Produced by David Widger
PLAYS IN THE FOURTH SERIES
A BIT O' LOVE
By John Galsworthy
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
MICHAEL STRANGWAY
BEATRICE STRANGWAY
MRS. BRADMERE
JIM BERE
JACK CREMER
MRS. BURLACOMBE
BURLACOMBE
TRUSTAFORD
JARLAND
CLYST
FREMAN
GODLEIGH
SOL POTTER
MORSE, AND OTHERS
IVY BURLACOMBE
CONNIE TRUSTAFORD
GLADYS FREMAN
MERCY JARLAND
TIBBY JARLAND
BOBBIE JARLAND
SCENE: A VILLAGE OF THE WEST
The Action passes on Ascension Day.
ACT I. STRANGWAY'S rooms at BURLACOMBE'S. Morning.
ACT II. Evening
SCENE I. The Village Inn.
SCENE II. The same.
SCENE III. Outside the church.
ACT III. Evening
SCENE I. STRANGWAY'S rooms.
SCENE II. BURLACOMBE'S barn.
A BIT O' LOVE
ACT I
It is Ascension Day in a village of the West. In the low
panelled hall-sittingroom of the BURLACOMBE'S farmhouse on the
village green, MICHAEL STRANGWAY, a clerical collar round his
throat and a dark Norfolk jacket on his back, is playing the
flute before a very large framed photograph of a woman, which is
the only picture on the walls. His age is about thirty-five his
figure thin and very upright and his clean-shorn face thin,
upright, narrow, with long and rather pointed ears; his dark
hair is brushed in a coxcomb off his forehead. A faint smile
hovers about his lips that Nature has made rather full and he
has made thin, as though keeping a hard secret; but his bright
grey eyes, dark round the rim, look out and upwards almost as if
he were being crucified. There is something about the whole of
him that makes him seen not quite present. A gentle creature,
burnt within.
A low broad window above a window-seat forms the background to
his figure; and through its lattice panes are seen the outer
gate and yew-trees of a churchyard and the porch of a church,
bathed in May sunlight. The front door at right angles to the
window-seat, leads to the village green, and a door on the left
into the house.
It is the third movement of Veracini's violin sonata that
STRANGWAY plays. His back is turned to the door into the house,
and he does not hear when it is opened, and IVY BURLACOMBE, the
farmer's daughter, a girl of fourteen, small and quiet as a
mouse, comes in, a prayer-book in one hand, and in the other a
gloss of water, with wild orchis and a bit of deep pink
hawthorn. She sits down on the window-seat, and having opened
her book, sniffs at the flowers. Coming to the end of the
movement STRANGWAY stops, and looking up at the face on the
wall, heaves a long sigh.
IVY. [From the seat] I picked these for yu, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. [Turning with a start] Ah! Ivy. Thank you. [He puts
his flute down on a chair against the far wall] Where are the
others?
As he speaks, GLADYS FREMAN, a dark gipsyish girl, and CONNIE
TRUSTAFORD, a fair, stolid, blue-eyed Saxon, both about sixteen,
come in through the front door, behind which they have evidently
been listening. They too have prayer-books in their hands.
They sidle past Ivy, and also sit down under the window.
GLADYS. Mercy's comin', Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. Good morning, Gladys; good morning, Connie.
He turns to a book-case on a table against the far wall, and
taking out a book, finds his place in it. While he stands thus
with his back to the girls, MERCY JARLAND comes in from the
green. She also is about sixteen, with fair hair and china-blue
eyes. She glides in quickly, hiding something behind her, and
sits down on the seat next the door. And at once there is a
whispering.
STRANGWAY. [Turning to them] Good morning, Mercy.
MERCY. Good morning, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. Now, yesterday I was telling you what our Lord's coming
meant to the world. I want you to understand that before He came
there wasn't really love, as we know it. I don't mean to say that
there weren't many good people; but there wasn't love for the sake of
loving. D'you think you understand what I mean?
MERCY fidgets. GLADYS'S eyes are following a fly.
IVY. Yes, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. It isn't enough to love people because they're good to
you, or because in some way or other you're going to get something by
it. We have to love because we love loving. That's the great thing
--without that we're nothing but Pagans.
GLADYS. Please, what is Pagans?
STRANGWAY. That's what the first Christians called the people who
lived in the villages and were not yet Christians, Gladys.
MERCY. We live in a village, but we're Christians.
STRANGWAY. [With a smile] Yes, Mercy; and what is a Christian?
MERCY kicks afoot, sideways against her neighbour, frowns over
her china-blare eyes, is silent; then, as his question passes
on, makes a quick little face, wriggles, and looks behind her.
STRANGWAY. Ivy?
IVY. 'Tis a man--whu--whu----
STRANGWAY. Yes?--Connie?
CONNIE. [Who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a permanent slight
cold] Please, Mr. Strangway, 'tis a man what goes to church.
GLADYS. He 'as to be baptised--and confirmed; and--and--buried.
IVY. 'Tis a man whu--whu's gude and----
GLADYS. He don't drink, an' he don't beat his horses, an' he don't
hit back.
MERCY. [Whispering] 'Tisn't your turn. [To STRANGWAY] 'Tis a man
like us.
IVY. I know what Mrs. Strangway said it was, 'cause I asked her
once, before she went away.
STRANGWAY. [Startled] Yes?
IVY. She said it was a man whu forgave everything.
STRANGWAY. Ah!
The note of a cuckoo comes travelling. The girls are gazing at
STRANGWAY, who seems to have gone of into a dream. They begin
to fidget and whisper.
CONNIE. Please, Mr. Strangway, father says if yu hit a man and he
don't hit yu back, he's no gude at all.
MERCY. When Tommy Morse wouldn't fight, us pinched him--he did
squeal! [She giggles] Made me laugh!
STRANGWAY. Did I ever tell you about St. Francis of Assisi?
IVY. [Clasping her hands] No.
STRANGWAY. Well, he was the best Christian, I think, that ever
lived--simply full of love and joy.
IVY. I expect he's dead.
STRANGWAY. About seven hundred years, Ivy.
IVY. [Softly] Oh!
STRANGWAY. Everything to him was brother or sister--the sun and the
moon, and all that was poor and weak and sad, and animals and birds,
so that they even used to follow him about.
MERCY. I know! He had crumbs in his pocket.
STRANGWAY. No; he had love in his eyes.
IVY. 'Tis like about Orpheus, that yu told us.
STRANGWAY. Ah! But St. Francis was a Christian, and Orpheus was a
Pagan.
IVY. Oh!
STRANGWAY. Orpheus drew everything after him with music; St.
Francis by love.
IVY. Perhaps it was the same, really.
STRANGWAY. [looking at his flute] Perhaps it was, Ivy.
GLADYS. Did 'e 'ave a flute like yu?
IVY. The flowers smell sweeter when they 'ear music; they du.
[She holds up the glass of flowers.]
STRANGWAY. [Touching one of the orchis] What's the name of this
one?
[The girls cluster; save MERCY, who is taking a stealthy
interest in what she has behind her.]
CONNIE. We call it a cuckoo, Mr. Strangway.
GLADYS. 'Tis awful common down by the streams. We've got one medder
where 'tis so thick almost as the goldie cups.
STRANGWAY. Odd! I've never noticed it.
IVY. Please, Mr. Strangway, yu don't notice when yu're walkin'; yu
go along like this.
[She holds up her face as one looking at the sky.]
STRANGWAY. Bad as that, Ivy?
IVY. Mrs. Strangway often used to pick it last spring.
STRANGWAY. Did she? Did she?
[He has gone off again into a kind of dream.]
MERCY. I like being confirmed.
STRANGWAY. Ah! Yes. Now----What's that behind you, Mercy?
MERCY. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a
mouse-trap, containing a skylark] My skylark.
STRANGWAY. What!
MERCY. It can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. Bobbie caught
it.
STRANGWAY. How long ago?
MERCY. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yesterday.
STRANGWAY. [White hot] Give me the cage!
MERCY. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps up to her and
takes the cage--thoroughly alarmed] I gave Bobbie thrippence for it!
STRANGWAY. [Producing a sixpence] There!
MERCY. [Throwing it down-passionately] I want my skylark!
STRANGWAY. God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass. And
you put it in that! Never cage any wild thing! Never!
MERCY. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark.
STRANGWAY. [Taking the cage to the door] No! [He holds up the cage
and opens it] Off you go, poor thing!
[The bird flies out and away. The girls watch with round eyes
the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.]
IVY. I'm glad!
[MERCY kicks her viciously and sobs. STRANGWAY comes from the
door, looks at MERCY sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. The
girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and
disapproval.]
GLADYS. [Whispering] Don't cry, Mercy. Bobbie'll soon catch yu
another.
[STRANGWAY has dropped his hands, and is looking again at MERCY.
IVY sits with hands clasped, gazing at STRANGWAY. MERCY
continues her artificial sobbing.]
STRANGWAY. [Quietly] The class is over for to-day.
[He goes up to MERCY, and holds out his hand. She does not take
it, and runs out knuckling her eyes. STRANGWAY turns on his
heel and goes into the house.]
CONNIE. 'Twasn't his bird.
IVY. Skylarks belong to the sky. Mr. Strangway said so.
GLADYS. Not when they'm caught, they don't.
IVY. They du.
CONNIE. 'Twas her bird.
IVY. He gave her sixpence for it.
GLADYS. She didn't take it.
CONNIE. There it is on the ground.
IVY. She might have.
GLADYS. He'll p'raps take my squirrel, tu.
IVY. The bird sang--I 'eard it! Right up in the sky. It wouldn't
have sanged if it weren't glad.
GLADYS. Well, Mercy cried.
IVY. I don't care.
GLADYS. 'Tis a shame! And I know something. Mrs. Strangway's at
Durford.
CONNIE. She's--never!
GLADYS. I saw her yesterday. An' if she's there she ought to be
here. I told mother, an' she said: "Yu mind yer business." An' when
she goes in to market to-morrow she'm goin' to see. An' if she's
really there, mother says, 'tis a fine tu-du an' a praaper scandal.
So I know a lot more'n yu du.
[Ivy stares at her.]
CONNIE. Mrs. Strangway told mother she was goin' to France for the
winter because her mother was ill.
GLADYS. 'Tisn't, winter now--Ascension Day. I saw her cumin' out o'
Dr. Desert's house. I know 'twas her because she had on a blue dress
an' a proud luke. Mother says the doctor come over here tu often
before Mrs. Strangway went away, just afore Christmas. They was old
sweethearts before she married Mr. Strangway. [To Ivy] 'Twas yure
mother told mother that.
[Ivy gazes at them more and more wide-eyed.]
CONNIE. Father says if Mrs. Bradmere an' the old Rector knew about
the doctor, they wouldn't 'ave Mr. Strangway 'ere for curate any
longer; because mother says it takes more'n a year for a gude wife to
leave her 'usband, an' 'e so fond of her. But 'tisn't no business of
ours, father says.
GLADYS. Mother says so tu. She's praaper set against gossip.
She'll know all about it to-morrow after market.
IVY. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to 'ear nothin' at all; I
don't, an' I won't.
[A rather shame faced silence falls on the girls.]
GLADYS. [In a quick whisper] 'Ere's Mrs. Burlacombe.
[There enters fawn the house a stout motherly woman with a round
grey eye and very red cheeks.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ivy, take Mr. Strangway his ink, or we'll never
'eve no sermon to-night. He'm in his thinkin' box, but 'tis not a
bit o' yuse 'im thinkin' without 'is ink. [She hands her daughter an
inkpot and blotting-pad. Ivy Takes them and goes out] What ever's
this? [She picks up the little bird-cage.]
GLADYS. 'Tis Mercy Jarland's. Mr. Strangway let her skylark go.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! Did 'e now? Serve 'er right, bringin' an
'eathen bird to confirmation class.
CONNIE. I'll take it to her.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. No. Yu leave it there, an' let Mr. Strangway du
what 'e likes with it. Bringin' a bird like that! Well 'I never!
[The girls, perceiving that they have lighted on stony soil,
look at each other and slide towards the door.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yes, yu just be off, an' think on what yu've been
told in class, an' be'ave like Christians, that's gude maids. An'
don't yu come no more in the 'avenin's dancin' them 'eathen dances in
my barn, naighther, till after yu'm confirmed--'tisn't right. I've
told Ivy I won't 'ave it.
CONNIE. Mr. Strangway don't mind--he likes us to; 'twas Mrs.
Strangway began teachin' us. He's goin' to give a prize.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yu just du what I tell yu an' never mind Mr.
Strangway--he'm tu kind to everyone. D'yu think I don't know how
gells oughter be'ave before confirmation? Yu be'ave like I did!
Now, goo ahn! Shoo!
[She hustles them out, rather as she might hustle her chickens,
and begins tidying the room. There comes a wandering figure to
the open window. It is that of a man of about thirty-five, of
feeble gait, leaning the weight of all one side of him on a
stick. His dark face, with black hair, one lock of which has
gone white, was evidently once that of an ardent man. Now it is
slack, weakly smiling, and the brown eyes are lost, and seem
always to be asking something to which there is no answer.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [With that forced cheerfulness always assumed in
the face of too great misfortune] Well, Jim! better? [At the faint
brightening of the smile] That's right! Yu'm gettin' on bravely.
Want Parson?
JIM. [Nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] I want to tell 'un
about my cat.
[His face loses its smile.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Why! what's she been duin' then? Mr. Strangway's
busy. Won't I du?
JIM. [Shaking his head] No. I want to tell him.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Whatever she been duin'? Havin' kittens?
JIM. No. She'm lost.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Dearie me! Aw! she'm not lost. Cats be like
maids; they must get out a bit.
JIM. She'm lost. Maybe he'll know where she'll be.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Well, well. I'll go an' find 'im.
JIM. He's a gude man. He's very gude.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. That's certain zure.
STRANGWAY. [Entering from the house] Mrs. Burlacombe, I can't think
where I've put my book on St. Francis--the large, squarish pale-blue
one?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! there now! I knu there was somethin' on me
mind. Miss Willis she came in yesterday afternune when yu was out,
to borrow it. Oh! yes--I said--I'm zure Mr. Strangway'll lend it
'ee. Now think o' that!
STRANGWAY. Of course, Mrs. Burlacombe; very glad she's got it.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! but that's not all. When I tuk it up there
come out a whole flutter o' little bits o' paper wi' little rhymes on
'em, same as I see yu writin'. Aw! my gudeness! I says to meself,
Mr. Strangway widn' want no one seein' them.
STRANGWAY. Dear me! No; certainly not!
MRS. BURLACOMBE. An' so I putt 'em in your secretary.
STRANGWAY. My-ah! Yes. Thank you; yes.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. But I'll goo over an' get the buke for yu.
'T won't take me 'alf a minit.
[She goes out on to the green. JIM BERE has come in.]
STRANGWAY. [Gently] Well, Jim?
JIM. My cat's lost.
STRANGWAY. Lost?
JIM. Day before yesterday. She'm not come back. They've shot 'er,
I think; or she'm caught in one o' they rabbit-traps.
STRANGWAY. Oh! no; my dear fellow, she'll come back. I'll speak to
Sir Herbert's keepers.
JIM. Yes, zurr. I feel lonesome without 'er.
STRANGWAY. [With a faint smile--more to himself than to Jim]
Lonesome! Yes! That's bad, Jim! That's bad!
JIM. I miss 'er when I sits than in the avenin'.
STRANGWAY. The evenings----They're the worst----and when the
blackbirds sing in the morning.
JIM. She used to lie on my bed, ye know, zurr.
[STRANGWAY turns his face away, contracted with pain]
She'm like a Christian.
STRANGWAY. The beasts are.
JIM. There's plenty folk ain't 'alf as Christian as 'er be.
STRANGWAY. Well, dear Jim, I'll do my very best. And any time
you're lonely, come up, and I'll play the flute to you.
JIM. [Wriggling slightly] No, zurr. Thank 'ee, zurr.
STRANGWAY. What--don't you like music?
JIM. Ye-es, zurr. [A figure passes the window. Seeing it he says
with his slow smile] "'Ere's Mrs. Bradmere, comin' from the Rectory."
[With queer malice] She don't like cats. But she'm a cat 'erself, I
think.
STRANGWAY. [With his smile] Jim!
JIM. She'm always tellin' me I'm lukin' better. I'm not better,
zurr.
STRANGWAY. That's her kindness.
JIM. I don't think it is. 'Tis laziness, an' 'avin' 'er own way.
She'm very fond of 'er own way.
[A knock on the door cuts off his speech. Following closely on
the knock, as though no doors were licensed to be closed against
her, a grey-haired lady enters; a capable, broad-faced woman of
seventy, whose every tone and movement exhales authority. With
a nod and a "good morning" to STRANGWAY she turns at face to JIM
BERE.]
MRS. BRADMERE Ah! Jim; you're looking better.
[JIM BERE shakes his head. MRS. BRADMERE. Oh! yes, you are.
Getting on splendidly. And now, I just want to speak to Mr.
Strangway.]
[JIM BERE touches his forelock, and slowly, leaning on his
stick, goes out.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [Waiting for the door to close] You know how that
came on him? Caught the girl he was engaged to, one night, with
another man, the rage broke something here. [She touches her
forehead] Four years ago.
STRANGWAY. Poor fellow!
MRS. BRADMERE. [Looking at him sharply] Is your wife back?
STRANGWAY. [Starting] No.
MRS. BRADMERE. By the way, poor Mrs. Cremer--is she any better?
STRANGWAY. No; going fast: Wonderful--so patient.
MRS. BRADMERE. [With gruff sympathy] Um! Yes. They know how to
die! [Wide another sharp look at him] D'you expect your wife soon?
STRANGWAY. I I--hope so.
MRS. BRADMERE: So do I. The sooner the better.
STRANGWAY. [Shrinking] I trust the Rector's not suffering so much
this morning?
MRS. BRADMERE. Thank you! His foot's very bad.
[As she speaks Mrs. BURLACOMBE returns with a large pale-blue
book in her bared.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Good day, M'm! [Taking the book across to
STRANGWAY] Miss Willie, she says she'm very sorry, zurr.
STRANGWAY. She was very welcome, Mrs. Burlacombe. [To MRS.
BURLACOMBE] Forgive me--my sermon.
[He goes into the house. The two women graze after him. Then,
at once, as it were, draw into themselves, as if preparing for
an encounter, and yet seem to expand as if losing the need for
restraint.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [Abruptly] He misses his wife very much, I'm afraid.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ah! Don't he? Poor dear man; he keeps a terrible
tight 'and over 'imself, but 'tis suthin' cruel the way he walks
about at night. He'm just like a cow when its calf's weaned. 'T'as
gone to me 'eart truly to see 'im these months past. T'other day
when I went up to du his rume, I yeard a noise like this [she
sniffs]; an' ther' 'e was at the wardrobe, snuffin' at 'er things. I
did never think a man cud care for a woman so much as that.
MRS. BRADMERE. H'm!
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tis funny rest an' 'e comin' 'ere for quiet after
that tearin' great London parish! 'E'm terrible absent-minded tu
--don't take no interest in 'is fude. Yesterday, goin' on for one
o'clock, 'e says to me, "I expect 'tis nearly breakfast-time, Mrs.
Burlacombe!" 'E'd 'ad it twice already!
MRS. BRADMERE. Twice! Nonsense!
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Zurely! I give 'im a nummit afore 'e gets up; an'
'e 'as 'is brekjus reg'lar at nine. Must feed un up. He'm on 'is
feet all day, gain' to zee folk that widden want to zee an angel,
they're that busy; an' when 'e comes in 'e'll play 'is flute there.
Hem wastin' away for want of 'is wife. That's what 'tis. An' 'im so
sweet-spoken, tu, 'tes a pleasure to year 'im--Never says a word!
MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, that's the kind of man who gets treated badly.
I'm afraid she's not worthy of him, Mrs. Burlacombe.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Plaiting her apron] 'Tesn't for me to zay that.
She'm a very pleasant lady.
MRS. BRADMERE Too pleasant. What's this story about her being seen
in Durford?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! I du never year no gossip, m'm.
MRS. BRADMERE. [Drily] Of course not! But you see the Rector
wishes to know.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Flustered] Well--folk will talk! But, as I says
to Burlacombe--"'Tes paltry," I says; and they only married eighteen
months, and Mr. Strangway so devoted-like. 'Tes nothing but love,
with 'im.
MRS. BRADMERE. Come!
MRS. BURLACOMBE. There's puzzivantin' folk as'll set an' gossip the
feathers off an angel. But I du never listen.
MRS. BRADMERE Now then, Mrs. Burlacombe?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Well, they du say as how Dr. Desart over to Durford
and Mrs. Strangway was sweethearts afore she wer' married.
MRS. BRADMERE. I knew that. Who was it saw her coming out of Dr.
Desart's house yesterday?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. In a manner of spakin' 'tes Mrs. Freman that says
'er Gladys seen her.
MRS. BRADMERE. That child's got an eye like a hawk.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes wonderful how things du spread. 'Tesn't as if
us gossiped. Du seem to grow-like in the naight.
MRS. BRADMERE [To herself] I never lied her. That Riviera excuse,
Mrs. Burlacombe--Very convenient things, sick mothers. Mr.
Strangway doesn't know?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. The Lord forbid! 'Twid send un crazy, I think.
For all he'm so moony an' gentlelike, I think he'm a terrible
passionate man inside. He've a-got a saint in 'im, for zure; but
'tes only 'alf-baked, in a manner of spakin'.
MRS. BRADMERE. I shall go and see Mrs. Freman. There's been too
much of this gossip all the winter.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes unfortunate-like 'tes the Fremans. Freman
he'm a gipsy sort of a feller; and he've never forgiven Mr. Strangway
for spakin' to 'im about the way he trates 'is 'orses.
MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! I'm afraid Mr. Strangway's not too discreet when
his feelings are touched.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'E've a-got an 'eart so big as the full mune. But
'tes no yuse espectin' tu much o' this world. 'Tes a funny place,
after that.
MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, Mrs. Burlacombe; and I shall give some of these
good people a rare rap over the knuckles for their want of charity.
For all they look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, they're
an un-Christian lot. [Looking very directly at Mrs. BURLACOMBE]
It's lucky we've some hold over the village. I'm not going to have
scandal. I shall speak to Sir Herbert, and he and the Rector will
take steps.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [With covert malice] Aw! I du hope 'twon't upset
the Rector, an' 'is fute so poptious!
MRS. BRADMERE. [Grimly] His foot'll be sound enough to come down
sharp. By the way, will you send me a duck up to the Rectory?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Glad to get away] Zurely, m'm; at once. I've
some luv'ly fat birds.
[She goes into the house.]
MRS. BRADMERE. Old puss-cat!
[She turns to go, and in the doorway encounters a very little,
red-cheeked girl in a peacock-blue cap, and pink frock, who
curtsies stolidly.]
MRS. BRADMERE. Well, Tibby Jarland, what do you want here? Always
sucking something, aren't you?
[Getting no reply from Tibby JARLAND, she passes out. Tibby
comes in, looks round, takes a large sweet out of her mouth,
contemplates it, and puts it back again. Then, in a perfunctory
and very stolid fashion, she looks about the floor, as if she
had been told to find something. While she is finding nothing
and sucking her sweet, her sister MERCY comes in furtively,
still frowning and vindictive.]
MERCY. What! Haven't you found it, Tibby? Get along with 'ee,
then!
[She accelerates the stolid Tissy's departure with a smack,
searches under the seat, finds and picks up the deserted
sixpence. Then very quickly she goes to the door: But it is
opened before she reaches it, and, finding herself caught, she
slips behind the chintz window-curtain. A woman has entered,
who is clearly the original of the large photograph. She is not
strictly pretty, but there is charm in her pale, resolute face,
with its mocking lips, flexible brows, and greenish eyes, whose
lids, square above them, have short, dark lashes. She is
dressed in blue, and her fair hair is coiled up under a cap and
motor-veil. She comes in swiftly, and closes the door behind
her; becomes irresolute; then, suddenly deciding, moves towards
the door into the house. MERCY slips from behind her curtain to
make off, but at that moment the door into the house is opened,
and she has at once to slip back again into covert. It is Ivy
who has appeared.]
IVY. [Amazed] Oh! Mrs. Strangway!
[Evidently disconcerted by this appearance, BEATRICE STRANGWAY
pulls herself together and confronts the child with a smile.]
BEATRICE. Well, Ivy--you've grown! You didn't expect me, did you?
IVY. No, Mrs. Strangway; but I hoped yu'd be comin' soon.
BEATRICE. Ah! Yes. Is Mr. Strangway in?
IVY. [Hypnotized by those faintly smiling lips] Yes--oh, yes! He's
writin' his sermon in the little room. He will be glad!
BEATRICE. [Going a little closer, and never taking her eyes off the
child] Yes. Now, Ivy; will you do something for me?
IVY. [Fluttering] Oh, yes, Mrs. Strangway.
BEATRICE. Quite sure?
IVY. Oh, yes!
BEATRICE. Are you old enough to keep a secret?
IVY. [Nodding] I'm fourteen now.
BEATRICE. Well, then--, I don't want anybody but Mr. Strangway to
know I've been here; nobody, not even your mother. D'you understand?
IVY. [Troubled] No. Only, I can keep a secret.
BEATRICE. Mind, if anybody hears, it will hurt Mr. Strangway.
IVY. Oh! I wouldn't--hurt--him. Must yu go away again? [Trembling
towards her] I wish yu wer goin' to stay. And perhaps some one has
seen yu--They----
BEATRICE. [Hastily] No, no one. I came motoring; like this. [She
moves her veil to show how it can conceal her face] And I came
straight down the little lane, and through the barn, across the yard.
IVY. [Timidly] People du see a lot.
BEATRICE. [Still with that hovering smile] I know, but----Now go
and tell him quickly and quietly.
IVY. [Stopping at the door] Mother's pluckin' a duck. Only,
please, Mrs. Strangway, if she comes in even after yu've gone, she'll
know, because--because yu always have that particular nice scent.
BEATRICE. Thank you, my child. I'll see to that.
[Ivy looks at her as if she would speak again, then turns
suddenly, and goes out. BEATRICE'S face darkens; she shivers.
Taking out a little cigarette case, she lights a cigarette, and
watches the puff's of smoke wreathe shout her and die away. The
frightened MERCY peers out, spying for a chance, to escape.
Then from the house STRANGWAY comes in. All his dreaminess is
gone.]
STRANGWAY. Thank God! [He stops at the look on her face] I don't
understand, though. I thought you were still out there.
BEATRICE. [Letting her cigarette fall, and putting her foot on it]
No.
STRANGWAY: You're staying? Oh! Beatrice; come! We'll get away from
here at once--as far, as far--anywhere you like. Oh! my darling
--only come! If you knew----
BEATRICE. It's no good, Michael; I've tried and tried.
STRANGWAY. Not! Then, why--? Beatrice! You said, when you were
right away--I've waited----
BEATRICE. I know. It's cruel--it's horrible. But I told you not to
hope, Michael. I've done my best. All these months at Mentone, I've
been wondering why I ever let you marry me--when that feeling wasn't
dead!
STRANGWAY. You can't have come back just to leave me again?
BEATRICE. When you let me go out there with mother I thought--I did
think I would be able; and I had begun--and then--spring came!
STRANGWAY. Spring came here too! Never so--aching! Beatrice, can't
you?
BEATRICE. I've something to say.
STRANGWAY. No! No! No!
BEATRICE. You see--I've--fallen.
STRANGWAY. Ah! [In a twice sharpened by pain] Why, in the name of
mercy, come here to tell me that? Was he out there, then?
BEATRICE. I came straight back to him.
STRANGWAY. To Durford?
BEATRICE. To the Crossway Hotel, miles out--in my own name. They
don't know me there. I told you not to hope, Michael. I've done my
best; I swear it.
STRANGWAY. My God!
BEATRICE. It was your God that brought us to live near him!
STRANGWAY. Why have you come to me like this?
BEATRICE. To know what you're going to do. Are you going to divorce
me? We're in your power. Don't divorce me--Doctor and patient--you
must know--it ruins him. He'll lose everything. He'd be
disqualified, and he hasn't a penny without his work.
STRANGWAY. Why should I spare him?
BEATRICE. Michael; I came to beg. It's hard.
STRANGWAY. No; don't beg! I can't stand it.
[She shakes her head.]
BEATRICE. [Recovering her pride] What are you going to do, then?
Keep us apart by the threat of a divorce? Starve us and prison us?
Cage me up here with you? I'm not brute enough to ruin him.
STRANGWAY. Heaven!
BEATRICE. I never really stopped loving him. I never--loved you,
Michael.
STRANGWAY. [Stunned] Is that true? [BEATRICE bends her head]
Never loved me? Not--that night--on the river--not----?
BEATRICE. [Under her breath] No.
STRANGWAY. Were you lying to me, then? Kissing me, and--hating me?
BEATRICE. One doesn't hate men like you; but it wasn't love.
STRANGWAY. Why did you tell me it was?
BEATRICE. Yes. That was the worst thing I've ever done.
STRANGWAY. Do you think I would have married you? I would have
burned first! I never dreamed you didn't. I swear it!
BEATRICE. [Very low] Forget it!
STRANGWAY. Did he try to get you away from me? [BEATRICE gives him
a swift look] Tell me the truth!
BEATRICE. No. It was--I--alone. But--he loves me.
STRANGWAY. One does not easily know love, it seems.
[But her smile, faint, mysterious, pitying, is enough, and he
turns away from her.]
BEATRICE. It was cruel to come, I know. For me, too. But I
couldn't write. I had to know.
STRANGWAY. Never loved me? Never loved me? That night at Tregaron?
[At the look on her face] You might have told me before you went
away! Why keep me all these----
BEATRICE. I meant to forget him again. I did mean to. I thought I
could get back to what I was, when I married you; but, you see, what
a girl can do, a woman that's been married--can't.
STRANGWAY. Then it was I--my kisses that----! [He laughs] How did
you stand them? [His eyes dart at her face] Imagination helped you,
perhaps!
BEATRICE. Michael, don't, don't! And--oh! don't make a public thing
of it! You needn't be afraid I shall have too good a time!
[He stays quite still and silent, and that which is writhing in
him makes his face so strange that BEATRICE stands aghast. At
last she goes stumbling on in speech]
If ever you want to marry some one else--then, of course--that's only
fair, ruin or not. But till then--till then----He's leaving
Durford, going to Brighton. No one need know. And you--this isn't
the only parish in the world.
STRANGWAY. [Quietly] You ask me to help you live in secret with
another man?
BEATRICE. I ask for mercy.
STRANGWAY. [As to himself] What am I to do?
BEATRICE. What you feel in the bottom of your heart.
STRANGWAY. You ask me to help you live in sin?
BEATRICE. To let me go out of your life. You've only to do--
nothing. [He goes, slowly, close to her.]
STRANGWAY. I want you. Come back to me! Beatrice, come back!
BEATRICE. It would be torture, now.
STRANGWAY. [Writhing] Oh!
BEATRICE. Whatever's in your heart--do!
STRANGWAY. You'd come back to me sooner than ruin him? Would you?
BEATRICE. I can't bring him harm.
STRANGWAY. [Turning away] God!--if there be one help me! [He
stands leaning his forehead against the window. Suddenly his glance
falls on the little bird cage, still lying on the window-seat] Never
cage any wild thing! [He gives a laugh that is half a sob; then,
turning to the door, says in a low voice] Go! Go please, quickly!
Do what you will. I won't hurt you--can't----But--go! [He opens
the door.]
BEATRICE. [Greatly moved] Thank you!
[She passes him with her head down, and goes out quickly.
STRANGWAY stands unconsciously tearing at the little bird-cage.
And while he tears at it he utters a moaning sound. The
terrified MERCY, peering from behind the curtain, and watching
her chance, slips to the still open door; but in her haste and
fright she knocks against it, and STRANGWAY sees her. Before he
can stop her she has fled out on to the green and away.]
[While he stands there, paralysed, the door from the house is
opened, and MRS. BURLACOMBE approaches him in a queer, hushed
way.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Her eyes mechanically fixed on the twisted
bird-cage in his hands] 'Tis poor Sue Cremer, zurr, I didn't 'ardly
think she'd last thru the mornin'. An' zure enough she'm passed
away! [Seeing that he has not taken in her words] Mr. Strangway--
yu'm feelin' giddy?
STRANGWAY. No, no! What was it? You said----
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes Jack Cremer. His wife's gone. 'E'm in a
terrible way. 'Tes only yu, 'e ses, can du 'im any gude. He'm in
the kitchen.
STRANGWAY. Cremer? Yes! Of course. Let him----
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Still staring at the twisted cage] Yu ain't
wantin' that--'tes all twizzled. [She takes it from him] Sure yu'm
not feelin' yer 'ead?
STRANGWAY. [With a resolute effort] No!
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Doubtfully] I'll send 'im in, then. [She goes.
When she is gone, Strangway passes his handkerchief across his
forehead, and his lips move fast. He is standing motionless when
CREMER, a big man in labourer's clothes, with a thick, broad face,
and tragic, faithful eyes, comes in, and stands a little in from the
closed door, quite dumb.]
STRANGWAY. [After a moment's silence--going up to him and laying a
hand on his shoulder] Jack! Don't give way. If we give way--we're
done.
CREMER. Yes, zurr. [A quiver passes over his face.]
STRANGWAY. She didn't. Your wife was a brave woman. A dear woman.
CREMER. I never thought to luse 'er. She never told me 'ow bad she
was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 'Tis a dreadful thing to luse a wife,
zurr.
STRANGWAY. [Tightening his lips, that tremble] Yes. But don't give
way! Bear up, Jack!
CREMER. Seems funny 'er goin' blue-bell time, an' the sun shinin' so
warm. I picked up an 'orse-shu yesterday. I can't never 'ave 'er
back, zurr.
[His face quivers again.]
STRANGWAY. Some day you'll join her. Think! Some lose their wives
for ever.
CREMER. I don't believe as there's a future life, zurr. I think we
goo to sleep like the beasts.
STRANGWAY. We're told otherwise. But come here! [Drawing him to
the window] Look! Listen! To sleep in that! Even if we do, it
won't be so bad, Jack, will it?
CREMER. She wer' a gude wife to me--no man didn't 'ave no better
wife.
STRANGWAY. [Putting his hand out] Take hold--hard--harder! I want
yours as much as you want mine. Pray for me, Jack, and I'll pray for
you. And we won't give way, will we?
CREMER. [To whom the strangeness of these words has given some
relief] No, zurr; thank 'ee, zurr. 'Tes no gude, I expect. Only,
I'll miss 'er. Thank 'ee, zurr; kindly.
[He lifts his hand to his head, turns, and uncertainly goes out
to the kitchen. And STRANGWAY stays where he is, not knowing
what to do. They blindly he takes up his flute, and hatless,
hurries out into the air.]
ACT II
SCENE I
About seven o'clock in the taproom of the village inn. The bar,
with the appurtenances thereof, stretches across one end, and
opposite is the porch door on to the green. The wall between is
nearly all window, with leaded panes, one wide-open casement
whereof lets in the last of the sunlight. A narrow bench runs
under this broad window. And this is all the furniture, save
three spittoons:
GODLEIGH, the innkeeper, a smallish man with thick ruffled hair,
a loquacious nose, and apple-red cheeks above a reddish-brown
moustache; is reading the paper. To him enters TIBBY JARLAND
with a shilling in her mouth.
GODLEIGH. Well, TIBBY JARLAND, what've yu come for, then? Glass o'
beer?
[TIBBY takes the shilling from her mouth and smiles stolidly.]
GODLEIGH. [Twinkling] I shid zay glass o' 'arf an' 'arf's about
yure form. [TIBBY smiles more broadly] Yu'm a praaper masterpiece.
Well! 'Ave sister Mercy borrowed yure tongue? [TIBBY shakes her
head] Aw, she 'aven't. Well, maid?
TIBBY. Father wants six clay pipes, please.
GODLEIGH. 'E du, du 'ee? Yu tell yure father 'e can't 'ave more'n
one, not this avenin'. And 'ere 'tis. Hand up yure shillin'.
[TIBBY reaches up her hand, parts with the shilling, and
receives a long clay pipe and eleven pennies. In order to
secure the coins in her pinafore she places the clay pipe in her
mouth. While she is still thus engaged, MRS. BRADMERE enters
the porch and comes in. TIBBY curtsies stolidly.]
MRS. BRADMERE. Gracious, child! What are you doing here? And what
have you got in your mouth? Who is it? Tibby Jarland? [TIBBY
curtsies again] Take that thing out. And tell your father from me
that if I ever see you at the inn again I shall tread on his toes
hard. Godleigh, you know the law about children?
GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye, and not at all abashed] Surely, m'm.
But she will come. Go away, my dear.
[TIBBY, never taking her eyes off MRS. BRADMERE, or the pipe
from her mouth, has backed stolidly to the door, and vanished.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [Eyeing GODLEIGH] Now, Godleigh, I've come to talk
to you. Half the scandal that goes about the village begins here.
[She holds up her finger to check expostulation] No, no--its no
good. You know the value of scandal to your business far too well.
GODLEIGH. Wi' all respect, m'm, I knows the vally of it to yourn,
tu.
MRS. BRADMERE. What do you mean by that?
GODLEIGH. If there weren't no Rector's lady there widden' be no
notice taken o' scandal; an' if there weren't no notice taken,
twidden be scandal, to my thinkin'.
MRS. BRADMERE. [Winking out a grim little smile] Very well! You've
given me your views. Now for mine. There's a piece of scandal going
about that's got to be stopped, Godleigh. You turn the tap of it off
here, or we'll turn your tap off. You know me. See?
GODLEIGH. I shouldn' never presume, m'm, to know a lady.
MRS. BRADMERE. The Rector's quite determined, so is Sir Herbert.
Ordinary scandal's bad enough, but this touches the Church. While
Mr. Strangway remains curate here, there must be no talk about him
and his affairs.
GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin' how to du it, m'm.
'Twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the
women's tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as I'm
told.
MRS. BRADMERE. Don't talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say,
because I mean it.
GODLEIGH. Make yure mind aisy, m'm there'll be no scandal-monkeyin'
here wi' my permission.
[MRS. BRADMERE gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly
grave, nods her head with approval.]
MRS. BRADMERE. Good! You know what's being said, of course?
GODLEIGH. [With respectful gravity] Yu'll pardon me, m'm, but ef
an' in case yu was goin' to tell me, there's a rule in this 'ouse:
"No scandal 'ere!"
MRS. BRADMERE. [Twinkling grimly] You're too smart by half, my man.
GODLEIGH. Aw fegs, no, m'm--child in yure 'ands.
MRS. BRADMERE. I wouldn't trust you a yard. Once more, Godleigh!
This is a Christian village, and we mean it to remain so. You look
out for yourself.
[The door opens to admit the farmers TRUSTAFORD and BURLACOMBE.
They doff their hats to MRS. BRADMERE, who, after one more sharp
look at GODLEIGH, moves towards the door.]
MRS. BRADMERE. Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To BURLACOMBE]
Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard
training.
[With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.]
TRUSTAFORD. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new,
on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little
whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh]
'Er's lukin' awful wise!
GODLEIGH. [Enigmatically] Ah!
TRUSTAFORD. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o' whisky,
an' potash.
BURLACOMBE. [A taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat]
What's wise, Godleigh? Drop o' cider.
GODLEIGH. Nuse? There's never no nuse in this 'ouse. Aw, no! Not
wi' my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village.
TRUSTAFORD. Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To
BURLACOMBE] 'Tes rather quare about the curate's wife a-cumin'
motorin' this mornin'. Passed me wi' her face all smothered up in a
veil, goggles an' all. Haw, haw!
BURLACOMBE. Aye!
TRUSTAFORD. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'Er didn't give poor
old curate much of a chance, after six months.
GODLEIGH. Havin' an engagement elsewhere--No scandal, please,
gentlemen.
BURLACOMBE. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis. Passed me in
the yard like a stone.
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about 'er doctor.
GODLEIGH. Ah! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead secret; Mr.
Trustaford. Don't yu never repate it--there's not a cat don't know
it already!
BURLACOMBE frowns, and TRUSTAFORD utters his laugh. The door is
opened and FREMAN, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer,
comes in.
GODLEIGH. Don't yu never tell Will Freman what 'e told me!
FREMAN. Avenin'!
TRUSTAFORD. Avenin', Will; what's yure glass o' trouble?
FREMAN. Drop o' eider, clove, an' dash o' gin. There's blood in the
sky to-night.
BURLACOMBE. Ah! We'll 'ave fine weather now, with the full o' the
mune.
FREMAN. Dust o' wind an' a drop or tu, virst, I reckon. 'Earl t'
nuse about curate an' 'is wife?
GODLEIGH. No, indeed; an' don't yu tell us. We'm Christians 'ere in
this village.
FREMAN. 'Tain't no very Christian nuse, neither. He's sent 'er off
to th' doctor. "Go an' live with un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye."
If 'er'd a-been mine, I'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. Tam Jarland's
maid, she yeard it all. Christian, indeed! That's brave
Christianity! "Goo an' live with un!" 'e told 'er.
BURLACOMBE. No, no; that's, not sense--a man to say that. I'll not
'ear that against a man that bides in my 'ouse.
FREMAN. 'Tes sure, I tell 'ee. The maid was hid-up, scared-like,
behind the curtain. At it they went, and parson 'e says: "Go," 'e
says, "I won't kape 'ee from 'im," 'e says, "an' I won't divorce 'ee,
as yu don't wish it!" They was 'is words, same as Jarland's maid
told my maid, an' my maid told my missis. If that's parson's talk,
'tes funny work goin' to church.
TRUSTAFORD. [Brooding] 'Tes wonderful quare, zurely.
FREMAN. Tam Jarland's fair mad wi' curate for makin' free wi' his
maid's skylark. Parson or no parson, 'e've no call to meddle wi'
other people's praperty. He cam' pokin' 'is nose into my affairs. I
told un I knew a sight more 'bout 'orses than 'e ever would!
TRUSTAFORD. He'm a bit crazy 'bout bastes an' birds.
[They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the
entrance of CLYST, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright,
quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in
his hand.]
CLYST. Ah! he'm that zurely, Mr. Trustaford.
[He chuckles.]
GODLEIGH. Now, Tim Clyst, if an' in case yu've a-got some scandal on
yer tongue, don't yu never unship it here. Yu go up to Rectory where
'twill be more relished-like.
CLYST. [Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink for this, Mr.
Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes somethin' swats. Butiful
readin'. Poetry. Rale spice. Yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr.
Godleigh.
GODLEIGH. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then?
CLYST. Ah! Yu want t'know tu much.
[Putting the paper in his pocket.]
[While he is speaking, JIM BERE has entered quietly, with his
feeble step and smile, and sits down.]
CLYST. [Kindly] Hello, Jim! Cat come 'ome?
JIM BERE. No.
[All nod, and speak to him kindly. And JIM BERE smiles at them,
and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no
answer. And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they
talk as if he were not there.]
GODLEIGH. What's all this, now--no scandal in my 'ouse!
CLYST. 'Tes awful peculiar--like a drame. Mr. Burlacombe 'e don't
like to hear tell about drames. A guess a won't tell 'ee, arter
that.
FREMAN. Out wi' it, Tim.
CLYST. 'Tes powerful thirsty to-day, Mr. Godleigh.
GODLEIGH. [Drawing him some cider] Yu're all wild cat's talk, Tim;
yu've a-got no tale at all.
CLYST. [Moving for the cider] Aw, indade!
GODLEIGH. No tale, no cider!
CLYST. Did ye ever year tell of Orphus?
TRUSTAFORD. What? The old vet. up to Drayleigh?
CLYST. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th' old time, an' drawed the
bastes after un wi' his music, same as curate was tellin' the maids.
FREMAN. I've 'eard as a gipsy over to Vellacott could du that wi'
'is viddle.
CLYST. 'Twas no gipsy I see'd this arternune; 'twee Orphus, down to
Mr. Burlacombe's long medder; settin' there all dark on a stone among
the dimsy-white flowers an' the cowflops, wi' a bird upon 'is 'ead,
playin' his whistle to the ponies.
FREMAN. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee a man wi' a bird on 'is 'ead.
CLYST. Didn' I?
FREMAN. What sort o' bird, then? Yu tell me that.
TRUSTAFORD. Praaper old barndoor cock. Haw, haw!
GODLEIGH. [Soothingly] 'Tes a vairy-tale; us mustn't be tu
partic'lar.
BURLACOMBE: In my long medder? Where were yu, then, Tim Clyst?
CLYST. Passin' down the lane on my bike. Wonderful sorrowful-fine
music 'e played. The ponies they did come round 'e--yu cud zee the
tears rennin' down their chakes; 'twas powerful sad. 'E 'adn't no
'at on.
FREMAN. [Jeering] No; 'e 'ad a bird on 'is 'ead.
CLYST. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin' an' playin'. The
ponies they never muved. An' all the dimsy-white flowers they waved
and waved, an' the wind it went over 'em. Gav' me a funny feelin'.
GODLEIGH. Clyst, yu take the cherry bun!
CLYST. Where's that cider, Mr. Godleigh?
GODLEIGH. [Bending over the cider] Yu've a-- 'ad tu much already,
Tim.
[The door is opened, and TAM JARLAND appears. He walks rather
unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange;
epileptic-looking eyes.]
CLYST. [Pointing to JARLAND] 'Tis Tam Jarland there 'as the cargo
aboard.
JARLAND. Avenin', all! [To GODLEIGH] Pinto' beer. [To JIM BERE]
Avenin', Jim.
[JIM BERE looks at him and smiles.]
GODLEIGH. [Serving him after a moment's hesitation] 'Ere y'are,
Tam. [To CLYST, who has taken out his paper again] Where'd yu get
thiccy paper?
CLYST. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] Yure tongue du watter,
don't it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding out his mug] No zider, no poetry.
'Tis amazin' sorrowful; Shakespeare over again. "The boy stude on
the burnin' deck."
FREMAN. Yu and yer yap!
CLYST. Ah! Yu wait a bit. When I come back down t'lane again,
Orphus 'e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the
ponies, an' a praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. I zee
somethin' white in the beak o' the fowl, so I giv' a "Whisht," an'
'e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. I gets over bank an' picks un up,
and here't be.
[He holds out his mug.]
BURLACOMBE. [Tartly] Here, give 'im 'is cider. Rade it yureself,
ye young teasewings.
[CLYST, having secured his cider, drinks it o$. Holding up the
paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his
eye round, tantalizing.]
CLYST. 'Tes a pity I bain't dressed in a white gown, an' flowers in
me 'air.
FREMAN. Read it, or we'll 'aye yu out o' this.
CLYST. Aw, don't 'ee shake my nerve, now!
[He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring
voice. Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines]
God lighted the zun in 'eaven far.
Lighted the virefly an' the star.
My 'eart 'E lighted not!
God lighted the vields fur lambs to play,
Lighted the bright strames, 'an the may.
My 'eart 'E lighted not!
God lighted the mune, the Arab's way,
He lights to-morrer, an' to-day.
My 'eart 'E 'ath vorgot!
[When he has finished, there is silence. Then TRUSTAFORD,
scratching his head, speaks:]
TAUSTAFORD. 'Tes amazin' funny stuff.
FREMAN. [Looking over CLYST'S shoulder] Be danged! 'Tes the
curate's 'andwritin'. 'Twas curate wi' the ponies, after that.
CLYST. Fancy, now! Aw, Will Freman, an't yu bright!
FREMAN. But 'e 'adn't no bird on 'is 'ead.
CLYST. Ya-as, 'e 'ad.
JARLAND. [In a dull, threatening voice] 'E 'ad my maid's bird, this
arternune. 'Ead or no, and parson or no, I'll gie 'im one for that.
FREMAN. Ah! And 'e meddled wi' my 'orses.
TRUSTAFORD. I'm thinkin' 'twas an old cuckoo bird 'e 'ad on 'is
'ead. Haw, haw!
GODLEIGH. "His 'eart She 'ath Vorgot!"
FREMAN. 'E's a fine one to be tachin' our maids convirmation.
GODLEIGH. Would ye 'ave it the old Rector then? Wi' 'is gouty shoe?
Rackon the maids wid rather 'twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe?
BURLACOMBE. [Abruptly] Curate's a gude man.
JARLAND. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I'll be even wi' un.
FREMAN. [Excitedly] Tell 'ee one thing--'tes not a proper man o'
God to 'ave about, wi' 'is luse goin's on. Out vrom 'ere he oughter
go.
BURLACOMBE. You med go further an' fare worse.
FREMAN. What's 'e duin', then, lettin' 'is wife runoff?
TRUSTAFORD. [Scratching his head] If an' in case 'e can't kape 'er,
'tes a funny way o' duin' things not to divorce 'er, after that. If
a parson's not to du the Christian thing, whu is, then?
BURLACOMBE. 'Tes a bit immoral-like to pass over a thing like that.
Tes funny if women's gain's on's to be encouraged.
FREMAN. Act of a coward, I zay.
BURLACOMBE. The curate ain't no coward.
FREMAN. He bides in yure house; 'tes natural for yu to stand up for
un; I'll wager Mrs. Burlacombe don't, though. My missis was fair
shocked. "Will," she says, "if yu ever make vur to let me go like
that, I widden never stay wi' yu," she says.
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes settin' a bad example, for zure.
BURLACOMBE. 'Tes all very airy talkin'; what shude 'e du, then?
FREMAN. [Excitedly] Go over to Durford and say to that doctor: "Yu
come about my missis, an' zee what I'll du to 'ee." An' take 'er
'ome an' zee she don't misbe'ave again.
CLYST. 'E can't take 'er ef 'er don' want t' come--I've 'eard
lawyer, that lodged wi' us, say that.
FREMAN. All right then, 'e ought to 'ave the law of 'er and 'er
doctor; an' zee 'er goin's on don't prosper; 'e'd get damages, tu.
But this way 'tes a nice example he'm settin' folks. Parson indade!
My missis an' the maids they won't goo near the church to-night, an'
I wager no one else won't, neither.
JARLAND. [Lurching with his pewter up to GODLEIGH] The beggar! I'll
be even wi' un.
GODLEIGH. [Looking at him in doubt] 'Tes the last, then, Tam.
[Having received his beer, JARLAND stands, leaning against the
bar, drinking.]
BURLACOMBE. [Suddenly] I don' goo with what curate's duin--'tes
tiff soft 'earted; he'm a muney kind o' man altogether, wi' 'is flute
an' 'is poetry; but he've a-lodged in my 'ouse this year an' mare,
and always 'ad an 'elpin' 'and for every one. I've got a likin' for
him an' there's an end of it.
JARLAND. The coward!
TRUSTAFORD. I don' trouble nothin' about that, Tam Jarland.
[Turning to BURLACOMBE] What gits me is 'e don't seem to 'ave no
zense o' what's his own praperty.
JARLAND. Take other folk's property fast enough!
[He saws the air with his empty. The others have all turned to
him, drawn by the fascination that a man in liquor has for his
fellow-men. The bell for church has begun to rang, the sun is
down, and it is getting dusk.]
He wants one on his crop, an' one in 'is belly; 'e wants a man to
take an' gie un a gude hidin zame as he oughter give 'is fly-be-night
of a wife.
[STRANGWAY in his dark clothes has entered, and stands by the
door, his lips compressed to a colourless line, his thin,
darkish face grey-white]
Zame as a man wid ha' gi'en the doctor, for takin' what isn't his'n.
All but JARLAND have seen STRANGWAY. He steps forward, JARLAND
sees him now; his jaw drops a little, and he is silent.
STRANGWAY. I came for a little brandy, Mr. Godleigh--feeling rather
faint. Afraid I mightn't get through the service.
GODLEIGH. [With professional composure] Marteil's Three Star, zurr,
or 'Ennessy's?
STRANGWAY. [Looking at JARLAND] Thank you; I believe I can do
without, now. [He turns to go.]
[In the deadly silence, GODLEIGH touches the arm of JARLAND,
who, leaning against the bar with the pewter in his hand, is
staring with his strange lowering eyes straight at STRANGWAY.]
JARLAND. [Galvanized by the touch into drunken rage] Lave me be
--I'll talk to un-parson or no. I'll tache un to meddle wi' my maid's
bird. I'll tache un to kape 'is thievin' 'ands to 'imself.
[STRANGWAY turns again.]
CLYST. Be quiet, Tam.
JARLAND. [Never loosing STRANGWAY with his eyes--like a bull-dog
who sees red] That's for one chake; zee un turn t'other, the
white-livered buty! Whu lets another man 'ave 'is wife, an' never
the sperit to go vor un!
BURLACOMBE. Shame, Jarland; quiet, man!
[They are all looking at STRANGWAY, who, under JARLAND'S drunken
insults is standing rigid, with his eyes closed, and his hands
hard clenched. The church bell has stopped slow ringing, and
begun its five minutes' hurrying note.]
TRUSTAFORD. [Rising, and trying to hook his arm into JARLAND'S]
Come away, Tam; yu've a-'ad to much, man.
JARLAND. [Shaking him off] Zee, 'e darsen't touch me; I might 'it
un in the vase an' 'e darsen't; 'e's afraid--like 'e was o' the
doctor.
[He raises the pewter as though to fling it, but it is seized by
GODLEIGH from behind, and falls clattering to the floor.
STRANGWAY has not moved.]
JARLAND. [Shaking his fist almost in his face] Luke at un, Luke at
un! A man wi' a slut for a wife----
[As he utters the word "wife" STRANGWAY seizes the outstretched
fist, and with a jujitsu movement, draws him into his clutch,
helpless. And as they sway and struggle in the open window,
with the false strength of fury he forces JARLAND through.
There is a crash of broken glass from outside. At the sound
STRANGWAY comes to himself. A look of agony passes over his
face. His eyes light on JIM BERE, who has suddenly risen, and
stands feebly clapping his hands. STRANGWAY rushes out.]
[Excitedly gathering at the window, they all speak at once.]
CLYST. Tam's hatchin' of yure cucumbers, Mr. Godleigh.
TRUSTAFORD. 'E did crash; haw, haw!
FREMAN. 'Twas a brave throw, zurely. Whu wid a' thought it?
CLYST. Tam's crawlin' out. [Leaning through window] Hello, Tam--
'ow's t' base, old man?
FREMAN. [Excitedly] They'm all comin' up from churchyard to zee.
TRUSTAFORD. Tam du luke wonderful aztonished; haw, haw! Poor old
Tam!
CLYST. Can yu zee curate? Reckon 'e'm gone into church. Aw, yes;
gettin' a bit dimsy-service time. [A moment's hush.]
TRUSTAFORD. Well, I'm jiggered. In 'alf an hour he'm got to prache.
GODLEIGH. 'Tes a Christian village, boys.
[Feebly, quietly, JIM BERE laughs. There is silence; but the
bell is heard still ranging.]
CURTAIN.