Three Plays by Granville-Barker
by Harley Granville-Barker · English · Gutenberg #35640 · 532,446 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Three Plays by Granville-Barker
Author: Harley Granville-Barker
Release date: March 21, 2011 [eBook #35640]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE-BARKER ***
Produced by David T. Jones, James Wright and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from
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Archive/American Libraries.)
THREE PLAYS BY
GRANVILLE BARKER
_These plays may also be obtained separately: in cloth, 2s. net each; in
paper covers, 1s. 6d. net each._
THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER:
THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE--THE
VOYSEY INHERITANCE--WASTE
LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI. MCMIX.
_Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A.
All rights reserved._
_First Impression, August 1909_
_Second Impression, September 1909_
_Third Impression, November 1909_
To the memory of my fellow-worker,
St. John Hankin.
The Marrying of Ann Leete
A COMEDY
1899
THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE
_The first three acts of the comedy pass in the garden at Markswayde_,
MR. CARNABY LEETE'S _house near Reading, during a summer day towards the
close of the eighteenth century: the first act at four in the morning,
the second shortly after mid-day, the third near to sunset. The fourth
act takes place one day in the following winter; the first scene in the
hall at Markswayde, the second scene in a cottage some ten miles off._
_This part of the Markswayde garden looks to have been laid out during
the seventeenth century. In the middle a fountain; the centrepiece the
figure of a nymph, now somewhat cracked, and pouring nothing from the
amphora; the rim of the fountain is high enough and broad enough to be a
comfortable seat._
_The close turf around is in parts worn bare. This plot of ground is
surrounded by a terrace three feet higher. Three sides of it are seen.
From two corners broad steps lead down; stone urns stand at the bottom
and top of the stone balustrades. The other two corners are rounded
convexly into broad stone seats._
_Along the edges of the terrace are growing rose trees, close together;
behind these, paths; behind those, shrubs and trees. No landscape is to
be seen. A big copper beech overshadows the seat on the left. A silver
birch droops over the seat on the right. The trees far to the left
indicate an orchard, the few to the right are more of the garden sort.
It is the height of summer, and after a long drought the rose trees are
dilapidated._
_It is very dark in the garden. Though there may be by now a faint
morning light in the sky it has not penetrated yet among these trees. It
is very still, too. Now and then the leaves of a tree are stirred, as if
in its sleep; that is all. Suddenly a shrill, frightened, but not
tragical scream is heard. After a moment_ ANN LEETE _runs quickly down
the steps and on to the fountain, where she stops, panting_. LORD JOHN
CARP _follows her, but only to the top of the steps, evidently not
knowing his way_. ANN _is a girl of twenty; he an English gentleman,
nearer forty than thirty_.
LORD JOHN. I apologise.
ANN. Why is it so dark?
LORD JOHN. Can you hear what I'm saying?
ANN. Yes.
LORD JOHN. I apologise for having kissed you . . . almost
unintentionally.
ANN. Thank you. Mind the steps down.
LORD JOHN. I hope I'm sober, but the air . . .
ANN. Shall we sit for a minute? There are several seats to sit on
somewhere.
LORD JOHN. This is a very dark garden.
_There is a slight pause._
ANN. You've won your bet.
LORD JOHN. So you did scream!
ANN. But it wasn't fair.
LORD JOHN. Don't reproach me.
ANN. Somebody's coming.
LORD JOHN. How d'you know?
ANN. I can hear somebody coming.
LORD JOHN. We're not sitting down.
ANN'S _brother_, GEORGE LEETE _comes to the top of the steps, and
afterwards down them. Rather an old young man._
GEORGE. Ann!
ANN. Yes.
GEORGE. My lord!
LORD JOHN. Here.
GEORGE. I can't see you. I'm sent to say we're all anxious to know what
ghost or other bird of night or beast has frightened Ann to screaming
point, and won you . . . the best in Tatton's stables--so he says now.
He's quite annoyed.
LORD JOHN. The mare is a very good mare.
ANN. He betted it because he wanted to bet it; I didn't want him to bet it.
GEORGE. What frightened her?
ANN. I had rather, my lord, that you did not tell my brother why I
screamed.
LORD JOHN. I kissed her.
GEORGE. Did you?
ANN. I had rather, Lord John, that you had not told my brother why I
screamed.
LORD JOHN. I misunderstood you.
GEORGE. I've broke up the whist party. Ann, shall we return?
LORD JOHN. She's not here.
GEORGE. Ann.
LADY COTTESHAM, ANN'S _sister and ten years older, and_ MR. DANIEL
TATTON, _a well-living, middle-aged country gentleman, arrive together_.
TATTON _carries a double candlestick. . . the lights out_.
MR. TATTON. Three steps?
SARAH. No . . . four.
LORD JOHN. Miss Leete.
TATTON _in the darkness finds himself close to_ GEORGE.
MR. TATTON. I am in a rage with you, my lord.
GEORGE. He lives next door.
MR. TATTON. My mistake. [_He passes on._] Confess that she did it to
please you.
LORD JOHN. Screamed!
MR. TATTON. Lost my bet. We'll say . . . won your bet . . . to please
you. Was skeered at the dark . . . oh, fie!
LORD JOHN. Miss Leete trod on a toad.
MR. TATTON. I barred toads . . . here.
LORD JOHN. I don't think it.
MR. TATTON. I barred toads. Did I forget to? Well . . . it's better to
be a sportsman.
SARAH. And whereabout is she?
ANN. [_From the corner she has slunk to._] Here I am, Sally.
MR. TATTON. Miss Ann, I forgive you. I'm smiling, I assure you, I'm
smiling.
SARAH. We all laughed when we heard you.
MR. TATTON. Which reminds me, young George Leete, had you the ace?
GEORGE. King . . . knave . . . here are the cards, but I can't see.
MR. TATTON. I had the king.
ANN. [_Quietly to her sister._] He kissed me.
SARAH. A man would.
GEORGE. What were trumps?
MR. TATTON. What were we playing . . . cricket?
ANN. [_As quietly again._] D'you think I'm blushing?
SARAH. It's probable.
ANN. I am by the feel of me.
SARAH. George, we left Papa sitting quite still.
LORD JOHN. Didn't he approve of the bet?
MR. TATTON. He said nothing.
SARAH. Why, who doesn't love sport!
MR. TATTON. I'm the man to grumble. Back a woman's pluck again . . .
never. My lord . . . you weren't the one to go with her as umpire.
GEORGE. No. . . to be sure.
MR. TATTON. How was it I let that pass? Playing two games at once.
Haven't I cause of complaint? But a man must give and take.
_The master of the house, father of_ GEORGE _and_ SARAH COTTESHAM _and_
ANN, MR. CARNABY LEETE, _comes slowly down the steps, unnoticed by the
others. A man over fifty--a la Lord Chesterfield_.
GEORGE. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Are you sure you're quite comfortable there?
LORD JOHN. Whatever I'm sitting on hasn't given way yet.
MR. TATTON. Don't forget that you're riding to Brighton with me.
LORD JOHN. Tomorrow.
GEORGE. To-day. Well . . . the hour before sunrise is no time at all.
MR. TATTON. Sixty-five miles.
LORD JOHN. What are we all sitting here for?
MR. TATTON. I say people ought to be in bed and asleep.
CARNABY. But the morning air is delightful.
MR. TATTON. [_Jumping at the new voice._] Leete! Now, had you the ace?
CARNABY. Of course.
MR. TATTON. We should have lost that too, Lady Charlie.
SARAH. Bear up, Mr. Tat.
MR. TATTON. Come, a game of whist is a game of whist.
CARNABY. And so I strolled out after you all.
MR. TATTON. She trod on a toad.
CARNABY. [_Carelessly._] Does she say so?
MR. TATTON. [_With mock roguishness._] Ah!
GEORGE _is on the terrace, looking to the left through the trees_.
TATTON _is sitting on the edge of the fountain_.
GEORGE. Here's the sun . . . to show us ourselves.
MR. TATTON. Leete, this pond is full of water!
CARNABY. Ann, if you are there . . .
ANN. Yes, Papa.
CARNABY. Apologise profusely; it's your garden.
ANN. Oh . . .
CARNABY. Coat-tails, Tatton . . . or worse?
MR. TATTON. [_Ruefully discovering damp spots about him._] Nothing
vastly to matter.
LORD JOHN. Hardy, well-preserved, country gentleman!
MR. TATTON. I bet I'm a younger man than you, my lord.
ANN. [_Suddenly to the company generally._] I didn't tread upon any toad
. . . I was kissed.
_There is a pause of some discomfort._
SARAH. Ann, come here to me.
LORD JOHN. I apologised.
GEORGE. [_From the terrace._] Are we to be insulted?
CARNABY. My dear Carp, say no more.
_There is another short pause. By this it is twilight, faces can be
plainly seen._
SARAH. Listen . . . the first bird.
MR. TATTON. Oh, dear no, they begin to sing long before this.
CARNABY. What is it now . . . a lark?
MR. TATTON. I don't know.
ANN. [_Quietly to_ SARAH.] That's a thrush.
SARAH. [_Capping her._] A thrush.
CARNABY. Charming!
MR. TATTON. [__ LORD JOHN.] I don't see why you couldn't have told me
how it was that she screamed.
CARNABY. Our dear Tatton! [_Sotto voce to his son._] Hold your tongue,
George.
MR. TATTON. I did bar toads and you said I didn't, and anyway I had a
sort of right to know.
LORD JOHN. You know now.
SARAH. I wonder if this seat is dry.
LORD JOHN. There's been no rain for weeks.
SARAH. The roads will be dusty for you, Mr. Tat.
MR. TATTON. Just one moment. You don't mind me, Miss Ann, do you?
ANN. I don't mind much.
MR. TATTON. We said distinctly . . . To the orchard end of the garden
and back and if frightened--that's the word--so much as to scream . . . !
Now, what I want to know is. . .
LORD JOHN. Consider the bet off.
MR. TATTON. Certainly not. And we should have added. . . Alone.
CARNABY. Tatton has persistence.
SARAH. Mr. Tat, do you know where people go who take things seriously?
MR. TATTON. Miss Leete, were you frightened when Lord John kissed you?
GEORGE. Damnation!
CARNABY. My excellent Tatton, much as I admire your searchings after
truth I must here parentally intervene, regretting, my dear Tatton, that
my own carelessness of duennahood has permitted this--this . . . to
occur.
_After this, there is silence for a minute._
LORD JOHN. Can I borrow a horse of you, Mr. Leete?
CARNABY. My entire stable; and your Ronald shall be physicked.
SARAH. Spartans that you are to be riding!
LORD JOHN. I prefer it to a jolting chaise.
MR. TATTON. You will have my mare.
LORD JOHN. [_Ignoring him._] This has been a most enjoyable three weeks.
CARNABY. Four.
LORD JOHN. Is it four?
CARNABY. We bow to the compliment. Our duty to his grace.
LORD JOHN. When I see him.
GEORGE. To our dear cousin.
MR. TATTON. [_To_ LADY COTTESHAM.] Sir Charles at Brighton?
SARAH. [_Not answering._] To be sure . . . we did discover . . . our
mother was second cousin . . . once removed to you.
CARNABY. If the prince will be there . . . he is in waiting.
LORD JOHN. Any message, Lady Cottesham? . . . since we speak out of
session.
SARAH. I won't trust you.
CARNABY. Or trouble you while I still may frank a letter. But my
son-in-law is a wretched correspondent. Do you admire men of small
vices? They make admirable husbands though their wives will be
grumbling--Silence, Sarah--but that's a good sign.
SARAH. Papa is a connoisseur of humanity.
ANN. [_To the company as before._] No, Mr. Tatton, I wasn't frightened
when Lord John . . . kissed me. I screamed because I was surprised, and
I'm sorry I screamed.
SARAH. [_Quietly to_ ANN.] My dear Ann, you're a fool.
ANN. [_Quietly to_ SARAH.] I will speak sometimes.
SARAH. Sit down again.
_Again an uncomfortable silence, a ludicrous air about it this time._
MR. TATTON. Now, we'll say no more about that bet, but I was right.
LORD JOHN. Do you know, Mr. Tatton, that I have a temper to lose?
MR. TATTON. What the devil does that matter to me, sir . . . my lord?
LORD JOHN. I owe you a saddle and bridle.
MR. TATTON. You'll oblige me by taking the mare.
LORD JOHN. We'll discuss it to-morrow.
MR. TATTON. I've said all I have to say.
GEORGE. The whole matter's ridiculous!
MR. TATTON. I see the joke. Good-night, Lady Cottesham, and I kiss your
hand.
SARAH. Good morning, Mr. Tat.
MR. TATTON. Good morning, Miss Ann, I . . .
SARAH. [_Shielding her sister._] Good morrow is appropriate.
MR. TATTON. I'll go by the fields. [_To_ CARNABY.] Thank you for a
pleasant evening. Good morrow, George. Do we start at mid-day, my lord?
LORD JOHN. Any time you please.
MR. TATTON. Not at all. [_He hands the candlestick--of which he has
never before left go--to_ GEORGE.] I brought this for a link. Thank you.
CARNABY. Mid-day will be midnight if you sleep at all now; make it two
or later.
MR. TATTON. We put up at Guildford. I've done so before. I haven't my
hat. It's a day and a half's ride.
TATTON _goes quickly up the other steps and away. It is now quite
light._ GEORGE _stands by the steps_, LORD JOHN _is on one of the
seats_, CARNABY _strolls round, now and then touching the rose trees_,
SARAH _and_ ANN _are on the other seat_.
GEORGE. Morning! These candles still smell.
SARAH. How lively one feels and isn't.
CARNABY. The flowers are opening.
ANN. [_In a whisper._] Couldn't we go in?
SARAH. Never run away.
ANN. Everything looks so odd.
SARAH. What's o'clock . . . my lord?
LORD JOHN. Half after four.
ANN. [_To_ SARAH.] My eyes are hot behind.
GEORGE. What ghosts we seem!
SARAH. What has made us spend such a night?
CARNABY. Ann incited me to it. [_He takes snuff._]
SARAH. In a spirit of rebellion against good country habits. . .
ANN. [_To her sister again._] Don't talk about me.
SARAH. They can see that you're whispering.
CARNABY. . . . Informing me now she was a woman and wanted excitement.
GEORGE. There's a curse.
CARNABY. How else d'ye conceive life for women?
SARAH. George is naturally cruel. Excitement's our education. Please
vary it, though.
CARNABY. I have always held that to colour in the world-picture is the
greatest privilege of the husband. Sarah.
SARAH. [_Not leaving_ ANN'S _side_.] Yes, Papa.
CARNABY. Sarah, when Sir Charles leaves Brighton. . .
SARAH _rises but will not move further_.
CARNABY. [_Sweetly threatening._] Shall I come to you?
_But she goes to him now._
CARNABY. By a gossip letter from town . . .
SARAH. [_Tensely._] What is it?
CARNABY. You mentioned to me something of his visiting Naples.
SARAH. Very well. I detest Italy.
CARNABY. Let's have George's opinion.
_He leads her towards_ GEORGE.
GEORGE. Yes?
CARNABY. Upon Naples.
GEORGE. I remember Naples.
CARNABY. Sarah, admire those roses.
SARAH. [_Cynically echoing her father._] Let's have George's opinion.
_Now_ CARNABY _has drawn them both away, upon the terrace, and, the
coast being clear_, LORD JOHN _walks towards_ ANN, _who looks at him
very scaredly_.
CARNABY. Emblem of secrecy among the ancients.
SARAH. Look at this heavy head, won't it snap off?
_The three move out of sight._
LORD JOHN. I'm sober now.
ANN. I'm not.
LORD JOHN. Uncompromising young lady.
ANN. And, excuse me, I don't want to . . . play.
LORD JOHN. Don't you wish me to apologise quietly, to you?
ANN. Good manners are all mockery, I'm sure.
LORD JOHN. I'm very much afraid you're a cynic.
ANN. I'm not trying to be clever.
LORD JOHN. Do I tease you?
ANN. Do I amuse you?
LORD JOHN. How dare I say so!
ANN. [_After a moment._] I was not frightened.
LORD JOHN. You kissed me back.
ANN. Not on purpose. What do two people mean by behaving so . . . in the
dark?
LORD JOHN. I am exceedingly sorry that I hurt your feelings.
ANN. Thank you, I like to feel.
LORD JOHN. And you must forgive me.
ANN. Tell me, why did you do it?
LORD JOHN. Honestly I don't know. I should do it again.
ANN. That's not quite true, is it?
LORD JOHN. I think so.
ANN. What does it matter at all!
LORD JOHN. Nothing.
GEORGE, SARAH _and then_ CARNABY _move into sight and along the
terrace_, LORD JOHN _turns to them_.
LORD JOHN. Has this place been long in your family, Mr. Leete?
CARNABY. Markswayde my wife brought us, through the Peters's . . . old
Chiltern people . . . connections of yours, of course. There is no
entail.
LORD JOHN _walks back to_ ANN.
SARAH. George, you assume this republicanism as you would--no, would
not--a coat of latest cut.
CARNABY. Never argue with him . . . persist.
SARAH. So does he.
_The three pass along the terrace._
ANN. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Will you sit down?
LORD JOHN. It's not worth while. Do you know I must be quite twice your
age?
ANN. A doubled responsibility, my lord.
LORD JOHN. I suppose it is.
ANN. I don't say so. That's a phrase from a book . . . sounded well.
LORD JOHN. My dear Miss Ann. . . [_He stops._]
ANN. Go on being polite.
LORD JOHN. If you'll keep your head turned away.
ANN. Why must I?
LORD JOHN. There's lightning in the glances of your eye.
ANN. Do use vulgar words to me.
LORD JOHN. [_With a sudden fatherly kindness._] Go to bed . . . you're
dead tired. And good-bye . . . I'll be gone before you wake.
ANN. Good-bye.
_She shakes hands with him, then walks towards her father who is coming
down the steps._
ANN. Papa, don't my roses want looking to?
CARNABY. [_Pats her cheek._] These?
ANN. Those.
CARNABY. Abud is under your thumb, horticulturally speaking.
ANN. Where's Sally?
_She goes on to_ SARAH, _who is standing with_ GEORGE _at the top of the
steps_. CARNABY _looks_ LORD JOHN _up and down_.
LORD JOHN. [_Dusting his shoulder._] This cursed powder!
CARNABY. Do we respect innocence enough . . . any of us?
GEORGE _comes down the steps and joins them_.
GEORGE. Respectable politics will henceforth be useless to me.
CARNABY. My lord, was his grace satisfied with the young man's work
abroad or was he not?
LORD JOHN. My father used to curse everyone.
CARNABY. That's a mere Downing Street custom.
LORD JOHN. And I seem to remember that a letter of yours from . . .
where were you in those days?
GEORGE. Paris . . . Naples . . . Vienna.
LORD JOHN. One place . . . once lightened a fit of gout.
CARNABY. George, you have in you the makings of a minister.
GEORGE. No.
CARNABY. Remember the Age tends to the disreputable.
GEORGE _moves away_, SARAH _moves towards them_.
CARNABY. George is something of a genius, stuffed with theories and
possessed of a curious conscience. But I am fortunate in my children.
LORD JOHN. All the world knows it.
CARNABY. [_To_ SARAH.] It's lucky that yours was a love match, too. I
admire you. Ann is 'to come,' so to speak.
SARAH. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Were you discussing affairs?
LORD JOHN. Not I.
GEORGE. Ann.
ANN. Yes, George.
_She goes to him; they stroll together up the steps and along the
terrace._
SARAH. I'm desperately fagged.
LORD JOHN. [_Politely._] A seat.
SARAH. Also tired of sitting.
CARNABY. Let's have the Brighton news, Carp.
LORD JOHN. If there's any.
CARNABY. Probably I still command abuse. Even my son-in-law must, by
courtesy, join in the cry . . . ah, poor duty-torn Sarah! You can spread
abroad that I am as a green bay tree.
CARNABY _paces slowly away from them_.
LORD JOHN. Your father's making a mistake.
SARAH. D'you think so?
LORD JOHN. He's played the game once.
SARAH. I was not then in the knowledge of things when he left you.
LORD JOHN. We remember it.
SARAH. I should like to hear it.
LORD JOHN. I have avoided this subject.
SARAH. With him, yes.
LORD JOHN. Oh! . . . why did I desert the army for politics?
SARAH. Better fighting.
LORD JOHN. It sat so nobly upon him . . . the leaving us for conscience
sake when we were strongly in power. Strange that six months later we
should be turned out.
SARAH. Papa was lucky.
LORD JOHN. But this second time . . . ?
SARAH. Listen. This is very much a private quarrel with Mr. Pitt, who
hates Papa . . . gets rid of him.
LORD JOHN. Shall I betray a confidence?
SARAH. Better not.
LORD JOHN. My father advised me to this visit.
SARAH. Your useful visit. More than kind of his Grace.
LORD JOHN. Yes . . . there's been a paragraph in the "Morning
Chronicle," 'The Whigs woo Mr. Carnaby Leete.'
SARAH. We saw to it.
LORD JOHN. My poor father seems anxious to discover whether the Leete
episode will repeat itself entirely. He is chronically unhappy in
opposition. Are your husband and his colleagues trembling in their
seats?
SARAH. I can't say.
LORD JOHN. Politics is a game for clever children, and women, and fools.
Will you take a word of warning from a soldier? Your father is past his
prime.
CARNABY _paces back towards them_.
CARNABY. I'm getting to be old for these all-night sittings. I must be
writing to your busy brother.
LORD JOHN. Arthur? . . . is at his home.
SARAH. Pleasantly sounding phrase.
CARNABY. His grace deserted?
SARAH. Quite secretaryless!
LORD JOHN. Lady Arthur lately has been brought to bed. I heard
yesterday.
SARAH. The seventh, is it not? Children require living up to. My
congratulations.
LORD JOHN. Won't you write them?
SARAH. We are not intimate.
LORD JOHN. A good woman.
SARAH. Evidently. Where's Ann? We'll go in.
LORD JOHN. You're a mother to your sister.
SARAH. Not I.
CARNABY. My wife went her ways into the next world; Sarah hers into
this; and our little Ann was left with a most admirable governess. One
must never reproach circumstances. Man educates woman in his own good
time.
LORD JOHN. I suppose she, or any young girl, is all heart.
CARNABY. What is it that you call heart . . . sentimentally speaking?
SARAH. Any bud in the morning.
LORD JOHN. That man Tatton's jokes are in shocking taste.
CARNABY. Tatton is honest.
LORD JOHN. I'm much to blame for having won that bet.
CARNABY. Say no more.
LORD JOHN. What can Miss Ann think of me?
SARAH. Don't ask her.
CARNABY. Innocency's opinions are invariably entertaining.
LORD JOHN. Am I the first . . . ? I really beg your pardon.
GEORGE _and_ ANN _come down the steps together_.
CARNABY. Ann, what do you think . . . that is to say--and answer me
truthfully . . . what at this moment is your inclination of mind towards
my lord here?
ANN. I suppose I love him.
LORD JOHN. I hope not.
ANN. I suppose I love you.
CARNABY. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no.
SARAH. Hush, dear.
ANN. I'm afraid, papa, there's something very ill-bred in me.
_Down the steps and into the midst of them comes_ JOHN ABUD, _carrying
his tools, among other things a twist of bass. A young gardener, honest,
clean and common._
ABUD. [_To_ CARNABY.] I ask pardon, sir.
CARNABY. So early, Abud! . . . this is your territory. So late . . . Bed.
ANN _starts away up the steps_, SARAH _is following her_.
LORD JOHN. Good-bye, Lady Cottesham.
_At this_ ANN _stops for a moment, but then goes straight on_.
SARAH. A pleasant journey.
SARAH _departs too_.
GEORGE. [_Stretching himself._] I'm roused.
CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD.] Leave your tools here for a few moments.
ABUD. I will, sir.
ABUD _leaves them, going along the terrace and out of sight_.
CARNABY. My head is hot. Pardon me.
CARNABY _is sitting on the fountain rim; he dips his handkerchief in the
water, and wrings it; then takes off his wig and binds the damp
handkerchief round his head_.
CARNABY. Wigs are most comfortable and old fashioned . . . unless you
choose to be a cropped republican like my son.
GEORGE. Nature!
CARNABY. Nature grows a beard, sir.
LORD JOHN. I've seen Turks.
CARNABY. Horrible . . . horrible! Sit down, Carp.
LORD JOHN _sits on the fountain rim_, GEORGE _begins to pace restlessly;
he has been nursing the candlestick ever since_ TATTON _handed it to
him_.
CARNABY. George, you look damned ridiculous strutting arm-in-arm with
that candlestick.
GEORGE. I am ridiculous.
CARNABY. If you're cogitating over your wife and her expectations . . .
GEORGE _paces up the steps and away. There is a pause._
CARNABY. D'ye tell stories . . . good ones?
LORD JOHN. Sometimes.
CARNABY. There'll be this.
LORD JOHN. I shan't.
CARNABY. Say no more. If I may so express myself, Carp, you have been
taking us for granted.
LORD JOHN. How wide awake you are! I'm not.
CARNABY. My head's cool. Shall I describe your conduct as an
unpremeditated insult?
LORD JOHN. Don't think anything of the sort.
CARNABY. There speaks your kind heart.
LORD JOHN. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?
CARNABY. As may be.
LORD JOHN. Why?
CARNABY. For the sake of appearances.
LORD JOHN. Damn all appearances.
CARNABY. Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter.
LORD JOHN. Nonsense!
CARNABY. Villain! What's your next move?
_For a moment_ LORD JOHN _sits with knit brows_.
LORD JOHN. [_Brutally._] Mr. Leete, your name stinks.
CARNABY. My point of dis-ad-vantage!
LORD JOHN. [_Apologising._] Please say what you like. I might have put
my remark better.
CARNABY. I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger.
Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a
socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out
. . . us.
LORD JOHN. I'm not a coward. How?
CARNABY. A little laughter . . . in your exuberance of health.
LORD JOHN. You may trust me not to tell tales.
CARNABY. Of what . . . of whom?
LORD JOHN. Of here.
CARNABY. And what is there to tell of here?
LORD JOHN. Nothing.
CARNABY. But how your promise betrays a capacity for good-natured
invention!
LORD JOHN. If I lie call me out.
CARNABY. I don't deal in sentiment. I can't afford to be talked about
otherwise than as I choose to be. Already the Aunt Sally of the hour;
having under pressure of circumstances resigned my office; dating my
letters from the borders of the Chiltern Hundreds . . . I am a poor
politician, sir, and I must live.
LORD JOHN. I can't see that your family's infected . . . affected.
CARNABY. With a penniless girl you really should have been more
circumspect.
LORD JOHN. I might ask to marry her.
CARNABY. My lord!
_In the pause that ensues he takes up the twist of bass to play with._
LORD JOHN. What should you say to that?
CARNABY. The silly child supposed she loved you.
LORD JOHN. Yes.
CARNABY. Is it a match?
LORD JOHN. [_Full in the other's face._] What about the appearances of
black-mail?
CARNABY. [_Compressing his thin lips._] Do you care for my daughter?
LORD JOHN. I could . . . at a pinch.
CARNABY. Now, my lord, you are insolent.
LORD JOHN. Is this when we quarrel?
CARNABY. I think I'll challenge you.
LORD JOHN. That will look well.
CARNABY. You'll value that kiss when you've paid for it. Kindly choose
Tatton as your second. I want his tongue to wag both ways.
LORD JOHN. I was forgetting how it all began.
CARNABY. George will serve me . . . protesting. His principles are vile,
but he has the education of a gentleman. Swords or . . . ? Swords. And
at noon shall we say? There's shade behind a certain barn, midway
between this and Tatton's.
LORD JOHN. [_Not taking him seriously yet._] What if we both die
horridly?
CARNABY. You are at liberty to make me a written apology.
LORD JOHN. A joke's a joke.
CARNABY _deliberately strikes him in the face with the twist of bass_.
LORD JOHN. That's enough.
CARNABY. [_In explanatory apology._] My friend, you are so obtuse. Abud!
LORD JOHN. Mr. Leete, are you serious?
CARNABY. Perfectly serious. Let's go to bed. Abud, you can get to your
work.
_Wig in hand_, MR. LEETE _courteously conducts his guest towards the
house_. ABUD _returns to his tools and his morning's work_.
THE SECOND ACT
_Shortly after mid-day, while the sun beats strongly upon the terrace_,
ABUD _is working dexterously at the rose trees_. DR. REMNANT _comes down
the steps, hatted, and carrying a stick and a book. He is an elderly man
with a kind manner; type of the eighteenth century casuistical parson.
On his way he stops to say a word to the gardener._
DR. REMNANT. Will it rain before nightfall?
ABUD. About then, sir, I should say.
_Down the other steps comes_ MRS. OPIE, _a prim, decorous, but well bred
and unobjectionable woman. She is followed by_ ANN.
MRS. OPIE. A good morning to you, Parson.
DR. REMNANT. And to you, Mrs. Opie, and to Miss Ann.
ANN. Good morning, Dr. Remnant. [_To_ ABUD.] Have you been here ever
since . . . ?
ABUD. I've had dinner, Miss.
ABUD'S _work takes him gradually out of sight_.
MRS. OPIE. We are but just breakfasted.
DR. REMNANT. I surmise dissipation.
ANN. [_To_ MRS. OPIE.] Thank you for waiting five hours.
MRS. OPIE. It is my rule to breakfast with you.
DR. REMNANT. [_Exhibiting the book._] I am come to return, and to
borrow.
ANN. Show me.
DR. REMNANT. Ballads by Robert Burns.
ANN. [_Taking it._] I'll put it back.
MRS. OPIE. [_Taking it from her._] I've never heard of him.
DR. REMNANT. Oh, ma'am, a very vulgar poet!
GEORGE LEETE _comes quickly down the steps_.
GEORGE. [_To_ REMNANT.] How are you?
DR. REMNANT. Yours, sir.
GEORGE. Ann.
ANN. Good morning, George.
GEORGE. Did you sleep well?
ANN. I always do . . . but I dreamt.
GEORGE. I must sit down for a minute. [_Nodding._] Mrs. Opie.
MRS. OPIE. I wish you a good morning, sir.
GEORGE. [_To_ ANN.] Don't look so solemn.
LADY COTTESHAM _comes quickly to the top of the steps_.
SARAH. Is Papa badly hurt?
ANN. [_Jumping up._] Oh, what has happened?
GEORGE. Not badly.
SARAH. He won't see me.
_His three children look at each other._
DR. REMNANT. [_Tactfully._] May I go my ways to the library?
SARAH. Please do, Doctor Remnant.
DR. REMNANT. I flatly contradicted all that was being said in the
village.
SARAH. Thoughtful of you.
DR. REMNANT. But tell me nothing.
DR. REMNANT _bows formally and goes_. GEORGE _is about to speak when_
SARAH _with a look at_ MRS. OPIE _says_. . .
SARAH. George, hold your tongue.
MRS. OPIE. [_With much hauteur._] I am in the way.
_At this moment_ DIMMUCK, _an old but unbenevolent-looking butler, comes
to the top of the steps_.
DIMMUCK. The master wants Mrs. Opie.
MRS. OPIE. Thank you.
GEORGE. Your triumph!
MRS. OPIE _is departing radiant_.
DIMMUCK. How was I to know you was in the garden?
MRS. OPIE. I am sorry to have put you to the trouble of a search, Mr.
Dimmuck.
DIMMUCK. He's in his room.
_And he follows her towards the house._
GEORGE. Carp fought with him at twelve o'clock.
_The other two cannot speak from amazement._
SARAH. No!
GEORGE. Why, they didn't tell me and I didn't ask. Carp was laughing.
Tatton chuckled . . . afterwards.
SARAH. What had he to do?
GEORGE. Carp's second.
SARAH. Unaccountable children!
GEORGE. Feather parade . . . throw in . . . parry quarte: over the arm
. . . put by: feint . . . flanconade and through his arm . . . damned
easy. The father didn't wince or say a word. I bound it up . . . the
sight of blood makes me sick.
_After a moment_, SARAH _turns to_ ANN.
SARAH. Yes, and you've been a silly child.
GEORGE. Ah, give me a woman's guess and the most unlikely reason to
account for anything!
ANN. I hate that man. I'm glad Papa's not hurt. What about a surgeon?
GEORGE. No, you shall kiss the place well, and there'll be poetic
justice done.
SARAH. How did you all part?
GEORGE. With bows and without a word.
SARAH. Coming home with him?
GEORGE. Not a word.
SARAH. Papa's very clever; but I'm puzzled.
GEORGE. Something will happen next, no doubt.
ANN. Isn't this done with?
SARAH. So it seems.
ANN. I should like to be told just what the game has been.
GEORGE. Bravo, Ann.
ANN. Tell me the rules . . . for next time.
SARAH. It would have been most advantageous for us to have formed an
alliance with Lord John Carp, who stood here for his father and his
father's party . . . now in opposition.
GEORGE. Look upon yourself--not too seriously--Ann, as the instrument of
political destiny.
ANN. I'm afraid I take in fresh ideas very slowly. Why has Papa given up
the Stamp Office?
SARAH. His colleagues wouldn't support him.
ANN. Why was that?
SARAH. They disapproved of what he did.
ANN. Did he do right . . . giving it up?
SARAH. Yes.
GEORGE. We hope so. Time will tell. An irreverent quipster once named
him Carnaby Leech.
SARAH. I know.
GEORGE. I wonder if his true enemies think him wise to have dropped off
the Stamp Office?
ANN. Has he quarrelled with Sir Charles?
SARAH. Politically.
ANN. Isn't that awkward for you?
SARAH. Not a bit.
GEORGE. Hear a statement that includes our lives. Markswayde goes at his
death . . . see reversionary mortgage. The income's an annuity now. The
cash in the house will be ours. The debts are paid . . . at last.
ANN. And there remains me.
GEORGE. Bad grammar. Meanwhile our father is a tongue, which is worth
buying; but I don't think he ought to go over to the enemy . . . for the
second time.
SARAH. One party is as good as another; each works for the same end, I
should hope.
GEORGE. I won't argue about it.
ANN. I suppose that a woman's profession is marriage.
GEORGE. My lord has departed.
ANN. There'll be others to come. I'm not afraid of being married.
SARAH. What did Papa want Mrs. Opie for?
ANN. There'll be a great many things I shall want to know about men now.
GEORGE. Wisdom cometh with sorrow . . . oh, my sister.
SARAH. I believe you two are both about as selfish as you can be.
GEORGE. I am an egotist . . . with attachments.
ANN. Make use of me.
GEORGE. Ann, you marry--when you marry--to please yourself.
ANN. There's much in life that I don't like, Sally.
SARAH. There's much more that you will.
GEORGE. I think we three have never talked together before.
ABUD, _who has been in sight on the terrace for a few moments, now comes
down the steps_.
ABUD. May I make so bold, sir, as to ask how is Mrs. George Leete?
GEORGE. She was well when I last heard.
ABUD. Thank you, sir.
_And he returns to his work._
ANN. I wonder will it be a boy or a girl.
GEORGE. Poor weak woman.
SARAH. Be grateful to her.
ANN. A baby is a wonderful thing.
SARAH. Babyhood in the abstract . . . beautiful.
ANN. Even kittens . . .
_She stops, and then in rather childish embarrassment, moves away from
them._
SARAH. Don't shudder, George.
GEORGE. I have no wish to be a father. Why?
SARAH. It's a vulgar responsibility.
GEORGE. My wayside flower!
SARAH. Why pick it?
GEORGE. Sarah, I love my wife.
SARAH. That's easily said.
GEORGE. She should be here.
SARAH. George, you married to please yourself.
GEORGE. By custom her rank is my own.
SARAH. Does she still drop her aitches?
GEORGE. Dolly . . .
SARAH. Pretty name.
GEORGE. Dolly aspires to be one of us.
SARAH. Child-bearing makes these women blowzy.
GEORGE. Oh heaven!
ANN. [_Calling to_ ABUD _on the terrace_.] Finish to-day, Abud. If it
rains . . .
_She stops, seeing_ MR. TETGEEN _standing at the top of the steps
leading from the house. This is an intensely respectable,
selfcontained-looking lawyer, but a man of the world too._
MR. TETGEEN. Lady Cottesham.
SARAH. Sir?
MR. TETGEEN. My name is Tetgeen.
SARAH. Mr. Tetgeen. How do you do?
MR. TETGEEN. The household appeared to be in some confusion and I took
the liberty to be my own messenger. I am anxious to speak with you.
SARAH. Ann, dear, ask if Papa will see you now.
DIMMUCK _appears_.
DIMMUCK. The master wants you, Miss Ann.
SARAH. Ask papa if he'll see me soon.
ANN _goes towards the house_.
SARAH. Dimmuck, Mr. Tetgeen has been left to find his own way here.
DIMMUCK. I couldn't help it, my lady.
_And he follows_ ANN.
SARAH. Our father is confined to his room.
GEORGE. By your leave.
_Then_ GEORGE _takes himself off up the steps, and out of sight. The old
lawyer bows to_ LADY COTTESHAM, _who regards him steadily_.
MR. TETGEEN. From Sir Charles . . . a talking machine.
SARAH. Please sit.
_He sits carefully upon the rim of the fountain, she upon the seat
opposite._
SARAH. [_Glancing over her shoulder._] Will you talk nonsense until the
gardener is out of hearing? He is on his way away. You have had a tiring
journey?
MR. TETGEEN. Thank you, no . . . by the night coach to Reading and
thence I have walked.
SARAH. The country is pretty, is it not?
MR. TETGEEN. It compares favourably with other parts.
SARAH. Do you travel much, Mr. Tetgeen? He has gone.
MR. TETGEEN. [_Deliberately and sharpening his tone ever so little._]
Sir Charles does not wish to petition for a divorce.
SARAH. [_Controlling even her sense of humour._] I have no desire to
jump over the moon.
MR. TETGEEN. His scruples are religious. The case would be weak upon
some important points, and there has been no public scandal . . . at the
worst, very little.
SARAH. My good manners are, I trust, irreproachable, and you may tell
Sir Charles that my conscience is my own.
MR. TETGEEN. Your husband's in the matter of . . .
SARAH. Please say the word.
MR. TETGEEN. Pardon me . . . not upon mere suspicion.
SARAH. Now, is it good policy to suspect what is incapable of proof?
MR. TETGEEN. I advise Sir Charles, that, should you come to an open
fight, he can afford to lose.
SARAH. And have I no right to suspicions?
MR. TETGEEN. Certainly. Are they of use to you?
SARAH. I have been a tolerant wife, expecting toleration.
MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles is anxious to take into consideration any
complaints you may have to make against him.
SARAH. I complain if he complains of me.
MR. TETGEEN. For the first time, I think . . . formally.
SARAH. Why not have come to me?
MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles is busy.
SARAH. [_Disguising a little spasm of pain._] Shall we get to business?
MR. TETGEEN _now takes a moment to find his phrase_.
MR. TETGEEN. I don't know the man's name.
SARAH. This, surely, is how you might address a seduced housemaid.
MR. TETGEEN. But Sir Charles and he, I understand, have talked the
matter over.
_The shock of this brings_ SARAH _to her feet, white with anger_.
SARAH. Divorce me.
MR. TETGEEN. [_Sharply._] Is there ground for it?
SARAH. [_With a magnificent recovery of self control._] I won't tell you
that.
MR. TETGEEN. I have said we have no case . . . that is to say, we don't
want one; but any information is a weapon in store.
SARAH. You did quite right to insult me.
MR. TETGEEN. As a rule I despise such methods.
SARAH. It's a lie that they met . . . those two men?
MR. TETGEEN. It may be.
SARAH. It must be.
MR. TETGEEN. I have Sir Charles's word.
_Now he takes from his pocket some notes, putting on his spectacles to
read them._
SARAH. What's this . . . a written lecture?
MR. TETGEEN. We propose . . . first: that the present complete severance
of conjugal relations shall continue. Secondly: that Lady Cottesham
shall be at liberty to remove from South Audley Street and Ringham
Castle all personal and private effects, excepting those family jewels
which have merely been considered her property. Thirdly: Lady Cottesham
shall undertake, formally and in writing not to molest--a legal
term--Sir Charles Cottesham. [_Her handkerchief has dropped, here he
picks it up and restores it to her._] Allow me, my lady.
SARAH. I thank you.
MR. TETGEEN. [_Continuing._] Fourthly: Lady Cottesham shall undertake
. . . etc. . . . not to inhabit or frequent the city and towns of London,
Brighthelmstone, Bath, The Tunbridge Wells, and York. Fifthly: Sir
Charles Cottesham will, in acknowledgement of the maintenance of this
agreement, allow Lady C. the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds per
annum, which sum he considers sufficient for the upkeep of a small
genteel establishment; use of the house known as Pater House, situate
some seventeen miles from the Manor of Barton-le-Street, Yorkshire;
coals from the mine adjoining; and from the home farm, milk, butter and
eggs. [_Then he finds a further note._] Lady Cottesham is not to play
cards.
SARAH. I am a little fond of play.
MR. TETGEEN. There is no question of jointure.
SARAH. None. Mr. Tetgeen . . . I love my husband.
MR. TETGEEN. My lady . . . I will mention it.
SARAH. Such a humorous answer to this. No . . . don't. What is
important? Bread and butter . . . and eggs. Do I take this?
MR. TETGEEN. [_Handing her the paper._] Please.
SARAH. [_With the ghost of a smile._] I take it badly.
MR. TETGEEN. [_Courteously capping her jest._] I take my leave.
SARAH. This doesn't call for serious notice? I've done nothing legal by
accepting it?
MR. TETGEEN. There's no law in the matter; it's one of policy.
SARAH. I might bargain for a bigger income. [MR. TETGEEN _bows_.] On the
whole I'd rather be divorced.
MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles detests scandal.
SARAH. Besides there's no case . . . is there?
MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles congratulates himself.
SARAH. Sir Charles had best not bully me so politely . . . tell him.
MR. TETGEEN. My lady!
SARAH. I will not discuss this impertinence. Did those two men meet and
talk . . . chat together? What d'you think of that?
MR. TETGEEN. 'Twas very practical. I know that the woman is somehow the
outcast.
SARAH. A bad woman . . . an idle woman! But I've tried to do so much
that lay to my hands without ever questioning . . . ! Thank you, I don't
want this retailed to my husband. You'll take a glass of wine before you
go?
MR. TETGEEN. Port is grateful.
_She takes from her dress two sealed letters._
SARAH. Will you give that to Sir Charles . . . a letter he wrote me
which I did not open. This, my answer, which I did not send.
_He takes the one letter courteously, the other she puts back._
SARAH. I'm such a coward, Mr. Tetgeen.
MR. TETGEEN. May I say how sorry . . . ?
SARAH. Thank you.
MR. TETGEEN. And let me apologise for having expressed one opinion of my
own.
SARAH. He wants to get rid of me. He's a bit afraid of me, you know,
because I fight . . . and my weapons are all my own. This'll blow over.
MR. TETGEEN. [_With a shake of the head._] You are to take this offer as
final.
SARAH. Beyond this?
MR. TETGEEN. As I hinted, I am prepared to advise legal measures.
SARAH. I could blow it over . . . but I won't perhaps. I must smile at
my husband's consideration in suppressing even to you . . . the man's
name. Butter and eggs . . . and milk. I should grow fat.
ANN _appears suddenly_.
ANN. We go to Brighton to-morrow! [_And she comes excitedly to her
sister._]
SARAH. Was that duel a stroke of genius?
ANN. All sorts of things are to happen.
SARAH. [_Turning from her to_ MR. TETGEEN.] And you'll walk as far as
Reading?
MR. TETGEEN. Dear me, yes.
SARAH. [_To_ ANN.] I'll come back.
SARAH _takes_ MR. TETGEEN _towards the house_. ANN _seats herself. After
a moment_ LORD JOHN CARP, _his clothes dusty with some riding appears
from the other quarter. She looks up to find him gazing at her._
LORD JOHN. Ann, I've ridden back to see you.
ANN. [_After a moment._] We're coming to Brighton tomorrow.
LORD JOHN. Good.
ANN. Papa's not dead.
LORD JOHN. [_With equal cheerfulness._] That's good.
ANN. And he said we should be seeing more of you.
LORD JOHN. Here I am. I love you, Ann. [_He goes on his knees._]
ANN. D'you want to marry me?
LORD JOHN. Yes.
ANN. Thank you very much; it'll be very convenient for us all. Won't you
get up?
LORD JOHN. At your feet.
ANN. I like it.
LORD JOHN. Give me your hand.
ANN. No.
LORD JOHN. You're beautiful.
ANN. I don't think so. You don't think so.
LORD JOHN. I do think so.
ANN. I should like to say I don't love you.
LORD JOHN. Last night you kissed me.
ANN. Do get up, please.
LORD JOHN. As you wish.
_Now he sits by her._
ANN. Last night you were nobody in particular . . . to me.
LORD JOHN. I love you.
ANN. Please don't; I can't think clearly.
LORD JOHN. Look at me.
ANN. I'm sure I don't love you because you're making me feel very
uncomfortable and that wouldn't be so.
LORD JOHN. Then we'll think.
ANN. Papa . . . perhaps you'd rather not talk about Papa.
LORD JOHN. Give yourself to me.
ANN. [_Drawing away from him._] Four words! There ought to be more in
such a sentence . . . it's ridiculous. I want a year to think about its
meaning. Don't speak.
LORD JOHN. Papa joins our party.
ANN. That's what we're after . . . thank you.
LORD JOHN. I loathe politics.
ANN. Tell me something against them.
LORD JOHN. In my opinion your father's not a much bigger blackguard--I
beg your pardon--than the rest of us.
ANN. . . . Miserable sinners.
LORD JOHN. Your father turns his coat. Well . . . ?
ANN. I see nothing at all in that.
LORD JOHN. What's right and what's wrong?
ANN. Papa's right . . . for the present. When shall we be married?
LORD JOHN. Tomorrow?
ANN. [_Startled._] If you knew that it isn't easy for me to be practical
you wouldn't make fun.
LORD JOHN. Why not tomorrow?
ANN. Papa--
LORD JOHN. Papa says yes . . suppose.
ANN. I'm very young . . not to speak of clothes. I must have lots of new
dresses.
LORD JOHN. Ask me for them.
ANN. Why do you want to marry me?
LORD JOHN. I love you.
ANN. It suddenly occurs to me that sounds unpleasant.
LORD JOHN. I love you.
ANN. Out of place.
LORD JOHN. I love you.
ANN. What if Papa were to die?
LORD JOHN. I want you.
ANN. I'm nothing . . I'm nobody . . I'm part of my family.
LORD JOHN. I want you.
ANN. Won't you please forget last night?
LORD JOHN. I want you. Look straight at me.
_She looks, and stays fascinated._
LORD JOHN. If I say now that I love you--
ANN. I know it.
LORD JOHN. And love me?
ANN. I suppose so.
LORD JOHN. Make sure.
ANN. But I hate you too . . I know that.
LORD JOHN. Shall I kiss you?
ANN. [_Helplessly._] Yes.
_He kisses her full on the lips._
ANN. I can't hate you enough.
LORD JOHN. [_Triumphantly._] Speak the truth now.
ANN. I feel very degraded.
LORD JOHN. Nonsense.
ANN. [_Wretchedly._] This is one of the things which don't matter.
LORD JOHN. Ain't you to be mine?
ANN. You want the right to behave like that as well as the power.
LORD JOHN. You shall command me.
ANN. [_With a poor laugh._] I rather like this in a way.
LORD JOHN. Little coquette!
ANN. It does tickle my vanity.
_For a moment he sits looking at her, then shakes himself to his feet._
LORD JOHN. Now I must go.
ANN. Yes . . I want to think.
LORD JOHN. For Heaven's sake . . no!
ANN. I came this morning straight to where we were last night.
LORD JOHN. As I hung about the garden my heart was beating.
ANN. I shall like you better when you're not here.
LORD JOHN. We're to meet in Brighton?
ANN. I'm afraid so.
LORD JOHN. Good-bye.
ANN. There's just a silly sort of attraction between certain people, I
believe.
LORD JOHN. Can you look me in the eyes and say you don't love me?
ANN. If I looked you in the eyes you'd frighten me again. I can say
anything.
LORD JOHN. You're a deep child.
GEORGE LEETE _appears on the terrace_.
GEORGE. My lord!
LORD JOHN. [_Cordially._] My dear Leete.
GEORGE. No . . I am not surprised to see you.
ANN. George, things are happening.
LORD JOHN. Shake hands.
GEORGE. I will not.
ANN. Lord John asks me to be married to him. Shake hands.
GEORGE. Why did you fight?
ANN. Why did you fight?
LORD JOHN. [_Shrugging._] Your father struck me.
ANN. Now you've hurt him . . that's fair.
_Then the two men do shake hands, not heartily._
GEORGE. We've trapped you, my lord.
LORD JOHN. I know what I want. I love your sister.
ANN. I don't like you . . but if you're good and I'm good we shall get
on.
GEORGE. Why shouldn't one marry politically?
LORD JOHN. [_In_ ANN'S _ear_.] I love you.
ANN. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . [_Discovering in this an echo of
her father, she stops short._]
GEORGE. We're a cold-blooded family.
LORD JOHN. I don't think so.
GEORGE. I married for love.
LORD JOHN. Who doesn't? But, of course there should be other reasons.
GEORGE. You won't receive my wife.
LORD JOHN. Here's your sister.
LADY COTTESHAM _comes from the direction of the house_.
SARAH. Back again?
LORD JOHN. You see.
_From the other side appears_ MR. TATTON.
MR. TATTON. As you all seem to be here I don't mind interrupting.
GEORGE. [_Hailing him._] Well . . neighbour?
MR. TATTON. Come . . come . . what's a little fighting more or less!
GEORGE. Bravo, English sentiment . . relieves a deal of awkwardness.
_The two shake hands._
SARAH. [_Who by this has reached_ LORD JOHN.] . . And back so soon?
ANN. Lord John asks to marry me.
LORD JOHN. Yes.
MR. TATTON. I guessed so . . give me a bit of romance!
SARAH. [_Suavely._] This is perhaps a little sudden, my dear Lord John.
Papa may naturally be a little shocked.
GEORGE. Not at all, Sarah.
MR. TATTON. How's the wound?
GEORGE. Not serious . . nothing's serious.
SARAH. You are very masterful, wooing sword in hand.
ANN. George and I have explained to Lord John that we are all most
anxious to marry me to him and he doesn't mind--
LORD JOHN. Being made a fool of. I love--
ANN. I will like you.
GEORGE. Charming cynicism, my dear Sarah.
MR. TATTON. Oh, Lord!
ANN. [_To her affianced._] Good-bye now.
LORD JOHN. When do I see you?
ANN. Papa says soon.
LORD JOHN. Very soon, please. Tatton, my friend, Brighton's no nearer.
MR. TATTON. Lady Cottesham . . Miss Leete . . I kiss your hands.
LORD JOHN. [_Ebulliently clapping_ GEORGE _on the back_.] Look more
pleased. [_Then he bends over_ LADY COTTESHAM'S _hand_.] Lady Charlie . .
my service to you . . all. Ann. [_And he takes_ ANN'S _hand to kiss_.]
ANN. If I can think better of all this, I shall. Good-bye.
_She turns away from him. He stands for a moment considering her, but
follows_ TATTON _away through the orchard_. GEORGE _and_ SARAH _are
watching their sister, who then comments on her little affair with
life_.
ANN. I'm growing up. [_Then with a sudden tremor._] Sally, don't let me
be forced to marry.
GEORGE. Force of circumstances, my dear Ann.
ANN. Outside things. Why couldn't I run away from this garden and over
the hills? . . I suppose there's something on the other side of the
hills.
SARAH. You'd find yourself there . . and circumstances.
ANN. So I'm trapped as well as that Lord John.
SARAH. What's the injury?
ANN. I'm taken by surprise and I know I'm ignorant and I think I'm
learning things backwards.
GEORGE. You must cheer up and say: John's not a bad sort.
SARAH. A man of his age is a young man.
ANN. I wish you wouldn't recommend him to me.
SARAH. Let's think of Brighton. What about your gowns?
ANN. I've nothing to wear.
SARAH. We'll talk to Papa.
GEORGE. The war-purse is always a long one.
SARAH. George . . be one of us for a minute.
GEORGE. But I want to look on too, and laugh.
SARAH. [_Caustically._] Yes . . that's your privilege . . except
occasionally. [_Then to her sister._] I wish you all the happiness of
courtship days.
GEORGE. Arcadian expression!
ANN. I believe it means being kissed . . often.
SARAH. Have you not a touch of romance in you, little girl?
ANN. Am I not like Mr. Dan Tatton? He kisses dairy-maids and servants
and all the farmer's daughters . . I beg your pardon, George.
GEORGE. [_Nettled._] I'll say to you, Ann, that--in all essentials--one
woman is as good as another.
SARAH. That is not so in the polite world.
GEORGE. When you consider it no one lives in the polite world.
ANN. Do they come outside for air sooner or later?
SARAH. [_Briskly._] Three best dresses you must have and something very
gay if you're to go near the Pavilion.
ANN. You're coming to Brighton, Sally?
SARAH. No.
ANN. Why not?
SARAH. I don't wish to meet my husband.
GEORGE. That man was his lawyer.
ANN. The political difference, Sally?
SARAH. Just that. [_Then with a deft turn of the subject._] I don't say
that yours is a pretty face, but I should think you would have charm.
GEORGE. For fashion's sake cultivate sweetness.
SARAH. You dance as well as they know how in Reading.
ANN. Yes . . I can twiddle my feet.
SARAH. Do you like dancing?
ANN. I'd sooner walk.
GEORGE. What . . and get somewhere!
ANN. Here's George laughing.
SARAH. He's out of it.
ANN. Are you happy, George?
GEORGE. Alas . . Dolly's disgraceful ignorance of etiquette damns us
both from the beautiful drawing-room.
SARAH. That laugh is forced. But how can you. . . look on?
_There is a slight pause in their talk. Then . . ._
ANN. He'll bully me with love.
SARAH. Your husband will give you just what you ask for.
ANN. I hate myself too. I want to take people mentally.
GEORGE. You want a new world . . you new woman.
ANN. And I'm a good bit frightened of myself.
SARAH. We have our places to fill in this. My dear child, leave futile
questions alone.
GEORGE. Neither have I any good advice to give you.
ANN. I think happiness is a thing one talks too much about.
DIMMUCK _appears. And by now_ ABUD'S _work has brought him back to the
terrace_.
DIMMUCK. The master would like to see your Ladyship now.
SARAH. I'll say we've had a visitor . . Guess.
GEORGE. And you've had a visitor, Sarah.
ANN. Papa will know.
SARAH. Is he in a questioning mood?
ANN. I always tell everything.
SARAH. It saves time.
_She departs towards the house._
DIMMUCK. Mr. George.
GEORGE. What is it?
DIMMUCK. He said No to a doctor when I haven't even mentioned the
matter. Had I better send . . ?
GEORGE. Do . . if you care to waste the doctor's time.
DIMMUCK _gives an offended sniff and follows_ LADY COTTESHAM.
ANN. I could sit here for days. George, I don't think I quite believe in
anything I've been told yet.
GEORGE. What's that man's name?
ANN. John--John is a common name--John Abud.
GEORGE. Abud!
ABUD. Sir?
GEORGE. Come here.
ABUD _obediently walks towards his young master and stands before him_.
GEORGE. Why did you ask after the health of Mrs. George Leete?
ABUD. We courted once.
GEORGE. [_After a moment._] Listen, Ann. Do you hate me, John Abud?
ABUD. No, sir.
GEORGE. You're a fine looking fellow. How old are you?
ABUD. Twenty-seven, sir.
GEORGE. Is Once long ago?
ABUD. Two years gone.
GEORGE. Did Mrs. Leete quarrel with you?
ABUD. No, sir.
GEORGE. Pray tell me more.
ABUD. I was beneath her.
GEORGE. But you're a fine-looking fellow.
ABUD. Farmer Crowe wouldn't risk his daughter being unhappy.
GEORGE. But she was beneath me.
ABUD. That was another matter, sir.
GEORGE. I don't think you intend to be sarcastic.
ABUD. And . . being near her time for the first time, sir . . I wanted
to know if she is in danger of dying yet.
GEORGE. Every precaution has been taken. . a nurse. . there is a
physician near. I need not tell you . . but I do tell you.
ABUD. Thank you, sir.
GEORGE. I take great interest in my wife.
ABUD. We all do, sir.
GEORGE. Was it ambition that you courted her?
ABUD. I thought to start housekeeping.
GEORGE. Did you aspire to rise socially?
ABUD. I wanted a wife to keep house, sir.
GEORGE. Are you content?
ABUD. I think so, sir.
GEORGE. With your humble position?
ABUD. I'm a gardener, and there'll always be gardens.
GEORGE. Frustrated affections . . I beg your pardon. . . To have been
crossed in love should make you bitter and ambitious.
ABUD. My father was a gardener and my son will be a gardener if he's no
worse a man than I and no better.
GEORGE. Are you married?
ABUD. No, sir.
GEORGE. Are you going to be married?
ABUD. Not especially, sir.
GEORGE. Yes . . you must marry . . some decent woman; we want gardeners.
ABUD. Do you want me any more now, sir?
GEORGE. You have interested me. You can go back to your work.
ABUD _obeys_.
GEORGE. [_Almost to himself._] I am hardly human.
_He slowly moves away and out of sight._
ANN. John Abud.
_He comes back and stands before her too._
ANN. I am very sorry for you.
ABUD. I am very much obligated to you, Miss.
ANN. Both those sayings are quite meaningless. Say something true about
yourself.
ABUD. I'm not sorry for myself.
ANN. I won't tell. It's very clear you ought to be in a despairing
state. Don't stand in the sun with your hat off.
ABUD. [_Putting on his hat._] Thank you, Miss.
ANN. Have you nearly finished the rose-trees?
ABUD. I must work till late this evening.
ANN. Weren't you ambitious for Dolly's sake?
ABUD. She thought me good enough.
ANN. I'd have married her.
ABUD. She was ambitious for me.
ANN. And are you frightened of the big world?
ABUD. Fine things dazzle me sometimes.
ANN. But gardening is all that you're fit for?
ABUD. I'm afraid so, Miss.
ANN. But it's great to be a gardener . . to sow seeds and to watch
flowers grow and to cut away dead things.
ABUD. Yes, Miss.
ANN. And you're in the fresh air all day.
ABUD. That's very healthy.
ANN. Are you very poor?
ABUD. I get my meals in the house.
ANN. Rough clothes last a long time.
ABUD. I've saved money.
ANN. Where do you sleep?
ABUD. At Mrs. Hart's . . at a cottage . . it's a mile off.
ANN. And you want no more than food and clothes and a bed and you earn
all that with your hands.
ABUD. The less a man wants, Miss, the better.
ANN. But you mean to marry?
ABUD. Yes . . I've saved money.
ANN. Whom will you marry? Would you rather not say? Perhaps you don't
know yet?
ABUD. It's all luck what sort of a maid a man gets fond of. It won't be
a widow.
ANN. Be careful, John Abud.
ABUD. No . . I shan't be careful.
ANN. You'll do very wrong to be made a fool of.
ABUD. I'm safe, Miss; I've no eye for a pretty face.
DIMMUCK _arrives asthmatically at the top of the steps_.
DIMMUCK. Where's Mr. George? Here's a messenger come post.
ANN. Find him, Abud.
ABUD. [_To_ DIMMUCK.] From Dolly?
DIMMUCK. Speak respectful.
ABUD. Is it from his wife?
DIMMUCK. Go find him.
ANN. [_As_ ABUD _is immovable_.] Dimmuck . . . tell me about Mrs.
George.
DIMMUCK. She's doing well, Miss.
ABUD. [_Shouting joyfully now._] Mr. George! Mr. George!
ANN. A boy or a girl, Dimmuck?
DIMMUCK. Yes, Miss.
ABUD. Mr. George! Mr. George!
DIMMUCK. Ecod . . is he somewhere else?
DIMMUCK, _somewhat excited himself, returns to the house_.
ANN. George!
ABUD. Mr. George! Mr. George!
GEORGE _comes slowly along the terrace, in his hand an open book, which
some people might suppose he was reading. He speaks with studied calm._
GEORGE. You are very excited, my good man.
ABUD. She's brought you a child, sir.
ANN. Your child!
GEORGE. Certainly.
ABUD. Thank God, Sir!
GEORGE. I will if I please.
ANN. And she's doing well.
ABUD. There's a messenger come post.
GEORGE. To be sure . . it might have been bad news.
_And slowly he crosses the garden towards the house._
ABUD. [_Suddenly, beyond all patience._] Run . . damn you!
GEORGE _makes one supreme effort to maintain his dignity, but fails
utterly. He gasps out . . ._
GEORGE. Yes, I will. [_And runs off as hard as he can._]
ABUD. [_In an ecstasy._] This is good. Oh, Dolly and God . . this is
good!
ANN. [_Round eyed._] I wonder that you can be pleased.
ABUD. [_Apologising . . without apology._] It's life.
ANN. [_Struck._] Yes, it is.
_And she goes towards the house, thinking this over._
THE THIRD ACT
_It is near to sunset. The garden is shadier than before._
ABUD _is still working_. CARNABY LEETE _comes from the house followed
by_ DR. REMNANT. _He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is
flushed, his speech rapid._
CARNABY. Parson, you didn't drink enough wine . . . damme, the wine was
good.
DR. REMNANT. I am very grateful for an excellent dinner.
CARNABY. A good dinner, sir, is the crown to a good day's work.
DR. REMNANT. It may also be a comfort in affliction. Our philosophy does
ill, Mr. Leete, when it despises the more simple means of contentment.
CARNABY. And which will be the better lover of a woman, a hungry or a
well-fed man?
DR. REMNANT. A good meal digests love with it; for what is love but a
food to live by . . but a hungry love will ofttimes devour its owner.
CARNABY. Admirable! Give me a man in love to deal with. Vous l'avez vu?
DR. REMNANT. Speak Latin, Greek or Hebrew to me, Mr. Leete.
CARNABY. French is the language of little things. My poor France! Ours
is a little world, Parson . . . a man may hold it here. [_His open
hand._] Lord John Carp's a fine fellow.
DR. REMNANT. Son of a Duke.
CARNABY. And I commend to you the originality of his return. At twelve
we fight . . . at one-thirty he proposes marriage to my daughter. D'ye
see him humbly on his knees? Will there be rain, I wonder?
DR. REMNANT. We need rain . . Abud?
ABUD. Badly, sir.
CARNABY. Do we want a wet journey tomorrow! Where's Sarah?
DR. REMNANT. Lady Cottesham's taking tea.
CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD _with a sudden start_.] And why the devil didn't you
marry my daughter-in-law . . my own gardener?
GEORGE _appears dressed for riding_.
GEORGE. Good-bye, sir, for the present.
CARNABY. Boots and breeches!
GEORGE. You shouldn't be about in the evening air with a green wound in
your arm. You drank wine at dinner. Be careful, sir.
CARNABY. Off to your wife and the expected?
GEORGE. Yes, sir.
CARNABY. Riding to Watford?
GEORGE. From there alongside the North Coach, if I'm in time.
CARNABY. Don't founder my horse. Will ye leave the glorious news with
your grandfather at Wycombe?
GEORGE. I won't fail to. [_Then to_ ABUD.] We've been speaking of you.
ABUD. It was never any secret, sir.
GEORGE. Don't apologise.
_Soon after this_ ABUD _passes out of sight_.
CARNABY. Nature's an encumbrance to us, Parson.
DR. REMNANT. One disapproves of flesh uninspired.
CARNABY. She allows you no amusing hobbies . . always takes you
seriously.
GEORGE. Good-bye, Parson.
DR. REMNANT. [_As he bows._] Your most obedient.
CARNABY. And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of
the respect due to womanhood and now the result . . . hark to it
squalling.
DR. REMNANT. Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the
new-born?
CARNABY. Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world
will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so.
GEORGE. I did say so.
CARNABY. I feel the whole matter deeply.
GEORGE _half laughs_.
CARNABY. George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile.
That's a home thrust of a metaphor.
GEORGE _laughs again_.
CARNABY. Twins!
GEORGE. Yes, a boy and a girl . . . I'm the father of a boy and a girl.
CARNABY. [_In dignified, indignant horror._] No one of you dared tell me
that much!
SARAH _and_ ANN _come from the house_.
GEORGE. You could have asked me for news of your grandchildren.
CARNABY. Twins is an insult.
SARAH. But you look very cheerful, George.
GEORGE. I am content.
SARAH. I'm surprised.
GEORGE. I am surprised.
SARAH. Now what names for them?
CARNABY. No family names, please.
GEORGE. We'll wait for a dozen years or so and let them choose their
own.
DR. REMNANT. But, sir, christening will demand--
CARNABY. Your son should have had my name, sir.
GEORGE. I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no
pride in.
SARAH. George!
GEORGE. Not to say that it sounds his, not mine.
CARNABY. Our hopes of you were high once.
GEORGE. Sarah, may I kiss you? [_He kisses her cheek._] Let me hear what
you decide to do.
CARNABY. The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time.
GEORGE. [_Quite pleasantly._] Don't say that.
_At the top of the steps_ ANN _is waiting for him_.
ANN. I'll see you into the saddle.
GEORGE. Thank you, sister Ann.
ANN. Why didn't you leave us weeks ago?
GEORGE. Why!
_They pace away, arm-in-arm._
CARNABY. [_Bitterly._] Glad to go! Brighton, Sarah.
SARAH. No, I shall not come, Papa.
CARNABY. Coward. [_Then to_ REMNANT.] Good-night.
DR. REMNANT. [_Covering the insolent dismissal._] With your kind
permission I will take my leave. [_Then he bows to_ SARAH.] Lady
Cottesham.
SARAH. [_Curtseying._] Doctor Remnant, I am yours.
CARNABY. [_Sitting by the fountain, stamping his foot._] Oh, this
cracked earth! Will it rain . . will it rain?
DR. REMNANT. I doubt now. That cloud has passed.
CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! There's a good word and I'm not at all
sure what it means.
DR. REMNANT. Per . . lucere . . . letting light through.
REMNANT _leaves them_.
CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! . . thank you. Brighton, Sarah.
SARAH. Ann needs new clothes.
CARNABY. See to it.
SARAH. I shall not be there.
_She turns from him._
CARNABY. Pretty climax to a quarrel!
SARAH. Not a quarrel.
CARNABY. A political difference.
SARAH. Don't look so ferocious.
CARNABY. My arm is in great pain and the wine's in my head.
SARAH. Won't you go to bed?
CARNABY. I'm well enough . . to travel. This marriage makes us safe,
Sarah . . an anchor in each camp . . There's a mixed metaphor.
SARAH. If you'll have my advice, Papa, you'll keep those plans clear
from Ann's mind.
CARNABY. John Carp is so much clay . . a man of forty ignorant of
himself.
SARAH. But if the Duke will not . .
CARNABY. The Duke hates a scandal.
SARAH. Does he detest scandal!
CARNABY. The girl is well-bred and harmless . . why publicly quarrel
with John and incense her old brute of a father? There's the Duke in a
score of words. He'll take a little time to think it out so.
SARAH. And I say: Do you get on the right side of the Duke once
again,--that's what we've worked for--and leave these two alone.
CARNABY. Am I to lose my daughter?
SARAH. Papa . . your food's intrigue.
CARNABY. Scold at Society . . and what's the use?
SARAH. We're over-civilized.
ANN _rejoins them now. The twilight is gathering._
CARNABY. My mother's very old . . . your grandfather's younger and
seventy-nine . . he swears I'll never come into the title. There's
little else.
SARAH. You're feverish . . why are you saying this?
CARNABY. Ann . . George . . George via Wycombe . . Wycombe Court . . Sir
George Leete baronet, Justice of the Peace, Deputy Lieutenant . . the
thought's tumbled. Ann, I first saw your mother in this garden . .
there.
ANN. Was she like me?
SARAH. My age when she married.
CARNABY. She was not beautiful . . then she died.
ANN. Mr. Tatton thinks it a romantic garden.
CARNABY. [_Pause._] D'ye hear the wind sighing through that tree?
ANN. The air's quite still.
CARNABY. I hear myself sighing . . when I first saw your mother in this
garden . . . that's how it was done.
SARAH. For a woman must marry.
CARNABY. [_Rises._] You all take to it as ducks to water . . but apple
sauce is quite correct . . I must not mix metaphors.
MRS. OPIE _comes from the house_.
SARAH. Your supper done, Mrs. Opie?
MRS. OPIE. I eat little in the evening.
SARAH. I believe that saves digestion.
MRS. OPIE. Ann, do you need me more to-night?
ANN. Not any more.
MRS. OPIE. Ann, there is gossip among the servants about a wager . . .
ANN. Mrs. Opie, that was . . . yesterday.
MRS. OPIE. Ann, I should be glad to be able to contradict a reported . .
embrace.
ANN. I was kissed.
MRS. OPIE. I am shocked.
CARNABY. Mrs. Opie, is it possible that all these years I have been
nourishing a prude in my . . back drawing-room?
MRS. OPIE. I presume I am discharged of Ann's education; but as the
salaried mistress of your household, Mr. Leete, I am grieved not to be
able to deny such a rumour to your servants.
_She sails back, righteously indignant._
CARNABY. Call out that you're marrying the wicked man . . comfort her.
SARAH. Mrs. Opie!
CARNABY. Consider that existence. An old maid . . so far as we know.
Brevet rank . . missis. Not pleasant.
ANN. She wants nothing better . . at her age.
SARAH. How forgetful!
CARNABY. [_The force of the phrase growing._] Brighton, Sarah.
SARAH. Now you've both read the love-letter which Tetgeen brought me.
CARNABY. Come to Brighton.
ANN. Come to Brighton, Sally.
SARAH. No. I have been thinking. I think I will accept the income, the
house, coals, butter and eggs.
CARNABY. I give you a fortnight to bring your husband to his knees . .
to your feet.
SARAH. I'm not sure that I could. My marriage has come naturally to an
end.
CARNABY. Sarah, don't annoy me.
SARAH. Papa, you joined my bridegroom's political party . . now you see
fit to leave it.
_She glances at_ ANN, _who gives no sign, however_.
CARNABY. What have you been doing in ten years?
SARAH. Waiting for this to happen . . now I come to think.
CARNABY. Have ye the impudence to tell me that ye've never cared for
your husband?
SARAH. I was caught by the first few kisses; but he . . .
CARNABY. Has he ever been unkind to you?
SARAH. Never. He's a gentleman through and through . . . quite charming
to live with.
CARNABY. I see what more you expect. And he neither drinks nor . . nor
. . no one even could suppose your leaving him.
SARAH. No. I'm disgraced.
CARNABY. Fight for your honour.
SARAH. You surprise me sometimes by breaking out into cant phrases.
CARNABY. What is more useful in the world than honour?
SARAH. I think we never had any . . we!
CARNABY. Give me more details. Tell me, who is this man?
SARAH. I'm innocent . . if that were all.
ANN. Sally, what do they say you've done?
SARAH. I cry out like any poor girl.
CARNABY. There must be no doubt that you're innocent. Why not go for to
force Charles into court?
SARAH. My innocence is not of the sort which shows up well.
CARNABY. Hold publicity in reserve. No fear of the two men arranging to
meet, is there?
SARAH. They've met . . and they chatted about me.
CARNABY. [_After a moment._] There's sound humour in that.
SARAH. I shall feel able to laugh at them both from Yorkshire.
CARNABY. God forbid! Come to Brighton . . we'll rally Charles no end.
SARAH. Papa, I know there's nothing to be done.
CARNABY. Coward!
SARAH. Besides I don't think I want to go back to my happiness.
_They are silent for a little._
CARNABY. How still! Look . . leaves falling already. Can that man hear
what we're saying?
SARAH. [_To_ ANN.] Can Abud overhear?
ANN. I've never talked secrets in the garden before to-day. [_Raising
her voice but a very little._] Can you hear me, Abud?
_No reply comes._
CARNABY. Evidently not. There's brains shown in a trifle.
SARAH. Does your arm pain you so much?
ANN. Sarah, this man that you're fond of and that's not your husband is
not by any chance Lord John Carp?
SARAH. No.
ANN. Nothing would surprise me.
SARAH. You are witty . . but a little young to be so hard.
CARNABY. Keep to your innocent thoughts.
ANN. I must study politics.
SARAH. We'll stop talking of this.
ANN. No . . let me listen . . quite quietly.
CARNABY. Let her listen . . she's going to be married.
SARAH. Good luck, Ann.
CARNABY. I have great hopes of Ann.
SARAH. I hope she may be heartless. To be heartless is to be quite safe.
CARNABY. Now we detect a taste of sour grapes in your mouth.
SARAH. Butter and eggs.
CARNABY. We must all start early in the morning. Sarah will take you,
Ann, round the Brighton shops . . fine shops. You shall have the
money. . .
SARAH. I will not come with you.
CARNABY. [_Vexedly._] How absurd . . how ridiculous . . to persist in
your silly sentiment.
SARAH. [_Her voice rising._] I'm tired of that world . . which goes on
and on, and there's no dying . . . one grows into a ghost . . visible . .
then invisible. I'm glad paint has gone out of fashion. . . the
painted ghosts were very ill to see.
CARNABY. D'ye scoff at civilisation?
SARAH. Look ahead for me.
CARNABY. Banished to a hole in the damned provinces! But you're young
yet, you're charming . . you're the wife . . and the honest wife of one
of the country's best men. My head aches. D'ye despise good fortune's
gifts? Keep as straight in your place in the world as you can. A monthly
packet of books to Yorkshire . . no . . you never were fond of reading.
Ye'd play patience . . cultivate chess problems . . kill yourself!
SARAH. When one world fails take another.
CARNABY. You have no more right to commit suicide than to desert the
society you were born into. My head aches.
SARAH. George is happy.
CARNABY. D'ye dare to think so?
SARAH. No. . it's a horrible marriage.
CARNABY. He's losing refinement . . mark me . . he no longer polishes
his nails.
SARAH. But there are the children now.
CARNABY. You never have wanted children.
SARAH. I don't want a little child.
CARNABY. She to be Lady Leete . . someday . . soon! What has he done for
his family?
SARAH. I'll come with you. You are clever, Papa. And I know just what to
say to Charles.
CARNABY. [_With a curious change of tone._] If you study anatomy you'll
find that the brain, as it works, pressing forward the eyes . . thought
is painful. Never be defeated. Chapter the latest . . the tickling of
the Carp. And my throat is dry . . shall I drink that water?
SARAH. No, I wouldn't.
CARNABY. Not out of my hand?
ANN. [_Speaking in a strange quiet voice, after her long silence._] I
will not come to Brighton with you.
CARNABY. Very dry!
ANN. You must go back, Sally.
CARNABY. [_As he looks at her, standing stiffly._] Now what is Ann's
height . . five feet . . ?
ANN. Sally must go back, for she belongs to it . . but I'll stay here
where I belong.
CARNABY. You've spoken three times and the words are jumbling in at my
ears meaninglessly. I certainly took too much wine at dinner . . or
else. . . Yes . . Sally goes back. . and you'll go forward. Who stays
here? Don't burlesque your sister. What's in the air . . what disease is
this?
ANN. I mean to disobey you . . to stay here . . never to be unhappy.
CARNABY. So pleased!
ANN. I want to be an ordinary woman . . not clever . . not fortunate.
CARNABY. I can't hear.
ANN. Not clever. I don't believe in you, Papa.
CARNABY. I exist . . I'm very sorry.
ANN. I won't be married to any man. I refuse to be tempted . . I won't
see him again.
CARNABY. Yes. It's raining.
SARAH. Raining!
CARNABY. Don't you stop it raining.
ANN. [_In the same level tones, to her sister now, who otherwise would
turn, alarmed, to their father._] And I curse you . . because, we being
sisters, I suppose I am much what you were, about to be married; and I
think, Sally, you'd have cursed your present self. I could become all
that you are and more . . but I don't choose.
SARAH. Ann, what is to become of you?
CARNABY. Big drops . . big drops!
_At this moment_ ABUD _is passing towards the house, his work finished_.
ANN. John Abud . . you mean to marry. When you marry . . will you marry
me?
_A blank silence, into which breaks_ CARNABY'S _sick voice_.
CARNABY. Take me indoors. I heard you ask the gardener to marry you.
ANN. I asked him.
CARNABY. I heard you say that you asked him. Take me in . . but not out
of the rain.
ANN. Look . . he's straight-limbed and clear eyed . . and I'm a woman.
SARAH. Ann, are you mad?
ANN. If we two were alone here in this garden and everyone else in the
world were dead . . what would you answer?
ABUD. [_Still amazed._] Why . . yes.
CARNABY. Then that's settled . . pellucid.
_He attempts to rise, but staggers backwards and forwards._ SARAH _goes
to him alarmed_.
SARAH. Papa! . . there's no rain yet.
CARNABY. Hush, I'm dead.
ANN. [_Her nerves failing her._] Oh . . oh . . oh . . !
SARAH. Abud, don't ever speak of this.
ABUD. No, my lady.
ANN. [_With a final effort._] I mean it all. Wait three months.
CARNABY. Help me up steps . . son-in-law.
CARNABY _has started to grope his way indoors. But he reels and falls
helpless._
ABUD. I'll carry him.
_Throwing down his tools_ ABUD _lifts the frail sick man and carries him
towards the house_. SARAH _follows_.
ANN. [_Sobbing a little, and weary._] Such a long day it has been . .
now ending.
_She follows too._
THE FOURTH ACT
_The hall at Markswayde is square; in decoration strictly eighteenth
century. The floor polished. Then comes six feet of soberly painted
wainscot and above the greenish blue and yellowish green wall painted
into panels. At intervals are low relief pilasters; the capitals of
these are gilded. The ceiling is white and in the centre of it there is
a frosted glass dome through which a dull light struggles. Two sides
only of the hall are seen._
_In the corner is a hat stand and on it are many cloaks and hats and
beneath it several pairs of very muddy boots._
_In the middle of the left hand wall are the double doors of the
dining-room led up to by three or four stairs with balusters, and on
either side standing against the wall long, formal, straight backed
sofas._
_In the middle of the right hand wall is the front door; glass double
doors can be seen and there is evidently a porch beyond. On the left of
the front door a small window. On the right a large fireplace, in which
a large fire is roaring. Over the front door, a clock (the hands
pointing to half-past one.) Over the fireplace a family portrait (temp.
Queen Anne) below this a blunderbuss and several horse-pistols. Above
the sofa full-length family portraits (temp. George I.) Before the front
door a wooden screen, of lighter wood than the wainscot, and in the
middle of it a small glass panel. Before this a heavy square table on
which are whips and sticks, a hat or two and brushes; by the table a
wooden chair. On either side the fire stand tall closed-in armchairs,
and between the fireplace and the door a smaller red-baize screen._
_When the dining-room doors are thrown open another wooden screen is to
be seen._
_There are a few rugs on the floor, formally arranged._
MRS. OPIE _stands in the middle of the hall, holding out a woman's brown
cloak: she drops one side to fetch out her handkerchief and apply it to
her eye_. DIMMUCK _comes in by the front door, which he carefully closes
behind him. He is wrapped in a hooded cloak and carries a pair of boots
and a newspaper. The boots he arranges to warm before the fire. Then he
spreads the Chronicle newspaper upon the arm of a chair, then takes off
his cloak and hangs it upon a peg close to the door._
DIMMUCK. Mrs. Opie . . will you look to its not scorching?
MRS. OPIE _still mops her eyes_. DIMMUCK _goes towards the dining-room
door, but turns_.
DIMMUCK. Will you kindly see that the _Chronicle_ newspaper does not
burn?
MRS. OPIE. I was crying.
DIMMUCK. I leave this tomorrow sennight . . thankful, ma'am, to have
given notice in a dignified manner.
MRS. OPIE. I understand . . Those persons at table . .
DIMMUCK. You give notice.
MRS. OPIE. Mr. Dimmuck, this is my home.
LORD ARTHUR CARP _comes out of the dining-room. He is a thinner and more
earnest-looking edition of his brother_. MRS. OPIE _turns a chair and
hangs the cloak to warm before the fire, and then goes into the
dining-room_.
LORD ARTHUR. My chaise round?
DIMMUCK. I've but just ordered it, my lord. Your lordship's man has give
me your boots.
LORD ARTHUR. Does it snow?
DIMMUCK. Rather rain than snow.
LORD ARTHUR _takes up the newspaper_.
DIMMUCK. Yesterday's, my lord.
LORD ARTHUR. I've seen it. The mails don't hurry hereabouts. Can I be in
London by the morning?
DIMMUCK. I should say you might be, my lord.
LORD ARTHUR _sits by the fire, while_ DIMMUCK _takes off his pumps and
starts to put on his boots_.
LORD ARTHUR. Is this a horse called "Ronald?"
DIMMUCK. Which horse, my lord?
LORD ARTHUR. Which I'm to take back with me . . my brother left here. I
brought the mare he borrowed.
DIMMUCK. I remember, my lord. I'll enquire.
LORD ARTHUR. Tell Parker . .
DIMMUCK. Your lordship's man?
LORD ARTHUR. . . he'd better ride the beast.
SARAH _comes out of the dining-room. He stands up; one boot, one shoe._
SARAH. Please put on the other.
LORD ARTHUR. Thank you . . I am in haste.
SARAH. To depart before the bride's departure.
LORD ARTHUR. Does the bride go with the bridegroom?
SARAH. She goes away.
LORD ARTHUR. I shall never see such a thing again.
SARAH. I think this entertainment is unique.
LORD ARTHUR. Any commissions in town?
SARAH. Why can't you stay to travel with us tomorrow and talk business
to Papa by the way?
DIMMUCK _carrying the pumps and after putting on his cloak goes out
through the front door. When it is closed, her voice changes._
SARAH. Why . . Arthur?
_He does not answer. Then_ MRS. OPIE _comes out of the dining-room to
fetch the cloak. The two, with an effort, reconstruct their casual
disjointed conversation._
SARAH. . . Before the bride's departure?
LORD ARTHUR. Does the bride go away with the bridegroom?
SARAH. She goes.
LORD ARTHUR. I shall never see such an entertainment again.
SARAH. We are quite unique.
LORD ARTHUR. Any commissions in town?
SARAH. Is she to go soon too, Mrs. Opie?
MRS. OPIE. It is arranged they are to walk . . in this weather . . ten
miles . . to the house.
SARAH. Cottage.
MRS. OPIE. Hut.
MRS. OPIE _takes the cloak into the dining-room. Then_ SARAH _comes a
little towards_ LORD ARTHUR, _but waits for him to speak_.
LORD ARTHUR. [_A little awkwardly._] You are not looking well.
SARAH. To our memory . . and beyond your little chat with my husband
about me . . I want to speak an epitaph.
LORD ARTHUR. Charlie Cottesham behaved most honourably.
SARAH. And I think you did. Why have you not let me tell you so in your
ear till now, to-day?
LORD ARTHUR. Sarah . . we had a narrow escape from. . .
SARAH. How's your wife?
LORD ARTHUR. Well . . thank you.
SARAH. Nervous, surely, at your travelling in winter?
LORD ARTHUR. I was so glad to receive a casual invitation from you and
to come . . casually.
SARAH. Fifty miles.
LORD ARTHUR. Your father has been ill?
SARAH. Very ill through the autumn.
LORD ARTHUR. Do you think he suspects us?
SARAH. I shouldn't care to peep into Papa's innermost mind. You are to
be very useful to him.
LORD ARTHUR. No.
SARAH. Then he'll go back to the government.
LORD ARTHUR. If he pleases . . if they please . . if you please.
SARAH. I am not going back to my husband. Arthur . . be useful to him.
LORD ARTHUR. No . . you are not coming to me. Always your father!
[_After a moment._] It was my little home in the country somehow said
aloud you didn't care for me.
SARAH. I fooled you to small purpose.
LORD ARTHUR. I wish you had once made friends with my wife.
SARAH. If we . . this house I'm speaking of . . had made friends where
we've only made tools and fools we shouldn't now be cursed as we are . .
all. George, who is a cork, trying to sink socially. Ann is mad . . and
a runaway.
LORD ARTHUR. Sarah, I've been devilish fond of you.
SARAH. Be useful to Papa. [_He shakes his head, obstinately._] Praise me
a little. Haven't I worked my best for my family?
LORD ARTHUR. Suppose I could be useful to him now, would you, in spite
of all, come to me . . no half measures?
SARAH. Arthur . . [_He makes a little passionate movement towards her,
but she is cold._] It's time for me to vanish from this world, because
I've nothing left to sell.
LORD ARTHUR. I can't help him. I don't want you.
_He turns away._
SARAH. I feel I've done my best.
LORD ARTHUR. Keep your father quiet.
SARAH. I mean to leave him.
LORD ARTHUR. What does he say to that?
SARAH. I've not yet told him.
LORD ARTHUR. What happens?
SARAH. To sell my jewels . . spoils of a ten years' war. Three thousand
pound . . how much a year?
LORD ARTHUR. I'll buy them.
SARAH. And return them? You have almost the right to make such a
suggestion.
LORD ARTHUR. Stick to your father. He'll care for you?
SARAH. No . . we all pride ourselves on our lack of sentiment.
LORD ARTHUR. You must take money from your husband.
SARAH. I have earned that and spent it.
LORD ARTHUR. [_Yielding once again to temptation._] I'm devilish fond of
you . . .
_At that moment_ ABUD _comes out of the dining-room. He is dressed in
his best._ SARAH _responds readily to the interruption_.
SARAH. And you must give my kindest compliments to Lady Arthur and my . .
affectionately . . to the children and I'll let Papa know that you're
going.
LORD ARTHUR. Letters under cover to your father?
SARAH. Papa will stay in town through the session of course . . but they
all tell me that seventy-five pounds a year is a comfortable income in . .
Timbuctoo.
_She goes into the dining-room._ ABUD _has selected his boots from the
corner and now stands with them in his hand looking rather helpless.
After a moment_--
LORD ARTHUR. I congratulate you, Mr. Abud.
ABUD. My lord . . I can't speak of myself.
CARNABY _comes out of the dining-room. He is evidently by no means
recovered from his illness. He stands for a moment with an ironical eye
on_ JOHN ABUD.
CARNABY. Son-in-law.
ABUD. I'm told to get on my boots, sir.
CARNABY. Allow me to assist you?
ABUD. I couldn't, sir.
CARNABY. Desole!
_Then he passes on._ ABUD _sits on the sofa, furtively puts on his boots
and afterwards puts his shoes in his pockets_.
LORD ARTHUR. You were so busy drinking health to the two fat farmers
that I wouldn't interrupt you.
CARNABY. Good-bye. Describe all this to your brother John.
LORD ARTHUR. So confirmed a bachelor!
CARNABY. Please say that we missed him.
LORD ARTHUR _hands him the newspaper_.
LORD ARTHUR. I've out-raced your _Chronicle_ from London by some hours.
There's a paragraph . . second column . . near the bottom.
CARNABY. [_Looking at it blindly._] They print villainously now-a-days.
LORD ARTHUR. Inspired.
CARNABY. I trust his grace is well?
LORD ARTHUR. Gouty.
CARNABY. Now doesn't the social aspect of this case interest you?
LORD ARTHUR. I object to feeding with the lower classes.
CARNABY. There's pride! How useful to note their simple manners! From
the meeting of extremes new ideas spring . . new life.
LORD ARTHUR. Take that for a new social-political creed, Mr. Leete.
CARNABY. Do I lack one?
LORD ARTHUR. Please make my adieux to the bride.
CARNABY. Appropriate . . . 'a Dieu' . . she enters Nature's cloister. My
epigram.
LORD ARTHUR. But . . good heavens . . are we to choose to be toiling
animals?
CARNABY. To be such is my daughter's ambition.
LORD ARTHUR. You have not read that.
CARNABY. [_Giving back the paper, vexedly._] I can't see.
LORD ARTHUR. "The Right Honourable Carnaby Leete is, we are glad to
hear, completely recovered and will return to town for the opening of
Session."
CARNABY. I mentioned it.
LORD ARTHUR. "We understand that although there has been no
reconciliation with the Government it is quite untrue that this
gentleman will in any way resume his connection with the Opposition."
CARNABY. Inspired?
LORD ARTHUR. I am here from my father to answer any questions.
CARNABY. [_With some dignity and the touch of a threat._] Not now, my
lord.
DIMMUCK _comes in at the front door_.
DIMMUCK. The chaise, my lord.
CARNABY. I will conduct you.
LORD ARTHUR. Please don't risk exposure.
CARNABY. Nay, I insist.
LORD ARTHUR. Health and happiness to you both, Mr. Abud.
LORD ARTHUR _goes out, followed by_ CARNABY, _followed by_ DIMMUCK. _At
that moment_ MR. SMALLPEICE _skips excitedly out of the dining-room. A
ferret-like little lawyer_.
MR. SMALLPEICE. Oh . . where is Mr. Leete?
_Not seeing him_ MR. SMALLPEICE _skips as excitedly back into the
dining-room_. DIMMUCK _returns and hangs up his cloak then goes towards_
ABUD, _whom he surveys_.
DIMMUCK. Sir!
_With which insult he starts for the dining-room reaching the door just
in time to hold it open for_ SIR GEORGE LEETE _who comes out. He
surveys_ ABUD _for a moment, then explodes_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Damn you . . stand in the presence of your
grandfather-in-law.
ABUD _stands up_. CARNABY _returns coughing, and_ SIR GEORGE _looks him
up and down_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. I shall attend your funeral.
CARNABY. My daughter Sarah still needs me.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. I wonder at you, my son.
CARNABY. Have you any money to spare?
SIR GEORGE LEETE. No.
CARNABY. For Sarah, my housekeeper; I foresee a busy session.
ABUD _is now gingerly walking up the stairs_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Carnaby . . look at that.
CARNABY. Sound in wind and limb. Tread boldly, son-in-law.
ABUD _turns, stands awkwardly for a moment and then goes into the
dining-room_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Relapsing into a pinch of snuff._] I'm calm.
CARNABY. Regard this marriage with a wise eye . . as an amusing little
episode.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Do you?
CARNABY. And forget its oddity. Now that the humiliation is irrevocable,
is it a personal grievance to you?
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Give me a dinner a day for the rest of my life and
I'll be content.
CARNABY. Lately, one by one, opinions and desires have been failing me . .
a flicker and then extinction. I shall shortly attain to being a most
able critic upon life.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Shall I tell you again? You came into this world
without a conscience. That explains you and it's all that does. That
such a damnable coupling as this should be permitted by God Almighty . .
or that the law shouldn't interfere! I've said my say.
MR. SMALLPEICE _again comes out of the dining-room_.
MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. Leete.
CARNABY. [_Ironically polite._] Mr. Smallpeice.
MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. Crowe is proposing your health.
MR. CROWE _comes out_. _A crop-headed beefy-looking farmer of sixty._
MR. CROWE. Was.
CARNABY. There's a good enemy!
MR. CROWE. Get out of my road . . lawyer Smallpeice.
CARNABY. Leave enough of him living to attend to my business.
MR. SMALLPEICE. [_wriggling a bow at_ CARNABY.] Oh . . dear sir!
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Disgustedly to_ MR. SMALLPEICE.] You!
MR. SMALLPEICE. Employed in a small matter . . as yet.
CARNABY. [_To_ CROWE.] I hope you spoke your mind of me.
MR. CROWE. Not behind your back, sir.
MRS. GEORGE LEETE _leads_ LADY LEETE _from the dining-room_. LADY LEETE
_is a very old, blind and decrepit woman_. DOLLY _is a buxom young
mother; whose attire borders on the gaudy_.
CARNABY. [_With some tenderness._] Well . . Mother . . dear?
MR. CROWE. [_Bumptiously to_ SIR GEORGE LEETE.] Did my speech offend
you, my lord?
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Sulkily._] I'm a baronet.
LADY LEETE. Who's this here?
CARNABY. Carnaby.
DOLLY. Step down . . grandmother.
LADY LEETE. Who did ye say you were?
DOLLY. Mrs. George Leete.
LADY LEETE. Take me to the fire-side.
_So_ CARNABY _and_ DOLLY _lead her slowly to a chair by the fire where
they carefully bestow her_.
MR. SMALLPEICE. [_To_ FARMER CROWE.] He's leaving Markswayde, you know . .
and me agent.
LADY LEETE. [_Suddenly bethinking her._] Grace was not said. Fetch my
chaplain . . at once.
MR. SMALLPEICE. I will run.
_He runs into the dining-room._
DOLLY. [_Calling after with her country accent._] Not parson Remnant . .
t'other one.
LADY LEETE. [_Demanding._] Snuff.
CARNABY. [_To his father._] Sir . . my hand is a little unsteady.
SIR GEORGE _and_ CARNABY _between them give_ LADY LEETE _her snuff_.
MR. CROWE. Dolly . . ought those children to be left so long?
DOLLY. All right, father . . I have a maid.
LADY LEETE _sneezes_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. She'll do that once too often altogether.
LADY LEETE. I'm cold.
DOLLY. I'm cold . . I lack my shawl.
CROWE. Call out to your man for it.
DOLLY. [_Going to the dining-room door._] Will a gentleman please ask
Mr. George Leete for my Cache-y-mire shawl?
MR. CROWE. [_To_ CARNABY.] And I drank to the health of our grandson.
CARNABY. Now suppose George were to assume your name, Mr. Crowe?
MR. TOZER _comes out of the dining-room. Of the worst type of eighteenth
century parson, for which one may see Hogarth's 'Harlot's Progress.' He
is very drunk._
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_In his wife's ear._] Tozer!
LADY LEETE. When . . why!
SIR GEORGE LEETE. To say grace.
LADY LEETE _folds her withered hands_.
MR. TOZER. [_through his hiccoughs._] Damn you all.
LADY LEETE. [_Reverently, thinking it is said._] Amen.
MR. TOZER. Only my joke.
CARNABY. [_Rising to the height of the occasion._] Mr. Tozer, I am
indeed glad to see you, upon this occasion so delightfully drunk.
MR. TOZER. Always a gen'elman . . by nature.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Lie down . . you dog.
GEORGE _comes out carrying the cashmere shawl_.
GEORGE. [_To his father._] Dolly wants her father to rent Markswayde,
sir.
MR. CROWE. Not me, my son. You're to be a farmer-baronet.
SIR GEORGE. Curse your impudence!
CARNABY. My one regret in dying would be to miss seeing him so.
GEORGE _goes back into the dining-room_.
MR. CROWE. I am tickled to think that the man marrying your daughter
wasn't good enough for mine.
CARNABY. And yet at fisticuffs, I'd back John Abud against our son
George.
DR. REMNANT _has come out of the dining-room_. TOZER _has stumbled
towards him and is wagging an argumentative finger_.
MR. TOZER. . . Marriage means enjoyment!
DR. REMNANT. [_Controlling his indignation._] I repeat that I have found
in my own copy of the prayer book no insistence upon a romantic passion.
MR. TOZER. My 'terpretation of God's word is 'bove criticism.
MR. TOZER _reaches the door and falls into the dining-room_.
CARNABY. [_Weakly to_ DR. REMNANT.] Give me your arm for a moment.
DR. REMNANT. I think Lady Cottesham has Mrs. John Abud prepared to
start, sir.
CARNABY. I trust Ann will take no chill walking through the mud.
DR. REMNANT. Won't you sit down, sir?
CARNABY. No.
_For some moments_ CROWE _has been staring indignantly at_ SIR GEORGE.
_Now he breaks out._
MR. CROWE. The front door of this mansion is opened to a common gardener
and only then to me and mine!
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Virulently._] Damn you and yours and damn them . .
and damn you again for the worse disgrace.
MR. CROWE. Damn _you_, sir . . have you paid him to marry the girl?
_He turns away, purple faced and_ SIR GEORGE _chokes impotently_. ABUD
_and_ MR. PRESTIGE _come out talking. He is younger and less assertive
than_ FARMER CROWE.
MR. PRESTIGE. [_Pathetically._] All our family always has got drunk at
weddings.
ABUD. [_In remonstrance._] Please, uncle.
CARNABY. Mr. Crowe . . I have been much to blame for not seeking you
sooner.
MR. CROWE. [_Mollified._] Shake hands.
CARNABY. [_Offering his with some difficulty._] My arm is stiff . .
from an accident. This is a maid's marriage, I assure you.
MR. PRESTIGE. [_Open mouthed to_ DR. REMNANT.] One =could= hang bacon
here!
DOLLY. [_Very high and mighty._] The family don't.
CARNABY. [_To his father._] And won't you apologise for your remarks to
Mr. Crowe, sir?
LADY LEETE. [_Demanding._] Snuff!
CARNABY. And your box to my mother, sir.
SIR GEORGE _attends to his wife_.
DOLLY. [_Anxiously to_ DR. REMNANT.] Can a gentleman change his name?
MR. CROWE. Parson . . once noble always noble, I take it.
DR. REMNANT. Certainly . . but I hope you have money to leave them, Mr.
Crowe.
DOLLY. [_To_ ABUD.] John.
ABUD. Dorothy.
DOLLY. You've not seen my babies yet.
LADY LEETE _sneezes_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. Carnaby . . d'ye intend to murder that Crowe fellow . .
or must I?
MR. SMALLPEICE _skips from the dining-room_.
MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. John Abud . .
MR. CROWE. [_To_ DR. REMNANT _as he nods towards_ CARNABY.] Don't tell
me he's got over that fever yet.
MR. SMALLPEICE. . . The ladies say . . are you ready or are you not?
MR. PRESTIGE. I'll get thy cloak, John.
MR. PRESTIGE _goes for the cloak_. CARNABY _has taken a pistol from the
mantel-piece and now points it at_ ABUD.
CARNABY. He's fit for heaven!
GEORGE LEETE _comes from the dining-room and noticing his father's
action says sharply_ . .
GEORGE. I suppose you know that pistol's loaded.
_Which calls everyone's attention._ DOLLY _shrieks_.
CARNABY. What if there had been an accident!
_And he puts back the pistol._ ABUD _takes his cloak from_ PRESTIGE.
ABUD. Thank you, uncle.
MR. PRESTIGE. I'm a proud man. Mr. Crowe . .
CARNABY. Pride!
GEORGE. [_Has a sudden inspiration and strides up to_ ABUD.] Here ends
the joke, my good fellow. Be off without your wife.
ABUD _stares, as do the others. Only_ CARNABY _suddenly catches_
REMNANT'S _arm_.
MR. PRESTIGE. [_Solemnly._] But it's illegal to separate them.
GEORGE. [_Giving up._] Mr. Prestige . . you are the backbone of England.
CARNABY. [_To_ REMNANT.] Where are your miracles?
MRS. PRESTIGE _comes out. A motherly farmer's wife, a mountain of a
woman._
MRS. PRESTIGE. John . . kiss your aunt.
ABUD _goes to her, and she obliterates him in an embrace_.
GEORGE. [_To his father._] Sense of humour . . Sense of humour!
LADY LEETE. Snuff.
_But no one heeds her this time._
CARNABY. It doesn't matter.
GEORGE. Smile. Let's be helpless gracefully.
CARNABY. There are moments when I'm not sure.
GEORGE. It's her own life.
TOZER _staggers from the dining-room drunker than ever. He falls against
the baluster and waves his arms._
MR. TOZER. Silence there for the corpse!
MR. CROWE. You beast!
MR. TOZER. Respect my cloth . . Mr. Prestige.
MR. CROWE. That's not my name.
MR. TOZER. I'll have you to know that I'm Sir George Leete's baronet's
most boon companion and her la'ship never goes nowhere without me. [_He
subsides into a chair._]
LADY LEETE. [_Tearfully._] Snuff.
_From the dining-room comes_ ANN; _her head bent. She is crossing the
hall when_ SARAH _follows, calling her_.
SARAH. Ann!
ANN _turns back to kiss her. The rest of the company stand gazing._ SIR
GEORGE _gives snuff to_ LADY LEETE.
ANN. Good-bye, Sally.
SARAH. [_In a whisper._] Forget us.
GEORGE. [_Relieving his feelings._] Good-bye, everybody . . good-bye,
everything.
ABUD _goes to the front door and opening it stands waiting for her. She
goes coldly, but timidly to her father, to whom she puts her face up to
be kissed._
ANN. Good-bye, Papa.
CARNABY. [_Quietly, as he kisses her cheek._] I can do without you.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Raging at the draught._] Shut that door.
ANN. I'm gone.
_She goes with her husband._ MRS. OPIE _comes hurriedly out of the
dining-room, too late_.
MRS. OPIE. Oh!
DR. REMNANT. Run . . Mrs. Opie.
CARNABY. There has started the new century!
MRS. OPIE _opens the front door to look after them_.
SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_With double energy._] Shut that door.
LADY LEETE _sneezes and then chokes. There is much commotion in her
neighbourhood._
SIR GEORGE. Now she's hurt again.
DOLLY. Water!
MR. CROWE. Brandy!
SARAH. [_Going._] I'll fetch both.
GEORGE. We must all die . . some day.
MR. TOZER. [_Who has struggled up to see what is the matter._] And go
to--
DR. REMNANT. Hell. You do believe in that, Mr. Toper.
MRS. OPIE. [_Fanning the poor old lady._] She's better.
CARNABY. [_To his guests._] Gentlemen . . punch.
PRESTIGE _and_ SMALLPEICE; MRS. PRESTIGE, GEORGE _and_ DOLLY _move
towards the dining-room_.
MR. PRESTIGE. [_To_ SMALLPEICE.] You owe all this to me.
MR. CROWE. Dolly . . I'm going.
MRS. PRESTIGE. [_To her husband as she nods towards_ CARNABY.] Nathaniel
. . look at 'im.
GEORGE. [_To his father-in-law._] Must we come too?
MRS. PRESTIGE. [_As before._] I can't help it . . a sneerin' carpin'
cavillin' devil!
MRS. OPIE. Markswayde is to let . . as I hear . . Mr. Leete?
CARNABY. Markswayde is to let.
_He goes on his way to the dining-room meeting_ SARAH _who comes out
carrying a glass of water and a decanter of brandy_. SIR GEORGE LEETE
_is comfortably warming himself at the fire_.
* * * * *
_The living room of_ JOHN ABUD'S _new cottage has bare plaster walls and
its ceilings and floor are of red brick; all fresh looking but not new.
In the middle of the middle wall there is a latticed window, dimity
curtained; upon the plain shelf in front are several flower-pots._
_To the right of this, a door, cross beamed and with a large lock to it
besides the latch._
_Against the right hand wall, is a dresser, furnished with dishes and
plates: below it is a common looking grandfather clock; below this a
small door which when opened shows winding stairs leading to the
room above. In the left hand wall there is a door which is almost hidden
by the fireplace which juts out below it. In the fireplace a wood fire
is laid but not lit. At right angles to this stands a heavy oak settle
opposite a plain deal table; just beyond which is a little bench. On
either side of the window is a Windsor armchair. Between the window and
the door hangs a framed sampler._
_In the darkness the sound of the unlocking of a door and of_ ABUD
_entering is heard. He walks to the table, strikes a light upon a
tinder-box and lights a candle which he finds there._ ANN _is standing
in the doorway_. ABUD _is in stocking feet_.
ABUD. Don't come further. Here are your slippers.
_He places one of the Windsor chairs for her on which she sits while he
takes off her wet shoes and puts on her slippers which he found on the
table. Then he takes her wet shoes to the fireplace. She sits still.
Then he goes to the door and brings in his own boots from the little
porch and puts them in the fireplace too. Then he locks the door and
hangs up the key beside it. Then he stands looking at her; but she does
not speak, so he takes the candle, lifts it above his head and walks to
the dresser._
ABUD. [_Encouragingly._] Our dresser . . Thomas Jupp made that. Plates
and dishes. Here's Uncle Prestige's clock.
ANN. Past seven.
ABUD. That's upstairs. Table and bench, deal. Oak settle . . solid.
ANN. Charming.
ABUD. Windsor chairs . . Mother's sampler.
ANN. Home.
ABUD. Is it as you wish? I have been glad at your not seeing it until
to-night.
ANN. I'm sinking into the strangeness of the place.
ABUD. Very weary? It's been a long nine miles.
_She does not answer. He goes and considers the flower-pots in the
window._
ANN. I still have on my cloak.
ABUD. Hang it behind the door there . . no matter if the wet drips.
ANN. . . I can wipe up the puddle.
_She hangs up her cloak. He selects a flower-pot and brings it to her._
ABUD. Hyacinth bulbs for the spring.
ANN. [_After a glance._] I don't want to hold them.
_He puts back the pot, a little disappointed._
ABUD. Out there's the scullery.
ANN. It's very cold.
ABUD. If we light the fire now that means more trouble in the morning.
_She sits on the settle._
ANN. Yes, I am very weary.
ABUD. Go to bed.
ANN. Not yet. [_After a moment._] How much light one candle gives! Sit
where I may see you.
_He sits on the bench. She studies him curiously._
ANN. Well . . this is an experiment.
ABUD. [_With reverence._] God help us both.
ANN. Amen. Some people are so careful of their lives. If we fail
miserably we'll hold our tongues . . won't we?
ABUD. I don't know . . I can't speak of this.
ANN. These impossible things which are done mustn't be talked of . .
that spoils them. We don't want to boast of this, do we?
ABUD. I fancy nobody quite believes that we are married.
ANN. Here's my ring . . real gold.
ABUD. [_With a sudden fierce throw up of his head._] Never you remind me
of the difference between us.
ANN. Don't speak to me so.
ABUD. Now I'm your better.
ANN. My master . . The door's locked.
ABUD. [_Nodding._] I know that I must be . . or be a fool.
ANN. [_After a moment._] Be kind to me.
ABUD. [_With remorse._] Always I will.
ANN. You are master here.
ABUD. And I've angered you?
ANN. And if I fail . . I'll never tell you . . to make a fool of you.
And you're trembling. [_She sees his hand, which is on the table,
shake._]
ABUD. Look at that now.
ANN. [_Lifting her own._] My white hands must redden. No more dainty
appetite . . no more pretty books.
ABUD. Have you learned to scrub?
ANN. Not this floor.
ABUD. Mother always did bricks with a mop. Tomorrow I go to work.
You'll be left for all day.
ANN. I must make friends with the other women around.
ABUD. My friends are very curious about you.
ANN. I'll wait to begin till I'm seasoned.
ABUD. Four o'clock's the hour for getting up.
ANN. Early rising always was a vice of mine.
ABUD. Breakfast quickly . . . and I take my dinner with me.
ANN. In a handkerchief.
ABUD. Hot supper, please.
ANN. It shall be ready for you.
_There is silence between them for a little. Then he says timidly._
ABUD. May I come near to you?
ANN. [_In a low voice._] Come.
_He sits beside her, gazing._
ABUD. Wife . . I never have kissed you.
ANN. Shut your eyes.
ABUD. Are you afraid of me?
ANN. We're not to play such games at love.
ABUD. I can't help wanting to feel very tender towards you.
ANN. Think of me . . not as a wife . . but as a mother of your children
. . if it's to be so. Treat me so.
ABUD. You are a part of me.
ANN. We must try and understand it . . as a simple thing.
ABUD. But shall I kiss you?
ANN. [_Lowering her head._] Kiss me.
_But when he puts his arms round her she shrinks._
ANN. No.
ABUD. But I will. It's my right.
_Almost by force he kisses her. Afterwards she clenches her hands and
seems to suffer._
ABUD. Have I hurt you?
_She gives him her hand with a strange little smile._
ANN. I forgive you.
ABUD. [_Encouraged._] Ann . . we're beginning life together.
ANN. Remember . . work's enough . . no stopping to talk.
ABUD. I'll work for you.
ANN. I'll do my part . . something will come of it.
_For a moment they sit together hand in hand. Then she leaves him and
paces across the room. There is a slight pause._
ANN. Papa . . I said . . we've all been in too great a hurry getting
civilised. False dawn. I mean to go back.
ABUD. He laughed.
ANN. So he saw I was of no use to him and he's penniless and he let me
go. When my father dies what will he take with him? . . . for you do
take your works with you into Heaven or Hell, I believe. Much wit. Sally
is afraid to die. Don't you aspire like George's wife. I was afraid to
live . . and now . . I am content.
_She walks slowly to the window and from there to the door against which
she places her ear. Then she looks round at her husband._
ANN. I can hear them chattering.
_Then she goes to the little door and opens it._ ABUD _takes up the
candle_.
ABUD. I'll hold the light . . the stairs are steep.
_He lights her up the stairs._
The Voysey Inheritance
1903-5
THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE
_The Office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's Inn. Its
panelled rooms give out a sense of grand-motherly comfort and security,
very grateful at first to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant.
Mr. Voysey's own room into which he walks about twenty past ten of a
morning radiates enterprise besides. There is polish on everything; on
the windows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing table that
stands between them, on the brasswork of the fireplace in the other
wall, on the glass of the fire-screen which preserves only the
pleasantness of a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes
it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf behind the door.
Mr. Voysey is sixty or more and masterful; would obviously be master
anywhere from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation in his
attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air sometimes in the twist of
his glance, not altogether suitable to a family solicitor. On this
bright October morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too late to
help him off with his coat, but in time to take it and hang it up with a
quite unnecessary subservience. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable
enough to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite removed from
Nature, has made some attempts to acquire protective colouring. A very
drunken client might mistake him for his master. His voice very easily
became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later his features caught a line
or two from that mirror of all the necessary virtues into which he was
so constantly gazing; but how his clothes even when new contrive to look
like old ones of Mr. Voysey's is a mystery, and to his tailor a most
annoying one. And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his
master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey carries to his table
the bunch of beautiful roses he is accustomed to bring to the office
three times a week and places them for a moment only near the bowl of
water there ready to receive them while he takes up his letters. These
lie ready too, opened mostly, one or two private ones left closed and
discreetly separate. By this time the usual salutations have passed,
Peacey's "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's "Morning, Peacey." Then as he
gets to his letters Mr. Voysey starts his day's work._
MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me?
PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom?
PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this morning.
MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the Times. [PEACEY
_goes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there_. MR. VOYSEY
_waves a letter, then places it on the table_.] Here, that's for you . .
Gerrard Cross business. Anything else?
PEACEY. [_as he turns the Times to its Finance page._] I've made the
usual notes.
MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee.
PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet.
MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about that. Alguazils,
Alg--oh, yes.
_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the
letters_.
PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it?
MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I
suppose.
PEACEY. No, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What!
PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward.
PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said
Headley; he's not due back till Thursday.
MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_.
MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come.
PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else?
MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it?
PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst.
PEACEY. So early!
MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about
the rest of the letters.
PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having
sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the
forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic
hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance
and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. .
MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy.
EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It
is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of
imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it
looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But
whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is
obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is
no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his
standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he
carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly
too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR.
VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated
indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._
EDWARD. Father . .
MR. VOYSEY. Well?
EDWARD. I'm glad to see you.
_This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace
phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._
MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there.
EDWARD. Yes.
MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them?
EDWARD. As you wished me . .
MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems
to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful
impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this.
You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to
me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your
mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner
yesterday.
EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted to make quite
sure.
MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me.
EDWARD. [_he is very near crying._] Oh, father.
MR. VOYSEY. Now look here, Edward, I'm going to ring and dispose of
these letters. Please pull yourself together. [_He pushes the little
button on his table._]
EDWARD. I didn't leave my rooms all day yesterday.
MR. VOYSEY. A pleasant Sunday! You must learn whatever the business may
be to leave it behind you at the Office. Why, life's not worth living
else.
PEACEY _comes in to find_ MR. VOYSEY _before the fire ostentatiously
warming and rubbing his hands_.
Oh, there isn't much else, Peacey. Tell Simmons that if he satisfies you
about the details of this lease it'll be all right. Make a note for me
of Mr. Grainger's address at Mentone. I shall have several letters to
dictate to Atkinson. I'll whistle for him.
PEACEY. Mr. Burnett . . Burnett v Marks had just come in, Mr. Edward.
EDWARD. [_without turning._] It's only fresh instructions. Will you take
them?
PEACEY. All right.
PEACEY _goes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness of_ EDWARD'S _manner.
This_ MR. VOYSEY _sees, returning to his table with a little scowl_.
MR. VOYSEY. Now sit down. I've given you a bad forty-eight hours, it
seems. Well, I've been anxious about you. Never mind, we'll thresh the
thing out now. Go through the two accounts. Mrs. Murberry's first . .
how do you find it stands?
EDWARD. [_his feelings choking him._] I hoped you were playing some
trick on me.
MR. VOYSEY. Come now.
EDWARD _separates the papers precisely and starts to detail them; his
voice quite toneless. Now and then his father's sharp comments ring out
in contrast._
EDWARD. We've got the lease of her present house, several agreements . .
and here's her will. Here's also a sometime expired power of attorney
over her securities and her property generally . . it was for six
months.
MR. VOYSEY. She was in South Africa.
EDWARD. Here's the Sheffield mortgage and the Henry Smith mortgage with
Banker's receipts . . hers to us for the interest up to date . . four
and a half and five per cent. Then . . Fretworthy Bonds. There's a
memorandum in your writing that they are at the Bank; but you didn't say
what Bank.
MR. VOYSEY. My own . . Stukeley's.
EDWARD. [_just dwelling on the words._] Your own. I marked that with a
query. There's eight thousand five hundred in three and a half India
stock. And there are her Banker's receipts for cheques on account of
those dividends. I presume for those dividends.
MR. VOYSEY. Why not?
EDWARD. [_gravely._] Because then, Father, there are Banker's half
yearly receipts for sums amounting to an average of four hundred and
twenty pounds a year. But I find no record of any capital to produce
this.
MR. VOYSEY. Go on. What =do= you find?
EDWARD. Till about three years back there seems to have been eleven
thousand in Queenslands which would produce--did produce exactly the
same sum. But after January of that year I find no record of this.
MR. VOYSEY. In fact the Queenslands are missing?
EDWARD. [_hardly uttering the word._] Yes.
MR. VOYSEY. From which you conclude?
EDWARD. I concluded at first that you had not handed me all the papers
connected with----
MR. VOYSEY. Since Mrs. Murberry evidently gets another four twenty a
year somehow; lucky woman.
EDWARD. [_in agony._] Oh!
MR. VOYSEY. Well, we'll return to the good lady later. Now let's take
the other.
EDWARD. The Hatherley Trust.
MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.
EDWARD. [_with one accusing glance._] Trust.
MR. VOYSEY. Go on.
EDWARD. Oh, father . .
_His grief comes uppermost again and_ MR. VOYSEY _meets it kindly_.
MR. VOYSEY. I know, my dear boy. I shall have lots to say to you. But
let's get quietly through with these details first.
EDWARD. [_bitterly now._] Oh, this is simple enough. We're young
Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of age in about five years'
time. The property was eighteen thousand invested in Consols. Certain
sums were to be allowed for his education; these have been and are still
being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital.
MR. VOYSEY. None?
EDWARD. Yes . . I beg your pardon, sir. There's a memorandum to refer to
the Bletchley Land Scheme.
MR. VOYSEY. That must be ten years ago. But he's credited with the
interest on his capital?
EDWARD. On paper, sir. The balance was to be reinvested. There's a
partial account in your hand writing. He's credited with the Consol
interest.
MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.
EDWARD. I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley scheme paid seven
and a half.
MR. VOYSEY. At one time. Have you taken the trouble to calculate what
will be due from us to the lad?
EDWARD. Capital and compound interest . . . about twenty six thousand
pounds.
MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time?
EDWARD. When he comes of age.
MR. VOYSEY. Well, that gives us, say four years and six months in which
to think about it.
EDWARD _waits, hopelessly, for his father to speak again; then says_ . .
EDWARD. Thank you for showing me these, sir. Shall I put them back in
your safe now?
MR. VOYSEY. Yes, you'd better. There's the key. [EDWARD _reaches for the
bunch, his face hidden_.] Put them down. Your hand shakes . . why, you
might have been drinking . . I'll put them away later. It's no use
having hysterics, Edward. Look the trouble in the face.
EDWARD'S _only answer is to go to the fire, as far from his father as
the room allows. And there he leans on the mantelpiece, his shoulders
heaving._
MR. VOYSEY. I'm sorry, my dear boy. I wouldn't tell you if I could help
it.
EDWARD. I can't believe it. And that you should be telling it me.
MR. VOYSEY. Let your feelings go and get that part of the business over.
It isn't pleasant, I know. It isn't pleasant to inflict it on you.
EDWARD. How I got through that outer office this morning, I don't know.
I came early but some of them were here. Peacey came into my room, he
must have seen there was something up.
MR. VOYSEY. That's no matter.
EDWARD. [_able to turn to his father again; won round by the kind
voice._] How long has it been going on? Why didn't you tell me before?
Oh, I know you thought you'd pull through; but I'm your partner . . I'm
responsible too. Oh, I don't want to shirk that . . don't think I mean
to shirk that, father. Perhaps I ought to have discovered, but those
affairs were always in your hands. I trusted . . I beg your pardon. Oh,
it's us . . not you. Everyone has trusted us.
MR. VOYSEY. [_calmly and kindly still._] You don't seem to notice that
I'm not breaking my heart like this.
EDWARD. What's the extent of the mischief? When did it begin? Father,
what made you begin it?
MR. VOYSEY. I didn't begin it.
EDWARD. You didn't. Who then?
MR. VOYSEY. My father before me. [EDWARD _stares_.] That calms you a
little.
EDWARD. I'm glad . . my dear father! [_and he puts out his hand. Then
just a doubt enters his mind._] But I . . it's amazing.
MR. VOYSEY. [_shaking his head._] My inheritance, Edward.
EDWARD. My dear father!
MR. VOYSEY. I had hoped it wasn't to be yours.
EDWARD. D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing has been going on
for years? For more than thirty years!
MR. VOYSEY. Yes.
EDWARD. That's a little difficult to understand just at first, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_sententiously._] We do what we must in this world, Edward;
I have done what I had to do.
EDWARD. [_his emotion well cooled by now._] Perhaps I'd better just
listen quietly while you explain.
MR. VOYSEY. [_concentrating._] You know that I'm heavily into Northern
Electrics.
EDWARD. Yes.
MR. VOYSEY. But you don't know how heavily. When I discovered the
Municipalities were organising the purchase, I thought of course the
stock'd be up a hundred and forty--a hundred and fifty in no time. Now
Leeds won't make up her quarrel with the other place . . there'll be no
bill brought in for ten years. I bought at ninety five. What are they
now?
EDWARD. Eighty eight.
MR. VOYSEY. Eighty seven and a half. In ten years I may be . . ! That's
why you've had to be told.
EDWARD. With whose money are you so heavily into Northern Electrics?
MR. VOYSEY. The firm's money.
EDWARD. Clients' money?
MR. VOYSEY. Yes.
EDWARD. [_coldly._] Well . . I'm waiting for your explanation, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. You seem to have recovered yourself pretty much.
EDWARD. No, sir, I'm trying to understand, that's all.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a shrug._] Children always think the worst of their
parents. I did of mine. It's a pity.
EDWARD. Go on, sir, go on. Let me know the worst.
MR. VOYSEY. There's no immediate danger. I should think anyone could see
that from the state of these accounts. There's no actual danger at all.
EDWARD. Is that the worst?
MR. VOYSEY. [_his anger rising._] Have you studied these two accounts or
have you not?
EDWARD. Yes, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Well, where's the deficiency in Mrs. Murberry's income . .
has she ever gone without a shilling? What has young Hatherley lost?
EDWARD. He stands to lose--
MR. VOYSEY. He stands to lose nothing if I'm spared for a little, and
you will only bring a little common sense to bear and try to understand
the difficulties of my position.
EDWARD. Father, I'm not thinking ill of you . . that is, I'm trying not
to. But won't you explain how you're justified--?
MR. VOYSEY. In putting our affairs in order.
EDWARD. Are you doing that?
MR. VOYSEY. What else?
EDWARD. [_starting patiently to examine the matter._] How bad were
things when you first came to control them?
MR. VOYSEY. Oh, I forget.
EDWARD. You can't forget.
MR. VOYSEY. Well . . pretty bad.
EDWARD. Do you know how it was my grandfather began to--
MR. VOYSEY. Muddlement, muddlement! Then the money went and what was he
to do. He'd no capital, no credit, and was in terror of his life. My
dear Edward, if I hadn't found it out, he'd have confessed to the first
man who came and asked for a balance sheet.
EDWARD. Well, what exact sum was he to the bad then?
MR. VOYSEY. I forget. Several thousands.
EDWARD. But surely it has not taken all these years to pay off--
MR. VOYSEY. Oh, hasn't it!
EDWARD. [_making his point._] But how does it happen, sir, that such a
comparatively recent trust as young Hatherley's had been broken into?
MR. VOYSEY. Well, what could be safer than to use that money? There's a
Consol investment and not a sight wanted of either capital or interest
for five years.
EDWARD. [_utterly beaten._] Father, are you mad?
MR. VOYSEY. Certainly not. My practice is to reinvest my clients' money
when it is entirely under my control. The difference between the income
this money has to bring to them and the income it is actually bringing
to me I utilise in my endeavour to fill up the deficit in the firm's
accounts . . in fact to try and put things straight. Doesn't it follow
that the more low interest bearing capital I can use the better . . the
less risky things I have to put it into. Most of young Hatherley's
Consol capital is out on mortgage at four and a half and five . . safe
as safe can be.
EDWARD. But he should have the benefit.
MR. VOYSEY. He has the amount of his consol interest.
EDWARD. Are the mortgages in his name?
MR. VOYSEY. Some of them . . some of them. That's a technical matter.
With regard to Mrs. Murberry . . those Fretworthy Bonds at my bank . .
I've raised five thousand on them. I can release her Bonds to-morrow if
she wants them.
EDWARD. Where's the five thousand?
MR. VOYSEY. I don't know . . it was paid into my private account. Yes, I
do remember. Some of it went to complete a purchase . . that and two
thousand more out of the Skipworth fund.
EDWARD. But, my dear father--
MR. VOYSEY. Well?
EDWARD. [_summing it all up very simply._] It's not right.
MR. VOYSEY _considers his son for a moment with a pitying shake of the
head_.
MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . why is it so hard for a man to see clearly beyond the
letter of the law! Will you consider a moment, Edward, the position in
which I found myself? Was I to see my father ruined and disgraced
without lifting a finger to help him? . . not to mention the interest of
the clients. I paid back to the man who would have lost most by my
father's mistakes every penny of his money. He never knew the danger
he'd been in . . never passed an uneasy moment about it. It was I who
lay awake. I have now somewhere a letter from that man to my father
thanking him effusively for the way in which he'd conducted some matter.
It comforted my poor father. Well, Edward, I stepped outside the letter
of the law to do that. Was that right or wrong?
EDWARD. In its result, sir, right.
MR. VOYSEY. Judge me by the result. I took the risk of failure . . I
should have suffered. I could have kept clear of the danger if I'd
liked.
EDWARD. But that's all past. The thing that concerns me is what you are
doing now.
MR. VOYSEY. [_gently reproachful now._] My boy, you must trust me a
little. It's all very well for you to come in at the end of the day and
criticise. But I who have done the day's work know how that work had to
be done. And here's our firm, prosperous, respected and without a stain
on its honour. That's the main point, isn't it? And I think that
achievement should earn me the right to be trusted a little . .
shouldn't it?
EDWARD. [_quite irresponsive to this pathetic appeal._] Look here, sir,
I'm dismissing from my mind all prejudice about speaking the truth . .
acting upon one's instructions, behaving as any honest firm of
solicitors must behave . .
MR. VOYSEY. You need not, I tell no unnecessary lies. If a man of any
business ability gives me definite instructions about his property, I
follow them.
EDWARD. Father, no unnecessary lies!
MR. VOYSEY. Well, my friend, go and tell Mrs. Murberry that four hundred
and twenty pounds of her income hasn't for the last eight years come
from the place she thinks it's come from and see how happy you'll make
her.
EDWARD. But is that four hundred and twenty a year as safe to come to
her as it was before you meddled with the capital?
MR. VOYSEY. I see no reason why--
EDWARD. What's the security?
MR. VOYSEY. [_putting his coping stone on the argument._] My financial
ability.
EDWARD. [_really not knowing whether to laugh or cry._] Why, it seems as
if you were satisfied with this state of things.
MR. VOYSEY. Edward, you really are most unsympathetic and unreasonable.
I give all I have to the firm's work . . my brain . . my energies . . my
whole life. I can't turn my abilities into hard cash at par . . I wish I
could. Do you suppose that if I could establish every one of these
people with a separate and consistent bank balance to-morrow that I
shouldn't do it? Do you suppose that it's a pleasure . . that it's
relaxation to have these matters continually on one's mind? Do you
suppose--?
EDWARD. [_thankfully able to meet anger with anger._] I find it
impossible to believe that you couldn't somehow have put things right by
now.
MR. VOYSEY. Oh, do you? Somehow!
EDWARD. In thirty years the whole system must either have come
hopelessly to grief . . or during that time there must have been
opportunities--
MR. VOYSEY. Well, if you're so sure, I hope that when I'm under ground,
you may find them.
EDWARD. I!
MR. VOYSEY. And put everything right with a stroke of the pen, if it's
so easy!
EDWARD. I!
MR. VOYSEY. You're my partner and my son, and you'll inherit the
business.
EDWARD. [_realizing at last that he has been led to the edge of this
abyss._] Oh no, father.
MR. VOYSEY. Why else have I had to tell you all this?
EDWARD. [_very simply._] Father, I can't. I can't possibly. I don't
think you've any right to ask me.
MR. VOYSEY. Why not, pray?
EDWARD. It's perpetuating the dishonesty.
MR. VOYSEY _hardens at the unpleasant word_.
MR. VOYSEY. You don't believe that I've told you the truth.
EDWARD. I wish to believe it.
MR. VOYSEY. It's no proof . . that I've earned these twenty or thirty
people their incomes for the last--how many years?
EDWARD. Whether what you have done and are doing is wrong or right . . I
can't meddle in it.
_For the moment_ MR. VOYSEY _looks a little dangerous_.
MR. VOYSEY. Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back to your room. Get
back to your own mean drudgery. My life's work--my splendid life's
work--ruined! What does that matter?
EDWARD. Whatever did you expect of me?
MR. VOYSEY. [_making a feint at his papers._] Oh, nothing, nothing.
[_Then he slams them down with great effect._] Here's a great edifice
built up by years of labour and devotion and self sacrifice . . a great
arch you may call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety
with honour. [_This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed._] My work!
And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks the key-stone.
Perhaps I am to die with my work just incomplete. Then is there nothing
that a son might do? Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . .
that I shouldn't bless you from--wherever I may be, when you completed
my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly thought of your father?
_In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressing_
EDWARD.
EDWARD. What will happen if I . . if I desert you?
MR. VOYSEY. I'll protect you as best I can.
EDWARD. I wasn't thinking of myself, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with great nonchalance_.] Well, I shan't mind the
exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in my coffin . . and you're
not so foolish I hope as to be thinking of the feelings of your brothers
and sisters. Considering how simple it would have been for me to go to
my grave in peace and quiet and let you discover the whole thing
afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken some thought for
the future of all of you might perhaps have convinced you that I . . !
But there . . consult your own safety.
EDWARD _has begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him_.
EDWARD. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't
it, father?
MR. VOYSEY. [_watching him closely and modulating his voice._] My dear
boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must
have been.
EDWARD. Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the
dock together.
MR. VOYSEY. And I suppose if I'd broken down and begged your pardon for
my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh?
EDWARD. I suppose so.
MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in
sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [_Now he begins to rally his son;
easy in his strength._] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum
life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism
and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are
the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and
you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital
question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience.
Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of
this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm
quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine,
Edward, that I do beg you to--to--to be a man and try and take a
practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's
not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable.
EDWARD. You should have told me before you took me into partnership.
[_Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks down_
MR. VOYSEY'S _caution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance._]
MR. VOYSEY. Should I be telling you at all if I could possibly help it?
Don't I know that you're about as fit for this job as a babe unborn?
Haven't I been worrying over that for these last three years? But I'm in
a corner . . and I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply
because of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do as I tell
you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and this is a safer game for
you than it was for me then. D'you suppose I didn't have scruples? If
you run away from this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward
and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I was sick-nurse to him
here more than partner. Good lord! . . of course it's pleasant and
comfortable to keep within the law . . then the law will look after you.
Otherwise you have to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to
cultivate your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. But
that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How easily . . how
easily could I have walked out of my father's office and left him to his
fate; no one would have blamed me! But I didn't. I thought it my better
duty to stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up my
cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. And what's
more, it's made a happy man of me . . a better, stronger man than
skulking about in shame and in fear of his life ever made of my poor
dear father. [_Relieved at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his
wisdom in doing so, he changes his tone._] I don't want what I've been
saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free agent . . and you must
decide upon your own course of action. Now don't let's discuss the
matter any more for the moment.
EDWARD _looks at his father with clear eyes_.
EDWARD. Don't forget to put these papers away.
_He restores them to their bundles and hands them back: it is his only
comment._ MR. VOYSEY _takes them and his meaning in silence_.
MR. VOYSEY. Are you coming down to Chislehurst soon? We've got Hugh and
his wife, and Booth and Emily, and Christopher for two or three days,
till he goes back to school.
EDWARD. How is Chris?
MR. VOYSEY. All right again now . . grows more like his father. Booth's
very proud of him. So am I.
EDWARD. I think I can't face them all just at present.
MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense.
EDWARD. [_a little wave of emotion going through him._] I feel as if
this thing were written on my face. How I shall get through business I
don't know!
MR. VOYSEY. You're weaker than I thought, Edward.
EDWARD. [_a little ironically._] A disappointment to you, father?
MR. VOYSEY. No, no.
EDWARD. You should have brought one of the others into the firm . .
Trenchard or Booth.
MR. VOYSEY. [_hardening._] Trenchard! [_he dismisses that._] Well,
you're a better man than Booth. Edward, you mustn't imagine that the
whole world is standing on its head merely because you've had an
unpleasant piece of news. You come down to Chislehurst to-night . .
well, say to-morrow night. It'll be good for you . . stop your brooding
. . that's your worst vice, Edward. You'll find the household as if
nothing had happened. Then you'll remember that nothing really has
happened. And presently you'll get to see that nothing need happen, if
you keep your head. I remember times, when things have seemed at their
worst, what a relief it's been to me . . my romp with you all in the
nursery just before your bed time. Do you remember?
EDWARD. Yes. I cut your head open once with that gun.
MR. VOYSEY. [_in a full glow of fine feeling._] And, my dear boy, if I
knew that you were going to inform the next client you met of what I've
just told you . .
EDWARD. [_with a shudder._] Oh, father!
MR. VOYSEY. . . And that I should find myself in prison to-morrow, I
wouldn't wish a single thing I've ever done undone. I have never
wilfully harmed man or woman. My life's been a happy one. Your dear
mother has been spared to me. You're most of you good children and a
credit to what I've done for you.
EDWARD. [_the deadly humour of this too much for him._] Father!
MR. VOYSEY. Run along now, run along. I must finish my letters and get
into the City.
_He might be scolding a schoolboy for some trifling fault._ EDWARD
_turns to have a look at the keen unembarrassed face_. MR. VOYSEY
_smiles at him and proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his
buttonhole_.
EDWARD. I'll think it over, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Of course, you will. And don't brood, Edward, don't brood.
_So_ EDWARD _leaves him; and having fixed the rose to his satisfaction,
he rings his table telephone and calls through it to the listening
clerk_.
Send Atkinson to me, please. [_Then he gets up, keys in hand to lock
away Mrs. Murberry's and the Hatherley trust papers._]
THE SECOND ACT
_The_ VOYSEY _dining-room at Chislehurst, when children and
grandchildren are visiting, is dining table and very little else. And at
this moment in the evening when five or six men are sprawling back in
their chairs, and the air is clouded with smoke, it is a very typical
specimen of the middle-class English domestic temple; the daily
sacrifice consummated, the acolytes dismissed, the women safely in the
drawing room, and the chief priests of it taking their surfeited ease
round the dessert-piled altar. It has the usual red-papered walls, (like
a refection, they are, of the underdone beef so much consumed within
them) the usual varnished woodwork which is known as grained oak; there
is the usual, hot, mahogany furniture; and, commanding point of the
whole room, there is the usual black-marble sarcophagus of a fireplace.
Above this hangs one of the two or three oil paintings, which are all
that break the red pattern of the walls, the portrait painted in 1880 of
an undistinguished looking gentleman aged sixty; he is shown sitting in
a more graceful attitude than it could ever have been comfortable for
him to assume._ MR. VOYSEY'S _father it is, and the brass plate at the
bottom of the frame tells us that the portrait was a presentation one.
On the mantelpiece stands, of course, a clock; at either end a china
vase filled with paper spills. And in front of the fire,--since that is
the post of vantage, stands at this moment_ MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. _He is
the second son, of the age that it is necessary for a Major to be, and
of an appearance that many ordinary Majors in ordinary regiments are. He
went into the army because he thought it would be like a schoolboy's
idea of it; and, being there, he does his little all to keep it so. He
stands astride, hands in pockets, coat-tails through his arms, cigar in
mouth, moustache bristling. On either side of him sits at the table an
old gentleman; the one is_ MR. EVAN COLPUS, _the vicar of their parish,
the other_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH, _a friend of long standing, and the Major's
godfather. Mr. Colpus is a harmless enough anachronism, except for the
waste of L400 a year in which his stipend involves the community.
Leaving most of his parochial work to an energetic curate, he devotes
his serious attention to the composition of two sermons a week. They
deal with the difficulties of living the christian life as experienced
by people who have nothing else to do. Published in series from time to
time, these form suitable presents for bedridden parishioners._ MR.
GEORGE BOOTH, _on the contrary, is as gay an old gentleman as can be
found in Chislehurst. An only son; his father left him at the age of
twenty-five a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds (a plum, as he called
it). At the same time he had the good sense to dispose of his father's
business, into which he had been most unwillingly introduced five years
earlier, for a like sum before he was able to depreciate its value. It
was_ MR. VOYSEY'S _invaluable assistance in this transaction which first
bound the two together in great friendship. Since that time Mr. Booth
has been bent on nothing but enjoying himself. He has even remained a
bachelor with that object. Money has given him all he wants, therefore
he loves and reverences money; while his imagination may be estimated
by the fact that he has now reached the age of sixty-five, still
possessing more of it than he knows what to do with. At the head of the
table, meditatively cracking walnuts, sits_ MR. VOYSEY. _He has his back
there to the conservatory door--you know it is the conservatory door
because there is a curtain to pull over it, and because half of it is
frosted glass with a purple key pattern round the edge. On_ MR. VOYSEY'S
_left is_ DENIS TREGONING, _a nice enough young man. And at the other
end of the table sits_ EDWARD, _not smoking, not talking, hardly
listening, very depressed. Behind him is the ordinary door of the room,
which leads out into the dismal draughty hall. The Major's voice is like
the sound of a cannon through the tobacco smoke._
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course I'm hot and strong for conscription . .
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear boy, the country'd never stand it. No
Englishman--
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_dropping the phrase heavily upon the poor old
gentleman._] I beg your pardon. If we . . the Army . . say to the
country . . Upon our honour conscription is necessary for your safety . .
what answer has the country? What? [_he pauses defiantly._] There you
are . . none!
TREGONING. Booth will imagine because one doesn't argue that one has
nothing to say. You ask the country.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I'll chuck the Service and
go into the House. [_then falling into the sing song of a favourite
phrase._] I'm not a conceited man . . but I believe that if I speak out
upon a subject I understand and only upon that subject the House will
listen . . and if others followed my example we should be a far more
business-like and go-ahead community.
_He pauses for breath and_ MR. BOOTH _seizes the opportunity_.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If you think the gentlemen of England will allow
themselves to be herded with a lot of low fellers and made to carry
guns--!
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_obliterating him once more._] Just one moment.
Have you thought of the physical improvement which conscription would
bring about in the manhood of the country? What England wants is Chest!
[_he generously inflates his own._] Chest and Discipline. I don't care
how it's obtained. Why, we suffer from a lack of it in our homes--
MR. VOYSEY. [_with the crack of a nut._] Your godson talks a deal, don't
he? You know, when Booth gets into a club, he gets on the committee . .
gets on any committee to enquire into anything . . and then goes on at
'em just like this. Don't you, Booth?
BOOTH _knuckles under easily enough to his father's sarcasm_.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Well, sir, people tell me I'm a useful man on
committees.
MR. VOYSEY. I don't doubt it . . your voice must drown all discussion.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. You can't say I don't listen to you, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. I don't . . and I'm not blaming you. But I must say I often
think what a devil of a time the family will have with you when I'm
gone. Fortunately for your poor mother, she's deaf.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. And wouldn't you wish me, sir, as eldest son . . .
Trenchard not counting . . .
MR. VOYSEY. [_with the crack of another nut._] Trenchard not counting.
By all means, bully them. Get up your subjects a bit better, and then
bully them. I don't manage things that way myself, but I think it's your
best chance . . if there weren't other people present I'd say your only
chance, Booth.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_with some discomfort._] Ha! If I were a conceited
man, sir, I could trust you to take it out of me.
MR. VOYSEY. [_as he taps_ MR. BOOTH _with the nut crackers_.] Help
yourself, George, and drink to your godson's health. Long may he keep
his chest notes! Never heard him on parade, have you?
TREGONING. I notice military men must display themselves . . that's why
Booth acts as a firescreen. I believe that after mess that position is
positively rushed.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_cheering to find an opponent he can tackle._] If
you want a bit of fire, say so, you sucking Lord Chancellor. Because I
mean to allow you to be my brother-in-law, you think you can be
impertinent.
_So_ TREGONING _moves to the fire and that changes the conversation_.
MR. VOYSEY. By the bye, Vicar, you were at Lady Mary's yesterday. Is she
giving us anything towards that window?
MR. COLPUS. Five pounds more; she has promised me five pounds.
MR. VOYSEY. Then how will the debt stand?
MR. COLPUS. Thirty-three . . no, thirty-two pounds.
MR. VOYSEY. We're a long time clearing it off.
MR. COLPUS. [_gently querulous._] Yes, now that the window is up, people
don't seem so ready to contribute as they were.
TREGONING. We must mention that to Hugh!
MR. COLPUS. [_tactful at once._] Not that the work is not universally
admired. I have heard Hugh's design praised by quite competent judges.
But certainly I feel now it might have been wiser to have delayed the
unveiling until the money was forthcoming.
TREGONING. Never deliver goods to the Church on credit.
MR. COLPUS. Eh? [TREGONING _knows he is a little hard of hearing_.]
MR. VOYSEY. Well, as it was my wish that my son should do the design, I
suppose in the end I shall have to send you a cheque.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Anonymously.
MR. COLPUS. Oh, that would be--
MR. VOYSEY. No, why should I? Here, George Booth, you shall halve it
with me.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'm damned if I do.
MR. COLPUS. [_proceeding, conveniently deaf._] You remember that at the
meeting we had of the parents and friends to decide on the positions of
the names of the poor fellows and the regiments and coats of arms and so
on . . when Hugh said so violently that he disapproved of the war and
made all those remarks about land-lords and Bibles and said he thought
of putting in a figure of Britannia blushing for shame or something . .
I'm beginning to fear that may have created a bad impression.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why should they mind . . what on earth does Hugh
know about war? He couldn't tell a battery horse from a bandsman. I
don't pretend to criticise art. I think the window'd be very pretty if
it wasn't so broken up into bits.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_fortified by his "damned" and his last glass of
port._] These young men are so ready with their disapproval. Criticism
starts in the cradle nowadays. When I was young, people weren't always
questioning this and questioning that.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Lack of discipline.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_hurrying on._] The way a man now even stops to think
what he's eating and drinking. And in religious matters . . Vicar, I put
it to you . . there's no uniformity at all.
MR. COLPUS. Ah . . I try to keep myself free from the disturbing
influences of modern thought.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Young men must be forming their own opinions about
this and their opinions about that. You know, Edward, you're worse even
than Hugh is.
EDWARD. [_glancing up mildly at this sudden attack._] What have I done,
Mr. Booth?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_not the readiest of men._] Well . . aren't you one
of those young men who go about the world making difficulties?
EDWARD. What sort of difficulties?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_triumphantly._] Just so . . I never can make out.
Surely when you're young you can ask the advice of your elders and when
you grow up you find Laws . . lots of laws divine and human laid down
for our guidance. [_Well in possession of the conversation he spreads
his little self._] I look back over a fairly long life and . . perhaps I
should say by Heaven's help . . I find nothing that I can honestly
reproach myself with. And yet I don't think I ever took more than five
minutes to come to a decision upon any important point. One's private
life is, I think, one's own affair . . I should allow no one to pry into
that. But as to worldly things . . well, I have come into several sums
of money and my capital is still intact . . ask your father. [MR. VOYSEY
_nods gravely_.] I've never robbed any man. I've never lied over
anything that mattered. As a citizen I pay my taxes without grumbling
very much. Yes, and I sent conscience money too upon one occasion. I
consider that any man who takes the trouble can live the life of a
gentleman. [_and he finds that his cigar is out._]
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_not to be outdone by this display of virtue._]
Well, I'm not a conceited man, but--
TREGONING. Are you sure, Booth?
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Shut up. I was going to say when my young cub of a
brother-in-law-to-be interrupted me, that =Training=, for which we
all have to be thankful to you, Sir, has much to do with it. [_suddenly
he pulls his trousers against his legs._] I say, I'm scorching! D'you
want another cigar, Denis?
TREGONING. No, thank you.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I do.
_And he glances round, but_ TREGONING _sees a box on the table and
reaches it. The Vicar gets up._
MR. COLPUS. M-m-m-must be taking my departure.
MR. VOYSEY. Already!
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_frowning upon the cigar box._] No, not those.
Where are the Ramon Allones? What on earth has Honor done with them?
MR. VOYSEY. Spare time for a chat with Mrs. Voysey before you go. She
has ideas about a children's tea fight.
MR. COLPUS. Certainly I will.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_scowling helplessly around._] My goodness! . . one
can never find anything in this house.
MR. COLPUS. I won't say good-bye then.
_He is sliding through the half opened door when_ ETHEL _meets him
flinging it wide. She is the younger daughter, the baby of the family,
but twenty-three now._
MR. VOYSEY. I say, it's cold again to-night! An ass of an architect who
built this place . . such a draught between these two doors.
_He gets up to draw the curtain. When he turns_ COLPUS _has disappeared,
while_ ETHEL _has been followed into the room by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who
shuts the door after her_. MISS ALICE MAITLAND _is a young lady of any
age to thirty. Nor need her appearance alter for the next fifteen years;
since her nature is healthy and well-balanced. She possesses indeed the
sort of athletic chastity which is a characteristic charm of Northern
spinsterhood. It mayn't be a pretty face, but it has alertness and
humour; and the resolute eyes and eyebrows are a more innocent edition
of_ MR. VOYSEY'S, _who is her uncle_. ETHEL _goes straight to her
father_ [_though her glance is on_ DENIS _and his on her_] _and chirps,
birdlike, in her spoiled-child way_.
ETHEL. We think you've stayed in here quite long enough.
MR. VOYSEY. That's to say, Ethel thinks Denis has been kept out of her
pocket much too long.
ETHEL. Ethel wants billiards . . not proper billiards . . snooker or
something. Oh, Papa, what a dessert you've eaten. Greedy pig!
ALICE _is standing behind_ EDWARD, _considering his hair-parting
apparently_.
ALICE. Crack me a filbert, please, Edward . . I had none.
EDWARD. [_jumping up, rather formally, well-mannered._] I beg your
pardon, Alice. Won't you sit down?
ALICE. No.
MR. VOYSEY. [_taking_ ETHEL _on his knee_.] Come here, puss. Have you
made up your mind yet what you want for a wedding present?
ETHEL. [_rectifying a stray hair in his beard._] After mature
consideration, I decide on a cheque.
MR. VOYSEY. Do you!
ETHEL. Yes, I think that a cheque will give most scope to your
generosity. Of course, if you desire to add any trimmings in the shape
of a piano or a Turkey carpet you may . . and Denis and I will be very
grateful. But I think I'd let yourself go over a cheque.
MR. VOYSEY. You're a minx.
ETHEL. What is the use of having money if you don't spend it on me?
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_giving up the cigar search._] Here, who's going to
play?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_pathetically as he gets up._] Well, if my wrist will
hold out . .
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_To_ TREGONING.] No, don't you bother to look for
them. [_He strides from the room, his voice echoing through the hall._]
Honor, where are those Ramon Allones?
ALICE. [_calling after._] She's in the drawing-room with Auntie and Mr.
Colpus.
MR. VOYSEY. Now I should suggest that you and Denis go and take off the
billiard table cover. You'll find folding it up is a very excellent
amusement.
_He illustrates his meaning with his table napkin and by putting
together the tips of his forefingers, roguishly._
ETHEL. I am not going to blush. I do kiss Denis . . occasionally . .
when he asks me.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_teasing her._] You are blushing.
ETHEL. I am not. If you think we're ashamed of being in love, we're not,
we're very proud of it. We will go and take off the billiard table cover
and fold it up . . and then you can come in and play. Denis, my dear,
come along solemnly and if you flinch I'll never forgive you. [_she
marches off and reaches the door before her defiant dignity breaks down;
then suddenly_--] Denis, I'll race you.
_And she flashes out._ DENIS, _loyal, but with no histrionic instincts,
follows her rather sheepishly_.
DENIS. Ethel, I can't after dinner.
MR. VOYSEY. Women play that game better than men. A man shuffles through
courtship with one eye on her relations.
_The Major comes stalking back, followed in a fearful flurry by his
elder sister_, HONOR. _Poor_ HONOR [_her female friends are apt to refer
to her as Poor_ HONOR] _is a phenomenon common to most large families.
From her earliest years she has been bottle washer to her brothers.
While they were expensively educated she was grudged schooling; her
highest accomplishment was meant to be mending their clothes. Her fate
is a curious survival of the intolerance of parents towards her sex
until the vanity of their hunger for sons had been satisfied. In a less
humane society she would have been exposed at birth. But if a very
general though patronising affection, accompanied by no consideration at
all, can bestow happiness_, HONOR _is not unhappy in her survival. At this
moment, however, her life is a burden._
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Honor, they are not in the dining-room.
HONOR. But they must be!--Where else can they be?
_She has a habit of accentuating one word in each sentence and often the
wrong one._
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. That's what you ought to know.
MR. VOYSEY. [_as he moves towards the door._] Well . . will you have a
game?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'll play you fifty up, not more. I'm getting old.
MR. VOYSEY. [_stopping at a dessert dish._] Yes, these are good apples
of Bearman's. I think six of my trees are spoilt this year.
HONOR. Here you are, Booth.
_She triumphantly discovers the discarded box, at which the Major
becomes pathetic with indignation._
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Oh, Honor, don't be such a fool. These are what
we've been smoking. I want the Ramon Allones.
HONOR. I don't know the difference.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. No, you don't, but you might learn.
MR. VOYSEY. [_in a voice like the crack of a very fine whip._] Booth.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_subduedly._] What is it, sir?
MR. VOYSEY. Look for your cigars yourself. Honor, go back to your
reading and your sewing or whatever you were fiddling at, and fiddle in
peace.
MR. VOYSEY _departs, leaving the room rather hushed_. MR. BOOTH _has not
waited for this parental display. Then_ ALICE _insinuates a remark very
softly_.
ALICE. Have you looked in the Library?
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_relapsing to an injured mutter._] Where's Emily?
HONOR. Upstairs with little Henry, he woke up and cried.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Letting her wear herself to rags over the child . . !
HONOR. Well, she won't let me go.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why don't you stop looking for those cigars?
HONOR. If you don't mind, I want a reel of blue silk now I'm here.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I daresay they are in the Library. What a house!
_He departs._
HONOR. Booth is so trying.
ALICE. Honor, why do you put up with it?
HONOR. Someone has to.
ALICE. [_discreetly nibbling a nut, which_ EDWARD _has cracked for
her_.] I'm afraid I think Master Major Booth ought to have been taken in
hand early . . with a cane.
HONOR. [_as she vaguely burrows into corners._] Papa did. But it's never
prevented him booming at us . . oh, ever since he was a baby. Now he's
flustered me so I simply can't think where this blue silk is.
ALICE. All the Pettifers desired to be remembered to you, Edward.
HONOR. I must do without it. [_but she goes on looking._] I think,
Alice, that we're a very difficult family . . except perhaps Edward.
EDWARD. Why except me?
HONOR. [_Who has only excepted out of politeness to present company._]
Well, you may be difficult . . to yourself. [_Then she starts to go,
threading her way through the disarranged chairs._] Mr. Colpus will
shout so loud at Mother and she hates people to think she's so very
deaf. I thought Mary Pettifer looking old . . [_and she talks herself
out of the room._]
ALICE. [_after her._] She's getting old.
_Now_ ALICE _does sit down; as if she'd be glad of her tete-a-tete_.
ALICE. I was glad not to spend August abroad for once. We drove into
Cheltenham to a dance . . carpet. I golfed a lot.
EDWARD. How long were you with them?
ALICE. Not a fortnight. It doesn't seem three months since I was here,
does it?
EDWARD. I'm down so very little.
ALICE. I'm here a disgraceful deal.
EDWARD. You know they're always pleased.
ALICE. Well, being a homeless person! But what a cart-load to descend
all at once . . yesterday and to-day. The Major and Emily . . Emily's
not at all well. Hugh and Mrs. Hugh. And me. Are you staying?
EDWARD. No. I must get a word with my father . .
ALICE. A business life is not healthy for you, Edward. You look more
like half-baked pie-crust than usual.
EDWARD. [_a little enviously._] You're very well.
ALICE. I'm always well and nearly always happy.
MAJOR BOOTH _returns. He has the right sort of cigar in his mouth and is
considerably mollified._
ALICE. You found them?
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course, they were there. Thank you very much,
Alice. Now I want a knife.
ALICE. I must present you with a cigar-cutter, Booth.
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I hate 'em. [_he eyes the dessert disparagingly._]
Nothing but silver ones.
EDWARD _hands him a carefully opened pocket knife_.
Thank you, Edward. And I must take one of the candles. Something's gone
wrong with the library ventilator and you never can see a thing in that
room.
ALICE. Is Mrs. Hugh there?
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Writing letters. Things are neglected, Edward,
unless one is constantly on the look out. The Pater only cares for his
garden. I must speak seriously to Honor.
_He has returned the knife, still open, and now having lit his cigar at
the candle he carries this off._
ALICE. Honor has the patience of a . . of an old maid.
EDWARD. Her mission in life isn't a pleasant one. [_He gives her a nut,
about the fifteenth._] Here; 'scuse fingers.
ALICE. Thank you. [_looking at him, with her head on one side and her
face more humorous than ever._] Edward, why have you given up proposing
to me?
_He starts, flushes; then won't be outdone in humour._
EDWARD. One can't go on proposing for ever.
ALICE. [_reasonably._] Why not? Have you seen anyone you like better?
EDWARD. No.
ALICE. Well . . I miss it.
EDWARD. What satisfaction did you find in refusing me?
ALICE. [_as she weighs the matter._] I find satisfaction in feeling that
I'm wanted.
EDWARD. Without any intention of giving yourself . . throwing yourself
away.
ALICE. [_teasing his sudden earnestness._] Ah, now you come from mere
vanity to serious questions.
EDWARD. Mine were always serious questions to you.
ALICE. That's a fault I find in you, Edward; all questions are serious
to you. I call you a perfect little pocket-guide to life . . all
questions and answers; what to eat, drink and avoid, what to believe and
what to say . . all in the same type, the same importance attached to
each.
EDWARD. [_sententiously._] Well . . everything matters.
ALICE. [_making a face._] D'you plan out every detail of your life . .
every step you take . . every mouthful?
EDWARD. That would be waste of thought. One must lay down principles.
ALICE. I prefer my plan, I always do what I know I want to do. Crack me
another nut.
EDWARD. Haven't you had enough?
ALICE. I =know= I want one more.
_He cracks another, with a sigh which sounds ridiculous in that
connection._
EDWARD. Well, if you've never had to decide anything very serious . .
ALICE. [_With great gravity._] Everything's serious.
EDWARD. Everything isn't vital.
ALICE. [_skilfully manoeuvring the subject._] I've answered vital
questions. I knew that I didn't want to marry you . . each time.
EDWARD. Oh, then you didn't just make a rule of saying no.
ALICE. As you proposed . . on principle? No, I always gave you a fair
chance. I'll give you one now if you like.
_He rouses himself to play up to this outrageous piece of flirting._
EDWARD. I'm not to be caught.
ALICE. Edward, how rude you are. [_She eats her nut contentedly._]
EDWARD. Do other men propose to you?
ALICE. Such a thing may have happened . . when I was young. Perhaps it
might even now if I were to allow it.
EDWARD. You encourage me shamelessly.
ALICE. It isn't everyone who proposes on principle. As a rule a man does
it because he can't help himself. And then to be said no to . . hurts.
_They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of_ MRS. HUGH VOYSEY, _a
brisk, bright little woman, in an evening gown, which she has bullied a
cheap dressmaker into making look exceedingly smart_. BEATRICE _is as
hard as nails and as clever as paint. But if she keeps her feelings
buried pretty deep it is because they are precious to her; and if she is
impatient with fools it is because her own brains have had to win her
everything in the world, so perhaps she does overvalue them a little.
She speaks always with great decision and little effort._
BEATRICE. I believe I could write important business letters upon an
island in the middle of Fleet Street. But while Booth is poking at a
ventilator with a billiard cue . . no, I can't.
_She goes to the fireplace, waving her half finished letter._
ALICE. [_soothingly._] Didn't you expect Hugh back to dinner?
BEATRICE. Not specially. . He went to rout out some things from his
studio. He'll come back in a filthy mess.
ALICE. Now if you listen . . Booth doesn't enjoy making a fuss by
himself . . you'll hear him rout out Honor.
_They listen. But what happens is that_ BOOTH _appears at the door,
billiard cue in hand, and says solemnly_ . .
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Edward, I wish you'd come and have a look at this
ventilator, like a good fellow.
_Then he turns and goes again, obviously with the weight of an important
matter on his shoulders. With the ghost of a smile_ EDWARD _gets up and
follows him_.
ALICE. If I belonged to this family I should hate Booth.
_With which comment she joins_ BEATRICE _at the fireplace_.
BEATRICE. A good day's shopping?
ALICE. 'M. The baby bride and I bought clothes all the morning. Then we
had lunch with Denis and bought furniture.
BEATRICE. Nice furniture?
ALICE. It'll be very good and very new. They neither of them know what
they want. [_Then suddenly throwing up her chin and exclaiming._] When
it's a question of money I can understand it . . but if one can provide
for oneself or is independent why get married! Especially having been
brought up on the sheltered life principle . . one may as well make the
most of its advantages . . one doesn't go falling in love all over the
place as men seem to . . most of them. Of course with Ethel and Denis
it's different. They've both been caught young. They're two little birds
building their nests and it's all ideal. They'll soon forget they've
ever been apart.
_Now_ HONOR _flutters into the room, patient but wild eyed_.
HONOR. Mother wants last week's Notes and Queries. Have you seen it?
BEATRICE. [_exasperated at the interruption._] No.
HONOR. It ought not to be in here. [_so she proceeds to look for it._]
She's having a long argument with Mr. Colpus over Oliver Cromwell's
relations.
ALICE. [_her eyes twinkling._] I thought Auntie didn't approve of Oliver
Cromwell.
HONOR. She doesn't and she's trying to prove that he was a brewer or
something. I suppose someone has taken it away.
_So she gives up the search and flutters out again._
ALICE. This is a most unrestful house.
BEATRICE. I once thought of putting the Voyseys into a book of mine.
Then I concluded they'd be as dull there as they are anywhere else.
ALICE. They're not duller than most other people.
BEATRICE. But how very dull that is!
ALICE. They're a little noisier and perhaps not quite so well mannered.
But I love them.
BEATRICE. I don't. I should have thought Love was just what they
couldn't inspire.
ALICE. Of course, Hugh is unlike any of the others.
BEATRICE. He has most of their bad points. I don't love Hugh.
ALICE. [_her eyebrows up, though she smiles._] Beatrice, you shouldn't
say so.
BEATRICE. It sounds affected, doesn't it? Never mind; when he dies I'll
wear mourning . . but not weeds; I bargained against that when we were
engaged.
ALICE. [_her face growing a little thoughtful._] Beatrice, I'm going to
ask questions. You were in love with Hugh when you married him?
BEATRICE. Well . . I married him for his money.
ALICE. He hadn't much.
BEATRICE. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. Yes, I loved him.
ALICE. And you thought you'd be happy?
BEATRICE. [_considering carefully._] No, I didn't. I hoped he'd be
happy.
ALICE. [_a little ironical._] Did you think your writing books would
make him so?
BEATRICE. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very degrading thing to
have your happiness depend upon somebody else?
ALICE. [_after pausing to find her phrase._] There's a joy of service.
BEATRICE. [_ironical herself now._] I forgot . . you've four hundred a
year?
ALICE. What has that to do with it?
BEATRICE. [_putting her case very precisely._] I've had to earn my own
living, consequently there isn't one thing in my life that I have ever
done quite genuinely for its own sake . . but always with an eye towards
bread-and-butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that.
Happiness has been my only independence.
_The conservatory door opens and through it come_ MR. VOYSEY _and_ MR.
BOOTH _in the midst of a discussion_.
MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and risk it.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, of course, if you seriously advise me--
MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children; I let 'em overeat 'emselves
and take the consequences--
ALICE. [_shaking a finger._] Uncle Trench, you've been in the garden
without a hat after playing billiards in that hot room.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist was bad. They've
started pool.
BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play?
MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold a cue.
BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter.
_Off she goes._ ALICE _is idly following with a little paper her hand
has fallen on behind the clock_.
MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear.
ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries . . she wants it.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my shoe.
MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early to have put in
those plants?
MR. VOYSEY. No, we're getting frost at night already.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further
from the tree.
MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold.
Why don't they keep the fire up! [_He proceeds to put coals on it._]
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know,
Voysey . . about those Alguazils?
MR. VOYSEY. [_through the rattling of the coals._] What?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_trying to pierce the din._] Those Alguazils.
MR. VOYSEY _with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk
handkerchief across_ MR. BOOTH'S _shirt front_.
MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there for?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Measure of precau--[_at that moment he sneezes._] Damn
it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal
garden--
MR. VOYSEY. [_slapping him on the back._] You're an old crock.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [_He
returns to his subject._] And if you think seriously, that I ought to
sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [_He looks with childlike
enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly._] Why can't
you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or
whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad.
_At this moment_ PHOEBE, _the middle aged parlour-maid comes in, tray in
hand. Like an expert fisherman_ MR. VOYSEY _once more lets loose the
thread of the conversation_.
MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear?
PHOEBE. It doesn't matter, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. No, go on . . go on.
_So_ MARY, _the young housemaid, comes in as well, and the two start to
clear the table. All of which fidgets poor_ MR. BOOTH _considerably. He
sits shrivelled up in the armchair by the fire; and now_ MR. VOYSEY
_attends to him_.
MR. VOYSEY. What d'you want with high interest at all . . you never
spend half your income?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is doing some good in the
world. These mines are very useful things and forty two per cent is
pleasing.
MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_propitiatingly._] Ah, but then I've you to advise
me. I always do as you tell me in the end, now you can't deny that.
MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the man who does! [_He
yawns again._]
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_modestly insisting._] There's five thousand in
Alguazils--what else could we put it into?
MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sudden serious friendliness._] I wish, my dear
George, you'd invest more on your own account. You know--what with one
thing and the other--I've got control of practically all you have in the
world. I might be playing old Harry with it for all you know.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_overflowing with confidence._] My dear feller . . if
I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll happen to your firm when you
depart this life! . . not before my time, I hope, though.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little frown._] What d'ye mean?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use.
MR. VOYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in business.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no use. Too many
principles, as I said just now. Men have confidence in a personality,
not in principles. Where would you be without the confidence of your
clients?
MR. VOYSEY. [_candidly._] True!
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that.
MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with pleasant frankness._] Yes, I do.
MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with a flattering smile._] Well, he's not his father
and never will be. What's the time?
MR. VOYSEY. [_with inappropriate thoughtfulness._] Twenty to ten.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting.
MR. VOYSEY. It's very early.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to Mrs. Voysey . .
_As he goes to the door he meets_ EDWARD, _who comes in apparently
looking for his father; at any rate catches his eye immediately, while_
MR. BOOTH _obliviously continues_.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with me?
MR. VOYSEY. I can't.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_mildly surprised at the short reply._] Well, good
night. Good night, Edward.
_He trots away._
MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe.
PHOEBE. Yes, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. You can come back in ten minutes.
PHOEBE _and_ MARY _depart and the door is closed. Alone with his son_
MR. VOYSEY _does not move; his face grows a little keener, that's all_.
MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward?
EDWARD _starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed animal in a cage;
silently for a moment or two. Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless
and he doesn't look at his father._
EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me
all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and
all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . .
what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some
time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got
used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've
used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up
and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving
Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my
own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's
account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about
half the sum you've spent on us would have put things rightfirm's
affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I
see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen
yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered
from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't
been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce
your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten
thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd
it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was
probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous
to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would
have put things right.
MR. VOYSEY. No, it would not.
EDWARD. [_appealing for the truth._] Oh . . at some time or other!
MR. VOYSEY. Well, if there have been good times there have been bad
times. At present the three hundred a year I'm to allow your sister is
going to be rather a pull.
EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've never attempted to put a
single account straight. Since it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only
conclude that you enjoy being in this position.
MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . at the winding
up of a trust for instance . . at great inconvenience too. And to all
appearances they've been above suspicion. What's the object of all this
rodomontade, Edward?
EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be with a very clear
understanding of things as they are.
MR. VOYSEY. [_firmly, not too anxiously._] Then you do remain?
EDWARD. [_in a very low voice._] Yes, I remain.
MR. VOYSEY. [_quite gravely._] That's wise of you . . I'm very glad.
[_and he is silent for a moment._] And now we needn't discuss the
impractical side of it any more.
EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I want some information.
MR. VOYSEY. [_his sudden cheerfulness relapsing again._] Well?
EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and no one suspects
this state of things?
MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows.
EDWARD. Peacey!
MR. VOYSEY. His father found out.
EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money?
MR. VOYSEY. [_curling a little at the word._] It is my custom to make a
little present every Christmas. Not a cheque . . notes in an envelope.
[_He becomes benevolent._] I don't grudge the money . . Peacey's a
devoted fellow.
EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed industry. [_then he
smiles at his vision of the mild old clerk._] Peacey! There's another
thing I want to ask, sir. Have you ever under stress of circumstances
done worse than just make use of a client's capital? You boasted to me
yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket because of you. Is
that absolutely true?
MR. VOYSEY _draws himself up, dignified and magniloquent_.
MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind is open to you, you
can discover for yourself how matters stand to-day. But I decline to
gratify your curiosity as to what is over and done with.
EDWARD. [_with entire comprehension._] Thank you, sir. The condition I
wish to make is that we should really do what we have pretended to be
doing . . try and put the accounts straight.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little polite shrug._] I've no doubt you'll prove
an abler man of business than I.
EDWARD. One by one.
MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with?
EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary I draw from the
firm.
MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform.
EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five thousand pounds
dowry.
MR. VOYSEY. [_shortly, with one of the quick twists of his eye._] I have
given my word to Denis.
EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give.
MR. VOYSEY. [_in an indignant crescendo._] I should not dream of
depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, she has every right to expect.
I am surprised at your suggesting such a thing.
EDWARD. [_pale and firm._] I'm set on this, Father.
MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What would it look like . .
suddenly to refuse without rhyme or reason? What would old Tregoning
think?
EDWARD. [_distressed._] You could give them a reason.
MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one.
EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth.
MR. VOYSEY. What!
EDWARD. I know it would hurt her.
MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose?
EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent
this.
MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest policeman. It is my
duty to pay no more attention to these scruples of yours than a nurse
pays to her child's tantrums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force
you to continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't come at all.
EDWARD. [_dully._] It is my duty to be of what use I can to you, sir.
Father, I want to save you if I can.
_He flashes into this exclamation of almost broken-hearted affection._
MR. VOYSEY _looks at his son for a moment and his lip quivers. Then he
steels himself._
MR. VOYSEY. Thank you! I have saved myself quite satisfactorily for the
last thirty years, and you must please believe that by this time I know
my own business best.
EDWARD. [_hopelessly._] Let the money come some other way. How is your
own income regulated?
MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, haven't I? I spend
what I think well to spend. What's the use of earmarking this or that as
my own? You say none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I
think I've earned it.
EDWARD. [_anger coming on him._] That's what I can't forgive. If you'd
lived poor . . if you'd really devoted your skill to your clients' good
and not to your aggrandisement . . then, even though things were only as
they are now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own the truth
to me, at least . . that's my due from you, considering how I'm placed
by all you've done. Didn't you simply seize this opportunity as a means
to your own end, to your own enriching?
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sledge hammer irony._] Certainly. I sat that
morning in my father's office, studying the helmet of the policeman in
the street below, and thinking what a glorious path I had happened on to
wealth and honour and renown. [_Then he begins to bully_ EDWARD _in the
kindliest way._] My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun to grasp the
A. B. C. of my position. What has carried me to victory? The confidence
of my clients. What has earned that confidence? A decent life, my
integrity, my brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and nothing
else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the confidence trick.
What makes old George Booth so glad to trust me with every penny he
possesses? Not affection . . he's never cared for anything in his life
but his collection of prints. No; he imagines that I have as big a stake
in the country, as he calls it, as he has and he's perfectly happy.
EDWARD. [_stupefied, helpless._] So he's involved!
MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always after high interest
too . . it's little one makes out of him. But there's a further question
here, Edward. Should I have had confidence in myself, if I'd remained a
poor man? No, I should not. You must either be the master of money or
its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life one loses
that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must be confident oneself . .
and I saw from the first that I must inspire confidence. My whole public
and private life has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and
your brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and put out
in the world so worthily . . you in your turn inspire confidence.
EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our virtues, but the fact
that we travel first class and ride in hansoms.
MR. VOYSEY. [_impatiently._] Well, I haven't organised Society upon a
basis of wealth.
EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved in your system?
MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in my conduct?
EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George Booth with his big
income to old Nursie with her savings which she brought you to invest.
You've let those be, at least.
MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it wasn't worth while.
EDWARD. Father!
MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five hundred pounds.
EDWARD. That's damnable.
MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy five pounds a year for it. Would
you like to take charge of that account, Edward? I'll give you five
hundred to invest to-morrow.
EDWARD, _hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic state of
despair_.
EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question aside . . it's all
very well your playing Robin Hood in this magnificent manner; but have
you given a moment's thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be
leaving me?
MR. VOYSEY. [_pleased for the first time._] Ah! That is a question you
have every right to ask.
EDWARD. If you died to-morrow could we pay eight shillings in the pound
. . or seventeen . . or five? Do you know?
MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I have every intention,
when I die, of leaving a will behind me of property to you all running
into six figures. D'you think I've given my life and my talents to this
money making for a less result than that? I'm fond of you all . . and I
want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the name of Voysey shall
be carried high in the world by my children and grandchildren. Don't you
be afraid, Edward. Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full
grown yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise over
your work, and you reason about your emotions. You must sort yourself.
You must realise that money making is one thing, and religion another,
and family-life a third . . and that if we apply our energies
whole-heartedly to each of these in turn, and realise that different
laws govern each, that there is a different end to be served, a
different ideal to be striven for in each,--
_His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of his wife, who comes
round the door smiling benignly. Not in the least put out, in fact a
little relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, for she is
very deaf._
MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother!
MRS. VOYSEY. Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been deserted.
MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone?
MRS. VOYSEY. Are you talking business? Perhaps you don't want me.
MR. VOYSEY. No, no . . no business.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has not looked for his answer._] I suppose the others
are in the billiard room.
MR. VOYSEY. [_vociferously._] We're not talking business, old lady.
EDWARD. I'll be off, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with
you in the morning.
EDWARD. No, thank you, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.
EDWARD. Good-night, Mother.
MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up
affectionately_.
MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired.
EDWARD. No, I'm not.
MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say?
EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear.
_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._
MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy.
_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is
a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid
describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never
measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and
size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an
indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving,
healthy. That is her history._
MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd
taken a chill walking round the garden.
MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right.
MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have?
MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No.
MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?
MR. VOYSEY. Nothing.
MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite
feverish.
MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench.
HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of
putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her
bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's
shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._
HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish
clearing?
MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._]
Now who's careless!
PHOEBE _comes into the room_.
HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr.
Hugh.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected
the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your
Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.
HONOR. Papa!
MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me
some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.
HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey?
And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work
goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.
_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at
the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and
Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump
cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to
soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers
it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY
_stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.
MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell
family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather
Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where
the taint crept in.
MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself
putting in all those strawberry plants.
MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_
HUGH _and plants it on the table_.
MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I
believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You
must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting.
There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where
was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._]
THE THIRD ACT
_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon.
Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is
a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed
cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches,
biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little
pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole
room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations
denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_
PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her
face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that
this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has
evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice
above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_.
MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the
drawing room.
PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the
door.
MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into
the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to
admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR.
BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes
the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very
tenderly._
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here?
MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.
_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer.
MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No.
MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round.
MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.
_He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He
shakes hands with them both._
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!
EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She
looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than
usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though
his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible
for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._
BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great
credit . . great credit.
_He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_
TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his
formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_.
TRENCHARD. Have you the right time?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so
. . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._]
Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't
mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes
all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see
him before . . before . .
TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he
asked for me.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . .
_At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in
the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude.
_Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula
and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as
unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't
very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the
successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of
diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters
or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and
he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even
upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure
upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners
of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is
abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which
each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable.
Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the
appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._
HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD
_conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_;
BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS.
VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many
happy memories of her husband_.
BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily.
EMILY. No, of course not.
_Apologetically, she sits by the table._
TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh?
HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on
business.
TRENCHARD. Really!
_There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This
is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to
his mother._
EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . .
_Then_ DENIS TREGONING _appears_.
TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back?
DENIS. Yes.
BOOTH. [_at the table._] A glass of wine, Mother.
MRS. VOYSEY. What?
BOOTH _hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a
shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it._
BOOTH. Have a glass of wine?
MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please.
_While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this
occasion and not wine at all_, EDWARD _comes quickly into the room, his
face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No
one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all._
TRENCHARD _is continuing his talk to_ DENIS.
TRENCHARD. Give my love to Ethel. Is she ill that--
TREGONING. Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be with us. I thought
perhaps you might have heard. We're expecting . .
_He hesitates with the bashfulness of a young husband._ TRENCHARD _helps
him out with a citizen's bow of respect for a citizen's duty_.
TRENCHARD. Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope all will be well. Please
give my love . . my best love to Ethel.
BOOTH. [_in an awful voice._] Lunch, Emily?
EMILY. [_scared._] I suppose so, Booth, thank you.
BOOTH. I think the boy had better run away and play . . [_he checks
himself on the word._] Well, take a book and keep quiet; d'ye hear me,
Christopher?
CHRISTOPHER, _who looks incapable of a sound, gazes at his father with
round eyes_. EMILY _whispers "Library" to him and adds a kiss in
acknowledgement of his good behaviour. After a moment he slips out,
thankfully._
EDWARD. How's Ethel, Denis?
TREGONING. A little smashed, of course, but no harm done.
ALICE MAITLAND _comes in, brisk and businesslike; a little impatient of
this universal cloud of mourning_.
ALICE. Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want to take her some food
and make her eat it. She's very upset.
EDWARD. Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is necessary she
should come down here. And d'you mind not coming back yourself, Alice?
ALICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Certainly, if you wish.
BOOTH. [_overhearing._] What's this? What's this?
_Alice gets her glass of wine and goes. The Major is suddenly full of
importance._
BOOTH. What is this, Edward?
EDWARD. I have something to say to you all.
BOOTH. What?
EDWARD. Well, Booth, you'll hear when I say it.
BOOTH. Is it business? . . because I think this is scarcely the time for
business.
EDWARD. Why?
BOOTH. Do you find it easy and reverent to descend from your natural
grief to the consideration of money . . ? I do not. [_he finds_
TRENCHARD _at his elbow._] I hope you are getting some lunch,
Trenchard.
EDWARD. This is business and more than business, Booth. I choose now,
because it is something I wish to say to the family, not write to each
individually . . and it will be difficult to get us all together again.
BOOTH. [_determined at any rate to give his sanction._] Well, Trenchard,
as Edward is in the position of trustee--executor . . I don't know your
terms . . I suppose there's nothing more to be said.
TRENCHARD. I don't see what your objection is.
BOOTH. [_with some superiority._] Don't you? I should not have called
myself a sentimental man, but . .
EDWARD. You had better stay, Denis; you represent Ethel.
TREGONING. [_who has not heard the beginning of this._] Why? . .
HONOR _has obediently come down from her room. She is pale and thin,
shaken with grief and worn out besides; for needless to say the brunt of
her father's illness, the brunt of everything has been on her. Six weeks
nursing, part of it hopeless, will exhaust anyone. Her handkerchief to
her eyes and every minute or two she cascades tears._ EDWARD _goes and
affectionately puts his arm round her_.
EDWARD. My dear Honor, I am sorry to be so . . so merciless. There! . .
there! [_he hands her into the room; then shuts the door; then turns and
once more surveys the family, who this time mostly return the
compliment. Then he says shortly._] I think you might all sit down.
[_But he goes close to his mother and speaks very distinctly, very
kindly._] Mother, we're all going to have a little necessary talk over
matters . . now, because it's most convenient. I hope it won't . . I
hope you don't mind. Will you come to the table?
MRS. VOYSEY _looks up as if understanding more than he says_.
MRS. VOYSEY. Edward . .
EDWARD. Yes, mother?
BOOTH. [_commandingly._] You'll sit here, mother, of course.
_He places her in her accustomed chair at the foot of the table. One by
one the others sit down_, EDWARD _apparently last. But then he discovers
that_ HUGH _has lost himself in a corner of the room and is gazing into
vacancy_.
EDWARD. Hugh, would you mind attending?
HUGH. What is it?
EDWARD. There's a chair.
HUGH _takes it. Then for a minute--while_ EDWARD _is trying to frame in
coherent sentences what he must say to them--for a minute there is
silence, broken only by_ HONOR'S _sniffs, which culminate at last in a
noisy little cascade of tears_.
BOOTH. Honor, control yourself.
_And to emphasise his own perfect control he helps himself majestically
to a glass of sherry. Then says_ . .
BOOTH. Well, Edward?
EDWARD. I'll come straight to the point which concerns you. Our father's
will gives certain sums to you all . . the gross amount something over a
hundred thousand pounds. There will be no money.
_He can get no further than the bare statement, which is received only
with varying looks of bewilderment, until_ MRS. VOYSEY, _discovering
nothing from their faces, breaks this second silence_.
MRS. VOYSEY. I didn't hear.
HUGH. [_in his mother's ear._] Edward says there's no money.
TRENCHARD. [_precisely._] I think you said . . 'will be.'
BOOTH. [_in a tone of mitigated thunder._] Why will there be no money?
EDWARD. [_letting himself go._] Because every penny by right belongs to
those clients whom our father spent his life in defrauding. When I say
defrauding, I mean it in its worst sense . . swindling . . thieving. I
have been in the swim of it, for the past year . . oh, you don't know
the sink of iniquity . . and therefore I mean to collect every penny,
any money that you can give me; put the firm into bankruptcy; pay back
all these people what we can. I'll stand my trial . . it'll come to that
with me . . and as soon as possible. [_he pauses, partly for breath, and
glares at them all._] Are none of you going to speak? Quite right, what
is there to be said! [_Then with a gentle afterthought._] I'm sorry to
hurt you, mother.
_The_ VOYSEY _family is simply buried deep by this avalanche of horror_.
MRS. VOYSEY, _though, who has been watching_ EDWARD _closely, says very
calmly_.
MRS. VOYSEY. I can't hear quite all you say, but I guess what it is. You
don't hurt me, Edward . . I have known of this for a long time.
EDWARD. [_with almost a cry._] Oh, mother, did he know you knew?
MRS. VOYSEY. What do you say?
TRENCHARD. [_collected and dry._] I may as well tell you, Edward, I
suspected everything wasn't right about the time of my last quarrel with
my father. Of course, I took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was
father aware that you knew, Mother?
MRS. VOYSEY. We never discussed it. There was once a great danger . .
when you were all younger . . of his being found out. But we never
discussed it.
EDWARD. [_swallowing a fresh bitterness._] I'm glad it isn't such a
shock to all of you.
HUGH. [_alive to a dramatic aspect of the matter._] My God . . before
the earth has settled on his grave!
EDWARD. I thought it wrong to postpone telling yo
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