MR. VOYSEY. You're my partner and my son, and you'll inherit the
business.
EDWARD. [_realizing at last that he has been led to the edge of this
abyss._] Oh no, father.
MR. VOYSEY. Why else have I had to tell you all this?
EDWARD. [_very simply._] Father, I can't. I can't possibly. I don't
think you've any right to ask me.
MR. VOYSEY. Why not, pray?
EDWARD. It's perpetuating the dishonesty.
MR. VOYSEY _hardens at the unpleasant word_.
MR. VOYSEY. You don't believe that I've told you the truth.
EDWARD. I wish to believe it.
MR. VOYSEY. It's no proof . . that I've earned these twenty or thirty
people their incomes for the last--how many years?
EDWARD. Whether what you have done and are doing is wrong or right . . I
can't meddle in it.
_For the moment_ MR. VOYSEY _looks a little dangerous_.
MR. VOYSEY. Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back to your room. Get
back to your own mean drudgery. My life's work--my splendid life's
work--ruined! What does that matter?
EDWARD. Whatever did you expect of me?
MR. VOYSEY. [_making a feint at his papers._] Oh, nothing, nothing.
[_Then he slams them down with great effect._] Here's a great edifice
built up by years of labour and devotion and self sacrifice . . a great
arch you may call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety
with honour. [_This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed._] My work!
And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks the key-stone.
Perhaps I am to die with my work just incomplete. Then is there nothing
that a son might do? Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . .
that I shouldn't bless you from--wherever I may be, when you completed
my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly thought of your father?
_In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressing_
EDWARD.
EDWARD. What will happen if I . . if I desert you?
MR. VOYSEY. I'll protect you as best I can.
EDWARD. I wasn't thinking of myself, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with great nonchalance_.] Well, I shan't mind the
exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in my coffin . . and you're
not so foolish I hope as to be thinking of the feelings of your brothers
and sisters. Considering how simple it would have been for me to go to
my grave in peace and quiet and let you discover the whole thing
afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken some thought for
the future of all of you might perhaps have convinced you that I . . !
But there . . consult your own safety.
EDWARD _has begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him_.
EDWARD. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't
it, father?
MR. VOYSEY. [_watching him closely and modulating his voice._] My dear
boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must
have been.
EDWARD. Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the
dock together.
MR. VOYSEY. And I suppose if I'd broken down and begged your pardon for
my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh?
EDWARD. I suppose so.
MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in
sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [_Now he begins to rally his son;
easy in his strength._] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum
life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism
and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are
the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and
you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital
question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience.
Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of
this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm
quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine,
Edward, that I do beg you to--to--to be a man and try and take a
practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's
not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable.
EDWARD. You should have told me before you took me into partnership.
[_Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks down_
MR. VOYSEY'S _caution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance._]
MR. VOYSEY. Should I be telling you at all if I could possibly help it?
Don't I know that you're about as fit for this job as a babe unborn?
Haven't I been worrying over that for these last three years? But I'm in
a corner . . and I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply
because of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do as I tell
you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and this is a safer game for
you than it was for me then. D'you suppose I didn't have scruples? If
you run away from this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward
and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I was sick-nurse to him
here more than partner. Good lord! . . of course it's pleasant and
comfortable to keep within the law . . then the law will look after you.
Otherwise you have to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to
cultivate your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. But
that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How easily . . how
easily could I have walked out of my father's office and left him to his
fate; no one would have blamed me! But I didn't. I thought it my better
duty to stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up my
cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. And what's
more, it's made a happy man of me . . a better, stronger man than
skulking about in shame and in fear of his life ever made of my poor
dear father. [_Relieved at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his
wisdom in doing so, he changes his tone._] I don't want what I've been
saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free agent . . and you must
decide upon your own course of action. Now don't let's discuss the
matter any more for the moment.
EDWARD _looks at his father with clear eyes_.
EDWARD. Don't forget to put these papers away.
_He restores them to their bundles and hands them back: it is his only
comment._ MR. VOYSEY _takes them and his meaning in silence_.
MR. VOYSEY. Are you coming down to Chislehurst soon? We've got Hugh and
his wife, and Booth and Emily, and Christopher for two or three days,
till he goes back to school.
EDWARD. How is Chris?
MR. VOYSEY. All right again now . . grows more like his father. Booth's
very proud of him. So am I.
EDWARD. I think I can't face them all just at present.
MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense.
EDWARD. [_a little wave of emotion going through him._] I feel as if
this thing were written on my face. How I shall get through business I
don't know!
MR. VOYSEY. You're weaker than I thought, Edward.
EDWARD. [_a little ironically._] A disappointment to you, father?
MR. VOYSEY. No, no.
EDWARD. You should have brought one of the others into the firm . .
Trenchard or Booth.
MR. VOYSEY. [_hardening._] Trenchard! [_he dismisses that._] Well,
you're a better man than Booth. Edward, you mustn't imagine that the
whole world is standing on its head merely because you've had an
unpleasant piece of news. You come down to Chislehurst to-night . .
well, say to-morrow night. It'll be good for you . . stop your brooding
. . that's your worst vice, Edward. You'll find the household as if
nothing had happened. Then you'll remember that nothing really has
happened. And presently you'll get to see that nothing need happen, if
you keep your head. I remember times, when things have seemed at their
worst, what a relief it's been to me . . my romp with you all in the
nursery just before your bed time. Do you remember?
EDWARD. Yes. I cut your head open once with that gun.
MR. VOYSEY. [_in a full glow of fine feeling._] And, my dear boy, if I
knew that you were going to inform the next client you met of what I've
just told you . .
EDWARD. [_with a shudder._] Oh, father!
MR. VOYSEY. . . And that I should find myself in prison to-morrow, I
wouldn't wish a single thing I've ever done undone. I have never
wilfully harmed man or woman. My life's been a happy one. Your dear
mother has been spared to me. You're most of you good children and a
credit to what I've done for you.
EDWARD. [_the deadly humour of this too much for him._] Father!
MR. VOYSEY. Run along now, run along. I must finish my letters and get
into the City.
_He might be scolding a schoolboy for some trifling fault._ EDWARD
_turns to have a look at the keen unembarrassed face_. MR. VOYSEY
_smiles at him and proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his
buttonhole_.
EDWARD. I'll think it over, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Of course, you will. And don't brood, Edward, don't brood.
_So_ EDWARD _leaves him; and having fixed the rose to his satisfaction,
he rings his table telephone and calls through it to the listening
clerk_.
Send Atkinson to me, please. [_Then he gets up, keys in hand to lock
away Mrs. Murberry's and the Hatherley trust papers._]