TREBELL. Yes ... our minds have been much relieved within the last half
hour, haven't they?
WEDGECROFT. I scribbled Horsham a note in a messenger office and sent it as
soon as O'Connell had left me.
TREBELL. He'd be glad to get that.
WEDGECROFT. He has been most kind about the whole thing.
TREBELL. Oh, he means well.
WEDGECROFT. [_Following up his fancied advantage._] But, my friend ...
suicide whilst of unsound mind would never have done.... The hackneyed
verdict hits the truth, you know.
TREBELL. You think so?
WEDGECROFT. I don't say there aren't excuses enough in this miserable
world, but fundamentally ... no sane person will destroy life.
TREBELL. [_His thoughts shifting their plane._] Was she so very mad? I'm not
thinking of her own death.
WEDGECROFT. Don't brood, Trebell. Your mind isn't healthy yet about her
and--
TREBELL. And my child.
_Even_ WEDGECROFT'S _kindness is at fault before the solemnity of
this._
WEDGECROFT. Is that how you're thinking of it?
TREBELL. How else? It's very inexplicable ... this sense of fatherhood.
[_The eyes of his mind travel down--what vista of possibilities. Then he
shakes himself free._] Let's drop the subject. To finish the list of
shortcomings, you're a bit of an artist too ... therefore I don't think
you'll understand.
WEDGECROFT. [_Successfully decoyed into argument._] Surely an artist is a
man who understands.
TREBELL. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art fails
a man.
WEDGECROFT. That's where everything but living fails a man. [_Drifting into
introspection himself._] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and I've
written a book ... but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind re-asserts
itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children ... and marry and
intermarry. And we're peopling the world ... not badly.
TREBELL. Well ... either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so big
that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two points
of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes the last
use made of life.
_There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the
present trouble._
WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice ... or the use of it.
TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he think
so now?... not he.
WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over?
_Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile._
TREBELL. Yes ... if they'd had to.
WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow, Horsham
would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot yourself
after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you so-called
strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to come out
to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you pistols by post,
requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham would grieve over ten
dinner-tables in succession and then return to his philosophy. One really
mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite politicians. There'd even be a
suspicion of swagger in it.
TREBELL. Quite so ... the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be something
otherwise worthless.
FRANCES _comes in quickly, evidently in search of her brother. Though
she has not been crying, her eyes are wide with grief._
FRANCES. Oh, Henry ... I'm so glad you're still up. [_She notices_
WEDGECROFT.] How d'you do, Doctor?
TREBELL. [_Doubling his mask of indifference._] Meistersinger's over early.
FRANCES. Is it?
TREBELL. Not much past twelve yet.
FRANCES. [_The little gibe lost on her._] It was Tristan to-night. I'm quite
upset. I heard just as I was coming away ... Amy O'Connell's dead. [_Both
men hold their breath._ TREBELL _is the first to find control of his and
give the cue._]
TREBELL. Yes ... Wedgecroft has just told me.
FRANCES. She was only taken ill last week ... it's so extraordinary. [_She
remembers the doctor._] Oh ... have you been attending her?
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
FRANCES. I hear there's to be an inquest.
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
FRANCES. But what has been the matter?
TREBELL. [_Sharply forestalling any answer._] You'll know to-morrow.
FRANCES. [_The little snub almost bewildering her._] Anything private? I
mean....
TREBELL. No ... I'll tell you. Don't make Gilbert repeat a story twice....
He's tired with a good day's work.
WEDGECROFT. Yes ... I'll be getting away.
FRANCES _never heeds this flash of a further meaning between the two
men._
FRANCES. And I meant to have gone to see her to-day. Was the end very
sudden? Did her husband arrive in time?
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
FRANCES. They didn't get on ... he'll be frightfully upset.