE + come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER, + and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By + herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking + woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at + once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the + dining-room. + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Bill. + +MABEL. How do you do? + +KEITH. How are you, old chap? + +DOT. [gloomily] Do you know your part? + +HAROLD. Hallo, old man! + +CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause and +look at him shyly without speech. + +BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN's shoulder] Good luck, you two! +Well mother? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What a +long time! + + She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the + dining-room. + + The curtain falls. + + The curtain rises again at once. + + + + +SCENE II + + CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE, + and JOAN, are returning to the hall after dinner. + +CHRISTINE. [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about young Dunning +and Rose Taylor? + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear. + +CHRISTINE. But can't they be---- + +DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent.] My child, I'm +not the young person. + +CHRISTINE. No, of course not--only--[nodding towards JOAN and +Mable]. + +DOT. Look here! This is just an instance of what I hate. + +LADY CHESHIRE. My dear? Another one? + +DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand, +because you know you do. + +CHRISTINE. Instance? Of what? + +JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire. + +DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he's +tired of her? + +CHRISTINE. [Ironically] Well! If your imagination doesn't carry you +as far as that! + +DOT. When people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love with +each other? + +CHRISTINE. [With a shrug] That's not the point. + +DOT. Oh? Were you in love with Ronny? + +CHRISTINE. Don't be idiotic! + +DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't been? + +CHRISTINE. Of course not! + +JOAN. Dot! You are!---- + +DOT. Hallo! my little snipe! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Dot, dear! + +DOT. Don't shut me up, mother! [To JOAN.] Are you in love with +John? [JOAN turns hurriedly to the fire.] Would you be going to +marry him if you were not? + +CHRISTINE. You are a brute, Dot. + +DOT. Is Mabel in love with--whoever she is in love with? + +MABEL. And I wonder who that is. + +DOT. Well, would you marry him if you weren't? + +MABEL. No, I would not. + +DOT. Now, mother; did you love father? + +CHRISTINE. Dot, you really are awful. + +DOT. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick, perhaps. + +JOAN. Dot! + +DOT. Well, mother, did you--I mean quite calmly? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, quite calmly. + +DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes +her head] Then we're all agreed! + +MABEL. Except yourself. + +DOT. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might think himself lucky if I +married him. + +MABEL. Indeed, and I'm not so sure. + +DOT. [Making a face at her] What I was going to---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd better not? + +DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but what I do say +is--Why the devil---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. Quite so, Dot! + +DOT. [A little disconcerted.] If they're tired of each other, they +ought not to marry, and if father's going to make them---- + +CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least. It's for the sake of +the---- + +DOT. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching infant! God bless +it! + + There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and LATTER are seen coming + from the dining-room. + +LATTER. That must be so, Ronny. + +KEITH. No, John; not a bit of it! + +LATTER. You don't think! + +KEITH. Good Gad, who wants to think after dinner! + +DOT. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the billiard-room +door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is directly after breakfast; +from "Eccles enters breathless" to the end. + +MABEL. Whatever made you choose "Caste," DOT? You know it's awfully +difficult. + +DOT. Because it's the only play that's not too advanced. [The girls +all go into the billiard-room.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. Where's Bill, Ronny? + +KEITH. [With a grimace] I rather think Sir William and he are in +Committee of Supply--Mem-Sahib. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! + + She looks uneasily at the dining-room; then follows the girls + out. + +LATTER. [In the tone of one resuming an argument] There can't be +two opinions about it, Ronny. Young Dunning's refusal is simply +indefensible. + +KEITH. I don't agree a bit, John. + +LATTER. Of course, if you won't listen. + +KEITH. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear chap. We've had +the whole thing over twice at least. + +LATTER. My point is this---- + +KEITH. [Regarding LATTER quizzically with his halfclosed eyes] +I know--I know--but the point is, how far your point is simply +professional. + +LATTER. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right her again. +There's no answer to that. + +KEITH. It all depends. + +LATTER. That's rank opportunism. + +KEITH. Rats! Look here--Oh! hang it, John, one can't argue this out +with a parson. + +LATTER. [Frigidly] Why not? + +HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pull +baker! + +KEITH. Shut up, Harold! + +LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even of the Army. + +KEITH. Exactly, but what is the game? + +LATTER. What else can it be in this case? + +KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You can't help it--line +of country laid down for you. All drag-huntin'! What! + +LATTER. [With concentration] Look here! + +HAROLD. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse's head] +'Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!' + +KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me, old chap. You +don't see where you'd land us all. [He smokes calmly] + +LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? From precisely this +sort of thing of young Dunning's. + +KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought, John. I admit that +I don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl in the lurch; but I don't see +the use in drawin' hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em. +Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, +willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be the +deuce to pay in a year's time. You can take a horse to the water, +you can't make him drink. + +LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you. + +HAROLD. Good old John! + +LATTER. At all events we know where your principles take you. + +KEITH. [Rather dangerously] Where, please? [HAROLD turns up his +eyes, and points downwards] Dry up, Harold! + +LATTER. Did you ever hear the story of Faust? + +KEITH. Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, and +all the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes. + +LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny--of all the rude boors----[He turns +towards the billiard-room.] + +KEITH. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap. + + LATTER passes out. There comes a mingled sound through the + opened door, of female voices, laughter, and the click of + billiard balls, dipped of by the sudden closing of the door. + +KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a parson puts one's back +up! Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought to +play the game; and I hope Sir William'll make him. + + The butler JACKSON has entered from the door under the stairs + followed by the keeper STUDDENHAM, a man between fifty and + sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, + and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face, + with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once + been red. + +KEITH. Hullo! Studdenham! + +STUDDENHAM. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', Captain Keith. + +JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with Mr. Bill, sir? + +HAROLD. [With a grimace] He is, Jackson. + + JACKSON goes out to the dining-room. + +KEITH. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham? + +STUDDENHAM. No, Sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' the spinneys and +the home covert while you're down. + +KEITH. I say, talkin' of spinneys---- + + He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD into the + billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters from the dining-room, + applying a gold toothpick to his front teeth. + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Studdenham. Bad business this, about young +Dunning! + +STUDDENHAM. Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. He definitely refuses to marry her? + +STUDDENHAM. He does that. + +SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What reason does he give? + +STUDDENHAM. Won't say other than that he don't want no more to do +with her. + +SIR WILLIAM. God bless me! That's not a reason. I can't have a +keeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this. +[Turning to LADY CHESHIRE, who has come in from the billiard-room] +That affair of young Dunning's, my dear. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studdenham. The poor girl! + +STUDDENHAM. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling she's not his +equal, now, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has made her his +superior. + +SIR WILLIAM. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I was just telling +Studdenham the fellow must set the matter straight. We can't have +open scandals in the village. If he wants to keep his place he must +marry her at once. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To her husband in a low voice] Is it right to force +them? Do you know what the girl wishes, Studdenham? + +STUDDENHAM. Shows a spirit, my lady--says she'll have him--willin' +or not. + +LADY CHESHIRE. A spirit? I see. If they marry like that they're +sure to be miserable. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! Doesn't follow at all. Besides, my dear, you +ought to know by this time, there's an unwritten law in these +matters. They're perfectly well aware that when there are +consequences, they have to take them. + +STUDDENHAM. Some o' these young people, my lady, they don't put two +and two together no more than an old cock pheasant. + +SIR WILLIAM. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he remains obstinate, +he'll have to go; he'll get no character, Studdenham. Let him know +what I've said. I like the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't want +to lose him. But this sort of thing I won't have. He must toe the +mark or take himself off. Is he up here to-night? + +STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will you have him in? + +SIR WILLIAM. [Hesitating] Yes--yes. I'll see him. + +STUDDENHAM. Good-night to you, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Freda's not looking well, Studdenham. + +STUDDENHAM. She's a bit pernickitty with her food, that's where it +is. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I must try and make her eat. + +SIR WILLIAM. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the home covert first. +What did we get last year? + +STUDDENHAM. [Producing the game-book; but without reference to it] +Two hundred and fifty-three pheasants, eleven hares, fifty-two +rabbits, three woodcock, sundry. + +SIR WILLIAM. Sundry? Didn't include a fox did it? [Gravely] I was +seriously upset this morning at Warnham's spinney---- + +SUDDENHAM. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir William; that +four-year-old he du look a handful! + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well enough what I mean. + +STUDDENHAM. [Unmoved] Shall I send young Dunning, Sir William? + + SIR WILLIAM gives a short, sharp nod, and STUDDENHAM retires by + the door under the stairs. + +SIR WILLIAM. Old fox! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be too hard on Dunning. He's very young. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't understand young +fellows, how should you? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With her faint irony] A husband and two sons not +counting. [Then as the door under the stairs is opened] Bill, now +do---- + +SIR WILLIAM. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply] Come in! + + LADY CHESHIRE retires to the billiard-room. She gives a look + back and a half smile at young DUNNING, a fair young man dressed + in broom cords and leggings, and holding his cap in his hand; + then goes out. + +SIR WILLIAM. Evenin', Dunning. + +DUNNING. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want to see you about? + +DUNNING. Yes, Sir. + +SIR WILLIAM. The thing's in your hands. Take it or leave it. I +don't put pressure on you. I simply won't have this sort of thing on +my estate. + +DUNNING. I'd like to say, Sir William, that she [He stops]. + +SIR WILLIAM. Yes, I daresay-Six of one and half a dozen of the +other. Can't go into that. + +DUNNING. No, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your first place. If +you leave here you'll get no character. + +DUNNING. I never meant any harm, sir. + +SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom of the country. + +DUNNING. Yes, Sir William, but---- + +SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you leaped. I'm not +forcing you. If you refuse you must go, that's all. + +DUNNING. Yes. Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day to think it over. + + BILL, who has sauntered moody from the diningroom, stands by the + stairs listening. Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his + hand to his forelock. + +DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fumbles, and turns +again] My old mother's dependent on me---- + +SIR WILLIAM. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say. + [Dunning goes sadly away under the stairs.] + +SIR WILLIAM. [Following] And look here! Just understand this + [He too goes out....] + + BILL, lighting a cigarette, has approached the writing-table. + He looks very glum. The billiard-room door is flung open. + MABEL LANFARNE appears, and makes him a little curtsey. + +MABEL. Against my will I am bidden to bring you in to pool. + +BILL. Sorry! I've got letters. + +MABEL. You seem to have become very conscientious. + +BILL. Oh! I don't know. + +MABEL. Do you remember the last day of the covert shooting? + +BITS. I do. + +MABEL. [Suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Studdenham's grown! + +BILL. Has she? + +MABEL. "She walks in beauty." + +BILL. Really? Hadn't noticed. + +MABEL. Have you been taking lessons in conversation? + +BILL. Don't think so. + +MABEL. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! + +BILL. Miss Lanfarne! + +MABEL. What's the matter with you? Aren't you rather queer, +considering that I don't bite, and was rather a pal! + +BILL. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. + + Then seeing that his mother has came in from the billiard-room, + he sits down at the writing-table. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. Won't you play too, +Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's too terrible? + +BILL. Thanks. I've got these letters. + +MABEL taking the cue passes back into the billiard-room, whence comes +out the sound of talk and laughter. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind her son's chair] +Anything wrong, darling? + +BILL. Nothing, thanks. [Suddenly] I say, I wish you hadn't asked +that girl here. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel! Why? She's wanted for rehearsals. I thought +you got on so well with her last Christmas. + +BILL. [With a sort of sullen exasperation.] A year ago. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your father; personally I +must say I think she's rather nice and Irish. + +BILL. She's all right, I daresay. + + He looks round as if to show his mother that he wishes to be + left alone. But LADY CHESHIRE, having seen that he is about to + look at her, is not looking at him. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been talking to you, Bill. + +BILL. He has. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Debts? Do try and make allowances. [With a faint +smile] Of course he is a little---- + +BILL. He is. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I wish I could---- + +BILL. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It seems almost a pity that you told him. + +BILL. He wrote and asked me point blank what I owed. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a casual voice] +I happen to have a little money, Bill--I think it would be simpler +if---- + +BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that before. I can't help +spending money, I never shall be able, unless I go to the Colonies, +or something of the kind. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't talk like that, dear! + +BILL. I would, for two straws! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father thinks such a lot of +the place, and the name, and your career. The Cheshires are all like +that. They've been here so long; they're all--root. + +BILL. Deuced funny business my career will be, I expect! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Fluttering, but restraining herself lest he should +see] But, Bill, why must you spend more than your allowance? + +BILL. Why--anything? I didn't make myself. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid we did that. It was inconsiderate, +perhaps. + +BILL. Yes, you'd better have left me out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so--Only a little fuss about money! + +BILL. Ye-es. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from me, are you? + +BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliberately to the +writing things, and takes up a pen] I must write these letters, +please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me, +won't you? + +BILL. There's nothing whatever. + + He suddenly gets up and walks about. LADY CHESHIRE, too, moves + over to the fireplace, and after an uneasy look at him, turns to + the fire. Then, as if trying to switch of his mood, she changes + the subject abruptly. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Isn't it a pity about young Dunning? I'm so sorry +for Rose Taylor. + + There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase FREDA has + entered, and seeing only BILL, advances to speak to him. + +BILL. [Suddenly] Oh! well,--you can't help these things in the +country. + + As he speaks, FREDA stops dead, perceiving that he is not alone; + BILL, too, catching sight of her, starts. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Still speaking to the fire] It seems dreadful to +force him. I do so believe in people doing things of their own +accord. [Then seeing FREDA standing so uncertainly by the stairs] Do +you want me, Freda? + +FREDA. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I--begin it? + + At this moment SIR WILLIAM enters from the drawing-room. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another five minutes, Bill? +[Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll come directly, my dear. + + FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back whence she came; and + LADY CHESHIRE goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room. + +SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short shrift. [He moves +over to the fireplace and divides hip coat-tails] Now, about you, +Bill! I don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but you +know, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay them +this time unless I see a disposition to change your mode of life. +[A pause] You get your extravagance from your mother. She's very +queer--[A pause]--All the Winterleighs are like that about money.... + +BILL. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what you mean. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Drily] We will put it that way. [A pause] At the +present moment you owe, as I understand it, eleven hundred pounds. + +BILL. About that. + +SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a proposition to make. + +BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir? + +SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your motto in life. + +BILL. Thanks! + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [BILL looks at him in +silence] It's time you took your position seriously, instead of +hanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not. + +BILL. Go ahead! + + At something dangerous in his voice, SIR WILLIAM modifies his + attitude. + +SIR, WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I can't suppose +anything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but +[drily] I mention it. Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for +the division; you can have the Dower House and fifteen hundred a +year, and I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're elected +I'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up the +constituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpetbagger +against you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if you +don't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. You can +take Rocketer and that four-year-old--he's well up to your weight, +fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want one other. +And if Miss--if your wife means to hunt---- + +BILL. You've chosen my wife, then? + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've some girl in +your mind. + +BILL. Ah! + +SIR WILLIAM: Used not to be unnatural at your age. I married your +mother at twenty-eight. Here you are, eldest son of a family that +stands for something. The more I see of the times the more I'm +convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and +save the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, and +prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under to +this infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's very +serious. We're threatened in a hundred ways. If you mean business, +you'll want a wife. When I came into the property I should have been +lost without your mother. + +BILL. I thought this was coming. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain geniality] My dear fellow, I don't +want to put a pistol to your head. You've had a slack rein so far. +I've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats-so long as you +--er--[Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden movement] Short of +that--at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. I can only +judge by the--er--pecuniary evidence you've been good enough to +afford me from time to time. I imagine you've lived like a good many +young men in your position--I'm not blaming you, but there's a time +for all things. + +BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry Mabel +Lanfarne? + +SITS WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good family--got a +little money--rides well. Isn't she good-looking enough for you, or +what? + +BILL. Quite, thanks. + +SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were on +good terms. + +BILL. Please don't drag mother into it. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps you'll be good +enough to state your objections. + +BILL. Must we go on with this? + +SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything for me before; I +expect you to pay attention now. I've no wish to dragoon you into +this particular marriage. If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry +a girl you're fond of. + +BILL. I refuse. + +SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With a +sudden rush of choler] You young.... [He checks himself and stands +glaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that +you've got some entanglement or other. + +BILL. Suppose what you like, sir. + +SITS WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the blackguard---- + +BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning. + + Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the + billiard-room. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it? + +SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse! Go away, Dorothy. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for two months. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well--we must talk it over again. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both of you! Bill, do +finish those letters! + + With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM toward the + billiard-room, and glances back at BILL before going out, but he + has turned to the writing-table. When the door is closed, BILL + looks into the drawing-room, them opens the door under the + stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down + there, and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evidently been + waiting, comes in and stands by the table. + +BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know. + +FREDA. Yes--but I must. + +BILL. Well, then--[With natural recklessness] Aren't you going to +kiss me? + + Without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry. + +BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks? + +FREDA. Quite--long enough--for you to have forgotten. + +BILL. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. + +FREDA. No? + +BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda? + +FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. + +BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean? + +FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out of +her dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer. + +BILL. Now, look here + +FREDA. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in a hurry. + +BILL. Freda! + +FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's all you really +loved me in. + +BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear---- + +FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me. + +BILL. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times--nothing's changed. + [FREDA looks at him and smiles.] + +BILL. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself miserable. + +FREDA. Everybody will be pleased. + +BILL. At what? + +FREDA. When you marry her. + +BILL. This is too bad. + +FREDA. It's what always happens--even when it's not a--gentleman. + +BILL. That's enough. + +FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn't +be afraid I'll say anything when--it comes. That's what I had to +tell you. + +BILL. What! + +FREDA. I can keep a secret. + +BILL. Do you mean this? [She bows her head.] + +BILL. Good God! + +FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine. Like the puppies when +they hold them up by their tails. [With a sudden break in her voice] +Oh! Bill! + +BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaks +away from her towards the fire] Good God! + + She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away + by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to + speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He + walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece. + +BILL. By Jove! This is----! + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + + ACT II + + + The scene is LADY CHESHIRE's morning room, at ten o'clock on the + following day. It is a pretty room, with white panelled walls; + and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow + window overlooks the park under a sou'-westerly sky. A piano + stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's correspondence + is scattered on a writing-table. Doors opposite each other lead + to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is + standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, + which FREDA is holding out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just give it up! + +FREDA. I don't like to be beaten. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way, +I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up. +Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you had +better put that cloak away. + +FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting doom at her writing-table] Very well. + + FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the + corridor. + +JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young woman from the +village, says you wanted to see her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in. Oh! and Jackson +the car for the meet please at half-past ten. + + JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY CHESHIRE rises with + worked signs of nervousness, which she has only just suppressed, + when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands + waiting by the door. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in! + [ROSE advances perhaps a couple of steps.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice. +Your engagement with Dunning's broken off, isn't it? + +ROSE. Yes--but I've told him he's got to marry me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing? + +ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of him still. + +ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it. + +LADY CHESHIRE: And--do you think he's quite lost his affection for +you? + +ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. He's +after that--that--He didn't ought to treat me as if I was dead. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, no--of course. But you will think it all well +over, won't you? + +ROSE. I've a--got nothing to think over, except what I know of. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both to marry in that spirit! You know +it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready to +help you. + +ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, my lady, but I +think he ought to marry me. I've told him he ought. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted to say. It's a +question of your self-respect; I can't give you any real advice. But +just remember that if you want a friend---- + +ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to do +what's right by me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrow--gently] Yes, +yes--I see. + +ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meeting the servants. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As they +reach the door, DOT comes in.] + +DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldy +rehearsal, Mother? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here. + + Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT, + with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according + to a diagram. + +DOT. Chair--chair--table--chair--Dash! Table--piano--fire--window! +[Producing a pocket comb] Comb for Eccles. Cradle?--Cradle--[She +viciously dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into +it] Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter Eccles +breathless. Esther and Polly rise-Esther puts on lid of bandbox." +Bandbox! + +Searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens the +workroom door. + +DOT. Freda? + + FREDA comes in. + +DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down. + [FREDA does not answer.] + +DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately. + +FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot. + +DOT. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic? + +FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet. + +DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse] +What is it, Freda? + +FREDA. Nothing. + +DOT. [Switching of on a different line of thought] Are you very busy +this morning? + +FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady. + +DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if I +can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind? + +FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot. + +DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see--what did I want? + + JOAN has come in. + +JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene. I'm sure I +ought to make more of it. + +DOT. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by one +ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try! + +JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have for +the baby? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggest +something, Freda? + +FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don't +count much. + +JOAN. Freda, how horrible! + +DOT. [Dropping the footstool back into the basket] You'll just put +up with what you're given. + + Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE Come in, FREDA turns + abruptly and goes out. + +DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and find +them, mouse-cat. + + But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are already in the + doorway. They come in, and LATTER, stumbling over the + waste-paper basket, takes it up to improve its position. + +DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the footstool out of it] +Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points to +the workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the +piano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage! +Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise." Wait a +minute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a +bandbox. + +HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, you know, you +feel such a fool. + +DOT. [With her bandbox-gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when you +have begun. [To BILL, who is staring into the workroom] Shut the +door. Now. [BILL shuts the door.] + +LATTER. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear up a point of +psychology before we start. + +DOT. Good Lord! + +LATTER. When I bring in the milk--ought I to bring it in seriously-- +as if I were accustomed--I mean, I maintain that if I'm---- + +JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should---- + +DOT. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin! +Bill! + +LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But I think you +underrate the importance of my entrance altogether. + +MABEL. Oh! no, Mr. Latter! + +LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the balance of the +scene, but I do want to be clear about the spirit. What is the +spirit? + +DOT. [With gloom] Rollicking! + +LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk, with +this play, if we rollick. + +DOT. Shall we? Now look here----! + +MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire! + +BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on! + +DOT. [Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin! At last! + [But JACKSON has came in.] + +JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, Mm, if the young ladies +want to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round. + +JOAN. [Starting up] Oh! come 'on, John! + [She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER.] + +DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You---- + [CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past.] + +DOT. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] Pigs! Devils! + [She rushes after them. BILL and MABEL are left alone.] + +MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups? + +BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroom +door] Can't keep a dog in town. You can have one, if you like. The +breeding's all right. + +MABEL. Sixth Pick? + +BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy they +want 'em. + +Mann. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] You +know, you remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're not +nearly so polite. I don't understand you English-lords of the soil. +The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden change +of voice] What was the matter with you last night? [Softly] Won't +you tell me? + +BILL. Nothing to tell. + +MABEL. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. + +BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice--then sullenly] Worried, I +suppose. + +MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it? + +BILL. Don't chaff me, please. + +MABEL. You really are rather formidable. + +BILL. Thanks. + +MABEL, But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull. + +BILL. Really! Very interesting. + +MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She moves +back as he advances] And overturning people on the journey. + +BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful? + +MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. And +then straight from that hedge into the opposite one. + +BILL. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morning of all +mornings? + +MABEL. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must be dull for poor +Freda working in there with all this fun going on? + +BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it? + +MABEL, To go back to you,--now--Mr. Cheshire. + +BILL. No. + +MABEL, You always make me feel so Irish. Is it because you're so +English, d'you think? Ah! I can see him moving his ears. Now he's +pawing the ground--He's started! + +BILL. Miss Lanfarne! + +MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her +eyes and smile] You can't help coming after me! [Then with a sudden +change to a sort of sierra gravity] Can you? You'll feel that when +I've gone. + + They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and + FREDA, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them. + +MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Monsieur le taureau! + + She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through, + leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and + see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand. + +BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept all night. + +FREDA. No? + +BILL. Have you been thinking it over? + [FREDA gives a bitter little laugh.] + +BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't let +you suffer. I swear I won't. + +FREDA. That will be clever. + +BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess. + +FREDA. I shall be--all--right, thank you. + +BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuse +me--say something! Don't look like that! + +FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me? + +BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your hands. + + She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her + face. + +BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then as +she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him] +There, there! + + There is a click of a door handle. They start away from each + other, and see LADY CHESHIRE regarding them. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon. + + She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but + suddenly turning, stands, with lips pressed together, waiting. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes? + + FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his + mother. + +BILL. Don't say anything against her! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails--then to FREDA] +Please-go! + +BILL. [Taking FREDA's arm] No. + + LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation, herself moves + towards the door. + +BILL. Stop, mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not. + +BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though from a blow] It's +a d---d shame! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It is. + +BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engaged +to be married to her. + + [FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I don't think +I--quite--understand. + +BILL. [With the brutality of his mortification] What I said was +plain enough. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true? + + [FREDA gulps and remains silent.] + +BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me, mother. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table] Give me a +chair, please. [BILL gives her a chair.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too. + + FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now! + +BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. When? + +BILL. In the summer. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Ah! + +BILL. It wasn't her fault. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No? + +BILL. [With a sort of menace] Mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You say +that you--are engaged? + +BILL. Yes. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an engagement have occurred +to you, I suppose? [With a sudden change of tone] Bill! what does it +mean? + +BILL. If you think she's trapped me into this---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she has been trapped. +I think nothing. I understand nothing. + +BILL. [Grimly] Good! + +LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this-engagement lasted? + +BILL. [After a silence] Two months. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is-this is quite impossible. + +BILL. You'll find it isn't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery. + +BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in there, Freda. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her? + + FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob. + +BILL. Of course I am. + + FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE rises suddenly, + forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean? [BILL, +looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not in +love with her now. It's no good telling me you are. + +BILL. I am. + +LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were. + +BILL. She's in love with me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so. + +BILL. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, or mean woman? + +BILL. Mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life--and--your father's--and--all of +us. I want to understand--I must understand. Have you realised what +an awful thins this would be for us all? It's quite impossible that +it should go on. + +BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She and +I'll take good care not to be in the way. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything! + +BILL. I have. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill. + +BILL. What's the good of these questions? + +LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away--I see! + +BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're engaged, we shall +be married quietly, and--and--go to Canada. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that to tell you'd be in +love with her now. + +BILL. I've told you that I am. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I know--I know +there's more behind. + +BILL. There--is--nothing. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your love +for her has been just what it might have been for a lady? + +BILL. [Bitterly] Why not? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so as a rule. + +BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word against +Freda. This isn't the moment to begin, please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end in wretchedness. +You haven't a taste or tradition in common. You don't know what +marriage is. Day after day, year after year. It's no use being +sentimental--for people brought up as we are to have different +manners is worse than to have different souls. Besides, it's +poverty. Your father will never forgive you, and I've practically +nothing. What can you do? You have no profession. How are you +going to stand it; with a woman who--? It's the little things. + +BILL. I know all that, thanks. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been through it. Marriage +is hard enough when people are of the same class. [With a sudden +movement towards him] Oh! my dear-before it's too late! + +BILL. [After a struggle] It's no good. + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery. + +BILL. Leave that to me, please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence] Only the very +finest can do such things. And you don't even know what trouble's +like. + +BILL. Drop it, please, mother. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your +own free will? + +BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any more. + [He goes out into the workroom.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do? + + In her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the + workroom door, and opens it. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda. + + After a seconds pause, FREDA, white and trembling, appears in + the doorway, followed by BILL. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to her alone. + + BILL, does not move. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. + + BILL hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches FREDA's + arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. There + is silence. + +LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about? + +FREDA. I don't know, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again, +whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there] +I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry. +But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to her +breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things. +That's natural. But it's not only you is it? Does any one guess? + +FREDA. No. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head] There's +nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a +man's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me! + +FREDA. I can't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come! + +FREDA. I--won't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give him away? Both of +you the same. What's the use of that with me? Look at me! Wasn't +he with you when you went for your holiday this summer? + +FREDA. He's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man you mean! + +FREDA. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so. + + LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the + room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you. It's simple +madness! It can't, and shan't go on. + +FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I am--somebody. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of rights with a +sudden steeliness] Does he love you now? + +FREDA. That's not fair--it's not fair. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. If +you've lost him it's been your own fault. + +FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking down, and speaking rapidly] Listen to me. +I love my son, but I know him--I know all his kind of man. I've +lived with one for thirty years. I know the way their senses work. +When they want a thing they must have it, and then--they're sorry. + +FREDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you both over +everything?... You know it isn't. + +FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there'd be no trouble before +either of you. You'll make him hate you. + +FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him happy--out there. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to say all the things +you must know. I only ask you to try and put yourself in our +position. + +FREDA. Ah, yes! + +LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purely +selfish. + +FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my position? + +LADY CHESHIRE. What! + +FREDA. Yes. Just like Rose. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh! + + There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks + straight into FREDA's eyes. + +FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes--it's the truth. [Then to Bill +who has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant to +tell. + +BILL. Well, are you satisfied? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible! + +BILL. The Governor had better know. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! no; not yet! + +BILL. Waiting won't cure it! + + The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRISTINE and DOT run + in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that + something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his + mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom. + LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window. + +JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter? + +DOT. Shut up! + + SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling + "Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, passing her handkerchief over her + face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress: + well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. + +SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially] +Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved right +hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff! + + FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE and the girls watching + in hypnotic silence. + +SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to be +first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse +--best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish +you were cumin' out, Joan. + + He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the + chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the + workroom. + +CHRISTINE. Mother! What----? + + But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter, + and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is + heard. + +JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started--! Chris! What is +it? Dot? + +DOT. Bill, and her! + +JOAN. But what? + +DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this. + +JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit. + +DOT. I think not. + +JOAN. Chris? + +CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us. + +JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good. + +DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten! + +CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Runny hadn't +gone. + +JOAN. Shall I fetch John? + +DOT. John! + +CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows. + +JOAN. He went out with Studdenham. + +DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and +humbug! That awful old man! + +JOAN. Dot! + +CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that! + +DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven +help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a German +regiment than a woman. + +JOAN. Dot, you're awful. + +DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet! + +CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women! + +DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of these +terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking for +John? No good, my dear; lath and plaster. + +JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's Mabel! + +DOT. Heavens, and the waters under the earth! + +CHRISTINE. If we only knew! + + MABEL comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes + fixed on their books. + +MABEL. The silent company. + +DOT. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for to-day. + +MABEL. What's the matter? + +CHRISTINE. Oh! nothing. + +DOT. Something's happened. + +MABEL. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad enough for me to +go? + +CHRISTINE. Oh! no, Mabel! + +DOT. [Sardonically] I should think very likely. + + While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the + workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and + looks stolidly at the four girls. + +BILL. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lanfarne, I'm engaged to +my mother's maid. + + No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL LANFARNE goes towards + him, holding out her hand. BILL does not take her hand, but + bows. Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces MABEL goes + out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at + their brother. + +BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know. + [He, too, goes out into the corridor.] + +CHRISTINE. Great heavens! + +JOAN. How awful! + +CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as that. + +JOAN. Oh! Chris! Something must be done! + +DOT. [Suddenly to herself] Ha! When Father went up to have his +glove buttoned! + + There is a sound, JACKSON has came in from the corridor. + +JACKSON. [To Dot] If you please, Miss, Studdenham's brought up the +other two pups. He's just outside. Will you kindly take a look at +them, he says? + + There is silence. + +DOT. [Suddenly] We can't. + +CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson. + +JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, Mm? + + DOT shakes her head violently. But STUDDENHAM is seen already + standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either + side-pocket. He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting behind + him. + +STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes the +right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a proper greedy +one--takes after his father. + + The girls stare at him in silence. + +DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. + +STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet. + +CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course. + +STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's got +a white chest; she's a lady. + + [He protrudes the left-hand pocket.] + +DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. + +STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. +You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] +My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do +without. + +DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her. + +STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He +turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle +out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON.] + +CHRISTINE. How ghastly! + +DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!" + [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + + ACT III + + It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the + smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old + steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high + ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are + not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is + burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the + billiard-room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and + doom; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with + commiseration. + +BILL. What's the time? + +HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any +consolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he +ate the man. + +BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of +me, Harold. + +HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any +better by marrying her? + + [Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.] + +BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. + +HAROLD. No, old man. + +BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think +it! + +HAROLD. My dear old chap! + +BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I +suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so +high. I see it now that--I've got over the attack. + +HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do +apply your reason, old boy. + + There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen. + +BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the +thing. + +HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! + +BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leave +her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd +soon see! + +HAROLD. Poor old chap! + +BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a +soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I +can't think. I never meant---- + +HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your +head, old man! + +BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the +country. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who's +that knocking the balls about? + +HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases.] + +BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that! + + As LATTER appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out. + +LATTER. Was that Bill? + +HAROLD. Yes. + +LATTER. Well? + +HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool to +him. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! What +price your argument with Runny now? Well, it's not too late for you +luckily. + +LATTER. What do you mean? + +HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family! + +LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold. + +HAROLD. Good! + +LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters. + +HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poor +mother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn't +done, pretty mess I shall be in. + +LATTER. How? + +HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all +come to me. + +LATTER. Oh! + +HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral! +Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop. + +LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's behaved +disgracefully. + +HAROLD. [Warningly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'd +never dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means. + +LATTER. Perfectly disgusting! + +HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you +know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard. + +LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's +an idiot, or worse. + +HAROLD. H'm! [With a grin] You're not allowed tobacco. In the +good old days no one would hive thought anything of this. My +great-grandfather---- + +LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather. + +HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been +through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because +Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up. + +LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the beginning? + +HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this +happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he--? Why didn't +she--? What's to be done--that's the point! + +LATTER. Of course he'll have to----. + +HAROLD. Ha! + +LATTER. What do you mean by--that? + +HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll +be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything! +Now don't you? + +LATTER. The whole thing is--is most unfortunate. + +HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was! + + As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH Come in from the billiard-room. + He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally + weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and + sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come + stealing in. + +CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny. + +JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful. + +HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man? + +KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes. + +DOT. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of +discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram. + +HAROLD. Phew! + +DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened. + +HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny. + + KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing + his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away with him into the + billiard-room. + +KEITH. Dot? + +DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel. + +KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since? + +DOT. Yes. + +HAROLD. Well? + +DOT. She's just sitting there. + +CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. + +DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could only +feel----! + +KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. + +DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina, +and some one jigging it! + + They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a + tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence + the FOOTMAN puts the tray down. + +HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH +nods] What point? + +KEITH. Eight mile. + +FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir? + +KEITH. No, thanks, Charles! + + In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look + after him. + +HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it! + +KEITH. What's our line of country to be? + +CHRISTINE. All depends on father. + +KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it +strikes me. + +CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. + +KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons +on Sunday forbids son to---- + +CHRISTINE, Ronny! + +KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's +got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take +up that position. + +DOT. Awfully funny! + +CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot? + +DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other! + +CHRISTINE. Rubbish! + +HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill. + +KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help +the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a---- + [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.] + +HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you +girls, I should think. + +CHRISTINE and DOT. Of course not! + +KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it? + +DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady as +most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada? It's what +he's really fit for. + +HAROLD. Steady on, Dot! + +DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if +he stays here--jolly for the country! + +CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill. + +DOT. Me cynical! + +CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny! + +KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl. + +DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her! + +HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor +old Dad! + +CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold! + +DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations by +marriage! + +KEITH. Thanks! + +CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous--monstrous! It's fantastic! + +HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's +in! + + They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE + coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise + and DOT puts an arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his + chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny! + [She sits down.] + +DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur? + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear! + +DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny? + +KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straight +line. + +LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse? + +KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting +his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib! + +CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father? Ronny thinks it +all depends on her. Can't you use your influence? [LADY CHESHIRE +shakes her head.] + +CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate. + +DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn't +beg her to let us off! + +CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart, +mother? + +DOT. Leave mother alone! + +CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never. + +DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect? + +CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh! +mother do speak to her! You know it'll be misery for both of them. +[LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her +head.] + +CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake? + +DOT. Chris! + +CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! We +ought all to go on our knees to him. + +LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now. + +HAROLD. Poor old Bill! + +CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! That wretched +girl! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Chris! + +CHRISTINE. There are limits! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control. + +CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall--Something must be +done! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he gets +his head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do. + +CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if +you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't +affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Do +back me up, all of you! It's the only way! + + Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been + urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who + looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical + pain. + +CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother! + + LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room + door, listening. They all follow her eyes. She sits down + again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters. + His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. + He walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands + looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE + steals away. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done? + +SIR WILLIAM. You there! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense! + +SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had a +blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard he would not be +what you call a fool. + +SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Very +well! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too +terrible. + +SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear. + [She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire.] + +SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a +thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands +and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. +Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've known +this--piece of news since this morning. I've known it ten minutes. +Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the +girl? + +LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is he +about? + +LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him? + +SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire +and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth +century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh +at everything--they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, and +I don't .... Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! I +don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm +not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With +sudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad +enough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d Socialists and +Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the +bowels to sees a--tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and +me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the +children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's +past--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. They're--they're +himself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it? + +SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop. + +SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law! + +SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to] +You're thinking of young--young----[Shortly] I don't see the +connection. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do +what's loyal--and we--his father and mother----! + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I +must think this out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that--it doesn't +help. + +SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of +the house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindness +from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and +decency--she lured him on, I haven't a doubt! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the +deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Go +out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to +any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of +business nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to that +other matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--Why, my own +grandfather----! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help? + +SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence-suddenly] You must go to +the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her--I said +all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill. + +SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [Then +as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress.] If he marries her, I've +done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The +title--I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden fire] You've no right to put such an +alternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent this +marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees. + +SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no +consideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d---d! + +LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect.... + +SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't +get it out. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the only +chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away.] + +SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've +never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn +you--I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself. + + With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the + corridor. + +SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day! + + He takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks + with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace. + While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock. + +SIR WILLIAM. Come in! + + FREDA enters from the corridor. + +SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in order +that--[pointing to chair]--You may sit down. + + But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit + down. + +SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business. + +FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before +him] I--er--are you attached to my son? + +FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turns +away from her and speaks to the fire.] I sent for you--to--ask-- +[quickly] How old are you? + +FREDA. Twenty-two. + +SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such a +mad idea as a marriage? + +FREDA. I don't expect anything. + +SIR WILLIAM. You know--you haven't earned the right to be considered. + +FREDA. Not yet! + +SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now +brace yourself up, and listen to me! + + She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at + her; and his glance gradually wavers. + +SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like a +scamp. + +FREDA. Oh! no! + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same, time--What +made you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know. + +FREDA. No. + +SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expect +me to--It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is? + +FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to--to put it to +you--as a--as a--what! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, +looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] +I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, and +wait! + + LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes + into the billiard-room to wait. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Your +mother and I have spoken of this--calamity. I imagine that even you +have some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell +you this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll +receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only due +to the position our family has always held here. Your brother will +take your place. We shall--get on as best we can without you. [There +is a dead silence till he adds sharply] Well! + +BILL. I shall marry her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love-without anything! + +BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man, +sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter +in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head +yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns +round to go out] Let the d---d thing off! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch. + +SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted to +persuade you to. + +BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could +have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you +wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, +that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences. + +SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position? + +BILK. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have none--not the +faintest, brought up as you've been. + +BILL. I didn't bring myself up. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son +responds] You--ungrateful young dog! + +LADY CHESHIRE. How can you--both? +[They drop their eyes, and stand silent.] + +SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am speaking under the +stress of very great pain--some consideration is due to me. This is +a disaster which I never expected to have to face. It is a matter +which I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down +to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortune +all my life to believe in our position here--to believe that we +counted for something--that the country wanted us. I have tried to +do my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone-- +smoke--gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To countenance +this marriage would be unnatural. + +BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this--I don't see any +other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for +you---- + + He stops, seeing that JACKSON has route in, and is standing + there waiting. + +JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William? It's about +young Dunning. + + After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler + withdraws. + +BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told. + +SIR WILLIAM. He shall be. + + STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a + comprehensive gesture. + +STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir William! + +STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the +proper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up +next Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in +turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Beg +pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf! + +BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you, +Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married at +once. + +STUDDENHAM. I--don't--understand you--sir. + +BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it +straight. + +STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say--my daughter? + +SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Studdenham. It's a +thunderbolt--young Dunning's case over again. + +STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's--You've--! I must see my +daughter. Have the goodness to send for her, m'lady. + + LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come + here, please." + +STUDDENHAM. [TO SIR WILLIAM] YOU tell me that my daughter's in the +position of that girl owing to your son? Men ha' been shot for less. + +BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome. + +STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this +sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years, +Sir William; but this is man to man--this is! + +SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham. + +STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No--'twouldn't be +very easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage? + +SIR WILLIAM. You did. + +STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well--that's something! [Moving his +hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights +o' this. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you, +Studdenham. + + Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with + his hands. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of horror] Don't, +Studdenham! Please! + +STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your--your--hands. + + While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing + in the doorway, like a black ghost. + +STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her +father] When did you start this? + +FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her! + +STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from side to side as if +pain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA, +but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about--what's come +to you? + +FREDA. Last night. + +STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young--! [He makes a +convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose +grip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] I want to +clear me mind a bit--I don't see it plain at all. [Without looking +at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage? + +BILL. I've made it, I stick to it. + +STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the +pith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William? + +SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you. + +STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady? + + LADY CHESHIRE is silent. + +STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was--was good enough for any man. +It's not for him that's--that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] You +hear the handsome offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistens +her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak a +word, we won't get much forrarder. I'd like for you to say what's in +your mind, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. I--If my son marries her he'll have to make his own +way. + +STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to that. + +SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studdenham. It appears to +rest with your daughter. [He suddenly takes out his handkerchief, +and puts it to his forehead] Infernal fires they make up here! + +LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intense +cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering. + +STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for. +[To FREDA] Speak up, now. + + FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily + raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY + CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if + she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL, + standing rigid, with his jaw set. + +FREDA. I want--[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns +from him] No! + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! + + At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have + been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all + his emotion turned into sheer angry pride. + +STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you! +She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha' +slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have +no charity marriage in my family. + +SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham! + +STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, +as a blind man can see by the looks of him--she's not for him! + +BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her. + +STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks +around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since +the world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away! + +Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door. + +SIR WILLIAM. D---n 'it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something! + +STUDDENHAM. [Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of +smiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things that +can't be undone! + + He follows FREDA Out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S Calm + gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as + though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following + FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY + CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the + billiard-room is opened, and DOT appears. With a glance round, + she crosses quickly to her mother. + +DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almost +whispering] Where's Freda? Is it--Has she really had the pluck? + + LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes," goes out into the + billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing + there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her + father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying + smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + + + +THE LITTLE DREAM + +An Allegory in six scenes + + + +CHARACTERS + +SEELCHEN, a mountain girl +LAMOND, a climber +FELSMAN, a glide + + + +CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM + +THE GREAT HORN | +THE COW HORN | mountains +THE WINE HORN | + +THE EDELWEISS | +THE ALPENROSE | flowers +THE GENTIAN | +THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION | + + + +VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM + +COWBELLS +MOUNTAIN AIR +FAR VIEW OF ITALY +DISTANT FLUME OF STEAM +THINGS IN BOOKS +MOTH CHILDREN +THREE DANCING YOUTHS +THREE DANCING GIRLS +THE FORMS OF WORKERS +THE FORMS OF WHAT IS MADE BY WORK +DEATH BY SLUMBER +DEATH BY DROWNING +FLOWER CHILDREN +GOATHERD +GOAT BOYS +GOAT GOD +THE FORMS OF SLEEP + + + + +SCENE I + + It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene is a + room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches. + and a low broad window seat. Through this window three rocky + peaks are seen by the light of a moon which is slowly whitening + the last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. SEELCHEN, a + mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and + putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and + glasses. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice. + square-cut at the neck and partly filled in with a gay + handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the + alpen-rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster + beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened. + white linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn + skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are + crossed, and turned round her head. As she puts away the last + bowl, there is a knock; and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is + young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and + carries a plaid, a ruck-sack, and an ice-axe. + +LAMOND. Good evening! + +SEELCHEN. Good evening, gentle Sir! + +LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I fear. + +SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here? + +LAMOND. Please. + +SEELCHEN. All the beds are full--it is a pity. I will call Mother. + +LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at sunrise. + +SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is impossible. + +LAMOND. I am going to try that. + +SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow Horn. + +LAMOND. I have climbed them. + +SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous--it is perhaps--death. + +LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance. + +SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is only +Mans Felsman. + +LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman? + +SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with admiration] Are you +that Herr Lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year? + +LAMOND. All but that big fellow. + +SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father's +foot? + +LAMOND. Ah! no. I must go back home to-morrow. + +SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry. + +LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas! + +SEELCHEN. Are you from London? Is it very big? + +LAMOND. Six million souls. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen Cortina twice. + +LAMOND. Do you live here all the year? + +SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley. + +LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world? + +SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls softly] Hans! +[Then pointing to another door] There are seven German gentlemen +asleep in there! + +LAMOND. Oh God! + +SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sunrise. [She picks up +a little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have read +several books. + +LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry +here, and dream dreams, among your mountains? + +SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See! It is the full moon. + + While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters + a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden. + +SEELCHEN. Hans! + +FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me? + +SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him] +It is the celebrated London one. + +FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible. + +LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman? + +FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn. + +SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years! + +LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I +sleep here? + +SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps-- + + [She runs out up some stairs] + +FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on +the window seat] So! + + As he goes out into the air. SEELCHEN comes slipping in again + with a lighted candle. + +SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you. + +LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right. + +SEELCHEN. To please me! + +LAMOND. May I ask your name? + +SEELCHEN. Seelchen. + +LAMOND. Little soul, that means--doesn't it? To please you I would +sleep with seven German gentlemen. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! no; it is not necessary. +CHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. H +LAMOND. [With a grave bow] At your service, then. +[He prepares to go] + +SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World, where you come +from? + +LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would be +there. + +SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me but I am always +here. + +LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. + +SEELCHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly] In the towns +there are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and--dancing, +and--churches--and trains--and all the things in books--and-- + +LAMOND. Misery. + +SEELCHEN. But there is life. + +LAMOND. And there is death. + +SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back? + +LAMOND. No. + +SEELCHEN. You have all the world; and I have nothing. + +LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains. + +SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread. + +LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat you! + +SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big wants--like the cheese +with holes. + +LAMOND. I shall come again. + +SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains left to climb. And +if it is not exciting, you do not care. + +LAMOND. O wise little soul! + +SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always aching. + +LAMOND. For the moon? + +SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will +remember? + +LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world so +sweet as this. + +SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself. + +LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night? + + She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, + suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away. + +LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul. + +SEELCHEN. That's all right! + +LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Goodnight! + +SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night! + +FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold--it +will be fine. + + LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits + for him to pass. + +SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. I +thought. + + He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and + kisses her hungrily. + +SEELCHEN. Art thou angry? + + He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner + room. + + SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in + full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her, she + snuggles doom on the window seat. + +SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me--both. [She sleeps] + + The scene falls quite dark + + + + +SCENE II + + The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN is still + lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and + hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep + for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has + vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains + veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. There, as the peaks + of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces! + + The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth. + The face of THE COW HORN is that of a mountain shepherd. + solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. + Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high. + beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, + serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks. + above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little + heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUNTAIN + DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of + their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE + FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring. + +All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky. + +EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you? +Ah! ha! + +GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging +enviously] Oo-oo-oo! + + From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS + and MOUNTAIN AIR: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF + ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember the things in books!" + + And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS + ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a + sighing: + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as + of one unaccustomed. + +THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am +silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and +the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes. +love me alone! + +SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman +and the mountains. It is the half of my heart! + + THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows. +My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The +lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running +of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood +hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity. + +SEELCHEN. Yes, yes! I want him. He is strong! + + The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + +THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me +under the stars! + +SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid. + + And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's + voice. + +THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the +streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the +chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my +incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and +passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of +lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves. +and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in +the sunshine. + + THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry: + + "We know them!" + +THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of +pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths +of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little +soul, you starve and die, + +SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of +the Town. It pulls my heart. + +THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your +meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drink +the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I never +dull! + + The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN + BOOKS are heard calling out together: + + "I am Italy, Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember, remember!" + +THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours. +I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart! + +SEELCHEN. He is honey! + + THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry: + + "Bitter! Bitter!" + + +THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal +air. + + The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + And THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake +you! + + The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM and THINGS IN + BOOKS chant softly: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember, remember!" + + And THE FLOWERS moan. + +SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn! + +THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets. +and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the +thistle-down. + +M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster! + +THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea. + +GENTIAN. My blue is deeper! + +THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes. + +ALPENROSE. I can blush redder! + +THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! Silk! Velvet! + +EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet! + +THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags! + +THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none. + +SEELCHEN. He has all things. + +THE COW HORN. Mine are the clouds with the dark silvered wings; mine +are the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler than +pearls. Away from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, +little soul. + +THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance! + + THE FLOWERS ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry: + + "We too, smell sweet." + + But the voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS + IN BOOKS cry out: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember! remember!" + +SEELCHEN. [Distracted] Oh! it is hard! + +THE COW HORN. I will never desert thee. + +THE WINE HORN. A hundred times I will desert you, a hundred times +come back, and kiss you. + +SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Peace for my heart! + +THE COW HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme. + + THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers. + + THE FLOWERS moan. + +THE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine. + +THE COW HORN. I will give thee new milk. + +THE WINE HORN. Hear my song! + + From far away comes the sound as of mandolins. + +SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart--it is leaving me! + +THE COW HORN. Hear my song! + + From the distance floats the piping of a Shepherd's reed. + +SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The piping! Ah! + +THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! + +THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! + +THE COW HORN. I give thee certainty! + +THE WINE HORN. I give you chance! + +THE COW HORN. I give thee peace. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you change. + +THE COW HORN. I give thee stillness. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you voice. + +THE COW HORN. I give thee one love. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you many. + +SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both--I +will love! + + And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks. + +THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shalt love, little soul! Thou shalt +lie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities with +Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the +mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings. +small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem +as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the +other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in +turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a +tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half +courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change. +Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thou +pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me at +last, my little soul! + + THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out. + + SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight + and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep. + + + + +SCENE III + +The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with her +hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane +tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of +an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon. +Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the +face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and +singing: + + "Little star soul + Through the frost fields of night + Roaming alone, disconsolate-- + From out the cold + I call thee in + Striking my dark mandolin + Beneath this moon of gold." + + From the Inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of + dancing. + +SEELCHEN: [Whispering] It is the big world! + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings On: + + "Pretty grey moth, + Where the strange candles shine, + Seeking for warmth, so desperate-- + Ah! fluttering dove + I bid thee win + Striking my dark mandolin + The crimson flame of love." + +SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing! + + As SHE speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and + fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then + wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward. + +SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings are +windy. + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on; + + "Lips of my song, + To the white maiden's heart + Go ye, and whisper, passionate. + These words that burn + 'O listening one! + Love that flieth past is gone + Nor ever may return!'" + + SEELCHEN runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has + become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children + --but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn stands + LAMOND in a dark cloak. + +SEELCHEN. It is you! + +LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out his +arms to her] + +SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe? + +LAMOND. What is safety? Are you safe in your mountains? + +SEELCHEN. Where am I, here? + +LAMOND. The Town. + + Smiling, he points to the doorway. And silent as shadows there + come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. The + first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first + youth in black velvet. The second girl is in rags, and a shawl; + and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance + gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. + +SEELCHEN. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance together. Do they +never change partners? + +LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor. +But see! + + A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs. + a flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the + youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other. + but the other girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious + medley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the + first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from + each other as before. + +SEELCHEN. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like that? + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He + strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound + the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the + couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown + dark. + +SEELCHEN. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let me see. + +LAMOND. Will you not come, then, little soul? + +SEELCHEN. Always to dance? + +LAMOND: Not so! + + THE SHUTTERS of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. In a + lighted room on one aide of the Inn are seen two pale men and a + woman, amongst many clicking machines. On the other side of the + Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half + clothed, making chains. + +SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look +--all! What are they making? + + In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is + seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in + gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, + holding in one hand a glass of golden wine. + +SEELCHEN. It is beautiful. What is it? + +LAMOND. Luxury. + +SEELCHEN. What is it standing on? I cannot see. + + Unseen, THE WINE HORN'S mandolin twangs out. + +LAMOND. For that do not look, little soul. + +SEELCHEN. Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all they +make here with their sadness? + + But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the + houses; the door of the Inn grows dark. + +LAMOND. What is it, then, you would have? Is it learning? There +are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars! +[But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is religion so deep that no man +knows what it means. [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is +religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We have +everything. + +SEELCHEN. Is God here? + +LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes +her head] What then do you want? + +SEELCHEN. Life. + + The mandolin twangs out. + +LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life. + +SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love. + +LAMOND. When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown? +When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. If +darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To live +is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she draws +nearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the +little grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown--again +you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you must +crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not +there--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its +wings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, your +cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--Ah! little +heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes--there it +is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will +reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall +you grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [His voice +dies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms] + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come. + +LAMOND. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me! + +SEELCHEN. I love! + + The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all + glamorous; and they pass through. Illumined by the glimmer of + the lamp the Youth of THE WINE Hour is seen again. And slowly + to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing: + + "The windy hours through darkness fly + Canst hear them little heart? + New loves are born, and old loves die, + And kissing lips must part. + + "The dusky bees of passing years + Canst see them, soul of mine-- + From flower and flower supping tears, + And pale sweet honey wine? + + [His voice grown strange and passionate] + + "O flame that treads the marsh of time. + Flitting for ever low. + Where, through the black enchanted slime. + We, desperate, following go + Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! + Into dark air above. + The golden gipsy thins away-- + So has it been with love!" + + While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. It falls + dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands. + But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp + goes out--THE WINE HORN becomes shadow. Then from the doorway + of the Inn, in the shrill grey light SEELCHEN comes forth. She + is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the + powdery whiteness of her face. + +SEELCHEN. My heart is old. + + But as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of + COWBELLS; and while she stands listening, LAMOND appears in the + doorway of the Inn. + +LAMOND. Little soul! + +SEELCHEN. You! Always you! + +LAMOND. I have new wonders. + +SEELCHEN. [Mournfully] No. + +LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never the +same? It cannot be. + +SEELCHEN. Listen! + + The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again. + +LAMOND. [Jealously] The music' of dull sleep! Has life, then, with +me been sorrow? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + +LAMOND. Come! + +SEELCHEN. [Pointing-to her breast] The bird is tired with flying. +[Touching her lips] The flowers have no dew. + +LAMOND. Would you leave me? + +SEELCHEN. See! + + There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen + the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain + cloak. + +LAMOND. What is it? + +SEELCHEN. He! + +LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you the +marvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life. +If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are +sweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning! + +The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn come +forth the shadowy forms. DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING. +who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN. +stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away. + +SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and sweet. + + While she moves towards the Inn. LAMOND'S face becomes + transfigured with joy. But just as she reaches the doorway. + there is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and + the Shepherd of THE COW HORN sings: + + "To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar + Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads + Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, + And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. + To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned + With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; + To the silent sky, and the wistful sound + Of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!" + + While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEELCHEN has turned. + with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of + death have vanished. + +SEELCHEN. I come. + +LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like a +gnat when the sun goes down? Without you I am nothing. + +SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself] Poor heart--I am gone! + +LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his cloak]. + + Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, there is + blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there + rises a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, and Flower + Bells, and Pipes. + + + + + +SCENE IV + + The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. + SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but + blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a + low rock sits a brown faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the + four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white. + and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing. + as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and + each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts + them to her lips and eyes. + +SEELCHEN. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] Goatherd! + + But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away he has + vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The + veils of mist are rising. + +SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the +rock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with his arms folded] Thou! + +FELSMAN. So thou hast come--like a sick heifer to be healed. Was it +good in the Town--that kept thee so long? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + +FELSMAN. Why then return? + +SEELCHEN. I was tired. + +FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me! + +SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep me? + +FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus. + +SEELCHEN. I have known Change--I am no timid maid. + +FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow +--thou art white-faced. + +SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou here that shall keep +me? + +FELSMAN. The sun. + +SEELCHEN. To burn me. + +FELSMAN. The air. + + There is a faint wailing of wind. + +SEELCHEN. To freeze me. + +FELSMAN. The silence. + + The noise of the wind dies away. + +SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely. + +FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee. + + And to a ringing of their bells. THE FLOWERS come dancing; + till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling + asleep. + +SEELCHEN. See! Even they grow sleepy here! + +FELSMAN. I will call the goats to wake them. + + THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on his rock and + piping. And there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked + Boys, with Goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of + The Sleeping Flowers; and THE FLOWERS wake, spring up, and fly. + Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and THE + GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his + rock. + +FELSMAN. Love me! + +SEELCHEN. Thou art rude! + +FELSMAN. Love me! + +SEELCHEN. Thou art grim! + +FELSMAN. Aye. I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice. +[Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawn +to the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] And +the wings of the birds shall be still. + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see +the wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are they +always fierce? + +FELSMAN. Never--to look on thee, my flower. + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluck +flowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD is +lying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But +THE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue. +[Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer me +here. + +FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one? + +SEELCHEN. Thou? + + [The scene darkens with evening] + +See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already. + + There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb + garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her. + +SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep! + + Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her + swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It + is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly + grown bright. Then on his rock, to a faint gaping THE GOATHERD + sings: + + "My goat, my little speckled one. + My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. + Let moon and wind and golden sun + And stars beyond all telling + Make, every day, a sweeter grass. + And multiply thy leaping! + And may the mountain foxes pass + And never scent thee sleeping! + Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far. + And let me find sweet water! + No hawk nor udder-seeking jar + Come near thee, little daughter! + May fiery rocks defend, at noon, + Thy tender feet from slipping! + Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon-- + Great Master, Goat-God--skipping!" + + There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a + long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon + fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the + false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of + the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the + rock stands the Shepherd of THE COW HORN in his dock. + +SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit is hungry. [Then as +she sees the Shepherd of THE COW HORN standing there] I know thee +now--Life of the earth--the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the +taste of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and gone by. +[She moves away] + +FELSMAN. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go? + +SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world. + +FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me! + + [But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against + solidity] + +SEELCHEN. Friend! The time is on me. + +FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I too dull? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen suddenly standing opposite + the motionless Shepherd of THE COW HORN; and his mandolin twangs + out. + +FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt +go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see. + +SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward. + +FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without thee +love is dead, and I must die. + +SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone. + +FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold. + + At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE COW HORN stretches + forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE + HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving. + +SEELCHEN. Companions. I must go. In a moment it will be dawn. + + In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces. + The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark. + + + + +SCENE V + + Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE + GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either aide of + that path of light, like shadows. THE COW HORN and THE WINE + HORN stand with cloaked heads. + +SEELCHEN. Great One! I come! + + The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a far-away voice, growing, + with the light, clearer and stronger. + + Wandering flame, thou restless fever + Burning all things, regretting none; + The winds of fate are stilled for ever-- + Thy little generous life is done. + And all its wistful wonderings cease! + Thou traveller to the tideless sea, + Where light and dark, and change and peace, + Are One--Come, little soul, to MYSTERY! + + SEELCHEN falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The + glow slowly fades till the scene is black. + + + + +SCENE VI + +Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn +filtering through the window of the mountain hut. LAMOND and FELSMAN +are seen standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on the +window seat. + +FELSMAN. [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a moment it will be +dawn. + + She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring. + +LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming. + + FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face. + Then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she + speaks, pass out. + +SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with +ecstasy] Great One. I come! [Waking, she looks around, and +struggles to her feet] My little dream! + + Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky. + There is a sound of goat-bells passing. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + + + +JUSTICE + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +JAMES HOW, solicitor +WALTER HOW, solicitor +ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk +WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk +SWEEDLE, their office-boy +WISTER, a detective +COWLEY, a cashier +MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge +HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate +HECTOR FROME, a young advocate +CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor +THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain +EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor +WOODER, a chief warder +MOANEY, convict +CLIFTON, convict +O'CLEARY, convict +RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman +A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, +JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS + + + + +TIME: The Present. + + +ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. + +ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. + +ACT III. A prison. December. + SCENE I. The Governor's office. + SCENE II. A corridor. + SCENE III. A cell. + +ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. + March, two years later. + + + + +CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION + +AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 + +James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE +Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE +Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN +Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE +The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE +The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER +The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON +The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT +The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE +The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT +The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY +The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN +The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON +Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD +Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN +Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE +O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE +Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE + + + + + +ACT I + + The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James + and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, + furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with + tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them + are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two + doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the + managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; + and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be + seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of + the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to + the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the + partners' room. + + The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up + figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. + He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a + bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a + well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. + +COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, +twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the +page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, +twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. + + He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and + SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. + He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. + +COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. + +SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry +two. Send him to Morris's. What name? + +SWEEDLE. Honeywill. + +COKESON. What's his business? + +SWEEDLE. It's a woman. + +COKESON. A lady? + +SWEEDLE. No, a person. + +COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes +the pass-book.] + +SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? + + RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years + old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an + ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a + natural dignity of pose and gesture. + + SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. + +COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. +[Suspiciously] State your business, please. + +RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight +West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. + +COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a +message? + +RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. + + She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. + +COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my +friends here to see me! It'd never do! + +RUTH. No, sir. + +COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting +to see a junior clerk! + +RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. + +COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged +interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. + +RUTH. He's not there. + +COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? + +RUTH. No, sir. + +COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no +affair of the office. + +RUTH. But what am I to do? + +COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. + + SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes + through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully + leaving the door an inch or two open. + +COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this +won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! + + An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer + door of the outer office. + +SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. + +RUTH. They're mine, please. + +SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? + +RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] + +COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk +short as it is. + +RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. + +COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! + +SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. + + FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, + good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He + moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there + irresolute. + +COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. + + Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' + room. + +RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He +tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children +before he was awake. I went round to you. + +FALDER. I've changed my digs. + +RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? + +FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. +For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with +tragic intensity] Ruth! + +RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? + +FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? + +RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one +bag. I can't go near home again. + +FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. +How much must you have? + +RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. + +FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When +I get out there I mean to forget it all. + +RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take +you against your will. + +FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll +have you. + +RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. + +FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 +to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! + +RUTH. Kiss me! + + They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as + COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the + outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and + seats himself. + +COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. + +FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. + +COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. + +FALDER. Yes, sir. + +COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, +having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a +drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the +Home." It's a well-written thing. + +FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. + +COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you +finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? + +FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. + +COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, +Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't +mention about the party having called, but---- + +FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. + + COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; + then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when + WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather + refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost + apologetic voice. + +WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. + +COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. + +WALTER. My father here? + +COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who +might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. + +WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. + +COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be +expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to +send it to counsel? + +WALTER. What does my father say? + +COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. + +WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. + +COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought +you'd do it yourself. + +WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. + +COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you +like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. + +WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit +of common ground. + +COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the +law. + +WALTER. I don't like it, + +COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves +up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. + + As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is + a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, + shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. + +JAMES. Morning, Walter. + +WALTER. How are you, father? + +COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though +deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young +Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] + +WALTER. About that right-of-way case? + +JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me +yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. + +WALTER. So it is. + +JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no +recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. + + WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a + cheque-book. + +JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, +seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, +seventy-one. Tally? + +WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four +hundred. + +JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons +the counterfoils] What's this ninety? + +WALTER. Who drew it? + +JAMES. You. + +WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went +down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back +on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I +drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It +just covered all but half a crown. + +JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the +cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all +right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that +nine-pound cheque? + +WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. +Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. + +JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? + +WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this +doesn't. + +JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. +Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you +remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day +he went to Trenton? + +COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. + +JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] + +COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of +course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the +bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you +wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous +compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. + + He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. + +WALTER. Afraid not. + +COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. + +JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on +Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! +there's some mistake. + +JAMES. I hope so. + +COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the +twenty-nine years I've been here. + +JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever +bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, +Walter. + +WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that +afternoon. + +COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. + +JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of +swindling. What was Davis's ship? + +WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. + +JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be +there yet. + +COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh +dear! In this office! + +WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? + +JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. + +WALTER. Really? + + He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He + stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the + knees of his trousers. + +JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? + +COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take +you, sir. + +JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't +know you. + +COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry +for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. + +JAMES. A nasty business! + +COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing +like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. + +JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? + +COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had +temptation. + +JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. + +COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. + [He broods.] + +JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. + +COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty +yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. + +JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, +Cokeson. + + He goes towards the door of the partners' room. + +SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped +up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. + +COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her +away! + +JAMES. What's that? + +COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come +myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the +partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just +now. + +RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? + +COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait +about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. + +RUTH. Yes, sir. + + WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the + outer office. + +COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] +Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. + + WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. + +COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm +quite ashamed to have to trouble you. + +COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] +Seemed in perfect order. + +COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing +like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open +and jolly together. + +COWLEY. Quite so. + +COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] +Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- +leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. + +COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. + +COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a +matter of fact. + + JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. + +JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, +you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It +was none of us, I take it. + + The cashier shakes his head with a smile. + +JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in +conversation, will you? + + He goes toward FALDER'S room. + +COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. + +JAMES. Well? + +COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? +He's a nervous young feller. + +JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of +Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. + +COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's +been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. + +JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a +thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. + + He opens the door of FALDER'S room. + +JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? + +COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? + + The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. + +COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare +me, I suppose? + + At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to + see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on + COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. + +FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! + +JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. + +FALDER. Do you want me, sir? + +JAMES. No, thanks! + + FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the + door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the + cashier nods. + +JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. + +COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that +room? + +COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a +basement. + + The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with + his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. + +JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? + +FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. + +JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about +this lease. + +FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] + +COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed +the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my +lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip +of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! + +JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! + +COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. + +COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. + + The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down + in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the + morass of his feelings. + +WALTER. What are you going to do? + +JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. + +COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- + +JAMES. We shall see. + +WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? + +JAMES. Call him in! + +COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; +hoarsely] Step in here a minute. + +FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? + +JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know +this cheque, Falder? + +FALDER. No, sir. + +JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. + +FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. + +JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? + +FALDER. Yes, sir. + +JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? + +FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. + +JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? + +FALDER. No, sir--ninety. + +JAMES. Nine, Falder. + +FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. + +JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; +whether by you or Davis is the question. + +FALDER. I--I + +COKESON. Take your time, take your time. + +FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. + +JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one +o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. + +COKESON. I couldn't leave it. + +JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was +cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects +it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. + +FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were +giving him a farewell luncheon. + +JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? + +FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. + + WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him + in a low voice. + +JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? + +COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing +faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the +Monday. + +JAMES. Was he, Falder? + +FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. + +JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this +nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? + +COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? + + FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, + but he has gone all to pieces. + +JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book +remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on +Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that +you altered both cheque and counterfoil? + +FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. + +COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to +do! + +FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was +doing. + +COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! + +FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was +just a minute of madness. + +JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days +at least. + +FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, +and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the +money back--I will, I promise. + +JAMES. Go into your room. + + FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. + There is silence. + +JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. + +COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! + +WALTER. What's to be done? + +JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. + +WALTER. It's his first offence. + +JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a +piece of swindling altogether. + +COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. + +JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. + +COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. +James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. + +WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? + +COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier +circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. + +WALTER. How do you know? + +COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were +outside the office. + +JAMES. A real bad egg. + +WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. + +JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- +counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. +It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. + +WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't +time. + +JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean +mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep +his hands off when there's money about. + +WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. + +JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows +in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of +harm's way. They've got a blind spat. + +WALTER. It's penal servitude. + +COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. + +JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out +of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua +non'. + +COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. + +JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people +who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. + +WALTER. But to brand him like this? + +JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another +chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. + +COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. + +JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way +to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If +that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what +is. + +WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. + +JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever +prosecute. + +WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. + +COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have +protection. + +JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. + + He moves towards the partners' room. + +WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. + +JAMES. You ask too much of me. + +WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. + +JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this +sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't +nothing'll make him. + +WALTER. He'll never do it again. + +COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We +don't want to be hard on the young man. + +JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into +the partners' room.] + +COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I +don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. + +WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know +you feel---- + +COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. + +WALTER. We shall regret it. + +COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. + +WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." + +COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must +try and see it sensible. + +SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. + +COKESON. Put it down! + + While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the + detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one + there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized + man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong + boots. + +COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? + +WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant +Blister. + +WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. + + He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. + +JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] +I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. +[SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. + + As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a + sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. + +FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! + +WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. + +JAMES. I charge him with felony. + +FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be +till to-morrow. + + JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER + becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the + detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, + rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the + outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared + COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer + office. + +COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? + + There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the + sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits + down, and stares blankly at his lunch. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +ACT II + +A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with +barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in +the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, +placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and +unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to +the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems +unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the +counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle +age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, +the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a +very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their +evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, +the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. + +CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! + + Gathering his robes together, he sits down. + +FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship +and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that +the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you +evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you +would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his +actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did +this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, +caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. +Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call +before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to +this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances +of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has +inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a +miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from +whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, +saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in +love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her +from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But +we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to +remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a +drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, +as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable +a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear +that her husband is guilty. + +JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? + +FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your +lordship that directly. + +JUDGE. Very well. + +FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? +She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her +life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, +gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would +have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such +a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her +either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is +now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to +support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor +Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. + +JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. + +FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. + +JUDGE. Let us hope so. + +FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up +to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, +that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on +himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She +saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where +they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This +was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, +an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were +constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, +and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation +possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer +to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part +of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of +these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into +their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her +distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so +devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- +reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of +course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual +events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, +the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility +--I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the +lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes +up a sheet of paper, and waits.] + + COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, + holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. + +FROME. What is your name? + +COKESON. Robert Cokeson. + +FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ +the prisoner? + +COKESON. Ye-es. + +FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? + +COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. + +FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? + +COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. + +FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about +his general character during those two years. + +COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised +at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no +fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise +to me when he did a thing like that. + +FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? + +COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. + +FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua +non'. + +FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? + +COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly +and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. + +FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on +which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his +demeanour that morning? + +COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite +compos when he did it. + +THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? + +COKESON. Not compos. + +THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. + +FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the +JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will +understand my meaning. + +FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? + +COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a +chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as +Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went +into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other +clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up +and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, +Falder." + +FROME. Do you remember what he answered? + +COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. + +FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? + +COKESON. I did. + +FROME. What was that? + +COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be +neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." + +FROME. And what did he answer? + +COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. + +THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? + +COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my +meaning--it was funny. + +FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? + +COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We +can't have anything eccentric in our profession. + +THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? + +COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about +prime facey evidence. + +FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? + +COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. + +FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. +Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the +forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that +morning? + +COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. + +FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean +before the discovery--that caught your attention? + +COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. + +THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? + +FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the +prisoner committed this act, my lord. + +THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the +act. + +FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. + +THE JUDGE. Well! + +FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? + +COKESON. Ye-es. + +FROME. What for? + +COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. + +FROME. Did you see her? + +COKESON. I did. + +FROME. Did she come alone? + +COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. +I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. + +FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- + +COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to +me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put +to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." + +THE JUDGE. What are? What were? + +COKESON. Her children. They were outside. + +THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? + +COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell +you what I was told--and that'd never do. + +THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. + +COKESON. Egg-zactly. + +FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course +of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you +specially remember? + +COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the +sentence] A leetle more, sir. + +FROME. Or did she not? + +COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the +answer. + +FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it +was? + +COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." + +FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? + +COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said +to you. + +FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was +there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? + +COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. + +FROME. Well, is she there now? + +COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! + +FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] + +CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the +prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by +that word? + +COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever +seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once +with his eyes. + +CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them +"funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? + +COKESON. Ye-es, funny. + +COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not +be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or +fierce, or what? + +COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you +want me to give you another. + +CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? + +CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- + +CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was +it a hot day? + +COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. + +CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? + +COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. + +CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? + + He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is + left gaping. + +FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled +state before? + +COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. + +FROME. That will do, thank you. + + COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel + for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; + arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing + further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next + to JAMES and WALTER. + +FROME. Ruth Honeywill. + + RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the + witness-box. She is sworn. + +FROME. What is your name, please? + +RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. + +FROME. How old are you? + +RUTH. Twenty-six. + +FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little +louder. + +RUTH. No, sir; not since July. + +FROME. Have you any children? + +RUTH. Yes, sir, two. + +FROME. Are they living with you? + +RUTH. Yes, sir. + +FROME. You know the prisoner? + +RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. + +FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? + +RUTH. We were friends. + +THE JUDGE. Friends? + +RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. + +THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? + +RUTH. We love each other. + +THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- + +RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. + +THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! + +FROME. What is your husband? + +RUTH. Traveller. + +FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? + +RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. + +FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? + +RUTH. Ever since my first was born. + +FROME. In what way? + +RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. + +THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. + +RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. +We were going to South America. + +FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? + +RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly +broke my heart. + +FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? + +RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing +to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. + +FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. Why? + +RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. + +THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! + +RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. + +FROME. With his hands, or----? + +RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to +my friend. It was eight o'clock. + +THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence +of liquor then? + +RUTH. It wasn't always that. + +FROME. In what condition were you? + +RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half +choking. + +FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? + +RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. + +FROME. It upset him? + +RUTH. Dreadfully. + +FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? + +RUTH. Never. + +FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. When was that? + +RUTH. On Saturday. + +FROME. The 8th? + +RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to +start. + +FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? + +RUTH. What, sir? + +FROME. That he had money to give you. + +Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me +my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told +me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. + +FROME. And when did you last see him? + +RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to +have started. + +FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at +all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his +manner then? + +RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. + +FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? + +RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. + +FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? + +RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. + +FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? + +RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. + +FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and +unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his +actions? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. His reason, even? + +RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. + +FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly +calm? + +RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. + +FROME. Do you still love him? + +RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. + +FROME. Thank you. + + He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. + +CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning +of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I +suppose? + +RUTH. No, sir. + +CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. + +RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the +same for him; I would indeed. + +THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy +one? Faults on both sides? + +RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I +should, sir, not to a man like that. + +THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? + +RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep +things nice. + +THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? + +RUTH. No; even after that. + +THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this +affection of yours for the prisoner. + +RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. + +THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. + + RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her + seat among the witnesses. + +FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. + + FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly + sworn. + +FROME. What is your name? + +FALDER. William Falder. + +FROME. And age? + +FALDER. Twenty-three. + +FROME. You are not married? + + FALDER shakes his head + +FROME. How long have you known the last witness? + +FALDER. Six months. + +FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? + +FALDER. Yes. + +FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? + +FALDER. Yes. + +THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? + +FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. + +THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? + +FALDER. I didn't seem able to. + + The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. + +FROME. How did you come to know her? + +FALDER. Through my married sister. + +FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? + +FALDER. It was trouble all the time. + +FROME. You knew her husband? + +FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. + +THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not +present. + +FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit +altering this cheque? + +FALDER bows his head. + +FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the +7th, and tell the jury what happened. + +FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she +came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem +to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round +her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes +dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I +felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd +seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the +same, I know. + +FROME. Yes? + +FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was +out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I +could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply +couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed +to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the +cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. +You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my +hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if +I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her +away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then +Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I +did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. +I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what +I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under +a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for +it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I +took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and +all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I +keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I +can't have it all again to do differently! + + FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. + +FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? + +FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. + +FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed +the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? + +FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all +the way. + +FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? + +FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. + +FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' + +FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. + + FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. + +CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? + +FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. + +CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. + +CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting +over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. + +FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. + +CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were +so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the +cashier? + +FALDER. It was an accident. + +CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which +day did you alter the counterfoil? + +FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. + +CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No. + +CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? + +FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. + +CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great +excitement when you did that? + +FALDER. I was haunted. + +CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? + +FALDER. [Very low] Yes. + +THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do +was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? + +FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] + +CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of +taking this woman away? + +FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for +nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself +into the river. + +CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England +--didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion +would fall on him? + +FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. + +CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? + +FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would +have repaid the money. + +THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have +been prosecuted. + +FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought +there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. + +FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the +cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the +discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have +left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, +from the beginning. + +THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion +would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did +you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis +had sailed? + +FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- + +THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! + +FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. + +THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. + + [FROME bows to the JUDGE] + +CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. + +CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that +afternoon? + +FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. + +CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen +for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't +remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] + +FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. + +FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? + +FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. + +FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's +going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect +nothing during those four minutes? + +FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. + +FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you +were doing? + +FALDER. No, Sir. + +FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? + +FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. + +FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or +notes?" + +FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too +late. + +FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my +lord. + + The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. + +FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen +of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition +to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am +free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence +has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in +a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not +responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral +vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he +had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has +alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest +this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have +merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life +which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the +commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized +age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange +way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when +we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think +of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the +prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the +comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with +equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was +devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a +strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort +of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have +heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word +"funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of +those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which +could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental +irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all +sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man +who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved +from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and +frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible +condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent +and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might +well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a +case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. +You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four +fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's +face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is +absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection +[legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came +here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is +impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he +committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress +can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a +moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, +or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, +gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter +impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was +altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes +--the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy +before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great +cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His +further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the +counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of +deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from +which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of +the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a +man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? +Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law +for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, +and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as +though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in +all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that +may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, +Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the +starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to +pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of +weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man +those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his +voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to +be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will +come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, +as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, +stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a +criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither +the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. +Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has +undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in +prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever +to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. +He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of +the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided +to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you +permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. + + He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his + hand, and sits dozen. + +The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards +the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot +that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then +towards the jury. + +CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen +of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the +defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I +don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the +evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I +daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what +shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative +would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had +pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to +his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and +hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to +show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in +fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I +think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a +certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of +motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would +not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped +that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With +good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't +put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every +reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that +the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he +were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the +moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the +managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some +difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, +though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, +gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque +was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate +that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the +words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, +therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have +remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was +certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the +plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at +fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the +consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of +time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am +not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your +own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a +great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, +temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the +offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious +known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such +as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, +and his relations with this married woman, which will render it +difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. I +ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the +circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. + + Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he + sits down. + +THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a +business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the +comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues +you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of +this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is +that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the +crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence +of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. +If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the +prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him +guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what +you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short +of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the +testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very +carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before +and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, +of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. +And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the +prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought +did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to +him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his +subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the +question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is +very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or +temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before +you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and +thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would +have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, +then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, +adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. + + The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends + over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly + to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn + speaks to FROME. + +FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should +ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to +disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these +proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences +might be extremely serious to her. + +THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. +Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her +here. + +FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have +brought out the full facts in any other way? + +THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. + +FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. + +THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. + +FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your +lordship that I am not exaggerating. + +THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name +of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, +who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, +who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll +consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that +she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. + +FROME. Your lordship, I really---- + +THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. +Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. + + As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the + box. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? + +FOREMAN. We are. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? + +FOREMAN. Guilty. + + The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at + FALDER, who stands motionless. + +FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in +mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can +add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the +prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. + +THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. + +FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your +lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] + +THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. + +THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have +you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you +judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] + +THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found +guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; +then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you +were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing +this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to +bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you +succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality +making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course +enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that +direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He +claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a +criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a +passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march +of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing +the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should +allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into +account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your +offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the +counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to +my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the +necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the +other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have +hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe +your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some +emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every +wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the +community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what +are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your +case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious +element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on +the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the +crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It +is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The +story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. +Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were +in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young +man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an +attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge +--had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit +was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an +attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he +describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can +express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent +that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral +design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my +conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. +It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for +the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an +attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a +defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that +to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not +follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic +edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. +I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have +committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with +my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You +will go to penal servitude for three years. + + FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him + steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts + up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a + bustle in court. + +THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I +think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. + + The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who + is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do + you understand, your name will not be mentioned? + +COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. + + RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. + +THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. + + To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + + A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred + windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in + yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are + seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, + walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete + floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked + caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has + distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking + books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on + the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is + Christmas Eve. + + The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair + moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding + from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table + looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. + The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers + are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, + military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and + melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces + from him. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking +affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? + +WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for +two years now. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? + +WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his +thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] + +THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? +Moaney! An old hand, I think? + +WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like +him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] +Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all +they think about. + +THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? + +WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. + +WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star +class--and next him old Clipton. + +THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about +his eyes. + +WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of +these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a +regular wave going through them just now. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to +look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! + +WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this +morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole +lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. + +THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run +right through cavalry lines. + + The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic + man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped + face and slow, cultured speech. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? + +THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. + +THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and +opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and +metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. +Wooder. + +WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] + +THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, +Miller? Seems going through the whole place. + +THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. + +THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? + +THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. + +THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at +the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man +who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the +cupboard again] + +THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. +Nothing to be done till it's broken. + +THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard +for golf? + + WOODER comes in again. + +WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. +I told him it wasn't usual. + +THE GOVERNOR. What about? + +WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? + +THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, +Miller. + +WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in +withdraws. + + The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to + the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. + +COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young +man. + +THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. + +COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it +to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the +law. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you +want to see me about, sir? + +COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a +sight! + +THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is +being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! + +COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] +I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. +[Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His +sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some +distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says +he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an +invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in +him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like +to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. + +THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. + +COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them +about working together. + +THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their +three months here in separate confinement, sir. + +COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite +downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the +others. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, +Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about +him, perhaps. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, +it would seem, sir. + +COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. +I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about +with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said +--like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a +month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell +thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I +can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. +COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the +tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. + +THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, +isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? + +COKESON. No. + +THE CHAPLAIN. I know. + +THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be +good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes +out] Let's see, he's not married? + +COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much +attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. + +THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison +might be closed. + +COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I +wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let +her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me +questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow +a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid +it's made him worse. + +THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? + +COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a +husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our +young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he +was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for +him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a +month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: +"I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no +friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my +husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. +And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a +painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a +wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a +little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't +like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." +Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't +like to persuade her not to. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. + +COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow +dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years +to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares +your view, I'm afraid. + +COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by +himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't +like to see a man cry. + +THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. + +COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] +I keep dogs. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? + +COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all +by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a +sense of right and wrong. + +COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. + +COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness +they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes +'em savage. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little +more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. + +COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for +years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of +consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there +shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him +harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. +COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the +wall." It's not nice. + + During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a + medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. + He stands leaning against the window. + +THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on +Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, +Doctor Clements? + +THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. + +COKESON. But he's told me. + +THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's +lost no weight since he's been here. + +COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. + +THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather +melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him +carefully. + +COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are +able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my +special standpoint. + +COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be +unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. + +THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. + +COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him +every day you wouldn't notice it. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health +shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully +provided for. [He rises] + +COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see +doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on +my mind. + +THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. + +COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. +I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding +to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. + + As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, + but their faces wear peculiar expressions. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. + +COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just +one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him +see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about +her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe +in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? + +THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an +exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes +to a convict prison. + +COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. +[He again goes out] + +THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor +fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? + + + He and the DOCTOR go out talking. + + The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a + pen. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE II + + Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are + coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green + about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are + whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is + filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors + of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round + peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round + disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On + the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board + with the prisoner's name, number, and record. + + Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and + second-floor corridors. + + The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an + apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the + cells. + +INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have +another bit for you when that's finished. + +O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. + +INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I +s'pose. + +O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. + + Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of + approaching footsteps. + +INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! + + He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. + + The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by + WOODER. + +THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? + +INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind +with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. + + The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR + goes away. + +THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? + + He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door + of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, + athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in + the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about + fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, + staring, steel-coloured eyes. + +WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes +to the door] + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up +the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] +Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! + +MOANEY. It passed the time. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? + +MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than +this. + +MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against +the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my +time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue +warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, +after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm +out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got +mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes +on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no +harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of all +right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread +and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself +in your place. + +THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you +give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the +cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the +window-bars] + +THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? + +MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do +in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have +something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but +I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a +gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work +would have done it. + +THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. +Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while +they put a new bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? + +MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' +cells-bread and water. + +MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. + + He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. + + The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WARDER + closes and locks the cell door. + +THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. + + WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on + a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He + is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and + smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets + up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his + visitors. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. + + CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the + corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs + to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. + +THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? + +CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He +makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's +just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd +ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. + +THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. + +CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With +contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here +with us. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when +there's a cell vacant. + +CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. +I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening +too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. +Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. + + WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though + extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into + his cell. + +WOODER. All right, sir. + + THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. + +THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? + +WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. + + He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. + +THE GOVERNOR. Open. + + WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a + little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands + at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, + middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little + holes under his high cheek-bones. + +THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? + +O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. + +THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? + +O'CLEARY. Oh! that! + +THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. + +O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. + +THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? + +O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. + +THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. + +O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. + +THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. + +O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same +steady man. + +THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? + +O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me +head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. +[Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise +--a terrible little wud ease me. + +THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the +shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. + +O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? + +O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your +door. + +O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. + +O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. + + He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the +poor blackguard. + +WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come +here, Mr. Wooder. + + WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. + + The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his + uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering + it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising + the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is + standing against it, lurches forward. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle +down, Falder? + +FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head +against a stone wall, is it? + +FALDER. No, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. + +FALDER. I try, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? + +FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst +time. + +THE GOVERNOR. How's that? + +FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I +was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such +a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. + +THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. + +FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. + +THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? + +FALDER. They're used to it. + +THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, +just as you're doing now. + +FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with +you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're +still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. + +FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? + +FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's +no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my +cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? + +FALDER. Yes. + +THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. + +FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? + + He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR + approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. + +FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes +back into his cell.] + +THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. + + The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, + nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. + +WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. +Very contented lot of men, on the whole. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? + +WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. + +THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! + +WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? + +THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! + + He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with + a sort of pained anxiety. + +WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd +like us to have more holly? + +THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. + +WOODER. Very good, sir. + + The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR + beckons to him. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well? + +THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of +course. + +THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, +Doctor. + +THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; +but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better +in the shops, there's no doubt. + +THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? + +THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing +tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for +instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from +physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I +don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing +wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. + +THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? + +THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but +if I do I ought to report on others. + +THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor +devil must just stick it then. + + As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. + +WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? + + For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and + walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? + +WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of +that. + + He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE III + + FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven + deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is + of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, + with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In + the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a + corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two + sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular + wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional + books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black + hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner + is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark + ventilator under the window, and another over the door. + FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is + hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which + the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by + the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering + the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and + a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set + under the window. + + In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen + standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, + listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged + feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying + harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is + going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a + sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy + sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his + head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so + lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to + life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving + his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the + door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it + with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the + iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards + the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line + of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the + window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into + it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out + of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the + silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the + stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he + seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a + sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has + been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen + gasping for breath. + + A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick + metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to + bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some + great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it + seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch + nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to + cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as + if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound + swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly + raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself + at his door, and beats on it. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT IV + + The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a + March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. + SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the + offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes + to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in + the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in + through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems + a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual + impassivity. + +SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand +with a bang] Hello! It's you! + +RUTH. Yes. + +SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying +down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the +pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with +yourself? + +RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. + +SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S +chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] +I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these +three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about +that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. + +RUTH. He did. + +SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge +ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human +nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] + +SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten +you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I +know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes +his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the +governor---- + + But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with + east wind, and decidedly greyer. + +COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then +motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must +be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit +down! Family well? + +RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. + +COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at +home. + +RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. + +COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry +if you'd done anything rash. + +RUTH. I've kept the children with me. + +COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had +hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the +young man, I suppose, since he came out? + +RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. + +COKESON. I hope he's well. + +RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's +dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. + +COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. +[On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was +up? + +RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. + +COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like +to be snubby. + +RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. + +COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations +aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, +till he finds his feet. + +RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. + +COKESON. I don't understand. + +RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. + +COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want +to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. + +RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but +they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, +Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I +married him. I thought the world of him, of course . . . he used +to come travelling to our farm. + +COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after +you saw me. + +RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I +lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I +couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. + +COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a +stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? + +RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- +[There is silence] + +COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And +what did you do then? + +RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before, . . . +making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I +never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and +working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept +at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I +wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. + +COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. + +RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd +always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is +silent] + +COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? + +RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever +since. + +COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. + +RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. +[Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back +of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just +a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and +he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another +chance. + +COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! +What a horrible position! + +RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out +about him! + +COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. + +RUTH. I've no one else to go to. + +COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take +him, under the circumstances. I don't really. + +RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to +the window.] + +COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's +sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a +vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. + +RUTH. It would be the saving of him. + +COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell +him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your +address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on +blotting-paper] Good-morning. + +RUTH. Thank you. + + She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, + and goes away. + +COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton +handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he +sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] + +COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the +clerk's place? + +SWEEDLE. Yes. + +COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. + +SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? + +COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't +stump him off altogether. + +SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? + +COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. + +SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? + +COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be +having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat +you in a similar position. + +SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. + +COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't +necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you +in life. It's sound policy. + +SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? + +COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one +having entered the outer office] Who's there? + +SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. + +COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to +call again. I don't want---- + + He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, + his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn + and loose. + + SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. + +COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep +things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. +[He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. + + FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the + partners' door. + +COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the +aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are +here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking +at him over his spectacles] How's your health? + +FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. +I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. +I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I +promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my +word. + +FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a +thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I +weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't +weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, +and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there +was nothing in here at all. + +COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? + +FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. + +COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? + +FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. +I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a +sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. +COKESON, I couldn't, sir. + +COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! + +FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. + +COKESON. How was that? + +FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I +seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't +explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it +grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; +but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me +afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. + + He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. + +COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to +do anything for you? + +FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- + +COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with +you. + +FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to +give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What +have you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't +you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look +here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an +understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. +I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I +said--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." +Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. + +COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? +[Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without +prejudice; I meant it kindly. + +FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. + +COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the +thing. + +FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns +aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man +this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best +thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's +queer, isn't it? + +COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. + +FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. +[With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with +criminals! + +COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never +did a man any good. Put a face on it. + +FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're +independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about +giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. + +COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't +made a Socialist of you. + + FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he + utters a peculiar laugh. + +COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really +you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. + +FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but +they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as +though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden +impersonality] I know it is. + +COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try +and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now +leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're +jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] + +COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] +I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with +this young man. I think you'll remember him. + +JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? + +WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you +again, Falder. + +FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank +you, sir. + +COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the +clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. +Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a +little family. + + FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. + +COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's +quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not +seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's +very trying to go without your dinner. + +JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? + +COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all +about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, +but I'm keeping him in the air. + +JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. + +WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never +got that out of my head. + +JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's +he been doing since he came out? + +COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's +sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. + +JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. +"Weak character"'s written all over him. + +WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. + +JAMES. He brought it all on himself. + +WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in +these days. + +JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all +that, my boy. + +WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. + +JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. + +COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something +[spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. + +JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one +uncommonly like her outside as we came in. + +COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met +her. + +JAMES. Is she with her husband? + +COKESON. No. + +JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? + +COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I +don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. + +JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. + +COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the +party here this morning. + +JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too +shady altogether! + +COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see +that. + +WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with +his private life. + +JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come +here. + +WALTER. Poor devil! + +COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can +get him to see reason. + +JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. + +WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning +FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. + +FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a +steady front. + +JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another +chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first +place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion +that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play +fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society +didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that +the better. + +FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? + +JAMES. Well? + +FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] + +COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. + +FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that +if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under +somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a +quarter of us would ever have got there. + +JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, +Falder. + +FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. + +JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. + +FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. + +JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. + +FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked +me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what +I was. + +JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. + +COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. + +FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his +feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. + +JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the +future. + +FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what +prison is. It's here it gets you. + + He grips his chest. + +COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. + +WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's +merciful. + +FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. + +JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to +put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady +reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you +were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done +with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're +going to begin your future with such a relationship. + +FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But +sir . . . but sir . . . it's the one thing I looked forward to +all that time. And she too . . . I couldn't find her before last +night. + + During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more + uneasy. + +JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that +it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. +Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come +back--not otherwise. + +FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I +couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! + + I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. + +JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the +benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this +connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. + +FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting +broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it +for her. + +JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for +herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a +prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. + +FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him +--she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from +the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER] . . . If anybody +would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. + +COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I +don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. + +FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause +since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. + +WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be +managed. + +FALDER. Oh, sir! + +He goes to the window and looks down into the street. + +COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my +reasons. + +FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? +I can beckon to her from here. + + WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. + +JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. + +FALDER beckons from the window. + +COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. +She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young +man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to +swindle the Law. + + FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a + sort of awed silence. + +FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from +one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent +it . . . . What I said at the trial was true. And last night we +only just sat in the Park. + +SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. + +COKESON. What is it? + +SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] + +JAMES. Show her in. + + RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one + side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON + turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden + of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed + groove. + +JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] +We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be +faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder +again. + +RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. + +JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. +I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. +[Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, +ma'am. + +RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of +her as though prescient of disaster. + +FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to +get you a divorce. + + RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. + +JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. + +FALDER. But, Sir----! + +JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. + +RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. + + She looks miserably at FALDER. + +JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? + +RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. + +JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. + +FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. +There's been nothing between us, has there? + +RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. + +FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help +us--we promise. + +JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see +what I mean? + +RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. + +COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. + +JAMES. The situation is impossible. + +RUTH. Must I, Sir? + +JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His +future is in your hands. + +RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. + +JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! + +FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after +all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I +swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. + +JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. + +FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who +is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as +the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- + +WALTER. Father! + +JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll +give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with +yourselves, that's all. + +FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? + + RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. + There is silence. + +COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in +here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. + + He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer + office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. + He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably + into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, + seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON + shuts the door. + +JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it +is. + +SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] +Detective-Sergeant blister. + + The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. + +WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years +and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. + +JAMES. What about him? + +WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. +[There is an awkward silence] + +COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible +for his movements; you know that. + +JAMES. What do you want with him? + +WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. + +WALTER. How d'you mean? + +WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. + +WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? + +WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say +we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. +But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment +with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must +have him. + + Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at + JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. + +COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could +make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. + +JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike +peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you +must find him without us. + + As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the + table, and his face contracts. + +WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to +warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a +convict, and sheltering a convict. + +JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask +questions which it's not my business to answer. + +WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. + +COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite +understand, don't you? Good-morning! + + WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the + outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. + +COKESON. The other door.... the other door! + + WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, + do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, + with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" + + WISTER has gone in. + + The three men look aghast at the door. + +WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! + + He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The + latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. + +WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! + +WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. + +FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! + + Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes + out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. + +WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever +now. + + SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are + sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull + thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. + +JAMES. What's that? + + SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There + is dead silence. + +WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's +fainting! + + He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the + clerks' room. + +COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! + +WALTER. Have you any brandy? + +COKESON. I've got sherry. + +WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! + + He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. + +COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to +force the sherry between her lips.] + + There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. + + The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying + some burden. + +JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? + + They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and + all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. + +WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. + +WALTER. Good God! + +WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip +like that. And what was it--just a few months! + +WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? + +JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] +Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An +ambulance! + + WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and + horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards + the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. + +WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! + + The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into + COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. + +RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She +crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! + + In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. + +RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! + + [The figures of the men shrink back] + +COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor +dear woman! + + At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. + +COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with +gentle Jesus! + + RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at + COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as + one would to a lost dog. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Second Series Plays, Complete +by John Galsworthy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND SERIES PLAYS, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 5056.txt or 5056.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/5056/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9db635b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #5056 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5056) diff --git a/old/gpl2w10.txt b/old/gpl2w10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39bad04 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gpl2w10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8064 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Second Series Plays, Complete +*** [Contains: Eldest Son, Little Dream, Justice] *** +#40 in our series by John Galsworthy + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Second Series Plays, Complete + +Author: John Galsworthy + +Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5056] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on April 11, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND SERIES PLAYS BY GALSWORTHY *** + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +THE SECOND SERIES PLAYS, Complete + +By John Galsworthy + +Contents: + The Eldest Son + The Little Dream + Justice + + + + +THE ELDEST SON + +By John Galsworthy + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet +LADY CHESHIRE, his wife +BILL, their eldest son +HAROLD, their second son +RONALD KEITH(in the Lancers), their son-in-law +CHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughter +DOT, their second daughter +JOAN, their third daughter +MABEL LANFARNE, their guest +THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan +OLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeper +FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid +YOUNG DUNNING, the under-keeper +ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl +JACKSON, the butler +CHARLES, a footman + + +TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8 at the +Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. + +ACT I SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. + SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. + +ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. + +ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. + + A night elapses between Acts I. and II. + + + + + + ACT I + +SCENE I + + The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with + an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The + dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and + under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In + a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins + on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against + the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty, + pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, + is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white + roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A + door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress, + comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, + rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, + whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He + speaks before he reaches the bottom. + +SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for? + +FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, Sir +William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening. + +SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Your +father coming up to-night? + +FREDA. Yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him +here after dinner, will you? + +FREDA. Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if +he's got it. + + He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly + tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of + skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a + nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress. + +CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU? + +FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine--Mrs. Keith, I mean. +My lady told me to give you these. + +CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother! + +FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. +My lady thought white would suit her better. + +CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress. + + [FREDA lowers the roses quickly.] + +What do you think of Joan's engagement? + +FREDA. It's very nice for her. + +CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals? + +FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing. + +CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. +Any news? + +FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, +won't marry Rose Taylor, after all. + +CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there +was--she was--I mean---- + +FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say. + +CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's +come? + +FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty. + + RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in + evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and + the air of a horseman. + +KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed +a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. +Where's that litter of little foxes? + +FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith. + +KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What? + +CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here +since the flood. + +KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat--eh, Freda? + +CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young +Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny. + +KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never +keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Bill +come? + + As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's + evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale + young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, + and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod. + HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three + steps at a time. + +HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have a +sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet? + +FREDA. No, Mr. Harold. + + HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the + drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a + voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her + head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes. + +JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot! + +FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan. + + DOT's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. + She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a + rebel. + +DOT. You little being! + +JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door] +Oh! Dot! You're pinching! + + As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL LANFARNE, a tall + girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down. And + at sight of her FREDA's whole figure becomes set and meaning- + full. + +FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady. + +MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet! +[Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda? + +FREDA. Very well, thank you. + +MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the +guns again. + +FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure. + +MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face-last time. + +FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr. +Harold, or Captain Keith? + +MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day. + +FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best. + + A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a rather + inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. Left alone + without the roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming of a + door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the + stairs. BILL runs down, and comes on her suddenly. He is a + tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn + look of veiled choler. + +BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what's the +matter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away +from her] Aren't you glad to see me? + +FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. After dinner. + +BILL. Mister----? + + She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands + frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the + drawing-room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and MISS LANFARNE + come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER, + and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By + herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking + woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at + once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the + dining-room. + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Bill. + +MABEL. How do you do? + +KEITH. How are you, old chap? + +DOT. [gloomily] Do you know your part? + +HAROLD. Hallo, old man! + +CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause and +look at him shyly without speech. + +BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN's shoulder] Good luck, you two! +Well mother? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What a +long time! + + She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the + dining-room. + + The curtain falls. + + The curtain rises again at once. + + + + +SCENE II + + CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE, + and JOAN, are returning to the hall after dinner. + +CHRISTINE. [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about young Dunning +and Rose Taylor? + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear. + +CHRISTINE. But can't they be---- + +DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent.] My child, I'm +not the young person. + +CHRISTINE. No, of course not--only--[nodding towards JOAN and +Mable]. + +DOT. Look here! This is just an instance of what I hate. + +LADY CHESHIRE. My dear? Another one? + +DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand, +because you know you do. + +CHRISTINE. Instance? Of what? + +JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire. + +DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he's +tired of her? + +CHRISTINE. [Ironically] Well! If your imagination doesn't carry you +as far as that! + +DOT. When people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love with +each other? + +CHRISTINE. [With a shrug] That's not the point. + +DOT. Oh? Were you in love with Ronny? + +CHRISTINE. Don't be idiotic! + +DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't been? + +CHRISTINE. Of course not! + +JOAN. Dot! You are!---- + +DOT. Hallo! my little snipe! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Dot, dear! + +DOT. Don't shut me up, mother! [To JOAN.] Are you in love with +John? [JOAN turns hurriedly to the fire.] Would you be going to +marry him if you were not? + +CHRISTINE. You are a brute, Dot. + +DOT. Is Mabel in love with--whoever she is in love with? + +MABEL. And I wonder who that is. + +DOT. Well, would you marry him if you weren't? + +MABEL. No, I would not. + +DOT. Now, mother; did you love father? + +CHRISTINE. Dot, you really are awful. + +DOT. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick, perhaps. + +JOAN. Dot! + +DOT. Well, mother, did you--I mean quite calmly? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, quite calmly. + +DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes +her head] Then we're all agreed! + +MABEL. Except yourself. + +DOT. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might think himself lucky if I +married him. + +MABEL. Indeed, and I'm not so sure. + +DOT. [Making a face at her] What I was going to---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd better not? + +DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but what I do say +is--Why the devil---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. Quite so, Dot! + +DOT. [A little disconcerted.] If they're tired of each other, they +ought not to marry, and if father's going to make them---- + +CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least. It's for the sake of +the---- + +DOT. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching infant! God bless +it! + + There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and LATTER are seen coming + from the dining-room. + +LATTER. That must be so, Ronny. + +KEITH. No, John; not a bit of it! + +LATTER. You don't think! + +KEITH. Good Gad, who wants to think after dinner! + +DOT. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the billiard-room +door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is directly after breakfast; +from "Eccles enters breathless" to the end. + +MABEL. Whatever made you choose "Caste," DOT? You know it's awfully +difficult. + +DOT. Because it's the only play that's not too advanced. [The girls +all go into the billiard-room.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. Where's Bill, Ronny? + +KEITH. [With a grimace] I rather think Sir William and he are in +Committee of Supply--Mem-Sahib. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! + + She looks uneasily at the dining-room; then follows the girls + out. + +LATTER. [In the tone of one resuming an argument] There can't be +two opinions about it, Ronny. Young Dunning's refusal is simply +indefensible. + +KEITH. I don't agree a bit, John. + +LATTER. Of course, if you won't listen. + +KEITH. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear chap. We've had +the whole thing over twice at least. + +LATTER. My point is this---- + +KEITH. [Regarding LATTER quizzically with his halfclosed eyes] +I know--I know--but the point is, how far your point is simply +professional. + +LATTER. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right her again. +There's no answer to that. + +KEITH. It all depends. + +LATTER. That's rank opportunism. + +KEITH. Rats! Look here--Oh! hang it, John, one can't argue this out +with a parson. + +LATTER. [Frigidly] Why not? + +HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pull +baker! + +KEITH. Shut up, Harold! + +LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even of the Army. + +KEITH. Exactly, but what is the game? + +LATTER. What else can it be in this case? + +KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You can't help it--line +of country laid down for you. All drag-huntin'! What! + +LATTER. [With concentration] Look here! + +HAROLD. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse's head] +'Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!' + +KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me, old chap. You +don't see where you'd land us all. [He smokes calmly] + +LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? From precisely this +sort of thing of young Dunning's. + +KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought, John. I admit that +I don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl in the lurch; but I don't see +the use in drawin' hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em. +Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, +willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be the +deuce to pay in a year's time. You can take a horse to the water, +you can't make him drink. + +LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you. + +HAROLD. Good old John! + +LATTER. At all events we know where your principles take you. + +KEITH. [Rather dangerously] Where, please? [HAROLD turns up his +eyes, and points downwards] Dry up, Harold! + +LATTER. Did you ever hear the story of Faust? + +KEITH. Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, and +all the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes. + +LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny--of all the rude boors----[He turns +towards the billiard-room.] + +KEITH. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap. + + LATTER passes out. There comes a mingled sound through the + opened door, of female voices, laughter, and the click of + billiard balls, dipped of by the sudden closing of the door. + +KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a parson puts one's back +up! Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought to +play the game; and I hope Sir William'll make him. + + The butler JACKSON has entered from the door under the stairs + followed by the keeper STUDDENHAM, a man between fifty and + sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, + and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face, + with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once + been red. + +KEITH. Hullo! Studdenham! + +STUDDENHAM. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', Captain Keith. + +JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with Mr. Bill, sir? + +HAROLD. [With a grimace] He is, Jackson. + + JACKSON goes out to the dining-room. + +KEITH. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham? + +STUDDENHAM. No, Sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' the spinneys and +the home covert while you're down. + +KEITH. I say, talkin' of spinneys---- + + He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD into the + billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters from the dining-room, + applying a gold toothpick to his front teeth. + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Studdenham. Bad business this, about young +Dunning! + +STUDDENHAM. Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. He definitely refuses to marry her? + +STUDDENHAM. He does that. + +SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What reason does he give? + +STUDDENHAM. Won't say other than that he don't want no more to do +with her. + +SIR WILLIAM. God bless me! That's not a reason. I can't have a +keeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this. +[Turning to LADY CHESHIRE, who has come in from the billiard-room] +That affair of young Dunning's, my dear. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studdenham. The poor girl! + +STUDDENHAM. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling she's not his +equal, now, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has made her his +superior. + +SIR WILLIAM. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I was just telling +Studdenham the fellow must set the matter straight. We can't have +open scandals in the village. If he wants to keep his place he must +marry her at once. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To her husband in a low voice] Is it right to force +them? Do you know what the girl wishes, Studdenham? + +STUDDENHAM. Shows a spirit, my lady--says she'll have him--willin' +or not. + +LADY CHESHIRE. A spirit? I see. If they marry like that they're +sure to be miserable. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! Doesn't follow at all. Besides, my dear, you +ought to know by this time, there's an unwritten law in these +matters. They're perfectly well aware that when there are +consequences, they have to take them. + +STUDDENHAM. Some o' these young people, my lady, they don't put two +and two together no more than an old cock pheasant. + +SIR WILLIAM. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he remains obstinate, +he'll have to go; he'll get no character, Studdenham. Let him know +what I've said. I like the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't want +to lose him. But this sort of thing I won't have. He must toe the +mark or take himself off. Is he up here to-night? + +STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will you have him in? + +SIR WILLIAM. [Hesitating] Yes--yes. I'll see him. + +STUDDENHAM. Good-night to you, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Freda's not looking well, Studdenham. + +STUDDENHAM. She's a bit pernickitty with her food, that's where it +is. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I must try and make her eat. + +SIR WILLIAM. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the home covert first. +What did we get last year? + +STUDDENHAM. [Producing the game-book; but without reference to it] +Two hundred and fifty-three pheasants, eleven hares, fifty-two +rabbits, three woodcock, sundry. + +SIR WILLIAM. Sundry? Didn't include a fox did it? [Gravely] I was +seriously upset this morning at Warnham's spinney---- + +SUDDENHAM. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir William; that +four-year-old he du look a handful! + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well enough what I mean. + +STUDDENHAM. [Unmoved] Shall I send young Dunning, Sir William? + + SIR WILLIAM gives a short, sharp nod, and STUDDENHAM retires by + the door under the stairs. + +SIR WILLIAM. Old fox! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be too hard on Dunning. He's very young. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't understand young +fellows, how should you? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With her faint irony] A husband and two sons not +counting. [Then as the door under the stairs is opened] Bill, now +do---- + +SIR WILLIAM. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply] Come in! + + LADY CHESHIRE retires to the billiard-room. She gives a look + back and a half smile at young DUNNING, a fair young man dressed + in broom cords and leggings, and holding his cap in his hand; + then goes out. + +SIR WILLIAM. Evenin', Dunning. + +DUNNING. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want to see you about? + +DUNNING. Yes, Sir. + +SIR WILLIAM. The thing's in your hands. Take it or leave it. I +don't put pressure on you. I simply won't have this sort of thing on +my estate. + +DUNNING. I'd like to say, Sir William, that she [He stops]. + +SIR WILLIAM. Yes, I daresay-Six of one and half a dozen of the +other. Can't go into that. + +DUNNING. No, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your first place. If +you leave here you'll get no character. + +DUNNING. I never meant any harm, sir. + +SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom of the country. + +DUNNING. Yes, Sir William, but---- + +SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you leaped. I'm not +forcing you. If you refuse you must go, that's all. + +DUNNING. Yes. Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day to think it over. + + BILL, who has sauntered moody from the diningroom, stands by the + stairs listening. Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his + hand to his forelock. + +DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fumbles, and turns +again] My old mother's dependent on me---- + +SIR WILLIAM. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say. + [Dunning goes sadly away under the stairs.] + +SIR WILLIAM. [Following] And look here! Just understand this + [He too goes out....] + + BILL, lighting a cigarette, has approached the writing-table. + He looks very glum. The billiard-room door is flung open. + MABEL LANFARNE appears, and makes him a little curtsey. + +MABEL. Against my will I am bidden to bring you in to pool. + +BILL. Sorry! I've got letters. + +MABEL. You seem to have become very conscientious. + +BILL. Oh! I don't know. + +MABEL. Do you remember the last day of the covert shooting? + +BITS. I do. + +MABEL. [Suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Studdenham's grown! + +BILL. Has she? + +MABEL. "She walks in beauty." + +BILL. Really? Hadn't noticed. + +MABEL. Have you been taking lessons in conversation? + +BILL. Don't think so. + +MABEL. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! + +BILL. Miss Lanfarne! + +MABEL. What's the matter with you? Aren't you rather queer, +considering that I don't bite, and was rather a pal! + +BILL. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. + + Then seeing that his mother has came in from the billiard-room, + he sits down at the writing-table. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. Won't you play too, +Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's too terrible? + +BILL. Thanks. I've got these letters. + +MABEL taking the cue passes back into the billiard-room, whence comes +out the sound of talk and laughter. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind her son's chair] +Anything wrong, darling? + +BILL. Nothing, thanks. [Suddenly] I say, I wish you hadn't asked +that girl here. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel! Why? She's wanted for rehearsals. I thought +you got on so well with her last Christmas. + +BILL. [With a sort of sullen exasperation.] A year ago. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your father; personally I +must say I think she's rather nice and Irish. + +BILL. She's all right, I daresay. + + He looks round as if to show his mother that he wishes to be + left alone. But LADY CHESHIRE, having seen that he is about to + look at her, is not looking at him. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been talking to you, Bill. + +BILL. He has. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Debts? Do try and make allowances. [With a faint +smile] Of course he is a little---- + +BILL. He is. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I wish I could---- + +BILL. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It seems almost a pity that you told him. + +BILL. He wrote and asked me point blank what I owed. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a casual voice] +I happen to have a little money, Bill--I think it would be simpler +if---- + +BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that before. I can't help +spending money, I never shall be able, unless I go to the Colonies, +or something of the kind. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't talk like that, dear! + +BILL. I would, for two straws! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father thinks such a lot of +the place, and the name, and your career. The Cheshires are all like +that. They've been here so long; they're all--root. + +BILL. Deuced funny business my career will be, I expect! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Fluttering, but restraining herself lest he should +see] But, Bill, why must you spend more than your allowance? + +BILL. Why--anything? I didn't make myself. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid we did that. It was inconsiderate, +perhaps. + +BILL. Yes, you'd better have left me out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so--Only a little fuss about money! + +BILL. Ye-es. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from me, are you? + +BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliberately to the +writing things, and takes up a pen] I must write these letters, +please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me, +won't you? + +BILL. There's nothing whatever. + + He suddenly gets up and walks about. LADY CHESHIRE, too, moves + over to the fireplace, and after an uneasy look at him, turns to + the fire. Then, as if trying to switch of his mood, she changes + the subject abruptly. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Isn't it a pity about young Dunning? I'm so sorry +for Rose Taylor. + + There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase FREDA has + entered, and seeing only BILL, advances to speak to him. + +BILL. [Suddenly] Oh! well,--you can't help these things in the +country. + + As he speaks, FREDA stops dead, perceiving that he is not alone; + BILL, too, catching sight of her, starts. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Still speaking to the fire] It seems dreadful to +force him. I do so believe in people doing things of their own +accord. [Then seeing FREDA standing so uncertainly by the stairs] Do +you want me, Freda? + +FREDA. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I--begin it? + + At this moment SIR WILLIAM enters from the drawing-room. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another five minutes, Bill? +[Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll come directly, my dear. + + FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back whence she came; and + LADY CHESHIRE goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room. + +SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short shrift. [He moves +over to the fireplace and divides hip coat-tails] Now, about you, +Bill! I don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but you +know, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay them +this time unless I see a disposition to change your mode of life. +[A pause] You get your extravagance from your mother. She's very +queer--[A pause]--All the Winterleighs are like that about money.... + +BILL. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what you mean. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Drily] We will put it that way. [A pause] At the +present moment you owe, as I understand it, eleven hundred pounds. + +BILL. About that. + +SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a proposition to make. + +BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir? + +SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your motto in life. + +BILL. Thanks! + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [BILL looks at him in +silence] It's time you took your position seriously, instead of +hanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not. + +BILL. Go ahead! + + At something dangerous in his voice, SIR WILLIAM modifies his + attitude. + +SIR, WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I can't suppose +anything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but +[drily] I mention it. Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for +the division; you can have the Dower House and fifteen hundred a +year, and I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're elected +I'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up the +constituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpetbagger +against you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if you +don't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. You can +take Rocketer and that four-year-old--he's well up to your weight, +fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want one other. +And if Miss--if your wife means to hunt---- + +BILL. You've chosen my wife, then? + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've some girl in +your mind. + +BILL. Ah! + +SIR WILLIAM: Used not to be unnatural at your age. I married your +mother at twenty-eight. Here you are, eldest son of a family that +stands for something. The more I see of the times the more I'm +convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and +save the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, and +prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under to +this infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's very +serious. We're threatened in a hundred ways. If you mean business, +you'll want a wife. When I came into the property I should have been +lost without your mother. + +BILL. I thought this was coming. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain geniality] My dear fellow, I don't +want to put a pistol to your head. You've had a slack rein so far. +I've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats-so long as you- +-er--[Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden movement] Short of +that--at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. I can only +judge by the--er--pecuniary evidence you've been good enough to +afford me from time to time. I imagine you've lived like a good many +young men in your position--I'm not blaming you, but there's a time +for all things. + +BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry Mabel +Lanfarne? + +SITS WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good family--got a +little money--rides well. Isn't she good-looking enough for you, or +what? + +BILL. Quite, thanks. + +SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were on +good terms. + +BILL. Please don't drag mother into it. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps you'll be good +enough to state your objections. + +BILL. Must we go on with this? + +SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything for me before; I +expect you to pay attention now. I've no wish to dragoon you into +this particular marriage. If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry +a girl you're fond of. + +BILL. I refuse. + +SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With a +sudden rush of choler] You young.... [He checks himself and stands +glaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that +you've got some entanglement or other. + +BILL. Suppose what you like, sir. + +SITS WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the blackguard---- + +BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning. + + Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the + billiard-room. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it? + +SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse! Go away, Dorothy. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for two months. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well--we must talk it over again. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both of you! Bill, do +finish those letters! + + With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM toward the + billiard-room, and glances back at BILL before going out, but he + has turned to the writing-table. When the door is closed, BILL + looks into the drawing-room, them opens the door under the + stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down + there, and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evidently been + waiting, comes in and stands by the table. + +BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know. + +FREDA. Yes--but I must. + +BILL. Well, then--[With natural recklessness] Aren't you going to +kiss me? + + Without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry. + +BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks? + +FREDA. Quite--long enough--for you to have forgotten. + +BILL. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. + +FREDA. No? + +BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda? + +FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. + +BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean? + +FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out of +her dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer. + +BILL. Now, look here + +FREDA. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in a hurry. + +BILL. Freda! + +FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's all you really +loved me in. + +BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear---- + +FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me. + +BILL. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times--nothing's changed. + [FREDA looks at him and smiles.] + +BILL. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself miserable. + +FREDA. Everybody will be pleased. + +BILL. At what? + +FREDA. When you marry her. + +BILL. This is too bad. + +FREDA. It's what always happens--even when it's not a--gentleman. + +BILL. That's enough. + +FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn't +be afraid I'll say anything when--it comes. That's what I had to +tell you. + +BILL. What! + +FREDA. I can keep a secret. + +BILL. Do you mean this? [She bows her head.] + +BILL. Good God! + +FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine. Like the puppies when +they hold them up by their tails. [With a sudden break in her voice] +Oh! Bill! + +BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaks +away from her towards the fire] Good God! + + She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away + by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to + speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He + walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece. + +BILL. By Jove! This is----! + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + + ACT II + + + The scene is LADY CHESHIRE's morning room, at ten o'clock on the + following day. It is a pretty room, with white panelled walls; + and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow + window overlooks the park under a sou'-westerly sky. A piano + stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's correspondence + is scattered on a writing-table. Doors opposite each other lead + to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is + standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, + which FREDA is holding out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just give it up! + +FREDA. I don't like to be beaten. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way, +I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up. +Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you had +better put that cloak away. + +FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting doom at her writing-table] Very well. + + FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the + corridor. + +JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young woman from the +village, says you wanted to see her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in. Oh! and Jackson +the car for the meet please at half-past ten. + + JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY CHESHIRE rises with + worked signs of nervousness, which she has only just suppressed, + when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands + waiting by the door. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in! + [ROSE advances perhaps a couple of steps.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice. +Your engagement with Dunning's broken off, isn't it? + +ROSE. Yes--but I've told him he's got to marry me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing? + +ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of him still. + +ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it. + +LADY CHESHIRE: And--do you think he's quite lost his affection for +you? + +ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. He's +after that--that--He didn't ought to treat me as if I was dead. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, no--of course. But you will think it all well +over, won't you? + +ROSE. I've a--got nothing to think over, except what I know of. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both t0 marry in that spirit! You know +it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready to +help you. + +ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, my lady, but I +think he ought to marry me. I've told him he ought. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted to say. It's a +question of your self-respect; I can't give you any real advice. But +just remember that if you want a friend---- + +ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to do +what's right by me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrow--gently] Yes, +yes--I see. + +ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meeting the servants. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As they +reach the door, DOT comes in.] + +DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldy +rehearsal, Mother? + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here. + + Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT, + with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according + to a diagram. + +DOT. Chair--chair--table--chair--Dash! Table--piano--fire--window! +[Producing a pocket comb] Comb for Eccles. Cradle?--Cradle--[She +viciously dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into +it] Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter Eccles +breathless. Esther and Polly rise-Esther puts on lid of bandbox." +Bandbox! + +Searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens the +workroom door. + +DOT. Freda? + + FREDA comes in. + +DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down. + [FREDA does not answer.] + +DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately. + +FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot. + +DOT. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic? + +FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet. + +DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse] +What is it, Freda? + +FREDA. Nothing. + +DOT. [Switching of on a different line of thought] Are you very busy +this morning? + +FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady. + +DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if I +can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind? + +FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot. + +DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see--what did I want? + + JOAN has come in. + +JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene. I'm sure I +ought to make more of it. + +DOT. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by one +ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try! + +JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have for +the baby? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggest +something, Freda? + +FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don't +count much. + +JOAN. Freda, how horrible! + +DOT. [Dropping the footstool back into the basket] You'll just put +up with what you're given. + + Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE Come in, FREDA turns + abruptly and goes out. + +DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and find +them, mouse-cat. + + But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are already in the + doorway. They come in, and LATTER, stumbling over the + waste-paper basket, takes it up to improve its position. + +DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the footstool out of it] +Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points to +the workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the +piano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage! +Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise." Wait a +minute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a +bandbox. + +HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, you know, you +feel such a fool. + +DOT. [With her bandbox-gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when you +have begun. [To BILL, who is staring into the workroom] Shut the +door. Now. [BILL shuts the door.] + +LATTER. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear up a point of +psychology before we start. + +DOT. Good Lord! + +LATTER. When I bring in the milk--ought I to bring it in seriously-- +as if I were accustomed--I mean, I maintain that if I'm---- + +JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should---- + +DOT. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin! +Bill! + +LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But I think you +underrate the importance of my entrance altogether. + +MABEL. Oh! no, Mr. Latter! + +LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the balance of the +scene, but I do want to be clear about the spirit. What is the +spirit? + +DOT. [With gloom] Rollicking! + +LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk, with +this play, if we rollick. + +DOT. Shall we? Now look here----! + +MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire! + +BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on! + +DOT. [Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin! At last! + [But JACKSON has came in.] + +JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, Mm, if the young ladies +want to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round. + +JOAN. [Starting up] Oh! come 'on, John! + [She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER.] + +DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You---- + [CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past.] + +DOT. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] Pigs! Devils! + [She rushes after them. BILL and MABEL are left alone.] + +MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups? + +BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroom +door] Can't keep a dog in town. You can have one, if you like. The +breeding's all right. + +MABEL. Sixth Pick? + +BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy they +want 'em. + +Mann. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] You +know, you remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're not +nearly so polite. I don't understand you English-lords of the soil. +The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden change +of voice] What was the matter with you last night? [Softly] Won't +you tell me? + +BILL. Nothing to tell. + +MABEL. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. + +BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice--then sullenly] Worried, I +suppose. + +MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it? + +BILL. Don't chaff me, please. + +MABEL. You really are rather formidable. + +BILL. Thanks. + +MABEL, But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull. + +BILL. Really! Very interesting. + +MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She moves +back as he advances] And overturning people on the journey. + +BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful? + +MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. And +then straight from that hedge into the opposite one. + +BILL. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morning of all +mornings? + +MABEL. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must be dull for poor +Freda working in there with all this fun going on? + +BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it? + +MABEL, To go back to you,--now--Mr. Cheshire. + +BILL. No. + +MABEL, You always make me feel so Irish. Is it because you're so +English, d'you think? Ah! I can see him moving his ears. Now he's +pawing the ground--He's started! + +BILL. Miss Lanfarne! + +MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her +eyes and smile] You can't help coming after me! [Then with a sudden +change to a sort of sierra gravity] Can you? You'll feel that when +I've gone. + + They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and + FREDA, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them. + +MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Monsieur le taureau! + + She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through, + leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and + see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand. + +BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept all night. + +FREDA. No? + +BILL. Have you been thinking it over? + [FREDA gives a bitter little laugh.] + +BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't let +you suffer. I swear I won't. + +FREDA. That will be clever. + +BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess. + +FREDA. I shall be--all--right, thank you. + +BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuse +me--say something! Don't look like that! + +FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me? + +BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your hands. + + She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her + face. + +BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then as +she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him] +There, there! + + There is a click of a door handle. They start away from each + other, and see LADY CHESHIRE regarding them. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon. + + She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but + suddenly turning, stands, with lips pressed together, waiting. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Yes? + + FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his + mother. + +BILL. Don't say anything against her! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails--then to FREDA] +Please-go! + +BILL. [Taking FREDA's arm] No. + + LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation, herself moves + towards the door. + +BILL. Stop, mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not. + +BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though from a blow] It's +a d---d shame! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It is. + +BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engaged +to be married to her. + + [FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I don't think +I--quite--understand. + +BILL. [With the brutality of his mortification] What I said was +plain enough. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true? + + [FREDA gulps and remains silent.] + +BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me, mother. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table] Give me a +chair, please. [BILL gives her a chair.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too. + + FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now! + +BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. When? + +BILL. In the summer. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Ah! + +BILL. It wasn't her fault. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No? + +BILL. [With a sort of menace] Mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You say +that you--are engaged? + +BILL. Yes. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an engagement have occurred +to you, I suppose? [With a sudden change of tone] Bill! what does it +mean? + +BILL. If you think she's trapped me into this---- + +LADY CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she has been trapped. +I think nothing. I understand nothing. + +BILL. [Grimly] Good! + +LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this-engagement lasted? + +BILL. [After a silence] Two months. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is-this is quite impossible. + +BILL. You'll find it isn't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery. + +BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in there, Freda. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her? + + FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob. + +BILL. Of course I am. + + FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE rises suddenly, + forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean? [BILL, +looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not in +love with her now. It's no good telling me you are. + +BILL. I am. + +LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were. + +BILL. She's in love with me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so. + +BILL. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, or mean woman? + +BILL. Mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life--and--your father's--and--all of +us. I want to understand--I must understand. Have you realised what +an awful thins this would be for us all? It's quite impossible that +it should go on. + +BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She and +I'll take good care not to be in the way. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything! + +BILL. I have. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill. + +BILL. What's the good of these questions? + +LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away--I see! + +BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're engaged, we shall +be married quietly, and--and--go to Canada. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that to tell you'd be in +love with her now. + +BILL. I've told you that I am. + +LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I know--I know +there's more behind. + +BILL. There--is--nothing. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your love +for her has been just what it might have been for a lady? + +BILL. [Bitterly] Why not? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so as a rule. + +BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word against +Freda. This isn't the moment to begin, please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end in wretchedness. +You haven't a taste or tradition in common. You don't know what +marriage is. Day after day, year after year. It's no use being +sentimental--for people brought up as we are to have different +manners is worse than to have different souls. Besides, it's +poverty. Your father will never forgive you, and I've practically +nothing. What can you do? You have no profession. How are you +going to stand it; with a woman who--? It's the little things. + +BILL. I know all that, thanks. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been through it. Marriage +is hard enough when people are of the same class. [With a sudden +movement towards him] Oh! my dear-before it's too late! + +BILL. [After a struggle] It's no good. + +LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery. + +BILL. Leave that to me, please. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence] Only the very +finest can do such things. And you don't even know what trouble's +like. + +BILL. Drop it, please, mother. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your +own free will? + +BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any more. + [He goes out into the workroom.] + +LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do? + + In her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the + workroom door, and opens it. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda. + + After a seconds pause, FREDA, white and trembling, appears in + the doorway, followed by BILL. + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to her alone. + + BILL, does not move. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. + + BILL hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches FREDA's + arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. There + is silence. + +LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about? + +FREDA. I don't know, my lady. + +LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again, +whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there] +I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry. +But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to her +breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things. +That's natural. But it's not only you is it? Does any one guess? + +FREDA. No. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head] There's +nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a +man's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me! + +FREDA. I can't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Come! + +FREDA. I--won't. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give him away? Both of +you the same. What's the use of that with me? Look at me! Wasn't +he with you when you went for your holiday this summer? + +FREDA. He's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man you mean! + +FREDA. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so. + + LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the + room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you. It's simple +madness! It can't, and shan't go on. + +FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I am--somebody. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of rights with a +sudden steeliness] Does he love you now? + +FREDA. That's not fair--it's not fair. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. If +you've lost him it's been your own fault. + +FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking down, and speaking rapidly] Listen to me. +I love my son, but I know him--I know all his kind of man. I've +lived with one for thirty years. I know the way their senses work. +When they want a thing they must have it, and then--they're sorry. + +FREDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you both over +everything?.... You know it isn't. + +FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. + +LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there'd be no trouble before +either of you. You'll make him hate you. + +FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him happy--out there. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to say all the things +you must know. I only ask you to try and put yourself in our +position. + +FREDA. Ah, yes! + +LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purely +selfish. + +FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my position? + +LADY CHESHIRE. What! + +FREDA. Yes. Just like Rose. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh! + + There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks + straight into FREDA's eyes. + +FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes--it's the truth. [Then to Bill +who has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant to +tell. + +BILL. Well, are you satisfied? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible! + +BILL. The Governor had better know. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! no; not yet! + +BILL. Waiting won't cure it! + + The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRISTINE and DOT run + in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that + something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his + mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom. + LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window. + +JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter? + +DOT. Shut up! + + SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling + "Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, passing her handkerchief over her + face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress: + well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. + +SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially] +Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved right +hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff! + + FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE arid the girls watching + in hypnotic silence. + +SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to be +first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse +--best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish +you were cumin' out, Joan. + + He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the + chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the + workroom. + +CHRISTINE. Mother! What----? + + But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter, + and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is + heard. + +JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started--! Chris! What is +it? Dot? + +DOT. Bill, and her! + +JOAN. But what? + +DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this. + +JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit. + +DOT. I think not. + +JOAN. Chris? + +CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us. + +JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good. + +DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten! + +CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Runny hadn't +gone. + +JOAN. Shall I fetch John? + +DOT. John! + +CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows. + +JOAN. He went out with Studdenham. + +DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and +humbug! That awful old man! + +JOAN. Dot! + +CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that! + +DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven +help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a German +regiment than a woman. + +JOAN. Dot, you're awful. + +DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet! + +CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women! + +DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of these +terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking for +John? No good, my dear; lath and plaster. + +JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's Mabel! + +DOT. Heavens, and the waters under the earth! + +CHRISTINE. If we only knew! + + MABEL comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes + fixed on their books. + +MABEL. The silent company. + +DOT. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for to-day. + +MABEL. What's the matter? + +CHRISTINE. Oh! nothing. + +DOT. Something's happened. + +MABEL. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad enough for me to +go? + +CHRISTINE. Oh! no, Mabel! + +DOT. [Sardonically] I should think very likely. + + While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the + workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and + looks stolidly at the four girls. + +BILL. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lanfarne, I'm engaged to +my mother's maid. + + No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL LANFARNE goes towards + him, holding out her hand. BILL does not take her hand, but + bows. Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces MABEL goes + out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at + their brother. + +BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know. + [He, too, goes out into the corridor.] + +CHRISTINE. Great heavens! + +JOAN. How awful! + +CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as that. + +JOAN. Oh! Chris! Something must be done! + +DOT. [Suddenly to herself] Ha! When Father went up to have his +glove buttoned! + + There is a sound, JACKSON has came in from the corridor. + +JACKSON. [To Dot] If you please, Miss, Studdenham's brought up the +other two pups. He's just outside. Will you kindly take a look at +them, he says? + + There is silence. + +DOT. [Suddenly] We can't. + +CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson. + +JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, Mm? + + DOT shakes her head violently. But STUDDENHAM is seen already + standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either + side-pocket. He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting behind + him. + +STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes the +right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a, proper greedy +one--takes after his father. + + The girls stare at him in silence. + +DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. + +STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet. + +CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course. + +STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's got +a white chest; she's a lady. + + [He protrudes the left-hand pocket.] + +DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. + +STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. +You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] +My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do +without. + +DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her. + +STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He +turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle +out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON.] + +CHRISTINE. How ghastly! + +DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!" + [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh.] + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + + ACT III + + It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the + smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old + steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high + ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are + not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is + burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard- + room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and doom; + HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with + commiseration. + +BILL. What's the time? + +HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any +consolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he +ate the man. + +BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of +me, Harold. + +HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any +better by marrying her? + + [Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.] + +BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. + +HAROLD. No, old man. + +BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think +it! + +HAROLD. My dear old chap! + +BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I +suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so +high. I see it now that--I've got over the attack. + +HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do +apply your reason, old boy. + + There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen. + +BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the +thing. + +HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! + +BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leave +her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd +soon see! + +HAROLD. Poor old chap! + +BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a +soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I +can't think. I never meant---- + +HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your +head, old man! + +BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the +country. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who's +that knocking the balls about? + +HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases.] + +BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that! + + As LATTER appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out. + +LATTER. Was that Bill? + +HAROLD. Yes. + +LATTER. Well? + +HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool to +him. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! What +price your argument with Runny now? Well, it's not too late for you +luckily. + +LATTER. What do you mean? + +HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family! + +LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold. + +HAROLD. Good! + +LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters. + +HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poor +mother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn't +done, pretty mess I shall be in. + +LATTER. How? + +HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all +come to me. + +LATTER. Oh! + +HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral! +Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop. + +LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's behaved +disgracefully. + +HAROLD. [Warningly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'd +never dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means. + +LATTER. Perfectly disgusting! + +HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you +know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard. + +LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's +an idiot, or worse. + +HAROLD. H'm! [With a grin] You're not allowed tobacco. In the +good old days no one would hive thought anything of this. My +great-grandfather---- + +LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather. + +HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been +through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because +Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up. + +LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the beginning? + +HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this +happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he--? Why didn't +she--? What's to be done--that's the point! + +LATTER. Of course he'll have to----. + +HAROLD. Ha! + +LATTER. What do you mean by--that? + +HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll +be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything! +Now don't you? + +LATTER. The whole thing is--is most unfortunate. + +HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was! + + As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH Come in from the billiard-room. + He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally + weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and + sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come + stealing in. + +CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny. + +JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful. + +HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man? + +KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes. + +DOT. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of +discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram. + +HAROLD. Phew! + +DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened. + +HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny. + + KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing + his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away with him into the + billiard-room. + +KEITH. Dot? + +DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel. + +KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since? + +DOT. Yes. + +HAROLD. Well? + +DOT. She's just sitting there. + +CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. + +DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could only +feel----! + +KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. + +DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina, +and some one jigging it! + + They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a + tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence + the FOOTMAN puts the tray down. + +HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH +nods] What point? + +KEITH. Eight mile. + +FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir? + +KEITH. No, thanks, Charles! + + In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look + after him. + +HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it! + +KEITH. What's our line of country to be? + +CHRISTINE. All depends on father. + +KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it +strikes me. + +CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. + +KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons +on Sunday forbids son to---- + +CHRISTINE, Ronny! + +KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's +got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take +up that position. + +DOT. Awfully funny! + +CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot? + +DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other! + +CHRISTINE. Rubbish! + +HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill. + +KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help +the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a---- + [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.] + +HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you +girls, I should think. + +CHRISTINE and DOT. Of course not! + +KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it? + +DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady as +most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada? It's what +he's really fit for. + +HAROLD. Steady on, Dot! + +DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if +he stays here--jolly for the country! + +CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill. + +DOT. Me cynical! + +CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny! + +KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl. + +DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her! + +HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor +old Dad! + +CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold! + +DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations by +marriage! + +KEITH. Thanks! + +CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous--monstrous! It's fantastic! + +HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's +in! + + They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE + coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise + and DOT puts an arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his + chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny! + [She sits down.] + +DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur? + +LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear! + +DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny? + +KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straight +line. + +LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse? + +KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting +his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib! + +CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father? Ronny thinks it +all depends on her. Can't you use your influence? [LADY CHESHIRE +shakes her head.] + +CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate. + +DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn't +beg her to let us off! + +CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart, +mother? + +DOT. Leave mother alone! + +CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never. + +DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect? + +CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh! +mother do speak to her! You know it'll be misery for both of them. +[LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her +head.] + +CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake? + +DOT. Chris! + +CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! We +ought all to go on our knees to him. + +LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now. + +HAROLD. Poor old Bill! + +CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! That wretched +girl! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Chris! + +CHRISTINE. There are limits! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control. + +CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall--Something must be +done! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he gets +his head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do. + +CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if +you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't +affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Do +back me up, all of you! It's the only way! + + Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been + urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who + looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical + pain. + +CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother! + + LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room + door, listening. They all follow her eyes. She sits down + again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters. + His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. + He walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands + looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE + steals away. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done? + +SIR WILLIAM. You there! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense! + +SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had a +blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard he would not be +what you call a fool. + +SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Very +well! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too +terrible. + +SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear. + [She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire.] + +SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a +thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands +and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. +Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've known +this--piece of news since this morning. I've known it ten minutes. +Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the +girl? + +LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is he +about? + +LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him? + +SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire +and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth +century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh +at everything--they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, and +I don't .... Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! I +don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm +not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With +sudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad +enough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d Socialists and +Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the +bowels to sees a--tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and +me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the +children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's +past--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. They're--they're +himself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it? + +SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it. + +LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop. + +SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made. + +LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law! + +SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to] +You're thinking of young--young----[Shortly] I don't see the +connection. + +LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do +what's loyal--and we--his father and mother----! + +SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I +must think this out. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that--it doesn't +help. + +SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of +the house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindness +from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and +decency--she lured him on, I haven't a doubt! + +LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose. + +SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the +deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Go +out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to +any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of +business nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to that +other matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--Why, my own +grandfather----! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help? + +SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence-suddenly] You must go to +the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you. + +LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her--I said +all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill. + +SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [Then +as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress.] If he marries her, I've +done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The +title--I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden fire] You've no right to put such an +alternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent this +marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees. + +SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no +consideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d---d! + +LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect.... + +SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother! + +LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't +get it out. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the only +chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away.] + +SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've +never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn +you--I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself. + + With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the + corridor. + +SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day! + + He takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks + with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace. + While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock. + +SIR WILLIAM. Come in! + + FREDA enters from the corridor. + +SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in order +that--[pointing to chair]--You may sit down. + + But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit + down. + +SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business. + +FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before +him] I--er--are you attached to my son? + +FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes. + +SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turns +away from her and speaks to the fire.] I sent for you--to--ask-- +[quickly] How old are you? + +FREDA. Twenty-two. + +SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such a +mad idea as a marriage? + +FREDA. I don't expect anything. + +SIR WILLIAM. You know--you haven't earned the right to be considered. + +FREDA. Not yet! + +SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now +brace yourself up, and listen to me! + + She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at + her; and his glance gradually wavers. + +SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like a +scamp. + +FREDA. Oh! no! + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same, time--What +made you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know. + +FREDA. No. + +SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expect +me to--It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is? + +FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to--to put it to +you--as a--as a--what! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, +looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] +I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, and +wait! + + LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes + into the billiard-room to wait. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Your +mother and I have spoken of this--calamity. I imagine that even you +have some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell +you this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll +receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only due +to the position our family has always held here. Your brother will +take your place. We shall--get on as best we can without you. [There +is a dead silence till he adds sharply] Well! + +BILL. I shall marry her. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love-without anything! + +BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man, +sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter +in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head +yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns +round to go out] Let the d---d thing off! + +LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! + +BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch. + +SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted to +persuade you to. + +BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could +have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you +wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, +that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences. + +SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position? + +BILK. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have none--not the +faintest, brought up as you've been. + +BILL. I didn't bring myself up. + +SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son +responds] You--ungrateful young dog! + +LADY CHESHIRE. How can you--both? +[They drop their eyes, and stand silent.] + +SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am speaking under the +stress of very great pain--some consideration is due to me. This is +a disaster which I never expected to have to face. It is a matter +which I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down +to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortune +all my life to believe in our position here--to believe that we +counted for something--that the country wanted us. I have tried to +do my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone-- +smoke--gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To countenance +this marriage would be unnatural. + +BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this--I don't see any +other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for +you---- + + He stops, seeing that JACKSON has route in, and is standing + there waiting. + +JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William? It's about +young Dunning. + + After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler + withdraws. + +BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told. + +SIR WILLIAM. He shall be. + + STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a + comprehensive gesture. + +STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir William! + +STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the +proper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up +next Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in +turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Beg +pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf! + +BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you, +Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married at +once. + +STUDDENHAM. I--don't--understand you--sir. + +BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it +straight. + +STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say--my daughter? + +SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Studdenham. It's a +thunderbolt--young Dunning's case over again. + +STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's--You've--! I must see my +daughter. Have the goodness to send for her, m'lady. + + LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come + here, please." + +STUDDENHAM. [TO SIR WILLIAM] YOU tell me that my daughter's in the +position of that girl owing to your son? Men ha' been shot for less. + +BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome. + +STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this +sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years, +Sir William; but this is man to man--this is! + +SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham. + +STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No--'twouldn't be +very easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage? + +SIR WILLIAM. You did. + +STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well--that's something! [Moving his +hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights +o' this. + +SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you, +Studdenham. + + Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with + his hands. + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of horror] Don't, +Studdenham! Please! + +STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady? + +LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your--your--hands. + + While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing + in the doorway, like a black ghost. + +STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her +father] When did you start this? + +FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father. + +LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her! + +STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from side to side as if +pain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA, +but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about--what's come +to you? + +FREDA. Last night. + +STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young--! [He makes a +convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose +grip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] I want to +clear me mind a bit--I don't see it plain at all. [Without looking +at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage? + +BILL. I've made it, I stick to it. + +STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the +pith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William? + +SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you. + +STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady? + + LADY CHESHIRE is silent. + +STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was--was good enough for any man. +It's not for him that's--that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] You +hear the handsome offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistens +her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak a +word, we won't get much forrarder. I'd like for you to say what's in +your mind, Sir William. + +SIR WILLIAM. I--If my son marries her he'll have to make his own +way. + +STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to that. + +SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studdenham. It appears to +rest with your daughter. [He suddenly takes out his handkerchief, +and puts it to his forehead] Infernal fires they make up here! + +LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intense +cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering. + +STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for. +[To FREDA] Speak up, now. + + FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily + raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY + CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if + she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL, + standing rigid, with his jaw set. + +FREDA. I want--[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns +from him] No! + +SIR WILLIAM. Ah! + + At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have + been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all + his emotion turned into sheer angry pride. + +STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you! +She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha' +slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have +no charity marriage in my family. + +SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham! + +STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, +as a blind man can see by the looks of him--she's not for him! + +BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her. + +STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks +around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since +the world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away! + +Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door. + +SIR WILLIAM. D---n 'it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something! + +STUDDENHAM. [Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of +smiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things that +can't be undone! + + He follows FREDA Out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S Calm + gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as + though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following + FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY + CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the + billiard-room is opened, and DOT appears. With a glance round, + she crosses quickly to her mother. + +DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almost +whispering] Where's Freda? Is it--Has she really had the pluck? + + LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes," goes out into the + billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing + there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her + father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying + smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE ELDEST SON, a play in +THE SECOND SERIES by John Galsworthy. + + + + + + +THE LITTLE DREAM +An Allegory in six scenes + +By John Galsworthy + + + + +CHARACTERS + +SEELCHEN, a mountain girl +LAMOND, a climber +FELSMAN, a glide + + + +CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM + +THE GREAT HORN | +THE COW HORN | mountains +THE WINE HORN | + +THE EDELWEISS | +THE ALPENROSE | flowers +THE GENTIAN | +THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION | + + + +VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM + +COWBELLS +MOUNTAIN AIR +FAR VIEW OF ITALY +DISTANT FLUME OF STEAM +THINGS IN BOOKS +MOTH CHILDREN +THREE DANCING YOUTHS +THREE DANCING GIRLS +THE FORMS OF WORKERS +THE FORMS OF WHAT IS MADE BY WORK +DEATH BY SLUMBER +DEATH BY DROWNING +FLOWER CHILDREN +GOATHERD +GOAT BOYS +GOAT GOD +THE FORMS OF SLEEP + + + + +SCENE I + + It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene is a + room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches. + and a low broad window seat. Through this window three rocky + peaks are seen by the light of a moon which is slowly whitening + the last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. SEELCHEN, a + mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and + putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and + glasses. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice. + square-cut at the neck and partly filled in with a gay + handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the + alpen-rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster + beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened. + white linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn + skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are + crossed, and turned round her head. As she puts away the last + bowl, there is a knock; and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is + young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and + carries a plaid, a ruck-sack, and an ice-axe. + +LAMOND. Good evening! + +SEELCHEN. Good evening, gentle Sir! + +LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I fear. + +SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here? + +LAMOND. Please. + +SEELCHEN. All the beds are full--it is a pity. I will call Mother. + +LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at sunrise. + +SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is impossible. + +LAMOND. I am going to try that. + +SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow Horn. + +LAMOND. I have climbed them. + +SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous--it is perhaps--death. + +LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance. + +SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is only +Mans Felsman. + +LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman? + +SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with admiration] Are you +that Herr Lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year? + +LAMOND. All but that big fellow. + +SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father's +foot? + +LAMOND. Ah! no. I must go back home to-morrow. + +SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry. + +LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas! + +SEELCHEN. Are you from London? Is it very big? + +LAMOND. Six million souls. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen Cortina twice. + +LAMOND. Do you live here all the year? + +SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley. + +LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world? + +SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls softly] Hans! +[Then pointing to another door] There are seven German gentlemen +asleep in there! + +LAMOND. Oh God! + +SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sunrise. [She picks up +a little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have read +several books. + +LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry +here, and dream dreams, among your mountains? + +SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See! It is the full moon. + + While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters + a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden. + +SEELCHEN. Hans! + +FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me? + +SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him] +It is the celebrated London one. + +FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible. + +LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman? + +FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn. + +SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years! + +LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I +sleep here? + +SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps-- + + [She runs out up some stairs] + +FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on +the window seat] So! + + As he goes out into the air. SEELCHEN comes slipping in again + with a lighted candle. + +SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you. + +LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right. + +SEELCHEN. To please me! + +LAMOND. May I ask your name? + +SEELCHEN. Seelchen. + +LAMOND. Little soul, that means--doesn't it? To please you I would +sleep with seven German gentlemen. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! no; it is not necessary. + +LAMOND. [With. a grave bow] At your service, then. +[He prepares to go] + +SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World, where you come +from? + +LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would be +there. + +SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me but I am always +here. + +LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. + +SEELCHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly] In the towns +there are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and--dancing, +and--churches--and trains--and all the things in books--and-- + +LAMOND. Misery. + +SEELCHEN. But there is life. + +LAMOND. And there is death. + +SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back? + +LAMOND. No. + +SEELCHEN. You have all the world; and I have nothing. + +LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains. + +SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread. + +LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat you! + +SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big wants--like the cheese +with holes. + +LAMOND. I shall come again. + +SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains left to climb. And +if it is not exciting, you do not care. + +LAMOND. O wise little soul! + +SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always aching. + +LAMOND. For the moon? + +SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will +remember? + +LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world so +sweet as this. + +SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself. + +LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night? + + She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, + suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away. + +LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul. + +SEELCHEN. That's all right! + +LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Goodnight! + +SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night! + +FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold--it +will be fine. + + LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits + for him to pass. + +SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. I +thought. + + He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and + kisses her hungrily. + +SEELCHEN. Art thou angry? + + He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner + room. + + SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in + full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her, she + snuggles doom on the window seat. + +SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me--both. [She sleeps] + + The scene falls quite dark + + + + +SCENE II + + The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN is still + lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and + hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep + for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has + vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains + veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. There, as the peaks + of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces. + +SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces! + + The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth. + The face of THE COW HORN is that of a mountain shepherd. + solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. + Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high. + beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, + serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks. + above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little + heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUNTAIN + DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of + their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE + FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring. + +All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky. + +EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you? +Ah! ha! + +GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging +enviously] Oo-oo-oo! + + From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS + and MOUNTAIN AIR: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF + ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember the things in books!" + + And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS + ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a + sighing: + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as + of one unaccustomed. + +THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am +silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and +the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes. +love me alone! + +SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman +and the mountains. It is the half of my heart! + + THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows. +My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The +lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running +of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood +hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity. + +SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong! + + The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + +THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me +under the stars! + +SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid. + + And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's + voice. + +THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the +streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the +chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my +incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and +passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of +lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves. +and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in +the sunshine. + + THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry: + + "We know them!" + +THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of +pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths +of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little +soul, you starve and die, + +SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of +the Town. It pulls my heart. + +THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your +meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drink +the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I never +dull! + + The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN + BOOKS are heard calling out together: + + "I am Italy, Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember, remember!" + +THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours. +I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart! + +SEELCHEN. He is honey! + + THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry: + + "Bitter! Bitter!" + + +THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal +air. + + The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away: + + "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" + + "Mountain air! Mountain air!" + + And THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake +you! + + The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM and THINGS IN + BOOKS chant softly: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember, remember!" + + And THE FLOWERS moan. + +SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn! + +THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets. +and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the +thistle-down. + +M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster! + +THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea. + +GENTIAN. My blue is deeper! + +THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes. + +ALPENROSE. I can blush redder! + +THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! Silk! Velvet! + +EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet! + +THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags! + +THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none. + +SEELCHEN. He has all things. + +THE COW HORN. Mine are the clouds with the dark silvered wings; mine +are the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler than +pearls. Away from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, +little soul. + +THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance! + + THE FLOWERS ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry: + + "We too, smell sweet." + + But the voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS + IN BOOKS cry out: + + "I am Italy! Italy!" + + "See me--steam in the distance!" + + "O remember! remember!" + +SEELCHEN. [Distracted] Oh! it is hard! + +THE COW HORN. I will never desert thee. + +THE WINE HORN. A hundred times I will desert you, a hundred times +come back, and kiss you. + +SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Peace for my heart! + +THE COW HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme. + + THE FLOWERS laugh happily. + +THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers. + + THE FLOWERS moan. + +THE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine. + +THE COW HORN. I will give thee new milk. + +THE WINE HORN. Hear my song! + + From far away comes the sound as of mandolins. + +SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart--it is leaving me! + +THE COW HORN. Hear my song! + + From the distance floats the piping of a Shepherd's reed. + +SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The piping! Ah! + +THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! + +THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! + +THE COW HORN. I give thee certainty! + +THE WINE HORN. I give you chance! + +THE COW HORN. I give thee peace. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you change. + +THE COW HORN. I give thee stillness. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you voice. + +THE COW HORN. I give thee one love. + +THE WINE HORN. I give you many. + +SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both--I +will love! + + And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks. + +THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shalt love, little soul! Thou shalt +lie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities with +Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the +mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings. +small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem +as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the +other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in +turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a +tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half +courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change. +Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thou +pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me at +last, my little soul! + + THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out. + + SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight + and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep. + + + + +SCENE III + +The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with her +hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane +tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of +an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon. +Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the +face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and +singing: + + "Little star soul + Through the frost fields of night + Roaming alone, disconsolate-- + From out the cold + I call thee in + Striking my dark mandolin + Beneath this moon of gold." + + From the Inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of + dancing. + +SEELCHEN: [Whispering] It is the big world! + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings On: + + "Pretty grey moth, + Where the strange candles shine, + Seeking for warmth, so desperate-- + Ah! fluttering dove + I bid thee win + Striking my dark mandolin + The crimson flame of love." + +SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing! + + As SHE speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and + fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then + wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward. + +SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings are +windy. + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on; + + "Lips of my song, + To the white maiden's heart + Go ye, and whisper, passionate. + These words that burn + 'O listening one! + Love that flieth past is gone + Nor ever may return!'" + + SEELCHEN runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has + become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth- + children--but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn + stands LAMOND in a dark cloak. + +SEELCHEN. It is you! + +LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out his +arms to her] + +SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe? + +LAMOND. What is safety? Are you safe in your mountains? + +SEELCHEN. Where am I, here? + +LAMOND. The Town. + + Smiling, he points to the doorway. And silent as shadows there + come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. The + first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first + youth in black velvet. The second girl is in rags, and a shawl; + and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance + gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. + +SEELCHEN. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance together. Do they +never change partners? + +LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor. +But see! + + A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs. + a flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the + youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other. + but the other girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious + medley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the + first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from + each other as before. + +SEELCHEN. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like that? + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He + strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound + the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the + couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown + dark. + +SEELCHEN. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let me see. + +LAMOND. Will you not come, then, little soul? + +SEELCHEN. Always to dance? + +LAMOND: Not so! + + THE SHUTTERS of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. In a + lighted room on one aide of the Inn are seen two pale men and a + woman, amongst many clicking machines. On the other side of the + Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half + clothed, making chains. + +SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look +--all! What are they making? + + In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is + seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in + gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, + holding in one hand a glass of golden wine. + +SEELCHEN. It is beautiful. What is it? + +LAMOND. Luxury. + +SEELCHEN. What is it standing on? I cannot see. + + Unseen, THE WINE HORN'S mandolin twangs out. + +LAMOND. For that do not look, little soul. + +SEELCHEN. Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all they +make here with their sadness? + + But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the + houses; the door of the Inn grows dark. + +LAMOND. What is it, then, you would have? Is it learning? There +are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars! +[But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is religion so deep that no man +knows what it means. [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is +religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We have +everything. + +SEELCHEN. Is God here? + +LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes +her head] What then do you want? + +SEELCHEN. Life. + + The mandolin twangs out. + +LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life. + +SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love. + +LAMOND. When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown? +When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. If +darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To live +is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she draws +nearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the +little grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown--again +you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you must +crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not +there--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its +wings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, your +cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--Ah! little +heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes--there it +is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will +reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall +you grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [His voice +dies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms] + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come. + +LAMOND. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me! + +SEELCHEN. I love! + + The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all + glamorous; and they pass through. Illumined by the glimmer of + the lamp the Youth of THE WINE Hour is seen again. And slowly + to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing: + + "The windy hours through darkness fly + Canst hear them little heart? + New loves are born, and old loves die, + And kissing lips must part. + + "The dusky bees of passing years + Canst see them, soul of mine-- + From flower and flower supping tears, + And pale sweet honey wine? + + [His voice grown strange and passionate] + + "O flame that treads the marsh of time. + Flitting for ever low. + Where, through the black enchanted slime. + We, desperate, following go + Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! + Into dark air above. + The golden gipsy thins away-- + So has it been with love!" + + While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. It falls + dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands. + But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp + goes out--THE WINE HORN becomes shadow. Then from the doorway + of the Inn, in the shrill grey light SEELCHEN comes forth. She + is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the + powdery whiteness of her face. + +SEELCHEN. My heart is old. + + But as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of + COWBELLS; and while she stands listening, LAMOND appears in the + doorway of the Inn. + +LAMOND. Little soul! + +SEELCHEN. You! Always you! + +LAMOND. I have new wonders. + +SEELCHEN. [Mournfully] No. + +LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never the +same? It cannot be. + +SEELCHEN. Listen! + + The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again. + +LAMOND. [Jealously] The music' of dull sleep! Has life, then, with +me been sorrow? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + +LAMOND. Come! + +SEELCHEN. [Pointing-to her breast] The bird is tired with flying. +[Touching her lips] The flowers have no dew. + +LAMOND. Would you leave me? + +SEELCHEN. See! + + There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen + the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain + cloak. + +LAMOND. What is it? + +SEELCHEN. He! + +LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you the +marvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life. +If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are +sweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning! + +The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn come +forth the shadowy forms. DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING. +who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN. +stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away. + +SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and sweet. + + While she moves towards the Inn. LAMOND'S face becomes + transfigured with joy. But just as she reaches the doorway. + there is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and + the Shepherd of THE COW HORN sings: + + "To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar + Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads + Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, + And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. + To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned + With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; + To the silent sky, and the wistful sound + Of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!" + + While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEELCHEN has turned. + with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of + death have vanished. + +SEELCHEN. I come. + +LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like a +gnat when the sun goes down? Without you I am nothing. + +SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself] Poor heart--I am gone! + +LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his cloak]. + + Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, there is + blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there + rises a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, and Flower + Bells, and Pipes. + + + + + +SCENE IV + + The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. + SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but + blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a + low rock sits a brown faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the + four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white. + and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing. + as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and + each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts + them to her lips and eyes. + +SEELCHEN. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] Goatherd! + + But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away he has + vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The + veils of mist are rising. + +SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the +rock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with his arms folded] Thou! + +FELSMAN. So thou hast come--like a sick heifer to be healed. Was it +good in the Town--that kept thee so long? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + +FELSMAN. Why then return? + +SEELCHEN. I was tired. + +FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me! + +SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep me? + +FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus. + +SEELCHEN. I have known Change--I am no timid maid. + +FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow +--thou art white-faced. + +SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou here that shall keep +me? + +FELSMAN. The sun. + +SEELCHEN. To burn me. + +FELSMAN. The air. + + There is a faint wailing of wind. + +SEELCHEN. To freeze me. + +FELSMAN. The silence. + + The noise of the wind dies away. + +SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely. + +FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee. + + And to a ringing of their bells. THE FLOWERS come dancing; + till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling + asleep. + +SEELCHEN. See! Even they grow sleepy here! + +FELSMAN. I will call the goats to wake them. + + THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on his rock and + piping. And there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked + Boys, with Goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of + The Sleeping Flowers; and THE FLOWERS wake, spring up, and fly. + Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and THE + GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his + rock. + +FELSMAN. Love me! + +SEELCHEN. Thou art rude! + +FELSMAN. Love me! + +SEELCHEN. Thou art grim! + +FELSMAN. Aye. I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice. +[Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawn +to the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] And +the wings of the birds shall be still. + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see +the wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are they +always fierce? + +FELSMAN. Never--to look on thee, my flower. + +SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluck +flowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD is +lying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But +THE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue. +[Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer me +here. + +FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one? + +SEELCHEN. Thou? + + [The scene darkens with evening] + +See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already. + + There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb + garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her. + +SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep! + + Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her + swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It + is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly + grown bright. Then on his rock, to a faint gaping THE GOATHERD + sings: + + "My goat, my little speckled one. + My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. + Let moon and wind and golden sun + And stars beyond all telling + Make, every day, a sweeter grass. + And multiply thy leaping! + And may the mountain foxes pass + And never scent thee sleeping! + Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far. + And let me find sweet water! + No hawk nor udder-seeking jar + Come near thee, little daughter! + May fiery rocks defend, at noon, + Thy tender feet from slipping! + Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon-- + Great Master, Goat-God--skipping!" + + There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a + long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon + fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the + false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of + the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the + rock stands the Shepherd of THE COW HORN in his dock. + +SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit is hungry. [Then as +she sees the Shepherd of THE COW HORN standing there] I know thee +now--Life of the earth--the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the +taste of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and gone by. +[She moves away] + +FELSMAN. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go? + +SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world. + +FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me! + + [But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against + solidity] + +SEELCHEN. Friend! The time is on me. + +FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I too dull? + +SEELCHEN. I do not regret. + + The Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen suddenly standing opposite + the motionless Shepherd of THE COW HORN; and his mandolin twangs + out. + +FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt +go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see. + +SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward. + +FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without thee +love is dead, and I must die. + +SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone. + +FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold. + + At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE COW HORN stretches + forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE + HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving. + +SEELCHEN. Companions. I must go. In a moment it will be dawn. + + In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces. + The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark. + + + + +SCENE V + + Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE + GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either aide of + that path of light, like shadows. THE COW HORN and THE WINE + HORN stand with cloaked heads. + +SEELCHEN. Great One! I come! + + The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a far-away voice, growing, + with the light, clearer and stronger. + + Wandering flame, thou restless fever + Burning all things, regretting none; + The winds of fate are stilled for ever-- + Thy little generous life is done. + And all its wistful wonderings cease! + Thou traveller to the tideless sea, + Where light and dark, and change and peace, + Are One--Come, little soul, to MYSTERY! + + SEELCHEN falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The + glow slowly fades till the scene is black. + + + + +SCENE VI + +Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn +filtering through the window of the mountain hut. LAMOND and FELSMAN +are seen standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on the +window seat. + +FELSMAN. [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a moment it will be +dawn. + + She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring. + +LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming. + + FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face. + Then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she + speaks, pass out. + +SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with +ecstasy] Great One. I come! [Waking, she looks around, and +struggles to her feet] My little dream! + + Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky. + There is a sound of goat-bells passing. + + + +The curtain falls. + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE LITTLE DREAM (Play) +by John Galsworthy. + + + + + + +JUSTICE + +By John Galsworthy + + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + +JAMES HOW, solicitor +WALTER HOW, solicitor +ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk +WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk +SWEEDLE, their office-boy +WISTER, a detective +COWLEY, a cashier +MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge +HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate +HECTOR FROME, a young advocate +CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor +THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain +EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor +WOODER, a chief warder +MOANEY, convict +CLIFTON, convict +O'CLEARY, convict +RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman +A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, +JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS + + + + +TIME: The Present. + + +ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. + +ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. + +ACT III. A prison. December. + SCENE I. The Governor's office. + SCENE II. A corridor. + SCENE III. A cell. + +ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. + March, two years later. + + + + +CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION + +AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 + +James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE +Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE +Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN +Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE +The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE +The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER +The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON +The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT +The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE +The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT +The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY +The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN +The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON +Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD +Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN +Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE +O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE +Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE + + + + + +ACT I + + The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James + and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, + furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with + tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them + are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two + doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the + managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; + and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be + seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of + the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to + the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the + partners' room. + + The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up + figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. + He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a + bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a + well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. + +COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, +twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the +page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, +twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. + + He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and + SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. + He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. + +COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. + +SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry +two. Send him to Morris's. What name? + +SWEEDLE. Honeywill. + +COKESON. What's his business? + +SWEEDLE. It's a woman. + +COKESON. A lady? + +SWEEDLE. No, a person. + +COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes +the pass-book.] + +SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? + + RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years + old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an + ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a + natural dignity of pose and gesture. + + SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. + +COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. +[Suspiciously] State your business, please. + +RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight +West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. + +COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a +message? + +RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. + + She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. + +COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my +friends here to see me! It'd never do! + +RUTH. No, sir. + +COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting +to see a junior clerk! + +RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. + +COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outraged +interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. + +RUTH. He's not there. + +COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? + +RUTH. No, sir. + +COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no +affair of the office. + +RUTH. But what am I to do? + +COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. + + SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes + through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully + leaving the door an inch or two open. + +COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this +won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! + + An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer + door of the outer office. + +SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. + +RUTH. They're mine, please. + +SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? + +RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] + +COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk +short as it is. + +RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. + +COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! + +SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. + + FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, + good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He + moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there + irresolute. + +COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. + + Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' + room. + +RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He +tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children +before he was awake. I went round to you. + +FALDER. I've changed my digs. + +RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? + +FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. +For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with +tragic intensity] Ruth! + +RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? + +FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? + +RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one +bag. I can't go near home again. + +FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. +How much must you have? + +RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. + +FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When +I get out there I mean to forget it all. + +RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take +you against your will. + +FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll +have you. + +RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. + +FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 +to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! + +RUTH. Kiss me! + + They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as + COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the + outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and + seats himself. + +COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. + +FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. + +COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. + +FALDER. Yes, sir. + +COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, +having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens a +drawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the +Home." It's a well-written thing. + +FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. + +COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you +finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? + +FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. + +COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, +Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't +mention about the party having called, but---- + +FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. + + COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; + then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when + WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather + refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost + apologetic voice. + +WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. + +COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. + +WALTER. My father here? + +COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who +might be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. + +WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. + +COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be +expected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I to +send it to counsel? + +WALTER. What does my father say? + +COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. + +WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. + +COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thought +you'd do it yourself. + +WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. + +COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you +like. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. + +WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit +of common ground. + +COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the +law. + +WALTER. I don't like it, + +COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselves +up against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. + + As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is + a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, + shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. + +JAMES. Morning, Walter. + +WALTER. How are you, father? + +COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though +deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young +Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.] + +WALTER. About that right-of-way case? + +JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told me +yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. + +WALTER. So it is. + +JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, no +recent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. + + WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a + cheque-book. + +JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, +seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, +seventy-one. Tally? + +WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over four +hundred. + +JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons +the counterfoils] What's this ninety? + +WALTER. Who drew it? + +JAMES. You. + +WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went +down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back +on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I +drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It +just covered all but half a crown. + +JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the +cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all +right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that +nine-pound cheque? + +WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. +Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. + +JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? + +WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; this +doesn't. + +JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. +Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you +remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day +he went to Trenton? + +COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. + +JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.] + +COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of +course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the +bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you +wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous +compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. + + He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. + +WALTER. Afraid not. + +COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. + +JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia on +Monday. Looks black, Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no! +there's some mistake. + +JAMES. I hope so. + +COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the +twenty-nine years I've been here. + +JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very clever +bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, +Walter. + +WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry that +afternoon. + +COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. + +JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of +swindling. What was Davis's ship? + +WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. + +JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't be +there yet. + +COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh +dear! In this office! + +WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? + +JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. + +WALTER. Really? + + He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He + stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the + knees of his trousers. + +JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? + +COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite take +you, sir. + +JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't +know you. + +COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry +for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. + +JAMES. A nasty business! + +COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thing +like this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. + +JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? + +COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have had +temptation. + +JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. + +COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. + [He broods.] + +JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. + +COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fifty +yards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. + +JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, +Cokeson. + + He goes towards the door of the partners' room. + +SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's popped +up again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. + +COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send her +away! + +JAMES. What's that? + +COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll come +myself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into the +partners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just +now. + +RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? + +COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, wait +about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. + +RUTH. Yes, sir. + + WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the + outer office. + +COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] +Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. + + WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. + +COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'm +quite ashamed to have to trouble you. + +COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver] +Seemed in perfect order. + +COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing +like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open +and jolly together. + +COWLEY. Quite so. + +COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] +Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now-- +leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. + +COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. + +COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a +matter of fact. + + JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. + +JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, +you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It +was none of us, I take it. + + The cashier shakes his head with a smile. + +JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley in +conversation, will you? + + He goes toward FALDER'S room. + +COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. + +JAMES. Well? + +COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? +He's a nervous young feller. + +JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of +Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. + +COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's +been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. + +JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a +thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. + + He opens the door of FALDER'S room. + +JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? + +COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? + + The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. + +COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare +me, I suppose? + + At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to + see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on + COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. + +FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! + +JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. + +FALDER. Do you want me, sir? + +JAMES. No, thanks! + + FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the + door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the + cashier nods. + +JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. + +COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of that +room? + +COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and a +basement. + + The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with + his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. + +JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? + +FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. + +JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about +this lease. + +FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.] + +COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed +the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my +lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip +of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! + +JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! + +COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. + +COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. + + The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down + in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the + morass of his feelings. + +WALTER. What are you going to do? + +JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. + +COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- + +JAMES. We shall see. + +WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? + +JAMES. Call him in! + +COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door; +hoarsely] Step in here a minute. + +FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? + +JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know +this cheque, Falder? + +FALDER. No, sir. + +JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. + +FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. + +JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? + +FALDER. Yes, sir. + +JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? + +FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. + +JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? + +FALDER. No, sir--ninety. + +JAMES. Nine, Falder. + +FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. + +JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; +whether by you or Davis is the question. + +FALDER. I--I + +COKESON. Take your time, take your time. + +FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. + +JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at one +o'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. + +COKESON. I couldn't leave it. + +JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It was +cashed by you at 1.15. We know that because the cashier recollects +it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. + +FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends were +giving him a farewell luncheon. + +JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? + +FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. + + WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him + in a low voice. + +JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? + +COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing +faint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on the +Monday. + +JAMES. Was he, Falder? + +FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. + +JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this +nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? + +COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? + + FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, + but he has gone all to pieces. + +JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-book +remained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton on +Tuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that +you altered both cheque and counterfoil? + +FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. + +COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing to +do! + +FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was +doing. + +COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! + +FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It was +just a minute of madness. + +JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four days +at least. + +FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, +and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the +money back--I will, I promise. + +JAMES. Go into your room. + + FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. + There is silence. + +JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. + +COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! + +WALTER. What's to be done? + +JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. + +WALTER. It's his first offence. + +JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a +piece of swindling altogether. + +COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. + +JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. + +COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. +James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. + +WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? + +COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jollier +circumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. + +WALTER. How do you know? + +COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they were +outside the office. + +JAMES. A real bad egg. + +WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. + +JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way be went to work-- +counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. +It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. + +WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn't +time. + +JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean +mind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep +his hands off when there's money about. + +WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. + +JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows +in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of +harm's way. They've got a blind spat. + +WALTER. It's penal servitude. + +COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. + +JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out +of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua +non'. + +COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. + +JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people +who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. + +WALTER. But to brand him like this? + +JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another +chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. + +COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. + +JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way +to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If +that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what +is. + +WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. + +JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever +prosecute. + +WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. + +COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have +protection. + +JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. + + He moves towards the partners' room. + +WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. + +JAMES. You ask too much of me. + +WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. + +JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this +sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't +nothing'll make him. + +WALTER. He'll never do it again. + +COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We +don't want to be hard on the young man. + +JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into +the partners' room.] + +COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I +don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. + +WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know +you feel---- + +COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. + +WALTER. We shall regret it. + +COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. + +WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained." + +COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must +try and see it sensible. + +SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. + +COKESON. Put it down! + + While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the + detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one + there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized + man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong + boots. + +COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? + +WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant +Blister. + +WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. + + He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. + +JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] +I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. +[SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. + + As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a + sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. + +FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,--oh! no! + +WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. + +JAMES. I charge him with felony. + +FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be +till to-morrow. + + JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER + becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the + detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, + rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the + outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared + COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer + office. + +COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? + + There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the + sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits + down, and stares blankly at his lunch. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + + +ACT II + +A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with +barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in +the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, +placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and +unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to +the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems +unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the +counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle +age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, +the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a +very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their +evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, +the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. + +CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! + + Gathering his robes together, he sits down. + +FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship +and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that +the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you +evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you +would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his +actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did +this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, +caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. +Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call +before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to +this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances +of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has +inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a +miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from +whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, +saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in +love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her +from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But +we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to +remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a +drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, +as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable +a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear +that her husband is guilty. + +JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? + +FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show your +lordship that directly. + +JUDGE. Very well. + +FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? +She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her +life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, +gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would +have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such +a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her +either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is +now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to +support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor +Law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. + +JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. + +FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. + +JUDGE. Let us hope so. + +FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading up +to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, +that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on +himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She +saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where +they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This +was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, +an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were +constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, +and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation +possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I prefer +to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part +of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of +these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into +their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her +distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so +devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- +reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of +course, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actual +events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, +the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility +--I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the +lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes +up a sheet of paper, and waits.] + + COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, + holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. + +FROME. What is your name? + +COKESON. Robert Cokeson. + +FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ +the prisoner? + +COKESON. Ye-es. + +FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? + +COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. + +FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? + +COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. + +FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about +his general character during those two years. + +COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised +at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no +fault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surprise +to me when he did a thing like that. + +FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? + +COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. + +FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua +non'. + +FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? + +COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly +and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. + +FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on +which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his +demeanour that morning? + +COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite +compos when he did it. + +THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? + +COKESON. Not compos. + +THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. + +FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at the +JUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury will +understand my meaning. + +FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? + +COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a +chop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just as +Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went +into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other +clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up +and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, +Falder." + +FROME. Do you remember what he answered? + +COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. + +FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? + +COKESON. I did. + +FROME. What was that? + +COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be +neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned." + +FROME. And what did he answer? + +COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. + +THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? + +COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my +meaning--it was funny. + +FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? + +COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We +can't have anything eccentric in our profession. + +THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? + +COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about +prime facey evidence. + +FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? + +COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. + +FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. +Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the +forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that +morning? + +COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. + +FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I mean +before the discovery--that caught your attention? + +COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. + +THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? + +FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the +prisoner committed this act, my lord. + +THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the +act. + +FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. + +THE JUDGE. Well! + +FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? + +COKESON. Ye-es. + +FROME. What for? + +COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. + +FROME. Did you see her? + +COKESON. I did. + +FROME. Did she come alone? + +COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. +I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. + +FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- + +COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it to +me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put +to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir." + +THE JUDGE. What are? What were? + +COKESON. Her children. They were outside. + +THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? + +COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell +you what I was told--and that'd never do. + +THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. + +COKESON. Egg-zactly. + +FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course +of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you +specially remember? + +COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the +sentence] A leetle more, sir. + +FROME. Or did she not? + +COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the +answer. + +FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it +was? + +COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death." + +FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? + +COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said +to you. + +FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was +there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? + +COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. + +FROME. Well, is she there now? + +COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! + +FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.] + +CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the +prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by +that word? + +COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever +seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once +with his eyes. + +CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them +"funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? + +COKESON. Ye-es, funny. + +COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not +be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or +fierce, or what? + +COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you +want me to give you another. + +CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? + +CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- + +CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was +it a hot day? + +COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. + +CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? + +COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. + +CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? + + He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is + left gaping. + +FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled +state before? + +COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. + +FROME. That will do, thank you. + + COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel + for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; + arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing + further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next + to JAMES and WALTER. + +FROME. Ruth Honeywill. + + RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the + witness-box. She is sworn. + +FROME. What is your name, please? + +RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. + +FROME. How old are you? + +RUTH. Twenty-six. + +FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little +louder. + +RUTH. No, sir; not since July. + +FROME. Have you any children? + +RUTH. Yes, sir, two. + +FROME. Are they living with you? + +RUTH. Yes, sir. + +FROME. You know the prisoner? + +RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. + +FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? + +RUTH. We were friends. + +THE JUDGE. Friends? + +RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. + +THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? + +RUTH. We love each other. + +THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- + +RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. + +THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! + +FROME. What is your husband? + +RUTH. Traveller. + +FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? + +RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. + +FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? + +RUTH. Ever since my first was born. + +FROME. In what way? + +RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. + +THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. + +RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. +We were going to South America. + +FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? + +RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly +broke my heart. + +FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? + +RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing +to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. + +FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. Why? + +RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. + +THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! + +RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. + +FROME. With his hands, or----? + +RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to +my friend. It was eight o'clock. + +THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence +of liquor then? + +RUTH. It wasn't always that. + +FROME. In what condition were you? + +RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half +choking. + +FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? + +RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. + +FROME. It upset him? + +RUTH. Dreadfully. + +FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? + +RUTH. Never. + +FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. When was that? + +RUTH. On Saturday. + +FROME. The 8th? + +RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to +start. + +FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? + +RUTH. What, sir? + +FROME. That he had money to give you. + +Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me +my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told +me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. + +FROME. And when did you last see him? + +RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to +have started. + +FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at +all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his +manner then? + +RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. + +FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? + +RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. + +FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? + +RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. + +FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? + +RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. + +FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and +unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his +actions? + +RUTH. Yes. + +FROME. His reason, even? + +RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. + +FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly +calm? + +RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. + +FROME. Do you still love him? + +RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. + +FROME. Thank you. + + He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness- + box. + +CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning +of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I +suppose? + +RUTH. No, sir. + +CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. + +RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the +same for him; I would indeed. + +THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy +one? Faults on both sides? + +RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I +should, sir, not to a man like that. + +THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? + +RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep +things nice. + +THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? + +RUTH. No; even after that. + +THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this +affection of yours for the prisoner. + +RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. + +THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. + + RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her + seat among the witnesses. + +FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. + + FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly + sworn. + +FROME. What is your name? + +FALDER. William Falder. + +FROME. And age? + +FALDER. Twenty-three. + +FROME. You are not married? + + FALDER shakes his head + +FROME. How long have you known the last witness? + +FALDER. Six months. + +FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? + +FALDER. Yes. + +FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? + +FALDER. Yes. + +THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? + +FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. + +THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? + +FALDER. I didn't seem able to. + + The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. + +FROME. How did you come to know her? + +FALDER. Through my married sister. + +FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? + +FALDER. It was trouble all the time. + +FROME. You knew her husband? + +FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. + +THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not +present. + +FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit +altering this cheque? + +FALDER bows his head. + +FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the +7th, and tell the jury what happened. + +FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she +came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem +to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round +her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes +dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--I +felt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd +seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the +same, I know. + +FROME. Yes? + +FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I was +out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I +could do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simply +couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed +to have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me the +cheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. +You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my +hand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if +I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her +away. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. Then +Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I +did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. +I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what +I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under +a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for +it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I +took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and +all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I +keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I +can't have it all again to do differently! + + FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. + +FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? + +FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. + +FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed +the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? + +FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all +the way. + +FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? + +FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. + +FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' + +FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. + + FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. + +CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? + +FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. + +CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. + +CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting +over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. + +FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. + +CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were +so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the +cashier? + +FALDER. It was an accident. + +CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which +day did you alter the counterfoil? + +FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. + +CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No. + +CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? + +FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. + +CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great +excitement when you did that? + +FALDER. I was haunted. + +CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? + +FALDER. [Very low] Yes. + +THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do +was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? + +FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] + +CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of +taking this woman away? + +FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for +nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself +into the river. + +CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England +--didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion +would fall on him? + +FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. + +CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? + +FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I would +have repaid the money. + +THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have +been prosecuted. + +FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought +there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. + +FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the +cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the +discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have +left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, +from the beginning. + +THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion +would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did +you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis +had sailed? + +FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- + +THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! + +FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. + +THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. + + [FROME bows to the JUDGE] + +CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? + +FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. + +CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that +afternoon? + +FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. + +CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen +for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't +remember altering this cheque. [He sits down] + +FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. + +FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? + +FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. + +FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's +going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect +nothing during those four minutes? + +FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. + +FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you +were doing? + +FALDER. No, Sir. + +FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? + +FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. + +FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or +notes?" + +FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was too +late. + +FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my +lord. + + The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. + +FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemen +of the Jury,--My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition +to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am +free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence +has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in +a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not +responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral +vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he +had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has +alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest +this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have +merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life +which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the +commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized +age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange +way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when +we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just think +of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the +prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the +comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with +equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was +devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a +strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort +of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have +heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word +"funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of +those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which +could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental +irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all +sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man +who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved +from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and +frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible +condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent +and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might +well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a +case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. +You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four +fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's +face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is +absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection +[legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came +here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is +impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he +committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress +can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a +moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, +or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, +gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter +impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was +altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes +--the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy +before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great +cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. His +further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the +counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of +deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from +which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of +the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a +man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? +Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law +for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, +and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as +though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in +all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that +may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, +Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the +starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to +pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of +weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man +those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his +voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to +be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will +come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, +as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, +stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a +criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither +the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. +Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has +undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in +prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever +to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. +He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of +the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided +to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you +permit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. + + He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his + hand, and sits dozen. + +The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards +the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot +that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then +towards the jury. + +CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemen +of the Jury,--The facts in this case are not disputed, and the +defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I +don't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over the +evidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, I +daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what +shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternative +would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had +pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to +his lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways and +hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to +show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in +fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; I +think it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to a +certain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story of +motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would +not otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once grasped +that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With +good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can't +put it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has every +reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said that +the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If he +were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the +moment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard the +managing clerk, another witness for the defence. With some +difficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, +though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, +gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the cheque +was handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate +that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you the +words with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, +therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have +remembered those words. The cashier has told you that he was +certainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore the +plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at +fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the +consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of +time. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I am +not disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form your +own opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying a +great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, +temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that the +offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious +known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such +as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow- +clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render +it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. +I ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in +the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. + + Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he + sits down. + +THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a +business-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the +comments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issues +you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of +this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up is +that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the +crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence +of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. +If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the +prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him +guilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from what +you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short +of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing the +testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very +carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before +and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, +of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. +And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to the +prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought +did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to +him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his +subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on the +question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is +very obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age or +temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Before +you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and +thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would +have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, +then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, +adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. + + The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends + over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly + to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn + speaks to FROME. + +FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I should +ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to +disclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of these +proceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequences +might be extremely serious to her. + +THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. +Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her +here. + +FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could have +brought out the full facts in any other way? + +THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. + +FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. + +THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. + +FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your +lordship that I am not exaggerating. + +THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name +of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, +who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, +who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll +consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that +she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. + +FROME. Your lordship, I really---- + +THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. +Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. + + As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the + box. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? + +FOREMAN. We are. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? + +FOREMAN. Guilty. + + The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at + FALDER, who stands motionless. + +FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you in +mitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I can +add anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of the +prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. + +THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. + +FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg your +lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down.] + +THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. + +THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have +you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you +judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] + +THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found +guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses; +then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you +were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing +this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to +bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you +succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality +making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course +enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that +direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He +claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a +criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a +passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march +of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing +the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should +allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into +account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your +offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the +counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to +my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the +necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the +other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have +hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe +your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some +emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every +wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the +community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what +are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your +case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious +element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on +the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the +crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It +is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The +story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. +Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were +in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young +man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an +attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge- +-had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit +was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an +attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he +describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can +express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent +that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral +design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my +conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. +It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for +the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an +attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a +defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that +to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not +follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic +edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. +I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have +committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with +my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You +will go to penal servitude for three years. + + FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him + steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts + up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a + bustle in court. + +THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, I +think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. + + The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who + is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do + you understand, your name will not be mentioned? + +COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. + + RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. + +THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. + +CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. + + To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + + A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred + windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in + yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are + seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, + walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete + floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked + caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has + distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking + books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on + the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is + Christmas Eve. + + The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair + moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding + from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table + looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. + The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are + missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military- + looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, + monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-looking +affair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? + +WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for +two years now. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? + +WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his +thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] + +THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name? +Moaney! An old hand, I think? + +WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like +him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt] +Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all +they think about. + +THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? + +WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. + +WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--star +class--and next him old Clipton. + +THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about +his eyes. + +WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of +these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a +regular wave going through them just now. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning to +look at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! + +WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door this +morning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole +lot. They're just like dumb animals at times. + +THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run +right through cavalry lines. + + The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic + man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped + face and slow, cultured speech. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? + +THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. + +THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and +opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and +metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. +Wooder. + +WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] + +THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, +Miller? Seems going through the whole place. + +THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. + +THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? + +THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. + +THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing at +the saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a man +who tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the +cupboard again] + +THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. +Nothing to be done till it's broken. + +THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard +for golf? + + WOODER comes in again. + +WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. +I told him it wasn't usual. + +THE GOVERNOR. What about? + +WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? + +THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, +Miller. + +WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in +withdraws. + + The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to + the knees, woollen gloves, arid carries a top hat. + +COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young +man. + +THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. + +COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing it +to the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in the +law. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do you +want to see me about, sir? + +COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what a +sight! + +THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is +being done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! + +COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] I +wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. +[Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. His +sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some +distress. "My husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says +he's disgraced the family. And his other sister," she said, "is an +invalid." And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest in +him. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't like +to refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. + +THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. + +COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of them +about working together. + +THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their +three months here in separate confinement, sir. + +COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quite +downhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with the +others. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, +Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says about +him, perhaps. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, +it would seem, sir. + +COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. +I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about +with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said +--like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a +month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell +thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I +can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. +COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the +tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. + +THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, +isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? + +COKESON. No. + +THE CHAPLAIN. I know. + +THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be +good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes +out] Let's see, he's not married? + +COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very much +attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. + +THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison +might be closed. + +COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I +wanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have let +her come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked me +questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellow +a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraid +it's made him worse. + +THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? + +COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a +husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our +young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he +was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for +him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a +month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said: +"I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no +friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my +husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said. +And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a +painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a +wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a +little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--" I don't +like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband." +Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't +like to persuade her not to. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. + +COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow +dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years +to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares +your view, I'm afraid. + +COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by +himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't +like to see a man cry. + +THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. + +COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] +I keep dogs. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? + +COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all +by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a +sense of right and wrong. + +COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. + +COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness +they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes +'em savage. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little +more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. + +COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for +years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of +consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there +shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him +harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. +COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the +wall." It's not nice. + + During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a + medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. + He stands leaning against the window. + +THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling on +Q 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, +Doctor Clements? + +THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. + +COKESON. But he's told me. + +THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's +lost no weight since he's been here. + +COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. + +THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather +melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him +carefully. + +COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. + +THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are +able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my +special standpoint. + +COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to be +unpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. + +THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. + +COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing him +every day you wouldn't notice it. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his health +shows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fully +provided for. [He rises] + +COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see +doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on +my mind. + +THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. + +COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. +I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expanding +to the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. + + As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, + but their faces wear peculiar expressions. + +THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. + +COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's just +one little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let him +see her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about +her all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safe +in here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? + +THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make an +exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes +to a convict prison. + +COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. +[He again goes out] + +THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor +fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? + + + He and the DOCTOR go out talking. + + The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a + pen. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE II + + Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are + coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green + about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are + whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is + filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors + of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round + peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round + disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On + the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board + with the prisoner's name, number, and record. + + Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and + second-floor corridors. + + The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an + apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the + cells. + +INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have +another bit for you when that's finished. + +O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. + +INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, I +s'pose. + +O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. + + Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of + approaching footsteps. + +INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! + + He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. + + The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by + WOODER. + +THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? + +INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behind +with his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. + + The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR + goes away. + +THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? + + He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door + of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, + athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in + the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about + fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, + staring, steel-coloured eyes. + +WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes +to the door] + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up +the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] +Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! + +MOANEY. It passed the time. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? + +MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than +this. + +MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in against +the time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at my +time of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue +warms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, +after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'm +out. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've got +mine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes +on, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's no +harm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a, bit of all +right it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread +and water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meself +in your place. + +THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you +give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the +cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the +window-bars] + +THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? + +MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do +in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have +something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but +I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a +gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work +would have done it. + +THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. +Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while +they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? + +MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days' +cells-bread and water. + +MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. + + He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. + + The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER + closes and locks the cell door. + +THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. + + WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on + a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He + is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and + smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets + up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his + visitors. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. + + CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the + corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs + to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. + +THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? + +CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He +makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's +just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd +ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. + +THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. + +CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [With +contempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be here +with us. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved when +there's a cell vacant. + +CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. +I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the evening +too. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. +Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. + + WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though + extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into + his cell. + +WOODER. All right, sir. + + THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. + +THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? + +WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. + + He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. + +THE GOVERNOR. Open. + + WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a + little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands + at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, + middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little + holes under his high cheek-bones. + +THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? + +O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. + +THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? + +O'CLEARY. Oh! that! + +THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. + +O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. + +THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? + +O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. + +THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. + +O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. + +THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. + +O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same +steady man. + +THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? + +O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on me +head. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. +[Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise +--a terrible little wud ease me. + +THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the +shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. + +O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? + +O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. + +THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on your +door. + +O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. + +O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. + + He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the +poor blackguard. + +WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come +here, Mr. Wooder. + + WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. + + The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his + uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering + it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising + the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is + standing against it, lurches forward. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle +down, Falder? + +FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head +against a stone wall, is it? + +FALDER. No, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. + +FALDER. I try, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? + +FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst +time. + +THE GOVERNOR. How's that? + +FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I +was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such +a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. + +THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. + +FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. + +THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? + +FALDER. They're used to it. + +THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, +just as you're doing now. + +FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with +you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're +still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. + +FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? + +FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's +no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my +cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. + +THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? + +FALDER. Yes. + +THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. + +FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? + + He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR + approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. + +FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes +back into his cell.] + +THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. + + The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, + nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. + +WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. +Very contented lot of men, on the whole. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? + +WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. + +THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! + +WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? + +THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! + + He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with + a sort of pained anxiety. + +WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'd +like us to have more holly? + +THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. + +WOODER. Very good, sir. + + The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR + beckons to him. + +THE GOVERNOR. Well? + +THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, of +course. + +THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, +Doctor. + +THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good; +but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better +in the shops, there's no doubt. + +THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? + +THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothing +tangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for +instance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away from +physical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, I +don't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothing +wrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. + +THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? + +THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but +if I do I ought to report on others. + +THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poor +devil must just stick it then. + + As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. + +WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? + + For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and + walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. + +THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? + +WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more of +that. + + He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +SCENE III + + FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven + deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is + of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, + with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In + the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a + corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two + sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular + wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional + books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black + hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner + is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark + ventilator under the window, and another over the door. + FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is + hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which + the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by + the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering + the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and + a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set + under the window. + + In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen + standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, + listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged + feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying + harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is + going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a + sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy + sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his + head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so + lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to + life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving + his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the + door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it + with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the + iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards + the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line + of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the + window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into + it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out + of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the + silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the + stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he + seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a + sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has + been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen + gasping for breath. + + A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick + metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to + bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some + great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it + seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch + nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to + cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as + if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound + swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly + raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself + at his door, and beats on it. + + + The curtain falls. + + + + +ACT IV + + The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a + March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. + SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the + offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes + to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in + the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in + through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems + a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual + impassivity. + +SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand +with a bang] Hello! It's you! + +RUTH. Yes. + +SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying +down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the +pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with +yourself? + +RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. + +SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'S +chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately] +I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up these +three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry about +that. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. + +RUTH. He did. + +SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge +ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human +nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] + +SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten +you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. I +know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakes +his head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day the +governor---- + + But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with + east wind, and decidedly greyer. + +COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then +motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must +be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit +down! Family well? + +RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. + +COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable at +home. + +RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. + +COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorry +if you'd done anything rash. + +RUTH. I've kept the children with me. + +COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had +hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from the +young man, I suppose, since he came out? + +RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. + +COKESON. I hope he's well. + +RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It's +dreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. + +COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. +[On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was +up? + +RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. + +COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like +to be snubby. + +RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. + +COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relations +aren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, +till he finds his feet. + +RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. + +COKESON. I don't understand. + +RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. + +COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't want +to hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. + +RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but +they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, +Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I +married him. I thought the world of him, of course . . . he used +to come travelling to our farm. + +COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, after +you saw me. + +RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but I +lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. I +couldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. + +COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a +stream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? + +RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that-- +[There is silence] + +COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! And +what did you do then? + +RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before..., +making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I +never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and +working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept +at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I +wasn't made for it. I'd rather die. + +COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. + +RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'd +always had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She is +silent] + +COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? + +RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened ever +since. + +COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. + +RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. +[Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back +of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just +a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and +he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another +chance. + +COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings! +What a horrible position! + +RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out +about him! + +COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. + +RUTH. I've no one else to go to. + +COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take +him, under the circumstances. I don't really. + +RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to +the window.] + +COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's +sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a +vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. + +RUTH. It would be the saving of him. + +COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell +him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your +address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on +blotting-paper] Good-morning. + +RUTH. Thank you. + + She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, + and goes away. + +COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton +handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he +sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] + +COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the +clerk's place? + +SWEEDLE. Yes. + +COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. + +SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? + +COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don't +stump him off altogether. + +SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? + +COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. + +SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? + +COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may be +having him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treat +you in a similar position. + +SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. + +COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't +necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you +in life. It's sound policy. + +SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? + +COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one +having entered the outer office] Who's there? + +SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. + +COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to +call again. I don't want---- + + He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, + his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn + and loose. + + SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. + +COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keep +things pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. +[He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. + + FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the + partners' door. + +COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the +aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are +here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking +at him over his spectacles] How's your health? + +FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. + +COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. +I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. +I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But I +promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep my +word. + +FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a +thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I +weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't +weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, +and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there +was nothing in here at all. + +COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? + +FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. + +COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? + +FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. +I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a +sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr. +COKESON, I couldn't, sir. + +COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! + +FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. + +COKESON. How was that? + +FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I +seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't +explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it +grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references; +but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me +afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. + + He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. + +COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going to +do anything for you? + +FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- + +COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with +you. + +FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to +give me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "What +have you come for? "Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren't +you going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know," I said. "Look +here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an +understanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. +I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with." "I see," I +said-"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." +Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. + +COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me? +[Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without +prejudice; I meant it kindly. + +FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. + +COKESON. Oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the +thing. + +FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns +aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man +this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best +thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's +queer, isn't it? + +COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. + +FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. +[With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with +criminals! + +COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never +did a man any good. Put a face on it. + +FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're +independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about +giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. + +COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't +made a Socialist of you. + + FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he + utters a peculiar laugh. + +COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really +you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. + +FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but +they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as +though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden +impersonality] I know it is. + +COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must try +and take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Now +leave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're +jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] + +COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] +I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk with +this young man. I think you'll remember him. + +JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? + +WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you +again, Falder. + +FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank +you, sir. + +COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to the +clerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. +Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had a +little family. + + FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. + +COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's +quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not +seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's +very trying to go without your dinner. + +JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? + +COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all +about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, +but I'm keeping him in the air. + +JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. + +WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've never +got that out of my head. + +JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What's +he been doing since he came out? + +COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's +sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. + +JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. +"Weak character"'s written all over him. + +WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. + +JAMES. He brought it all on himself. + +WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in +these days. + +JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all +that, my boy. + +WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. + +JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. + +COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something +[spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. + +JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one +uncommonly like her outside as we came in. + +COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met +her. + +JAMES. Is she with her husband? + +COKESON. No. + +JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? + +COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I +don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. + +JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. + +COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the +party here this morning. + +JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too +shady altogether! + +COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see +that. + +WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with +his private life. + +JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come +here. + +WALTER. Poor devil! + +COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can +get him to see reason. + +JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. + +WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning +FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. + +FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a +steady front. + +JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another +chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first +place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion +that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play +fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society +didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that +the better. + +FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? + +JAMES. Well? + +FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] + +COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. + +FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that +if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under +somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a +quarter of us would ever have got there. + +JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, +Falder. + +FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. + +JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. + +FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. + +JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. + +FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked +me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what +I was. + +JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. + +COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. + +FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of his +feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. + +JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the +future. + +FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what +prison is. It's here it gets you. + + He grips his chest. + +COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. + +WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's +merciful. + +FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. + +JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to +put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady +reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you +were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done +with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're +going to begin your future with such a relationship. + +FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] But +sir . . . but sir . . . it's the one thing I looked forward to +all that time. And she too . . . I couldn't find her before last +night. + + During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more + uneasy. + +JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that +it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. +Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come +back--not otherwise. + +FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I +couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! + + I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. + +JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the +benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this +connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. + +FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting +broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did it +for her. + +JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for +herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a +prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. + +FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him +--she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from +the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER] . . . If anybody +would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. + +COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I +don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. + +FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause +since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. + +WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be +managed. + +FALDER. Oh, sir! + +He goes to the window and looks down into the street. + +COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my +reasons. + +FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? +I can beckon to her from here. + + WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. + +JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. + +FALDER beckons from the window. + +COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. +She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young +man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to +swindle the Law. + + FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a + sort of awed silence. + +FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from +one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent +it . . . . What I said at the trial was true. And last night we +only just sat in the Park. + +SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. + +COKESON. What is it? + +SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] + +JAMES. Show her in. + + RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one + side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON + turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden + of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed + groove. + +JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] +We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be +faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder +again. + +RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. + +JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. +I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. +[Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, +ma'am. + +RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of +her as though prescient of disaster. + +FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to +get you a divorce. + + RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. + +JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. + +FALDER. But, Sir----! + +JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. + +RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. + + She looks miserably at FALDER. + +JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? + +RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. + +JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. + +FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. +There's been nothing between us, has there? + +RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. + +FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help +us--we promise. + +JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see +what I mean? + +RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. + +COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. + +JAMES. The situation is impossible. + +RUTH. Must I, Sir? + +JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His +future is in your hands. + +RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. + +JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! + +FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--after +all this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I +swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. + +JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. + +FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who +is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as +the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been + +WALTER. Father! + +JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'll +give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with +yourselves, that's all. + +FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? + + RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. + There is silence. + +COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in +here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. + + He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer + office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. + He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably + into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, + seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON + shuts the door. + +JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever it +is. + +SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective- +Sergeant blister. + + The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. + +WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years +and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. + +JAMES. What about him? + +WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. +[There is an awkward silence] + +COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible +for his movements; you know that. + +JAMES. What do you want with him? + +WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. + +WALTER. How d'you mean? + +WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. + +WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? + +WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say +we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. +But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment +with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must +have him. + + Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at + JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. + +COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you could +make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. + +JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike +peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you +must find him without us. + + As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the + table, and his face contracts. + +WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to +warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a +convict, and sheltering a convict. + +JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask +questions which it's not my business to answer. + +WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. + +COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite +understand, don't you? Good-morning! + + WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the + outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. + +COKESON. The other door.... the other door! + + WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, + do!" and FALDER,'S: "I can't !" There is a little pause; then, + with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" + + WISTER has gone in. + + The three men look aghast at the door. + +WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! + + He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The + latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. + +WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! + +WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. + +FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! + + Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes + out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. + +WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever +now. + + SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are + sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull + thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. + +JAMES. What's that? + + SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There + is dead silence. + +WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she's +fainting! + + He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the + clerks' room. + +COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! + +WALTER. Have you any brandy? + +COKESON. I've got sherry. + +WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! + + He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. + +COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to +force the sherry between her lips.] + + There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. + + The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying + some burden. + +JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? + + They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and + all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. + +WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. + +WALTER. Good God! + +WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip +like that. And what was it--just a few months! + +WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? + +JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] +Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] An +ambulance! + + WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and + horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards + the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. + +WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! + + The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into + COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. + +RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [She +crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! + + In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. + +RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! + + [The figures of the men shrink back] + +COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor +dear woman! + + At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. + +COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with +gentle Jesus! + + RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at + COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as + one would to a lost dog. + + + [The curtain falls.] + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND SERIES PLAYS BY GALSWORTHY *** + +************* This file should be named gpl2w10.txt or gpl2w10.zip ************* + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gpl2w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gpl2w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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