Minister Anderson’s house is in the main street of Websterbridge, not
far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth century New
Englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons;
but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at
about the same rent. The chief dwelling room has the same sort of
kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable
iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad
fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The
door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels,
fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with
a latch. The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of
American cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. The tea service on
it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with
milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a
quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a
wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block
of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing the fire from the
opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament;
and the minister’s house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing
that he is out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there.
His big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual
place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evolution of the
minister’s kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate
apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of
our pampered period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons.
But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs. Anderson
is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. To which Mrs.
Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no
children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and
sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at
fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in
short, that life is as easy at the minister’s house as it is hard at
the farm. This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and
however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for making her home
happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and
visible signs of her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the
floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though
not upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are
represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a
copperplate of Raphael’s St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo
presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of
miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and,
at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of the room
is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little
red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. There
is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed
back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole,
it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in
struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and
his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman
would have tolerated it fifty years ago.
The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy
firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet
street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of
rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a
couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the
table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious
and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The
first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the
rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a
sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet
cloak.
JUDITH.
(_running to him_). Oh, here you are at last, at last! (_She attempts
to embrace him._)
ANDERSON.
(_keeping her off_). Take care, my love: I’m wet. Wait till I get my
cloak off. (_He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his
cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the
fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith._) Now!
(_She flies into his arms._) I am not late, am I? The town clock struck
the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is
always fast.
JUDITH.
I’m sure it’s slow this evening. I’m so glad you’re back.
ANDERSON.
(_taking her more closely in his arms_). Anxious, my dear?
JUDITH.
A little.
ANDERSON.
Why, you’ve been crying.
JUDITH.
Only a little. Never mind: it’s all over now. (_A bugle call is heard
in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats to the long seat,
listening._) What’s that?
ANDERSON.
(_following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with
him_). Only King George, my dear. He’s returning to barracks, or having
his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or
something. Soldiers don’t ring the bell or call over the banisters when
they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the
whole town.
JUDITH.
Do you think there is really any danger?
ANDERSON.
Not the least in the world.
JUDITH.
You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it.
ANDERSON.
My dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid
of it. There’s a danger that the house will catch fire in the night;
but we shan’t sleep any the less soundly for that.
JUDITH.
Yes, I know what you always say; and you’re quite right. Oh, quite
right: I know it. But—I suppose I’m not brave: that’s all. My heart
shrinks every time I think of the soldiers.
ANDERSON.
Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing a little
pain.
JUDITH.
Yes, I suppose so. (_Embracing him again._) Oh how brave you are, my
dear! (_With tears in her eyes._) Well, I’ll be brave too: you shan’t
be ashamed of your wife.
ANDERSON.
That’s right. Now you make me happy. Well, well! (_He rises and goes
cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes._) I called on Richard Dudgeon on
my way back; but he wasn’t in.
JUDITH.
(_rising in consternation_). You called on that man!
ANDERSON.
(_reassuring her_). Oh, nothing happened, dearie. He was out.
JUDITH.
(_almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to
her_). But why did you go there?
ANDERSON.
(_gravely_). Well, it is all the talk that Major Swindon is going to do
what he did in Springtown—make an example of some notorious rebel, as
he calls us. He pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there;
and it is the general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the
worst here.
JUDITH.
But Richard said—
ANDERSON.
(_goodhumoredly cutting her short_). Pooh! Richard said! He said what
he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear. He said what
perhaps (_God forgive him!_) he would like to believe. It’s a terrible
thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that. I felt that
I must warn him. I left a message for him.
JUDITH.
(_querulously_). What message?
ANDERSON.
Only that I should be glad to see him for a moment on a matter of
importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when he was
passing he would be welcome.
JUDITH.
(_aghast_). You asked that man to come here!
ANDERSON.
I did.
JUDITH.
(_sinking on the seat and clasping her hands_). I hope he won’t come!
Oh, I pray that he may not come!
ANDERSON.
Why? Don’t you want him to be warned?
JUDITH.
He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong to hate a blasphemer and
a villain? I do hate him! I can’t get him out of my mind: I know he
will bring harm with him. He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted
his mother.
ANDERSON.
(_quaintly_). Well, dear, let’s forgive him; and then it won’t matter.
JUDITH.
Oh, I know it’s wrong to hate anybody; but—
ANDERSON.
(_going over to her with humorous tenderness_). Come, dear, you’re not
so wicked as you think. The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is
not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of
inhumanity. After all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you’ll
be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (_She starts, strangely
touched—even appalled. He is amused at her._) Yes: I’m quite in
earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry one another,
tax one another, are jealous of one another, can’t bear to let one
another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners
than lovers. Think of those very same people with their enemies,
scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent of one
another, careful of how they speak of one another—pooh! haven’t you
often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to
their enemies than to their own husbands and wives? Come: depend on it,
my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, if you
only knew it. Eh?
JUDITH.
Oh, don’t say that: don’t say that, Tony, even in jest. You don’t know
what a horrible feeling it gives me.
ANDERSON.
(_Laughing_). Well, well: never mind, pet. He’s a bad man; and you hate
him as he deserves. And you’re going to make the tea, aren’t you?
JUDITH.
(_remorsefully_). Oh yes, I forgot. I’ve been keeping you waiting all
this time. (_She goes to the fire and puts on the kettle._)
ANDERSON.
(_going to the press and taking his coat off_). Have you stitched up
the shoulder of my old coat?
JUDITH.
Yes, dear. (_She goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into
the teapot from the caddy._)
ANDERSON.
(_as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and
replaces it by the one he has just taken off_). Did anyone call when I
was out?
JUDITH.
No, only— (_someone knocks at the door. With a start which betrays her
intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with
the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming_) Who’s that?
ANDERSON.
(_going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder_). All
right, pet, all right. He won’t eat you, whoever he is. (_She tries to
smile, and nearly makes herself cry. He goes to the door and opens it.
Richard is there, without overcoat or cloak._) You might have raised
the latch and come in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony with
us. (_Hospitably._) Come in. (_Richard comes in carelessly and stands
at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose
at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her eyes on the tea
caddy._) Is it still raining? (_He shuts the door._)
RICHARD.
Raining like the very (_his eye catches Judith’s as she looks quickly
and haughtily up_)—I beg your pardon; but (_showing that his coat is
wet_) you see—!
ANDERSON.
Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a while: my wife will
excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith: put in another spoonful of tea for
Mr. Dudgeon.
RICHARD.
(_eyeing him cynically_). The magic of property, Pastor! Are even YOU
civil to me now that I have succeeded to my father’s estate?
Judith throws down the spoon indignantly.
ANDERSON.
(_quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his coat_). I think,
sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you cannot have so bad an
opinion of it. Sit down. (_With the coat in his hand, he points to the
railed seat. Richard, in his shirtsleeves, looks at him half
quarrelsomely for a moment; then, with a nod, acknowledges that the
minister has got the better of him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson
pushes his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and
hangs Richard’s coat on the back in its place._)
RICHARD.
I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left word you had something
important to tell me.
ANDERSON.
I have a warning which it is my duty to give you.
RICHARD.
(_quickly rising_). You want to preach to me. Excuse me: I prefer a
walk in the rain. (_He makes for his coat._)
ANDERSON.
(_stopping him_). Don’t be alarmed, sir; I am no great preacher. You
are quite safe. (_Richard smiles in spite of himself. His glance
softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse. Anderson, seeing that he
has tamed him, now addresses him earnestly._) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in
danger in this town.
RICHARD.
What danger?
ANDERSON.
Your uncle’s danger. Major Swindon’s gallows.
RICHARD.
It is you who are in danger. I warned you—
ANDERSON.
(_interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively_). Yes, yes, Mr.
Dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town. And even if I were in
danger, I have duties here I must not forsake. But you are a free man.
Why should you run any risk?
RICHARD.
Do you think I should be any great loss, Minister?
ANDERSON.
I think that a man’s life is worth saving, whoever it belongs to.
(_Richard makes him an ironical bow. Anderson returns the bow
humorously._) Come: you’ll have a cup of tea, to prevent you catching
cold?
RICHARD.
I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so pressing as you are,
Pastor.
JUDITH.
(_almost stifled with resentment, which she has been expecting her
husband to share and express for her at every insult of Richard’s_).
You are welcome for my husband’s sake. (_She brings the teapot to the
fireplace and sets it on the hob._)
RICHARD.
I know I am not welcome for my own, madam. (_He rises._) But I think I
will not break bread here, Minister.
ANDERSON.
(_cheerily_). Give me a good reason for that.
RICHARD.
Because there is something in you that I respect, and that makes me
desire to have you for my enemy.
ANDERSON.
That’s well said. On those terms, sir, I will accept your enmity or any
man’s. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will stay to tea. Sit down: it will take a
few minutes to draw by the fire. (_Richard glances at him with a
troubled face; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive
swelling of his throat._) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon,
that enmity— (_she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him, doing
both with an intensity that checks him at once_) Well, well, I mustn’t
tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse
friend—enemies, I mean. Judith is a great enemy of yours.
RICHARD.
If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson I should be the best
Christian in America.
ANDERSON.
(_gratified, patting her hand_). You hear that, Judith? Mr. Dudgeon
knows how to turn a compliment.
The latch is lifted from without.
JUDITH.
(_starting_). Who is that?
Christy comes in.
CHRISTY.
(_stopping and staring at Richard_). Oh, are YOU here?
RICHARD.
Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn’t want the whole family to
tea at once.
CHRISTY.
(_coming further in_). Mother’s very ill.
RICHARD.
Well, does she want to see ME?
CHRISTY.
No.
RICHARD.
I thought not.
CHRISTY.
She wants to see the minister—at once.
JUDITH.
(_to Anderson_). Oh, not before you’ve had some tea.
ANDERSON.
I shall enjoy it more when I come back, dear. (_He is about to take up
his cloak._)
CHRISTY.
The rain’s over.
ANDERSON.
(_dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from the fender_). Where is
your mother, Christy?
CHRISTY.
At Uncle Titus’s.
ANDERSON.
Have you fetched the doctor?
CHRISTY.
No: she didn’t tell me to.
ANDERSON.
Go on there at once: I’ll overtake you on his doorstep. (_Christy turns
to go._) Wait a moment. Your brother must be anxious to know the
particulars.
RICHARD.
Psha! not I: he doesn’t know; and I don’t care. (_Violently._) Be off,
you oaf. (_Christy runs out. Richard adds, a little shamefacedly_) We
shall know soon enough.
ANDERSON.
Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself. Judith: will
you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until I return?
JUDITH.
(_white and trembling_). Must I—
ANDERSON.
(_taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her agitation_). My
dear: I can depend on you?
JUDITH.
(_with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust_). Yes.
ANDERSON.
(_pressing her hand against his cheek_). You will not mind two old
people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (_Going._) I shall not say good evening:
you will be here when I come back. (_He goes out._)
They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly,
quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the
first to pull himself together.
RICHARD.
Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the nature of your sentiments
towards me. I shall not intrude on you. Good evening. (_Again he starts
for the fireplace to get his coat._)
JUDITH.
(_getting between him and the coat_). No, no. Don’t go: please don’t
go.
RICHARD.
(_roughly_). Why? You don’t want me here.
JUDITH.
Yes, I— (_wringing her hands in despair_) Oh, if I tell you the truth,
you will use it to torment me.
RICHARD.
(_indignantly_). Torment! What right have you to say that? Do you
expect me to stay after that?
JUDITH.
I want you to stay; but (_suddenly raging at him like an angry child_)
it is not because I like you.
RICHARD.
Indeed!
JUDITH.
Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me about that. I hate and
dread you; and my husband knows it. If you are not here when he comes
back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and drove you away.
RICHARD.
(_ironically_). Whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and
hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go away out of mere
contrariness, eh?
Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears.
RICHARD.
Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don’t do that. (_Putting his hand to his
breast as if to a wound._) He wrung my heart by being a man. Need you
tear it by being a woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like
himself? (_She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at
him with a scared curiosity._) There: that’s right.
(_Sympathetically._) You’re better now, aren’t you? (_He puts his hand
encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises haughtily, and
stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into his usual sardonic
tone._) Ah, that’s better. You are yourself again: so is Richard. Well,
shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your
husband’s return?
JUDITH.
(_rather ashamed of herself_). If you please. I—I am sorry to have been
so foolish. (_She stoops to take up the plate of toast from the
fender._)
RICHARD.
I am sorry, for your sake, that I am—what I am. Allow me. (_He takes
the plate from her and goes with it to the table._)
JUDITH.
(_following with the teapot_). Will you sit down? (_He sits down at the
end of the table nearest the press. There is a plate and knife laid
there. The other plate is laid near it; but Judith stays at the
opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there,
drawing the tray towards her._) Do you take sugar?
RICHARD.
No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some toast. (_He puts some on
the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. The action shows
quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to
be as far from him as possible._)
JUDITH.
(_consciously_). Thanks. (_She gives him his tea._) Won’t you help
yourself?
RICHARD.
Thanks. (_He puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she pours out
tea for herself._)
JUDITH.
(_observing that he tastes nothing_). Don’t you like it? You are not
eating anything.
RICHARD.
Neither are you.
JUDITH.
(_nervously_). I never care much for my tea. Please don’t mind me.
RICHARD.
(_Looking dreamily round_). I am thinking. It is all so strange to me.
I can see the beauty and peace of this home: I think I have never been
more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet I know quite well
I could never live here. It’s not in my nature, I suppose, to be
domesticated. But it’s very beautiful: it’s almost holy. (_He muses a
moment, and then laughs softly._)
JUDITH.
(_quickly_). Why do you laugh?
RICHARD.
I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would take us
for man and wife.
JUDITH.
(_taking offence_). You mean, I suppose, that you are more my age than
he is.
RICHARD.
(_staring at this unexpected turn_). I never thought of such a thing.
(_Sardonic again._) I see there is another side to domestic joy.
JUDITH.
(_angrily_). I would rather have a husband whom everybody respects
than—than—
RICHARD.
Than the devil’s disciple. You are right; but I daresay your love helps
him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad one.
JUDITH.
My husband has been very good to you. He has forgiven you for insulting
him, and is trying to save you. Can you not forgive him for being so
much better than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting yourself
in his place?
RICHARD.
Did I?
JUDITH.
Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in they would take us for
man and— (_she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of soldiers tramps
past the window_) The English soldiers! Oh, what do they—
RICHARD.
(_listening_). Sh!
A VOICE (_outside_).
Halt! Four outside: two in with me.
Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at Richard,
who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the
latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English sergeant walks into
the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. He comes
promptly to the table between them.
THE SERGEANT.
Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony Anderson: I arrest you in King
George’s name as a rebel.
JUDITH.
(_pointing at Richard_). But that is not— (_He looks up quickly at her,
with a face of iron. She stops her mouth hastily with the hand she has
raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly._)
THE SERGEANT.
Come, Parson; put your coat on and come along.
RICHARD.
Yes: I’ll come. (_He rises and takes a step towards his own coat; then
recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant, moves his gaze
slowly round the room without turning his head until he sees Anderson’s
black coat hanging up on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it
down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he
looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at
Judith, whose white face shows him that what she is painfully
struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its horror.
He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of
handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly_) Did you ever arrest a
man of my cloth before, Sergeant?
THE SERGEANT.
(_instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, half to Richard’s
good breeding_). Well, no sir. At least, only an army chaplain.
(_Showing the handcuffs._) I’m sorry, sir; but duty—
RICHARD.
Just so, Sergeant. Well, I’m not ashamed of them: thank you kindly for
the apology. (_He holds out his hands._)
THE SERGEANT.
(_not availing himself of the offer_). One gentleman to another, sir.
Wouldn’t you like to say a word to your missis, sir, before you go?
RICHARD.
(_smiling_). Oh, we shall meet again before—eh? (_Meaning “before you
hang me.”_)
THE SERGEANT.
(_loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness_). Oh, of course, of course.
No call for the lady to distress herself. Still— (_in a lower voice,
intended for Richard alone_) your last chance, sir.
They look at one another significantly for a moment. Than Richard
exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith.
RICHARD.
(_very distinctly_). My love. (_She looks at him, pitiably pale, and
tries to answer, but cannot—tries also to come to him, but cannot trust
herself to stand without the support of the table._) This gallant
gentleman is good enough to allow us a moment of leavetaking. (_The
sergeant retires delicately and joins his men near the door._) He is
trying to spare you the truth; but you had better know it. Are you
listening to me? (_She signifies assent._) Do you understand that I am
going to my death? (_She signifies that she understands._) Remember,
you must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you understand?
(_She signifies yes._) See that you get him safely out of harm’s way.
Don’t for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out,
tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and they would
not spare me. And tell him that I am steadfast in my religion as he is
in his, and that he may depend on me to the death. (_He turns to go,
and meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. He
considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to Judith with
something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says_) And now,
my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love me
like a wife unless you give one kiss before I go.
He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the table and
almost falls into them.
JUDITH.
(_the words choking her_). I ought to—it’s murder—
RICHARD.
No: only a kiss (_softly to her_) for his sake.
JUDITH.
I can’t. You must—
RICHARD.
(_folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion for her
distress_). My poor girl!
Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses him;
and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if the kiss
had killed her.
RICHARD.
(_going quickly to the sergeant_). Now, Sergeant: quick, before she
comes to. The handcuffs. (_He puts out his hands._)
THE SERGEANT.
(_pocketing them_). Never mind, sir: I’ll trust you. You’re a game one.
You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Between them two, please. (_The
soldiers place themselves one before Richard and one behind him. The
sergeant opens the door._)
RICHARD.
(_taking a last look round him_). Goodbye, wife: goodbye, home. Muffle
the drums, and quick march!
The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They file out
quickly.
When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon’s he is astonished to find the
room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for the glow from
the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and the other is at its
last flicker.
ANDERSON.
Why, what on earth—? (_Calling_) Judith, Judith! (_He listens: there is
no answer._) Hm! (_He goes to the cupboard; takes a candle from the
drawer; lights it at the flicker of the expiring one on the table; and
looks wonderingly at the untasted meal by its light. Then he sticks it
in the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much
puzzled. This action causes him to look at the floor for the first
time; and there he sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed.
He runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head._) Judith.
JUDITH.
(_waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of exhaustion after
suffering_). Yes. Did you call? What’s the matter?
ANDERSON.
I’ve just come in and found you lying here with the candles burnt out
and the tea poured out and cold. What has happened?
JUDITH.
(_still astray_). I don’t know. Have I been asleep? I suppose— (_she
stops blankly_) I don’t know.
ANDERSON.
(_groaning_). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with that scoundrel.
(_Judith remembers. With an agonized cry, she clutches his shoulders
and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her. He clasps her
tenderly in his arms._) My poor pet!
JUDITH.
(_frantically clinging to him_). What shall I do? Oh my God, what shall
I do?
ANDERSON.
Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my fault. Come: you’re
safe now; and you’re not hurt, are you? (_He takes his arms from her to
see whether she can stand._) There: that’s right, that’s right. If only
you are not hurt, nothing else matters.
JUDITH.
No, no, no: I’m not hurt.
ANDERSON.
Thank Heaven for that! Come now: (_leading her to the railed seat and
making her sit down beside him_) sit down and rest: you can tell me
about it to-morrow. Or, (_misunderstanding her distress_) you shall not
tell me at all if it worries you. There, there! (_Cheerfully._) I’ll
make you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. (_He goes to the
table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl._)
JUDITH.
(_in a strained tone_). Tony.
ANDERSON.
Yes, dear?
JUDITH.
Do you think we are only in a dream now?
ANDERSON.
(_glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, though he
goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the pot_).
Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well dream a cup of tea when you’re
about it.
JUDITH.
Oh, stop, stop. You don’t know— (_Distracted she buries her face in her
knotted hands._)
ANDERSON.
(_breaking down and coming to her_). My dear, what is it? I can’t bear
it any longer: you must tell me. It was all my fault: I was mad to
trust him.
JUDITH.
No: don’t say that. You mustn’t say that. He—oh no, no: I can’t. Tony:
don’t speak to me. Take my hands—both my hands. (_He takes them,
wondering._) Make me think of you, not of him. There’s danger,
frightful danger; but it is your danger; and I can’t keep thinking of
it: I can’t, I can’t: my mind goes back to his danger. He must be
saved—no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (_She springs up as if to
do something or go somewhere, exclaiming_) Oh, Heaven help me!
ANDERSON.
(_keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute composure_).
Calmly, calmly, my pet. You’re quite distracted.
JUDITH.
I may well be. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
(_Tearing her hands away._) I must save him. (_Anderson rises in alarm
as she runs wildly to the door. It is opened in her face by Essie, who
hurries in, full of anxiety. The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith
that it brings her to her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she
demands_) What do you want?
ESSIE.
I was to come to you.
ANDERSON.
Who told you to?
ESSIE.
(_staring at him, as if his presence astonished her_). Are you here?
JUDITH.
Of course. Don’t be foolish, child.
ANDERSON.
Gently, dearest: you’ll frighten her. (_Going between them._) Come
here, Essie. (_She comes to him._) Who sent you?
ESSIE.
Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to come here at once and do
whatever Mrs. Anderson told me.
ANDERSON.
(_enlightened_). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! They have arrested
Richard. (_Judith makes a gesture of despair._)
ESSIE.
No. I asked the soldier. Dick’s safe. But the soldier said you had been
taken—
ANDERSON.
I! (_Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an explanation._)
JUDITH.
(_coaxingly_) All right, dear: I understand. (_To Essie._) Thank you,
Essie, for coming; but I don’t need you now. You may go home.
ESSIE.
(_suspicious_) Are you sure Dick has not been touched? Perhaps he told
the soldier to say it was the minister. (_Anxiously._) Mrs. Anderson:
do you think it can have been that?
ANDERSON.
Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She will learn it from the
first neighbor she meets in the street. (_Judith turns away and covers
her eyes with her hands._)
ESSIE.
(_wailing_). But what will they do to him? Oh, what will they do to
him? Will they hang him? (_Judith shudders convulsively, and throws
herself into the chair in which Richard sat at the tea table._)
ANDERSON.
(_patting Essie’s shoulder and trying to comfort her_). I hope not. I
hope not. Perhaps if you’re very quiet and patient, we may be able to
help him in some way.
ESSIE.
Yes—help him—yes, yes, yes. I’ll be good.
ANDERSON.
I must go to him at once, Judith.
JUDITH.
(_springing up_). Oh no. You must go away—far away, to some place of
safety.
ANDERSON.
Pooh!
JUDITH.
(_passionately_). Do you want to kill me? Do you think I can bear to
live for days and days with every knock at the door—every
footstep—giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for nights and
nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to come and arrest you?
ANDERSON.
Do you think it would be better to know that I had run away from my
post at the first sign of danger?
JUDITH.
(_bitterly_). Oh, you won’t go. I know it. You’ll stay; and I shall go
mad.
ANDERSON.
My dear, your duty—
JUDITH.
(_fiercely_). What do I care about my duty?
ANDERSON.
(_shocked_). Judith!
JUDITH.
I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. My duty is to get you
away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (_Essie utters a cry of
distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing silently._) My
instinct is the same as hers—to save him above all things, though it
would be so much better for him to die! so much greater! But I know you
will take your own way as he took it. I have no power. (_She sits down
sullenly on the railed seat._) I’m only a woman: I can do nothing but
sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save you—that I did my
best to save you.
ANDERSON.
My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more of his own danger than of
mine.
JUDITH.
Stop; or I shall hate you.
ANDERSON.
(_remonstrating_). Come, am I to leave you if you talk like this! your
senses. (_He turns to Essie._) Essie.
ESSIE.
(_eagerly rising and drying her eyes_). Yes?
ANDERSON.
Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs. Anderson is not
well. (_Essie looks doubtful._) Never fear: I’ll come to you presently;
and I’ll go to Dick.
ESSIE.
You are sure you will go to him? (_Whispering._) You won’t let her
prevent you?
ANDERSON.
(_smiling_). No, no: it’s all right. All right. (_She goes._) That’s a
good girl. (_He closes the door, and returns to Judith._)
JUDITH.
(_seated—rigid_). You are going to your death.
ANDERSON.
(_quaintly_). Then I shall go in my best coat, dear. (_He turns to the
press, beginning to take off his coat._) Where—? (_He stares at the
empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; strides
across to it; and lifts Richard’s coat._) Why, my dear, it seems that
he has gone in my best coat.
JUDITH.
(_still motionless_). Yes.
ANDERSON.
Did the soldiers make a mistake?
JUDITH.
Yes: they made a mistake.
ANDERSON.
He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was too upset, I suppose.
JUDITH.
Yes: he might have told them. So might I.
ANDERSON.
Well, it’s all very puzzling—almost funny. It’s curious how these
little things strike us even in the most— (_he breaks off and begins
putting on Richard’s coat_) I’d better take him his own coat. I know
what he’ll say— (_imitating Richard’s sardonic manner_) “Anxious about
my soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat.” Eh?
JUDITH.
Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (_Vacantly._) It doesn’t
matter: I shall never see either of you again.
ANDERSON.
(_rallying her_). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (_He sits down beside her._) Is
this how you keep your promise that I shan’t be ashamed of my brave
wife?
JUDITH.
No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my promises to him: why
should I keep my promises to you?
ANDERSON.
Don’t speak so strangely, my love. It sounds insincere to me. (_She
looks unutterable reproach at him._) Yes, dear, nonsense is always
insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. Just nonsense. (_Her
face darkens into dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her, and
does not look at him again, absorbed in Richard’s fate. He scans her
face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up,
making no further effort to conceal his anxiety._) I wish I knew what
has frightened you so. Was there a struggle? Did he fight?
JUDITH.
No. He smiled.
ANDERSON.
Did he realise his danger, do you think?
JUDITH.
He realised yours.
ANDERSON.
Mine!
JUDITH.
(_monotonously_). He said, “See that you get him safely out of harm’s
way.” I promised: I can’t keep my promise. He said, “Don’t for your
life let him know of my danger.” I’ve told you of it. He said that if
you found it out, you could not save him—that they will hang him and
not spare you.
ANDERSON.
(_rising in generous indignation_). And you think that I will let a man
with that much good in him die like a dog, when a few words might make
him die like a Christian? I’m ashamed of you, Judith.
JUDITH.
He will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; and you may
depend on him to the death. He said so.
ANDERSON.
God forgive him! What else did he say?
JUDITH.
He said goodbye.
ANDERSON.
(_fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern_). Poor fellow, poor
fellow! You said goodbye to him in all kindness and charity, Judith, I
hope.
JUDITH.
I kissed him.
ANDERSON.
What! Judith!
JUDITH.
Are you angry?
ANDERSON.
No, no. You were right: you were right. Poor fellow, poor fellow!
(_Greatly distressed._) To be hanged like that at his age! And then did
they take him away?
JUDITH.
(_wearily_). Then you were here: that’s the next thing I remember. I
suppose I fainted. Now bid me goodbye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint
again. I wish I could die.
ANDERSON.
No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be sensible. I am
in no danger—not the least in the world.
JUDITH.
(_solemnly_). You are going to your death, Tony—your sure death, if God
will let innocent men be murdered. They will not let you see him: they
will arrest you the moment you give your name. It was for you the
soldiers came.
ANDERSON.
(_thunderstruck_). For me!!! (_His fists clinch; his neck thickens; his
face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes become injected with hot
blood; the man of peace vanishes, transfigured into a choleric and
formidable man of war. Still, she does not come out of her absorption
to look at him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of
Richard’s stead-fastness._)
JUDITH.
He took your place: he is dying to save you. That is why he went in
your coat. That is why I kissed him.
ANDERSON.
(_exploding_). Blood an’ owns! (_His voice is rough and dominant, his
gesture full of brute energy._) Here! Essie, Essie!
ESSIE.
(_running in_). Yes.
ANDERSON.
(_impetuously_). Off with you as hard as you can run, to the inn. Tell
them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they have (_Judith rises
breathless, and stares at him incredulously_)—the chestnut mare, if
she’s fresh—without a moment’s delay. Go into the stable yard and tell
the black man there that I’ll give him a silver dollar if the horse is
waiting for me when I come, and that I am close on your heels. Away
with you. (_His energy sends Essie flying from the room. He pounces on
his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins
pulling them on._)
JUDITH.
(_unable to believe such a thing of him_). You are not going to him!
ANDERSON.
(_busy with the boots_). Going to him! What good would that do?
(_Growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with a wrench_) I’ll
go to them, so I will. (_To Judith peremptorily_) Get me the pistols: I
want them. And money, money: I want money—all the money in the house.
(_He stoops over the other boot, grumbling_) A great satisfaction it
would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (_He pulls on the
boot._)
JUDITH.
You are deserting him, then?
ANDERSON.
Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols. (_She goes to the
press and takes from it a leather belt with two pistols, a powder horn,
and a bag of bullets attached to it. She throws it on the table. Then
she unlocks a drawer in the press and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs
the belt and buckles it on, saying_) If they took him for me in my
coat, perhaps they’ll take me for him in his. (_Hitching the belt into
its place_) Do I look like him?
JUDITH.
(_turning with the purse in her hand_). Horribly unlike him.
ANDERSON.
(_snatching the purse from her and emptying it on the table_). Hm! We
shall see.
JUDITH.
(_sitting down helplessly_). Is it of any use to pray, do you think,
Tony?
ANDERSON.
(_counting the money_). Pray! Can we pray Swindon’s rope off Richard’s
neck?
JUDITH.
God may soften Major Swindon’s heart.
ANDERSON.
(_contemptuously—pocketing a handful of money_). Let him, then. I am
not God; and I must go to work another way. (_Judith gasps at the
blasphemy. He throws the purse on the table._) Keep that. I’ve taken 25
dollars.
JUDITH.
Have you forgotten even that you are a minister?
ANDERSON.
Minister be—faugh! My hat: where’s my hat? (_He snatches up hat and
cloak, and puts both on in hot haste._) Now listen, you. If you can get
a word with him by pretending you’re his wife, tell him to hold his
tongue until morning: that will give me all the start I need.
JUDITH.
(_solemnly_). You may depend on him to the death.
ANDERSON.
You’re a fool, a fool, Judith (_for a moment checking the torrent of
his haste, and speaking with something of his old quiet and impressive
conviction_). You don’t know the man you’re married to. (_Essie
returns. He swoops at her at once._) Well: is the horse ready?
ESSIE.
(_breathless_). It will be ready when you come.
ANDERSON.
Good. (_He makes for the door._)
JUDITH.
(_rising and stretching out her arms after him involuntarily_). Won’t
you say goodbye?
ANDERSON.
And waste another half minute! Psha! (_He rushes out like an
avalanche._)
ESSIE.
(_hurrying to Judith_). He has gone to save Richard, hasn’t he?
JUDITH.
To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. He has gone to save
himself. Richard must die.
Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her face.
Judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in front of her, at
the vision of Richard, dying.