ACT II
ACT III
ACT I
At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry morning in
the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New Hampshire, is sitting up in the
kitchen and general dwelling room of her farm house on the outskirts of
the town of Websterbridge. She is not a prepossessing woman. No woman
looks her best after sitting up all night; and Mrs. Dudgeon’s face,
even at its best, is grimly trenched by the channels into which the
barren forms and observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter
temper and a fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard
and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sordid
home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and respectability among
her neighbors, to whom drink and debauchery are still so much more
tempting than religion and rectitude, that they conceive goodness
simply as self-denial. This conception is easily extended to
others—denial, and finally generalized as covering anything
disagreeable. So Mrs. Dudgeon, being exceedingly disagreeable, is held
to be exceedingly good. Short of flat felony, she enjoys complete
license except for amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently,
without knowing it, the most licentious woman in the parish on the
strength of never having broken the seventh commandment or missed a
Sunday at the Presbyterian church.
The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused of the breaking
off of the American colonies from England, more by their own weight
than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, the shooting being
idealized to the English mind as suppression of rebellion and
maintenance of British dominion, and to the American as defence of
liberty, resistance to tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the
Rights of Man. Into the merits of these idealizations it is not here
necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they
have convinced both Americans and English that the most high minded
course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as
possible, and that military operations to that end are in full swing,
morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides
for the blessing of God on their arms.
Under such circumstances many other women besides this disagreeable
Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night waiting for news.
Like her, too, they fall asleep towards morning at the risk of nodding
themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs. Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over
her head, and her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the
domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its
hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen
table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin
sconce. Her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and
unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally
moulded to the sitter’s curves, it is comparatively a chair of state.
The room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near
the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of
the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house
door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front
wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom
door. Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the
deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are
no hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window the clock
hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and
brass pendulum. Between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard,
locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery.
On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a
shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall. An
inspection of its stridulous surface shows that Mrs. Dudgeon is not
alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it. She is a
wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin. Her
frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by
no means scrupulously clean. It hangs on her with a freedom which,
taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of
underclothing.
Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to wake the
sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. Dudgeon a little. Finally
the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at once.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_threateningly_). Well, why don’t you open the door? (_She sees that
the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor of heartfelt
vexation._) Well, dear, dear me! Now this is— (_shaking her_) wake up,
wake up: do you hear?
THE GIRL.
(_sitting up_). What is it?
MRS. DUDGEON.
Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling sinful girl, falling
asleep like that, and your father hardly cold in his grave.
THE GIRL.
(_half asleep still_). I didn’t mean to. I dropped off—
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_cutting her short_). Oh yes, you’ve plenty of excuses, I daresay.
Dropped off! (_Fiercely, as the knocking recommences._) Why don’t you
get up and let your uncle in? after me waiting up all night for him!
(_She pushes her rudely off the sofa._) There: I’ll open the door: much
good you are to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit.
The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on. Mrs.
Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the stuffy kitchen a
little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also
her second son Christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man
of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He hurries,
shivering, to the fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door.
CHRISTY.
(_at the fire_). F—f—f! but it is cold. (_Seeing the girl, and staring
lumpishly at her._) Why, who are you?
THE GIRL.
(_shyly_). Essie.
MRS. DUDGEON.
Oh you may well ask. (_To Essie._) Go to your room, child, and lie down
since you haven’t feeling enough to keep you awake. Your history isn’t
fit for your own ears to hear.
ESSIE.
I—
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_peremptorily_). Don’t answer me, Miss; but show your obedience by
doing what I tell you. (_Essie, almost in tears, crosses the room to
the door near the sofa._) And don’t forget your prayers. (_Essie goes
out._) She’d have gone to bed last night just as if nothing had
happened if I’d let her.
CHRISTY.
(_phlegmatically_). Well, she can’t be expected to feel Uncle Peter’s
death like one of the family.
MRS. DUDGEON.
What are you talking about, child? Isn’t she his daughter—the
punishment of his wickedness and shame? (_She assaults her chair by
sitting down._)
CHRISTY.
(_staring_). Uncle Peter’s daughter!
MRS. DUDGEON.
Why else should she be here? D’ye think I’ve not had enough trouble and
care put upon me bringing up my own girls, let alone you and your
good-for-nothing brother, without having your uncle’s bastards—
CHRISTY.
(_interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door by which
Essie went out_). Sh! She may hear you.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_raising her voice_). Let her hear me. People who fear God don’t fear
to give the devil’s work its right name. (_Christy, soullessly
indifferent to the strife of Good and Evil, stares at the fire, warming
himself._) Well, how long are you going to stare there like a stuck
pig? What news have you for me?
CHRISTY.
(_taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to hang them up_).
The minister is to break the news to you. He’ll be here presently.
MRS. DUDGEON.
Break what news?
CHRISTY.
(_standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat up, though he
is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking with callous
placidity, considering the nature of the announcement_). Father’s dead
too.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_stupent_). Your father!
CHRISTY.
(_sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself again, attending
much more to the fire than to his mother_). Well, it’s not my fault.
When we got to Nevinstown we found him ill in bed. He didn’t know us at
first. The minister sat up with him and sent me away. He died in the
night.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_bursting into dry angry tears_). Well, I do think this is hard on
me—very hard on me. His brother, that was a disgrace to us all his
life, gets hanged on the public gallows as a rebel; and your father,
instead of staying at home where his duty was, with his own family,
goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. After
sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (_She plucks her shawl
vexedly over her ears._) It’s sinful, so it is; downright sinful.
CHRISTY.
(_with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause_). I think it’s going
to be a fine morning, after all.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_railing at him_). A fine morning! And your father newly dead! Where’s
your feelings, child?
CHRISTY.
(_obstinately_). Well, I didn’t mean any harm. I suppose a man may make
a remark about the weather even if his father’s dead.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_bitterly_). A nice comfort my children are to me! One son a fool, and
the other a lost sinner that’s left his home to live with smugglers and
gypsies and villains, the scum of the earth!
Someone knocks.
CHRISTY.
(_without moving_). That’s the minister.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_sharply_). Well, aren’t you going to let Mr. Anderson in?
Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries her face in
her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome with grief.
Christy opens the door, and admits the minister, Anthony Anderson, a
shrewd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine of about 50, with something
of the authority of his profession in his bearing. But it is an
altogether secular authority, sweetened by a conciliatory, sensible
manner not at all suggestive of a quite thoroughgoing
other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy man, too, with a thick,
sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy
corners. No doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of
making the most of this world, and perhaps a little apologetically
conscious of getting on better with it than a sound Presbyterian ought.
ANDERSON.
(_to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dudgeon whilst he takes off
his cloak_). Have you told her?
CHRISTY.
She made me. (_He shuts the door; yawns; and loafs across to the sofa
where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep._)
Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he hangs his cloak
and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her eyes and looks up at him.
ANDERSON.
Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily upon you.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_with intensely recalcitrant resignation_). It’s His will, I suppose;
and I must bow to it. But I do think it hard. What call had Timothy to
go to Springtown, and remind everybody that he belonged to a man that
was being hanged?—and (_spitefully_) that deserved it, if ever a man
did.
ANDERSON.
(_gently_). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON.
Timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after we were married: he
had too much respect for me to insult me with such a brother. Would
such a selfish wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy
hanged, do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I must bear my
cross as best I may: least said is soonest mended.
ANDERSON.
(_very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his back to it_).
Your eldest son was present at the execution, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_disagreeably surprised_). Richard?
ANDERSON.
(_nodding_). Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_vindictively_). Let it be a warning to him. He may end that way
himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless— (_she suddenly stops; her
voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread_) Did Timothy see him?
ANDERSON.
Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_holding her breath_). Well?
ANDERSON.
He only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. (_Mrs. Dudgeon,
greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at her ease
again._) Your husband was greatly touched and impressed by his
brother’s awful death. (_Mrs. Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to
demand with some indignation_) Well, wasn’t it only natural, Mrs.
Dudgeon? He softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent
for him to come to see him.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_her alarm renewed_). Sent for Richard!
ANDERSON.
Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent his father a message; but I’m
sorry to say it was a wicked message—an awful message.
MRS. DUDGEON.
What was it?
ANDERSON.
That he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand against his good
parents, in this world and the next.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_implacably_). He will be punished for it. He will be punished for
it—in both worlds.
ANDERSON.
That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON.
Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the wicked shall be
punished. Why should we do our duty and keep God’s law if there is to
be no difference made between us and those who follow their own likings
and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their Maker’s word?
ANDERSON.
Well, Richard’s earthly father has been merciful and his heavenly judge
is the father of us all.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_forgetting herself_). Richard’s earthly father was a softheaded—
ANDERSON.
(_shocked_). Oh!
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_with a touch of shame_). Well, I am Richard’s mother. If I am against
him who has any right to be for him? (_Trying to conciliate him._)
Won’t you sit down, Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; but
I’m so troubled.
ANDERSON.
Thank you— (_He takes a chair from beside the fireplace, and turns it
so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. When he is seated he adds,
in the tone of a man who knows that he is opening a difficult
subject._) Has Christy told you about the new will?
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_all her fears returning_). The new will! Did Timothy—? (_She breaks
off, gasping, unable to complete the question._)
ANDERSON.
Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_white with intense rage_). And you let him rob me?
ANDERSON.
I had no power to prevent him giving what was his to his own son.
MRS. DUDGEON.
He had nothing of his own. His money was the money I brought him as my
marriage portion. It was for me to deal with my own money and my own
son. He dare not have done it if I had been with him; and well he knew
it. That was why he stole away like a thief to take advantage of the
law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. The more shame on
you, Mr. Anderson,—you, a minister of the gospel—to act as his
accomplice in such a crime.
ANDERSON.
(_rising_). I will take no offence at what you say in the first
bitterness of your grief.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_contemptuously_). Grief!
ANDERSON.
Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in your heart to think
that the better word.
MRS. DUDGEON.
My heart! My heart! And since when, pray, have you begun to hold up our
hearts as trustworthy guides for us?
ANDERSON.
(_rather guiltily_). I—er—
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_vehemently_). Don’t lie, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the heart of
man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. My heart
belonged, not to Timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that
has just ended his days with a rope round his neck—aye, to Peter
Dudgeon. You know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you
succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it
you when he gave over our souls into your charge. He warned me and
strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing man—as
he thought. What else but that discipline has made me the woman I am?
And you, you who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me
of what I find in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man; and leave
me to my prayers. (_She turns from him and leans with her elbows on the
table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of him._)
ANDERSON.
(_willing enough to escape_). The Lord forbid that I should come
between you and the source of all comfort! (_He goes to the rack for
his coat and hat._)
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_without looking at him_). The Lord will know what to forbid and what
to allow without your help.
ANDERSON.
And whom to forgive, I hope—Eli Hawkins and myself, if we have ever set
up our preaching against His law. (_He fastens his cloak, and is now
ready to go._) Just one word—on necessary business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There
is the reading of the will to be gone through; and Richard has a right
to be present. He is in the town; but he has the grace to say that he
does not want to force himself in here.
MRS. DUDGEON.
He shall come here. Does he expect us to leave his father’s house for
his convenience? Let them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly.
They shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day’s work.
I shall be ready, never fear.
ANDERSON.
(_coming back a step or two_). Mrs. Dudgeon: I used to have some little
influence with you. When did I lose it?
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_still without turning to him_). When you married for love. Now you’re
answered.
ANDERSON.
Yes: I am answered. (_He goes out, musing._)
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_to herself, thinking of her husband_). Thief! Thief!! (_She shakes
herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her head;
and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will,
beginning by replacing Anderson’s chair against the wall, and pushing
back her own to the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving,
wrathful way_) Christy. (_No answer: he is fast asleep._) Christy.
(_She shakes him roughly._) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of
yourself—sleeping, and your father dead! (_She returns to the table;
puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a
red table cloth which she spreads._)
CHRISTY.
(_rising reluctantly_). Well, do you suppose we are never going to
sleep until we are out of mourning?
MRS. DUDGEON.
I want none of your sulks. Here: help me to set this table. (_They
place the table in the middle of the room, with Christy’s end towards
the fireplace and Mrs. Dudgeon’s towards the sofa. Christy drops the
table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to
make the final adjustments of its position._) We shall have the
minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will
before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that girl; and then
light the stove in the shed: you can’t have your breakfast here. And
mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company.
(_She punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it;
and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there
untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and some
glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green ware plates, on
one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. On the other
she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and
counting the rest._) Now mind: there are ten biscuits there: let there
be ten there when I come back after dressing myself. And keep your
fingers off the raisins in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I
suppose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without
breaking the glass? (_She replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she
locks, pocketing the key carefully._)
CHRISTY.
(_lingering at the fire_). You’d better put the inkstand instead, for
the lawyer.
MRS. DUDGEON.
That’s no answer to make to me, sir. Go and do as you’re told.
(_Christy turns sullenly to obey._) Stop: take down that shutter before
you go, and let the daylight in: you can’t expect me to do all the
heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about.
Christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts it aside; then
opens the shutter, showing the grey morning. Mrs. Dudgeon takes the
sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the
snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the
purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf.
CHRISTY.
(_looking through the window_). Here’s the minister’s wife.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_displeased_). What! Is she coming here?
CHRISTY.
Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON.
What does she want troubling me at this hour, before I’m properly
dressed to receive people?
CHRISTY.
You’d better ask her.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_threateningly_). You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head. (_He
goes sulkily towards the door. She comes after him, plying him with
instructions._) Tell that girl to come to me as soon as she’s had her
breakfast. And tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the
people. (_Christy goes out and slams the door in her face._) Nice
manners, that! (_Someone knocks at the house door: she turns and cries
inhospitably._) Come in. (_Judith Anderson, the minister’s wife, comes
in. Judith is more than twenty years younger than her husband, though
she will never be as young as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper
and ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of
herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which
serves her instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in
her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams.
Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a child’s vanity.
Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who knows how
rough a place the world is. One feels, on the whole, that Anderson
might have chosen worse, and that she, needing protection, could not
have chosen better._) Oh, it’s you, is it, Mrs. Anderson?
JUDITH.
(_very politely—almost patronizingly_). Yes. Can I do anything for you,
Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the place ready before they come to
read the will?
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_stiffly_). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my house is always ready for
anyone to come into.
MRS. ANDERSON.
(_with complacent amiability_). Yes, indeed it is. Perhaps you had
rather I did not intrude on you just now.
MRS. DUDGEON.
Oh, one more or less will make no difference this morning, Mrs.
Anderson. Now that you’re here, you’d better stay. If you wouldn’t mind
shutting the door! (_Judith smiles, implying “How stupid of me” and
shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and
becoming._) That’s better. I must go and tidy myself a bit. I suppose
you don’t mind stopping here to receive anyone that comes until I’m
ready.
JUDITH.
(_graciously giving her leave_). Oh yes, certainly. Leave them to me,
Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. (_She hangs her cloak and bonnet on
the rack._)
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_half sneering_). I thought that would be more in your way than
getting the house ready. (_Essie comes back._) Oh, here you are!
(_Severely_) Come here: let me see you. (_Essie timidly goes to her.
Mrs. Dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to
inspect the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself—results
which show little practice and less conviction._) Mm! That’s what you
call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It’s easy to see what you
are, and how you were brought up. (_She throws her arms away, and goes
on, peremptorily._) Now you listen to me and do as you’re told. You sit
down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes don’t
dare to speak until you’re spoken to. (_Essie creeps away to the
fireplace._) Your father’s people had better see you and know you’re
there: they’re as much bound to keep you from starvation as I am. At
any rate they might help. But let me have no chattering and making free
with them, as if you were their equal. Do you hear?
ESSIE.
Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON.
Well, then go and do as you’re told. (_Essie sits down miserably on
the corner of the fender furthest from the door._) Never mind her,
Mrs. Anderson: you know who she is and what she is. If she gives you
any trouble, just tell me; and I’ll settle accounts with her. (_Mrs.
Dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as
if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand._)
JUDITH.
(_patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the table more
becomingly_). You must not mind if your aunt is strict with you. She is
a very good woman, and desires your good too.
ESSIE.
(_in listless misery_). Yes.
JUDITH.
(_annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled and edified, and to
appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark_). You are not going
to be sullen, I hope, Essie.
ESSIE.
No.
JUDITH.
That’s a good girl! (_She places a couple of chairs at the table with
their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more
thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dudgeon._) Do you know any of your
father’s relatives?
ESSIE.
No. They wouldn’t have anything to do with him: they were too
religious. Father used to talk about Dick Dudgeon; but I never saw him.
JUDITH.
(_ostentatiously shocked_). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: do you wish to be a
really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for yourself
here by steady good conduct?
ESSIE.
(_very half-heartedly_). Yes.
JUDITH.
Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon—never even
think about him. He is a bad man.
ESSIE.
What has he done?
JUDITH.
You must not ask questions about him, Essie. You are too young to know
what it is to be a bad man. But he is a smuggler; and he lives with
gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he
wrestles and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church. Never
let him into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep
yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men.
ESSIE.
Yes.
JUDITH.
(_again displeased_). I am afraid you say Yes and No without thinking
very deeply.
ESSIE.
Yes. At least I mean—
JUDITH.
(_severely_). What do you mean?
ESSIE.
(_almost crying_). Only—my father was a smuggler; and— (_Someone
knocks._)
JUDITH.
They are beginning to come. Now remember your aunt’s directions, Essie;
and be a good girl. (_Christy comes back with the stand of stuffed
birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, which he places on the
table._) Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please: the
people have come.
CHRISTY.
Good morning. (_He opens the house door._)
The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Anderson, who is the
first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is accompanied by Lawyer
Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow
breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. He and Anderson are
allowed precedence as representing the learned professions. After them
comes the family, headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large,
shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His
clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a
prosperous man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little
terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both
free from the cares of the William household.
Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest
the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He puts his hat on
the floor beside him, and produces the will. Uncle William comes to the
fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving Mrs.
William derelict near the door. Uncle Titus, who is the lady’s man of
the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing
her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his
brother’s. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with Judith.
JUDITH.
She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait. (_She taps at the
bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens it and passes
through._)
ANDERSON.
(_taking his place at the table at the opposite end to Hawkins_). Our
poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. Are we all here?
CHRISTY.
(_at the house door, which he has just shut_). All except Dick.
The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars on the
moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his head slowly and
repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath convulsively through her
nose. Her husband speaks.
UNCLE TITUS.
Well, I hope he will have the grace not to come. I hope so.
The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes to the window
and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins smiles secretively as if
he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it.
Anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially
funereal ones, is not in his nature. Judith appears at the bedroom
door.
JUDITH.
(_with gentle impressiveness_). Friends, Mrs. Dudgeon. (_She takes the
chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, who
comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes.
All rise, except Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce equally
clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment._)
UNCLE WILLIAM.
Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a prayer?
UNCLE TITUS.
Or sing a hymn?
ANDERSON.
(_rather hastily_). I have been with our sister this morning already,
friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing.
ALL.
(_except Essie_). Amen.
They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. Dudgeon’s
chair.
JUDITH.
(_to Essie_). Essie: did you say Amen?
ESSIE.
(_scaredly_). No.
JUDITH.
Then say it, like a good girl.
ESSIE.
Amen.
UNCLE WILLIAM.
(_encouragingly_). That’s right: that’s right. We know who you are; but
we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl and deserve it.
We are all equal before the Throne.
This republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced
that the Throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often
questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded.
CHRISTY.
(_at the window_). Here’s Dick.
Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a gleam of
interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy grins and gapes
expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified with the intensity of
their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting
Vice. The reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged
merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking member
of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner
defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only his
forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes
are the eyes of a fanatic.
RICHARD.
(_on the threshold, taking off his hat_). Ladies and gentlemen: your
servant, your very humble servant. (_With this comprehensive insult, he
throws his hat to Christy with a suddenness that makes him jump like a
negligent wicket keeper, and comes into the middle of the room, where
he turns and deliberately surveys the company._) How happy you all
look! how glad to see me! (_He turns towards Mrs. Dudgeon’s chair; and
his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her look of
undisguised hatred._) Well, mother: keeping up appearances as usual?
that’s right, that’s right. (_Judith pointedly moves away from his
neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt
instinctively as if to save it from contamination. Uncle Titus promptly
marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a
chair for her to sit down upon._) What! Uncle William! I haven’t seen
you since you gave up drinking. (_Poor Uncle William, shamed, would
protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding_) you
have given it up, haven’t you? (_releasing him with a playful push_) of
course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. (_He turns away from
Uncle William and makes for the sofa._) And now, where is that upright
horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come forth. (_He comes upon him
holding the chair as Judith sits down._) As usual, looking after the
ladies.
UNCLE TITUS.
(_indignantly_). Be ashamed of yourself, sir—
RICHARD.
(_interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him_). I am: I am;
but I am proud of my uncle—proud of all my relatives (_again surveying
them_) who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? (_Uncle
Titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the
table._) Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding
them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark.
Come! (_with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the
decanter_) clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times.
ANDERSON.
You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink before dinner.
RICHARD.
You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used to drink before
breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons unction. (_He smells the
wine and makes a wry face._) But do not begin on my mother’s company
sherry. I stole some when I was six years old; and I have been a
temperate man ever since. (_He puts the decanter down and changes the
subject._) So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife has a
most ungodly allowance of good looks.
ANDERSON.
(_quietly indicating Judith_). Sir: you are in the presence of my wife.
(_Judith rises and stands with stony propriety._)
RICHARD.
(_quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners_).
Your servant, madam: no offence. (_He looks at her earnestly._) You
deserve your reputation; but I’m sorry to see by your expression that
you’re a good woman. (_She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur
of indignant sympathy from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough
to know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a
man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly
goodhumored._) All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than I did
before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our late lamented
Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father?
UNCLE TITUS.
He had only one irregular child, sir.
RICHARD.
Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for you, Uncle Titus.
ANDERSON.
Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her grief.
RICHARD.
It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, what has become of the
irregular child?
ANDERSON.
(_pointing to Essie_). There, sir, listening to you.
RICHARD.
(_shocked into sincerity_). What! Why the devil didn’t you tell me that
before? Children suffer enough in this house without— (_He hurries
remorsefully to Essie._) Come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not
meant to hurt you. (_She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained
face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of
wrath_) Who has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? By
God—
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_rising and confronting him_). Silence your blasphemous tongue. I will
hear no more of this. Leave my house.
RICHARD.
How do you know it’s your house until the will is read? (_They look at
one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she sinks,
checkmated, into her chair. Richard goes boldly up past Anderson to the
window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand._) Ladies and
gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head
of this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister Anderson:
by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the table for the head of
the family. (_He places the chair at the table between the minister and
the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a
presidential air._) We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an
uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (_He shakes his head
deploringly. The relatives freeze with horror._) That’s right: pull
your longest faces (_his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance
lights on Essie_) provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child.
(_Briskly._) Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: business, business. Get on with
the will, man.
TITUS.
Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. Hawkins.
HAWKINS.
(_very politely and willingly_). Mr. Dudgeon means no offence, I feel
sure. I will not keep you one second, Mr. Dudgeon. Just while I get my
glasses— (_he fumbles for them. The Dudgeons look at one another with
misgiving_).
RICHARD.
Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. They are prepared for the
worst. A glass of wine to clear your voice before you begin. (_He pours
out one for him and hands it; then pours one for himself._)
HAWKINS.
Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, sir.
RICHARD.
Yours, sir. (_With the glass half way to his lips, he checks himself,
giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, with quaint intensity._)
Will anyone oblige me with a glass of water?
Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises
stealthily and slips out behind Mrs. Dudgeon through the bedroom door,
returning presently with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as
possible.
HAWKINS.
The will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology.
RICHARD.
No: my father died without the consolations of the law.
HAWKINS.
Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. (_Preparing to read_) Are you
ready, sir?
RICHARD.
Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make
us truly thankful. Go ahead.
HAWKINS.
(_reading_). “This is the last will and testament of me Timothy Dudgeon
on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the road from Springtown to
Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand
seven hundred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made
by me and declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am doing
and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections.”
RICHARD.
(_glancing at his mother_). Aha!
HAWKINS.
(_shaking his head_). Bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. “I give
and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son Christopher Dudgeon,
fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to Sarah
Wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of
his children up to the number of five.”
RICHARD.
How if she won’t have him?
CHRISTY.
She will if I have fifty pounds.
RICHARD.
Good, my brother. Proceed.
HAWKINS.
“I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose”—you
see he did not know the law, Mr. Dudgeon: your mother was not born
Annie: she was christened so—“an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for
life (_Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively
rigid_) to be paid out of the interest on her own money”—there’s a way
to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own money!
MRS. DUDGEON.
A very good way to put God’s truth. It was every penny my own.
Fifty-two pounds a year!
HAWKINS.
“And I recommend her for her goodness and piety to the forgiving care
of her children, having stood between them and her as far as I could to
the best of my ability.”
MRS. DUDGEON.
And this is my reward! (_raging inwardly_) You know what I think, Mr.
Anderson you know the word I gave to it.
ANDERSON.
It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We must take what comes to us. (_To
Hawkins._) Go on, sir.
HAWKINS.
“I give and bequeath my house at Websterbridge with the land belonging
to it and all the rest of my property soever to my eldest son and heir,
Richard Dudgeon.”
RICHARD.
Oho! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf.
HAWKINS.
“On these conditions—”
RICHARD.
The devil! Are there conditions?
HAWKINS.
“To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother Peter’s natural child
starve or be driven by want to an evil life.”
RICHARD.
(_emphatically, striking his fist on the table_). Agreed.
Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses her and
looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, seeing that
she has left the room without leave, closes her lips vengefully.
HAWKINS.
“Second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse Jim”— (_again
slacking his head_) he should have written James, sir.
RICHARD.
James shall live in clover. Go on.
HAWKINS.
“—and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger Feston in his service.”
RICHARD.
Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday.
HAWKINS.
“Third, that he make Christy a present on his marriage out of the
ornaments in the best room.”
RICHARD.
(_holding up the stuffed birds_). Here you are, Christy.
CHRISTY.
(_disappointed_). I’d rather have the China peacocks.
RICHARD.
You shall have both. (_Christy is greatly pleased._) Go on.
HAWKINS.
“Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his mother as
far as she will consent to it.”
RICHARD.
(_dubiously_). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins?
HAWKINS.
(_solemnly_). “Finally I gave and bequeath my soul into my Maker’s
hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, and
hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that I have
done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity
of my last hour in this strange place.”
ANDERSON.
Amen.
THE UNCLES AND AUNTS.
Amen.
RICHARD.
My mother does not say Amen.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_rising, unable to give up her property without a struggle_). Mr.
Hawkins: is that a proper will? Remember, I have his rightful, legal
will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me.
HAWKINS.
This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, Mrs. Dudgeon;
though (_turning politely to Richard_) it contains in my judgment an
excellent disposal of his property.
ANDERSON.
(_interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort_). That is not what you
are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal will?
HAWKINS.
The courts will sustain it against the other.
ANDERSON.
But why, if the other is more lawfully worded?
HAWKING.
Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man—and that man
the eldest son—against any woman, if they can. I warned you, Mrs.
Dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a
wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, he would never
be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldn’t take advice; and now Mr.
Richard is cock of the walk. (_He takes his hat from the floor; rises;
and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles._)
This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson takes his
hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. Uncle Titus
fetches Judith her things from the rack. The three on the sofa rise and
chat with Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house,
stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it,
as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs
of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own
wormlike insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary
Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vindication
of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is
rescued from her apathy by Essie, who comes back with the jug full of
water. She is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her.
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_threatening her_). Where have you been? (_Essie, appalled, tries to
answer, but cannot._) How dare you go out by yourself after the orders
I gave you?
ESSIE.
He asked for a drink— (_she stops, her tongue cleaving to her palate
with terror_).
JUDITH.
(_with gentler severity_). Who asked for a drink? (_Essie, speechless,
points to Richard._)
RICHARD.
What! I!
JUDITH.
(_shocked_). Oh Essie, Essie!
RICHARD.
I believe I did. (_He takes a glass and holds it to Essie to be filled.
Her hand shakes._) What! afraid of me?
ESSIE.
(_quickly_). No. I— (_She pours out the water._)
RICHARD.
(_tasting it_). Ah, you’ve been up the street to the market gate spring
to get that. (_He takes a draught._) Delicious! Thank you.
(_Unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of Judith’s
face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident
attraction for Essie, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His
mocking expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass;
deliberately winds his arm round Essie’s shoulders; and brings her into
the middle of the company. Mrs. Dudgeon being in Essie’s way as they
come past the table, he says_) By your leave, mother (_and compels her
to make way for them_). What do they call you? Bessie?
ESSIE.
Essie.
RICHARD.
Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie?
ESSIE.
(_greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin at her in
this way_) Yes. (_She looks doubtfully at Judith._) I think so. I mean
I—I hope so.
RICHARD.
Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil?
ANDERSON.
(_revolted_). Shame on you, sir, with a mere child—
RICHARD.
By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your sermons: do not
you interrupt mine. (_To Essie._) Do you know what they call me, Essie?
ESSIE.
Dick.
RICHARD.
(_amused: patting her on the shoulder_). Yes, Dick; but something else
too. They call me the Devil’s Disciple.
ESSIE.
Why do you let them?
RICHARD.
(_seriously_). Because it’s true. I was brought up in the other
service; but I knew from the first that the Devil was my natural master
and captain and friend. I saw that he was in the right, and that the
world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to
him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in
this house of children’s tears. I promised him my soul, and swore an
oath that I would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in
the next. (_Solemnly_) That promise and that oath made a man of me.
From this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it:
this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the
dark evenings and be afraid. Now (_turning forcibly on the rest_) which
of you good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of
the devil?
JUDITH.
(_coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about her_). I will.
You should be burnt alive.
ESSIE.
But I don’t want to. (_She shrinks back, leaving Richard and Judith
face to face._)
RICHARD.
(_to Judith_). Actually doesn’t want to, most virtuous lady!
UNCLE TITUS.
Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law—
RICHARD.
(_turning threateningly on him_). Have a care, you. In an hour from
this there will be no law here but martial law. I passed the soldiers
within six miles on my way here: before noon Major Swindon’s gallows
for rebels will be up in the market place.
ANDERSON.
(_calmly_). What have we to fear from that, sir?
RICHARD.
More than you think. He hanged the wrong man at Springtown: he thought
Uncle Peter was respectable, because the Dudgeons had a good name. But
his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring
home a rebellious word. Well, we’re all rebels; and you know it.
ALL THE MEN (_except Anderson_).
No, no, no!
RICHARD.
Yes, you are. You haven’t damned King George up hill and down dale as I
have; but you’ve prayed for his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have
conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of
pistols. They mayn’t hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of the
Devil’s Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn’t help them. But a Minister!
(_Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson_) or a lawyer! (_Hawkins smiles
like a man able to take care of himself_) or an upright horsedealer!
(_Uncle Titus snarls at him in rags and terror_) or a reformed drunkard
(_Uncle William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear_) eh?
Would that show that King George meant business—ha?
ANDERSON.
(_perfectly self-possessed_). Come, my dear: he is only trying to
frighten you. There is no danger. (_He takes her out of the house. The
rest crowd to the door to follow him, except Essie, who remains near
Richard._)
RICHARD.
(_boisterously derisive_). Now then: how many of you will stay with me;
run up the American flag on the devil’s house; and make a fight for
freedom? (_They scramble out, Christy among them, hustling one another
in their haste._) Ha ha! Long live the devil! (_To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is
following them_) What mother! are you off too?
MRS. DUDGEON.
(_deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had received a
deathblow_). My curse on you! My dying curse! (_She goes out._)
RICHARD.
(_calling after her_). It will bring me luck. Ha ha ha!
ESSIE.
(_anxiously_). Mayn’t I stay?
RICHARD.
(_turning to her_). What! Have they forgotten to save your soul in
their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh yes: you may stay. (_He turns
excitedly away again and shakes his fist after them. His left fist,
also clenched, hangs down. Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears
falling on it. He starts and looks at it._) Tears! The devil’s baptism!
(_She falls on her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise
her, saying_) Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like.