+Scene+: _The rear yard of Harter Farm. The house-door with deep
porch opens on the left of the scene, and beside it stands a
grindstone upon which are some tools. At the back, dividing the yard
from the moor, falls a sharp cleft in the hills surmounted by trees.
A gully lies beneath. A low, broken wall separates the yard from this
gully, and at one spot, on the right, there is an opening in the
wall from which steps descend and drop unseen to the water below.
There are two further exits opening on the right of the stage, with
the wall of a barn between them, and an exit on the left below the
grindstone. There is a litter of straw and red fern about the yard,
and a good pile of clean fern beside the barn. Behind the trees, the
undulations of the moor roll away to tors on the horizon. There is
a wooden bench beside the low wall at the back. A cream pan or two
stands near the doorway on a board. The time is evening, and, during
the act the light fades gradually from rosy brightness to the cool,
pearl-grey twilight of June. The murmur of an unseen waterfall is
heard._
[+Jesse+ _and_ +Anthony Redvers+ _discovered_. +Jesse+ _sits on
the bench and looks over the wall to the water beneath; his
father sharpens a scythe on the grindstone_.
+Redvers.+ I can’t understand--I can’t understand dear mother. She
went out last night to see Mrs. Ford, and that late she returned that
I was in bed and asleep afore she came home. But to bed she never did
come--nor have I seen her to-day, though I rose at dawn and hunted high
and low. When I was out of the way she came back, so Sarah tells me,
all weary and draggled--as if she’d been pixy-led.
+Jesse.+ [_Looks up at the house._] She’s home now.
+Redvers.+ I know it--she’s in her chamber and the door fast locked
against me. Never did the like happen afore.
+Jesse.+ If mother’s got anything on her mind, you should hear it, I
suppose.
+Redvers.+ Surely--surely. What be I for but to take the fret of life
off her shoulders? Though, Lord knows, you can’t always do it, when a
person hides her troubles so close.
+Jesse.+ I should have thought a wife would have no troubles away from
her husband, nor secrets either.
+Redvers.+ Nay, nay; we’ve all got secrets. ’Tis part of human nature
to harbour ’em.
+Jesse.+ [_Listlessly._] I can’t keep secrets--must be sharing them.
You don’t think like mother.
+Redvers.+ She’s a strong thinker, and I’m never too comfortable when
she gets thinking.
[+Jesse+ _nods_.
[_Enter_ +Bloom+ _with milk pails_.
+Redvers.+ A faulty, erring man, am I, Jesse; but I do my poor best
for them I care about. But this--this antic of locking herself up. She
never did that afore.
+Bloom.+ That baggering heron be down on the river again.
+Redvers.+ He’s better dead. He eats a lot of trout. I’ll tell Michael
to get his gun.
[_He looks up at the windows and shows uneasiness; but he
whistles from force of habit. Then he goes off._
+Bloom+ [_Putting down his cans._] Be there a thunder planet in the
air? I’ll wager she’s heard about the master helping Joe Westaway?
+Jesse.+ He hasn’t told her yet.
+Bloom.+ But somebody else have. She was in the village last night,
with the Fords, and she didn’t come home till Lord knows when. A
helpless pauper like Joe be born to make trouble--sure as the sparks
fly upwards. And goes his way rejoicing and says ’tis an answer to
prayer! But a cat and a fool always fall on their feet.
+Jesse.+ The prayer to pray is the one you can answer yourself.
+Bloom.+ That’s right. Hard work’s the only prayer as gets answered on
Dartymoor.
+Jesse.+ ’Tis the fools make all the fret and worry, Joshua.
+Bloom.+ You be a fool, too--running after a maiden.
+Jesse.+ How about when you were in love?
+Bloom.+ Never--no more than a caterpillar, I never cared a cuss for
females. Nature tickles us humans into breeding afore we’ve got the
sense to keep away from it--that’s her craft. But she didn’t get over
me.
+Jesse.+ You was never a hopeful man.
[_Enter_ +Sarah+ _from house_.
+Bloom.+ Never, and never shall be.
+Sarah.+ Come on Joshua, I’m waiting for that milk.
+Bloom.+ [_To_ +Jesse+.] But you’ll get your turn--don’t fear. Us all
have the chance to show what we be good for once in our lives.
+Jesse.+ Did you?
+Bloom.+ Yes, I did. And I was drunk at the time and missed it.
+Sarah.+ You be so impatient, Jesse--impatient with humans and
impatient with hosses and impatient with the very growing things in the
fields.
+Jesse.+ Patient people always get left behind, Sarah--’tis no virtue.
[_Exit._
+Sarah.+ He can say that! And brought up a Christian! Ban’t God in
Heaven patient before all things.
+Bloom.+ God A’mighty patient! I should hope He was. ’Tisn’t a very
strange thing, surely, for the father of a large family to be patient
with his own cranky childer? If the Lord can’t bear with us, who should?
+Sarah.+ His ways ban’t our ways. ’Twould be taking the bread out of
parson’s mouth if we understood the Almighty.
+Bloom.+ And well parson knows it! Yonder boy is after Salome Westaway,
and she won’t take him.
[_Picking up buckets._
+Sarah.+ You didn’t lift his hopes, I lay?
+Bloom.+ No man hears me praise matrimony. I’ve got to thank it for all
my troubles.
+Sarah.+ You? You’re a bachelor.
+Bloom.+ Born in wedlock.
[_Exit. As he goes off_, +Ann Redvers+ _comes out of house. She
is dressed in black and looks haggard and very weary._
+Sarah.+ Good Lord, missis--what’s--?
+Ann.+ Tell Michael I’m down, Sarah.
+Sarah.+ I’ll seek him. He’s clamouring for you.
[+Sarah+ _goes off_. +Ann+ _sits on the bench and looks before
her, staring at the picture in her thoughts_. +Michael+
_hurries in. He carries a gun and leans it against wall._
+Michael.+ Mother! Thank goodness you be down house again! [_Kisses
her._] Whatever’s amiss? I’m terrible troubled for ’e.
+Ann.+ Scorched up--scorched up, body and soul. ’Twas like you to fret.
Oh, my God! there ban’t none to fret no more for me--none but you.
+Michael.+ Shall I call father?
+Ann.+ Oh, Michael, Michael, he’s nothing to us no more. A traitor,
Michael--another woman.
+Michael.+ Father with another woman! You’re dreaming--you’re ill!
+Ann.+ I saw with these eyes. False--false as the first snake--deep as
the pit under his eternal laughing and gentleness.
+Michael.+ Be you sure? Be you sure, mother?
+Ann.+ [_Very wearily._] I’ve growed so old to-day--’tis so far to look
back. And you’re my dear son still; and he’s your father.
+Michael.+ If I knowed where he was in me, I’d tear him out!
+Ann.+ You mind, on the night I came home, that you thought I looked
troubled?
+Michael.+ Aye.
+Ann.+ ’Twas along of meeting Farmer Fortescue in Exeter. Your father
wrote that he was going to Crediton market. But he never went.
Fortescue had seen him that very afternoon alone in Halstock Woods.
+Michael.+ What troubled you?
+Ann.+ To know he’d spoke false. Still I put it away and hoped he’d
forgot. But yesterday evening I was along with the Fords--and Henry
Ford began laughing how he’d seen father in Halstock Glen by night.
But why he couldn’t guess. Then I set homeward and remembered father
was out last night. Presently I stopped on the hill and listed to a
nightjar churn out his queer talk. And then I saw Halstock lying dark
over the river, and something made me slip down to the water and across
the stepping-stones and climb up the Glen. Somehow I knew he was there;
and I laughed to myself to think how I’d surprise Anthony if I chanced
upon him. So I went under a rowan and waited for moon-rise. She came up
behind the cleave all silver-bright, and the darkness was full of light
and the silence was full of peace. My last peace in this world, Michael
boy! But I thought ’twas good to be there. I said to myself, “You’d be
wiser, Ann Redvers, if you comed out like this of a night sometimes,
after the bustle of day, and let your soul take rest at the edge of
the dark.” Then I felt small and mean--to be hid--prying--Ann Redvers
prying! My heart rose, and I stood up in the moonlight and turned to go
away. [_Pause._] But all of a moment, afore I could be gone, there fell
a noise out of the night. A man whistling ‘Widecombe Fair.’ It sounded
ugly and broke the fine peace. But I knew ’twas Anthony and thought no
ill.
+Michael.+ Happy or sad he must be whistling.
+Ann.+ I was going straight to him with my tale of being puzzled and
troubled. And then--and then----[_Pause._] The man was laden. He
carried a bundle of fern, and threw it down in a snug place, where
the yellow broom grew high round about. Its flowers were all turned
to whiteness by the moonlight. And he spread the fern and made a
soft couch of it. Presently he laughed--he laughed; and his laughter
touched something deep down in me. ’Twas the laugh that always goes
before a drink of cider with him, and the Sunday dinner, and such good
things. And I said, “What feast be coming to Anthony Redvers here?” And
suddenly I guessed. [_She breaks off and walks up and down._ +Michael+
_stares at her half in fear_.] I came near screaming then--near
screaming I came. He sat down and still he whistled ‘Widecombe Fair.’
And then--far off--scarce louder than a bird, that wakes at night and
sings a little note--a woman’s voice; and he leapt upon his feet. “My
li’l nightingale!” he said. Oh God! I’d fought so hard to save one
spark of hope till then. But that killed it.... She came--just a shadow
out of the light--and I saw the two of them thicken into one, and I
heard his kisses on her face. But she spoke nought. So they sank into
the dark and I rushed off, careless of the noise I made. They heard
nothing. They were glorying and drowning in each other. The Trump of
God wouldn’t have reached ’em. I wandered till light came. I tramped my
feet raw. ’Twas a misty morning and the stars were smothered afore the
dawn. I fell in the river once, Michael, and got wetted and bruised and
never knew it.
+Michael.+ [_Going to her._] Mother, mother! You shan’t suffer this.
You shall leave father and come away along with me.
+Ann.+ At first I weren’t so very angry. Ban’t that strange? ’Twas all
astonishment. Him--so simple and thankful for small mercies where I was
concerned! A man I’d chilled and chastened in his flesh. That he should
look elsewhere! To think how he frisked when I come back, same as a dog
that welcomes its mistress. ’Twas like a window opening into his soul,
Michael--a window that I didn’t know was there. And through it I saw
him clean emptied of me and full of another woman.
+Michael.+ ’Tis a very wicked, shameful thing for certain.
+Ann.+ Death--death’s the least word. The insult the dishonour, the
sin! God judge him--God judge him for it!
+Michael.+ Speak, and I’ll take you away this very night.
+Ann.+ Nay, my work’s to do. He must hear--he must know.
[_Enter_ +Redvers+. _He exhibits great anxiety._
+Redvers.+ At last, mother! For God’s sake tell me what’s gone wrong. I
shall go mad at this gait.
+Michael.+ Mother....
+Redvers.+ [_Impatiently._] You be off; I don’t want you. Get you
gone and try and shoot that thieving heron down the river. [+Michael+
_hesitates_.] Begone, I say!
[+Michael+ _looks at his mother, takes up his gun, and then
goes out. He indicates acute dislike of his father._
+Redvers.+ Curse that boy! He treats me as if I was a bad smell. I’ll
have a whip-thong about his shoulders yet--old as he is. What’s amiss,
Ann? For God’s love get it off your mind. There’s all the woe of the
world in your face.
+Ann.+ [_Standing before him and speaking suddenly in a loud voice._]
What were you doing in the broom patch with a woman last night?
[+Redvers+ _falls back and gasps. He keeps his eyes on her,
draws a red handkerchief from his pocket and mops his face._
+Ann.+ I’d have believed it of any living man before you.
+Redvers.+ [_Very slowly._] Once I thought you was bound to find out,
and I feared it; and then time passed and I feared no more, and I
thought you would never find out. And now you have. And so all’s up.
Thank God you can keep cool about it. No wife ever forgives that--no
woman ever understands. What’s your will, Ann?
[_Sits down quietly on form by the wall._
+Ann.+ Have I been a good partner to you?
+Redvers.+ My pride and glory for three and twenty years--my first
thought and prayer.
+Ann.+ Liar! Cruel liar to talk that trash. False while you kissed
me--false while you--
+Redvers.+ [_Rising._] No, Ann--never. I call God to strike me dead
where I stand if I tell anything but truth. I’ve been so true to you as
I have been to myself.
+Ann.+ True to yourself; false to all others belike.
+Redvers.+ Never. You’ve had my love and worship always.
+Ann.+ I saw you make her bed.
+Redvers.+ Is it false to one woman to be fond of another? Has no man
ever loved two women true and tender? ’Tis a thing in their power, I
tell you--a thing that scores have done. I love you with all my heart
and soul. I’d die for you, and die laughing. Can you call home an
impatient word, or harsh speech, or unkind deed from me in all your
life? I’ve loved you rising and sleeping--year in, year out--and you
know it, Ann--you know it in your heart. And t’other be a dear thought
to me also. I wouldn’t deny it if I could. I know ’tis death to you to
hear me say that; but it shall be said.
[_He sits down again._
+Ann.+ She’s younger than me?
+Redvers.+ Leave her out. There’s no stain on her. The fault be
mine--mine through and through. All went well enough, because none was
hurt by it. But now that you be hurt so cruel, ’tis different. You
won’t understand. An angel from heaven wouldn’t understand. ’Twould
take a devil from hell to do that--according to what you believe.
The way of a man’s body--[_Pause._ +Redvers+ _rises, and beats his
breast_.] This here dust be nought--’twill go down to the pit ere long,
and be forgot. But, afore God, my conscience is clear of evil.
+Ann.+ Conscience! To come to me from cuddling her!
+Redvers.+ Try and grasp hold of my meaning afore ’tis too late, Ann.
I’m built so. My flesh and blood’s a bit too much for you and always
was. And a bit too much for me sometimes. Try and understand that a
man like me be turned on a different lathe from a woman like you.
He’s hungrier--thirstier--beastlier--yet I won’t grant that neither,
for I’ve never been that. [_She looks at him with passionate dislike,
moves from him and goes down by the grindstone._] Well, life’s done. I
won’t ax you to be generous--that would be mean; and yet, if I don’t ax
it, you’ll think that I don’t want you to be. But if it had happened
t’other way round----
+Ann.+ [_Turns in wrath. She has taken a heavy knife off the grindstone
where it lies with others._] You dare! To think that--to harbour such a
thought in your filthy mind against me!
+Redvers.+ No, no, no! I thought no such thing. There’s no common clay
at all in you. Who should know that like I know it?
+Ann.+ [_Dropping the knife._] If I’d been a bad wife----
+Redvers.+ The best ever a man had. I’ve blown a trumpet about my
luck ever since we wedded! ’Twas only the fret and trouble, and the
children, and trifles like that ever came between us. But I was a weak
fool to let such things hurt.
+Ann.+ Ann Redvers to marry a weak fool! What was it to find that out?
[_Staring at him._] But I loved you. I was true as steel and I hid my
feelings deep. You’d never have known them to your dying hour--but for
this.
+Redvers.+ [_Strokes his beard and gives a little laugh._] Did you
think I didn’t know? Nay, nay--’twasn’t hid from me, Ann. I knew what
you thought of me well enough. Your eyes told me. Often--often I’ve
seen you despise me with ’em.... And now the past be past and done. I’m
sorry--bitterly sorry about it--so all’s said.
+Ann.+ Why for are you sorry--you that pretend you did no sin?
+Redvers.+ Sorry ’tis found out. That’s all. It went very well and
offered a little joy for two harmless people.
+Ann.+ Harmless! You’ve killed your soul--that’s what you’ve done--and
her’s--and her’s! Who have shared this masterpiece of wickedness with
you?
+Redvers.+ Thank God you don’t know--and please God you never shall.
That’s so much to the good anyway.
[_He sits down again. He reveals great grief upon his
countenance. He leans forward and puts his hands between his
knees._
+Ann.+ After two and twenty years....
[_Her face indicates that she is thinking of old times. Emotions
cross it. Grief fades to indifference, which anger banishes.
Her expression grows inert, and then quickens into a
momentary happiness. Looking into the bygone years, she
smiles. For a moment she forgets. Then her face grows tender
and yearning. He sees nothing; his eyes are on the ground.
He whistles a few notes, then is silent. He turns to the wall
presently and buries his face upon his arm. She takes a step
or two towards him, then hesitates. She weeps and puts her
hands over her face and goes into the house._
+Redvers.+ [_Ignorant that she has gone._] Don’t tell the boys just
yet, Ann. I’ll do any mortal thing in reason. A hugeous upheaval. You
say ’tis death--’tis worse than death. Death makes an end. But this----
[_Turns round and finds that his wife has gone. The sunset fires
have faded and the light is dying. He walks to the door; then stands
still. He picks up the knife that Ann dropped and puts it back on the
grindstone. Then he goes to look over the broken wall at rear of yard.
He stands where it is lowest and sets one foot upon it. He thrusts
his hands into his breeches pockets. There is heard the sound of the
waterfall._] Poor Ann--poor Salome! _[He whistles mechanically. His
face is unutterably mournful. He looks down into the gully and then up
at the hills. For a few moments he ceases to whistle._] If I could bear
it all.
[_He takes a step or two and then returns to the wall and the
former position. Now he whistles ‘Widecombe Fair’ slowly.
Enter_ +Ann Redvers+ _from the door behind him. She weeps no
more. Her face is bright with the spirit of forgiveness._
+Ann.+ Husband--I be going to pardon----
[_She breaks off and listens to the tune that he is whistling.
It silences her and instantly changes her mood._ +Ann’s+
_expression alters into one of fury. She glares at_
+Redvers+, _and loses her self-control. She flies at him,
and strikes him with both hands together at the back of his
neck._ +Michael+ _and_ +Jesse+ _appear down left_. +Michael+
_carries his gun_.
+Ann.+ [_Screaming._] Lewd, pitiless wretch!
+Redvers.+ [_Putting up both hands._] Ann!
[_He topples forward and disappears. There is a moment’s
silence, then his body is heard to strike the rocks
beneath._
+Jesse.+ You’ve killed him mother!
[_He hurries across to the steps in the wall and descends them._
+Michael.+ [_Dropping his gun and hastening to_ +Ann+.] Oh mother,
you’ve done for him!
+Ann.+ Help Jesse--quick--quick!
+Michael.+ I’ll stick up for you for ever.
+Ann.+ Go!
[+Michael+ _descends the steps after_ +Jesse+.
+Jesse.+ [_Below._] I do think he lives.
+Ann.+ Please God--Please God! [_She goes to the top of the steps._]
Gently. Hold up his head, Jesse!
[_She descends a few steps to help them._ +Jesse+ _and_
+Michael+ _carry up their father_.
+Jesse.+ Lie him down here--heap the fern for his head.
[_They lower him gently on fern that litters the yard, near the
wall of the barn._
+Ann.+ Fetch the brandy, Michael.
[+Ann Redvers+ _kneels beside him and opens his collar and
shirt. While she is thus engaged_, +Jesse+ _starts running
across to right exit_. +Michael+, _who is now near door into
house, leaps to his gun and pricks it up_.
+Michael.+ Stop! Come you back Jesse Redvers, or, by Christ, I’ll shoot
you!
+Jesse.+ [_Turns and walks back. Both young men are trembling with
rage._] Shoot then--shoot me in the back--like she killed my father. I
was going for doctor. But shoot, and be a murderer too. I don’t want to
live if he’s gone.
[_He goes off._ +Ann+ _pays no heed to either of them. She knows
now that her husband is dead._
+Michael.+ [_Calls off to_ +Jesse+.] Bring back any other but doctor,
and I’ll swing for you!
[_Drops gun and turns to his mother._ +Ann+ _places the head of_
+Anthony Redvers+ _back gently and buttons up his shirt. She
takes the red handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his
face. Then she rises and moves away, but does not lift her
eyes from him._
+Ann.+ He’s dead.
+Michael.+ ’Twas justice--and God knows it--and them that wouldn’t
understand never shall know it.
[_She still gazes at_ +Redvers+. +Michael+ _creeps up to her and
holds her hand. There remains the murmur of the waterfall._
_Curtain._