SCENE: _The drawing-room at old_ MR. DUNBARTON'S _house in Eaton
Square. Six o'clock the same evening. As the Curtain rises the
door_ (L.) _opens and_ JEAN _appears on the threshold. She looks
back into her own sitting-room, then crosses the drawing-room,
treading softly on the parquet spaces between the rugs. She goes
to the window and is in the act of parting the lace curtains when
the folding doors_ (C.) _are opened by the_ BUTLER.
JEAN (_to the Servant_). Sh!
(_She goes softly back to the door she has left open and closes
it carefully. When she turns, the_ BUTLER _has stepped aside
to admit_ GEOFFREY STONOR, _and departed, shutting the folding
doors._ STONOR _comes rapidly forward._)
(_Before he gets a word out._) Speak low, please.
STONOR (_angrily_). I waited about a whole hour for you to come back.
(JEAN _turns away as though vaguely looking for the nearest
chair._)
If you didn't mind leaving _me_ like that, you might have considered
Lady John.
JEAN (_pausing_). Is she here with you?
STONOR. No. My place was nearer than this, and she was very tired. I
left her to get some tea. We couldn't tell whether you'd be here, or
_what_ had become of you.
JEAN. Mr. Trent got us a hansom.
STONOR. Trent?
JEAN. The Chairman of the meeting.
STONOR. "Got us----"?
JEAN. Miss Levering and me.
STONOR (_incensed_). MISS L----
BUTLER (_opens the door and announces_). Mr. Farnborough.
(_Enter_ MR. RICHARD FARNBOROUGH--_more flurried than ever._)
FARN. (_seeing_ STONOR). At last! You'll forgive this incursion, Miss
Dunbarton, when you hear---- (_Turns abruptly back to_ STONOR.) They've
been telegraphing you all over London. In despair they set me on your
track.
STONOR. Who did? What's up?
FARN. (_lays down his hat and fumbles agitatedly in his
breast-pocket_). There was the devil to pay at Dutfield last night. The
Liberal chap tore down from London and took over your meeting!
STONOR. Oh?--Nothing about it in the Sunday paper _I_ saw.
FARN. Wait till you see the Press to-morrow morning! There was a great
rally and the beggar made a rousing speech.
STONOR. What about?
FARN. Abolition of the Upper House----
STONOR. They were at that when I was at Eton!
FARN. Yes. But this new man has got a way of putting things!--the
people went mad. (_Pompously._) The Liberal platform as defined at
Dutfield is going to make a big difference.
STONOR (_drily_). You think so.
FARN. Well, your agent says as much. (_Opens telegram._)
STONOR. My---- (_Taking telegram._) "Try find Stonor"--Hm! Hm!
FARN. (_pointing_).--"tremendous effect of last night's Liberal
manifesto ought to be counteracted in to-morrow's papers." (_Very
earnestly._) You see, Mr. Stonor, it's a battle-cry we want.
STONOR (_turns on his heel_). Claptrap!
FARN. (_a little dashed_). Well, they've been saying we have nothing to
offer but personal popularity. No practical reform. No----
STONOR. No truckling to the masses, I suppose. (_Walks impatiently
away._)
FARN. (_snubbed_). Well, in these democratic days---- (_Turns to_ JEAN
_for countenance._) I hope you'll forgive my bursting in like this.
(_Struck by her face._) But I can see you realise the gravity----
(_Lowering his voice with an air of speaking for her ear alone._) It
isn't as if he were going to be a mere private member. Everybody knows
he'll be in the Cabinet.
STONOR (_drily_). It may be a Liberal Cabinet.
FARN. Nobody thought so up to last night. Why, even your brother--but I
am afraid I'm seeming officious. (_Takes up his hat._)
STONOR (_coldly_). What about my brother?
FARN. I met Lord Windlesham as I rushed out of the Carlton.
STONOR. Did he say anything?
FARN. I told him the Dutfield news.
STONOR (_impatiently_). Well?
FARN. He said it only confirmed his fears.
STONOR (_half under his breath_). Said that, did he?
FARN. Yes. Defeat is inevitable, he thinks, unless---- (_Pause._)
(GEOFFREY STONOR, _who has been pacing the floor, stops but doesn't
raise his eyes._)
unless you can "manufacture some political dynamite within the next few
hours." Those were his words.
STONOR (_resumes his walking to and fro, raises his head and catches
sight of_ JEAN'S _white, drawn face. Stops short_). You are very tired.
JEAN. No. No.
STONOR (_to_ FARNBOROUGH). I'm obliged to you for taking so much
trouble. (_Shakes hands by way of dismissing Farnborough._) I'll see
what can be done.
FARN. (_offering the reply-paid form_). If you'd like to wire I'll take
it.
STONOR (_faintly amused_). You don't understand, my young friend. Moves
of this kind are not rushed at by responsible politicians. I must have
time for consideration.
FARN. (_disappointed_). Oh, well, I only hope someone else won't jump
into the breach before you--(_Watch in hand_) I tell you. (_To_ JEAN.)
I'll find out what time the newspapers go to press on Sunday. Goodbye.
(_To_ STONOR.) I'll be at the Club just _in case_ I can be of any use.
STONOR (_firmly_). No, don't do that. If I should have anything new to
say----
FARN. (_feverishly_). B-b-but with our party, as your brother
said--"heading straight for a vast electoral disaster----"
STONOR. If I decide on a counterblast I shall simply telegraph to
headquarters. Goodbye.
FARN. Oh--a--g-goodbye. (_A gesture of "The country's going to the
dogs."_)
(JEAN _rings the bell. Exit_ FARNBOROUGH.)
STONOR (_studying the carpet_). "Political dynamite," eh? (_Pause._)
After all ... women are much more conservative than men--aren't they?
(JEAN _looks straight in front of her, making no attempt to reply._)
Especially the women the property qualification would bring in. (_He
glances at_ JEAN _as though for the first time conscious of her
silence._) You see now (_he throws himself into the chair by the
table_) one reason why I've encouraged you to take an interest in
public affairs. Because people like us don't go screaming about it, is
no sign we don't (some of us) see what's on the way. However little
they want to, women of our class will have to come into line. All the
best things in the world--everything that civilisation has won will be
in danger if--when this change comes--the only women who have practical
political training are the women of the lower classes. Women of the
lower classes, and (_his brows knit heavily_)--women inoculated by the
Socialist virus.
JEAN. Geoffrey.
STONOR (_draws the telegraph form towards him_). Let us see, how we
shall put it--when the time comes--shall we? (_He detaches a pencil
from his watch chain and bends over the paper, writing._)
(JEAN _opens her lips to speak, moves a shade nearer the table and
then falls back upon her silent, half-incredulous misery._)
STONOR (_holds the paper off, smiling_). Enough dynamite in that!
Rather too much, isn't there, little girl?
JEAN. Geoffrey, I know her story.
STONOR. Whose story?
JEAN. Miss Levering's.
STONOR. _Whose?_
JEAN. Vida Levering's.
(STONOR _stares speechless. Slight pause._)
(_The words escaping from her in a miserable cry_) Why did you desert
her?
STONOR (_staggered_). I? _I?_
JEAN. Oh, why did you do it?
STONOR (_bewildered_). What in the name of---- What has she been saying
to you?
JEAN. Some one else told me part. Then the way you looked when you
saw her at Aunt Ellen's--Miss Levering's saying you didn't know
her--then your letting out that you knew even the curious name on the
handkerchief---- Oh, I pieced it together----
STONOR (_with recovered self-possession_). Your ingenuity is undeniable!
JEAN.--and then, when she said that at the meeting about "the dark hour"
and I looked at your face--it flashed over me---- Oh, _why_ did you
desert her?
STONOR. I _didn't_ desert her.
JEAN. Ah-h! (_Puts her hands before her eyes._)
(STONOR _makes a passionate motion towards her, is checked by her
muffled voice saying_)
I'm glad--I'm glad!
(_He stares bewildered._ JEAN _drops her hands in her lap and
steadies her voice._)
She went away from you, then?
STONOR. You don't expect me to enter into----
JEAN. She went away from you?
STONOR (_with a look of almost uncontrollable anger_). Yes!
JEAN. Was that because you wouldn't marry her?
STONOR. I couldn't marry her--and she knew it.
JEAN. Did you want to?
STONOR (_an instant's angry scrutiny and then turning away his eyes_).
I thought I did--_then_. It's a long time ago.
JEAN. And why "couldn't" you?
STONOR (_a movement of strong irritation cut short_). Why are you
catechising me? It's a matter that concerns another woman.
JEAN. If you're saying that it doesn't concern me, you're saying--(_her
lip trembles_)--that _you_ don't concern me.
STONOR (_commanding his temper with difficulty_). In those days I--I
was absolutely dependent on my father.
JEAN. Why, you must have been thirty, Geoffrey.
STONOR (_slight pause_). What? Oh--thereabouts.
JEAN. And everybody says you're so clever.
STONOR. Well, everybody's mistaken.
JEAN (_drawing nearer_). It must have been terribly hard----
(STONOR _turns towards her._)
for you both--
(_He arrests his movement and stands stonily._)
that a man like you shouldn't have had the freedom that even the lowest
seem to have.
STONOR. Freedom?
JEAN. To marry the woman they choose.
STONOR. She didn't break off our relations because I couldn't marry her.
JEAN. Why was it, then?
STONOR. You're too young to discuss such a story. (_Half turns away._)
JEAN. I'm not so young as she was when----
STONOR (_wheeling upon her_). Very well, then, if you will have it! The
truth is, it didn't seem to weigh upon her, as it seems to on you, that
I wasn't able to marry her.
JEAN. Why are you so sure of that?
STONOR. Because she didn't so much as hint such a thing when she wrote
that she meant to break off the--the----
JEAN. What made her write like that?
STONOR (_with suppressed rage_). Why _will_ you go on talking of what's
so long over and ended?
JEAN. What reason did she give?
STONOR. If your curiosity has so got the upper hand--_ask her_.
JEAN (_her eyes upon him_). You're afraid to tell me.
STONOR (_putting pressure on himself to answer quietly_). I still
hoped--at _that_ time--to win my father over. She blamed me because
(_goes to window and looks blindly out and speaks in a low tone_) if
the child had lived it wouldn't have been possible to get my father
to--to overlook it.
JEAN (_faintly_). You wanted it _overlooked_? I don't underst----
STONOR (_turning passionately back to her_). Of course you don't.
(_He seizes her hand and tries to draw her to him._) If you did, you
wouldn't be the beautiful, tender, innocent child you are----
JEAN (_has withdrawn her hand and shrunk from him with an
impulse--slight as is its expression--so tragically eloquent, that fear
for the first time catches hold of him_). I am glad you didn't mean
to desert her, Geoffrey. It wasn't your fault after all--only some
misunderstanding that can be cleared up.
STONOR. _Cleared up?_
JEAN. Yes. Cleared up.
STONOR (_aghast_). You aren't thinking that this miserable old affair
I'd as good as forgotten----
JEAN (_in a horror-struck whisper, with a glance at the door which he
doesn't see_). _Forgotten!_
STONOR. No, no. I don't mean exactly forgotten. But you're torturing me
so I don't know what I'm saying. (_He goes closer._) You aren't--Jean!
you--you aren't going to let it come between you and me!
JEAN (_presses her handkerchief to her lips, and then, taking it away,
answers steadily_). I can't make or unmake what's past. But I'm glad,
at least, that you didn't _mean_ to desert her in her trouble. You'll
remind her of that first of all, won't you? (_Moves to the door_, L.)
STONOR. Where are you going? (_Raising his voice._) Why should I remind
anybody of what I want only to forget?
JEAN (_finger on lip_). Sh!
STONOR (_with eyes on the door_). You don't mean that _she's_----
JEAN. Yes. I left her to get a little rest.
(_He recoils in an access of uncontrollable rage. She follows him.
Speechless, he goes down_ R. _to get his hat._)
Geoffrey, don't go before you hear me. I don't know if what I think
matters to you now--but I hope it does. (_With tears._) You can still
make me think of you without shrinking--if you will.
STONOR (_fixes her a moment with his eyes. Then sternly_). What is it
you are asking of me?
JEAN. To make amends, Geoffrey.
STONOR (_with an outburst_). You poor little innocent!
JEAN. I'm poor enough. But (_locking her hands together_) I'm not so
innocent but what I know you must right that old wrong now, if you're
ever to right it.
STONOR. You aren't insane enough to think I would turn round in these
few hours and go back to something that ten years ago was ended for
ever! Why, it's stark, staring madness!
JEAN. No. (_Catching on his arm._) What you did ten years ago--_that_
was mad. This is paying a debt.
STONOR. Look here, Jean, you're dreadfully wrought up and
excited--tired too----
JEAN. No, not tired--though I've travelled so far to-day.
I know you smile at sudden conversions. You think they're
hysterical--worse--vulgar. But people must get their revelation how
they can. And, Geoffrey, if I can't make you see this one of mine--I
shall know your love could never mean strength to me. Only weakness.
And I shall be afraid. So afraid I'll never dare to give you the
_chance_ of making me loathe myself. I shall never see you again.
STONOR. How right _I_ was to be afraid of that vein of fanaticism in
you. (_Moves towards the door._)
JEAN. Certainly you couldn't make a greater mistake than to go away now
and think it any good ever to come back. (_He turns._) Even if I came
to feel different, I couldn't _do_ anything different. I should know
all this couldn't be forgotten. I should know that it would poison my
life in the end. Yours too.
STONOR (_with suppressed fury_). She has made good use of her time!
(_With a sudden thought._) What has changed her? Has _she_ been seeing
visions too?
JEAN. What do you mean?
STONOR. Why is she intriguing to get hold of a man that, ten years ago,
she flatly refused to see, or hold any communication with?
JEAN. "Intriguing to get hold of?" She hasn't mentioned you!
STONOR. _What!_ Then how in the name of Heaven do you know--that she
wants--what you ask?
JEAN (_firmly_). There can't be any doubt about that.
STONOR (_with immense relief_). You absurd, ridiculous child! Then
all this is just your own unaided invention. Well--I could thank God!
(_Falls into the nearest chair and passes his handkerchief over his
face._)
JEAN (_perplexed, uneasy_). For what are you thanking God?
STONOR (_trying to think out his plan of action_). Suppose--(I'm not
going to risk it)--but suppose--(_He looks up and at the sight of_
JEAN'S _face a new tenderness comes into his own. He rises suddenly._)
Whether I deserve to suffer or not--it's quite certain _you_ don't.
Don't cry, dear one. It never was the real thing. I had to wait till I
knew you before I understood.
JEAN (_lifts her eyes brimming_). Oh, is that true? (_Checks her
movement towards him._) Loving you has made things clear to me I didn't
dream of before. If I could think that because of me you were able to
do this----
STONOR (_seizes her by the shoulders and says hoarsely_). Look here!
Do you seriously ask me to give up the girl I love--to go and offer to
marry a woman that even to think of----
JEAN. You cared for her once. You'll care about her again. She is
beautiful and brilliant--everything. I've heard she could win any man
she set herself to----
STONOR (_pushing_ JEAN _from him_). She's bewitched you!
JEAN. Geoffrey, Geoffrey, you aren't going away like that. This isn't
_the end_!
STONOR (_darkly--hesitating_). I suppose even if she refused me,
you'd----
JEAN. She won't refuse you.
STONOR. She did once.
JEAN. She didn't refuse to _marry_ you----
(JEAN _is going to the door_ L.)
STONOR (_catches her by the arm_). Wait!--a---- (_Hunting for some
means of gaining time._) Lady John is waiting all this while for the
car to go back with a message.
JEAN. _That's_ not a matter of life and death----
STONOR. All the same--I'll go down and give the order.
JEAN (_stopping quite still on a sudden_). Very well. (_Sits_ C.)
You'll come back if you're the man I pray you are. (_Breaks into a
flood of silent tears, her elbows on the table_ (C.) _her face in her
hands._)
STONOR (_returns, bends over her, about to take her in his arms_).
Dearest of all the world----
(_Door_ L. _opens softly and_ VIDA LEVERING _appears. She is
arrested at sight of_ STONOR, _and is in the act of drawing
back when, upon the slight noise_, STONOR _looks round. His
face darkens, he stands staring at her and then with a look of
speechless anger goes silently out_ C. JEAN, _hearing him shut
the door, drops her head on the table with a sob._ VIDA LEVERING
_crosses slowly to her and stands a moment silent at the girl's
side._)
MISS L. What is the matter?
JEAN (_lifting her head and drying her eyes_). I--I've been seeing
Geoffrey.
MISS L. (_with an attempt at lightness_). Is this the effect seeing
Geoffrey has?
JEAN. You see, I know now (_as_ MISS LEVERING _looks quite
uncomprehending_)--how he (_drops her eyes_)--how he spoiled some one
else's life.
MISS L. (_quickly_). Who tells you that?
JEAN. Several people have told me.
MISS L. Well, you should be very careful how you believe what you hear.
JEAN (_passionately_). You _know_ it's true.
MISS L. I know that it's possible to be mistaken.
JEAN. I see! You're trying to shield him----
MISS L. Why should I--what is it to me?
JEAN (_with tears_). Oh--h, how you must love him!
MISS L. Listen to me----
JEAN (_rising_). What's the use of your going on denying it?
(MISS LEVERING, _about to break in, is silenced._)
_Geoffrey doesn't._
(JEAN, _struggling to command her feelings, goes to window._ VIDA
LEVERING _relinquishes an impulse to follow, and sits left
centre._ JEAN _comes slowly back with her eyes bent on the floor,
does not lift them till she is quite near_ VIDA. _Then the girl's
self-absorbed face changes._)
Oh, don't look like that! I shall bring him back to you! (_Drops on her
knees beside the other's chair._)
MISS L. You would be impertinent (_softening_) if you weren't a
romantic child. You can't bring him back.
JEAN. Yes, he----
MISS L. But there's something you _can_ do----
JEAN. What?
MISS L. Bring him to the point where he recognises that he's in our
debt.
JEAN. In _our_ debt?
MISS L. In debt to women. He can't repay the one he robbed----
JEAN (_wincing and rising from her knees_). Yes, yes.
MISS L. (_sternly_). No, he can't repay the dead. But there are the
living. There are the thousands with hope still in their hearts and
youth in their blood. Let him help _them_. Let him be a Friend to Women.
JEAN (_rising on a wave of enthusiasm_). Yes, yes--I understand. That
too!
(_The door opens. As_ STONOR _enters with_ LADY JOHN, _he makes a
slight gesture towards the two as much as to say, "You see."_)
JEAN (_catching sight of him_). Thank you!
LADY JOHN (_in a clear, commonplace tone to_ JEAN). Well, you rather
gave us the slip. Vida, I believe Mr. Stonor wants to see you for a
few minutes (_glances at watch_)--but I'd like a word with you first,
as I must get back. (_To_ STONOR.) Do you think the car--your man said
something about re-charging.
STONOR (_hastily_). Oh, did he?--I'll see about it.
(_As_ STONOR _is going out he encounters the_ BUTLER. _Exit_
STONOR.)
BUTLER. Mr. Trent has called, Miss, to take Miss Levering to the
meeting.
JEAN. Bring Mr. Trent into my sitting-room. I'll tell him--you can't go
to-night.
[_Exeunt_ BUTLER C., JEAN L.
LADY JOHN (_hurriedly_). I know, my dear, _you're_ not aware of what
that impulsive girl wants to insist on.
MISS L. Yes, I am aware of it.
LADY JOHN. But it isn't with your sanction, surely, that she goes on
making this extraordinary demand.
MISS L. (_slowly_). I didn't sanction it at first, but I've been
thinking it over.
LADY JOHN. Then all I can say is I am greatly disappointed in you. You
threw this man over years ago for reasons--whatever they were--that
seemed to you good and sufficient. And now you come between him and a
younger woman--just to play Nemesis, so far as I can make out!
MISS L. Is that what he says?
LADY JOHN. He says nothing that isn't fair and considerate.
MISS L. I can see he's changed.
LADY JOHN. And you're unchanged--is that it?
MISS L. I've changed even more than he.
LADY JOHN. But (_pity and annoyance blended in her tone_)--you care
about him still, Vida?
MISS L. No.
LADY JOHN. I see. It's just that you wish to marry somebody----
MISS L. Oh, Lady John, there are no men listening.
LADY JOHN (_surprised_). No, I didn't suppose there were.
MISS L. Then why keep up that old pretence?
LADY JOHN. What pre----
MISS L. That to marry _at all costs_ is every woman's dearest ambition
till the grave closes over her. You and I _know_ it isn't true.
LADY JOHN. Well, but---- Oh! it was just the unexpected sight of him
bringing it back---- _That_ was what fired you this afternoon! (_With
an honest attempt at sympathetic understanding._) Of course. The memory
of a thing like that can never die--can never even be dimmed--_for the
woman_.
MISS L. I mean her to think so.
LADY JOHN (_bewildered_). Jean!
(MISS LEVERING _nods._)
LADY JOHN. And it _isn't_ so?
MISS L. You don't seriously believe a woman with anything else to think
about, comes to the end of ten years still _absorbed_ in a memory of
that sort?
LADY JOHN (_astonished_). You've got over it, then!
MISS L. If the newspapers didn't remind me I shouldn't remember once a
twelvemonth that there was ever such a person as Geoffrey Stonor in the
world.
LADY JOHN (_with unconscious rapture_). Oh, I'm _so_ glad!
MISS L. (_smiles grimly_). Yes, I'm glad too.
LADY JOHN. And if Geoffrey Stonor offered you--what's called
"reparation"--you'd refuse it?
MISS L. (_smiles a little contemptuously_). Geoffrey Stonor! For me
he's simply one of the far-back links in a chain of evidence. It's
certain I think a hundred times of other women's present unhappiness,
to once that I remember that old unhappiness of mine that's past.
I think of the nail and chain makers of Cradley Heath. The sweated
girls of the slums. I think of the army of ill-used women whose very
existence I mustn't mention----
LADY JOHN (_interrupting hurriedly_). Then why in Heaven's name do you
let poor Jean imagine----
MISS L. (_bending forward_). Look--I'll trust you, Lady John. I don't
suffer from that old wrong as Jean thinks I do, but I shall coin her
sympathy into gold for a greater cause than mine.
LADY JOHN. I don't understand you.
MISS L. Jean isn't old enough to be able to care as much about a
principle as about a person. But if my half-forgotten pain can turn her
generosity into the common treasury----
LADY JOHN. What do you propose she shall do, poor child?
MISS L. Use her hold over Geoffrey Stonor to make him help us!
LADY JOHN. Help you?
MISS L. The man who served one woman--God knows how many more--very
ill, shall serve hundreds of thousands well. Geoffrey Stonor shall make
it harder for his son, harder still for his grandson, to treat any
woman as he treated me.
LADY JOHN. How will he do that?
MISS L. By putting an end to the helplessness of women.
LADY JOHN (_ironically_). You must think he has a great deal of
power----
MISS L. Power? Yes, men have too much over penniless and frightened
women.
LADY JOHN (_impatiently_). What nonsense! You talk as though the women
hadn't their share of human nature. _We_ aren't made of ice any more
than the men.
MISS L. No, but all the same we have more self-control.
LADY JOHN. Than men?
MISS L. You know we have.
LADY JOHN (_shrewdly_). I know we mustn't admit it.
MISS L. For fear they'd call us fishes!
LADY JOHN (_evasively_). They talk of our lack of self-control--but
it's the last thing they _want_ women to have.
MISS L. Oh, we know what they want us to have. So we make shift to have
it. If we don't, we go without hope--sometimes we go without bread.
LADY JOHN (_shocked_). Vida--do you mean to say that you----
MISS L. I mean to say that men's vanity won't let them see it, but the
thing's largely a question of economics.
LADY JOHN (_shocked_). You _never_ loved him, then!
MISS L. Oh, yes, I loved him--_once_. It was my helplessness turned the
best thing life can bring, into a curse for both of us.
LADY JOHN. I don't understand you----
MISS L. Oh, being "understood!"--that's too much to expect. When people
come to know I've joined the Union----
LADY JOHN. But you won't----
MISS L.--who is there who will resist the temptation to say, "Poor Vida
Levering! What a pity she hasn't got a husband and a baby to keep her
quiet"? The few who know about me, they'll be equally sure that it's
not the larger view of life I've gained--my own poor little story is
responsible for my new departure. (_Leans forward and looks into_ LADY
JOHN'S _face._) My best friend, she will be surest of all, that it's a
private sense of loss, or, lower yet, a grudge----! But I tell you the
only difference between me and thousands of women with husbands and
babies is that I'm free to say what I think. _They aren't._
LADY JOHN (_rising and looking at her watch_). I must get back--my poor
ill-used guests.
MISS L. (_rising_). I won't ring. I think you'll find Mr. Stonor
downstairs waiting for you.
LADY JOHN (_embarrassed_). Oh--a--he will have left word about the car
in any case.
(MISS LEVERING _has opened the door_ (C.). ALLEN TRENT _is in the
act of saying goodbye to_ JEAN _in the hall._)
MISS L. Well, Mr. Trent, I didn't expect to see you this evening.
TRENT (_comes and stands in the doorway_). Why not? Have I ever failed?
MISS L. Lady John, this is one of our allies. He is good enough to
squire me through the rabble from time to time.
LADY JOHN. Well, I think it's very handsome of you, after what she said
to-day about men. (_Shakes hands._)
TRENT. I've no great opinion of most men myself. I might add--or of
most women.
LADY JOHN. Oh! Well, at any rate I shall go away relieved to think that
Miss Levering's plain speaking hasn't alienated _all_ masculine regard.
TRENT. Why should it?
LADY JOHN. That's right, Mr. Trent! Don't believe all she says in the
heat of propaganda.
TRENT. I do believe all she says. But I'm not cast down.
LADY JOHN (_smiling_). Not when she says----
TRENT (_interrupting_). Was there never a mysogynist of my sex who
ended by deciding to make an exception?
LADY JOHN (_smiling significantly_). Oh, if _that's_ what you build on!
TRENT. Well, why shouldn't a man-hater on your side prove equally open
to reason?
MISS L. That part of the question doesn't concern me. I've come to
a place where I realise that the first battles of this new campaign
must be fought by women alone. The only effective help men could
give--amendment of the law--they refuse. The rest is nothing.
LADY JOHN. Don't be ungrateful, Vida. Here's Mr. Trent ready to face
criticism in publicly championing you.
MISS L. It's an illusion that I as an individual need Mr. Trent. I am
quite safe in the crowd. Please don't wait for me, and don't come for
me again.
TRENT (_flushes_). Of course if you'd rather----
MISS L. And that reminds me. I was asked to thank you and to tell
you, too, that they--the women of the Union--they won't need your
chairmanship any more--though that, I beg you to believe, has nothing
to do with any feeling of mine.
TRENT (_hurt_). Of course, I know there must be other men ready--better
known men----
MISS L. It isn't that. It's simply that they find a man can't keep a
rowdy meeting in order as well as a woman.
(_He stares._)
LADY JOHN. You aren't serious?
MISS L. (_to_ TRENT). Haven't you noticed that all their worst
disturbances come when men are in charge?
TRENT. Well--a--(_laughs a little ruefully as he moves to the door_) I
hadn't connected the two ideas. Goodbye.
MISS L. Goodbye.
(JEAN _takes him downstairs, right centre._)
LADY JOHN (_as_ TRENT _disappears_). That nice boy's in love with you.
(MISS LEVERING _simply looks at her._)
LADY JOHN. Goodbye. (_They shake hands._) I wish you hadn't been so
unkind to that nice boy!
MISS L. Do you?
LADY JOHN. Yes, for then I would be more certain of your telling
Geoffrey Stonor that intelligent women don't nurse their wrongs and lie
in wait to punish them.
MISS L. You are _not_ certain?
LADY JOHN (_goes close up to_ VIDA). Are you?
(VIDA _stands with her eyes on the ground, silent, motionless._
LADY JOHN, _with a nervous glance at her watch and a gesture of
extreme perturbation, goes hurriedly out._ VIDA _shuts the door.
She comes slowly back, sits down and covers her face with her
hands. She rises and begins to walk up and down, obviously trying
to master her agitation. Enter_ GEOFFREY STONOR.)
MISS L. Well, have they primed you? Have you got your lesson (_with a
little broken laugh_) _by heart_ at last?
STONOR (_looking at her from immeasurable distance_). I am not sure I
understand you. (_Pause._) However unpropitious your mood may be--I
shall discharge my errand. (_Pause. Her silence irritates him._) I
have promised to offer you what I believe is called "amends."
MISS L. (_quickly_). You've come to realise, then--after all these
years--that you owed me something?
STONOR (_on the brink of protest, checks himself_). I am not here to
deny it.
MISS L. (_fiercely_). Pay, then--_pay_.
STONOR (_a moment's dread as he looks at her, his lips set. Then
stonily_). I have promised that, if you exact it, I will.
MISS L. Ah! If I insist you'll "make it all good"! (_Quite low._) Then
don't you know you must pay me in kind?
STONOR. What do you mean?
MISS L. Give me back what you took from me: my old faith. Give me that.
STONOR. Oh, if you mean to make phrases---- (_A gesture of scant
patience._)
MISS L. (_going closer_). Or give me back mere kindness--or even
tolerance. Oh, I don't mean _your_ tolerance! Give me back the power to
think fairly of my brothers--not as mockers--thieves.
STONOR. I have not mocked you. And I have asked you----
MISS L. Something you knew I should refuse! Or (_her eyes blaze_) did
you dare to be afraid I wouldn't?
STONOR. I suppose, if we set our teeth, we could----
MISS L. I couldn't--not even if I set my teeth. And you wouldn't dream
of asking me, if you thought there was the smallest chance.
STONOR. I can do no more than make you an offer of such reparation as
is in my power. If you don't accept it---- (_He turns with an air of
"That's done."_)
MISS L. Accept it? No!... Go away and live in debt! Pay and pay and
pay--and find yourself still in debt!--for a thing you'll never be able
to give me back. (_Lower._) And when you come to die, say to yourself,
"I paid all creditors but one."
STONOR. I'm rather tired, you know, of this talk of debt. If I hear
that you persist in it I shall have to----
MISS L. What? (_She faces him._)
STONOR. No. I'll keep to my resolution. (_Turning to the door._)
MISS L. (_intercepting him_). What resolution?
STONOR. I came here, under considerable pressure, to speak of the
future--not to re-open the past.
MISS L. The Future and the Past are one.
STONOR. You talk as if that old madness was mine alone. It is the
woman's way.
MISS L. I know. And it's not fair. Men suffer as well as we by the
woman's starting wrong. We are taught to think the man a sort of
demigod. If he tells her: "go down into Hell"--down into Hell she goes.
STONOR. Make no mistake. Not the woman alone. _They go down together._
MISS L. Yes, they go down together, but the man comes up alone. As a
rule. It is more convenient so--for him. And for the Other Woman.
(_The eyes of both go to_ JEAN'S _door._)
STONOR (_angrily_). My conscience is clear. I know--and so do you--that
most men in my position wouldn't have troubled themselves. I gave
myself endless trouble.
MISS L. (_with wondering eyes_). So you've gone about all these years
feeling that you'd discharged every obligation.
STONOR. Not only that. I stood by you with a fidelity that was nothing
short of Quixotic. If, woman like, you _must_ recall the Past--I insist
on your recalling it correctly.
MISS L. (_very low_). You think I don't recall it correctly?
STONOR. Not when you make--other people believe that I deserted you.
(_With gathering wrath._) It's a curious enough charge when you stop to
consider---- (_Checks himself, and with a gesture of impatience sweeps
the whole thing out of his way._)
MISS L. Well, when we _do_--just for five minutes out of ten
years--when we do stop to consider----
STONOR. We remember it was _you_ who did the deserting! Since you had
to rake the story up, you might have had the fairness to tell the facts.
MISS L. You think "the facts" would have excused you! (_She sits._)
STONOR. No doubt you've forgotten them, since Lady John tells me you
wouldn't remember my existence once a year if the newspapers didn't----
MISS L. Ah, you minded that!
STONOR (_with manly spirit_). I minded your giving false impressions.
(_She is about to speak, he advances on her._) Do you deny that you
returned my letters unopened?
MISS L. (_quietly_). No.
STONOR. Do you deny that you refused to see me--and that, when I
persisted, you vanished?
MISS L. I don't deny any of those things.
STONOR. Why, I had no trace of you for years!
MISS L. I suppose not.
STONOR. Very well, then. What _could_ I do?
MISS L. Nothing. It was too late to do anything.
STONOR. It wasn't too late! You knew--since you "read the papers"--that
my father died that same year. There was no longer any barrier between
us.
MISS L. Oh yes, there was a barrier.
STONOR. Of your own making, then.
MISS L. I had my guilty share in it--but the barrier (_her voice
trembles_)--the barrier was your invention.
STONOR. It was no "invention." If you had ever known my father----
MISS L. Oh, the echoes! The echoes! How often you used to say, if
I "knew your father!" But you said, too (_lower_)--you called the
greatest barrier by another name.
STONOR. What name?
MISS L. (_very low_). The child that was to come.
STONOR (_hastily_). That was before my father died. While I still hoped
to get his consent.
MISS L. (_nods_). How the thought of that all-powerful personage used
to terrorise me! What chance had a little unborn child against "the
last of the great feudal lords," as you called him.
STONOR. You _know_ the child would have stood between you and me!
MISS L. I know the child _did_ stand between you and me!
STONOR (_with vague uneasiness_). It _did_ stand----
MISS L. Happy mothers teach their children. Mine had to teach me.
STONOR. You talk as if----
MISS L.--teach me that a woman may do a thing for love's sake that
shall kill love.
(_A silence._)
STONOR (_fearing and putting from him fuller comprehension, rises with
an air of finality_). You certainly made it plain you had no love left
for me.
MISS L. I had need of it all for the child.
STONOR (_stares--comes closer, speaks hurriedly and very low_). Do you
mean then that, after all--it lived?
MISS L. No; I mean that it was sacrificed. But it showed me no barrier
is so impassable as the one a little child can raise.
STONOR (_a light dawning_). Was that why you ... was _that_ why?
MISS L. (_nods, speechless a moment_). Day and night there it
was!--between my thought of you and me. (_He sits again, staring at
her._) When I was most unhappy I would wake, thinking I heard it cry.
It was my own crying I heard, but I seemed to have it in my arms.
I suppose I was mad. I used to lie there in that lonely farmhouse
pretending to hush it. It was so I hushed myself.
STONOR. I never knew----
MISS L. I didn't blame you. You couldn't risk being with me.
STONOR. You agreed that for both our sakes----
MISS L. Yes, you had to be very circumspect. You were so well known.
Your autocratic father--your brilliant political future----
STONOR. Be fair. _Our_ future--as I saw it then.
MISS L. Yes, it all hung on concealment. It must have looked quite
simple to you. You didn't know that the ghost of a child that had
never seen the light, the frail thing you meant to sweep aside and
forget--_have_ swept aside and forgotten--you didn't know it was strong
enough to push you out of my life. (_Lower with an added intensity._)
It can do more. (_Leans over him and whispers._) It can push that girl
out. (STONOR'S _face changes._) It can do more still.
STONOR. Are you threatening me?
MISS L. No, I am preparing you.
STONOR. For what?
MISS L. For the work that must be done. Either with _your help_--or
_that girl's_.
(STONOR _lifts his eyes a moment._)
MISS L. One of two things. Either her life, and all she has, given to
this new service--or a Ransom, if I give her up to you.
STONOR. I see. A price. Well----?
MISS L. (_looks searchingly in his face, hesitates and shakes her
head_). Even if I could trust you to pay--no, it would be a poor
bargain to give her up for anything you could do.
STONOR (_rising_). In spite of your assumption--she may not be your
tool.
MISS L. You are horribly afraid she is! But you are wrong. Don't think
it's merely I that have got hold of Jean Dunbarton.
STONOR (_angrily_). Who else?
MISS L. The New Spirit that's abroad.
(STONOR _turns away with an exclamation and begins to pace,
sentinel-like, up and down before_ JEAN'S _door._)
MISS L. How else should that inexperienced girl have felt the new
loyalty and responded as she did?
STONOR (_under his breath_). "New" indeed--however little loyal.
MISS L. Loyal above all. But no newer than electricity was when
it first lit up the world. It had been there since the world
began--waiting to do away with the dark. _So has the thing you're
fighting._
STONOR (_his voice held down to its lowest register_). The thing I'm
fighting is nothing more than one person's hold on a highly sensitive
imagination. I consented to this interview with the hope---- (_A
gesture of impotence._) It only remains for me to show her your true
motive is revenge.
MISS L. Once say that to her and you are lost!
(STONOR _motionless; his look is the look of a man who sees
happiness slipping away._)
MISS L. I know what it is that men fear. It even seems as if it must
be through fear that your enlightenment will come. That is why I see a
value in Jean Dunbarton far beyond her fortune.
(STONOR _lifts his eyes dully and fixes them on_ VIDA'S _face._)
MISS L. More than any girl I know--if I keep her from you--that gentle,
inflexible creature could rouse in men the old half-superstitious
fear----
STONOR. "Fear?" I believe you are mad.
MISS L. "Mad." "Unsexed." These are the words to-day. In the Middle
Ages men cried out "Witch!" and burnt her--the woman who served no
man's bed or board.
STONOR. You want to make that poor child believe----
MISS L. She sees for herself we've come to a place where we find
there's a value in women apart from the value men see in them. You
teach us not to look to you for some of the things we need most. If
women must be freed by women, we have need of such as--(_her eyes go
to_ JEAN'S _door_)--who knows? She may be the new Joan of Arc.
STONOR (_aghast_). That _she_ should be the sacrifice!
MISS L. You have taught us to look very calmly on the sacrifice of
women. Men tell us in every tongue it's "a necessary evil."
(STONOR _stands rooted, staring at the ground._)
MISS L. One girl's happiness--against a thing nobler than happiness for
thousands--who can hesitate?--_Not Jean._
STONOR. Good God! Can't you see that this crazed campaign you'd start
her on--even if it's successful, it can only be so through the help of
men? What excuse shall you make your own soul for not going straight to
the goal?
MISS L. You think we wouldn't be glad to go straight to the goal?
STONOR. I do. I see you'd much rather punish me and see her revel in a
morbid self-sacrifice.
MISS L. You say I want to punish you only because, like most men, you
won't take the trouble to understand what we do want--or how determined
we are to have it. You can't kill this new spirit among women. (_Going
nearer._) And you couldn't make a greater mistake than to think it
finds a home only in the exceptional, or the unhappy. It's so strange,
Geoffrey, to see a man like you as much deluded as the Hyde Park
loafers who say to Ernestine Blunt, "Who's hurt _your_ feelings?" Why
not realise (_going quite close to him_) this is a thing that goes
deeper than personal experience? And yet (_lowering her voice and
glancing at the door_), if you take only the narrowest personal view, a
good deal depends on what you and I agree upon in the next five minutes.
STONOR (_bringing her farther away from the door_). You recommend my
realising the larger issues. But in your ambition to attach that girl
to the chariot wheels of "Progress," you quite ignore the fact that
people fitter for such work--the men you look to enlist in the end--are
ready waiting to give the thing a chance.
MISS L. Men are ready! What men?
STONOR (_avoiding her eyes, picking his words_). Women have themselves
to blame that the question has grown so delicate that responsible
people shrink--for the moment--from being implicated in it.
MISS L. We have seen the "shrinking."
STONOR. Without quoting any one else, I might point out that the New
Antagonism seems to have blinded you to the small fact that I, for one,
am not an opponent.
MISS L. The phrase _has_ a familiar ring. We have heard it from four
hundred and twenty others.
STONOR. I spoke, if I may say so, of some one who would count. Some one
who can carry his party along with him--or risk a seat in the Cabinet.
MISS L. (_quickly_). Did you mean you are ready to do that?
STONOR. An hour ago I was.
MISS L. Ah!... an hour ago.
STONOR. Exactly. You don't understand men. They can be led. They can't
be driven. Ten minutes before you came into the room I was ready to say
I would throw in my political lot with this Reform.
MISS L. And now...?
STONOR. Now you block my way by an attempt at coercion. By forcing my
hand you give my adherence an air of bargain-driving for a personal
end. Exactly the mistake of the ignorant agitators of your "Union,"
as you call it. You have a great deal to learn. This movement will
go forward, not because of the agitation, but in spite of it. There
are men in Parliament who would have been actively serving the Reform
to-day ... as actively as so vast a constitutional change----
MISS L. (_smiles faintly_). And they haven't done it because----
STONOR. Because it would have put a premium on breaches of decent
behaviour. (_He takes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket._)
Look here!
MISS L. (_flushes with excitement as she reads the telegram_). This is
very good. I see only one objection.
STONOR. Objection!
MISS L. You haven't sent it.
STONOR. _That_ is your fault.
MISS L. When did you write this?
STONOR. Just before you came in--when----(_He glances at the door._)
MISS L. Ah! It must have pleased Jean--that message. (_Offers him back
the paper._)
(STONOR _astonished at her yielding it up so lightly, and
remembering_ JEAN _had not so much as read it. He throws himself
heavily into a chair and drops his head in his hands._)
MISS L. I could drive a hard-and-fast bargain with you, but I think I
won't. If _both_ love and ambition urge you on, perhaps----(_She gazes
at the slack, hopeless figure with its sudden look of age--goes over
silently and stands by his side._) After all, life hasn't been quite
fair to you----
(_He raises his heavy eyes._)
You fall out of one ardent woman's dreams into another's.
STONOR. You may as well tell me--do you mean to----?
MISS L. To keep you and her apart? No.
STONOR (_for the first time tears come into his eyes. After a moment he
holds out his hand_). What can I do for you?
(MISS LEVERING _shakes her head--speechless._)
STONOR. For the real you. Not the Reformer, or the would-be
politician--for the woman I so unwillingly hurt. (_As she turns away,
struggling with her feeling, he lays a detaining hand on her arm._) You
may not believe it, but now that I understand, there is almost nothing
I wouldn't do to right that old wrong.
MISS L. There's nothing to be done. You can never give me back my child.
STONOR (_at the anguish in_ VIDA'S _face his own has changed_). Will
that ghost give you no rest?
MISS L. Yes, oh, yes. I see life is nobler than I knew. There is work
to do.
STONOR (_stopping her as she goes towards the folding doors_). Why
should you think that it's only you, these ten years have taught
something to? Why not give even a man credit for a willingness to
learn something of life, and for being sorry--profoundly sorry--for
the pain his instruction has cost others? You seem to think I've taken
it all quite lightly. That's not fair. All my life, ever since you
disappeared, the thought of you has hurt. I would give anything I
possess to know you--were happy again.
MISS L. Oh, happiness!
STONOR (_significantly_). Why shouldn't you find it still.
MISS L. (_stares an instant_). I see! She couldn't help telling about
Allen Trent--Lady John couldn't.
STONOR. You're one of the people the years have not taken from, but
given more to. You are more than ever.... You haven't lost your beauty.
MISS L. The gods saw it was so little effectual, it wasn't worth
taking away. (_She stands looking out into the void._) One woman's
mishap?--what is that? A thing as trivial to the great world as it's
sordid in most eyes. But the time has come when a woman may look
about her, and say, "What general significance has my secret pain?
Does it 'join on' to anything?" And I find it does. I'm no longer
merely a woman who has stumbled on the way. I'm one (_she controls
with difficulty the shake in her voice_) who has got up bruised and
bleeding, wiped the dust from her hands and the tears from her face,
and said to herself not merely, "Here's one luckless woman! but--here
is a stone of stumbling to many. Let's see if it can't be moved out
of other women's way." And she calls people to come and help. No
mortal man, let alone a woman, _by herself_, can move that rock of
offence. But (_with a sudden sombre flame of enthusiasm_) if many help,
Geoffrey, the thing can be done.
STONOR (_looks at her with wondering pity_). Lord! how you care!
MISS L. (_touched by his moved face_). Don't be so sad. Shall I tell
you a secret? Jean's ardent dreams needn't frighten you, if she has a
child. _That_--from the beginning, it was not the strong arm--it was
the weakest--the little, little arms that subdued the fiercest of us.
(STONOR _puts out a pitying hand uncertainly towards her. She does
not take it, but speaks with great gentleness._)
You will have other children, Geoffrey--for me there was to be only
one. Well, well--(_she brushes her tears away_)--since men alone have
tried and failed to make a decent world for the little children to live
in--it's as well some of us are childless. (_Quietly taking up her hat
and cloak._) Yes, _we_ are the ones who have no excuse for standing
aloof from the fight.
STONOR. Vida!
MISS L. What?
STONOR. You've forgotten something. (_As she looks back he is signing
the message._) _This._
(_She goes out silently with the "political dynamite" in her hand._)
CURTAIN.
The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, WOKING AND LONDON.
Corrections.
The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.
p. 43:
we all realise it was a perfectiy lunatic proceeding
we all realise it was a perfectly lunatic proceeding
p. 73:
the unemployed in the condition they' e
the unemployed in the condition they're
p. 92:
you aren't going away lik that.
you aren't going away like that.