She rubs her cheek against his. Feeling that he does not rub
his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to
her mother in wonder.
THE CURTAIN FALLS
ACT III
SCENE I
A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban
theatre. The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building
is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment
bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one
still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the-
War Meeting, October 1st. Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and
others." The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps
of paper. Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. It
is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all
the light there is. A faint, confused murmur, as of distant
hooting is heard. Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough
girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is
again deserted. The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking
his head out, looks up and down. He withdraws, but in a second
reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen.
DOORKEEPER. It's all clear. You can get away down here, gentlemen.
Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner.
THE THREE. [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks,
very much! Thanks!
FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Where's More? Isn't he coming?
They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN.
FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER]
Thanks.
They hurry away. The DOORKEEPER retires. Another boy runs
past. Then the door opens again. STEEL and MORE come out.
MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go
back.
STEEL. Come along, sir, come!
MORE. It sticks in my gizzard, Steel.
STEEL. [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down
the steps] You owe it to the theatre people. [MORE still hesitates]
We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More
half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't seen
you for six weeks.
MORE. All right; don't dislocate my arm.
They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes
running down the alley. Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins
round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 'Ere 'e
is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came.
STEEL. Quick, Sir, quick!
MORE. That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador
remarked.
STEEL. [Pulling him back towards the door] Well! come inside again,
anyway!
A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping
quickly from the left. A motley crew, out for excitement;
loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. All in
the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. They gather round
the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity
that follows on a new development of any chase. MORE, on the
bottom step, turns and eyes them.
A GIRL. [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or the young?
[MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.]
TALL YOUTH. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted
traitor!
MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the
chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they
realized that they were spoiling their own sport.
A ROUGH GIRL. Don't frighten the poor feller!
[A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.]
STEEL. [Tugging at MORE's arm] Come along, sir.
MORE. [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd] Well, what do you want?
A VOICE. Speech.
MORE. Indeed! That's new.
ROUGH VOICE. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver.
You can see it in his face.
A BIG NAVY. [In front] Shut it! Give 'im a chanst!
TALL YOUTH. Silence for the blasted traitor?
A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt
silence.
MORE. You shall have it in a nutshell!
A SHOPBOY. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the
shoulder] Here y'are!
MORE. Go home, and think! If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be
fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there?
TALL YOUTH. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they come out in the open?
MORE. They fight the best way they can.
[A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the
outskirt.]
MORE. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. I've never said a
word against our soldiers. It's the Government I condemn for putting
them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all
of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do,
left to yourselves.
The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of
execration.
MORE. I say not one of you would go for a weaker man.
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
ROUGH VOICE. Tork sense!
GIRL'S VOICE. He's gittin' at you!
TALL YOUTH'S VOICE. Shiny skunk!
A NAVVY. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look 'ere, Mister! Don't
you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the
worse for you-you go 'ome!
COCKNEY VOICE. And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.
[A spurt of laughter.]
A FRIENDLY VOICE. [From the outskirts] Shame! there! Bravo, More!
Keep it up!
[A scuffle drowns this cry.]
MORE. [With vehemence] Stop that! Stop that! You---!
TALL YOUTH. Traitor!
AN ARTISAN. Who black-legged?
MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies!
MORE. Those tribesmen are defending their homes.
TWO VOICES. Hear! hear!
[They are hustled into silence.]
TALL YOUTH. Wind-bag!
MORE. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes! Not mobbing
unarmed men!
[STEEL again pulls at his arm.]
ROUGH. Shut it, or we'll do you in!
MORE. [Recovering his coolness] Ah! Do me in by all means! You'd
deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your
time.
STEEL. For God's sake, sir!
MORE. [Shaking off his touch] Well!
There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost
figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. The crowd
recoils.
There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at
them.
COCKNEY VOICE. Don't 'e speak well! What eloquence!
Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE
across the face. He takes no notice.
ROUGH VOICE. That's it! Give 'im some encouragement.
The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous
smile on MORE'S face.
A TALL YOUTH. Traitor!
A VOICE. Don't stand there like a stuck pig.
A ROUGH. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that!
Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE
across the legs with a belt. STEEL starts forward. MORE,
flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil
staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this
silence is fast turning to rage.
THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there--or
we'll make you! Go on!
[MORE remains immovable.]
A YOUTH. [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak! See!
He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand. MORE jerks it
up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever. A
spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the
action. The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES
scornful face.
TALL YOUTH. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you'll get it!
A VOICE. Enough of your ugly mug!
A ROUGH. Give 'im one!
Two flung stones strike MORE. He staggers and nearly falls,
then rights himself.
A GIRL'S VOICE. Shame!
FRIENDLY VOICE. Bravo, More! Stick to it!
A ROUGH. Give 'im another!
A VOICE. No!
A GIRL'S VOICE. Let 'im alone! Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun!
Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy
silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet. Then the BIG
NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge
of the crowd.
THE NAVVY. Let 'im be!
With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd
breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is
nearly empty.
MORE. [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting
his coat] Well, Steel!
And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away.
Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass. One of them
stops and makes a note.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
SCENE II
The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured
wood. The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is
sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table,
brushing her hair. A door, on the left, stands ajar. An oak chair
against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other
furniture. Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist
is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs
show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. As the curtain rises,
KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening. She begins again
brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a
drawer of her dressing-table, reads. Through the just open door
behind her comes the voice of OLIVE.
OLIVE. Mummy! I'm awake!
But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in
her nightgown.
OLIVE. [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's
fourteen minutes to eleven.
KATHERINE. Olive, Olive!
OLIVE. I just wanted to see the time. I never can go to sleep if I
try--it's quite helpless, you know. Is there a victory yet?
[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh! I prayed extra special for one in
the evening papers. [Straying round her mother] Hasn't Daddy come?
KATHERINE. Not yet.
OLIVE. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face in her mother's
hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's particular to-night.
KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm.
OLIVE. How long has Daddy been away?
KATHERINE. Six weeks.
OLIVE. It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? Has he been
making speeches all the time?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. To-night, too?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. The night that man was here whose head's too bald for
anything--oh! Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so
termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a
wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they!
KATHERINE. Very.
OLIVE. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know.
KATHERINE. Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive.
OLIVE. Does Daddy often?
KATHERINE. Yes, nowadays.
OLIVE. What does it mean?
KATHERINE. Speaking to people who won't listen.
OLIVE. What do they do, then?
KATHERINE. Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd
comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things,
and hoot.
OLIVE. Poor Daddy! Is it people on our side who throw things?
KATHERINE. Yes, but only rough people.
OLIVE. Why does he go on doing it? I shouldn't.
KATHERINE. He thinks it is his duty.
OLIVE. To your neighbour, or only to God?
KATHERINE. To both.
OLIVE. Oh! Are those his letters?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." Does he always
call you his dear heart, Mummy? It's rather jolly, isn't it?
"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. For a few
hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are
the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y?
KATHERINE. [Putting away the letters] Come, Olive!
OLIVE. But what are they?
KATHERINE. Daddy means that he's been very unhappy.
OLIVE. Have you, too?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. [Cheerfully] So have I. May I open the window?
KATHERINE. No; you'll let the mist in.
OLIVE. Isn't it a funny mist-all flat!
KATHERINE. Now, come along, frog!
OLIVE. [Making time] Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back?
KATHERINE. We don't know, dear.
OLIVE. I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does.
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. That's something, isn't it?
KATHERINE. [Picking her up] Now then!
OLIVE. [Deliciously limp] Had I better put in the duty to your
neighbour if there isn't a victory soon? [As they pass through the
door] You're tickling under my knee! [Little gurgles of pleasure
follow. Then silence. Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for
Daddy.
KATHERINE comes back. She is about to leave the door a little
open, when she hears a knock on the other door. It is opened a
few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The
NURSE comes in.
KATHERINE. [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her] What is it,
Nurse?
NURSE. [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do
it in the daytime. I'm giving you notice.
KATHERINE. Nurse! You too!
She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay. The NURSE smudges a
slow tear away from her cheek.
NURSE. I want to go right away at once.
KATHERINE. Leave Olive! That is the sins of the fathers with a
vengeance.
NURSE. I've had another letter from my son. No, Miss Katherine,
while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish
creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back.
KATHERINE. But, Nurse----!
NURSE. It's not like them [With an ineffable gesture] downstairs,
because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke
again, or mind what the boys in the street say. I should think not--
no! It's my heart. I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and
him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water
that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day
one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself
perhaps. If anything were to 'appen to him. I'd never forgive
meself--here. Ah! Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad
news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time
the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself.
KATHERINE. But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you?
NURSE. [Smudging at her cheeks] There's that tells me it's
encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming
back to-night. You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says.
KATHERINE. Don't you know what it's costing him?
NURSE. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than
that it'll cost him, to go against the country.
KATHERINE. He's following his conscience.
NURSE. And others must follow theirs, too. No, Miss Katherine, for
you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your
father fair wasting away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been
these three months past. What'll you feel if anything happens to my
three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed
myself, when your precious mother couldn't? What would she have said
--with you in the camp of his enemies?
KATHERINE. Nurse, Nurse!
NURSE. In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and
makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war
lasts, there's our blood on this house.
KATHERINE. [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen.
NURSE. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move him to leave off!
I see your heart, my dear. But if you don't, then go I must!
She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room,
opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the
words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door.
KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and
smooths her lips and eyes. The door from the corridor is
opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit! You're not in bed?"
KATHERINE. No.
HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her
head. Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into
KATHERINE's arms.
KATHERINE. My dear, what is it?
HELEN. I've seen--a vision!
KATHERINE. Hssh! You'll wake Olive!
HELEN. [Staring before her] I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a
plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. And on it
there were--dark things. One grew into a body without a head, and a
gun by its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a
wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford. And then
I saw--Hubert. His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound,
an awful wound here [She touches her breast]. The blood was running
from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! Kit--by kissing it [She
pauses, stifled by emotion]. Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say
vultures didn't touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from
somewhere, calling out: "Oh! God! I'm dying!" And Wreford began to
swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor
fellow be!" But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out:
"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!" And Wreford
dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man
who's going to kill.
KATHERINE. My dear! HOW ghastly!
HELEN. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead
man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along,
so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him,
Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You
brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there,
he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got
black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to
the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it
touched him, and sprang away. And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing
out at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things!
KATHERINE. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes! You must
have been looking at the mist.
HELEN. [Strangely calm] He's dead!
KATHERINE. It was only a dream.
HELEN. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] That's Stephen.
Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help
coming.
She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have
passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans
out. MORE comes in.
MORE. Kit!
Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to
her.
KATHERINE. Ah! [She has mastered her emotion.]
MORE. Let me look at you!
He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long
at her.
MORE. What have you done to your hair?
KATHERINE. Nothing.
MORE. It's wonderful to-night.
[He takes it greedily and buries his face in it.]
KATHERINE. [Drawing her hair away] Well?
MORE. At last!
KATHERINE. [Pointing to OLIVE's room] Hssh!
MORE. How is she?
KATHERINE. All right.
MORE. And you?
[KATHERINE shrugs her shoulders.]
MORE. Six weeks!
KATHERINE. Why have you come?
MORE. Why!
KATHERINE. You begin again the day after tomorrow. Was it worth
while?
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. It makes it harder for me, that's all.
MORE. [Staring at her] What's come to you?
KATHERINE. Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your
meetings.
MORE. Put that away to-night. [He touches her] This is what
travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water.
KATHERINE. [Suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead] Your
forehead! It's cut.
MORE. It's nothing.
KATHERINE. Oh! Let me bathe it!
MORE. No, dear! It's all right.
KATHERINE. [Turning away] Helen has just been telling me a dream
she's had of Hubert's death.
MORE. Poor child!
KATHERINE. Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's
been nothing else to do. Nothing, Stephen--nothing!
MORE. Hide? Because of me?
[KATHERINE nods.]
MORE. [With a movement of distress] I see. I thought from your
letters you were coming to feel----. Kit! You look so lovely!
[Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.]
MORE. My dear, don't cry! God knows I don't want to make things
worse for you. I'll go away.
She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her,
he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the
brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words.
MORE. Never look forward. After the time I've had--I thought--
tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and
everything!
While he is speaking KATHERINE has stolen closer. She suddenly
drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair.
He turns and clasps her.
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. Ah! yes! But-to-morrow it begins again. Oh! Stephen!
How long--how long am I to be torn in two? [Drawing back in his
arms] I can't--can't bear it.
MORE. My darling!
KATHERINE. Give it up! For my sake! Give it up! [Pressing closer
to him] It shall be me--and everything----
MORE. God!
KATHERINE. It shall be--if--if----
MORE. [Aghast] You're not making terms? Bargaining? For God's
sake, Kit!
KATHERINE. For God's sake, Stephen!
MORE. You!--of all people--you!
KATHERINE. Stephen!
[For a moment MORE yields utterly, then shrinks back.]
MORE. A bargain! It's selling my soul!
He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without
speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his
forehead. KATHERINE remains some seconds on her knees, gazing
up at him, not realizing. Then her head droops; she too gets up
and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her. It is
as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both. Quite
suddenly MORE turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his
way out of the room. When he is gone KATHERINE drops on her
knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair.
THE CURTAIN FALLS
ACT IV
It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of
MORE's house. The windows are closed, but curtains are not
drawn. STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from
MORE's dictation.
STEEL. [Reading over the letter] "No doubt we shall have trouble.
But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the
hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. Let bills be got out, and
an audience will collect in any case."
MORE. They will.
STEEL. "Yours truly"; I've signed for you.
[MORE nods.]
STEEL. [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants
have all given notice--except Henry.
MORE. Poor Henry!
STEEL. It's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken
twice--but it's partly----
MORE. Patriotism. Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves.
That reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel.
STEEL. Oh, no!
MORE. My dear fellow--yes. Last night ended your sulphur cure.
Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it.
STEEL. Some one must do the work. You're half dead as it is.
MORE. There's lots of kick in me.
STEEL. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It isn't worth it.
MORE. To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything
better worth it?
STEEL. Well, then, I'm not going.
MORE. This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any
longer. Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but
yourself.
STEEL. I can't leave you, sir.
MORE. My dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so
far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer. Hand me
over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting.
STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them.
MORE. Come! [He stretches out his hand for the papers. As STEEL
still draws back, he says more sharply] Give them to me, Steel!
[STEEL hands them over] Now, that ends it, d'you see?
They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset,
turns and goes out of the room. MORE, who has watched him with
a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is
closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr.
Mendip, sir." MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws. MORE
turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand.
MENDIP. [Taking MORE'S hand] Give me credit for a little philosophy,
my friend. Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day. Have you heard?
MORE. What?
MENDIP. There's been a victory.
MORE. Thank God!
MENDIP. Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood.
MORE. Yes!
MENDIP. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. You're only flouting
human nature.
MORE. So--even you defend the mob!
MENDIP. My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common
instinct in the world. What do you expect? That the man in the
street should be a Quixote? That his love of country should express
itself in philosophic altruism? What on earth do you expect? Men
are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of
simple men.
MORE. Conglomerate excrescence. Mud of street and market-place
gathered in a torrent--This blind howling "patriotism"--what each man
feels in here? [He touches his breast] No!
MENDIP. You think men go beyond instinct--they don't. All they know
is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call
country. They just feel something big and religious, and go it
blind.
MORE. This used to be the country of free speech. It used to be the
country where a man was expected to hold to his faith.
MENDIP. There are limits to human nature, Stephen.
MORE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. Still
your advice, is it?
MENDIP. My advice is: Get out of town at once. The torrent you
speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. Come, my
dear fellow, don't stay here!
MORE. Thanks! I'll see that Katherine and Olive go.
MENDIP. Go with them! If your cause is lost, that's no reason why
you should be.
MORE. There's the comfort of not running away. And--I want comfort.
MENDIP. This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish--foolish. Well! I'm
going to the House. This way?
MORE. Down the steps, and through the gate. Good-bye?
KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked,
with a small bag in her hand. KATHERINE takes from the bureau a
cheque which she hands to the NURSE. MORE comes in from the
terrace.
MORE. You're wise to go, Nurse.
NURSE. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. Where's your heart?
MORE. In full use.
NURSE. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth and home come
first? Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father
fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. A bitter
thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by
the boys in the street.
[MORE stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.]
KATHERINE. Nurse!
NURSE. It's unnatural, sir--what you're doing! To think more of
those savages than of your own wife! Look at her! Did you ever see
her look like that? Take care, sir, before it's too late!
MORE. Enough, please!
NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE;
then goes.
MORE. [Quietly] There has been a victory.
[He goes out. KATHERINE is breathing fast, listening to the
distant hum and stir rising in the street. She runs to the
window as the footman, HENRY, entering, says: "Sir John Julian,
Ma'am!" SIR JOHN comes in, a newspaper in his hand.]
KATHERINE. At last! A victory!
SIR JOHN. Thank God! [He hands her the paper.]
KATHERINE. Oh, Dad!
[She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.]
KATHERINE. At last!
The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. But SIR JOHN,
after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper,
stares dumbly at the floor.
KATHERINE. [Suddenly conscious of his gravity] Father!
SIR JOHN. There is other news.
KATHERINE. One of the boys? Hubert?
[SIR JOHN bows his head.]
KATHERINE. Killed?
[SIR JOHN again bows his head.]
KATHERINE. The dream! [She covers her face] Poor Helen!
They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his
head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.
SIR JOHN. [Huskily] Whom the gods love----
KATHERINE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. And hulks like me go on living!
KATHERINE. Dear Dad!
SIR JOHN. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We shall break them.
Stephen back?
KATHERINE. Last night.
SIR JOHN. Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last?
[KATHERINE shakes her head] Not?
[Then, seeing that KATHERINE is quivering with emotion, he
strokes her hand.]
SIR JOHN. My dear! Death is in many houses!
KATHERINE. I must go to Helen. Tell Stephen, Father. I can't.
SIR JOHN. If you wish, child.
[She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and
in a few seconds MORE comes in.]
MORE. Yes, Sir John. You wanted me?
SIR JOHN. Hubert is killed.
MORE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. By these--whom you uphold. Katherine asked me to let you
know. She's gone to Helen. I understand you only came back last
night from your----No word I can use would give what I feel about
that. I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine;
but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months
beyond what any woman ought to bear!
[MORE makes a gesture of pain.]
SIR JOHN. When you chose your course----
MORE. Chose!
SIR JOHN. You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her.
You knew this might come. It may come again with another of my sons.
MORE. I would willingly change places with any one of them.
SIR JOHN. Yes--I can believe in your unhappiness. I cannot conceive
of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country. If I
could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price--no, nor
all my sons. 'Pro patri mori'--My boy, at all events, is happy!
MORE. Yes!
SIR JOHN. Yet you can go on doing what you are! What devil of pride
has got into you, Stephen?
MORE. Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private
fighting out there? Not for a minute.
SIR JOHN. I don't understand you. I always thought you devoted to
Katherine.
MORE. Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and
child?
SIR JOHN. I do.
MORE. So do I.
SIR JOHN. [Bewildered] Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I
no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God. [With
all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her] My
country!
MORE. I would give all I have--for that creed.
SIR JOHN. [Puzzled] Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank;
I always believed you sane and honest. But this is--visionary mania.
MORE. Vision of what might be.
SIR JOHN. Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation--
the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them? I've
known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country.
MORE. Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me!
To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I
were a wall! To dread the post! To go to bed every night with the
sound of hooting in my ears! To know that my name is never referred
to without contempt----
SIR JOHN. You have your new friends. Plenty of them, I understand.
MORE. Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night? Your
battles are fool's play to it.
The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder.
SIR JOHN turns his head towards it.
SIR JOHN. You've heard there's been a victory. Do you carry your
unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? [MORE shakes his
head] That's something! For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's
gone past mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hubert was
her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. Think
what that means to her! Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever
you call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country till the
thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and--
traducing. Take her away! Come! What good are you doing? What
earthly good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone.
MORE. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's
in them! I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am
I to slink away? Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds
who've thanked me for taking this stand. They look on me now as
their leader. Am I to desert them? When you led your forlorn hope--
did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come
through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are
following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred--
not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time.
SIR JOHN. [After a long stare] I give you credit for believing what
you say. But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too
old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's
love. By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks
and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of
your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much
the better for you. But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection--
alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter
ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity
you. Good-night!
He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. MORE is left
standing perfectly still. The stir and murmur of the street is
growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his
consciousness. He goes to the bay window and looks out; then
rings the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning up the
lights, he rings again. KATHERINE comes in. She is wearing a
black hat, and black outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without
looking up.
KATHERINE. You rang!
MORE. For them to shut this room up.
KATHERINE. The servants have gone out. They're afraid of the house
being set on fire.
MORE. I see.
KATHERINE. They have not your ideals to sustain them. [MORE winces]
I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's.
MORE. [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words] Good! You
prefer that to an hotel? [KATHERINE nods. Gently] Will you let me
say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's----
KATHERINE. Don't. I ought to have made what I meant plainer. I am
not coming back.
MORE. Not? Not while the house----
KATHERINE. Not--at all.
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. I warned you from the first. You've gone too far!
MORE. [Terribly moved] Do you understand what this means? After
ten years--and all--our love!
KATHERINE. Was it love? How could you ever have loved one so
unheroic as myself!
MORE. This is madness, Kit--Kit!
KATHERINE. Last night I was ready. You couldn't. If you couldn't
then, you never can. You are very exalted, Stephen. I don't like
living--I won't live, with one whose equal I am not. This has been
coming ever since you made that speech. I told you that night what
the end would be.
MORE. [Trying to put his arms round her] Don't be so terribly
cruel!
KATHERINE. No! Let's have the truth! People so wide apart don't
love! Let me go!
MORE. In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths?
KATHERINE. Last night you used the word--bargain. Quite right. I
meant to buy you. I meant to kill your faith. You showed me what I
was doing. I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains,
Stephen.
MORE. God knows--I never meant----
KATHERINE. If I'm not yours in spirit--I don't choose to be your--
mistress.
MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an
attitude of defence.
KATHERINE. Yes, that's cruel! It shows the heights you live on. I
won't drag you down.
MORE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and see! I'm fighting
for the faith that's in me. What else can a man do? What else? Ah!
Kit! Do see!
KATHERINE. I'm strangled here! Doing nothing--sitting silent--when
my brothers are fighting, and being killed. I shall try to go out
nursing. Helen will come with me. I have my faith, too; my poor
common love of country. I can't stay here with you. I spent last
night on the floor--thinking--and I know!
MORE. And Olive?
KATHERINE. I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you
forbid me to take her. You can.
MORE. [Icily] That I shall not do--you know very well. You are
free to go, and to take her.
KATHERINE. [Very low] Thank you! [Suddenly she turns to him, and
draws his eyes on her. Without a sound, she puts her whole strength
into that look] Stephen! Give it up! Come down to me!
The festive sounds from the street grow louder. There can be
heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds
of joy.
MORE. And drown in--that?
KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door. There she stands and again
looks at him. Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents
of her emotions.
MORE. So--you're going?
KATHERINE. [In a whisper] Yes.
She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. MORE starts
forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the
doorway. She has on a straight little white coat and a round
white cap.
OLIVE. Aren't you coming with us, Daddy?
[MORE shakes his head.]
OLIVE. Why not?
MORE. Never mind, my dicky bird.
OLIVE. The motor'll have to go very slow. There are such a lot of
people in the street. Are you staying to stop them setting the house
on fire? [MORE nods] May I stay a little, too? [MORE shakes his
head] Why?
MORE. [Putting his hand on her head] Go along, my pretty!
OLIVE. Oh! love me up, Daddy!
[MORE takes and loves her up]
OLIVE. Oo-o!
MORE. Trot, my soul!
[She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.]
MORE follows her to the door, but stops there. Then, as full
realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window,
craning his head to catch sight of the front door. There is the
sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its
horn as it makes its way among the crowd. He turns from the
window.
MORE. Alone as the last man on earth!
[Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the
street.]
VOICE. There 'e is! That's 'im! More! Traitor! More!
A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins
to rattle against the glass of the window. Many voices take up
the groaning: "More! Traitor! Black-leg! More!" And through
the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese
lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos. The din of execration
swells. MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab.
Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of
the panes. It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a
hearty groan. A second stone crashes through the glass. MORE
turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the
street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his
face. Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he
moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head
droop. The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes
through. MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands,
looks straight before him. The footman, HENRY, entering,
hastens to the French windows.
MORE. Ah! Henry, I thought you'd gone.
FOOTMAN. I came back, sir.
MORE. Good fellow!
FOOTMAN. They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir. They've no
business coming on to private property--no matter what!
In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows
fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the
terrace, and no more seen. The MOB is a mixed crowd of
revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and
girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats--Some
wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.
Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside
on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such
ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS,
the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an
athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and
heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge
arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the
first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To
him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive
MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round
the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music
of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF
THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him
down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and
stand gaping up at him.
CHIEF STUDENT. Speech! Speech!
[The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.]
CHIEF STUDENT. Now then, you, sir.
MORE. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here by the law that
governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force. By that law, you
can do what you like to this body of mine.
A VOICE. And we will, too.
MORE. I don't doubt it. But before that, I've a word to say.
A VOICE. You've always that.
[ANOTHER VOICE raises a donkey's braying.]
MORE. You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun. When
you walk the street--God goes in.
CHIEF STUDENT. Be careful, you--sir.
VOICES. Down him! Down with the beggar!
MORE. [Above the murmurs] My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you.
You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak.
Put up with the truth for once! [His words rush out] You are the
thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. This
to-day, and that to-morrow. Brain--you have none. Spirit--not the
ghost of it! If you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If
you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing
fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of
our soldiers, and this of mine. You have neither!
CHIEF STUDENT. [Checking a dangerous rush] Hold on! Hold on! [To
MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear
it!
CROWD. Ah! Ay! Ah!
MORE. My country is not yours. Mine is that great country which
shall never take toll from the weakness of others. [Above the
groaning] Ah! you can break my head and my windows; but don't think
that you can break my faith. You could never break or shake it, if
you were a million to one.
A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the
crowd and shakes her fist at him.
GIRL. You're friends with them that killed my lad! [MORE smiles
down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy
Scout beside her] Smile, you--cur!
A violent rush and heave from behind flings MORE forward on to
the steel. He reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the
crowd. A scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries. The CHIEF
STUDENT shouts above the riot: "Steady!" Another: "My God!
He's got it!"
CHIEF STUDENT. Give him air!
The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift
his arms and head, but they fall like lead. Desperately they
test him for life.
CHIEF STUDENT. By the Lord, it's over!
Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window. Some one
turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts
away. The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese
lantern. Muttering the words: "Poor devil! He kept his end up
anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little
abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast. Then he,
too, turns, and rushes out.
And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee
noises in the street continue to rise.
THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST AT ONCE.
AFTERMATH
A late Spring dawn is just breaking. Against trees in leaf and
blossom, with the houses of a London Square beyond, suffused by
the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite
pedestal. In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement. The light
grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly
read:
ERECTED
To the Memory
of
STEPHEN MORE
"Faithful to his ideal"
High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint
smile. On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have
perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and
singing of birds.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
The End
PLAYS in the FOURTH SERIES
Contents:
A BIT O' LOVE
THE FOUNDATIONS
THE SKIN GAME
A BIT O' LOVE
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.
SCENE II
The same-in daylight dying fast. A lamp is burning on the bar.
A chair has been placed in the centre of the room, facing the
bench under the window, on which are seated from right to left,
GODLEIGH, SOL POTTER the village shopman, TRUSTAFORD,
BURLACOMBE, FREMAN, JIM BERE, and MORSE the blacksmith. CLYST
is squatting on a stool by the bar, and at the other end
JARLAND, sobered and lowering, leans against the lintel of the
porch leading to the door, round which are gathered five or six
sturdy fellows, dumb as fishes. No one sits in the chair. In
the unnatural silence that reigns, the distant sound of the
wheezy church organ and voices singing can be heard.
TAUSTAFORD. [After a prolonged clearing of his throat] What I mean
to zay is that 'tes no yuse, not a bit o' yuse in the world, not
duin' of things properly. If an' in case we'm to carry a resolution
disapprovin' o' curate, it must all be done so as no one can't, zay
nothin'.
SOL POTTER. That's what I zay, Mr. Trustaford; ef so be as 'tis to
be a village meetin', then it must be all done proper.
FREMAN. That's right, Sot Potter. I purpose Mr. Sot Potter into the
chair. Whu seconds that?
[A silence. Voices from among the dumb-as-fishes: "I du."]
CLYST. [Excitedly] Yu can't putt that to the meetin'. Only a
chairman can putt it to the meetin'. I purpose that Mr. Burlacombe--
bein as how he's chairman o' the Parish Council--take the chair.
FREMAN. Ef so be as I can't putt it, yu can't putt that neither.
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes not a bit o' yuse; us can't 'ave no meetin' without
a chairman.
GODLEIGH. Us can't 'ave no chairman without a meetin' to elect un,
that's zure. [A silence.]
MORSE. [Heavily] To my way o' thinkin', Mr. Godleigh speaks zense;
us must 'ave a meetin' before us can 'ave a chairman.
CLYST. Then what we got to du's to elect a meetin'.
BURLACOMBE. [Sourly] Yu'll not find no procedure far that.
[Voices from among the dumb-as fishes: "Mr. Burlacombe 'e
oughter know."]
SOL POTTER. [Scratching his head--with heavy solemnity] 'Tes my
belief there's no other way to du, but to elect a chairman to call a
meetin'; an' then for that meetin' to elect a chairman.
CLYST. I purpose Mr. Burlacombe as chairman to call a meetin'.
FREMAN. I purpose Sol Potter.
GODLEIGH. Can't 'ave tu propositions together before a meetin';
that's apple-pie zure vur zurtain.
[Voice from among the dumb-as fishes: "There ain't no meetin'
yet, Sol Potter zays."]
TRUSTAFORD. Us must get the rights of it zettled some'ow. 'Tes like
the darned old chicken an' the egg--meetin' or chairman--which come
virst?
SOL POTTER. [Conciliating] To my thinkin' there shid be another way
o' duin' it, to get round it like with a circumbendibus. 'T'all
comes from takin' different vuse, in a manner o' spakin'.
FREMAN. Vu goo an' zet in that chair.
SOL POTTER. [With a glance at BURLACOMBE modestly] I shid'n never
like fur to du that, with Mr. Burlacombe zettin' there.
BURLACOMBE. [Rising] 'Tes all darned fulishness.
[Amidst an uneasy shufflement of feet he moves to the door, and
goes out into the darkness.]
CLYST. [Seeing his candidate thus depart] Rackon curate's pretty
well thru by now, I'm goin' to zee. [As he passes JARLAND] 'Ow's to
base, old man?
[He goes out. One of the dumb-as-fishes moves from the door and
fills the apace left on the bench by BURLACOMBE'S departure.]
JARLAND. Darn all this puzzivantin'! [To SOL POTTER] Got an' zet
in that chair.
SOL POTTER. [Rising and going to the chair; there he stands,
changing from one to the other of his short broad feet and sweating
from modesty and worth] 'Tes my duty now, gentlemen, to call a
meetin' of the parishioners of this parish. I beg therefore to
declare that this is a meetin' in accordance with my duty as chairman
of this meetin' which elected me chairman to call this meetin'. And
I purceed to vacate the chair so that this meetin' may now purceed to
elect a chairman.
[He gets up from the chair, and wiping the sweat from his brow,
goes back to his seat.]
FREMAN. Mr. Chairman, I rise on a point of order.
GODLEIGH. There ain't no chairman.
FREMAN. I don't give a darn for that. I rise on a point of order.
GODLEIGH. 'Tes a chairman that decides points of order. 'Tes
certain yu can't rise on no points whatever till there's a chairman.
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes no yuse yure risin', not the least bit in the
world, till there's some one to set yu down again. Haw, haw!
[Voice from the dumb-as-Etches: "Mr. Trustaford 'e's right."]
FREMAN. What I zay is the chairman ought never to 'ave vacated the
chair till I'd risen on my point of order. I purpose that he goo and
zet down again.
GODLEIGH. Yu can't purpose that to this meetin'; yu can only purpose
that to the old meetin' that's not zettin' any longer.
FREMAN. [Excitedly] I didn' care what old meetin' 'tis that's
zettin'. I purpose that Sol Potter goo an' zet in that chair again,
while I rise on my point of order.
TRUSTAFORD. [Scratching his head] 'Tesn't regular but I guess yu've
got to goo, Sol, or us shan't 'ave no peace.
[SOL POTTER, still wiping his brow, goes back to the chair.]
MORSE. [Stolidly-to FREMAN] Zet down, Will Freman. [He pulls at
him with a blacksmith's arm.]
FREMAN. [Remaining erect with an effort] I'm not a-goin' to zet
down till I've arisen.
JARLAND. Now then, there 'e is in the chair. What's yore point of
order?
FREMAN. [Darting his eyes here and there, and flinging his hand up
to his gipsy-like head] 'Twas--'twas--Darned ef y' 'aven't putt it
clean out o' my 'ead.
JARLAND. We can't wait for yore points of order. Come out o' that
chair. Sol Potter.
[SOL POTTER rises and is about to vacate the chair.]
FREMAN. I know! There ought to 'a been minutes taken. Yu can't
'ave no meetin' without minutes. When us comes to electin' a
chairman o' the next meetin', 'e won't 'ave no minutes to read.
SOL POTTER. 'Twas only to putt down that I was elected chairman to
elect a meetin' to elect a chairman to preside over a meetin' to pass
a resolution dalin' wi' the curate. That's aisy set down, that is.
FREMAN. [Mollified] We'll 'ave that zet down, then, while we're
electin' the chairman o' the next meetin'.
[A silence. ]
TRUSTAFORD. Well then, seein' this is the praaper old meetin' for
carryin' the resolution about the curate, I purpose Mr. Sol Potter
take the chair.
FREMAN. I purpose Mr. Trustaford. I 'aven't a-got nothin' against
Sol Potter, but seein' that he elected the meetin' that's to elect
'im, it might be said that 'e was electin' of himzelf in a manner of
spakin'. Us don't want that said.
MORSE. [Amid meditative grunts from the dumb-as-fishes] There's
some-at in that. One o' they tu purposals must be putt to the
meetin'.
FREMAN. Second must be putt virst, fur zure.
TRUSTAFORD. I dunno as I wants to zet in that chair. To hiss the
curate, 'tis a ticklish sort of a job after that. Vurst comes afore
second, Will Freeman.
FREMAN. Second is amendment to virst. 'Tes the amendments is putt
virst.
TRUSTAFORD. 'Ow's that, Mr. Godleigh? I'm not particular eggzac'ly
to a dilly zort of a point like that.
SOL POTTER. [Scratching his, head] 'Tes a very nice point, for
zure.
GODLEIGH. 'Tes undoubtedly for the chairman to decide.
[Voice from the dumb-as fishes: "But there ain't no chairman
yet."]
JARLAND. Sol Potter's chairman.
FREMAN. No, 'e ain't.
MORSE. Yes, 'e is--'e's chairman till this second old meetin' gets
on the go.
FREMAN. I deny that. What du yu say, Mr. Trustaford?
TRUSTAFORD. I can't 'ardly tell. It du zeem a darned long-sufferin'
sort of a business altogether.
[A silence.]
MORSE. [Slowly] Tell 'ee what 'tis, us shan't du no gude like this.
GODLEIGH. 'Tes for Mr. Freman or Mr. Trustaford, one or t'other to
withdraw their motions.
TRUSTAFORD. [After a pause, with cautious generosity] I've no
objections to withdrawin' mine, if Will Freman'll withdraw his'n.
FREMAN. I won't never be be'indhand. If Mr. Trustaford withdraws, I
withdraws mine.
MORSE. [With relief] That's zensible. Putt the motion to the
meetin'.
SOL POTTER. There ain't no motion left to putt.
[Silence of consternation.]
[In the confusion Jim BERE is seen to stand up.]
GODLEIGH. Jim Bere to spike. Silence for Jim!
VOICES. Aye! Silence for Jim!
SOL POTTER. Well, Jim?
JIM. [Smiling and slow] Nothin' duin'.
TRUSTAFORD. Bravo, Jim! Yu'm right. Best zense yet!
[Applause from the dumb-as-fishes.]
[With his smile brightening, JIM resumes his seat.]
SOL POTTER. [Wiping his brow] Du seem to me, gentlemen, seem' as
we'm got into a bit of a tangle in a manner of spakin', 'twid be the
most zimplest and vairest way to begin all over vrom the beginnin',
so's t'ave it all vair an' square for every one.
[In the uproar Of "Aye" and "No," it is noticed that TIBBY
JARLAND is standing in front of her father with her finger, for
want of something better, in her mouth.]
TIBBY. [In her stolid voice] Please, sister Mercy says, curate 'ave
got to "Lastly." [JARLAND picks her up, and there is silence.] An'
please to come quick.
JARLAND. Come on, mates; quietly now!
[He goes out, and all begin to follow him.]
MORSE. [Slowest, save for SOL POTTER] 'Tes rare lucky us was all
agreed to hiss the curate afore us began the botherin' old meetin',
or us widn' 'ardly 'ave 'ad time to settle what to du.
SOL POTTER. [Scratching his head] Aye, 'tes rare lucky; but I dunno
if 'tes altogether reg'lar.
CURTAIN.
SCENE III
The village green before the churchyard and the yew-trees at the
gate. Into the pitch dark under the yews, light comes out
through the half-open church door. Figures are lurking, or
moving stealthily--people waiting and listening to the sound of
a voice speaking in the church words that are inaudible.
Excited whispering and faint giggles come from the deepest
yew-tree shade, made ghostly by the white faces and the frocks of
young girls continually flitting up and back in the blackness. A
girl's figure comes flying out from the porch, down the path of
light, and joins the stealthy group.
WHISPERING VOICE of MERCY. Where's 'e got to now, Gladys?
WHISPERING VOICE OF GLADYS. 'E've just finished.
VOICE OF CONNIE. Whu pushed t'door open?
VOICE OF GLADYS. Tim Clyst I giv' it a little push, meself.
VOICE OF CONNIE. Oh!
VOICE of GLADYS. Tim Clyst's gone in!
ANOTHER VOICE. O-o-o-h!
VOICE of MERCY. Whu else is there, tu?
VOICE OF GLADYS. Ivy's there, an' Old Mrs. Potter, an' tu o' the
maids from th'Hall; that's all as ever.
VOICE of CONNIE. Not the old grey mare?
VOICE of GLADYS. No. She ain't ther'. 'Twill just be th'ymn now,
an' the Blessin'. Tibby gone for 'em?
VOICE OF MERCY. Yes.
VOICE of CONNIE. Mr. Burlacombe's gone in home, I saw 'im pass by
just now--'e don' like it. Father don't like it neither.
VOICE of MERCY. Mr. Strangway shoudn' 'ave taken my skylark, an'
thrown father out o' winder. 'Tis goin' to be awful fun! Oh!
[She jumps up and dawn in the darkness. And a voice from far in
the shadow says: "Hsssh! Quiet, yu maids!" The voice has
ceased speaking in the church. There is a moment's dead
silence. The voice speaks again; then from the wheezy little
organ come the first faint chords of a hymn.]
GLADYS. "Nearer, my God, to Thee!"
VOICE of MERCY. 'Twill be funny, with no one 'ardly singin'.
[The sound of the old hymn sung by just six voices comes out to
them rather sweet and clear.]
GLADYS. [Softly] 'Tis pretty, tu. Why! They're only singin' one
verse!
[A moment's silence, and the voice speaks, uplifted, pronouncing
the Blessing: "The peace of God----" As the last words die away,
dark figures from the inn approach over the grass, till quite a
crowd seems standing there without a word spoken. Then from out
of the church porch come the congregation. TIM CLYST first,
hastily lost among the waiting figures in the dark; old Mrs.
Potter, a half blind old lady groping her way and perceiving
nothing out of the ordinary; the two maids from the Hall,
self-conscious and scared, scuttling along. Last, IVY BURLACOMBE
quickly, and starting back at the dim, half-hidden crowd.]
VOICE of GLADYS. [Whispering] Ivy! Here, quick!
[Ivy sways, darts off towards the voice, and is lost in the
shadow.]
VOICE OF FREMAN. [Low] Wait, boys, till I give signal.
[Two or three squirks and giggles; Tim CLYST'S voice: "Ya-as!
Don't 'ee tread on my toe!" A soft, frightened "O-o-h!" from a
girl. Some quick, excited whisperings: "Luke!" "Zee there!"
"He's comin'!" And then a perfectly dead silence. The figure
of STRANGWAY is seen in his dark clothes, passing from the
vestry to the church porch. He stands plainly visible in the
lighted porch, locking the door, then steps forward. Just as he
reaches the edge of the porch, a low hiss breaks the silence.
It swells very gradually into a long, hissing groan. STRANGWAY
stands motionless, his hand over his eyes, staring into the
darkness. A girl's figure can be seen to break out of the
darkness and rush away. When at last the groaning has died into
sheer expectancy, STRANGWAY drops his hand.]
STRANGWAY. [In a loco voice] Yes! I'm glad. Is Jarland there?
FREMAN. He's 'ere-no thanks to yu! Hsss!
[The hiss breaks out again, then dies away.]
JARLAND'S VOICE. [Threatening] Try if yu can du it again.
STRANGWAY. No, Jarland, no! I ask you to forgive me. Humbly!
[A hesitating silence, broken by muttering.]
CLYST'S VOICE. Bravo!
A VOICE. That's vair.
A VOICE. 'E's afraid o' the sack--that's what 'tis.
A VOICE. [Groaning] 'E's a praaper coward.
A VOICE. Whu funked the doctor?
CLYST'S VOICE. Shame on 'ee, therr!
STRANGWAY. You're right--all of you! I'm not fit! An uneasy and
excited mustering and whispering dies away into renewed silence.
STRANGWAY. What I did to Tam Jarland is not the real cause of what
you're doing, is it? I understand. But don't be troubled. It's all
over. I'm going--you'll get some one better. Forgive me, Jarland.
I can't see your face--it's very dark.
FREMAN'S Voice. [Mocking] Wait for the full mune.
GODLEIGH. [Very low] "My 'eart 'E lighted not!"
STRANGWAY. [starting at the sound of his own words thus mysteriously
given him out of the darkness] Whoever found that, please tear it
up! [After a moment's silence] Many of you have been very kind to
me. You won't see me again--Good-bye, all!
[He stands for a second motionless, then moves resolutely down
into the darkness so peopled with shadows.]
UNCERTAIN VOICES AS HE PASSES. Good-bye, zurr!
Good luck, zurr! [He has gone.]
CLYST'S VOICE. Three cheers for Mr. Strangway!
[And a queer, strangled cheer, with groans still threading it,
arises.]
CURTAIN.
ACT III
SCENE I
In the BURLACOMBES' hall-sitting-room the curtains are drawn, a
lamp burns, and the door stands open. BURLACOMBE and his wife
are hovering there, listening to the sound of mingled cheers and
groaning.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! my gudeness--what a thing t'appen! I'd saner
'a lost all me ducks. [She makes towards the inner door] I can't
never face 'im.
BURLACOMBE. 'E can't expect nothin' else, if 'e act like that.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes only duin' as 'e'd be done by.
BURLACOMBE. Aw! Yu can't go on forgivin' 'ere, an' forgivin' there.
'Tesn't nat'ral.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes the mischief 'e'm a parson. 'Tes 'im bein' a
lamb o' God--or 'twidden be so quare for 'im to be forgivin'.
BURLACOMBE. Yu goo an' make un a gude 'ot drink.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Poor soul! What'll 'e du now, I wonder? [Under
her breath] 'E's cumin'!
[She goes hurriedly. BURLACOMBE, with a startled look back,
wavers and makes to follow her, but stops undecided in the inner
doorway. STRANGWAY comes in from the darkness. He turns to the
window and drops overcoat and hat and the church key on the
windowseat, looking about him as men do when too hard driven,
and never fixing his eyes long enough on anything to see it.
BURLACOMBE, closing the door into the house, advances a step.
At the sound STRANGWAY faces round.]
BURLACOMBE. I wanted for yu to know, zurr, that me an' mine 'adn't
nothin' to du wi' that darned fulishness, just now.
STRANGWAY. [With a ghost of a smile] Thank you, Burlacombe. It
doesn't matter. It doesn't matter a bit.
BURLACOMBE. I 'ope yu won't take no notice of it. Like a lot o'
silly bees they get. [After an uneasy pause] Yu'll excuse me
spakin' of this mornin', an' what 'appened. 'Tes a brave pity it
cam' on yu so sudden-like before yu 'ad time to think. 'Tes a sort
o' thing a man shude zet an' chew upon. Certainly 'tes not a bit o'
yuse goin' against human nature. Ef yu don't stand up for yureself
there's no one else not goin' to. 'Tes yure not 'avin' done that 'as
made 'em so rampageous. [Stealing another look at STRANGWAY] Yu'll
excuse me, zurr, spakin' of it, but 'tes amazin' sad to zee a man let
go his own, without a word o' darin'. 'Tea as ef 'e 'ad no passions
like.
STRANGWAY. Look at me, Burlacombe.
[BURLACOMBE looks up, trying hard to keep his eyes on
STRANGWAY'S, that seem to burn in his thin face.]
STRANGWAY. Do I look like that? Please, please! [He touches his
breast] I've too much here. Please!
BURLACOMBE. [With a sort of startled respect] Well, zurr, 'tes not
for me to zay nothin', certainly.
[He turns and after a slow look back at STRANGWAY goes out.]
STRANGWAY. [To himself] Passions! No passions! Ha!
[The outer door is opened and IVY BURLACOMBE appears, and,
seeing him, stops. Then, coming softly towards him, she speaks
timidly.]
IVY. Oh! Mr. Strangway, Mrs. Bradmere's cumin' from the Rectory. I
ran an' told 'em. Oh! 'twas awful.
[STRANGWAY starts, stares at her, and turning on his heel, goes
into the house. Ivy's face is all puckered, as if she were on
the point of tears. There is a gentle scratching at the door,
which has not been quite closed.]
VOICE OF GLADYS. [Whispering] Ivy! Come on Ivy. I won't.
VOICE OF MERCY. Yu must. Us can't du without Yu.
Ivy. [Going to the door] I don't want to.
VOICE of GLADYS. "Naughty maid, she won't come out," Ah! du 'ee!
VOICE OF CREMER. Tim Clyst an' Bobbie's cumin'; us'll only be six
anyway. Us can't dance "figure of eight" without yu.
Ivy. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to dance at all! I don't.
MERCY. Aw! She's temper. Yu can bang on tambourine, then!
GLADYS. [Running in] Quick, Ivy! Here's the old grey mare cumin'
down the green. Quick.
[With whispering and scuffling; gurgling and squeaking, the
reluctant Ivy's hand is caught and she is jerked away. In their
haste they have left the door open behind them.]
VOICE of MRS. BRADMERE. [Outside] Who's that?
[She knocks loudly, and rings a bell; then, without waiting,
comes in through the open door.]
[Noting the overcoat and hat on the window-sill she moves across
to ring the bell. But as she does so, MRS. BURLACOMBE, followed
by BURLACOMBE, comes in from the house.]
MRS. BRADMERE This disgraceful business! Where's Mr. Strangway? I
see he's in.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yes, m'm, he'm in--but--but Burlacombe du zay he'm
terrible upset.
MRS. BRADMERE. I should think so. I must see him--at once.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. I doubt bed's the best place for 'un, an' gude 'ot
drink. Burlacombe zays he'm like a man standin' on the edge of a
cliff; and the lasts tipsy o' wind might throw un over.
MRS. BRADMERE. [To BURLACOMBE] You've seen him, then?
BURLACOMBE. Yeas; an' I don't like the luke of un--not a little bit,
I don't.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Almost to herself] Poor soul; 'e've a-'ad to
much to try un this yer long time past. I've a-seen 'tis sperrit
cumin' thru 'is body, as yu might zay. He's torn to bits, that's
what 'tis.
BURLACOMBE. 'Twas a praaper cowardly thing to hiss a man when he's
down. But 'twas natural tu, in a manner of spakin'. But 'tesn't
that troublin' 'im. 'Tes in here [touching his forehead], along of
his wife, to my thinkin'. They zay 'e've a-known about 'er a-fore
she went away. Think of what 'e've 'ad to kape in all this time.
'Tes enough to drive a man silly after that. I've a-locked my gun
up. I see a man like--like that once before--an' sure enough 'e was
dead in the mornin'!
MRS. BRADMERE. Nonsense, Burlacombe! [To MRS. BURLACOMBE] Go and
tell him I want to see him--must see him. [MRS. BURLACOMBE goes
into the house] And look here, Burlacombe; if we catch any one, man
or woman, talking of this outside the village, it'll be the end of
their tenancy, whoever they may be. Let them all know that. I'm
glad he threw that drunken fellow out of the window, though it was a
little----
BURLACOMBE. Aye! The nuspapers would be praaper glad of that, for a
tiddy bit o' nuse.
MRS. BRADMERE. My goodness! Yes! The men are all up at the inn.
Go and tell them what I said--it's not to get about. Go at once,
Burlacombe.
BURLACOMBE. Must be a turrable job for 'im, every one's knowin'
about 'is wife like this. He'm a proud man tu, I think. 'Tes a
funny business altogether!
MRS. BRADMERE. Horrible! Poor fellow! Now, come! Do your best,
Burlacombe!
[BURLACOMBE touches his forelock and goes. MRS. BRADMERE stands
quite still, thinking. Then going to the photograph, she stares
up at it.]
MRS. BRADMERE. You baggage!
[STRANGWAY has come in noiselessly, and is standing just behind
her. She turns, and sees him. There is something so still, so
startlingly still in his figure and white face, that she cannot
for the moment fond her voice.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [At last] This is most distressing. I'm deeply
sorry. [Then, as he does not answer, she goes a step closer] I'm an
old woman; and old women must take liberties, you know, or they
couldn't get on at all. Come now! Let's try and talk it over calmly
and see if we can't put things right.
STRANGWAY. You were very good to come; but I would rather not.
MRS. BRADMERE. I know you're in as grievous trouble as a man can be.
STRANGWAY. Yes.
MRS. BRADMERE. [With a little sound of sympathy] What are you--
thirty-five? I'm sixty-eight if I'm a day--old enough to be your
mother. I can feel what you must have been through all these months,
I can indeed. But you know you've gone the wrong way to work. We
aren't angels down here below! And a son of the Church can't act as
if for himself alone. The eyes of every one are on him.
STRANGWAY. [Taking the church key from the window.] Take this,
please.
MRS. BRADMERE. No, no, no! Jarland deserved all he got. You had
great provocation.
STRANGWAY. It's not Jarland. [Holding out the key] Please take it
to the Rector. I beg his forgiveness. [Touching his breast]
There's too much I can't speak of--can't make plain. Take it to him,
please.
MRS. BRADMERE. Mr. Strangway--I don't accept this. I am sure my
husband--the Church--will never accept----
STRANGWAY. Take it!
MRS. BRADMERE. [Almost unconsciously taking it] Mind! We don't
accept it. You must come and talk to the Rector to-morrow. You're
overwrought. You'll see it all in another light, then.
STRANGWAY. [With a strange smile] Perhaps. [Lifting the blind]
Beautiful night! Couldn't be more beautiful!
MRS. BRADMERE. [Startled-softly] Don't turn sway from these who
want to help you! I'm a grumpy old woman, but I can feel for you.
Don't try and keep it all back, like this! A woman would cry, and it
would all seem clearer at once. Now won't you let me----?
STRANGWAY. No one can help, thank you.
MRS. BRADMERE. Come! Things haven't gone beyond mending, really, if
you'll face them. [Pointing to the photograph] You know what I
mean. We dare not foster immorality.
STRANGWAY. [Quivering as at a jabbed nerve] Don't speak of that!
MRS. BRADMERE. But think what you've done, Mr. Strangway! If you
can't take your wife back, surely you must divorce her. You can
never help her to go on like this in secret sin.
STRANGWAY. Torture her--one way or the other?
MRS. BRADMERE. No, no; I want you to do as the Church--as all
Christian society would wish. Come! You can't let this go on. My
dear man, do your duty at all costs!
STRANGWAY. Break her heart?
MRS. BRADMERE. Then you love that woman--more than God!
STRANGWAY. [His face quivering] Love!
MRS. BRADMERE. They told me----Yes, and I can see you're is a bad
way. Come, pull yourself together! You can't defend what you're
doing.
STRANGWAY. I do not try.
MRS. BRADMERE. I must get you to see! My father was a clergyman;
I'm married to one; I've two sons in the Church. I know what I'm
talking about. It's a priest's business to guide the people's lives.
STRANGWAY. [Very low] But not mine! No more!
MRS. BRADMERE. [Looking at him shrewdly] There's something very
queer about you to-night. You ought to see doctor.
STRANGWAY. [A smile awning and going on his lips] If I am not better
soon----
MRS. BRADMERE. I know it must be terrible to feel that everybody----
[A convulsive shiver passes over STRANGWAY, and he shrinks
against the door]
But come! Live it down!
[With anger growing at his silence]
Live it down, man! You can't desert your post--and let these
villagers do what they like with us? Do you realize that you're
letting a woman, who has treated you abominably;--yes, abominably
--go scot-free, to live comfortably with another man? What an
example!
STRANGWAY. Will you, please, not speak of that!
MRS. BRADMERE. I must! This great Church of ours is based on the
rightful condemnation of wrongdoing. There are times when
forgiveness is a sin, Michael Strangway. You must keep the whip
hand. You must fight!
STRANGWAY. Fight! [Touching his heart] My fight is here. Have you
ever been in hell? For months and months--burned and longed; hoped
against hope; killed a man in thought day by day? Never rested, for
love and hate? I--condemn! I--judge! No! It's rest I have to
find--somewhere--somehow-rest! And how--how can I find rest?
MRS. BRADMERE. [Who has listened to his outburst in a soft of coma]
You are a strange man! One of these days you'll go off your head if
you don't take care.
STRANGWAY. [Smiling] One of these days the flowers will grow out of
me; and I shall sleep.
[MRS. BRADMERE stares at his smiling face a long moment in
silence, then with a little sound, half sniff, half snort, she
goes to the door. There she halts.]
MRS. BRADMERE. And you mean to let all this go on----Your wife----
STRANGWAY. Go! Please go!
MRS. BRADMERE. Men like you have been buried at cross-roads before
now! Take care! God punishes!
STRANGWAY. Is there a God?
MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! [With finality] You must see a doctor.
[Seeing that the look on his face does not change, she opens the
door, and hurries away into the moonlight.]
[STRANGWAY crosses the room to where his wife's picture hangs,
and stands before it, his hands grasping the frame. Then he
takes it from the wall, and lays it face upwards on the window
seat.]
STRANGWAY. [To himself] Gone! What is there, now?
[The sound of an owl's hooting is floating in, and of voices
from the green outside the inn.]
STRANGWAY. [To himself] Gone! Taken faith--hope--life!
[JIM BERE comes wandering into the open doorway.]
JIM BERE. Gude avenin', zurr.
[At his slow gait, with his feeble smile, he comes in, and
standing by the window-seat beside the long dark coat that still
lies there, he looks down at STRANGWAY with his lost eyes.]
JIM. Yu threw un out of winder. I cud 'ave, once, I cud.
[STRANGWAY neither moves nor speaks; and JIM BERE goes on with
his unimaginably slow speech]
They'm laughin' at yu, zurr. An' so I come to tell 'ee how to du.
'Twas full mune--when I caught 'em, him an' my girl. I caught 'em.
[With a strange and awful flash of fire] I did; an' I tuk un [He
taken up STRANGWAY'S coat and grips it with his trembling hands, as a
man grips another's neck] like that--I tuk un. As the coat falls,
like a body out of which the breath has been squeezed, STRANGWAY,
rising, catches it.
STRANGWAY. [Gripping the coat] And he fell!
[He lets the coat fall on the floor, and puts his foot on it.
Then, staggering back, he leans against the window.]
JIM. Yu see, I loved 'er--I did. [The lost look comes back to his
eyes] Then somethin'--I dunno--and--and----[He lifts his hand and
passes it up and down his side] Twas like this for ever.
[They gaze at each other in silence.]
JIM. [At last] I come to tell yu. They'm all laughin' at yu. But
yu'm strong--yu go over to Durford to that doctor man, an' take un
like I did. [He tries again to make the sign of squeezing a man's
neck] They can't laugh at yu no more, then. Tha's what I come to
tell yu. Tha's the way for a Christian man to du. Gude naight,
zurr. I come to tell yee.
[STRANGWAY motions to him in silence. And, very slowly, JIM
BERE passes out.]
[The voices of men coming down the green are heard.]
VOICES. Gude night, Tam. Glide naight, old Jim!
VOICES. Gude might, Mr. Trustaford. 'Tes a wonderful fine mune.
VOICE OF TRUSTAFORD. Ah! 'Tes a brave mune for th' poor old curate!
VOICE. "My 'eart 'E lighted not!"
[TRUSTAFORD'S laugh, and the rattling, fainter and fainter, of
wheels. A spasm seizes on STRANGWAY'S face, as he stands there
by the open door, his hand grips his throat; he looks from side
to side, as if seeking a way of escape.]
CURTAIN.
SCENE II
The BURLACOMBES' high and nearly empty barn. A lantern is hung
by a rope that lifts the bales of straw, to a long ladder
leaning against a rafter. This gives all the light there is,
save for a slender track of moonlight, slanting in from the end,
where the two great doors are not quite closed. On a rude bench
in front of a few remaining, stacked, square-cut bundles of last
year's hay, sits TIBBY JARLAND, a bit of apple in her mouth,
sleepily beating on a tambourine. With stockinged feet GLADYS,
IVY, CONNIE, and MERCY, TIM CLYST, and BOBBIE JARLAND, a boy of
fifteen, are dancing a truncated "Figure of Eight"; and their
shadow are dancing alongside on the walls. Shoes and some
apples have been thrown down close to the side door through
which they have come in. Now and then IVY, the smallest and
best of the dancers, ejaculates words of direction, and one of
the youths grunts or breathes loudly out of the confusion of his
mind. Save for this and the dumb beat and jingle of the sleepy
tambourine, there is no sound. The dance comes to its end, but
the drowsy TIBBY goes on beating.
MERCY. That'll du, Tibby; we're finished. Ate yore apple. [The
stolid TIBBY eats her apple.]
CLYST. [In his teasing, excitable voice] Yu maids don't dance
'elf's well as us du. Bobbie 'e's a great dancer. 'E dance vine.
I'm a gude dancer, meself.
GLADYS. A'n't yu conceited just?
CLYST. Aw! Ah! Yu'll give me kiss for that. [He chases, but cannot
catch that slippery white figure] Can't she glimmer!
MERCY. Gladys! Up ladder!
CLYST. Yu go up ladder; I'll catch 'ee then. Naw, yu maids, don't
yu give her succour. That's not vair [Catching hold of MERCY, who
gives a little squeal.]
CONNIE. Mercy, don't! Mrs. Burlacombe'll hear. Ivy, go an' peek.
[Ivy goes to flee side door and peers through.]
CLYST. [Abandoning the chase and picking up an apple--they all have
the joyous irresponsibility that attends forbidden doings] Ya-as,
this is a gude apple. Luke at Tibby!
[TIBBY, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen back into the hay,
asleep. GLADYS, leaning against the hay breaks into humming:]