GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SECOND SERIES--NO. 1 By John Galsworthy Contents: The Eldest Son The Little Dream Justice THE ELDEST SON BY JOHN GALSWORTHY PERSONS OF THE PLAY SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronetLADY CHESHIRE, his wifeBILL, their eldest sonHAROLD, their second sonRONALD KEITH(in the Lancers), their son-in-lawCHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughterDOT, their second daughterJOAN, their third daughterMABEL LANFARNE, their guestTHE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to JoanOLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeperFREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maidYOUNG DUNNING, the under-keeperROSE TAYLOR, a village girlJACKSON, the butlerCHARLES, a footman TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8 at theCheshires' country house, in one of the shires. ACT I SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. A night elapses between Acts I. And II. ACT I SCENE I The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty, pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress, comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He speaks before he reaches the bottom. SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for? FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, SirWilliam, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening. SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Yourfather coming up to-night? FREDA. Yes. SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see himhere after dinner, will you? FREDA. Yes, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, ifhe's got it. He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress. CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU? FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine--Mrs. Keith, I mean. My lady told me to give you these. CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother! FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. My lady thought white would suit her better. CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress. [FREDA lowers the roses quickly. ] What do you think of Joan's engagement? FREDA. It's very nice for her. CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals? FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing. CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. Any news? FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, won't marry Rose Taylor, after all. CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought therewas--she was--I mean---- FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say. CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill'scome? FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty. RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a horseman. KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father misseda wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. Where's that litter of little foxes? FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith. KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What? CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been heresince the flood. KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat--eh, Freda? CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] YoungDunning won't marry that girl, Ronny. KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll neverkeep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Billcome? As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod. HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three steps at a time. HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have asniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet? FREDA. No, Mr. Harold. HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes. JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot! FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan. DOT's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a rebel. DOT. You little being! JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door]Oh! Dot! You're pinching! As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL LANFARNE, a tall girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down. And at sight of her FREDA's whole figure becomes set and meaningfull. FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady. MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet![Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda? FREDA. Very well, thank you. MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with theguns again. FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure. MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face-last time. FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr. Harold, or Captain Keith? MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day. FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best. A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. Left alone without the roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming of a door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the stairs. BILL runs down, and comes on her suddenly. He is a tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn look of veiled choler. BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what's thematter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws awayfrom her] Aren't you glad to see me? FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. After dinner. BILL. Mister----? She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the drawing-room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and MISS LANFARNE come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER, and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the dining-room. SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Bill. MABEL. How do you do? KEITH. How are you, old chap? DOT. [gloomily] Do you know your part? HAROLD. Hallo, old man! CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause andlook at him shyly without speech. BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN's shoulder] Good luck, you two!Well mother? LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What along time! She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the dining-room. The curtain falls. The curtain rises again at once. SCENE II CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE, and JOAN, are returning to the hall after dinner. CHRISTINE. [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about young Dunningand Rose Taylor? LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear. CHRISTINE. But can't they be---- DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent. ] My child, I'mnot the young person. CHRISTINE. No, of course not--only--[nodding towards JOAN andMable]. DOT. Look here! This is just an instance of what I hate. LADY CHESHIRE. My dear? Another one? DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand, because you know you do. CHRISTINE. Instance? Of what? JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire. DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he'stired of her? CHRISTINE. [Ironically] Well! If your imagination doesn't carry youas far as that! DOT. When people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love witheach other? CHRISTINE. [With a shrug] That's not the point. DOT. Oh? Were you in love with Ronny? CHRISTINE. Don't be idiotic! DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't been? CHRISTINE. Of course not! JOAN. Dot! You are!---- DOT. Hallo! my little snipe! LADY CHESHIRE. Dot, dear! DOT. Don't shut me up, mother! [To JOAN. ] Are you in love withJohn? [JOAN turns hurriedly to the fire. ] Would you be going tomarry him if you were not? CHRISTINE. You are a brute, Dot. DOT. Is Mabel in love with--whoever she is in love with? MABEL. And I wonder who that is. DOT. Well, would you marry him if you weren't? MABEL. No, I would not. DOT. Now, mother; did you love father? CHRISTINE. Dot, you really are awful. DOT. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick, perhaps. JOAN. Dot! DOT. Well, mother, did you--I mean quite calmly? LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, quite calmly. DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't? [LADY CHESHIRE shakesher head] Then we're all agreed! MABEL. Except yourself. DOT. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might think himself lucky if Imarried him. MABEL. Indeed, and I'm not so sure. DOT. [Making a face at her] What I was going to---- LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd better not? DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but what I do sayis--Why the devil---- LADY CHESHIRE. Quite so, Dot! DOT. [A little disconcerted. ] If they're tired of each other, theyought not to marry, and if father's going to make them---- CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least. It's for the sake ofthe---- DOT. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching infant! God blessit! There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and LATTER are seen coming from the dining-room. LATTER. That must be so, Ronny. KEITH. No, John; not a bit of it! LATTER. You don't think! KEITH. Good Gad, who wants to think after dinner! DOT. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the billiard-roomdoor. ] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is directly after breakfast;from "Eccles enters breathless" to the end. MABEL. Whatever made you choose "Caste, " DOT? You know it's awfullydifficult. DOT. Because it's the only play that's not too advanced. [The girlsall go into the billiard-room. ] LADY CHESHIRE. Where's Bill, Ronny? KEITH. [With a grimace] I rather think Sir William and he are inCommittee of Supply--Mem-Sahib. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! She looks uneasily at the dining-room; then follows the girls out. LATTER. [In the tone of one resuming an argument] There can't betwo opinions about it, Ronny. Young Dunning's refusal is simplyindefensible. KEITH. I don't agree a bit, John. LATTER. Of course, if you won't listen. KEITH. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear chap. We've hadthe whole thing over twice at least. LATTER. My point is this---- KEITH. [Regarding LATTER quizzically with his halfclosed eyes]I know--I know--but the point is, how far your point is simplyprofessional. LATTER. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right her again. There's no answer to that. KEITH. It all depends. LATTER. That's rank opportunism. KEITH. Rats! Look here--Oh! hang it, John, one can't argue this outwith a parson. LATTER. [Frigidly] Why not? HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pullbaker! KEITH. Shut up, Harold! LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even of the Army. KEITH. Exactly, but what is the game? LATTER. What else can it be in this case? KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You can't help it--lineof country laid down for you. All drag-huntin'! What! LATTER. [With concentration] Look here! HAROLD. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse's head]'Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!' KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me, old chap. Youdon't see where you'd land us all. [He smokes calmly] LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? From precisely thissort of thing of young Dunning's. KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought, John. I admit thatI don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl in the lurch; but I don't seethe use in drawin' hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em. Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be thedeuce to pay in a year's time. You can take a horse to the water, you can't make him drink. LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you. HAROLD. Good old John! LATTER. At all events we know where your principles take you. KEITH. [Rather dangerously] Where, please? [HAROLD turns up hiseyes, and points downwards] Dry up, Harold! LATTER. Did you ever hear the story of Faust? KEITH. Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, andall the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes. LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny--of all the rude boors----[He turnstowards the billiard-room. ] KEITH. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap. LATTER passes out. There comes a mingled sound through the opened door, of female voices, laughter, and the click of billiard balls, dipped of by the sudden closing of the door. KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a parson puts one's backup! Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought toplay the game; and I hope Sir William'll make him. The butler JACKSON has entered from the door under the stairs followed by the keeper STUDDENHAM, a man between fifty and sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face, with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once been red. KEITH. Hullo! Studdenham! STUDDENHAM. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', Captain Keith. JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with Mr. Bill, sir? HAROLD. [With a grimace] He is, Jackson. JACKSON goes out to the dining-room. KEITH. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham? STUDDENHAM. No, Sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' the spinneys andthe home covert while you're down. KEITH. I say, talkin' of spinneys---- He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD into the billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters from the dining-room, applying a gold toothpick to his front teeth. SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Studdenham. Bad business this, about youngDunning! STUDDENHAM. Yes, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. He definitely refuses to marry her? STUDDENHAM. He does that. SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What reason does he give? STUDDENHAM. Won't say other than that he don't want no more to dowith her. SIR WILLIAM. God bless me! That's not a reason. I can't have akeeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this. [Turning to LADY CHESHIRE, who has come in from the billiard-room]That affair of young Dunning's, my dear. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studdenham. The poor girl! STUDDENHAM. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling she's not hisequal, now, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has made her hissuperior. SIR WILLIAM. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I was just tellingStuddenham the fellow must set the matter straight. We can't haveopen scandals in the village. If he wants to keep his place he mustmarry her at once. LADY CHESHIRE. [To her husband in a low voice] Is it right to forcethem? Do you know what the girl wishes, Studdenham? STUDDENHAM. Shows a spirit, my lady--says she'll have him--willin'or not. LADY CHESHIRE. A spirit? I see. If they marry like that they'resure to be miserable. SIR WILLIAM. What! Doesn't follow at all. Besides, my dear, youought to know by this time, there's an unwritten law in thesematters. They're perfectly well aware that when there areconsequences, they have to take them. STUDDENHAM. Some o' these young people, my lady, they don't put twoand two together no more than an old cock pheasant. SIR WILLIAM. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he remains obstinate, he'll have to go; he'll get no character, Studdenham. Let him knowwhat I've said. I like the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't wantto lose him. But this sort of thing I won't have. He must toe themark or take himself off. Is he up here to-night? STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will you have him in? SIR WILLIAM. [Hesitating] Yes--yes. I'll see him. STUDDENHAM. Good-night to you, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. Freda's not looking well, Studdenham. STUDDENHAM. She's a bit pernickitty with her food, that's where itis. LADY CHESHIRE. I must try and make her eat. SIR WILLIAM. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the home covert first. What did we get last year? STUDDENHAM. [Producing the game-book; but without reference to it]Two hundred and fifty-three pheasants, eleven hares, fifty-tworabbits, three woodcock, sundry. SIR WILLIAM. Sundry? Didn't include a fox did it? [Gravely] I wasseriously upset this morning at Warnham's spinney---- SUDDENHAM. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir William; thatfour-year-old he du look a handful! SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well enough what I mean. STUDDENHAM. [Unmoved] Shall I send young Dunning, Sir William? SIR WILLIAM gives a short, sharp nod, and STUDDENHAM retires by the door under the stairs. SIR WILLIAM. Old fox! LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be too hard on Dunning. He's very young. SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't understand youngfellows, how should you? LADY CHESHIRE. [With her faint irony] A husband and two sons notcounting. [Then as the door under the stairs is opened] Bill, nowdo---- SIR WILLIAM. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply] Come in! LADY CHESHIRE retires to the billiard-room. She gives a look back and a half smile at young DUNNING, a fair young man dressed in broom cords and leggings, and holding his cap in his hand; then goes out. SIR WILLIAM. Evenin', Dunning. DUNNING. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want to see you about? DUNNING. Yes, Sir. SIR WILLIAM. The thing's in your hands. Take it or leave it. Idon't put pressure on you. I simply won't have this sort of thing onmy estate. DUNNING. I'd like to say, Sir William, that she [He stops]. SIR WILLIAM. Yes, I daresay-Six of one and half a dozen of theother. Can't go into that. DUNNING. No, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your first place. Ifyou leave here you'll get no character. DUNNING. I never meant any harm, sir. SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom of the country. DUNNING. Yes, Sir William, but---- SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you leaped. I'm notforcing you. If you refuse you must go, that's all. DUNNING. Yes. Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day to think it over. BILL, who has sauntered moody from the diningroom, stands by the stairs listening. Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his hand to his forelock. DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fumbles, and turnsagain] My old mother's dependent on me---- SIR WILLIAM. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say. [Dunning goes sadly away under the stairs. ] SIR WILLIAM. [Following] And look here! Just understand this [He too goes out. .. . ] BILL, lighting a cigarette, has approached the writing-table. He looks very glum. The billiard-room door is flung open. MABEL LANFARNE appears, and makes him a little curtsey. MABEL. Against my will I am bidden to bring you in to pool. BILL. Sorry! I've got letters. MABEL. You seem to have become very conscientious. BILL. Oh! I don't know. MABEL. Do you remember the last day of the covert shooting? BITS. I do. MABEL. [Suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Studdenham's grown! BILL. Has she? MABEL. "She walks in beauty. " BILL. Really? Hadn't noticed. MABEL. Have you been taking lessons in conversation? BILL. Don't think so. MABEL. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! BILL. Miss Lanfarne! MABEL. What's the matter with you? Aren't you rather queer, considering that I don't bite, and was rather a pal! BILL. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. Then seeing that his mother has came in from the billiard-room, he sits down at the writing-table. LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. Won't you play too, Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's too terrible? BILL. Thanks. I've got these letters. MABEL taking the cue passes back into the billiard-room, whence comesout the sound of talk and laughter. LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind her son's chair]Anything wrong, darling? BILL. Nothing, thanks. [Suddenly] I say, I wish you hadn't askedthat girl here. LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel! Why? She's wanted for rehearsals. I thoughtyou got on so well with her last Christmas. BILL. [With a sort of sullen exasperation. ] A year ago. LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your father; personally Imust say I think she's rather nice and Irish. BILL. She's all right, I daresay. He looks round as if to show his mother that he wishes to be left alone. But LADY CHESHIRE, having seen that he is about to look at her, is not looking at him. LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been talking to you, Bill. BILL. He has. LADY CHESHIRE. Debts? Do try and make allowances. [With a faintsmile] Of course he is a little---- BILL. He is. LADY CHESHIRE. I wish I could---- BILL. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! LADY CHESHIRE. It seems almost a pity that you told him. BILL. He wrote and asked me point blank what I owed. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a casual voice]I happen to have a little money, Bill--I think it would be simplerif---- BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that before. I can't helpspending money, I never shall be able, unless I go to the Colonies, or something of the kind. LADY CHESHIRE. Don't talk like that, dear! BILL. I would, for two straws! LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father thinks such a lot ofthe place, and the name, and your career. The Cheshires are all likethat. They've been here so long; they're all--root. BILL. Deuced funny business my career will be, I expect! LADY CHESHIRE. [Fluttering, but restraining herself lest he shouldsee] But, Bill, why must you spend more than your allowance? BILL. Why--anything? I didn't make myself. LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid we did that. It was inconsiderate, perhaps. BILL. Yes, you'd better have left me out. LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so--Only a little fuss about money! BILL. Ye-es. LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from me, are you? BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliberately to thewriting things, and takes up a pen] I must write these letters, please. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me, won't you? BILL. There's nothing whatever. He suddenly gets up and walks about. LADY CHESHIRE, too, moves over to the fireplace, and after an uneasy look at him, turns to the fire. Then, as if trying to switch of his mood, she changes the subject abruptly. LADY CHESHIRE. Isn't it a pity about young Dunning? I'm so sorryfor Rose Taylor. There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase FREDA has entered, and seeing only BILL, advances to speak to him. BILL. [Suddenly] Oh! well, --you can't help these things in thecountry. As he speaks, FREDA stops dead, perceiving that he is not alone; BILL, too, catching sight of her, starts. LADY CHESHIRE. [Still speaking to the fire] It seems dreadful toforce him. I do so believe in people doing things of their ownaccord. [Then seeing FREDA standing so uncertainly by the stairs] Doyou want me, Freda? FREDA. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I--begin it? At this moment SIR WILLIAM enters from the drawing-room. LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, yes. SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another five minutes, Bill?[Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll come directly, my dear. FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back whence she came; and LADY CHESHIRE goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short shrift. [He movesover to the fireplace and divides hip coat-tails] Now, about you, Bill! I don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but youknow, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay themthis time unless I see a disposition to change your mode of life. [A pause] You get your extravagance from your mother. She's veryqueer--[A pause]--All the Winterleighs are like that about money. .. . BILL. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what you mean. SIR WILLIAM. [Drily] We will put it that way. [A pause] At thepresent moment you owe, as I understand it, eleven hundred pounds. BILL. About that. SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a proposition to make. BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir? SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your motto in life. BILL. Thanks! SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [BILL looks at him insilence] It's time you took your position seriously, instead ofhanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not. BILL. Go ahead! At something dangerous in his voice, SIR WILLIAM modifies his attitude. SIR, WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I can't supposeanything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but[drily] I mention it. Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand forthe division; you can have the Dower House and fifteen hundred ayear, and I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're electedI'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up theconstituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpetbaggeragainst you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if youdon't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. You cantake Rocketer and that four-year-old--he's well up to your weight, fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want one other. And if Miss--if your wife means to hunt---- BILL. You've chosen my wife, then? SIR WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've some girl inyour mind. BILL. Ah! SIR WILLIAM: Used not to be unnatural at your age. I married yourmother at twenty-eight. Here you are, eldest son of a family thatstands for something. The more I see of the times the more I'mconvinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, andsave the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, andprepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under tothis infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's veryserious. We're threatened in a hundred ways. If you mean business, you'll want a wife. When I came into the property I should have beenlost without your mother. BILL. I thought this was coming. SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain geniality] My dear fellow, I don'twant to put a pistol to your head. You've had a slack rein so far. I've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats-so long as you--er--[Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden movement] Short ofthat--at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. I can onlyjudge by the--er--pecuniary evidence you've been good enough toafford me from time to time. I imagine you've lived like a good manyyoung men in your position--I'm not blaming you, but there's a timefor all things. BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry MabelLanfarne? SITS WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good family--got alittle money--rides well. Isn't she good-looking enough for you, orwhat? BILL. Quite, thanks. SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were ongood terms. BILL. Please don't drag mother into it. SIR WILLIAM. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps you'll be goodenough to state your objections. BILL. Must we go on with this? SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything for me before; Iexpect you to pay attention now. I've no wish to dragoon you intothis particular marriage. If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marrya girl you're fond of. BILL. I refuse. SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With asudden rush of choler] You young. .. . [He checks himself and standsglaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, thatyou've got some entanglement or other. BILL. Suppose what you like, sir. SITS WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the blackguard---- BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning. Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the billiard-room. LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it? SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse! Go away, Dorothy. LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for two months. SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well--we must talk it over again. LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both of you! Bill, dofinish those letters! With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM toward the billiard-room, and glances back at BILL before going out, but he has turned to the writing-table. When the door is closed, BILL looks into the drawing-room, them opens the door under the stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down there, and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evidently been waiting, comes in and stands by the table. BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know. FREDA. Yes--but I must. BILL. Well, then--[With natural recklessness] Aren't you going tokiss me? Without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry. BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks? FREDA. Quite--long enough--for you to have forgotten. BILL. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. FREDA. No? BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda? FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean? FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out ofher dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer. BILL. Now, look here FREDA. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in a hurry. BILL. Freda! FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's all you reallyloved me in. BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear---- FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me. BILL. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times--nothing's changed. [FREDA looks at him and smiles. ] BILL. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself miserable. FREDA. Everybody will be pleased. BILL. At what? FREDA. When you marry her. BILL. This is too bad. FREDA. It's what always happens--even when it's not a--gentleman. BILL. That's enough. FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn'tbe afraid I'll say anything when--it comes. That's what I had totell you. BILL. What! FREDA. I can keep a secret. BILL. Do you mean this? [She bows her head. ] BILL. Good God! FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine. Like the puppies whenthey hold them up by their tails. [With a sudden break in her voice]Oh! Bill! BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaksaway from her towards the fire] Good God! She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece. BILL. By Jove! This is----! The curtain falls. ACT II The scene is LADY CHESHIRE's morning room, at ten o'clock on the following day. It is a pretty room, with white panelled walls; and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow window overlooks the park under a sou'-westerly sky. A piano stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's correspondence is scattered on a writing-table. Doors opposite each other lead to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, which FREDA is holding out. LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just give it up! FREDA. I don't like to be beaten. LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way, I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles. ] LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up. Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you hadbetter put that cloak away. FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting doom at her writing-table] Very well. FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the corridor. JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young woman from thevillage, says you wanted to see her. LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in. Oh! and Jacksonthe car for the meet please at half-past ten. JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY CHESHIRE rises with worked signs of nervousness, which she has only just suppressed, when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands waiting by the door. LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in! [ROSE advances perhaps a couple of steps. ] LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice. Your engagement with Dunning's broken off, isn't it? ROSE. Yes--but I've told him he's got to marry me. LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing? ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of him still. ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it. LADY CHESHIRE: And--do you think he's quite lost his affection foryou? ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. He'safter that--that--He didn't ought to treat me as if I was dead. LADY CHESHIRE. No, no--of course. But you will think it all wellover, won't you? ROSE. I've a--got nothing to think over, except what I know of. LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both to marry in that spirit! You knowit's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready tohelp you. ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, my lady, but Ithink he ought to marry me. I've told him he ought. LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted to say. It's aquestion of your self-respect; I can't give you any real advice. Butjust remember that if you want a friend---- ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to dowhat's right by me. LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrow--gently] Yes, yes--I see. ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meeting the servants. LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As theyreach the door, DOT comes in. ] DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldyrehearsal, Mother? LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here. Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT, with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according to a diagram. DOT. Chair--chair--table--chair--Dash! Table--piano--fire--window![Producing a pocket comb] Comb for Eccles. Cradle?--Cradle--[Sheviciously dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool intoit] Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter Ecclesbreathless. Esther and Polly rise-Esther puts on lid of bandbox. "Bandbox! Searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens theworkroom door. DOT. Freda? FREDA comes in. DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down. [FREDA does not answer. ] DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately. FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot. DOT. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic? FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet. DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse]What is it, Freda? FREDA. Nothing. DOT. [Switching of on a different line of thought] Are you very busythis morning? FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady. DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if Ican't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind? FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot. DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see--what did I want? JOAN has come in. JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene. I'm sure Iought to make more of it. DOT. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by oneear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try! JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have forthe baby? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggestsomething, Freda? FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don'tcount much. JOAN. Freda, how horrible! DOT. [Dropping the footstool back into the basket] You'll just putup with what you're given. Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE Come in, FREDA turns abruptly and goes out. DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and findthem, mouse-cat. But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are already in the doorway. They come in, and LATTER, stumbling over the waste-paper basket, takes it up to improve its position. DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the footstool out of it]Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points tothe workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to thepiano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage!Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise. " Wait aminute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted abandbox. HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, you know, youfeel such a fool. DOT. [With her bandbox-gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when youhave begun. [To BILL, who is staring into the workroom] Shut thedoor. Now. [BILL shuts the door. ] LATTER. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear up a point ofpsychology before we start. DOT. Good Lord! LATTER. When I bring in the milk--ought I to bring it in seriously--as if I were accustomed--I mean, I maintain that if I'm---- JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should---- DOT. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin!Bill! LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But I think youunderrate the importance of my entrance altogether. MABEL. Oh! no, Mr. Latter! LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the balance of thescene, but I do want to be clear about the spirit. What is thespirit? DOT. [With gloom] Rollicking! LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk, withthis play, if we rollick. DOT. Shall we? Now look here----! MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire! BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on! DOT. [Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin! At last! [But JACKSON has came in. ] JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, Mm, if the young ladieswant to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round. JOAN. [Starting up] Oh! come 'on, John! [She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER. ] DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You---- [CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past. ] DOT. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] Pigs! Devils! [She rushes after them. BILL and MABEL are left alone. ] MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups? BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroomdoor] Can't keep a dog in town. You can have one, if you like. Thebreeding's all right. MABEL. Sixth Pick? BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy theywant 'em. Mann. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] Youknow, you remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're notnearly so polite. I don't understand you English-lords of the soil. The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden changeof voice] What was the matter with you last night? [Softly] Won'tyou tell me? BILL. Nothing to tell. MABEL. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice--then sullenly] Worried, Isuppose. MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it? BILL. Don't chaff me, please. MABEL. You really are rather formidable. BILL. Thanks. MABEL, But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull. BILL. Really! Very interesting. MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She movesback as he advances] And overturning people on the journey. BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful? MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. Andthen straight from that hedge into the opposite one. BILL. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morning of allmornings? MABEL. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must be dull for poorFreda working in there with all this fun going on? BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it? MABEL, To go back to you, --now--Mr. Cheshire. BILL. No. MABEL, You always make me feel so Irish. Is it because you're soEnglish, d'you think? Ah! I can see him moving his ears. Now he'spawing the ground--He's started! BILL. Miss Lanfarne! MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with hereyes and smile] You can't help coming after me! [Then with a suddenchange to a sort of sierra gravity] Can you? You'll feel that whenI've gone. They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and FREDA, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them. MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Monsieur le taureau! She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through, leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand. BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept all night. FREDA. No? BILL. Have you been thinking it over? [FREDA gives a bitter little laugh. ] BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't letyou suffer. I swear I won't. FREDA. That will be clever. BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess. FREDA. I shall be--all--right, thank you. BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuseme--say something! Don't look like that! FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me? BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your hands. She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her face. BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then asshe suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him]There, there! There is a click of a door handle. They start away from each other, and see LADY CHESHIRE regarding them. LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon. She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but suddenly turning, stands, with lips pressed together, waiting. LADY CHESHIRE. Yes? FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his mother. BILL. Don't say anything against her! LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails--then to FREDA]Please-go! BILL. [Taking FREDA's arm] No. LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation, herself moves towards the door. BILL. Stop, mother! LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not. BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though from a blow] It'sa d---d shame! LADY CHESHIRE. It is. BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engagedto be married to her. [FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away. ] LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I don't thinkI--quite--understand. BILL. [With the brutality of his mortification] What I said wasplain enough. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her. LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true? [FREDA gulps and remains silent. ] BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me, mother. LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table] Give me achair, please. [BILL gives her a chair. ] LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too. FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away. LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now! BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me. LADY CHESHIRE. When? BILL. In the summer. LADY CHESHIRE. Ah! BILL. It wasn't her fault. LADY CHESHIRE. No? BILL. [With a sort of menace] Mother! LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You saythat you--are engaged? BILL. Yes. LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an engagement have occurredto you, I suppose? [With a sudden change of tone] Bill! what does itmean? BILL. If you think she's trapped me into this---- LADY CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she has been trapped. I think nothing. I understand nothing. BILL. [Grimly] Good! LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this-engagement lasted? BILL. [After a silence] Two months. LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is-this is quite impossible. BILL. You'll find it isn't. LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery. BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in there, Freda. LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her? FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob. BILL. Of course I am. FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE rises suddenly, forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean? [BILL, looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not inlove with her now. It's no good telling me you are. BILL. I am. LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were. BILL. She's in love with me. LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so. BILL. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. LADY CHESHIRE. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, or mean woman? BILL. Mother! LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life--and--your father's--and--all ofus. I want to understand--I must understand. Have you realised whatan awful thins this would be for us all? It's quite impossible thatit should go on. BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She andI'll take good care not to be in the way. LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything! BILL. I have. LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill. BILL. What's the good of these questions? LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away--I see! BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're engaged, we shallbe married quietly, and--and--go to Canada. LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that to tell you'd be inlove with her now. BILL. I've told you that I am. LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I know--I knowthere's more behind. BILL. There--is--nothing. LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your lovefor her has been just what it might have been for a lady? BILL. [Bitterly] Why not? LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so as a rule. BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word againstFreda. This isn't the moment to begin, please. LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end in wretchedness. You haven't a taste or tradition in common. You don't know whatmarriage is. Day after day, year after year. It's no use beingsentimental--for people brought up as we are to have differentmanners is worse than to have different souls. Besides, it'spoverty. Your father will never forgive you, and I've practicallynothing. What can you do? You have no profession. How are yougoing to stand it; with a woman who--? It's the little things. BILL. I know all that, thanks. LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been through it. Marriageis hard enough when people are of the same class. [With a suddenmovement towards him] Oh! my dear-before it's too late! BILL. [After a struggle] It's no good. LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery. BILL. Leave that to me, please. LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence] Only the veryfinest can do such things. And you don't even know what trouble'slike. BILL. Drop it, please, mother. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of yourown free will? BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any more. [He goes out into the workroom. ] LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do? In her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the workroom door, and opens it. LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda. After a seconds pause, FREDA, white and trembling, appears in the doorway, followed by BILL. LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to her alone. BILL, does not move. LADY CHESHIRE. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. BILL hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches FREDA's arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. There is silence. LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about? FREDA. I don't know, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again, whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there]I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry. But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to herbreast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things. That's natural. But it's not only you is it? Does any one guess? FREDA. No. LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head] There'snothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round aman's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me! FREDA. I can't. LADY CHESHIRE. Come! FREDA. I--won't. LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give him away? Both ofyou the same. What's the use of that with me? Look at me! Wasn'the with you when you went for your holiday this summer? FREDA. He's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman. LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man you mean! FREDA. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so. LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA. LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you. It's simplemadness! It can't, and shan't go on. FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I am--somebody. LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of rights with asudden steeliness] Does he love you now? FREDA. That's not fair--it's not fair. LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. Ifyou've lost him it's been your own fault. FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months. LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking down, and speaking rapidly] Listen to me. I love my son, but I know him--I know all his kind of man. I'velived with one for thirty years. I know the way their senses work. When they want a thing they must have it, and then--they're sorry. FREDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry. LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you both overeverything?. .. You know it isn't. FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there'd be no trouble beforeeither of you. You'll make him hate you. FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him happy--out there. LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to say all the thingsyou must know. I only ask you to try and put yourself in ourposition. FREDA. Ah, yes! LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purelyselfish. FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my position? LADY CHESHIRE. What! FREDA. Yes. Just like Rose. LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh! There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks straight into FREDA's eyes. FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes--it's the truth. [Then to Billwho has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant totell. BILL. Well, are you satisfied? LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible! BILL. The Governor had better know. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! no; not yet! BILL. Waiting won't cure it! The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRISTINE and DOT run in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom. LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window. JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter? DOT. Shut up! SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling "Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, passing her handkerchief over her face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress: well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially]Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved righthand] Button that for me, Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff! FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE and the girls watching in hypnotic silence. SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to befirst-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse--best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wishyou were cumin' out, Joan. He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the workroom. CHRISTINE. Mother! What----? But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter, and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is heard. JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started--! Chris! What isit? Dot? DOT. Bill, and her! JOAN. But what? DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this. JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit. DOT. I think not. JOAN. Chris? CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us. JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good. DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten! CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Runny hadn'tgone. JOAN. Shall I fetch John? DOT. John! CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows. JOAN. He went out with Studdenham. DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves andhumbug! That awful old man! JOAN. Dot! CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that! DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heavenhelp Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a Germanregiment than a woman. JOAN. Dot, you're awful. DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet! CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women! DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of theseterrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking forJohn? No good, my dear; lath and plaster. JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's Mabel! DOT. Heavens, and the waters under the earth! CHRISTINE. If we only knew! MABEL comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes fixed on their books. MABEL. The silent company. DOT. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for to-day. MABEL. What's the matter? CHRISTINE. Oh! nothing. DOT. Something's happened. MABEL. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad enough for me togo? CHRISTINE. Oh! no, Mabel! DOT. [Sardonically] I should think very likely. While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and looks stolidly at the four girls. BILL. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lanfarne, I'm engaged tomy mother's maid. No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL LANFARNE goes towards him, holding out her hand. BILL does not take her hand, but bows. Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces MABEL goes out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at their brother. BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know. [He, too, goes out into the corridor. ] CHRISTINE. Great heavens! JOAN. How awful! CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as that. JOAN. Oh! Chris! Something must be done! DOT. [Suddenly to herself] Ha! When Father went up to have hisglove buttoned! There is a sound, JACKSON has came in from the corridor. JACKSON. [To Dot] If you please, Miss, Studdenham's brought up theother two pups. He's just outside. Will you kindly take a look atthem, he says? There is silence. DOT. [Suddenly] We can't. CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson. JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, Mm? DOT shakes her head violently. But STUDDENHAM is seen already standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either side-pocket. He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting behind him. STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes theright-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a proper greedyone--takes after his father. The girls stare at him in silence. DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet. CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course. STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's gota white chest; she's a lady. [He protrudes the left-hand pocket. ] DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket]My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to dowithout. DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her. STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [Heturns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggleout of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON. ] CHRISTINE. How ghastly! DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!" [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh. ] The curtain falls. ACT III It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard-room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and doom; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with commiseration. BILL. What's the time? HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's anyconsolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when heate the man. BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile ofme, Harold. HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it anybetter by marrying her? [Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room. ] BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. HAROLD. No, old man. BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't thinkit! HAROLD. My dear old chap! BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, Isuppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was sohigh. I see it now that--I've got over the attack. HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Doapply your reason, old boy. There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen. BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of thething. HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leaveher in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'dsoon see! HAROLD. Poor old chap! BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's asoft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, Ican't think. I never meant---- HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep yourhead, old man! BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of thecountry. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who'sthat knocking the balls about? HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases. ] BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that! As LATTER appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out. LATTER. Was that Bill? HAROLD. Yes. LATTER. Well? HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool tohim. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! Whatprice your argument with Runny now? Well, it's not too late for youluckily. LATTER. What do you mean? HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family! LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold. HAROLD. Good! LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters. HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poormother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn'tdone, pretty mess I shall be in. LATTER. How? HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll allcome to me. LATTER. Oh! HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral!Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop. LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's behaveddisgracefully. HAROLD. [Warningly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'dnever dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means. LATTER. Perfectly disgusting! HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't youknow how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard. LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one'san idiot, or worse. HAROLD. H'm! [With a grin] You're not allowed tobacco. In thegood old days no one would hive thought anything of this. Mygreat-grandfather---- LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather. HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've beenthrough this same business, and got off scot-free; and now becauseBill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up. LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the beginning? HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like thishappens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he--? Why didn'tshe--? What's to be done--that's the point! LATTER. Of course he'll have to----. HAROLD. Ha! LATTER. What do you mean by--that? HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'llbe hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything!Now don't you? LATTER. The whole thing is--is most unfortunate. HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was! As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH Come in from the billiard-room. He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come stealing in. CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny. JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful. HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man? KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes. DOT. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness ofdiscomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram. HAROLD. Phew! DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened. HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny. KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away with him into the billiard-room. KEITH. Dot? DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel. KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since? DOT. Yes. HAROLD. Well? DOT. She's just sitting there. CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could onlyfeel----! KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina, and some one jigging it! They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence the FOOTMAN puts the tray down. HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITHnods] What point? KEITH. Eight mile. FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir? KEITH. No, thanks, Charles! In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look after him. HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it! KEITH. What's our line of country to be? CHRISTINE. All depends on father. KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as itstrikes me. CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessonson Sunday forbids son to---- CHRISTINE, Ronny! KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She'sgot to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to takeup that position. DOT. Awfully funny! CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot? DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other! CHRISTINE. Rubbish! HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill. KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can helpthe title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a---- [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss. ] HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of yougirls, I should think. CHRISTINE and DOT. Of course not! KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it? DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady asmost girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada? It's whathe's really fit for. HAROLD. Steady on, Dot! DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, ifhe stays here--jolly for the country! CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill. DOT. Me cynical! CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny! KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl. DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her! HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poorold Dad! CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold! DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations bymarriage! KEITH. Thanks! CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous--monstrous! It's fantastic! HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He'sin! They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise and DOT puts an arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back. LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny! [She sits down. ] DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur? LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear! DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling! LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny? KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straightline. LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse? KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Puttinghis hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib! CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father? Ronny thinks itall depends on her. Can't you use your influence? [LADY CHESHIREshakes her head. ] CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate. DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn'tbeg her to let us off! CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart, mother? DOT. Leave mother alone! CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never. DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect? CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh!mother do speak to her! You know it'll be misery for both of them. [LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes herhead. ] CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake? DOT. Chris! CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! Weought all to go on our knees to him. LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now. HAROLD. Poor old Bill! CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! That wretchedgirl! LADY CHESHIRE. Chris! CHRISTINE. There are limits! LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control. CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall--Something must bedone! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he getshis head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do. CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, ifyou'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won'taffect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Doback me up, all of you! It's the only way! Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical pain. CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother! LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room door, listening. They all follow her eyes. She sits down again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters. His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. He walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE steals away. LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done? SIR WILLIAM. You there! LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense! SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had ablackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain. LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard he would not bewhat you call a fool. SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Verywell! LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all tooterrible. SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear. [She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire. ] SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with athing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his handsand arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've knownthis--piece of news since this morning. I've known it ten minutes. Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's thegirl? LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom. SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is heabout? LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him? SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fireand walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenthcentury. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laughat everything--they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, andI don't . .. . Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! Idon't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'mnot prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [Withsudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be gladenough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d Socialists andRadicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't thebowels to sees a--tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, andme, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought thechildren up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man'spast--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. They're--they'rehimself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on. LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it? SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it. LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop. SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made. LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law! SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to]You're thinking of young--young----[Shortly] I don't see theconnection. LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to dowhat's loyal--and we--his father and mother----! SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. Imust think this out. LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that--it doesn'thelp. SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run ofthe house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindnessfrom all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude anddecency--she lured him on, I haven't a doubt! LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose. SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who thedeuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Goout and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye toany prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort ofbusiness nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to thatother matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--Why, my owngrandfather----! LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help? SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence-suddenly] You must go tothe girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you. LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her--I saidall I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill. SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [Thenas LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress. ] If he marries her, I'vedone with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. Thetitle--I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes? LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden fire] You've no right to put such analternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent thismarriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees. SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves noconsideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d---d! LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect. .. . SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother! LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can'tget it out. SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the onlychance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away. ] SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I'venever known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warnyou--I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself. With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the corridor. SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day! He takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace. While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock. SIR WILLIAM. Come in! FREDA enters from the corridor. SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in orderthat--[pointing to chair]--You may sit down. But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit down. SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business. FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling beforehim] I--er--are you attached to my son? FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes. SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turnsaway from her and speaks to the fire. ] I sent for you--to--ask--[quickly] How old are you? FREDA. Twenty-two. SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such amad idea as a marriage? FREDA. I don't expect anything. SIR WILLIAM. You know--you haven't earned the right to be considered. FREDA. Not yet! SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Nowbrace yourself up, and listen to me! She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at her; and his glance gradually wavers. SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like ascamp. FREDA. Oh! no! SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same, time--Whatmade you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know. FREDA. No. SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expectme to--It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is? FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady. SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to--to put it toyou--as a--as a--what! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door]I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, andwait! LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes into the billiard-room to wait. SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Yourmother and I have spoken of this--calamity. I imagine that even youhave some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tellyou this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'llreceive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only dueto the position our family has always held here. Your brother willtake your place. We shall--get on as best we can without you. [Thereis a dead silence till he adds sharply] Well! BILL. I shall marry her. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love-without anything! BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man, sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotterin all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's headyesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turnsround to go out] Let the d---d thing off! LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch. SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted topersuade you to. BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you couldhave done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if youwanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences. SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position? BILK. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it. SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have none--not thefaintest, brought up as you've been. BILL. I didn't bring myself up. SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his sonresponds] You--ungrateful young dog! LADY CHESHIRE. How can you--both?[They drop their eyes, and stand silent. ] SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am speaking under thestress of very great pain--some consideration is due to me. This isa disaster which I never expected to have to face. It is a matterwhich I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this downto my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortuneall my life to believe in our position here--to believe that wecounted for something--that the country wanted us. I have tried todo my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone--smoke--gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To countenancethis marriage would be unnatural. BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this--I don't see anyother way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as foryou---- He stops, seeing that JACKSON has route in, and is standing there waiting. JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William? It's aboutyoung Dunning. After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler withdraws. BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told. SIR WILLIAM. He shall be. STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a comprehensive gesture. STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir William! STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do theproper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be upnext Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three inturn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Begpardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf! BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you, Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married atonce. STUDDENHAM. I--don't--understand you--sir. BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put itstraight. STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say--my daughter? SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Studdenham. It's athunderbolt--young Dunning's case over again. STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's--You've--! I must see mydaughter. Have the goodness to send for her, m'lady. LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come here, please. " STUDDENHAM. [TO SIR WILLIAM] YOU tell me that my daughter's in theposition of that girl owing to your son? Men ha' been shot for less. BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome. STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of thissequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years, Sir William; but this is man to man--this is! SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham. STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No--'twouldn't bevery easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage? SIR WILLIAM. You did. STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well--that's something! [Moving hishands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rightso' this. SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you, Studdenham. Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with his hands. LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of horror] Don't, Studdenham! Please! STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady? LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your--your--hands. While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing in the doorway, like a black ghost. STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards herfather] When did you start this? FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father. LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her! STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from side to side as ifpain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA, but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about--what's cometo you? FREDA. Last night. STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young--! [He makes aconvulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to losegrip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] I want toclear me mind a bit--I don't see it plain at all. [Without lookingat BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage? BILL. I've made it, I stick to it. STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get thepith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William? SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you. STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady? LADY CHESHIRE is silent. STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was--was good enough for any man. It's not for him that's--that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] Youhear the handsome offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistensher lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak aword, we won't get much forrarder. I'd like for you to say what's inyour mind, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. I--If my son marries her he'll have to make his ownway. STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to that. SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studdenham. It appears torest with your daughter. [He suddenly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his forehead] Infernal fires they make up here! LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intensecold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering. STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for. [To FREDA] Speak up, now. FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL, standing rigid, with his jaw set. FREDA. I want--[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turnsfrom him] No! SIR WILLIAM. Ah! At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all his emotion turned into sheer angry pride. STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you!She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha'slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll haveno charity marriage in my family. SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham! STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, as a blind man can see by the looks of him--she's not for him! BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her. STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looksaround him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to sincethe world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away! Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door. SIR WILLIAM. D---n 'it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something! STUDDENHAM. [Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort ofsmiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things thatcan't be undone! He follows FREDA Out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S Calm gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the billiard-room is opened, and DOT appears. With a glance round, she crosses quickly to her mother. DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almostwhispering] Where's Freda? Is it--Has she really had the pluck? LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes, " goes out into the billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders. The curtain falls. THE LITTLE DREAM An Allegory in six scenes CHARACTERS SEELCHEN, a mountain girlLAMOND, a climberFELSMAN, a glide CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM THE GREAT HORN |THE COW HORN | mountainsTHE WINE HORN | THE EDELWEISS |THE ALPENROSE | flowersTHE GENTIAN |THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION | VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM COWBELLSMOUNTAIN AIRFAR VIEW OF ITALYDISTANT FLUME OF STEAMTHINGS IN BOOKSMOTH CHILDRENTHREE DANCING YOUTHSTHREE DANCING GIRLSTHE FORMS OF WORKERSTHE FORMS OF WHAT IS MADE BY WORKDEATH BY SLUMBERDEATH BY DROWNINGFLOWER CHILDRENGOATHERDGOAT BOYSGOAT GODTHE FORMS OF SLEEP SCENE I It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene is a room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches. And a low broad window seat. Through this window three rocky peaks are seen by the light of a moon which is slowly whitening the last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. SEELCHEN, a mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and glasses. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice. Square-cut at the neck and partly filled in with a gay handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the alpen-rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened. White linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are crossed, and turned round her head. As she puts away the last bowl, there is a knock; and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and carries a plaid, a ruck-sack, and an ice-axe. LAMOND. Good evening! SEELCHEN. Good evening, gentle Sir! LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I fear. SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here? LAMOND. Please. SEELCHEN. All the beds are full--it is a pity. I will call Mother. LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at sunrise. SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is impossible. LAMOND. I am going to try that. SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow Horn. LAMOND. I have climbed them. SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous--it is perhaps--death. LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance. SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is onlyMans Felsman. LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman? SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with admiration] Are youthat Herr Lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year? LAMOND. All but that big fellow. SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father'sfoot? LAMOND. Ah! no. I must go back home to-morrow. SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry. LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas! SEELCHEN. Are you from London? Is it very big? LAMOND. Six million souls. SEELCHEN. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen Cortina twice. LAMOND. Do you live here all the year? SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley. LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world? SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls softly] Hans![Then pointing to another door] There are seven German gentlemenasleep in there! LAMOND. Oh God! SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sunrise. [She picks upa little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have readseveral books. LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetryhere, and dream dreams, among your mountains? SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See! It is the full moon. While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden. SEELCHEN. Hans! FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me? SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him]It is the celebrated London one. FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible. LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman? FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn. SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years! LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can Isleep here? SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps-- [She runs out up some stairs] FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them onthe window seat] So! As he goes out into the air. SEELCHEN comes slipping in again with a lighted candle. SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you. LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right. SEELCHEN. To please me! LAMOND. May I ask your name? SEELCHEN. Seelchen. LAMOND. Little soul, that means--doesn't it? To please you I wouldsleep with seven German gentlemen. SEELCHEN. Oh! no; it is not necessary. CHEN. Yes. Yes! I want him. HLAMOND. [With a grave bow] At your service, then. [He prepares to go] SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World, where you comefrom? LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would bethere. SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me but I am alwayshere. LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. SEELCHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly] In the townsthere are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and--dancing, and--churches--and trains--and all the things in books--and-- LAMOND. Misery. SEELCHEN. But there is life. LAMOND. And there is death. SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back? LAMOND. No. SEELCHEN. You have all the world; and I have nothing. LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains. SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread. LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat you! SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big wants--like the cheesewith holes. LAMOND. I shall come again. SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains left to climb. Andif it is not exciting, you do not care. LAMOND. O wise little soul! SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always aching. LAMOND. For the moon? SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you willremember? LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world sosweet as this. SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself. LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night? She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away. LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul. SEELCHEN. That's all right! LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Goodnight! SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night! FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold--itwill be fine. LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits for him to pass. SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. Ithought. He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and kisses her hungrily. SEELCHEN. Art thou angry? He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner room. SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her, she snuggles doom on the window seat. SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me--both. [She sleeps] The scene falls quite dark SCENE II The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN is still lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. There, as the peaks of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces. SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces! The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth. The face of THE COW HORN is that of a mountain shepherd. Solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high. Beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks. Above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUNTAIN DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring. All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky. EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you?Ah! ha! GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells rangingenviously] Oo-oo-oo! From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR: "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" "Mountain air! Mountain air!" From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS: "I am Italy! Italy!" "See me--steam in the distance!" "O remember the things in books!" And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a sighing: "Mountain air! Mountain air!" And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as of one unaccustomed. THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I amsilence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, andthe mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes. Love me alone! SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsmanand the mountains. It is the half of my heart! THE FLOWERS laugh happily. THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows. My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. Thelowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the runningof the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and bloodhot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity. SEELCHEN. Yes, yes! I want him. He is strong! The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together: "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" "Mountain air! Mountain air!" THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with meunder the stars! SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid. And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's voice. THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' thestreets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and thechestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn myincense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, andpassionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--oflamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves. And never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing inthe sunshine. THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry: "We know them!" THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death ofpleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oathsof men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, littlesoul, you starve and die, SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world ofthe Town. It pulls my heart. THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in yourmeadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drinkthe wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I neverdull! The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS are heard calling out together: "I am Italy, Italy!" "See me--steam in the distance!" "O remember, remember!" THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours. I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart! SEELCHEN. He is honey! THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry: "Bitter! Bitter!" THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystalair. The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away: "Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" "Mountain air! Mountain air!" And THE FLOWERS laugh happily. THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wakeyou! The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM and THINGS IN BOOKS chant softly: "I am Italy! Italy!" "See me--steam in the distance!" "O remember, remember!" And THE FLOWERS moan. SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn! THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets. And peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like thethistle-down. M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster! THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea. GENTIAN. My blue is deeper! THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes. ALPENROSE. I can blush redder! THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! Silk! Velvet! EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet! THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags! THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none. SEELCHEN. He has all things. THE COW HORN. Mine are the clouds with the dark silvered wings; mineare the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler thanpearls. Away from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, little soul. THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance! THE FLOWERS ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry: "We too, smell sweet. " But the voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS cry out: "I am Italy! Italy!" "See me--steam in the distance!" "O remember! remember!" SEELCHEN. [Distracted] Oh! it is hard! THE COW HORN. I will never desert thee. THE WINE HORN. A hundred times I will desert you, a hundred timescome back, and kiss you. SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Peace for my heart! THE COW HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme. THE FLOWERS laugh happily. THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers. THE FLOWERS moan. THE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine. THE COW HORN. I will give thee new milk. THE WINE HORN. Hear my song! From far away comes the sound as of mandolins. SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart--it is leaving me! THE COW HORN. Hear my song! From the distance floats the piping of a Shepherd's reed. SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The piping! Ah! THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! THE COW HORN. I give thee certainty! THE WINE HORN. I give you chance! THE COW HORN. I give thee peace. THE WINE HORN. I give you change. THE COW HORN. I give thee stillness. THE WINE HORN. I give you voice. THE COW HORN. I give thee one love. THE WINE HORN. I give you many. SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both--Iwill love! And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks. THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shalt love, little soul! Thou shaltlie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities withKnowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on themountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings. Small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seemas thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to theother. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves inturn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; atune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, halfcourage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change. Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thoupretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me atlast, my little soul! THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out. SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep. SCENE III The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with herhand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a planetree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway ofan Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon. Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with theface of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, andsinging: "Little star soul Through the frost fields of night Roaming alone, disconsolate-- From out the cold I call thee in Striking my dark mandolin Beneath this moon of gold. " From the Inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of dancing. SEELCHEN: [Whispering] It is the big world! The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings On: "Pretty grey moth, Where the strange candles shine, Seeking for warmth, so desperate-- Ah! fluttering dove I bid thee win Striking my dark mandolin The crimson flame of love. " SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing! As SHE speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward. SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings arewindy. The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on; "Lips of my song, To the white maiden's heart Go ye, and whisper, passionate. These words that burn 'O listening one! Love that flieth past is gone Nor ever may return!'" SEELCHEN runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children --but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn stands LAMOND in a dark cloak. SEELCHEN. It is you! LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out hisarms to her] SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe? LAMOND. What is safety? Are you safe in your mountains? SEELCHEN. Where am I, here? LAMOND. The Town. Smiling, he points to the doorway. And silent as shadows there come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. The first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first youth in black velvet. The second girl is in rags, and a shawl; and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. SEELCHEN. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance together. Do theynever change partners? LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor. But see! A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs. A flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other. But the other girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious medley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from each other as before. SEELCHEN. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like that? The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown dark. SEELCHEN. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let me see. LAMOND. Will you not come, then, little soul? SEELCHEN. Always to dance? LAMOND: Not so! THE SHUTTERS of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. In a lighted room on one aide of the Inn are seen two pale men and a woman, amongst many clicking machines. On the other side of the Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half clothed, making chains. SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look--all! What are they making? In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, holding in one hand a glass of golden wine. SEELCHEN. It is beautiful. What is it? LAMOND. Luxury. SEELCHEN. What is it standing on? I cannot see. Unseen, THE WINE HORN'S mandolin twangs out. LAMOND. For that do not look, little soul. SEELCHEN. Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all theymake here with their sadness? But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the houses; the door of the Inn grows dark. LAMOND. What is it, then, you would have? Is it learning? Thereare books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars![But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is religion so deep that no manknows what it means. [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There isreligion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We haveeverything. SEELCHEN. Is God here? LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakesher head] What then do you want? SEELCHEN. Life. The mandolin twangs out. LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life. SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love. LAMOND. When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown?When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. Ifdarkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To liveis to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she drawsnearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying thelittle grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown--againyou must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you mustcrawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and notthere--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of itswings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, yourcheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--Ah! littleheart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes--there itis still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands willreach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shallyou grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [His voicedies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms] SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come. LAMOND. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me! SEELCHEN. I love! The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all glamorous; and they pass through. Illumined by the glimmer of the lamp the Youth of THE WINE Hour is seen again. And slowly to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing: "The windy hours through darkness fly Canst hear them little heart? New loves are born, and old loves die, And kissing lips must part. "The dusky bees of passing years Canst see them, soul of mine-- From flower and flower supping tears, And pale sweet honey wine? [His voice grown strange and passionate] "O flame that treads the marsh of time. Flitting for ever low. Where, through the black enchanted slime. We, desperate, following go Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! Into dark air above. The golden gipsy thins away-- So has it been with love!" While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. It falls dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands. But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp goes out--THE WINE HORN becomes shadow. Then from the doorway of the Inn, in the shrill grey light SEELCHEN comes forth. She is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the powdery whiteness of her face. SEELCHEN. My heart is old. But as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of COWBELLS; and while she stands listening, LAMOND appears in the doorway of the Inn. LAMOND. Little soul! SEELCHEN. You! Always you! LAMOND. I have new wonders. SEELCHEN. [Mournfully] No. LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never thesame? It cannot be. SEELCHEN. Listen! The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again. LAMOND. [Jealously] The music' of dull sleep! Has life, then, withme been sorrow? SEELCHEN. I do not regret. LAMOND. Come! SEELCHEN. [Pointing-to her breast] The bird is tired with flying. [Touching her lips] The flowers have no dew. LAMOND. Would you leave me? SEELCHEN. See! There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain cloak. LAMOND. What is it? SEELCHEN. He! LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you themarvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life. If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here aresweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning! The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn comeforth the shadowy forms. DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING. Who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN. Stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away. SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and sweet. While she moves towards the Inn. LAMOND'S face becomes transfigured with joy. But just as she reaches the doorway. There is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and the Shepherd of THE COW HORN sings: "To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; To the silent sky, and the wistful sound Of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!" While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEELCHEN has turned. With parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of death have vanished. SEELCHEN. I come. LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like agnat when the sun goes down? Without you I am nothing. SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself] Poor heart--I am gone! LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his cloak]. Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, there is blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there rises a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, and Flower Bells, and Pipes. SCENE IV The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a low rock sits a brown faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white. And blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing. As they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts them to her lips and eyes. SEELCHEN. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] Goatherd! But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away he has vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The veils of mist are rising. SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to therock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with his arms folded] Thou! FELSMAN. So thou hast come--like a sick heifer to be healed. Was itgood in the Town--that kept thee so long? SEELCHEN. I do not regret. FELSMAN. Why then return? SEELCHEN. I was tired. FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me! SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep me? FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus. SEELCHEN. I have known Change--I am no timid maid. FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow--thou art white-faced. SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou here that shall keepme? FELSMAN. The sun. SEELCHEN. To burn me. FELSMAN. The air. There is a faint wailing of wind. SEELCHEN. To freeze me. FELSMAN. The silence. The noise of the wind dies away. SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely. FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee. And to a ringing of their bells. THE FLOWERS come dancing; till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling asleep. SEELCHEN. See! Even they grow sleepy here! FELSMAN. I will call the goats to wake them. THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on his rock and piping. And there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked Boys, with Goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of The Sleeping Flowers; and THE FLOWERS wake, spring up, and fly. Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and THE GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his rock. FELSMAN. Love me! SEELCHEN. Thou art rude! FELSMAN. Love me! SEELCHEN. Thou art grim! FELSMAN. Aye. I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice. [Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawnto the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] Andthe wings of the birds shall be still. SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I seethe wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are theyalways fierce? FELSMAN. Never--to look on thee, my flower. SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluckflowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD islying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [ButTHE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue. [Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer mehere. FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one? SEELCHEN. Thou? [The scene darkens with evening] See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already. There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her. SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep! Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly grown bright. Then on his rock, to a faint gaping THE GOATHERD sings: "My goat, my little speckled one. My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. Let moon and wind and golden sun And stars beyond all telling Make, every day, a sweeter grass. And multiply thy leaping! And may the mountain foxes pass And never scent thee sleeping! Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far. And let me find sweet water! No hawk nor udder-seeking jar Come near thee, little daughter! May fiery rocks defend, at noon, Thy tender feet from slipping! Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon-- Great Master, Goat-God--skipping!" There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the rock stands the Shepherd of THE COW HORN in his dock. SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit is hungry. [Then asshe sees the Shepherd of THE COW HORN standing there] I know theenow--Life of the earth--the smell of thee, the sight of thee, thetaste of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and gone by. [She moves away] FELSMAN. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go? SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world. FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me! [But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against solidity] SEELCHEN. Friend! The time is on me. FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I too dull? SEELCHEN. I do not regret. The Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen suddenly standing opposite the motionless Shepherd of THE COW HORN; and his mandolin twangs out. FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wiltgo? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see. SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward. FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without theelove is dead, and I must die. SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone. FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold. At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE COW HORN stretches forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving. SEELCHEN. Companions. I must go. In a moment it will be dawn. In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces. The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark. SCENE V Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either aide of that path of light, like shadows. THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN stand with cloaked heads. SEELCHEN. Great One! I come! The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a far-away voice, growing, with the light, clearer and stronger. Wandering flame, thou restless fever Burning all things, regretting none; The winds of fate are stilled for ever-- Thy little generous life is done. And all its wistful wonderings cease! Thou traveller to the tideless sea, Where light and dark, and change and peace, Are One--Come, little soul, to MYSTERY! SEELCHEN falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The glow slowly fades till the scene is black. SCENE VI Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawnfiltering through the window of the mountain hut. LAMOND and FELSMANare seen standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on thewindow seat. FELSMAN. [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a moment it will bedawn. She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring. LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming. FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face. Then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she speaks, pass out. SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands withecstasy] Great One. I come! [Waking, she looks around, andstruggles to her feet] My little dream! Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky. There is a sound of goat-bells passing. The curtain falls. JUSTICE PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES HOW, solicitorWALTER HOW, solicitorROBERT COKESON, their managing clerkWILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerkSWEEDLE, their office-boyWISTER, a detectiveCOWLEY, a cashierMR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judgeHAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocateHECTOR FROME, a young advocateCAPTAIN DANSON, V. C. , a prison governorTHE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplainEDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctorWOODER, a chief warderMOANEY, convictCLIFTON, convictO'CLEARY, convictRUTH HONEYWILL, a womanA NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE I. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell. ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. March, two years later. CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINEWalter How MR. CHARLES MAUDECokeson MR. EDMUND GWENNFalder MR. DENNIS EADIEThe Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEEThe Detective MR. LESLIE CARTERThe Cashier MR. C. E. VERNONThe Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULTThe Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYEThe Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANTThe Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEYThe Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBENThe Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSONWooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYDMoaney MR. ROBERT PATEMANClipton MR. O. P. HEGGIEO'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANERuth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks thepage, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carrytwo. Send him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closesthe pass-book. ] SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, please? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slightWest-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave amessage? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had myfriends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wantingto see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of outragedinterest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's noaffair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, thiswon't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON] COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerkshort as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDER has entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. Hetried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the childrenbefore he was awake. I went round to you. FALDER. I've changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night? FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11. 45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her withtragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the children's? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but onebag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have? RUTH. Six pounds--I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] WhenI get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than takeyou against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'llhave you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11. 45to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth----! RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, there fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings----[He opens adrawer and produces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in theHome. " It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have youfinished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan'tmention about the party having called, but---- FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson. COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter. WALTER. My father here? COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man whomight be doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock. WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall. COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to beexpected] Have you now--ye--es. This lease of Boulter's--am I tosend it to counsel? WALTER. What does my father say? COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him. WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful. COKESON. It's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. I thoughtyou'd do it yourself. WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility. COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as youlike. This "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bitof common ground. COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of thelaw. WALTER. I don't like it, COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want to set ourselvesup against the law. Your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. As he speaks JAMES How comes in from the partners' room. He is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. JAMES. Morning, Walter. WALTER. How are you, father? COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as thoughdeprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to youngFalder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room. ] WALTER. About that right-of-way case? JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I thought you told meyesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. WALTER. So it is. JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three--five--one, norecent cheques. Just get me out the cheque-book. WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. JAMES. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally? WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure it was over fourhundred. JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and consthe counterfoils] What's this ninety? WALTER. Who drew it? JAMES. You. WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I wentdown to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came backon the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine Idrew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. Itjust covered all but half a crown. JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts thecheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems allright. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed thatnine-pound cheque? WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see! I was finishing Mrs. Reddy's will--only just had time; yes--I gave it to Cokeson. JAMES. Look at that 't' 'y': that yours? WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a little; thisdoesn't. JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him. Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'youremember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the dayhe went to Trenton? COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds. JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque. ] COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and ofcourse I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to thebank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, youwanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuouscompassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque. He takes cheque-book and pass-book from WALTER. WALTER. Afraid not. COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for Australia onMonday. Looks black, Cokeson. COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! No, no!there's some mistake. JAMES. I hope so. COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office thetwenty-nine years I've been here. JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a very cleverbit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, Walter. WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know--I was in such a tearing hurry thatafternoon. COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me. JAMES. The counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece ofswindling. What was Davis's ship? WALTER. 'City of Rangoon'. JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested at Naples; he can't bethere yet. COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, ohdear! In this office! WALTER. Shall I go to the bank and ask the cashier? JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard. WALTER. Really? He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There's something in character, isn't there? COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't quite takeyou, sir. JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn'tknow you. COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorryfor that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James. JAMES. A nasty business! COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular, and then a thinglike this happens. Shan't relish my lunch to-day. JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson? COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially] He must have hadtemptation. JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him yet. COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [He broods. ] JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up. COKESON. [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It isn't fiftyyards, Mr. James. He won't be a minute. JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, Cokeson. He goes towards the door of the partners' room. SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a low voice] She's poppedup again, sir-something she forgot to say to Falder. COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh? Impossible. Send heraway! JAMES. What's that? COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter. Here, I'll comemyself. [He goes into the outer office as JAMES passes into thepartners' room] Now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody justnow. RUTH. Not for a minute, sir? COKESON. Reely! Reely! I can't have it. If you want him, waitabout; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. RUTH. Yes, sir. WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the outer office. COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon]Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's in there. WALTER crosses and goes into the partners' room. COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, Mr. Cowley. I'mquite ashamed to have to trouble you. COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [As if it were a liver]Seemed in perfect order. COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thinglike this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be openand jolly together. COWLEY. Quite so. COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room]Of course he's a young man. I've told him about it before now--leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. COWLEY. I should remember the person's face--quite a youth. COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as amatter of fact. JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room. JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. Itwas none of us, I take it. The cashier shakes his head with a smile. JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokeson, engage Mr. Cowley inconversation, will you? He goes toward FALDER'S room. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. JAMES. Well? COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you?He's a nervous young feller. JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake ofFalder's name, to say nothing of yours. COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He'sbeen upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again. JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over athing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley. He opens the door of FALDER'S room. JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will you, Falder? COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs? The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spareme, I suppose? At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir! JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you. FALDER. Do you want me, sir? JAMES. No, thanks! FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. JAMES. Sure? This isn't as we suspected. COWLEY. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't slip out of thatroom? COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window--a whole floor and abasement. The door of FALDER'S room is quietly opened, and FALDER, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? FALDER. To have my lunch, sir. JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you aboutthis lease. FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room. ] COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashedthe cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before mylunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slipof paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning! JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley! COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning. COKESON. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning. The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. WALTER. What are you going to do? JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil. COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young Davis---- JAMES. We shall see. WALTER. One moment, father: have you thought it out? JAMES. Call him in! COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER'S door;hoarsely] Step in here a minute. FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir? JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You knowthis cheque, Falder? FALDER. No, sir. JADES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week. FALDER. Oh! yes, sir; that one--Davis gave it me. JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash? FALDER. Yes, sir. JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir. JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? FALDER. No, sir--ninety. JAMES. Nine, Falder. FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir. JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered;whether by you or Davis is the question. FALDER. I--I COKESON. Take your time, take your time. FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir. JAMES. The cheque was handed to--Cokeson by Mr. Walter at oneo'clock; we know that because Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived. COKESON. I couldn't leave it. JAMES. Exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to Davis. It wascashed by you at 1. 15. We know that because the cashier recollectsit for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me because some friends weregiving him a farewell luncheon. JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then? FALDER. I don't know, sir--it's very funny. WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he? COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeingfaint signs of their all being jolly once more] No, he sailed on theMonday. JAMES. Was he, Falder? FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir. JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that thisnought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday? COKESON. [Surprised] How's that? FALDER gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson. The cheque-bookremained in Mr. Walter's pocket till he came back from Trenton onTuesday morning. In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny thatyou altered both cheque and counterfoil? FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it. COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear! what a thing todo! FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I wasdoing. COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head! FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think, sir, really! It wasjust a minute of madness. JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the counterfoil] Four daysat least. FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay themoney back--I will, I promise. JAMES. Go into your room. FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. There is silence. JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be. COKESON. To break the law like that-in here! WALTER. What's to be done? JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute. WALTER. It's his first offence. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat apiece of swindling altogether. COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come to see him this morning. WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in just now. Is it his wife? COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in jolliercircumstances would have been a wink] A married person, though. WALTER. How do you know? COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised] There they wereoutside the office. JAMES. A real bad egg. WALTER. I should like to give him a chance. JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work--counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a moment. He hadn'ttime. JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a cleanmind and habits. He's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keephis hands off when there's money about. WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before. JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellowsin my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out ofharm's way. They've got a blind spat. WALTER. It's penal servitude. COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons. JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Outof the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine quanon'. COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is. JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst peoplewho've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society. WALTER. But to brand him like this? JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him anotherchance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits. COKESON. I didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded wayto defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. Ifthat's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know whatis. WALTER. For the sake of his future, though. JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would everprosecute. WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it. COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must haveprotection. JAMES. This is degenerating into talk. He moves towards the partners' room. WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father. JAMES. You ask too much of me. WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do thissort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn'tnothing'll make him. WALTER. He'll never do it again. COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. Wedon't want to be hard on the young man. JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes intothe partners' room. ] COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. Idon't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You knowyou feel---- COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel. WALTER. We shall regret it. COKESON. He must have known what he was doing. WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained. " COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We musttry and see it sensible. SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir. COKESON. Put it down! While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing? WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-SergeantBlister. WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father. He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters. JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON]I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder. As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no, --oh! no! WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad. JAMES. I charge him with felony. FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me betill to-morrow. JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing? There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. The curtain falls. ACT II A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded withbarristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting inthe large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to andunconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite tothe JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seemsunconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, thecounsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middleage, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in avery white wig. Among the spectators, having already given theirevidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! Gathering his robes together, he sits down. FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordshipand gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact thatthe prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before youevidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that youwould not be justified in finding that he was responsible for hisactions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he didthis in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall callbefore you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up tothis act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstancesof her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she hasinspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading amiserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, fromwhom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall inlove with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue herfrom an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. Butwe all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you toremember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to adrunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enablea woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appearthat her husband is guilty. JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely--I shall be able to show yourlordship that directly. JUDGE. Very well. FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her?She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of herlife; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this wouldhave given her very insufficient protection from the violence of sucha man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced hereither to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she isnow finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood tosupport herself and her children without resorting either to the PoorLaw or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome. FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. JUDGE. Let us hope so. FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what I have been leading upto--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes onhimself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. Shesaw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, wherethey would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. Thiswas a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them wereconstantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situationpossibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that I preferto say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this partof the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right ofthese two young people under such circumstances to take the law intotheir own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in herdistress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was sodevotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like--reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, ofcourse, they required money, and--they had none. As to the actualevents of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility--I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through thelips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takesup a sheet of paper, and waits. ] COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him. FROME. What is your name? COKESON. Robert Cokeson. FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employthe prisoner? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ? COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time? COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays. FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say abouthis general character during those two years. COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprisedat being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd nofault to find with him--quite the contrary. It was a great surpriseto me when he did a thing like that. FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign quanon'. FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jollyand pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me. FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning onwhich the cheque was altered. What have you to say about hisdemeanour that morning? COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quitecompos when he did it. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane? COKESON. Not compos. THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please. FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion--[looking at theJUDGE]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. The jury willunderstand my meaning. FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, achop and a potato--saves time. That day it happened to come just asMr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I wentinto the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the otherclerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking upand down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder. " FROME. Do you remember what he answered? COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny. FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar? COKESON. I did. FROME. What was that? COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to beneat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned. " FROME. And what did he answer? COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice. THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice? COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain mymeaning--it was funny. FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. Wecan't have anything eccentric in our profession. THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them aboutprime facey evidence. FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind? COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same. FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of theforgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen thatmorning? COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf. FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning--I meanbefore the discovery--that caught your attention? COKESON. Ye-es--a woman. THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome? FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which theprisoner committed this act, my lord. THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after theact. FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. THE JUDGE. Well! FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office? COKESON. Ye-es. FROME. What for? COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment. FROME. Did you see her? COKESON. I did. FROME. Did she come alone? COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so---- COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young--leave it tome"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question putto her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir. " THE JUDGE. What are? What were? COKESON. Her children. They were outside. THE JUDGE. HOW do you know? COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tellyou what I was told--and that'd never do. THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement. COKESON. Egg-zactly. FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the courseof her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that youspecially remember? COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete thesentence] A leetle more, sir. FROME. Or did she not? COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to theanswer. FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what itwas? COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death. " FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that? COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have saidto you. FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she wasthere? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away? COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go. FROME. Well, is she there now? COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No! FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down. ] CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery theprisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean bythat word? COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you everseen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at oncewith his eyes. CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them"funny. " What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what? COKESON. Ye-es, funny. COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may notbe funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, orfierce, or what? COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and youwant me to give you another. CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad? CLEAVER. Not mad, fun---- CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Wasit a hot day? COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was. CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it? COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did. CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity? He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelledstate before? COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet. FROME. That will do, thank you. COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER. FROME. Ruth Honeywill. RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. FROME. What is your name, please? RUTH. Ruth Honeywill. FROME. How old are you? RUTH. Twenty-six. FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A littlelouder. RUTH. No, sir; not since July. FROME. Have you any children? RUTH. Yes, sir, two. FROME. Are they living with you? RUTH. Yes, sir. FROME. You know the prisoner? RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes. FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him? RUTH. We were friends. THE JUDGE. Friends? RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir. THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word? RUTH. We love each other. THE JUDGE. Yes, but---- RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship--not yet. THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well! FROME. What is your husband? RUTH. Traveller. FROME. And what was the nature of your married life? RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about. FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what? RUTH. Ever since my first was born. FROME. In what way? RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America. FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite--and what prevented you? RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearlybroke my heart. FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested? RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointingto COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it. FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Why? RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning. THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you! RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord. FROME. With his hands, or----? RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight tomy friend. It was eight o'clock. THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influenceof liquor then? RUTH. It wasn't always that. FROME. In what condition were you? RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was halfchoking. FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened? RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had. FROME. It upset him? RUTH. Dreadfully. FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? RUTH. Never. FROZE. Did he ever give you any money? RUTH. Yes. FROME. When was that? RUTH. On Saturday. FROME. The 8th? RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready tostart. FROME. Did that surprise you, or not? RUTH. What, sir? FROME. That he had money to give you. Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed memy friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He toldme afterwards he'd come into a windfall. FROME. And when did you last see him? RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were tohave started. FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him atall between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was hismanner then? RUTH. Dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him? RUTH. Yes. FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what? RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him. FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes. FROME. And had he a very great affection for you? RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir. FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger andunhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over hisactions? RUTH. Yes. FROME. His reason, even? RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would. FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairlycalm? RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me. FROME. Do you still love him? RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me. FROME. Thank you. He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box. CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morningof Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, Isuppose? RUTH. No, sir. CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you. RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done thesame for him; I would indeed. THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappyone? Faults on both sides? RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why Ishould, sir, not to a man like that. THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him? RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keepthings nice. THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner--was that it? RUTH. No; even after that. THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in thisaffection of yours for the prisoner. RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now. THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please. RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord. FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. FROME. What is your name? FALDER. William Falder. FROME. And age? FALDER. Twenty-three. FROME. You are not married? FALDER shakes his head FROME. How long have you known the last witness? FALDER. Six months. FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? FALDER. Yes. FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however? FALDER. Yes. THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman? FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship. THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it? FALDER. I didn't seem able to. The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders. FROME. How did you come to know her? FALDER. Through my married sister. FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband? FALDER. It was trouble all the time. FROME. You knew her husband? FALDER. Only through her--he's a brute. THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person notpresent. FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admitaltering this cheque? FALDER bows his head. FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the7th, and tell the jury what happened. FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when shecame. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seemto get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers roundher throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyesdreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt--Ifelt--well--it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'dseen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt thesame, I know. FROME. Yes? FALDER. When she left me--because I had to go to the office--I wasout of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what Icould do. I couldn't work--all the morning I was like that--simplycouldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemedto have to keep moving. When Davis--the other clerk--gave me thecheque--he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning. " Then when I had it in myhand--I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that ifI put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get heraway. It just came and went--I never thought of it again. ThenDavis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what Idid till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew whatI'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself undera bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in forit, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets Itook for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, andall, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. Ikeep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how Ican't have it all again to do differently! FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him. FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank? FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir. FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashedthe cheque, how long do you say it must have been? FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran allthe way. FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing? FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran. FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' FALDER. No, sir. I don't really. FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises. CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you? FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank. CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is castingover the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come. FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir. CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought wereso like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive thecashier? FALDER. It was an accident. CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On whichday did you alter the counterfoil? FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning. CLEAVER. Was that an accident too? FALDER. [Faintly] No. CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose? FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes. CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under greatexcitement when you did that? FALDER. I was haunted. CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out? FALDER. [Very low] Yes. THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to dowas to confess to your employers, and restore the money? FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence] CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design oftaking this woman away? FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it fornothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myselfinto the river. CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England--didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicionwould fall on him? FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards. CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there--I wouldhave repaid the money. THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might havebeen prosecuted. FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thoughtthere'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon. FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had thecheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if thediscovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would haveleft, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning. THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicionwould light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Didyou know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davishad sailed? FALDER. I--I--thought--he---- THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no! FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing. THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome. [FROME bows to the JUDGE] CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir. CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work thatafternoon? FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back. CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keenfor you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don'tremember altering this cheque. [He sits down] FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage. FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back? FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep. FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis'sgoing out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollectnothing during those four minutes? FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face. FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what youwere doing? FALDER. No, Sir. FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out? FALDER. Yes, and while I was running. FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold ornotes?" FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself--and it was toolate. FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, mylord. The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock. FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship--Gentlemenof the Jury, --My friend in cross-examination has shown a dispositionto sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I amfree to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidencehas not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act ina moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was notresponsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moralvacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which hehad been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend hasalluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to investthis case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I havemerely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating lifewhich, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind thecommission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilizedage, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strangeway, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But whenwe see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? Just thinkof what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at theprisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly thecomfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate withequanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he wasdevotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not astrong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sortof man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You haveheard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word"funny"--I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look ofthose who are strained to breaking-point than any other word whichcould have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mentalirresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which allsense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a manwho destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolvedfrom the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, andfrequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsiblecondition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intentand treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which mightwell be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have acase in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those fourfatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson'sface!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it isabsolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection[legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who camehere to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It isimpossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when hecommitted this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distresscan make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of amoment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utterimpossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque wasaltered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes--the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boybefore you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that greatcage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the Law. Hisfurther acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of thecounterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not ofdeliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act fromwhich these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence ofthe weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is aman to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character?Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our lawfor want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated asthough he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, inall probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict thatmay thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it thestarting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground topieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one ofweakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that manthose dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be hisvoyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, tobe still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who willcome back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as acriminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neitherthe face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he hasundergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain inprison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely everto forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling ofthe chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decidedto prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If youpermit it to go on to the third I would not give--that for him. He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towardsthe counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spotthat seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and thentowards the jury. CLEAVER. May it please your lordship--[Rising on his toes] Gentlemenof the Jury, --The facts in this case are not disputed, and thedefence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that Idon't propose to waste the time of the Court by taking you over theevidence. The plea is one of temporary insanity. Well, gentlemen, Idaresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--whatshall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. The alternativewould have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the prisoner hadpleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal tohis lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the byways andhedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him toshow you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, infact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment my friend; Ithink it highly ingenious of him. By these means, he has--to acertain extent--got round the Law. He has brought the whole story ofmotive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he wouldnot otherwise have been able to do. But when you have once graspedthat fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [Withgood-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of insanity; we can'tput it lower than that. You have heard the woman. She has everyreason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? She said thatthe prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. If hewere going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously themoment when insanity would have shown itself. You have heard themanaging clerk, another witness for the defence. With somedifficulty I elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you do], was not mad when the chequewas handed to Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunatethat we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner has told you thewords with which Davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not haveremembered those words. The cashier has told you that he wascertainly in his senses when he cashed it. We have therefore theplea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane atfifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding theconsequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points oftime. Really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that I amnot disposed to weary you with further argument. You will form yourown opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way of saying agreat deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I might point out, however, that theoffence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most seriousknown to our law; and there are certain features in this case, suchas the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render itdifficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. Iask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in thecircumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and the jury to FROME, he sits down. THE JUDGE. [Bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in abusiness-like voice] Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and thecomments on it. My only business is to make clear to you the issuesyou have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as the alteration ofthis cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. The defence set up isthat he was not in a responsible condition when he committed thecrime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidenceof the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that theprisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find himguilty, but insane. If, on the other hand, you conclude from whatyou have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing shortof insanity will count--you will find him guilty. In reviewing thetestimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind verycarefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both beforeand after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--COKESON, and--er--of the cashier. And in regard to that I especially direct your attention to theprisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the noughtdid come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed tohim; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to hissubsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all this on thequestion of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] isvery obvious. You must not allow any considerations of age ortemptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. Beforeyou can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well andthoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as wouldhave qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [He pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn speaks to FROME. FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very anxious that I shouldask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not todisclose the name of the woman witness in the Press reports of theseproceedings. Your lordship will understand that the consequencesmight be extremely serious to her. THE JUDGE. [Pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing herhere. FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship thinks I could havebrought out the full facts in any other way? THE JUDGE. H'm! Well. FROME. There is very real danger to her, your lordship. THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that. FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure yourlordship that I am not exaggerating. THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the nameof a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'llconsider your application. It must depend. I have to remember thatshe may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. FROME. Your lordship, I really---- THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment. As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. CLERK of ASSIZE. Gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? FOREMAN. We are. CLERK of ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but insane? FOREMAN. Guilty. The JUDGE nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at FALDER, who stands motionless. FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me to address you inmitigation of sentence. I don't know if your lordship thinks I canadd anything to what I have said to the jury on the score of theprisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome. FROME. If your lordship says so--I do most earnestly beg yourlordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [He sits down. ] THE JUDGE. [To the CLERK] Call upon him. THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Haveyou anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give youjudgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head] THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and foundguilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses;then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that youwere not responsible for your actions at the moment of committingthis crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device tobring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which yousuccumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in realitymaking an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of courseenabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in thatdirection. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. Heclaimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as acriminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to apassionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the marchof Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completingthe process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I shouldallow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take intoaccount. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of youroffence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered thecounterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, tomy mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider thenecessity of deterring others from following your example. On theother hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you havehitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believeyour evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of someemotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have everywish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to thecommunity--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to whatare the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of yourcase. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very seriouselement in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you onthe ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of thecrime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. Itis said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. Thestory has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs. Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy werein effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a youngman, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed anattachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge--had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admitwas about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made anattempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what hedescribes, I think, as "a hopeless position. " As to that I canexpress no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patentthat you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoraldesign. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to myconscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you forthe completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made anattempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is adefect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show thatto punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do notfollow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majesticedifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you havecommitted is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance withmy duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. Youwill go to penal servitude for three years. FALDER, who throughout the JUDGE'S speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. RUTH starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. There is a bustle in court. THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen of the Press, Ithink that the name of the female witness should not be reported. The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you. RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns away. THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case. CLERK of ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John Booley. To cries of "Witnesses in the case of Booley": The curtain falls. ACT III SCENE I A prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. The room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. It is Christmas Eve. The GOVERNOR, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile] Queer-lookingaffair, Mr. Wooder! Where did you find it? WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing fortwo years now. THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set plan? WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up histhumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name?Moaney! An old hand, I think? WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag likehim would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt]Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's allthey think about. THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him? WOODER. O'Cleary, sir. THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman. WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow, Falder--starclass--and next him old Clipton. THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher. " I want to see him abouthis eyes. WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one ofthese tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's aregular wave going through them just now. THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things--those waves. [Turning tolook at the prisoners exercising] Seem quiet enough out here! WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging on his door thismorning. Little thing like that's quite enough to upset the wholelot. They're just like dumb animals at times. THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll runright through cavalry lines. The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, Miller? THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen. THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard andopens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, andmetal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out] THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the whole place. THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything. THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day? THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much. THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men discontented. [Gazing atthe saw] Have to punish this poor devil. Can't help liking a manwho tries to escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks thecupboard again] THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. Nothing to be done till it's broken. THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hardfor golf? WOODER comes in again. WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't usual. THE GOVERNOR. What about? WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir? THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go, Miller. WOODER motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes inwithdraws. The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the youngman. THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here. COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a card, and handing itto the GOVERNOR] Firm of James and Walter How. Well known in thelaw. THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card-with a faint smile] What do youwant to see me about, sir? COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] Why! what asight! THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from here; my office isbeing done up. [Sitting down at his table] Now, please! COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window]I wanted to say a word to you; I shan't keep you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be here by rights. Hissister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in somedistress. "My husband won't let me go and see him, " she said; "sayshe's disgraced the family. And his other sister, " she said, "is aninvalid. " And she asked me to come. Well, I take an interest inhim. He was our junior--I go to the same chapel--and I didn't liketo refuse. And what I wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally. COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see a lot of themabout working together. THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve theirthree months here in separate confinement, sir. COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable. He's quitedownhearted. I wanted to ask you to let him run about with theothers. THE GOVERNOR. [With faint amusement] Ring the bell-would you, Miller? [To COKESON] You'd like to hear what the doctor says abouthim, perhaps. THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow. I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and aboutwith the others; it'll be a nice change for you. " "A month!" he said--like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's amonth? Why, it's nothing!" "A day, " he said, "shut up in your cellthinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. Ican't help it, " he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr. COKESON. " And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see thetears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice. THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of England, I think? COKESON. No. THE CHAPLAIN. I know. THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to begood enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goesout] Let's see, he's not married? COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party he's very muchattached to, not altogether com-il-fa. It's a sad story. THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prisonmight be closed. COKESON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his spectacles] Ye-es, but Iwanted to tell you about that, special. He had hopes they'd have lether come and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked mequestions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the poor young fellowa lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. But I'm afraidit's made him worse. THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then? COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for ahusband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with ouryoung friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when hewas put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait forhim to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after amonth she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said:"I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got nofriends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else myhusband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced, " she said. And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's apainful story. I said to her: "No, " I said, "not that! I've got awife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you alittle myself. " "Really, " she said--she's a nice creature--"I don'tlike to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband. "Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn'tlike to persuade her not to. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no. COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellowdreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three yearsto serve. I want things to be pleasant for him. THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly sharesyour view, I'm afraid. COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there byhimself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don'tlike to see a man cry. THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility]I keep dogs. THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed? COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up allby himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has asense of right and wrong. COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it. THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ. COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindnessthey'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes'em savage. THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a littlemore experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him foryears. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died ofconsumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept thereshut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do himharm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON, " he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against thewall. " It's not nice. During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. He stands leaning against the window. THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the separate is telling onQ 3007--Falder, young thin fellow, star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements? THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. COKESON. But he's told me. THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He'slost no weight since he's been here. COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of. THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rathermelancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching himcarefully. COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say that. THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we areable to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from myspecial standpoint. COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR] I don't want to beunpleasant, but having given him this news, I do feel it's awkward. THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him to-day. COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought perhaps seeing himevery day you wouldn't notice it. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of injury to his healthshows itself his case will be reported at once. That's fullyprovided for. [He rises] COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't seedoesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him onmy mind. THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to us, sir. COKESON. [Mollified and apologetic] I thought you'd understand me. I'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [Expandingto the CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning. As he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] There's justone little thing. This woman--I suppose I mustn't ask you to let himsee her. It'd be a rare treat for them both. He's thinking abouther all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's quite safein here. They're a pitiful couple. You couldn't make an exception? THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear sir, I couldn't make anexception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goesto a convict prison. COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have troubled you. [He again goes out] THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poorfellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements? He and the DOCTOR go out talking. The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. The curtain falls. SCENE II Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. The doors of four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. On the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll haveanother bit for you when that's finished. O'CLEARY. [Unseen--in an Irish voice] Little doubt o' that, sirr. INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have it than nothing, Is'pose. O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth. Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive over it! He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. The GOVERNOR comes walking down the corridor, followed by WOODER. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report? INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a cell] is behindwith his work, sir. He'll lose marks to-day. The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away. THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws, isn't it? He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comesto the door] THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding upthe saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private]Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come! MOANEY. It passed the time. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh? MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind. THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way thanthis. MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must keep my hand in againstthe time I get out. What's the good of anything else to me at mytime of life? [With a gradual change to civility, as his tonguewarms] Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace meself when I'mout. You've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, I've gotmine. [Seeing that the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goeson, pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this. It's noharm to any one. I was five weeks makin' that saw--a bit of allright it is, too; now I'll get cells, I suppose, or seven days' breadand water. You can't help it, sir, I know that--I quite put meselfin your place. THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will yougive me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into thecell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries thewindow-bars] THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well? MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to doin here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must havesomething to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, butI can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive agentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady workwould have done it. THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, whilethey put a new bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney? MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is. THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days'cells-bread and water. MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir. He turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WARDER closes and locks the cell door. THE GOVERNOR. Open Clipton's cell. WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell. CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning] Come out here a minute, Clipton. CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes? CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [Hemakes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There'sjust one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'dask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton. CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who he is. [Withcontempt] One of this star class, I expect. Oughtn't to be herewith us. THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton. He'll be moved whenthere's a cell vacant. CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. I'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. In the eveningtoo. It's not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. Sleep's the comfort I've got here; I'm entitled to take it out full. WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. WOODER. All right, sir. THE GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and locked. THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning? WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one, sir; O'Cleary. He lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. THE GOVERNOR. Open. WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. He is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. THE GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary? O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time. THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door? O'CLEARY. Oh! that! THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish. O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past. THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of? O'CLEARY. NO, Sirr. THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand; you ought to know better. O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all. THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the samesteady man. THE GOVERNOR. Work all right? O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making] Oh! I can do it on mehead. It's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working his mouth] It's here I feel it--the want of a little noise--a terrible little wud ease me. THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in theshops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. O'CLEARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not with my mouth. THE GOVERNOR. Well, then? O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd have. THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more conversation on yourdoor. O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night. O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour. He turns into his cell. The GOVERNOR shuts the door. THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking thepoor blackguard. WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir. THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to comehere, Mr. Wooder. WOODER salutes and goes away down the corridor. The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S cell. He raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. FALDER, who is standing against it, lurches forward. THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settledown, Falder? FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your headagainst a stone wall, is it? FALDER. No, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Well, come. FALDER. I try, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep? FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worsttime. THE GOVERNOR. How's that? FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. Iwas always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get sucha size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live. THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull yourself together. FALDER. [With an equally sudden dogged resentment] Yes--I've got to. THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows? FALDER. They're used to it. THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in time, I suppose. THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests withyou. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You'restill quite young. A man can make himself what he likes. FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir. THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do you read? FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it'sno good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In mycell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir. THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news? FALDER. Yes. THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it. FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir? He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR motions to him to go back into his cell. FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goesback into his cell. ] THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements. The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the whole. THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so? WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my opinion. THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that! WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? THE GOVERNOR. Christmas! He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show enough, sir? If you'dlike us to have more holly? THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder. WOODER. Very good, sir. The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR beckons to him. THE GOVERNOR. Well? THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him. He's nervous, ofcourse. THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report? Quite frankly, Doctor. THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good;but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on betterin the shops, there's no doubt. THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recommend others? THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves. There's nothingtangible. That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell], forinstance--feels it just as much, in his way. If I once get away fromphysical facts--I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously, sir, Idon't know how to differentiate him. He hasn't lost weight. Nothingwrong with his eyes. His pulse is good. Talks all right. THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia? THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; butif I do I ought to report on others. THE GOVERNOR. I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S cell] The poordevil must just stick it then. As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER. WOODER. Beg pardon, sir? For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal. THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder? WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we should have more ofthat. He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who follows closely. The curtain falls. SCENE III FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window. In fast-failing daylight, FALDER, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. FALDER is seen gasping for breath. A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. The curtain falls. ACT IV The scene is again COKESON'S room, at a few minutes to ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors are all open. SWEEDLE, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. He arranges papers on COKESON'S table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. While he is gazing his full RUTH HONEYWILL comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstandwith a bang] Hello! It's you! RUTH. Yes. SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurryingdown in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had thepleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing withyourself? RUTH. [Sardonically] Living. SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him [he points to COKESON'Schair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [Delicately]I hope our friend's back from the country. His time's been up thesethree months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I was awful sorry aboutthat. The governor made a mistake--if you ask me. RUTH. He did. SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judgeought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what humannature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile] SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flattenyou out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. Iknow 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shakeshis head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other day thegovernor---- But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Thenmotioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Mustbe two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sitdown! Family well? RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was. COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are more comfortable athome. RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honeywill, after all. COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. I should be sorryif you'd done anything rash. RUTH. I've kept the children with me. COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha hadhoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen you. You've not heard from theyoung man, I suppose, since he came out? RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday. COKESON. I hope he's well. RUTH. [With sudden fierceness] He can't get anything to do. It'sdreadful to see him. He's just skin and bone. COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time wasup? RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out. COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't liketo be snubby. RUTH. I can't bear his being like that. COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I know his relationsaren't very forthy about him. Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. RUTH. Not now. I could have--but not now. COKESON. I don't understand. RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again--that's all over. COKESON. [Staring at her--disturbed] I'm a family man--I don't wantto hear anything unpleasant. Excuse me--I'm very busy. RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, butthey've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when Imarried him. I thought the world of him, of course . . . He usedto come travelling to our farm. COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got on better, afteryou saw me. RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't break my nerve, but Ilost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. Icouldn't stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging astream of lava] We mustn't be violent, must we? RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave better than that--[There is silence] COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there you were! Andwhat did you do then? RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before, . . . Making skirts. .. Cheap things. It was the best I could get, but Inever made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton andworking all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I keptat it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; Iwasn't made for it. I'd rather die. COKESON. My dear woman! We mustn't talk like that. RUTH. It was starvation for the children too--after what they'dalways had. I soon got not to care. I used to be too tired. [She issilent] COKESON. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what happened then? RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened then--he's happened eversince. COKESON. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a thing like this. RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the backof her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was justa chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, andhe told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him anotherchance. COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost your livings!What a horrible position! RUTH. If he could only get here--where there's nothing to find outabout him! COKESON. We can't have anything derogative to the firm. RUTH. I've no one else to go to. COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll takehim, under the circumstances. I don't really. RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points tothe window. ] COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he'ssent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got avacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything. RUTH. It would be the saving of him. COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tellhim that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave youraddress? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it onblotting-paper] Good-morning. RUTH. Thank you. She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cottonhandkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, hesounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it] COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after theclerk's place? SWEEDLE. Yes. COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet. SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir? COKESON. [With asperity] invent something. Use your brains. Don'tstump him off altogether. SWEEDLE. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, sir? COKESON. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here to-day. SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember Falder? I may behaving him round to see me. Now, treat him like you'd have him treatyou in a similar position. SWEEDLE. I naturally should do. COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn'tnecessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to youin life. It's sound policy. SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some onehaving entered the outer office] Who's there? SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's Falder, sir. COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him tocall again. I don't want---- He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. His clothes are very worn and loose. SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous. [Trying to keepthings pleasant] Shake hands! She's striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead] I don't blame her. She's anxious. FALDER timidly takes COKESON's hand and glances towards the partners' door. COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at theaide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you arehere I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Lookingat him over his spectacles] How's your health? FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that. About this matter. I don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man, and I want everything smooth and straight. But Ipromised your friend to speak to the partners, and I always keep myword. FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job athousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say Iweighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn'tweigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought therewas nothing in here at all. COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart disease? FALDER. Oh! they passed me sound enough. COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't they? FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of asudden, the other clerks got wind of it. .. . I couldn't stick it, Mr. COKESON, I couldn't, sir. COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy! FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last. COKESON. How was that? FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, Iseem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can'texplain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, itgrows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references;but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made meafraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now. He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. COKESON. I feel for you--I do really. Aren't your sisters going todo anything for you? FALDER. One's in consumption. And the other---- COKESON. Ye. .. Es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased withyou. FALDER. When I went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted togive me a kiss--I know. But he just looked at her, and said: "Whathave you come for?" Well, I pocketed my pride and I said: "Aren'tyou going to give me your hand, Jim? Cis is, I know, " I said. "Lookhere!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to anunderstanding. I've been expecting you, and I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds to go to Canada with. " "I see, " Isaid--"good riddance! No, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds. "Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where I have. COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me?[Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite withoutprejudice; I meant it kindly. FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country. COKESON. Oh! ye. .. Es--ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking thething. FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawnsaren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different manthis morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the bestthing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That'squeer, isn't it? COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you. FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate withcriminals! COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That neverdid a man any good. Put a face on it. FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you'reindependent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk aboutgiving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over. COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven'tmade a Socialist of you. FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Reallyyou must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, butthey down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, asthough at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With suddenimpersonality] I know it is. COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there! We must tryand take it quiet. I'm sure I've often had you in my prayers. Nowleave it to me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they'rejolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in] COKESON [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease]I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've just been having a talk withthis young man. I think you'll remember him. JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder? WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see youagain, Falder. FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thankyou, sir. COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER, pointing to theclerks' office] You might go in there a minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be coming this morning. His wife's just had alittle family. FALDER, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He'squite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're notseeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It'svery trying to go without your dinner. JAMES. Is that so, COKESON? COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know allabout him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping him in the air. JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, COKESON? I don't see it. WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice!" I've nevergot that out of my head. JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. What'she been doing since he came out? COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He'ssensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "Weak character"'s written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold inthese days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for allthat, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something[spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some oneuncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has mether. JAMES. Is she with her husband? COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] Idon't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, COKESON. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had theparty here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Tooshady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I seethat. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do withhis private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't comehere. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I canget him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, COKESON. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoningFALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents asteady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you anotherchance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the firstplace: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notionthat you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't playfast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Societydidn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise thatthe better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but--may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops] COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, thatif we'd been treated differently the first time, and put undersomebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not aquarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you began it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knockedme out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not whatI was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity of hisfeeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to thefuture. FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand whatprison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time'smerciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is toput all the past behind you and build yourself up a steadyreputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman youwere mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have donewith that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you'regoing to begin your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] Butsir . . . But sir . . . It's the one thing I looked forward toall that time. And she too . . . I couldn't find her before lastnight. During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself thatit's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can comeback--not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] Icouldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for thebenefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of thisconnection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means-having gone through all that-gettingbroken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. I did itfor her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it forherself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were aprospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him--she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble fromthe beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER] . . . If anybodywould help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] Idon't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full causesince; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can bemanaged. FALDER. Oh, sir! He goes to the window and looks down into the street. COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have myreasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her?I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this youngman's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how toswindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change--looking fromone to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to preventit . . . . What I said at the trial was true. And last night weonly just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence] JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door]We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to befaced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falderagain. RUTH. Yes--only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front ofher as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us toget you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, Sir----! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, Sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDER. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only helpus--we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You seewhat I mean? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, Sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. Hisfuture is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up--afterall this? There's something--[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, Iswear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, whois standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver asthe truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been-- WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do, that'll do! I'llgive you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do withyourselves, that's all. FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go inhere. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, whoever itis. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice]Detective-Sergeant blister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two yearsand a half ago: I arrested him in, this room. JAMES. What about him? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his whereabouts from you. [There is an awkward silence] COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsiblefor his movements; you know that. JAMES. What do you want with him? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare saywe shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employmentwith a forged reference. What with the two things together--we musthave him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the moment. If you couldmake it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislikepeaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him youmust find him without us. As he speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture--quietly] Very good, sir. I ought towarn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still aconvict, and sheltering a convict. JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and askquestions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quiteunderstand, don't you? Good-morning! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESON. The other door. .. . The other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTHS's voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "I can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER [From within] Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for evernow. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice. JAMES. What's that? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman-she'sfainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair--which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try toforce the sherry between her lips. ] There is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. The outer door is reopened--WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. WISTER. He jumped--neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the sliplike that. And what was it--just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own]Run for a doctor--you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outer office] Anambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not breathing. [Shecrouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back] COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poordear woman! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe withgentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls.