_On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her
drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall. Anyone
placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door on the
right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs Knox, whose
back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the opposite side
of the room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a small table in the
middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and albums on it, and
chairs near it._
_Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner,
harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft
stoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has
coarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can
whiten. Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion,
with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of
peace and some solemnity. She is surprised to see her husband at home
during business hours._
MRS KNOX. What brings you home at this hour? Have you heard anything?
KNOX. No. Have you?
MRS KNOX. No. Whats the matter?
KNOX. [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has found out.
MRS KNOX. What makes you think that?
KNOX. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you have enough
to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since
it happened. I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was
depending on him. But hes worse than me. Hes not looking after anything;
and he keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He hasnt asked us
to dinner; and hes never said a word about our not asking him to
dinner, after all these years when weve dined every week as regular as
clockwork. It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop me socially.
Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard?
MRS KNOX. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us either: thats what I cant
make out.
KNOX. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall with
her aunt.
MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handkerchief from the
writing-table and cries a little].
KNOX. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. Somebody's got to tell
em.
MRS KNOX. [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends in our not
knowing what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for
the sea air. Theres something queer about that. Gilbey would never
let the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place like
Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High
Street the very day she told me.
KNOX. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and
Margaret, and all over between us and them.
MRS KNOX. It's all over between us and everybody. When a girl runs away
from home like that, people know what to think of her and her parents.
KNOX. She had a happy, respectable home--everything--
MRS KNOX. [interrupting him] Theres no use going over it all again, Jo.
If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy anywhere. Youd
better go back to the shop and try to keep your mind off it.
KNOX. [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying everybody knows it and
is sniggering about it. I'm at peace nowhere but here. It's a comfort to
be with you. It's a torment to be with other people.
MRS KNOX. [going to him and drawing her arm through his] There, Jo,
there! I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could. But it cant be.
God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes. We must
face our trouble and bear it.
KNOX. [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] Just look at the
people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had happened. It
seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care.
MRS KNOX. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking up
at us. You shouldnt keep thinking about it.
KNOX. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm sure
I'm glad it comforts you. But it doesnt come to me that way. Ive worked
hard to get a position and be respectable. Ive turned many a girl out of
the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres my own daughter
gone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a telegram to say shes
not dead and that we're not to worry about her.
MRS KNOX. [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look!
KNOX. Margaret! With a man!
MRS KNOX. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her: save her.
KNOX. [lingering] Shes shaking bands with him: shes coming across to the
door.
MRS KNOX. [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the man before hes out
of sight.
_Knox rushes from the room. Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly from
the window. Then she throws up the sash and leans out. Margaret Knox
comes in, flustered and annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl of
eighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily resolute
manner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when she is
annoyed._
MARGARET. Mother. Mother.
_Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter._
MRS KNOX. [sternly] Well, miss?
MARGARET. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in
the street. He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my
daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. We
shall have a crowd round the house. Do do something to stop him.
_Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer._
MARGARET. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry--so ashamed. Mother:
this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me. Monsieur
Duvallet: my mother. [Duvallet bows].
KNOX. A Frenchman! It only needed this.
MARGARET. [much annoyed] Father: do please be commonly civil to a
gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me. What will he think
of us?
DUVALLET. [debonair] But it's very natural. I understand Mr Knox's
feelings perfectly. [He speaks English better than Knox, having learnt
it on both sides of the Atlantic].
KNOX. If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize. But I want to know
where my daughter has been for the last fortnight.
DUVALLET. She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place.
KNOX. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for myself how safe it
was.
MARGARET. Holloway Gaol. Was that safe enough?
KNOX AND MRS KNOX. Holloway Gaol!
KNOX. Youve joined the Suffragets!
MARGARET. No. I wish I had. I could have had the same experience in
better company. Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits between
the table and the sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the other side of
the table. Knox remains standing in the middle of the room].
DUVALLET. [sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An adventure.
Nothing.
MARGARET. [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the police! Forty shillings
or a month!
MRS KNOX. Margaret! Who accused you of such a thing?
MARGARET. The policeman I assaulted.
KNOX. You mean to say that you did it!
MARGARET. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. I knocked two of
his teeth out.
KNOX. And you sit there coolly and tell me this!
MARGARET. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats the use of saying
things like that?
KNOX. My daughter in Holloway Gaol!
MARGARET. All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters. Really,
father, you must make up your mind to it. If you had sat in that cell
for fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would understand that
I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying to persuade
yourself that it cant be real. These things really do happen to real
people every day; and you read about them in the papers and think it's
all right. Well, theyve happened to me: thats all.
KNOX. [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have happened to you. Dont you
know that?
MARGARET. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose. But they do.
[Rising impatiently] And really I'd rather go out and assault another
policeman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and round it
like this. If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn me out: the
sooner I go the better.
DUVALLET. [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoiselle. Your father
has his position to consider. To turn his daughter out of doors would
ruin him socially.
KNOX. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And where did you come in,
may I ask?
DUVALLET. I came in at your invitation--at your amiable insistence, in
fact, not at my own. But you need have no anxiety on my account. I
was concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your daughter's
incarceration. I got a fortnight without the option of a fine on the
ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the policeman with my
fist. I should have done so with pleasure had I known; but, as it was,
I struck him on the ear with my boot--a magnificent _moulinet_, I must
say--and was informed that I had been guilty of an act of cowardice,
but that for the sake of the _entente cordiale_ I should be dealt with
leniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used her fist, got a month, but with the
option of a fine. I did not know this until I was released, when my
first act was to pay the fine. And here we are.
MRS KNOX. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo.
KNOX. [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some money].
DUVALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox hands him two
sovereigns]. If you insist-- [he pockets them] Thank you.
MARGARET. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet.
DUVALLET. Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle?
MARGARET. I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you dont
mind.
DUVALLET. Perfectly. Madame [bow]--Mademoiselle [bow]--Monsieur
[bow]--[He goes out].
MRS KNOX. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out yourself.
_Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit looking
forlornly at one another without saying a word. Mrs Knox slowly sits
down. Margaret follows her example. They look at one another again. Mr
Knox returns._
KNOX. [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. [To Margaret] I
leave you to your mother. I shall have my own say in the matter when I
hear what you have to say to her. [He goes out, solemn and offended].
MARGARET. [with a bitter little laugh] Just what the Suffraget said to
me in Holloway. He throws the job on you.
MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Margaret!
MARGARET. You know it's true.
MRS KNOX. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened about it, theres no
use my saying anything.
MARGARET. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk nonsense about
it. You see, it's all real to me. Ive suffered it. Ive been shoved and
bullied. Ive had my arms twisted. Ive been made scream with pain in
other ways. Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other poor
wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a cellar. And
the only difference between me and the others was that I hit back. Yes
I did. And I did worse. I wasnt ladylike. I cursed. I called names. I
heard words that I didnt even know that I knew, coming out of my mouth
just as if somebody else had spoken them. The policeman repeated them
in court. The magistrate said he could hardly believe it. The policeman
held out his hand with his two teeth in it that I knocked out. I said
it was all right; that I had heard myself using those words quite
distinctly; and that I had taken the good conduct prize for three years
running at school. The poor old gentleman put me back for the missionary
to find out who I was, and to ascertain the state of my mind. I wouldnt
tell, of course, for your sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I was
sorry, or apologize to the policeman, or compensate him or anything of
that sort. I wasnt sorry. The one thing that gave me any satisfaction
was getting in that smack on his mouth; and I said so. So the missionary
reported that I seemed hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I was
after a day in prison. Then I was sentenced. So now you see I'm not a
bit the sort of girl you thought me. I'm not a bit the sort of girl I
thought myself. And I dont know what sort of person you really are, or
what sort of person father really is. I wonder what he would say or do
if he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand
and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other. He couldnt
whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a glorious
kick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought we'd have
beaten them.
MRS KNOX. But how did it all begin?
MARGARET. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, they said.
MRS KNOX. Boat-race night! But what had you to do with the boat race?
You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall with your
aunt. She put you into the bus that passes the door. What made you get
out of the bus?
MARGARET. I dont know. The meeting got on my nerves, somehow. It was the
singing, I suppose: you know I love singing a good swinging hymn; and I
felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had been singing
so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to heaven. I wanted
more music--more happiness--more life. I wanted some comrade who felt
as I did. I felt exalted: it seemed mean to be afraid of anything:
after all, what could anyone do to me against my will? I suppose I was
a little mad: at all events, I got out of the bus at Piccadilly Circus,
because there was a lot of light and excitement there. I walked to
Leicester Square; and went into a great theatre.
MRS KNOX. [horrified] A theatre!
MARGARET. Yes. Lots of other women were going in alone. I had to pay
five shillings.
MRS KNOX. [aghast] Five shillings!
MARGARET. [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very stuffy; and I didnt
like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying themselves;
but the stage was splendid and the music lovely. I saw that Frenchman,
Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking a cigarette. He
seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike. I went and stood
beside him, hoping he would speak to me.
MRS KNOX. [gasps] Margaret!
MARGARET. [continuing] He did, just as if he had known me for years.
We got on together like old friends. He asked me would I have some
champagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would give
anything for a dance. I longed to join the people on the stage and dance
with them: one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever saw. He told
me he had come there to see her, and that when it was over we could go
somewhere where there was dancing. So we went to a place where there was
a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for dancing. Very few people
danced: the women only wanted to shew off their dresses; but we danced
and danced until a lot of them joined in. We got quite reckless; and we
had champagne after all. I never enjoyed anything so much. But at last
it got spoilt by the Oxford and Cambridge students up for the boat race.
They got drunk; and they began to smash things; and the police came in.
Then it was quite horrible. The students fought with the police; and
the police suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybody
downstairs. They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, and
treated them just as roughly as they had treated the students. Duvallet
got indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a woman
though she was going quietly as fast as she could. The policeman flung
the woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet. It was then that
Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the policeman down.
And then three policemen rushed at him and carried him out by the arms
and legs face downwards. Two more attacked me and gave me a shove to the
door. That quite maddened me. I just got in one good bang on the mouth
of one of them. All the rest was dreadful. I was rushed through the
streets to the police station. They kicked me with their knees; they
twisted my arms; they taunted and insulted me; they called me vile
names; and I told them what I thought of them, and provoked them to do
their worst. Theres one good thing about being hard hurt: it makes you
sleep. I slept in that filthy cell with all the other drunks sounder
than I should have slept at home. I cant describe how I felt next
morning: it was hideous; but the police were quite jolly; and everybody
said it was a bit of English fun, and talked about last year's boat-race
night when it had been a great deal worse. I was black and blue and sick
and wretched. But the strange thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not
sorry. And I dont feel that I did anything wrong, really. [She rises
and stretches her arms with a large liberating breath] Now that it's all
over I'm rather proud of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; but
whether thats because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's really
a lady except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know. [She throws
herself into a corner of the sofa].
MRS KNOX. [lost in wonder] But how could you bring yourself to do it,
Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only want to know. How could you bring
yourself to do it?
MARGARET. I cant tell you. I dont understand it myself. The prayer
meeting set me free, somehow. I should never have done it if it were not
for the prayer meeting.
MRS KNOX. [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thing as that. I know
that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me when I
told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil.
MARGARET. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set free
for evil as well as good. As father says, you cant have anything both
ways at once. When I was at home and at school I was what you call good;
but I wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most people would call
not good. But I see no harm in what I did; though I see plenty in what
other people did to me.
MRS KNOX. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance.
MARGARET. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table]. I'm a heroine of
reality, if you can call me a heroine at all. And reality is pretty
brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it. Yet it's glorious
all the same. It's so real and satisfactory.
MRS KNOX. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I dont like your
talking to me in that tone.
MARGARET. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you and Papa any the
less; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again. Ive
made a sort of descent into hell--
MRS KNOX. Margaret! Such a word!
MARGARET. You should have heard all the words that were flying round
that night. You should mix a little with people who dont know any
other words. But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not
swearing. I was in earnest, like a preacher.
MRS KNOX. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice.
MARGARET. I know: the tone that shews they dont mean anything real to
him. They usent to mean anything real to me. Now hell is as real to me
as a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that. Anyhow,
Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth doing but
redeeming people from it.
MRS KNOX. They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it.
MARGARET. Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it? You
dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist their
arms. Whats the good of pretending? Thats all our respectability is,
pretending, pretending, pretending. Thank heaven Ive had it knocked out
of me once for all!
MRS KNOX. [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like that. I cant bear
to hear you talking wickedly. I can bear to hear the children of this
world talking vainly and foolishly in the language of this world. But
when I hear you justifying your wickedness in the words of grace, it's
too horrible: it sounds like the devil making fun of religion. Ive tried
to bring you up to learn the happiness of religion. Ive waited for you
to find out that happiness is within ourselves and doesnt come from
outward pleasures. Ive prayed oftener than you think that you might be
enlightened. But if all my hopes and all my prayers are to come to this,
that you mix up my very words and thoughts with the promptings of the
devil, then I dont know what I shall do: I dont indeed: itll kill me.
MARGARET. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you didnt
want me to be enlightened. If the truth were known, I suspect we all
want our prayers to be answered only by halves: the agreeable halves.
Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got more than
you bargained for in the way of enlightenment. I shall never be the same
again. I shall never speak in the old way again. Ive been set free from
this silly little hole of a house and all its pretences. I know now that
I am stronger than you and Papa. I havnt found that happiness of yours
that is within yourself; but Ive found strength. For good or evil I am
set free; and none of the things that used to hold me can hold me now.
_Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense._
KNOX. How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia? Do you
think I'm made of iron? Whats the girl done? What are we going to do?
MRS KNOX. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours. I cant even pray
for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for.
KNOX. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for praying? Does
anybody know? Thats what we have to consider now. If only we can keep it
dark, I don't care for anything else.
MARGARET. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll tell everybody. It
ought to be told. It must be told.
KNOX. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this
instant.
MARGARET. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and turns to the door].
KNOX. [throwing himself in front of it] Here! where are you going?
MRS KNOX. [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll go with her if she
goes.
KNOX. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to ruin us? To let
everybody know of her disgrace and shame? To tear me down from the
position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard struggling?
MARGARET. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It stands between us and
everything. I'll tell everybody.
KNOX. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father's hairs with sorrow
to the grave. Theres only one thing I care about in the world: to keep
this dark. I'm your father. I ask you here on my knees--in the dust, so
to speak--not to let it out.
MARGARET. I'll tell everybody.
_Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot. Margaret
stands inflexible._