The blindness of virtue

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1^ 13

Ex LIBRIS

f . ?B(HJ)itmore Parrp

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

Joseph Whitmore Barry
dramatic library

THE GIFT OF
TWO FRIENDS

OF Cornell University
1934

Cornell University Library
PR6015.A492B61913

The blindness of virtue,

3 1924 013 622 943

Cornell University
Library

The original of tliis book is in
tine Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013622943

THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

BY COSMO HAMILTON

PLAYS

The Blindness of Virtue.

A Sense of Humour.

Mrs. Skeffington.

The Gadsbys (with Rudyard Kipling).

The Wisdom of Folly.

Soldiers' Daughters.

Castles in Spain (with music).

Jerry and a Sunbeam.

The Belle of Mayfair (with music).

The Catch of the Season (with music).

The Beauty of Bath (with music).

Arsene Lupin.

The Mountain Climber.

NOVELS

The Outpost of Eternity.
The Infinity Capacity.
Adam's Clay.
Keepers of the House.
Nature's Vagabond.
Duke's Son.
Plain Brown.
The Blindness of Virtue,
etc.

ESSAYS

Brummell, Idiot and Philosopher.
Brummell Again.
Indiscretions.
Impertinent Reflections.

THE
BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

BY

COSMO HAMILTON

"Virtue is an angel, but she is a blind one, and must ask
of knowledge to show her the pathway that leads to her goal."

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1913,
By George H. Doran Company

4 Ls 5 <? ^

TO
BERYL

WITH ALL MY LOVE;

FOR WHOM AND THROUGH WHOM AND TO WHOM

I WROTE THIS LITTLE PLAY

CHARACTERS

The Reverend Harry Pemberton.
The Hon. Archibald Graham.
Collins.

Mrs. Pemberton.

Mrs. Lemmins.

Mary Ann.

Cookie.

Effie Pemberton.

SCENES

Act I

The vicarage garden. Late afternoon in July.

Act II
Harry Pemberton' s den. Six weeks later.

Act III
Archibald Graham's bedroom. Two mornings
later.

Act IV
Harry Pemberton' s den. The same morning.

THE
BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

ACT I

The Scene of Act I represents the garden of the
vicarage. This is an old house, almost
Queen Anne, but not quite. It is, how-
ever, very old and sweet and prim and
cheery and restful. It overlooks the little
garden with motherly eyes, filled with quiet
pride. And well it may because it is a gar-
den to be proud of. Against a trellis on
the worn red walls a swarm of sweet peas
is running, many of whose charming heads
are peeping boldly to see the world with-
out. In all the beds there are flowers,
old-fashioned and rich in colour. The
lawn is shaved close, even the scanty beard
of it that tries to grow beneath the old ce-
dar tree that spreads its purple arms pro-
tectingly over it all. Through the white
gates that cut the wall in two the village
green can be seen, flat and bordered with
small houses all with their own bits of gar-
9

lo THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

den. A milkman's white horse is munch-
ing while he can, fowls hunt busily for suc-
culent morsels and a string of geese wan-
der aimlessly about.

The front door of the house is open. A rather
worn oak chair can just be seen and a cor-
ner of a very elderly Turkish rug. There
drifts into the garden the sound of some-
one, — almost obviously a girl, and a tem-
peramental girl, practising on the piano,
now irritably, now languidly, and always
with an underlying sense of thinking of
something better. There is no one in the
garden except a little quaint figure, in a
home-made black frock, higher in front
than behind, and a large apron, ironed and
starched too stiffly. On her whispy hair
is stuck a whimsical cap that is altogether
incapable of sitting straight. This is
Cookie, who, with a touch of bravado, is
picking sweet peas.

Through the gates comes a wiry middle-aged
man with the moustache of one who drinks
as often as luck wills it and tight fitting
trousers, cleverly patched. He has a three
days' growth of beard upon his chin and a
quick, cunning, but not unhumorous, eye.
His bare brown arms are closely tattooed.
There is the Union Jack, the crest of a line

ACT I II

Regiment, a woman's name, a bleeding
heart and a large, repulsive dragon. He
wears no collar. There is a coloured
handkerchief, wound into a sort of rope,
round his neck, and an old wide-brimmed
strawberry hat, yellow from rain and sun,
on the back of his head. This is Fred
Collins, the gardener, who has been in In-
dia and Singapore and Malta and Alder-
shot with his regiment and gravitated back
to the soil and his native village to a wife
with no front teeth and curlers and five per-
petually dirty children.

Collins [hotly'\. Now then, what are you
doing with my sweet peas?

Cookie \looking up quietly and speaking in a
ladylike voice'\. Oh, it's you, Fred. I thought
I knew the voice. Nice afternoon.

Collins [more angrily'^. Nice afternoon me
foot. If you want sweet peas ask me for 'em.
Tearing about the bushes like that there, rippin'
ofif the buds.

Cookie [sweetly'\. There's a nice glass of
beer jist inside the kitchin winder. What a
funny thing I should have thought about it.

Collins [obviously appeased but not going to
cave in at once"]. I don't interfere with your
kitchin, don't you interfere with my garden.

12 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

. . . Not that I gets much satisfaction from
working like a black in it. The Vicar and the
missus never 'as no time to look round.

Cookie. Well, we can't 'ave everything in
this world.

Collins. I don't want everything. What I
want is for them as I works for to appreciate it.

Cookie [looking at him with eyes wide
open'\. I have nothing but praise for you,
Fred. [Collins opening his mouth and finding
himself unable to trust himself to say anything
within earshot of the house, goes into roars of
laughter. '\

Cookie [who has won the rub]. You ain't
going to let that ale get flat, are yer?

Collins. Oh, woman, woman in our howers
of hease! . . . Gor blimey. [Flings up his
hands and goes into house. Cookie smiles and
then turns hack to the sweet peas which she con-
tinues to pick. She sings quietly, " Give my
regards to Regent Street," stopping in the mid-
dle of a line and going suddenly and swiftly to
gate.]

Cookie [addressing an unseen dog viciously],
I see yer, yer little devil. Been in the pond,
mucked yerself all over, nar yer goin' to sneak
in and dirty my floors. 'Ook it, go on 'ook it !
If you think you're goin' to outwit me you're
mistook, you streak o' cunning! . . . Go and

ACT I 13

roll, go on now. Go and make yerself re-
spectable. . . . Laugh would yer 1 \_She picks
up stone. Collins comes out of house brushing
the back of his hand over his moustache.]

Collins. 'Ere now, 'ere, 'ere! Cruelty to
animals I

Cookie [flaming up]. 'E's not an animal.
'E's an adventurer. Little beast. 'E's as bad
as an open sore to me. . . . Go on away.

Collins. I'll soon see to 'im for yer. \He
goes out of gate.] I'll biff 'im. Bill, come
'ere, darling. [He disappears. Two hands
are suddenly bashed upon the piano.]

Cookie [jumping]. Oh, lor! What's that?
[Effie appears at window below door, climbs
out of it and comes into garden. She is a beau-
tiful slim girl of seventeen, with an oval face,
large eyes full of a restless spirit and a mass of
rich brown hair patched with streaks of cop-
per.]

Cookie [at gate]. Well done, Fred. Serve
'im right.

Effie. What's the matter. Cookie?

Cookie [angrily]. That there dawg. Lit-
tle beast. 'E's the plague of my life. 'E eats
like a giant, and be'aves like a ragamuffin. 'Is
one joy in life is to make me feel a fool. If I
'adn't been along of your father and mother
for twenty-two years I should give notice.

14 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Efjie [crossing to Cookie and putting her
arms round her]. No, you wouldn't.

Cookie. Yes, I should.

Effie. No, you wouldn't.

Cookie. Yes, I should.

Effie. No, you wouldn't.

Cookie. Well, then, no, I shouldn't. [She
bursts out laughing.] There's only two
things that'll make me give notice. Marriage
. . . which ain't likely, and bein' turned
out. . . .

Effie. Which isn't likely either. Be a phi-
losopher, Cookie.

Cookie. 1 can't. I was born in the workus.
[^She turns to gate and scuttles over to it.] Oh,
you would, would yer ?

Effie [going to gate and talking severely].
How dare you. Bill I Go and dry instantly and
don't appear again until you're thoroughly
ashamed of yourself.

Cookie. And you might add, until he can
make no marks on the 'all floor. You!

Effie [going to seat under tree, with a sigh].
Ah, me I

Cookie. What did you say?

Effie. I didn't say anything.

Cookie. No, but you sighed it and I don't
wonder.

Effie [sighing]. Why?

ACT I 15

Cookie. You a birthday girl struck seven-
teen and left all alone the 'ole of the day.

Effie. Father and mother are busy.

Cookie. Father and mother are busy ! Did
y'ever know 'em anything else week in week
out? I call it a shame.

Effie. What?

Cookie. Why, that the Vicar can't get even
a few hours off, or the missus either, to cele-
brate the event.

Effie. The event has been celebrated.
Mother gave me her only ring except two, and
father presented me with a watch. What more
could I have ? I don't deserve either.

Cookie. Oh, go on! All the same, of
course, you would have liked your father and
mother to spend the day with you. I think it's
a bit o' cheek of old Joe Judd to need the Vicar
until after your birthday. And that there club
too. What's the parish want with a club?
Isn't eight pubs enough for 'em? {^Cookie dur-
ing this speech is busily picking sweet peas.
Effie has put her head down on her arms and is
sobbing bitterly.]

Cookie. Perhaps you'll get a game of golf
with the Vicar before the light goes and that'll
be all right, won't it? \_She looks at Effie,
drops the sweet peas and goes towards her
quickly.] Why! . . . what's this? Miss Ef-

1 6 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

fie, my dear . . . my dearie, what is it ? Cry-
ing on yer birthday? Tell an old woman, then.
iShe puts her arms round the girl.'\

Effie Is till sobbing^. Oh, don't. Cookie,
don't. Leave me alone. No one can do any-
thing for me. I feel hopeless.

Cookie Ishriliy}. Hopeless! And you with
a birthday!

Effie. That's why. You wouldn't under-
stand. / don't understand, but that's why.
[^She springs up and puts her arms round the
old woman.] I'm seventeen and I've done
nothing, seen nothing. I'm seventeen and I'm
treated like a child. I am a child. If I go on
living here I shall always be a child.

Cookie [in great surprise]. But you don't
want to go and live away from here, do you ?

Effie. Oh, Cookie, I don't know what I
want. I'm always wanting something and I
don't know what it is. I'm always asking my-
self what's the matter, what's happened, — I
used to be so happy, — and I can't find out.
[With sudden impatience and self -disgust.]
Oh, what a fool I am. For gpodness' sake don't
take any notice of me. [She flings herself into
the seat.]

Cookie. Don't talk to me like that. I knew
you before you had a birthday and you've just

ACT I 17

got to tell me what's worrying you. iShe sits
down by her side.] Now then, dearie.

Effie [catching up Cookie's hands']. I'm a
beast. I'm dissatisfied. It's awful. No girl
living has got such a father and mother, or such
a home, but all day long now I go about with
a great constant — I don't know what. It
makes me restless. I ask myself questions that
I can't answer. Sometimes in the middle of the
night or when I'm reading here alone, I get up
and go and stand at the gate and try and peer
over the horizon. I listen for something that
never comes and wait breathless for something
that never happens. I feel like a bird shut up
in a cage and I want to burst the bars and fly.
Cookie ! What does it all mean?

Cookie [shaking her head]. I always
thought you was so happy.

Effie [vehemently]. I am happy. I adore
this place and I'd die for father and mother,
but I'm a woman, not a baby, and doesn't life
mean something more than the duties and games
that I do every day, day after day, week after
week, year after year? Isn't there anything
more? [She springs up.] Why don't you tell
me to shut up ? Why don't you tell me that I
ought to be ashamed of myself?

Cookie [rising and putting her hands on

1 8 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Efjie's arm]. You can't 'elp it, dearie. It's
the east wind.

Efjie \_simply']. Is it? Yes, perhaps it is.
But I'd give everything I have in the world if
this queer feeling would never come to me.
[She sees sweet peas on the lawn and goes to
them quickly.] Oh, look at these darlings on
the ground !

Cookie [relieved and cheerful]. Oh, my!
I must have dropped 'em. I'm picking 'em to
put in the young gentleman's bedroom.

EfJie [on her knees looking up quickly].
Mr. Graham?

Cookie. That's 'im. The Vicar told me 'e
was comin' this afternoon so I've made the
spare room a sight for sore eyes.

Effie. Does father think he's coming?

Cookie. Why, of course. Don't you?

Efjie. No, I don't. [Enter Mrs. Pember-
ton. She is a beautiful woman, very quiet in
manner, a little delicate looking.]

Cookie. Oh, here you are, at last. 'Bout
time too.

Efjie. Hullo, mother. [She gets up and
goes to her.] Tired, darling?

Mrs. P. No, dear. Is father back?

Cookie. Oh, father! 'E's not likely to be
back while the sun's up and then when there's
nothing to do he'll make something.

ACT I 19

Mrs. P. Is Mr. Graham's room ready?

Cookie. What a question !

Mrs. P. Don't let the mutton be overdone
and you'd better put out the best tumblers.

Cookie. Oh, I haven't forgotten 'e's a swell.

Mrs. P. And don't put the butter in the as-
paragus dish. Serve it separately.

Cookie. Oh, that's the latest, is it? \_She
bursts out laughing.'\ My word! We shan't
know ourselves soon. [5^^ goes into the
house with a ludicrous imitation of a sort of
lady.]

Mrs. P. faking Effle into her arms]. Well,
darling? Have you had a nice birthday?

Effie. Yes, mother. Look! [She holds
out her hand.] It fits me perfectly.

Mrs. p. You'll be careful not to overwind
the watch, won't you ?

Effie. Yes, mother.

Mrs. P. I'm so sorry that father and I have
not been able to be with you to-day, darling.
There is so much to be done and so little time
to do it in.

Effie. Oh, please don't say that, mother.
You make me feel a beast.

Mrs. P. [surprised]. Do I? How?

Effie. Oh, I don't know. After all, what
does my birthday matter, when people are dy-
ing and being born and are ill and starving and

20 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

in trouble, and you and father can do so much
for them all. I don't count.

Mrs. P. You do count and I can see that
you mind. It's perfectly natural. But you
see, darling, duty comes first. We will have a
musical evening.

Effie [^delightedly']. Oh, mother, can we?
Do you think father will have time to sing some
of his old Oxford songs?

Mrs. P. Yes, if. . . .

Effie. If what?

Mrs. P- If nobody wants him in the village.
[Harry Pemberton appears at gate, holding bi-
cycle.']

Harry [calling']. Collins! Collins!

Collins [off]. Sir?

Harry. Take my bike, will you ? I'm afraid
there's a puncture in the back wheel. I wish
you'd see to it.

Collins [at gate]. Right you are, sir.

Harry. As soon as you can. I'm certain to
want It again to-day,

Collins. Right you are, sir. [Harry enters
the garden. As he does so Effie makes a dart
at him and flings her arms round his neck.
He stands six foot one of bone and muscle.
Under the brim of his old straw hat a large,
well-formed nose divides a pair of dark, hu-
morous, steady eyes. The lips of a particu-

ACT I 21

larly beautiful, sensitive mouth are smiling. A
long, determined chin, great square shoulders
and a hack as flat as a blackboard, eager hands,
feet stuck into large shoes studded with nails, —
that^s Harry Pemberton.}

Harry \kissing her and then holding her
away from himj. Seventeen, seventeen!
Think of it. In the twinkling of an eye you'll
be no longer my little girl, but a woman with
her hair up, stuffed full of hairpins, and
being your father's daughter you'll shed 'em
about the passages. . . . I'm sorry I couldn't
give you anything better than a watch, my
baby.

Effie. I love it. It's the only thing I've
ever wanted.

Harry. The only thing ! That's good. It
was given to me when / was seventeen and if
properly treated it'll be alive and kicking for
yet another seventeenth birthday. I wish I'd
had the money to give you a brand new one, but
I think you know that this old watch ticks out the
great love and friendship and respect of your
old chum and father, eh, darling? \_Effte kisses
Harry emotionally. '\

Mrs. P. I think you'd better wear your best
waistcoat this evening, dear.

Harry {^laughing and coming down with Ef-
fie'\. Not I ! It means wearing a choker with

22 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

it and I'll be hanged if I'll do that. No sign
of the boy yet, I suppose ?

Mrs. P. No. But everything's ready.

Effie. I don't think he'll come.

Mrs. P. But he is coming. It's arranged.

Effie. I don't think he'll come.

Mrs. P. Why do you say that?

Harry. Well, I'm beginning to wonder
whether he will. I had a letter this afternoon
from his father. It was sent down by train
and brought to me at Joe Judd's, who, by the
way, is going to be wheeled round this after-
noon to see the sweet peas.

Mrs. P. [surprised]. A letter from Lord
Aberlady?

Effie. What's it about?

Harry [sitting on seat]. Well, it evidently
cost the old gentleman a great effort to write.
It's the outcome of a conscientious desire to give
me the whole black details of this boy's past.

Mrs. P. Poor boy.

Effie [sitting on her legs on the grass].
Read it, father.

Harry. Perhaps I'd better. I shall have
to cram him and take the much needed money
for it. But you two, after all, will have to put
up with him after hours, so it's as much your
concern as mine. [He opens letter.] " A
hundred Grosvenor Square, July 17, nineteen

ACT I 23

eleven. Dear Sir, let me come at once to the
reason of my troubling you with this letter.
You have made it convenient to receive my sec-
ond son into your house. He is supposed to
be with you this afternoon. I have already
explained to you that the reason of my asking
you to read with him is that, under existing cir-
cumstances, I cannot do with him under my
roof.

Efjie. Old beast I

Mrs. P. Hush, dear.

Harry \_drily'\. He is the minister for edu-
cation in the present government — a very dis-
tinguished man. " I also feel that I may not
have been wholly frank with you, as to my son's
disposition. Honestly I have neither his con-
fidence nor his obedience and my efEorts hith-
erto to put him on the road along which I desire
him to walk, have failed utterly."

Effie. He writes like a minister of educa-
tion!

Mrs. P. Effie! Effie!

Harry \readmg'\. " Having accepted the
charge of my son you have the right to know
the following details."

Effie. Now for it !

Harry [reading']. " He was educated at
Eton. I ough;t to tell you that his record there
was a bad one. If it had not been for his ex-

24 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

cellence in the cricket field the head master
would have rid the school of his presence.
Later he went up to Oxford. The independ-
ence of the undergraduate did not, as I hoped,
steady my son. On the contrary, his career at
Oxford was short. He was sent down in the
middle of his second year. He will come to
you aged twenty-two, having been almost a year
in London at a loose end. He is, in no sense
of the word, a degenerate, nor does he seem to
be a bad hearted young man. So far as he has
permitted me to make his acquaintance, he
seems to be capable of improvement. I believe
him to be proud, headstrong, self-indulgent,
generous, utterly uncontrollable in a bearing
rein, but so easily influenced that he is as likely
to drag my name into the gutter if left with his
present friends as he is likely to be lifted above
the ordinary level of human creatures if he falls
into such hands as yours. [Efjie bends down
and kisses Harry's hands. "l I am well aware
that I am asking you to undertake a grave re-
sponsibility. As my son will not hesitate, if he
does enter your house, to pack up and leave it
at once, should he not take a liking to you, the
responsibility is one which may not last long.
I trust that this may not be the case and if your
influence saves my son from becoming a mem-
ber of the regiment of dissipated, shifty, useless

ACT I 25

and harmful creatures into which so many of
our younger sons are drifting, I shall be grate-
ful indeed. Believe me, dear sir, yours faith-
fully, Aberlady."

Efjie. He won't come.

Harry. He will come, and what then?
[To his wife.] Are you afraid? Do you
think he'll have cockshies at your best tumblers ?

Mrs. P. Three hundred a year will go a
long way in the village. But utterly uncontrol-
lable, headstrong, self-indulgent. . . .

Harry [with a laughl. That description fits
ninety-nine per cent of men who are worth their
salt.

Effie. He won't come.

Harry. He plays cricket. All I hope is
that he bowls. We're frightfully short of
bowlers, and if he plays golf, my dear, won't
you two be able to have some matches !

Efjie [jumping up'\. Ah! If only he'll
come. Do you think he'll walk or have a cab ?

Mrs. P. Oh, he'll walk of course.

Harry. He's certain to have a cab.

Effie. The three forty will just about be in.
I'm going to see if there's any sign of him.
[She flies through the gate.'}

Harry. Young Graham will be a godsend to
Effie. I'm afraid she's very lonely and that she
mopes sometimes.

26 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Mrs. P. [surprised}. Lonely? Why?

Harry. The only child, you see. No one
to play with, no one to confide in, no one to
quarrel with, no one to compete with. It isn't
good.

Mrs. P. [proudly]. But she confides in me,
always.

Harry. Yes, darling, of course she does.
Let us hope she always will. Still, I'm glad
that young Archie Graham's coming, for Effie's
sake as well as for ours. Think what we can
do among our poor with three hundred a year.
We can instantly build the new room for the
club. Won't that be immense! I'll give the
boy six hundred pounds' worth of tuition.

Mrs. P. [smiling}. I know you will. The
only thing I'm afraid of is that you will work
too hard.

Harry. No man can work too hard.
Life's very short and there is much to be done.

Mrs. P. Harry, how did Lord Aberlady's
letter strike you ?

Harry. It tells us nothing. All Archie
Graham wants is to be trusted. Why, if I
hadn't been trusted and put on my honour I
should have gone hopelessly to the devil. [He
puts his hand on his wife's shoulders.} Have
you had time to realise that our baby is seven-
teen?

ACT I 27

Mrs. P. [smiling'\ . Isn't It wonderful !

Harry. We've been married eighteen years.

Mrs. P. isoftly'[. Isn't It wonderful!

Harry [in a deep vo'tce~\. And I nearly lost
you seventeen years ago, my dear. Very
nearly. You gave me Effie and stood very
close to the open door. Are you glad you
didn't go In and leave us both alone ?

Mrs. P. Oh, Harry!

Harry [with emotion'\. Have I been a good
man to you, little woman? Have I left any-
thing undone that you'd like me to do ? Have
I been even half grateful enough that you
stayed ?

Mrs. P. Dearest! [Effie comes into the
garden, slamming the gate.']

Effie. No sign of a cab. Well, after all, I
don't think he plays golf so It doesn't matter.

Mrs. P. [to Harry]. You'll try and have
nothing to do to-night, won't you? If you're
not here I don't know how we shall amuse the
boy.

Harry [with a short laugh]. It's not much
use trying. I promised to go and see poor
Mrs. Lemmins. It's eight months to-day since
Mary Ann disappeared. Poor little Mary Ann
with the angel face and golden hair. And Joe
Judd can't last much longer. All I can give the
boy is an hour after dinner and perhaps we can

28 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

get a pipe together before we go to bed, — if he
comes. [^Collins comes to the gate. He grins
excitedly.']

Collins. Cab at door, sir.

Effie [excitedly]. He has come, then.

Harry [^catching the contagion]. Ask Mr.
Graham to come round into the garden and
bring his luggage through this way.

Collins. Right you are, sir. \^He salutes
with a characteristic touch of exaggeration.
He goes of.]

Effie. I wonder what he is like ?

Mrs. P. [all in a fluster] . Hadn't we better
leave you to meet him alone?

Harry. Yes, that's a good idea.

Mrs. P. Come along, dear.

Effie. I shall peer out of the window.
Father, I'll bet you a bob he's short and fat.
[She follows Mrs. P. into the house, all alight.]

[Harry finds himself, to his own amusement, just
a little nervous. The words of the letter flash
through his mind. He stands irresolute for a
moment and then, with a desire to put the boy
at his ease and let him come upon a man who,
although a clergyman, is a sportsman, takes up
a mashie that is standing against the seat and
swings it. Archie Graham appears at gate.
He is tall and slight and clean shaven, good-

ACT I 29

looking and well-dressed. He wears a half
sulky, half supercilious expression and his eyes
are suspicious. There are one or two curiously
old lines round his mouth. He comes down a
step or two and stands watching Harry who
pretends not to see him. There is a slight
pause-l

Archie. Mr. Pemberton?

Harry {looking up'\. Yes. Are you Gra-
ham?

Archie {touching his hat'\. Please.

Harry {stretching out his hand'\. How are
you?

Archie [slightly antagonistic']. Very well,
thanks.

Harry {eyeing him surreptitiously]. Sorry
I couldn't meet you at the station.

Archie. Oh, not a bit !

Harry. You chose an excellent train.

Archie. Yes, a non-stopper. I thought this
place was further away. It's not so far off the
map as I ... I mean. . . .

Harry {with a laugh]. As a matter of fact
it is off the map although we're only sixteen
miles from Hyde Park Corner. {He swings
the mashie in an interested manner, treating the
boy almost casually as though his arrival was a
very ordinary affair.]

30 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie [watching him closely'[. It's rather
pretty here, isn't it ? A little flat perhaps.

Harry. The brickmaking, orchard district,
you know. All our women work in the fields
and most of our men are brickees when they
condescend to work at all, which isn't often.
And curiously enough there is a rather large
Irish contingent round the green. How's your
father?

Archie. He's well I believe, thanks.

Harry. You'll have tea, won't you?

Archie. No, thanks. I had tea at Padding-
ton.

Harry [holding out case'\. A cigarette?

Archie [after a slight hesitation']. Thanks.

Harry. I don't recommend them but they
are not more poisonous than most.

Archie [looking at it with something of
patronage]. Oh, this Is a pretty safe brand.

Harry [abruptly]. Sit down.

Archie. Well, I. . . .

Harry. Yes? [He smiles at the boy.]

Archie [sitting]. Thank you. [He is ob-
viously ill at ease and constrained. He fidgets
with his fingers and continues to look search-
ingly at Harry when unobserved.]

Harry. What's your theory as to the length
of a mashie?

ACT I 31

Archie \^drawUng'\. I dunno. Don't think
I've ever thought about it.

Harry. I mean do you like 'em short or
long, large faced or more of the jigger school?

Archie. Oh, I just bought one and I've
stuck to it ever since. They called it a mashie
and I used it as such.

Harry [with a laughl. A contented mind,
eh?

Archie [with a bitterness so horrible and full
of history that Harry drops the mashie and eyes
him with a new lookj. Contented !

Harry. What have you been reading for?

Archie [a little humblyl- I'm afraid I've not
been reading, sir.

Harry. Are you a rich man? I mean are
you going to read with me in order to earn a
living ?

Archie. Yes — that's the notion.

Harry. Good. A man who doesn't have
to earn his bread and butter misses the joy of
life. You've decided what you're going to read
for now I take it ?

Archie. The Bar.

Harry. Oh, excellent. I'll look out all my
old books. Some of 'em will be useful.

Archie [looking up\. Did you read for the
bar, sir?

32 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry. Yes. Tremendously hard. I was
going in for the bar and politics at one time.

Archie. What made you chuck it and go into
the church — I beg your pardon.

Harry [with intense solemnityl. If ever the
time comes when I am obliged to tell anyone
why I went into the church, Archibald Graham,
it will be the worst day in my life. [Collins
passes through with a shirt case on his shoul-
der.]^

Collins. Shall I take it upstairs, sir?

Harry. Ah, your baggage. Yes, upstairs,
Collins. Mr. Graham's room is my old dress-
ing room. [Collins goes into house.'\

Archie. I hope I'm not. . . .

Harry. Not a bit. A dressing room is a
luxury. Er . . . is that all you've brought ?

Archie [quickly]. A telegram will bring the
rest.

Harry. Shall Collins take a wire at once ?

Archie. Well. . . .

Harry [bluntly but kindly]. If not, my dear
fellow, there's a fast train back to Paddington
in half an hour. What will you do ? Take it
or send a wire?

Archie [after a distinct pause during which he
looks into Harry's eyes]. I'll wire, please.

Harry [quietly]. Thanks, old chap.

ACT I 33

[Takes out a pocket book.~\ Here's a form
and a pencil. [He puts them on table. The
boy writes.] Don't forget to ask for your golf
clubs and cricket bag.

Archie [without looking up], I have.

Harry. Good. [Collins comes into garden.]

Archie. May I. . . .

Harry. Yes. Collins, just go down to the
post office, will you? Ask Mrs. Wimley to
send that off at once.

Collins. Right you are, sir.

Archie. Here's the money. Don't bother
about the change.

Collins [saluting]. Right you are, sir.
[He spits on the coin. There is a drink in the
offing. You almost hear it going into the glass.
There is an added spring in his walk as he goes
of.]

Harry. And now come and have a look at
your room.

Archie [quickly and with a touch of agita-
tion]. Would it put you out if we stayed here
for a minute ? I ... I want to speak to you.

Harry. Fire away.

Archie [pausing uncomfortably and pidling
himself up to an unusual proceeding]. Before
I go into your house I want to lay everything
out straight with you, sir, at once.

34 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry {^sitting on the chair below door'\.
Go ahead, old fellow.

Archie. And I'm going to ask you to an-
swer one or two questions bluntly if you don't
mind, without any attempt to spare my feelings.

Harry [with a smile'\. Right.

Archie [bending down and picking up a sweet
pea and fidgeting with if]. Was I packed off
to you by the Guvnor as a waster?

Harry. Pretty well like that.

Archie. He sent me to you much as a drunk-
ard is sent to a rescue home?

Harry. Much in the same way.

Archie. With a detailed list of my misdo-
ings at Eton and Oxford?

Harry. Pretty detailed.

Archie [flinging away the sweet pea and turn-
ing to Harry quickly'\. That's how I was sent
to Eton — under suspicion. That's how I went
up to Oxford, still under suspicion. I was la-
belled suspicious goods. I knew that I was
watched and expected to break out into some
rottenness ! It spoilt Eton for me and ruined
my chances at Oxford.

Harry. My dear fellow. . . .

Archie [with a burst']. I don't say that I'm
not rotten. I don't say that I'm not a mass of
detestable characteristics, but the one sure way
of bringing these things to the top was to sus-

ACT I 35

pect me. I've had nothing to live up to and
I've done stinking things everywhere out of
bitterness and anger. I want you to know this
before we go any further. I want you to know
my side of it all, and I want to ask you for
God's sake not to begin by suspecting me. Do
you?

Harry {rising and looking at the boy all
over'\. No. [He holds out his hand.']

Archie {seizing it and crumpling over it].
Ah!

Harry. Now, look here, Archie Graham, as
we are in a sort of way rubbing noses and be-
coming friends, let me say something too. I
don't know your father personally. From
what he's done for the country he's a big man,
but I can see from his letter that he doesn't
understand you.

Archie {brokenly]. No, he doesn't.

Harry. I expect he's always treated you as
a man should treat a man and not as a man
should treat a boy. He began by believing, no
doubt, that you had no sense of honour, when
he ought to have given you credit for possessing
as great a sense of honour as he possesses and
put you on it.

Archie. If only he had.

Harry. And as to your horrible misdeeds
at Eton and Oxford, — my dear good fellow,

36 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

when and where is a man to commit the harm-
less necessary horrible misdeeds of his green
youth except at Eton and Oxford, unless it's at
Charterhouse and Cambridge. Your father
and those asses at Eton and Oxford, all of them
book stuffed, theorising apes only fitted to make
rules for the conduct of dead things, have made
you self-conscious, eh? Well, all that's over.

Archie [looking up wistfully'^. Over?

Harry. Yes, over and done with.

Archie. How ?

Harry. You and I are brothers, just two
ordinary good sorts, ready to break out and go
arm in arm with nature to the gutter, but for
the sympathy of each other, — and of that other
Brother of ours. I'm going to give you all the
trust and sympathy that I've got and you're go-
ing to do the same by me. When we stand on
our hind legs and have the infernal bumptious-
ness to say that we feel no need for sympathy
and help, providence, always on the lookout for
the braggart, will put in one straight from the
shoulder and hit us very hard. Your ciga-
rette's out. Have another.

Archie. No, thanks [quickly^. May I tell
you one other thing ?

Harry. If you feel you must.

Archie. I think you ought to know that I
was sent down from Oxford.

ACT I 37

'Harry. Loads of men are sent down who
don't deserve such drastic treatment.

Archie. I did deserve it, though.

'Harry. Glad to hear it.

Archie [surprised^. Glad?

Harry. Yes, of course. If a man knows
that he deserves punishment, he doesn't grum-
ble when he gets it and ten to one it's a good
thing for him. Punishment only has a bad ef-
fect on the man who doesn't deserve it, and
gets it. If he's not a pretty strong fellow he
either develops into a criminal or deteriorates
into a sloppy creature with a perpetual griev-
ance.

Archie. I want to start fair with you, sir.
I can't even dream of staying under your roof
until you know exactly what I did. I don't
want to remain here under false pretences.

Harry. I'm not going to know. I'm not
your judge, my dear chap. I'm your friend
and I believe in you. Forget the incident.
You've had your knockout blow and you're on
your feet again. The thing's over. Now
then, I'll toss you which of us has the bath.

Cookie [at do orl^. Telephone!

Harry. Right. [He lays his hand on the
boy's shoulder for a moment and goes quickly
into the house. Archie goes over to the tree-
seat. All his movements are now boyish and

38 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

there is a sort of eagerness and surprise in all
his lines of body.]

Cookie [full of curiosity to inspect the
"swell" and obviously making an excuse to
speak to him']. How do you like potatoes?
Plain boiled or sorty?

Archie [with a little laugh]. Oh, anyhow,
thanks.

Cookie. That's no answer. Being a swell
I should have thought you liked 'em sorty.

Archie [amused]. Plain boiled.

Cookie. I hoped you'd say that. It's less
trouble. [She goes nearer.] Do you know
you've brought no pyjamas?

Archie. I've just wired for my things. I
forgot them, — that is I didn't bring them.

Cookie. I shall like you.

Archie. Thanks very much.

Cookie. Perhaps I'd better introduce my-
self. Miss Ethel Meadows, commonly called
Cookie by her friends.

Archie. How do you do. Cookie? [He
holds out his hand.]

Cookie [enthusiastically]. Oh, you are all
right, you are. [Shakes.] I gathered you
were a bit of a terror.

Archie [drily]. My reputation generally
precedes me.

Cookie. Let me give you a tip. There's a

ACT I 39

dog called Bill who lives here. If you want
to be on good terms with me don't let 'im sleep
on your bed.

Archie. It's a bargain. Anything else?

Cookie. No, that's all. Oh, yes, there is
one other thing. If you read in bed at
nights, don't stick the candle on your chest.
I don't mind how I die so long as it isn't by
fire.

Archie. Consider it settled.

Cookie. Here, you're a bit of an angel.
{She goes of in a sort of a pea-hen laugh.]

Archie. Glad you think so. [Enter Mrs.
Pemberton. Cookie goes to her eagerly.]

Cookie {in a stage whisper]. I've put him
through 'is paces, mum, and 'e's all right.

Mrs. p. Ssh! Cookie.

Cookie. Plain boiled, eh? Well, you shall
'ave 'em. \She nods to Archie and goes in.
Her curious shrill laugh hangs on the air.]

Mrs. P. How do you do?

Archie {coming forward and taking her
hand]. How do you do?

Mrs. P. I'm very glad you've come.

Archie {boyishly]. So am I.

Mrs. p. I'm afraid your room's rather
small.

Archie. I don't mind how small my room is.
It's in your house.

40 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Mrs. P. But you're going to do your work
in my husband's den.

Archie [eagerly'\. Am I really?

Mrs. P. {^apologising'\. I won't apologise
for Cookie.

Archie. Oh, please don't. She's immense.

Mrs. P. She's been with us twenty years
and perhaps she takes a little advantage of it.
Is your father quite well?

Archie. I think so, thanks.

Mrs. P. And your mother?

Archie [simply']. I haven't got a mother.
She died when I was born.

Mrs. P. Oh, I'm sorry.

Archie. So am I. I've missed her . . .
badly.

Mrs. P. The golf links is only a stone's
throw from here.

Archie. Oh, that's ripping. Do you play?

Mrs. P. No, but my husband does, — when
he has time.

Archie. I don't suppose that's very often.

Mrs. P. No, it isn't.

Cookie [at door]. May I speak to you a
moment, mum?

Mrs. P. Certainly, Cookie. [To Archie.]
Will you excuse me ?

Archie. Oh, please. [Mrs. Pemherton
drops a note book. Archie picks it up, gives

ACT I 41

it to her, bends over her hand and kisses it.]

Mrs. P. Oh, thank you. [She turns slowly

and goes in with a little smile on her face.]

[Archie stands quite still for a moment, where
he is, facing audience. After a moment
he takes of his hat and opens his arms,
breathing in the air. His whole face is
changed. He looks younger and con-
tented. Effie peeps round the gate.]

Archie [involuntarily]. The Guvnor shall
see. I've got my chance. . . . I've got
my chance at last. [Effie saunters in, trying
to appear as though she had known hun-
dreds of men in her time and leaning against
table.]

Archie [turning]. I beg your pardon. I'm
Graham.

Effie [looking at him and smiling]. I know.

Archie. How do you do?

Effie. I'm very well, thank you. What's
your handicap ?

Archie. A bad eight. I suppose you're aw-
fully good?

Effie. Oh, I'm pretty useful, — for a woman.
[She breaks suddenly into a fit of nervousness
and shyness. Archie stands watching her.]
Have you met Bill?

Archie. Yes. He introduced himself to me

42 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

outside. I've met Cookie, too, and Mrs. Pem-
berton. Are you, er . . . are you the Vicar's
sister?

Effie [laughingl. No, I'm his pal — I mean
his daughter.

Archie. You couldn't be one without the
other.

Efjie [leaning towards him eagerlyl. Then
you aren't going back within twelve hours as
your father said you. . . ,

Archie [sharply'\. Did my father say that?

Efjie. I'm so sorry. It slipped out.

Archie. It doesn't matter. I suppose my
father wrote that if I didn't cotton on to the
Vicar, I should chuck East Brenton.

Effie. Yes.

Archie. Um! And that's what I should
have done.

Effie. Would you really?

Archie. Like a shot. But it so happens
that I like your father a million times better
already than any man I've ever met, and that's
only a tenth part of how I'm going to like him.

Effe. I knew you would if you came.

Archie. I'd have to be deaf and blind not
to. I wish I'd known him since the beginning
of the world. [He laughs frankly.'] That's
my egotistical way of saying since I was born.

Effie. I know.

ACT I 43

Archie [going nearer to her and losing self-
consciousness'\. I'm going to mug like blazes
with your father, to make up for lost time.
Are you working?

Effie. No, I never do anything, — at least
nothing very much. Mother's so busy that I
look after the house and make my frocks and
practise the piano and every now and then,
when I can't help myself, I write a story about
some of the dreadful things of life.

Archie \_astonished}. Good Lordl What
do you know about the dreadful things of life?

Effie. Nothing. So I tear my stories up.

Archie. You seem to have so much to do,
and I'm going to have so much to do, that it
doesn't look much like golf for either of us.

Effie. Before breakfast and before dinner.

Archie \_with a laugh'\. What time's break-
fast?

Effie. Eight o'clock.

Archie. By Jove ! Means getting up at six
then.

Effie. Can't you ?

Archie. I'd get up at five to play golf with
you.

Effie. I'll introduce you to our links to-mor-
row.

Archie. Right. Thanks most awfully.
[Enter Harry from house.]

44 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry. EfEe — Archie. Archie — Effie.

Archie. We've met.

Cookie [putting her head out of door^.
Dinner in five minutes.

Harry. Mr. Archibald Graham — Cookie.

Archie. We've met too.

Cookie {with a loud chuckle'\. Well I
never !

Harry. Well, you've not wasted much time,
have you?

Archie. Not a second. [Enter Mrs. Pem-
herton from house.]

Harry. Am I to take it that you've
chummed up to my wife as well as to every
other member of this house?

Archie. Yes, please.

Mrs. P. [taking his arm']. Let me show you
your room.

Archie. Thanks. Queen Ann, isn't it? A
great period. And by Jove, what yews.
[They go in together.]

Harry [to Effie eagerly]. Well, what do
you think about him ?

Effie. I've not had time to think about him
yet, darling.

Harry. But do you think you'll like him
when you have got time to think about him?

Effie. I didn't want any time to think about
that. I liked him at once.

ACT I 45

Harry. Good. That's exactly how he af-
fected me. \^The dinner gong goes.'\

Effie. The first gong. And I haven't
washed. [^Runs to door and turns.] Do
come, darling. You must be starving.

Harry [putting his arm round her]. I can't,
my baby girl.

Efjie [drawing away and speaking with a note
of awful disappointment]. Father! You're
. . . you're surely not going away to-night?

Harry. I'm very sorry, but I must. We'll
keep the birthday to-morrow night.

Efjie {hysterically]. To-morrow, to-mor-
row! What's the good of to-morrow. It's
to-day. What's the use of a birthday to me
without you for a minute. I wish I'd never
had a birthday. I'm not wanted. No one
wants me. I'm no use. I'm only in the way.
Nothing is right. I wish I'd never, never been
born. [She bursts into sobbing.]

Harry [startled, eyeing her in wonder]. Ef-
fie! .. . What are you saying? [He puts his
arm round her tenderly.] Nothing is right, lit-
tle girl ? I always thought that you and I were
bosom friends with no secrets from each other.
It seems that you have hidden something from
me if nothing is right.

Effie. I didn't mean that. I could bite my
tongue off for saying that. I'm a discontented

46 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

beast. Don't worry about me. Only I've been
longing all day to have you for just one evening
in the year, my own evening, darling. Don't
go.

Harry. I must, dearest. There is work for
me to do.

Effie. What work?

Harry. My work, which must come before
everything else, even when it concerns those I
love best in the world. Old Joe Judd is dy-
ing. He needs me. [Effie's hands go up to
her mouth. She stands awed and quiet.'\ Do
you see? . . . Good night, my baby. [He
kisses her and turns up-l Bill, Bill! [He
goes of briskly calling for the dog."]

[Curtain.]

ACT II

The Scene is laid in Harry Pemberton's study.
It is a large room, matchboarded up to
within three feet of the ceiling. At the
top of matchboarding there is a shelf
which runs all round the room. This is
lined with books of all sizes and colours,
except at C. back where there is a semi-
circular built out window. The window
seat is covered with cushions. The walls
are closely hung with college groups
framed. There is a door down R. An
old stone fireplace with the fire on the
hearth L.C. The mantelboard is strewn
with pipes and silver cups. Above it are
hung a number of small frames in which
there are photos of the men at Oxford in
Harry' s time. On the right of window
there is a village-made writing desk. It
has three drawers on each side of it and a
shelf running at the back. It is littered
with books, papers, tobacco tins, etc. On
the L. of window there is a Jacobean chest
on the top of which stands a stack of
drawers, labelled. In other available
spaces there are golf clubs, a sporting rifle
47

48 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

or two, and several tennis racquets. A\
somewhat shabby turkey carpet covers the
floor, on the middle of which there is a
small table. On this there is a large oil
lamp and some rather nice books. There
are comfortable chairs round the fireplace
and elsewhere.
\When curtain rises, Archie is discovered sit-
ting on window seat smoking a pipe, read-
ing and making notes. He is obviously
absorbed in his work. Harry is seated at
his desk with his back to audience writing
hard. There is a silence for a moment
after the curtain has risen. Cookie enters.
She leaves the door open and there drifts
into the room the sound of a piano in the
distance and a young girl's voice singing.
Archie looks up. He listens with a smile
on his face.]

Cookie. Work, work, work! Always at
work. 'Pon my soul I never knew such a lot.

Harry [^without looking up]. What is It,
Cookie, what is it?

Cookie. All right then. It's a letter
brought by a lad from the Canal. By the writ-
ing I should say it's from Mrs. Lemmins. Also
by the whiff.

Harry [turning round quickly]. Let me

ACT II 49

have it, Cookie. \_He opens it and reads
eagerly.']

Cookie [looking towards Archie]. You
ain't playin' your usual game of tennis to-night
then, Mr. Archie ?

Archie. No, not to-night. The grass is too
wet. Skidding cuts it up.

Harry. You're perfectly right, it is from
Mrs. Lemmins. {He rises excitedly.] Mary
Ann has come home again.

Cookie. You don't say so.

Harry. At last !

Cookie. About time, too. Eight months
away and never a word. I never did trust yer
soft spoken, angel-faced, sugar-in-the-mouth
girls myself.

Harry {turning to Cookie rather sharply].
You win kindly tell the lad that I will see Mrs.
Lemmins as soon as she can come.

Cookie. Very good, sir. {She turns and as
she goes out she makes a little face at Archie.
When door is shut no sound of the piano can
be heard.]

Harry {pacing the room]. Home at last!
Little Mary Ann. What in Heaven's name has
she been doing? I'd give a year of my life to
know that she's safe.

Archie {looking up. The evening sun is on
his sun-tanned face.] Who is Mary Ann ?

50 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry [in a voice that quivers a little']. The
daughter, the only daughter of a very good
body who works the Albert Edward barge on
the canal. She was born on the same night as
EfEe. She was the best and most flower-like
little girl in the school. She disappeared just
before Christmas. Police and missionaries
have been unable to find her. Thank God she's
come back.

Archie {warmly, but with a slight hesitation].
I believe you're a father to everybody in this
village, sir.

Harry [tins elf -consciously and without any of
the shame of insularity]. My dear fellow, I'm
a parson. I try to be the servant of the Uni-
versal Father. His children are my children.
. . . How are you getting on?

Archie. Better. I really do think that I'm
getting back at last something of the habit of
work.

Harry [at work again and smoking hard].
Don't try and fly before you can walk. You've
only been at it three weeks you know. Efiie
tells me that you can give her a stroke every
morning now. Your golf is going strong at
any rate. She's not easy to beat.

Archie [warmly]. She takes a beating like a
man. Er . . . I had a letter from the gov'nor
this morning, sir.

ACT II 51

Harry. Oh, what did he say?

Archie. It was rather a nice letter. He
seemed a bit surprised that my address is still
East Brenton.

Harry [with a laughl . Are you never going
to town again ?

Archie. Not if I can help it. I hate the
place.

Harry. Do you? I don't. When I went
up to the Middlesex Hospital the other day to
see how one of my men was getting on who had
had an operation, I missed the train at Pad-
dington and had to wait half an hour. The
noise and bustle of the station excited me. I
felt as though I'd had a week's holiday in some
foreign place.

Archie. You never go to London, do you ?

Harry. I've too much to do. Oh, by the
way, I've been fitting out a gymnasium for the
elder boys. I stand in need of an instructor.
[He looks up, whimsically. '\ Er . . .

Archie [eagerly'\. Oh, by Jove, may I . . .

Harry [with a smile'\. Will you?

Archie [rising']. I'd give my ears to help
you in some way or other.

Harry. Thanks.

Archie. Don't thank me. I have to thank
you. I don't think you quite know what you're
doing for me. I feel — human here.

52 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry. Impart some of your feeling to
these slouching lads, old chap. Help me to
keep them out of the public house. It's not
easy. [Enter Cookie.'[

Cookie. I can't 'elp myself, but that Mrs.
Watkins is 'ere again. It's 'er son this time.

Harry {wheeling round'\. What about her
son?

Cookie. He's caught his feet in the ma-
chinery of the mill. . . .

Harry [going quickly to door}. Oh, good
heavens ! [Exit.]

Cookie. They say there's no rest for the
wicked. How about the good ?

Archie. Yes, by Jove ! Isn't he . . . isn't
he . . .

Cookie. Isn't he just 1 . . . Now then, now
then, no slackin'. Thought you was at work?

Archie [with a laugh]. Good for you,
Cookie. May I have a box of matches ?

Cookie. What — another? I believe you
eat 'em. Well, here you are. [She delves
into her pocket and brings out a box.] You'll
ruin us if you go on like this. And I don't
know whether you know it, but you eat enough
for three.

Archie [with comic seriousness]. Do I? I
must watch it.

'Cookie. Oh, go on. I was only pullin'

ACT II 53

your leg. And get back to your books other-
wise there'll be a scandal in the village. {^She
breaks into a cackle of laughter and goes off.
Archie returns to his seat and his books. The
light comes golden on the back cloth which
shows a charming corner of the garden. Effie
appears at window.]

Effie. Hello !

Archie. Hello !

Effie. Still at it?

Archie. Apparently. . . . What were you
singing ?

Effie. I dunno. Any old thing.

Archie. I like those old things — when you
sing 'em.

Effie. I'm not going to disturb you, but I'm
coming in and I'm going to sit here. [^&he
climbs into the window and sits on other end of
window seat. Archie laughs.] What's the
matter? What are you laughing at ?

Archie. The mere notion of your sitting
there not disturbing me would make Homer
laugh.

Effie [touchily]. I never met the gentleman.
I don't care whether he laughs or not. Because
he would imitate a hyena there's no reason why
you should. I'll go. \_She gets up abruptly
and walks to door.]

Archie [springing up and chucking his book

54 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

away'\. EiEe . . . Effie. }[He rushes to door
and puts his back against it.'\ For the Lord's
sake don't go.

Effie. I disturb your work. Let me pass,
please. [Coldly.^

Archie [hotly'\. You do disturb my work.
I want you to disturb my work. I can work
till I'm sixty but I shan't always be able to see
you and hear your voice. [Gets hopelessly
self-conscious and hitches his shoulders.'\ Do
come and sit down. \_Effie wavers. The
boy continues eloquently.] I've been mugging
the whole blessed afternoon. I've put in
two more hours to-day than any other day
since I've been here and in any case we
should have been playing tennis but for the
rain.

Effie [with a sudden smile]. Very well.
I'll forgive Mr. Homer. [She takes a skip and
a jump to the window and sits swinging her
legs.]

Archie [following her]. I'm getting fright-
fully keen on this stuff. The only thing is I'm
hopelessly behind with it all. I ought to have
been doing this two years ago.

Effie [airily]. No grumbles.

Archie. I'm not grumbling. I'm getting
fat with content. I say !

Effie. What?

ACT II 55

Archie. I had a ripping letter from the
guv'nor this morning. He is a corker.

Efjie [astonished']. I thought you didn't like
him.

Archie. Why ?

Ejfie. Well, one doesn't generally like a
beast, does one ?

Archie. But he's not a beast. He's one of
the best. It was as much my fault as his that
we didn't pull together. After all it's hopeless
to expect a man to understand a son when he
hasn't got a wife to supply the key. I shall
look him up soon. [^He looks frightfully
pleased at his academic bombast.']

Effie [quickly]. When? Do you mean go
to London?

Archie. Yes. In about — six months from
now. [He grins at her.]

Effie [relieved]. Oh, I thought you meant
at once. Awful rot not getting any tennis to-
night.

Archie. Now you're grumbling.

Effie. No, I'm not. I haven't grumbled
for three weeks.

Archie. Why three weeks?

Effie. I dunno. But I know it's three
weeks because the last time I grumbled it was
on my birthday and everything has been so aw-
fully different since then.

56 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie \_eafferly]. Has it? Why?

Effie [simply']. 1 absolutely don't know. I
seem to have had more to do, more to think
about, more to be interested in — ' [^Suddenly
she begins to laugh."]

Archie. What's up?

Efjie. I am a fool I

Archie. Why ?

Ejfie. I do know. It's you.

Archie [bending forward]. Me?

Efjie. Yes, you. Of course it's you. I've
not been lonely since you came. We've jawed
and fought the most fearful battles at golf and
tennis and all the time you've been working,
I've been working.

Archie. What at?

Effie. The Law Prelim.

Archie. What!

Effie [looking at him]. I'm just as keen on
your getting through your exams as you are, so
in a sort of way I am behind your books with
you.

Archie. Ah I Now I see. [Enter Cookie.]

Cookie [excitedly]. A wire for you.

Archie [springing up]. For me?

Effie. A wire? [It might almost he a
bombshell.]

Cookie. Well, it's got Graham on it. I

ACT II 57

hate telegrams. Having no postmark you
can't make a guess at who they're from.

Archie [taking it, looking at it anxiously']. I
hope to Heaven nothing's happened to the
guv'nor. [He opens it.]

Effie. Well?

Cookie. For goodness' sake don't say It's
bad news. What with Mrs. Lemmlns and
young Watkins I'm fairly jumpy.

Archie. By Jove, it's from old Winstanley.
Great work! He's home. [He reads.]
" On leave, lunch to-morrow Cavalry Club, one
thirty. Dine Carlton, do show, Winstanley,
15, Bury Street." Reply paid.

Cookie. Sounds like a bust.

Archie [laughing] . Bust it is. [He goes to
desk and writes on form.] " Righto, Gra-
ham." There you are. Cookie.

Cookie [taking it and looking at him point-
edly]. I didn't think you'd last much longer.
[Exit.]

Archie [in high spirits]. Old Wyn by Jove 1
Haven't seen him since he passed out of Sand-
hurst. He's been in India with his regiment.
I believe they do one deuced well at the Cavalry
Club. Is there a train about nine to-morrow
morning ?

Efjie [who has been standing bolt upright.]
I don't know. I'm not a time table.

58 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie [noticing her manner'\. Oh, look
here. I'll scratch it if you like.

Effie [with a very high head and an almighty
scorn'\. Oh, please don't. After all, Mr.
Winstanley is your friend. You only cram
with us.

Archie. What rot! [He goes to door call-
ing.l Cookie ! Cookie !

Efjie [springing up]. No. Let it go.

Archie. Yes, but if . . .

Effie [suddenly putting her hand on his arm'\.
How long will you be away?

Archie. One day. I ought to go up for
other reasons too. I must get some more ties
and socks.

Effie [going to chair above fireplace and sit-
ting on the arm]. Ties and socks! You've
got hundreds. I don't believe you ever wear
the same twice.

Archie [tapping her on the shoulder to en-
force attention to his so-called epigram']. You
should never rot a man's innocent pleasures.
The very moment a really decent sort loses in-
terest in ties and socks, he has become morbid
or has committed a felony. [He is mighty
pleased with this. It is quite Bullingdon Club
form.]

Effie. Where's the Cavalry Club?

Archie. In Piccadilly.

ACT II 59

Effie. What time will dinner be over?

Archie. About eight o'clock.

Efjie \^eagerly'[. Then you can catch the
eight thirty and we can go for a walk before
bed.

Archie. I should love it, but the thing is,
Winstanley talks of a show.

Effie. What is a show?

Archie. The Empire, I suppose, or the Al-
hambra. [Sees another chance.] A soldier
never goes to the theatre. It's too childish.

Effie. Then when will you be down ?

Archie. The last train I'm afraid.

Effie [rising as though faced with an awful
disaster']. The last train! Then I shan't see
you again until . . . when?

Archie. Seven o'clock the day after to-mor-
row. We'll play our usual eight holes before
breakfast. What are you going to do to-mor-
row?

Effie [like a kid]. Be beastly lonely.

Archie [uncomfortable and yet unaccount-
ably pleased]. Why? I should have been
working all the morning and all the evening.

Effie. Yes, but I should have known that
you were In the house. [She suddenly puts her
arms round him -passionately.] Don't go. I
can't let you go, Archie !

Archie [taking her arms away, quickly].

6o THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Don't, for God's sake ! [ Turns away and goes
to window seat, leaving Effie standing startled.
He looks hot and his hand shakes. Enter
Harry.]

Harry [with great feeling"]. Such a good
chap ! Such an excellent fellow. The left leg
will have to be amputated above the knee.
[Goes to his desk.] What a lesson in pluck!
The first thing he said was " Can I play cricket
with a wooden leg?" [Archie and Effie re-
main silent. Effie is standing where Archie left
her with the same air of startled wonder.
Archie has caught up one of his hooks and is
hunting through it. Enter Cookie.]

Cookie. Fred has sent off the telegram to
the 'orspital, sir.

Harry. That's good. If Watkins needs
me I shall go up with him to the hospital to-
night and sleep in London, so just have my bag
packed in case.

Cookie [with a hurst]. He mustn't need
you. Good Lord, 'aven't you got enough . . .

Harry [gently]. Please, Cookie.

Cookie [going out]. Oh, dear, oh, dear!
What with one thing and another.

Harry [taking up the telegram envelope].
A telegram ! Have you seen this?

Archie. Yes, it's from a pal of mine called

ACT II 6 1

Winstanley. [EiJie turns and leaves the
room.]

Harry [watching her of]. Hullo, have you
two quarrelled?

Archie [laughing nervously]. Good Lord,
no! An argument, that's all. [He continues
quickly.] Winstanley's home on leave. He
wants me to meet him to-morrow in London.
Is there any objection to my . . .

Harry. No, my dear fellow, of course not.
Telegraph and say yes.

Archie. Well, as a matter of fact, I have.
I ought to have asked you first. I'm sorry.
[He gives an involuntary chuckle.]

Harry. Oh, bosh ! You've put In some ex-
cellent work. You deserve a holiday. [He
sits down at his desk.] Why won't those men
be more careful? A year ago Leech had ex-
actly the same accident. He's been hanging
about the village ever since.

Archie. He wants me to lunch and dine.

Harry [vaguely]. Lunch and dine. . . ,
Oh, yes. Well, you will, of course. If I were
you I should spend the night in town. It's a
nuisance to have to rush for the last train.

Archie. No. Thanks very much. I'll get
Cookie to let me have the latchkey. I promise
not to make a row.

62 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry. Just as you like, old chap. Look
into my den and if I'm up we'll have a last pipe.
I say, I hope that you and Effie don't squabble ?

Archie. Good Lord, no. It was absolutely
nothing.

Harry. That's all right. Effie has a very
lonely time. It's good for her to be friendly
with someone about her own age.

Archie. We're as thick as thieves. [Enter
Cookie.]

Cookie. Mrs. Lemmins.

Harry [eagerly]. And Mary Ann?

Cookie. What was Mary Ann. She's so
changed I hardly knew her.

Harry. Ask them in . . . Oh, and Cookie,
just light the lamp will you? The light h^
gone out of the sky. It feels like more rain.
[He goes to window and pulls the curtains.
Cookie lights lamp.]

Archie. Well then, I'll disappear.

Harry. If you don't mind, old chap.
[Archie picks up his books and goes out thought-
fully. It is obvious that Effie' s sudden embrace
has upset him and thrown him headlong. The
room is in darkness except for the light which
is thrown on the table C. and the chairs on each
side of it.]

Harry. Now then, Cookie. [Cookie gives
an eloquent gesture vnth her right hand and

ACT II 63

goes of. Harry walks up and down the room
with his hands behind his back until Cookie re-
turns, when he draws up.'\

Cookie. Mrs, Lemmins. \_A square wom-
an, broad of beam, with a large sunburnt face
and tightly drawn hair under a large black sun-
bonnet enters. She is in a very emotional con-
dition and on the verge of tears.]

Harry. Come in, Mrs. Lemmins. Come in.

Mrs. L. l^She strides down with creaking
boots]. Mary Ann's a' come 'ome, sir.

Harry. So you said in your note. I'm
glad. Where is she?

Mrs. L. Artside, sir. I've gotter few
words ter say ter yew. [She suddenly bursts
into tears.] She won't say '00 took 'er awiy
nor yet where's she bin. 'E deserted 'er some
time ago an' I reckon she's bin sellin' fl'ars in
London.

Harry. Selling flowers !

Mrs. L. 'Ow she come to find the Albert
Edward ai dunno. Reckon she's bin on ther
tramp darn ther canal.

Harry. Poor little soul.

Mrs. L. Oh, sir ! Ther troubles on 'er nar.

Harry [in a deep voice]. Oh, not — that!

Mrs. L. {weeping harder]. Yers, sir, and
'er not married.

Harry. This is a bad day. [Goes to door

64 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

and opens it.'\ Come in, Mary Ann. [The
light in the hall falls on the pale, pretty, worn
face of a young girl. She wears a big hat with
a bedraggled feather and a coloured shawl over
her shoulders. Her skirt is dusty and dirty and
her shoes down at heel. There is a big hole in
one of her stockings. She walks in with a half-
insolent, half-defiant lurch and a sulky, fright-
ened mouth. She takes no notice of her mother
and sits down, as one sits in a dentists chair.
One of her feet lops over and she gives a quick
emotional glance round the room of the man
who is her god.l

Harry [cheerfully'\. Mrs. Lemmins, I
should like you to try Cookie's soup. It's very
good. You know your way to the kitchen.
[He returns to the door and holds it open.
Mrs. L. goes out. You can hear her crying
down the passage. The door is shut. Harry
returns to table and sits opposite to the girl.~\
Dear little Mary Ann.

Mary Ann [bending forward suddenly, pick-
ing up Harry's hand and kissing it'\. Oh, I
wanted you — Ah! I wanted you, not 'arf I
didn't, sir. If it ain't bin because I knewed as
'ow you'd be like this when I come back I
should ha' laid down in the canal.

Harry [softly'[. My dear child.

Mary Ann [with a sort of laugh'\ . Ever bin

ACT II 6s

told as 'ow you was like deep quiet water, sir?
. . . There, like me to show thankfulness by
bein' saucy, I don't think. Thank you kindly
fer seein' me, sir.

Harry. I would have walked a hundred
miles to see you.

Mary Ann. Would you truly, sir? . . .
Not if you'd known as 'ow you would find me.
Mother didn't say in 'er note what I'd done,
did she?

Harry. She said that you were in trouble,
Mary Ann.

Mary Ann [with a shrill hysterical note of
scorn']. Yus! That there's the wiy it's al-
ways put. It wouldn't be called trouble if I
was merried though would it? — and there'd
bin orange blossoms and rice and an old shoe!

Harry [patting her hand]. My dear little
Mary Ann.

Mary Ann [beginning to cry]. I wonder
you can stand the sight o' me — me as used tar
be the good girl o' the school, me as was held
up as a model fer the other girls ... an' yet I
don't see as 'ow trouble's the word neither, un-
less it's for the little un. Jack won't 'ave no
trouble. I suppose I shall git over it. It's the
little un as'U 'ave all the trouble.

Harry. We'll see to that, Mary Ann.
Don't worry.

66 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Mary Ann [eagerly'[. Will we, sir?

Harry. Why, of course.

Mary Ann [without any self-pity^. What's
to become o' me?

Harry. You shall come and live here and
help Cookie.

Mary Ann. Oh, sir ... I want the
baby something awful. I believe I wanted
this baby ever since the diy muvver give me a
doll.

Harry. If it's a boy we'll make a fine fellow
of him and he shall go into the army.

Mary Ann {looking straight at the Vicar'\.
What'U 'e say ter me when 'e finds art?

Harry. Leave that to me.

Mary Ann [like one who has handed all re-
sponsibility to another]. I'm glad I come 'ome.
Everybody's bin very kind ter me. Many's the
glass of milk and 'unk of bread I've 'ad from
women with little uns [in a gossipy way]. Jack
was very good to me, till 'e fell out o' work.
But when I took to sellin' fl'ars 'e went on the
drink and left me. I waited for 'im fer a long
time. Then I thought I'd better try and find
the Albert Edward. I used ter sleep under
'aystacks. They did very nicely fer us. I was
never frightened o' nights. I 'ad something to
whisper to, and to live for. [A beautiful ma-
ternal smile goes all over her face.]

ACT II 67

Harry. Why didn't he marry you, Mary
Ann?

Mary Ann. 'E'd got a wife. 'E told me so
the day 'e left . . . I was to blame fer this, 'e
said.

Harry. You — you/ What a coward.
You know nothing.

Mary Ann. That's it, sir,

Harry. What do you mean?

Mary Ann. Me knowing nothing.

Harry. I don't understand you.

Mary Ann. 'E explained it all right ter me,
sir. Me knowin' nothin' 'e says, and what it
all meant, brought it abart. If I'd a bin told
when I was old enough to understand I should
a sent 'ira awiy, 'e says, double quick, and saved
'im and me and the little un from this 'ere. But
I'm afraid I'm keepin' you abart, sir.

Harry [grimly']. Go on.

Mary Ann [having a nice bit of news']. The
man ain't built for thinkin'. Jack sez. 'E
knows, but 'e ain't perfect an' won't let 'isself
think. 'E says as 'dw if we was taught ter think
and knew as much as the man, there'd be very
little of this 'ere trouble fer us. It's the mother
first, 'e says, and then us, who is ter blame,
never the men.

Harry. My God ! [He springs up.]

Mary Ann [nervously]. I beg pardon, sir?

68 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry \in a sort of amazement'\. Can that
brute be right? Can it be that we — the
mothers and fathers — are partly to blame for
this, for all such things as this?

Mary Ann. Tom side with 'm, sir?

Harry. No. I side with you, my poor
child, with you against your mother, myself, my
wife, all the mothers and fathers and teachers
who are answerable to God for the disaster
that's happened to you.

Mary Ann. [The word disaster is too much
for her.'\ Oh! \^She puts her hands over her
face and begins to cry like a little child.'\

Harry [fo himself^. What have I been do-
ing? . . . [He turns to Mary Ann.] Go to
the kitchen and have some soup and then go
back to the barge with your mother.

Mary Ann [rising']. Yes, sir.

Harry [putting his hands on her shoulders].
And never forget this. You have friends in
this house. When you're ready this roof is
yours. Good night, my child.

Mary Ann. Good night, sir. Thank you
kindly for seeing me. I'm glad I come 'ome.

Harry. And I'm thankful you did. God
bless you. [He opens the door. Mary Ann
goes out slowly. Harry goes to the table, picks
up the lamp and carries it to his desk, putting
it on the shelf above the books. The light is

ACT II 69

thrown all over the room. Efjie's voice is
heard suddenly calling " Archie, Archie! " He
turns round and stands quite still for a moment.
He looks frightened, terribly frightened. He
moves irresolutely. He touches things, and
then with a sort of fear he goes to the door,
opens it and calls. "} Helen! Helen!

Mrs. P. Yes.

Harry. Come here, quickly. \He remains
by the door. There is a slight pause. Mrs.
P- enters. Before the door is closed Effie's
laugh rings out in the distance and she is heard
calling, " Archie! Archie! "]

Helen [entering and coming L.J. Do you
want me, dear?

Harry [gravely and quietlyj. Yes. Sit
down, darling. I want to speak to you.

Helen [sitting and looking up quickly'\.
You're upset about something?

Harry [still standing in front of her]. Up-
set, and humiliated and very worried. [He
sits down.l I don't quite know how to begin.

Helen [putting her hand on his'\. You and
I are partners, dearest. Let me see if I can
help you.

Harry [leaning forward and repressing him-
self with an effort']. It's an amazing thing,
Helen, but in all my years of work in London
and here, the case of Mary Ann is the only one

70 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

which has opened my eyes to the appalling dan-
ger of ignorance.

Helen. Ignorance 1 What makes you think
that Mary Ann is ignorant?

Harry. Everything that she has just told
me. I've always been led to believe that all the
poor wretched Mary Anns of the world have
got into trouble, not because they wanted to be
immoral but because if they were not immoral
they were unpopular.

Helen. I'm afraid that's true, Harry. It's
a sordid, calculating, knowledgeable affair, fre-
quently winked at by the parents, many of whom
are surprised if their girls are married before
they get into trouble.

Harry. Yes, to these people the sex prob-
lem isn't a problem at all. They recognise
facts. Men must be men, they say, and if the
girls don't want to be hopelessly neglected they
must not be squeamish. Like everybody who
comes in contact with the great working class
their looseness has appalled me.

Helen [proudly]. Yes, but you have done a
ffreat work in this village, Harry. You have
raised the moral standard of the men — the
best and only way to protect all these poor girls.

Harry [leading carefully up to his point; he
anticipates trouble']. But here we have Mrs.
Lemmins, a self-respecting woman, earning

ACT II 71

good wages, leading a healthy, hardworking
life. Mary Ann has been carefully brought up.
She's not a slum child reared in the filthy cor-
ners of a city. She's not a worker in the fields,
obliged to rub shoulders with blasphemous and
drunken men. Her innocence has been jeal-
ously guarded. " No lady's daughter," Mrs.
Lemmins used to boast, " need be ashamed to
speak to my Mary Ann."

Helen. And she was right, poor old soul.
Mary Ann was a model, a perfect model.

Harry [seizing his chance~\. A model! A
model of what a girl ought not to be? Inno-
cent, yes. But ignorant, no.

Helen. But how can you expect a girl to be
innocent if she is not ignorant?

Harry. That's just exactly what I've asked
you to come here to tell me. You say that
Mary Ann was a model. Look at her now.
Helen, why don't we tell our children the truth ?
Why do we go on hiding behind false modesty
and personal cowardice? Why, why are we
afraid of looking at the great simple things
square in the face ?

Helen [waving it aside'\. Oh, it's all very
difficult, Harry. It's all been argued a thou-
sand times and there's never been any satisfac-
tory result.

Harry [eagerly and quickly'\. But why not?

72 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Everything else has progressed and yet in this
vital matter we are still prehistoric. Surely the
time for puritanism is dead and done with.
Surely this persistent attitude of deceiving our
girls and of dodging their wondering questions
from the utterly mistaken standpoint of clean-
mindedness is not for intelligent and humane
people. Why do we turn sniggering or shame-
faced from youthful questions prompted by an
unconscious awakening of the maternal instinct?
Why do we drive our ignorant children to such
tragedies as poor little Mary Ann will suffer un-
der all her life ? God has made the earth incred-
ibly beautiful, but we do nothing to put beauty
into the lives of His children. Every day His
young things ask their parents the meaning of
life. Why don't we tell them, Helen? Why
don't you tell Efjie? [He throws his bomb
and watches his wife keenly.'}

Helen [a note of amazement and shock in
her voice} . Effie? Tell Effie?

Harry. Yes, darling, EfEe. She is very
nearly a woman. She has been far more care-
fully brought up than Mary Ann. She has
spent her life almost within the four walls of
this house and garden. We have deliberately
shielded her against the questions of sex.
What might happen to her if she fell in love
with some good-looking, unscrupulous boy?

ACT II 73

Helen. You mean — Archie ?

Harry. No. I mean anyone. We know
nothing of EfEe's mind on this point. She is
seventeen and if she's a healthy girl she has,
whether she knows it or not, the maternal in-
stinct.

Helen. Yes, but she is clean minded and
good.

Harry. But who's to know that she is
strong enough to resist temptation ?

Helen. Harry! [She is absolutely
sJiocked-l

Harry. Who's to know that nature hasn't
punished her by giving her desires as strong as
those of men?

Helen \_stifjp,y'\. Then she will not remain
innocent whether she knows the truth or not.

Harry [leaning forward'^. No, no, no,
that's a sweeping assertion, darling, an unchar-
itable idea. Here and there, of course, there
are poor girls to whom morality and innocence
mean nothing under the stress of nature. But
to ninety-nine out of a hundred virtue means
everything, and I say now — I wish with all my
soul I'd said it sooner — that a woman who lets
her daughter struggle blindly through the
awakening years of her womanhood is not fit to
be a mother.

Helen [rising^. Oh, Harry I [Going

74 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

across room towards table. She is deeply
wounded.'\

Harry [follows her and puts his hands on
her shoulders^. My dear, I want you to speak
to Effie to-night.

Helen. I couldn't — I simply couldn't.

Harry. I ask you to. Effie might have
been Mary Ann! Think of it!

Helen [with anger and passion and dignity.
She looks like a woman fighting a disease'\.
She never could have been Mary Ann, never.
She is our daughter, my daughter. Every day
of her life she has been with us, with me. Do
atmosphere and environment count for nothing?
What is the use of all our teaching and example
if she is to be treated as one of these poor girls
from whom nothing can be hidden? She is
pure of heart and mind. At the right moment
the maternal instinct will come to her, as it
comes to all carefully brought up girls. Let
her be free from all that side of life as long as
she can. [More quietly.] Besides, Harry, it
isn't done. We don't tell these things to our
girls. My mother never told me. She didn't
want me to know. She was all against the dis-
cussion of these terribly personal matters with
young unmarried girls. I found out the truth
for myself. Effie must do the same. [She

ACT II 75

says this in a low voice as though she were in
church.]

Harry [quietly but with emotionl. Darling,
EfEe might have been Mary Ann. Mrs. Lem-
mins never thought of telling her the truth.
Look at her now. No man can say what he
will do under temptation. No woman can say
what she may do in ignorance. EfEe might
have been Mary Ann. Think of it.

Helen. I can't think of it. It's altogether
unthinkable.

Harry [with a touch of anger]. But / think
of it. I must think of it. And I ask you this.
I ask you, for Effie's sake, and for my sake, and
for your sake, to forget what your mother did,
and all these other refined women do, and face
this question fearlessly.

Helen. I . . . can't!

Harry [turns away and goes quickly back to
armchair L., wheels round and stops C.].
Helen, you and I have never had a harsh word
since we knew each other. It will be a black
day if ever we do. For God's sake, don't drive
me into anger over what is one of the most vital
questions that has ever come into our lives.
Effie's happiness and safety are in our hands.
Are you going to be brave enough to do some-
thing that isn't done — are you going to rise

76 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

above a horrible and dangerous convention and
put yourself to the distress and discomfort of
speaking to Effie — or will you leave it to mef
[There is a threat in his voice.]

Helen [frightened]. Harry!

Harry. Effie might have been Mary Ann.
Answer me ! [He brings the weight of his
whole personality against her. She stands ir-
resolute, nervously twisting her fingers. Now
she stands up stiffly. The child is hers.]

Helen [reluctantly]. I ... I will tell her.
[She is even more frightened at hearing her
own statement, puts out her arms, gives a sob
and goes quickly to the man whom she loves
more than life. Harry wraps her in his arms,]

[Curtam.]

ACT III

Two mornings later at half-past six.

The Scene is laid in Archie's bedroom. It is
a square room lined with wood from floor
to ceiling. Door down R. Above door
running close to wall a narrow wooden
bedstead, the bed unslept upon. At back
two windows between which is a high chest
of drawers on which there is a looking-
glass, L. C. There is a fireplace. Above
fireplace deep cupboards. On each side
of the fireplace are cane deck chairs with
cushions in them. The floor is carpeted
with a worn turkey carpet especially worn
in front of the chest of drawers.

Both windows have rather deep window seats.
In front of the one R. there is a shaving
stand. On the other window seat are ar-
ranged half a dozen pairs of shoes for
golf, tennis and ordinary wear and beneath
the window seat there are a number of
pairs of boots, all jacked.

From hooks on door are hanging flannel trou-
sers, white and grey. Over the end of
77

78 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

bed and over all the backs of chairs there
are clothes. There is a little old-fashioned
sofa in front of fireplace and on this are
heaped shirts, socks, stockings, waistcoats,
braces, etc. The whole appearance of the
room is irresistibly untidy, comfortable and
cheerful.

The walls are closely hung with framed photos
of college groups, and Eights, and over the
mantelpiece suspended from a brass rod
is hanging an oar, on the blade of which
the names and weights of an Eight are
painted. A line of books stands on the
mantelpiece. Stowed away in corners
there are leather shirt cases, kit bags and
trunks.

The windows are open and a honeysuckle climbs
round the outsides of them. The sun
pours into the room. The curtain rises
on an empty stage.

[After a pause the door is opened quietly and
Archie enters, carrying a shirt case. He
wears a straw hat tilted and is dressed in
a suit of dark flannels. He looks merry
and bright. He shuts the door carefully,
puts the shirt case on the sofa, undoes it
and unpacks. As he takes out his evening
clothes, opera hat and dress shoes, and
hangs them in the wardrobe, he whistles

ACT III 79

softly. Now he takes out a large collec-
tion of new ties and eyes them with pride.
The door opens quietly and Harry enters
in his shirt sleeves with a brush in each
hand.'\

Archie \turning with a smile']. Good morn-
ing, sir.

Harry {^surprised]. Hullo, you're up early.
I expected to find you with your mouth open,
snoring like a grampus . . . but what's this?
You haven't been to bed !

Archie. No. I've only just got here.

Harry [^sharply]. How's that?

Archie [^glibly]. It was . . . awful bad
luck. Winstanley had a touch of fever last
night, so after the show I went back with him
to his room in Bury Street and sat with him.

Harry [^heartily]. Good for you, my dear
fellow. How on earth did you get down so
early ?

Archie [^frowning deeply and looking as
though he hated himself]. I caught a work-
man's train.

Harry. But you must be frightfully tired.

Archie. No. I'm all right, thanks.

Harry [turning round]. Turn in and have
a sleep. I'll tell Cookie not to call you till
eleven. That'll be better than nothing.

8o THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie. Oh, rather not. I'm not a bit
sleepy. Besides I'm playing golf with Effie at
seven.

Harry. Just as you like. [Goes to looking-
glass and brushes his hair.] Oh, for the glad
days when I was twenty-one ... I often use
this glass when you're asleep.

Archie. But aren't you up earlier than usual,
sir?

Harry. Just a bit. I'm going down to
the barge to see little Mary Ann, poor little
soul. Her baby was born last night. It was
dead.

Archie [involuntarily]. Oh, I'm sorry.

Harry [solemnly]. Who can say whether
one is to be sorry or glad? Her mother calls
it the child of sin. I don't think that God
will call it by such a name. . . . Well, it's a
grand morning for golf, but stick on your thick-
est shoes, the dew is very heavy. [He goes
towards door.]

Archie [quickly]. May I keep you a second,
sir. I want to tell you something.

Harry. Not now, old man, after breakfast.
Mrs. Lemmins is waiting for me. [Exit.]

Archie [eagerly]. But . . . [the door
shuts]. Oh, God, why did I say it? [He sits
down in chair above fireplace in an attitude of
hopeless depression. Enter Cookie.]

ACT III 81

Cookie. Well, you're a nice one, I don't
think.

Archie. I don't think so either.

Cookie. I met him on the stairs and he told
me as 'ow you'd only just got back. What
d'you do? Miss the last train?

Archie. Yes.

Cookie. Did you sleep at the hotel at Pad-
dington ?

Archie. No. I went home.

Cookie. Well, from the sound of you, you
don't seem to 'ave put in a very good time.

Archie. Oh, I put in a good enough time.

Cookie. Too good praps. Dessay you're
feelin' a bit blawsy.

Archie. What's that?

Cookie [surprised"]. French for a whisky
'ead.

Archie [bending forward and putting his
head between his hands]. No.

Cookie. My mistake [examines him with
keen sympathy]. What's the matter?

Archie. Nothing's the matter.

Cookie. Tell me another. You've got
something or other pretty bad. 'Ave a cupper
tea, dear. [ The mother feeling is in her voice.]

Archie. No, thanks. Cookie. I'll wait for
breakfast.

Cookie. Just as you fancy but it won't take

(82 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

me a jiffy to get you one. Come on, you may
as well. You look tired.

Archie. You're awfully kind Cookie, but
I'd rather wait. Don't let me keep you from
getting one for the Vicar. He's up frightfully
early this morning.

Cookie. Yus, and 'e went to bed frightfully
late last night. Kep' up most of it by Mary
Ann down at the barge. 'E don't get a legiti-
mate night's rest once in six. If I was the
missus I'd strap 'im down to his bed. All the
troubles in the world can be seen to in twelve
hours of daylight, I say. Come on now, 'ave
a nice cupper tea, Mr. Archie.

Archie. For heaven's sake don't bother
about me.

Cookie \hurt and going towards door]. All
right, all right, all right. Keep yer 'air on.
[^She stops and turns, filled with something more
than curiosity. The boy's attitude worries her.
She means to get to the bottom of it.] I sup-
pose you're playin' gowf as usual along o' Miss
Effie?

Archie. No. I'm not in the mood for it.

Cookie [returning from door]. 'Ave a few
words with yer father yesterday?

Archie. No, I didn't see my father.

Cookie. Oh, then you backed an 'orse and
went down.

ACT III 83

Archie. Didn't have a bet.

Cookie. Then you're sickening for some-
thing.

Archie. No. I'm as fit as a fiddle.

Cookie \^taking up dress trousers and folding
them carefully, eyeing him all the time'\. I've
got it.

Archie. Got what ?

Cookie {^triumphantly 1. Yus, I've got it.
You're in love.

Archie [^simply]. I've been in love for
weeks.

Cookie. Ah !

Archie. But as I've no right to be, I just
recognise the fact as I recognise that the sun
sets and the moon rises and leave it at that.
I'm worried. Damnably worried, but not
about that.

Cookie [very sympathetically'\. Poor boy.
I can lend you two pound sixteen if that's any
good.

Archie [gets up and puts his hand on her
shoulder'\. Thank you, Cookie. You're a
Briton, but it isn't money. [^Goes over to the
shaving stand."]

Cookie. Well, then, I give it up. If it ain't
love and it ain't money, and it ain't illness,
what in the name of all that's wonderful, is it?

Archie [with a burst] . It's the devil.

84 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Cookie. Oh-h! It's 'im, is It? All I can
suggest is that you 'ave an 'eart to 'eart with
the Vicar. What 'e don't know about the devil,
isn't worth knowing. I shall get you a cupper
tea for all that. Something warm in the tummy
always disconcerts old Nick. \^Ske goes out.
Archie gets up, walks about the room for a
moment and then goes to dressing table and
leans on it with his back to audience. Enter
Harry.'l

Harry. Have you got any money, old fel-
low ? I hadn't time to cash a cheque yesterday,
and poor Mrs. Lemmins is without funds. I
suddenly remembered and came back.

Archie [^turning']. How much do you want,
sir ? I've only got three sovereigns.

Harry. That'll do splendidly. Thanks
very much.

Archie [taking out his money'\. It's just
short of three pounds.

Harry. Never mind. It'll do for the time
being. There are things to get for Mary Ann.
[He takes it.~\ Thanks.

Archie [going to door and putting his back
to it, his face is set and drawn~\. You've got
to know something.

Harry [surprised at the boy's tone'\. Is any-
thing the matter ?

Archie. I lied to you just now.

ACT III 8s

Harry. Did you, why?

Archie. Because I've been trained to lie and
I haven't broken myself of the habit. I forgot
that I wasn't talking to one of the men who
wouldn't believe me if I told the truth. If I
had said that I didn't come down last night
because I missed my train, I should have been
called a liar by them. They would have sus-
pected me of some rot, so from force of habit
I was afraid to tell the simple truth and in-
vented Win's fever. [He takes several steps
towards Harry.] Hit me in the face, knock
me down, hurt me vilely. I want you to.

Harry [going over to sofa and pretending
to examine the lock of the shirt case~\. Old
boy, have you ever been to Westminster Ab-
bey?

Archie. Yes.

Harry. Have you wondered how long and
arduously men must have worked to build up
that gorgeous place?

Archie. Yes.

Harry. You've been trying to build up an
Abbey before you've laid all the foundation
stones. . . . An excellent shirt case this.
Holds a lot too. . . . See what I mean?

Archie \_after a pause]. But have I laid any
foundation stones at all?

Harry. Several of the most important, and

86 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

better still you know which one you haven't laid.
\^He crosses to Archie and puts his arm round
his shoulder.] Go easy, my dear lad. Give
yourself time. The stucco building, the imita-
tion affair that you were made to put up by
your silly fool architects is demolished. Don't
be afraid. Don't press. Don't try and make
records. I'll back you to win after you've
trained a bit more.

Archie. Then you . . . you don't despise
me for this? You won't let this affair ever
make you suspect me ?

Harry. My dear fellow, I'm your friend,
not your taskmaster or drill sergeant. I go
through every day what you've just been going
through, and I thank God for it. It's my only
chance of ever becoming all I hope to be. A
man's reach must exceed his grasp or what's
a Heaven for?

Archie {trying not to break down]. You're
. . . you're most awfully kind.

Harry [realising this and becoming casual].
It was very kind of you to have told me. {He
counts the money in his hand.] Two pounds,
eighteen and seven pence. You shall have it
back this afternoon. Make the most of this
gorgeous morning. {Harry holds his hand out
to Archie. Archie makes a dart at it and grips
it. Harry turns and goes out. Archie heaves

ACT III 87

a sigh of relief, remains where he is for a mo-
ment, then goes to window.]

Archie [waving his hand]. So long, sir.
[He takes off his coat and waistcoat, picks up
the handle of the exerciser which is screwed to
the wall above sofa and exercises vigorously.
Enter Cookie with a cup of tea on a tray which
also contains bread and butter and radishes.]

Cookie. Ah! That's the way. Punch him
in the neck. Put both your fistesses in his
wind. The devil 'ates 'ealthiness. [She goes
of into one of her shrill screams of laughter.]

Archie [laughing and continuing to exercise].
You are a persistent old female.

Cookie. Persistent me foot! And as to be-
ing old, I'm in the first flush of giddy youth.
. . . Now as to sugar, is It one or two?

Archie. Two.

Cookie. That's all right. Where will you
have it?

Archie. Put it on the bed. Cookie.

Cookie. It's the only tidy place in the room.
I can't.keep you straight. Don't let it get cold.
[She goes to door having put the tray on the
bed.]

Archie. Thanks, most awfully. You're one
in a million.

Cookie. Now you'd better take advantage
of the sun. It'll rain before you can say knife.

88 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie. Not it. There was no ring round
the moon last night.

Cookie. Can't 'elp no ring round the moon.
What about my poor feet? [Exit. Archie
continues to exercise. After a pause the door
opens and Effie enters with a scarlet dressing
gown over her nightdress. Her feet are bare.'\

Effie. It is you then ! I woke up suddenly
and thought I heard you.

Archie [dropping the exerciser with a clat-
ter~\. How long will you be before you're
ready ?

Effie. Ready for what?

Archie. Nine holes.

Effie [skips on to the bed']. Oh, there's
heaps of time. I want to hear all your news.

Archie [hurriedly and uneasily]. Why not
wait till we're on the links ?

Effie [laughing]. [She looks angelic and all
flushed from sleep.] Two reasons. There's
no need and I don't want to.

Archie. I'd ever so much rather you did.

Effie [airily]. I can't help your troubles.
You gave me a horribly lonely day, and kept
me up half the night. You must pay for these
things by doing what I want you to do.

Archie. I kept you up half the night . . .
how?

Effie. Well, you don't suppose I was going

ACT III 89

to let you come in without hearing all the de-
tails of your day, do you? I waited here till
I fell asleep. It was four o'clock when I went
to my own room.

Archie [^gasping'\. You waited here?

Effie. Yes. Of course I did. Where else
could I wait?

Archie [more and more uneasy, hut all on
fire with her loveliness']. I say, Cookie says
it's going to rain. For goodness' sake go and
get up.

Effie. May I have a drop of your tea ? It
looks good.

Archie. Have it all.

Effie. No, we'll go halves. {She drinks
from the cup and hands it to Archie.] Here
you are.

Archie [taking cup and putting it on dressing
table] . You're evidently not going to play this
morning, then.

Effie. I shan't stir an inch until you give me
an account of everything that you've done from
the very beginning. Have you noticed all the
changes since you've been away?

Archie. Yes.

Effie. No, you haven't. I'm certain that
you passed the rose trees in the front without
looking at them. They've got a magnificent
new rose apiece.

90 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie. Really ?

Effie. And did you catch sight of those
darhng sweet peas in the old tree trunks by
the gate? Dozens of new blooms since you
went away, simply dozens. And I picked an
armful yesterday afternoon. The more you
pick the more you may. Do you know what I
think about sweet peas?

Archie [^obviously fascinated by the girl's ap-
pearance']. No, what?

Effie. Well, I've discovered that a sweet
pea is different from all other flowers. It's not
a bit cocky and puffed up about its bloom. Its
one ambition in life is to bloom quickly, if pos-
sible somewhere where it can't be seen, and
then hurry for all its worth into pod. Since
I've found that out I hate picking it. It does
seem so cruel to stop it from doing what it
wants to do so awfully much. Don't you think
so?

Archie [going to door and listening']. Yes.

Effie. I don't believe you heard a word I
said.

Archie. Yes, I did.

Effie. What did I say?

Archie. You said you loved picking sweet
peas because that's the only thing they care
about.

Effie [bursts out laughing]. Oh, that's good.

ACT III 91

Archie [intensely uncomfortable, shutting the
door'\. Not so loud.

Effie. Yes, I mustn't wake mother up. She
was very tired last night.

Archie. We shan't get nine holes unless you
hurry up.

Effie. Very well then, we shan't. I do wish
you would sit down for five minutes.

Archie. I thought you wanted to know
about my yesterday's doings. You're talking
about everything else under the sun.

Effie. Well, shall I tell you the truth?

Archie [strongly}. Yes, for God's sake do
. . . always.

Effie [eyeing him'\. You are in a queer mood
to-day.

Archie. No, I'm not. I'm all right.

Effie. Well, I don't take a vast interest ifl
anything you did yesterday if you must know.

Archie. Why not?

Effie. Because I wanted you here. I hated
your going away.

Archie. I wish I hadn't gone.

Effie. Do you wish you hadn't gone because
I didn't want you to go, or because you didn't
have a good time?

Archie. Oh, I suppose I put in a good
enough time. . . . Listen I

Effie. It's only Cookie. Call her in and

92 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

ask her for some more tea. \_Skips back on
to the bed. Her dressing gown is open and all
the lace about her neck can be seen.}

Archie. No, no.

Effie. Well, did you get your socks and
ties?

Archie. Yes. [He cannot help looking at
her. She fascinates and allures him with fear-
ful unconsciousness.'}

Effie. How many?

Archie. A dozen of both. [He is drawn
towards her. He can hardly keep his hands of
her.}

Effie. A dozen I I don't believe father has
had as many as a dozen in his life. Did you
find your friend much changed ?

Archie. Old Win? Rather. I hardly
knew him. I should have passed him if I'd
seen him in the street.

Effie. What's happened to him then ?

Archie. India and — and the Service.
From being a man of some individuality he's
developed into a type.

Effie. You liked him ... as much as be-
fore?

Archie. When I found him ... or rather
the remains of him. Really and truly talking
to him was like talking to a regiment, not a
man. I felt that all his brother officers an-

ACT III 93

swered when he answered. He had a most
curious effect on me. [^Archie has fallen under
the girl's spell and his horrible uneasiness at
her presence in his room is forgotten for the
time being.}

Effle. Did he, what?

Archie. Well thinking back, I'm perfectly
certain I was afraid to be myself and gradually
became him.

Effie. How ?

Archie. I mean I became a cavalryman too
for the time.

Effie. How do you become a cavalryman ?

Archie {with a laugh}. You stiffen your
back, arm and legs, and make your tongue very
heavy, check any desire you may have either
to tell anything or ask anything and think hard
about good form. It's not easy for a civil-
ian.

Effie. I can't imagine you passing for five
minutes as a cavalryman. Did you have to
put up with dear Win all day ?

Archie. No. In the evening we dined with
two ladies.

Effie {slightly jealous]. Ladies? Who
were they?

Archie. A mother who was just old enough
to be a daughter and a daughter who was al-
most old enough to be a mother.

94 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Effie. I know. We've got two of them
down here. Dull Bright and Bright Dull.

Archie. Don't ask me to meet them.

Effie. I won't. What theatre did you go
to?

Archie. Gaiety. Very bright and idiotic.
[His manner changes to great fright.'] Some-
one's coming. For God's sake go.

Effie. Let them come. I don't mind. I
suppose I can be here if I like, can't I ?

Archie \_angrily~\. No, you can't. You've
no right to be here. Will you go?

Effie [rising'\. Not until I've told you some-
thing. I think you might have written to me.
It's awful to be so lonely.

Archie. But how could I write? I came
back before any letter could have been deliv-
ered.

Effie. You ought to have written before you
left^ I could have kept your letter with me
all day. It would have been better than noth-
ing. Archie, don't go away again. Don't
leave me alone again. I can't bear it. If you
love me you must think of me. [She speaks
quietly, but in a voice that trembles with im-
mense emotion.]

Archie [catching her in his arms]. I do love
you. I adore you.

Effie [looking up into his face]. And I love

ACT III 95

you. I shall always love you. You're every-
thing in the world to me. Archie ! Archie !

Archie. My darling. [He kisses her again
and again.] But go now. This is not the
time for seeing you.

Effie. Not the time? Why not?

Archie. You'll catch your death.

Effie [with a little laugh, clinging to hirnl.
Death, with you come back? Why are you
pushing me away? Don't push me away.

Archie. Presently. [He suddenly frees
himself, takes the girl by the arm and rushes
her across the room, opens the cupboard of
the wardrobe, pushes her in and shuts it.
There is a tap at the door. Archie stands in
the middle of room, frightfully agitated.]
Who is it?

Mrs. P. [without]. It is I, may I come
in?

Archie [in a hoarse whisper to Effie]. Stay
where you are. Don't move. [Goes to door
and opens it.] Good morning.

Mrs. P. [entering]. Good morning.
Cookie tells me that you came down by a work-
man's train. Aren't you very tired? [She
goes to the window and tidies the curtain.]

Archie. No, not a bit, thanks.

Mrs. P. Well at any rate I see you've had
tea.

96 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie. Yes. Cookie insisted. I was just
going to change.

Mrs. P. Golf this morning?

Archie. Yes, that's the notion.

Mrs. P. Effie is getting up, if she isn't al-
ready out.

Archie. Oh, that's good. If you see her
will you tell her that I shan't be five minutes?

Mrs. P. Did you have a nice day?

Archie. Very, thanks.

Mrs. P. I'm so glad. We all missed you
very much. The house seemed quite different
without you.

Archie. I'm glad to be back.

Mrs. P. Iffoinff out]. It's a lovely morning.
l^The instant she has left the room Archie shuts
the door, goes quickly to the wardrobe and
throws it open.]

Archie. Go to your room at once ! Do you
hear?

Effie [with a blaze of anger]. I'll go to my
room when I'm ready, not a moment before.

Archie. If you don't go now, I'll go.

Effie. Why should I go ? I've not finished
speaking to you yet.

Archie. If you've got anything more to say
come down with me to your mother's room and
say it before her.

Effie [stamping her foot]. I won't.

ACT III 97

What's the good of that. I can see you before
people any time. That's what I'm so sick of.
I want to speak to you alone and I will. [^She
throws her arms round his neck.']

Archie {^ftinging her of]. Don't do that
again. I can't stand it. [_Effie bursts into a
passion of tears and flings herself on her knees
at the side of the bed].

Archie. Oh, God! [He bends down over
her and tries to pick her up.] Darling . . ,
darling.

Effie [sobbing]. It's no use. It's too late
. . . it's too late.

Archie. How d'you mean? . . . too late?

Effie. You don't love me. You hate me.

Archie. I don't love you. . . . You don't
know what you are saying. [The boy is shak-
ing all over.]

Effie. I do know. I know that you loathe
me. I sicken you. You slip away whenever
you see me coming. I can't even take your
arm without making you shudder. Do you
think I can't see? Do you think I go about as
blind as a bat? What's the matter with me?
What have I done to you?

Archie. Effie.

Effie [springing up]. Tell me. Tell me.
... I must know. ... I must. It's . . .
killing me. Can't you see that it's killing me?

98 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie [putting his arms round her'\. Oh,
my dear.

Effie. Oh, Archie, Archie, I love you. I
love you. I love you more than life, more
than my father and mother, more than I know
and you love me. You do love me. You'll
always love me. You can't help it any more
than I can. I know that. I am happy about
that. That's most awfully good. But what
hurts me more than I can bear is the new way
you have of keeping away from me, for your
work. I want you to work. I want you to do
big things, but I don't want you to love work
more than you love me. I'm . . . Oh, I'm
too frightfully jealous of everything that keeps
you away from me. I must have something of
you. I must feel your arms round me some-
times to keep me alive. If you told me that
you had been keeping out of my way because
you don't love me, I should laugh. It isn't
possible for you not to love me. You're doing
it for some other reason and I'm going to know
it now. lEnter Harry.'\

Harry [cheerfully^. I say, Archie . . . [he
draws up. As he sees the two young people
a look of terror comes into his face'\.

Archie [under his breath, recoiling from
Effie'\. Good God!

Effie [still emotional but speaking simply and

ACT III 99

without any alarm']. Good morning, Father.

Harry {hoarsely to Effie], Go to your
room.

Effie {surprised}. Father!

Harry {louder and sternly]. Go to your
room I {Effie looks wonderingly from one
man to the other, turns and goes quietly out
unashamed and unselfconscious. Nothing is
said until the door closes.]

Archie {bursting out]. I swear to you . . .

Harry. Shut the door. {Archie does so.]
Come here. {Archie obeys orders. He
stands up straight and fearless looking straight
at Harry. Harry's lips are set tight. His
nostrils are distended. He looks like a man
whose blood is surging with rage and indigna-
tion, hut who is fighting hard to remain master
of himself.] What was my daughter doing in
your room ?

Archie. Saying good morning.

Harry. Did you call her in?

Archie {after hesitation]. No.

Harry. Do you mean to tell me that she;
came in on her own account ?

Archie {after further hesitation]. Yes.

Harry. Is it the usual thing for you and my
daughter to make free of each other's rooms ?

Archie. No, sir.

Harry {blazing]. Tell me the truth.

loo THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie. I am telling the truth.

Harry. Will you swear to me that Effie has
never been into your bedroom before, either at
night, or in the early morning?

Archie [^unhesitatingly'^. Yes.

Harry. I don't believe you. ... I can't
believe you. You lied to me once. How can
I rely on your speaking the truth now ?

Archie [staggered']. What! . . . But I
give you my word of honour.

Harry [unable to control himself]. Hon-
our? Honour? What sort of honour is
yours that allows you to live in the house of a
man whose implicit trust you have won, and
ternpt his daughter into your bedroom?

Archie [passionately]. You have no right
to say that. I ought not to have let Effie come
in, but we love each other and . . .

Harry. You love each other?

Archie. Yes.

Harry. And what then?

Archie. It's perfectly natural that we should
like saying a few words alone. It's all my
fault and I'm sorry. But you've no right to
doubt my word when I tell you that Effie only
came in to hear what I'd done yesterday.

Harry [seizing the boy's shoulders]. I don't
want to doubt your word. I'd give a year of

ACT III loi

my life to believe you, but you lied to me once
already this morning.

Archie [^twisting away: hurt to the jom/].
Once . . . once ! I told you why I lied to you
then. I told you because you made me think
that you'd never suspect me as all the others
have done. But you do suspect me . . . even
you.

Harry. Yes, yes. I do suspect you. I
must suspect you. Thinking that I am out of
the house, you call Effie into your room out of
her bed.

Archie. I didn't call her.

Harry. Tell me the truth.

Archie [like a wounded animal']. I have
told you the truth, but only half of it. Now
you shall have it all. You deserve it. You
may call me a liar if you like. What does it
matter? No one will see me in East Brenton
again after this morning as long as I live. [He
chokes.]

Harry [^still angry hut with a note of fear
in his voice]. Go on.

Archie [in a dull voice]. Effie waited in
my room from twelve o'clock last night until
four o'clock this morning. She came into it
again this morning when she heard me come
back.

102 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry. Was she hiding when I found you
unpacking ?

Archie. No.

Harry. You are lying.

Archie \_shivering as though struck by a
■whip^ Very well then, I'm lying. It's no
good telling you the truth. But listen to this.
She came in directly you'd gone. She was in
the room when Mrs. Pemberton came in. I
hid her in the cupboard.

Harry. Why? ... If you had nothing to
be ashamed of?

Archie. Because I wanted to protect EfEe.

Harry. You ask me to believe that?

Archie \shouting and on the verge of a break-
down']. I ask you to believe nothing. I don't
care now what you choose to believe. I'm just
telling you the truth to show you what I might
have done because no one has seen fit to tell
Effie that she is a woman.

Harry [furious]. You prove yourself to be
lying and to be trying to shield yourself behind
EfEe by saying that. EfEe has been told that
she is a woman and what it means.

Archie [with a cry]. Oh, no. That's im-
possible. You may think that she's been told
but she hasn't. Good God, do you know what
you imply by saying that she's been told? . . .
I can't say it. I can't even think it.

ACT III 103

Harry. Say It . . . say it!

Archie. You imply that Effie was not igno-
rant but was tempting me.

Harry [^springing at the boy']. How dare
you I \_He shakes him and flings him away.
Archie staggers against the door. He gathers
himself up and points a shaking finger at
Harry.]

Archie [thickly and passionately]. Blame
yourself for this. Blame your wife. Effie
never knew what she was doing. She knows
nothing. If I hadn't adored her and hadn't
been trying for all I was worth to play the
game for your sake, I should have gone to
her room before to-day and I should have
locked my door this morning. I wanted to.
. . , Oh, my God, how I wanted to ! . . . and
she wanted to stay although she didn't know
why. If she had stayed we should not have
been to blame. You would, — you and your
wife. . . . Good-bye. You send me straight
to hell. [He gives a great cry and lurches to
the door, opens it, goes out and slams it behind
him. Harry remains standing upright, rigid.]

[Curtain.]

ACT IV

[Harry's den. No time has passed between
the fall of the curtain on the last Act and
its rise on this one. The sun is streaming
into the windows. Cookie, on her knees,
is polishing the floor with beeswax. She
is singing softly to herself. The song is
comic. Collins passes the window which
is open from R. to L.J

Collins [patronisingly'\. Morning, Cookie.

Cookie. Oh, 'ow you made me jump !

Collins [who has disappeared and returned
and is now leaning on the window siW]. Want
to know anything fer to-day, old lady?

Cookie. Old yerself ! What d' yer mean ?

Collins. Well, have yer fergot that it's the
Hascot gold cup?

Cookie. What, again?

Collins. What d'yer mean, again ?

Cookie. Well, it only seems three weeks ago
that you took my two bob, put it on Bonnie
Lad and told me I'd gone down. Lord, 'ow
time flies !

Collins. I'm artsin' you about 'orse racin'
104

ACT IVi 105

not philosophy. You know young Halbert
Honor?

Cookie. 'Im as looks after the 'osses of
the gent with the swivel eye?

Collins. That's 'im. Well, 'is brother is
in a racing stable and 'e sent Halbert a postcard
teUin' 'im to put 'is shirt on " Father Ste-
phen."

Cookie. If Albert chooses to 'and his un-
derclothing to a bookmaker, there's no reason
why I should.

Collins. Don't you be 'asty. This is the
best thing in racing.

Cookie [rubbing energetically'\. They all
are until you see 'em sixth in the stop press.
Don't you try and seduce me, Freddy.

Collins [with a loud laugh]. Not 'arf!
I've 'ad some I Now look 'ere, go 'alves with
me in five bob to win.

Cookie. What should I lose? Five bob?

Collins. You don't know much about 'rith-
metic.

Cookie. Maybe. But I know a good deal
about Fred Collins.

Collins [touchilyl- 'Ere, are we talkin'
sense or not?

Cookie. Not! You go and cut some lut-
tuses for breakfast and leave 'orse racing ter
mugs.

io6 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Collins. Put the money on nar at six ter
one termorrer mornin' after lunch we divide
a matter of thirty bob. 'Aven't yer got no
use for fifteen shillings ?

Cookie. 'Alf a crown at the bottom of my
pocket is worth six 'alf crowns still running.

Collins. All right. 'Ave it yer own way.
Don't say I never give yer a chanst. [Enter
Mrs. Pemberton.]

Mrs. P. Good morning, Cookie.

Cookie. Good morning, mum.

Mrs. P. Good morning, Collins.

Collins \^speciously'\. Good morning to you,
mum. I was just tellln' Cook as 'ow I can get
'er a nice dish of vegetable marrers.

Cookie. Liar! [She coughs to hide the
remark.^

Mrs. P. That will be very nice, Collins. I
thought I saw some in the garden about a week
ago.

Collins. Ah, but the frost nipped them off.

Cookie. Frost !

Mrs. P. Oh, and tell me, Fred, we ought
not to be running short of peas already, surely.

Collins. Well, mum, you see it's like this.
Last year was wet and there was only four
mouths in the 'ouse. Consequence was peas
panned out well. Now this year we've 'ad a
superabundance of sun and Mr. Archibald — I

ACT IV 107

don't know whether you've noticed it, mum, but
that Mr. Archibald 'e's a wonder for peas.

Mrs. P. I see, Fred.

Cookie. Do yer?

Collins. And don't forget to take this into
account, mum. The walls of this place is low,
and there's lots of thieves about.

Cookie. Ah I

Mrs. P. Oh, but no one would steal from
this garden.

Collins. Well, mum, you'd think not, but
where a nice line o' Marrerfats is concerned
'uman nature is very frail. I make no accusa-
tions but I lay down the 'int. {^Cookie
chuckles. Collins leans forward aggressively
eyeing her hotly. 1 Eh?

Cookie \_innocently'\. Eh?

Collins. Oh, I thought you spoke.

Cookie. Me? Oh, lor no.

Mrs. P. Thank you, Collins.

Collins. Thank you, mum. [He looks at
Cookie and his lips move silently. He goes

Mrs. P. [with a smiW]. He has a large
family, but he's a good workman.

Cookie. The wheelbarrers of stuff that goes
out of this place before any of us is abart. . . .

Mrs. P. \_dusting the room'[. We don't
know that. Cook.

io8 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Cookie. No, but we guess it, and we 'ear
the barren

Mrs. P. After all, this is a large garden,
and the temptation to take things home is very
great, and Fred's family is a growing one.

Cookie. Remarkable 'ow well it grows on
our vegetables. Mind, I'm not saying 'e's a
thief.

Mrs. P. Ah! I'm glad you're doing the
floors. Cookie. They wanted it badly.

Cookie. Since that boy came with 'is golf
nails, 'e's played old jimmy with these 'ere
floors. But there! 'E's a nice young feller
and I can spare him a little elbow grease.

Mrs. p. But you're using beeswax, aren't
you?

Cookie. Can't you smell it?

Mrs. P. Oh, and Cook! Before I forget
it, I want to ask you about the airing of the
clothes.

Cookie [on the defensive^. What about it?

Mrs. P. Well, I went into Mr. Archie's
room yesterday when he was away, and I saw
that somehow or other the wash basket with
all his clean things had found its way to his
room. I don't think that they had been hang-
ing in front of the kitchen fire at all.

Cookie. They hadn't.

Mrs. P. Oh, Cookie ! You know how care-

ACT IV 109

ful one ought to be, and how easy it Is to get
pneumonia.

Cookie. Well, I was going to put 'im at the
bottom of his shelves so that by the time they'd
worked 'emselves up to the top, they'd a been
aired automatic. It's the latest thing.

Mrs. P. If you don't mind, Cookie, I think
that we'll remain old-fashioned.

Cookie. Well, just as you like, mum. I
only tried to move with the times.

Mrs. P. [polishing a silver cup]. There!
I forgot to order the tea from the stores yes-
terday for my old women.

Cookie. Go on forgetting, mum. Your old
women, unbeknownst to you, exchanges those
packets of tea for tots of gin.

Mrs. P. [virtuously indignant']. Cookl
I've never heard you say anything so unchar-
itable !

Cookie. Well, mum, facts is facts, you
know, call 'em what you like, and after all said
and done, I shouldn't be surprised If the gin
was better for 'em than the tea.

Mrs. P. [very carefully dusting mantelpiece].
We may as well settle about dinner now. Cookie.

Cookie [rising and standing in a judicial at-
titude by the table C]. The important ques-
tion of the day.

Mrs. p. What did we have on Monday ?

no THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Cookie. Mutton, 'ot for dinner, cold for
Tuesday's lunch.

Mrs. P. And what did we have for Tues-
day's dinner?

Cookie. Ribs of beef 'ot. Cold for to-
day's luncheon.

Mrs. p. And to-day's Thursday. Let us
see if we can't think of something quite orig-
inal. Cookie.

Cookie. Something for a change, eh?

Mrs. P. Yes, something for a change.

Cookie. Well, then, let's 'ave 'ot mutton to-
night and a nice bit of beef to-morrow night.

Mrs. P. Oh, the eternal round of mutton
and beef. [^She laughs.] Very well. Cook,
mutton and beef then. We ought to be very
thankful to get them.

Cookie. Mr. Archie don't mind what 'e eats.
The Vicar never knows. Miss EfEe, when she
don't like the meat, makes it up on pudding,
and you and me just eat ter live, so it ain't a
difficult 'ouse to cater for.

Mrs. P- What door was that banging?

Cookie. Mr. Archie's, I should think.

Mrs. P. I've never heard him bang his door
before.

Cookie. 'E's in a mood this morning.
Coin' to London yesterday unsettled 'im. Oh,

ACT IV III!

lor, my kettle. \_She darts out of the room.
Mrs. P. goes to window, straightens the
cushions in the window seat and leans out.']

Mrs. P. \_to Bill, who is unseen]. Bill!
How often have you been told not to bury your
bones at the feet of the rose trees. . . . No,
no ! don't dig It up again. Leave it there now.
Why bury it at all? There's no other dog in
the place. [Enter Cookie.]

Cookie. All over my clean grate.

Mrs. P. I'm afraid I kept you about.
Cookie. I'm sorry. Now for the drawing-
room. Is Miss Effie down yet?

Cookie. 'Aven't seen nothing of her.
\^Mrs. P. goes out.]

Cookie Ingoing to window], Freddie! . . .
[^She whistles.]

Collins [of]. 'UUo!

Cookie. A nice cupper tea ready for you.

Collins \^off]. I'm a comin'. [Cookie waits
at window until Collins appears.]

Cookie. Fred !

Collins. Eh ?

Cookie. I'll go 'alf a crown with you on
that 'orse. Ascot comes but once a year.

Collins. Good for you.

Cookie. I tell you what it is, Fred. 'Aving
lived twenty years in a vicarage makes one feel
regular reckless at times. [Enter Harry. He

112 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

comes in slowly, with a set, stern face. On his
entrance Fred disappears and Cookie pretends
to be busy. Harry goes to fireplace and stands
with his back to it.'\

Cookie. A lovely morning, sir. ^Harry
makes no reply. Cookie darts a quick look at
him, picks up her cleaning materials, and goes
softly towards door.'\

Harry. Is Mrs. Pemberton down?

Cookie. Down this 'arf hour sir, and 'ard
at it as usual.

Harry. Ask her to be kind enough to come
to me here.

Cookie. I will, sir. [She throws another
searching, perturbed look at Harry and goes
off. Harry remains standing, looking straight
ahead. After a pause Mrs. Pemberton enters
cheerfully.^

Mrs. P. Do you want me, dear?

Harry [hoarsely']. Yes. Please come in
and shut the door.

Mrs. P. [looks anxious, returns to door and
shuts it, then goes quickly to Harry's side and
puts her hands on Harry's shoulders]. Is any-
thing the matter ?

Harry [moving away from her]. Don't I

Mrs. P. [aghast]. Harry!

Harry. For the first time in our married life
you have broken faith with me.

ACT IV 113

Mrs. p. I have ?

Harry. Yes. If you had broken faith with
me before it might not have mattered, but in
this instance you have brought tragedy into this
quiet house.

Mrs. P. [gasping~\. Harry! What have I
done?

Harry. It isn't what you've done. It is
what you've left undone ! Is there any need
for me to tell you what this is ?

Mrs. P. [with a premonition]. Yes, I . . .

Harry. You said that you would speak to
Effie. You promised that you would speak to
Effie.

Mrs. P. It was so difficult. I — I tried,
I —

Harry. There is no excuse.

Mrs. P. There is an excuse. . . .

Harry. There is no excuse. We went
deeply into the matter. It seemed to us to be
an unfulfilled duty. You agreed to speak, you
prevented me from speaking.

Mrs. P. Again and again I tried, and I
couldn't, I couldn't. I will speak to-morrow.

Harry. The time to speak was yesterday, —
to-morrow will be too late.

Mrs. P. [startled]. Too late!

Harry. Yes. Too late.

Mrs. P- What do you mean?

114 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Harry. Exactly what I say.

Mrs. P. Harry! . . . Harry!

Harry. When I came back just now, I found
EfEe in Archie Graham's bedroom.

Mrs. P. [with a cry^. Oh!

Harry. He said that Effie came to his room
without being called by him. He said that she
was hiding when you went into it. He said
that she waited for him in his room from twelve
o'clock last night until four this morning. He
told me that they love each other. He lied
to me once, he is lying again. . . . The man
who ruined Mary Ann blamed her ignorance.
Archie Graham blames Effie's ignorance. He
blames you and me . . . and oh, my God, he
has the right. We have given Mary Ann a
sister in EfEe.

Mrs. P. \weeping'\. What are we to do?
What are we to do?

Harry. Go about our duties. There is
nothing to be done. Yesterday and to-day are
no longer ours, there is only to-morrow. To-
morrow is ours and with God's help we will
see that there shall be no more ignorance among
young girls. What if Effie had been Mary
Ann, I said. Effie ! [He puts his hands over
his face.'\

Effie [rushing in wildly'\. Father! What
have you said to Archie?

ACT ly 115

Harry. Why?

Effie. He's gone into his room and won't
answer me. He has locked his door.

Harry [for the first time showing great
emotion and anger']. Why lock his door
now?

Effie. I don't understand. Why are you
like this? Why is everything so different?
Why is mother crying?

Harry. Ask her.

Effie. Mother! [She goes swiftly to Mrs.
P. and takes her in her arms.]

Mrs. P. Oh, my baby!

Effie. What is it? What's happened?
Why don't you tell me? Mother, why can't
you speak?

Mrs. P. I wish I had spoken. ... I wish
I had. [She releases herself and sinks into
chair by table and puts her head down upon
her arms.]

Effie [turning to her father]. Father, tell
me what all this means. You made Archie
treat me like this, you.

Harry. Archie Graham has lied to me.

Effie. What about?

Harry. Himself and you.

Effie. I don't understand.

Harry. He said that he and you love each
other.

ii6 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Effie. Is that what's the matter? Of course
we love each other.

Harry '[eagerly']. That is true, then?

Effie. As true as hfe. Of course we love
each other. I loved him when he first came.
I loved him the moment I saw him. I found
it out this morning when he came back.

Harry [quickly]. This morning?

Effie. Yes. I'd missed him so. Surely
that hasn't made you like this ?

Harry. No. That was natural enough.
That was only to be expected. It isn't that.

Effie. Then what is it? I ask to know. If
Archie has done anything I have a right to
know. He is mine and I must share his trou-
bles. Fetch Archie. [She waves her hand im-
periously.]

Harry. No. Leave Archie where he is.
I want to speak to you. . . . You say that you
found out this morning for the first time that
you love that boy?

Effie. Yes.

Harry. Has he ever spoken of love to you
before this morning?

Effie. No. He wouldn't have said a word
this morning. It was my fault he said it then.

Harry. Your fault? How?

Effie. After he got the telegram from his
■friend he's been different. He avoided me all

ACT IV 117

that evening. He didn't look at me and he
didn't say good night.

Harry. Go on.

Effie. When I went into his room this morn-
ing .. .

Harry [quickly'\. Did he call you?

Effie. No. He didn't know I was awake,
but I heard him talking to you. I went in di-
rectly you'd gone. I couldn't wait till I was
dressed. I'd been waiting so long. He tried
to send me away. He did nothing but try to
send me away. It was my only chance of see-
ing him alone and he drove me to speak. I
won't have him avoid me. I love him and he
loves me, and I'm a woman, not a child any
longer. Mayn't I think about my life now and
my feelings? I tell you we love each other.
What have you said to him to make him treat
me as though I were poisonous ?

Harry. Nothing.

Effie. Then what's the matter with me?
Why has he locked his door? Why won't he
answer me when I call?

Harry [^taking Effie in his arms and kissing
herl . Go with your mother, my little girl, and
let her make you a woman.

Effie. I don't understand.

Harry. No, but you shall. \_He goes to his
wife, picks up her hand and kisses it.'] Oh, my

ii8 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

dear, let us thank God for one thing. It isn't
too late. Take her to your room.

Mrs. P. Harry! . . . Come, darling.

Harry. Send that boy to me here. [Mrs.
P. puts her arm round Effie's waist and leads
her of. Harry goes to the window and stands
looking out. Enter Cookie.]

Cookie. Come in, will yer? [Enter Mrs.
Lemmins.]

Mrs. L. I'm afraid I don't do right to come
so early, sir.

Harry. Perfectly right, Mrs. Lemmins.
Sit down.

Mrs. L. Thank you kindly, sir. [Sits.
Cookie jerks her head and goes of.~\

Harry. You've not told Mary Ann?

Mrs. L. No, sir, she's still asleep.

Harry. I'm glad. . . . The funeral is at
twelve o'clock.

Mrs. L. [chokily]. In the . . . church-
yard, sir?

Harry. Where else?

Mrs. L. Thank God. [She throws her
apron over her head and cries.]

Harry. Mrs. Lemmins, I want you to do
something for me. I want you to be kind
enough to let me ask to this little funeral some
of the mothers in the village. I have some-
thing to say to them this morning which, if I

ACT IV 119

had been a better servant of God, I should have
said to them years ago.

Mrs. L. [^huskily']. Must I have my dis-
grace known to everybody, sir?

Harry. Yes. Your disgrace and mine must
be made known. The moment has arrived
when I have got to deal honestly with the truth.
In the little coffin lies the body of a baby without
a name. It is called the child of sin, and it is
wrongly called so. It is not the -child of sin,
but of ignorance, and for its birth you and
every one of the mothers who are coming with
us to the churchyard are to blame, and I as
much as any. Its mother is a child. It will
be said of her that she has gone wrong. She
will be pointed at and sneered at and giggled
at, and a stigma will hang to her dress like a
burr. [^Mrs. Lemmins cries more loudly.']
But she is blameless. The one who is to blame
is her mother.

Mrs. L. Me, sir? Oh!

Harry. Yes. Mrs. Lemmins, you. If you
had told poor little Mary Ann the reason of
her motherhood, a spotless life would not have
been stained. God would never have heard
the agonised cry of a childless mother and this
little grave would never have been dug. Oh,
my dear mother, for God's sake. Who loves
little children, get all the mothers and the future

I20 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

mothers that you know to tell their children the
truth. Implore them never to forget this little
grave for which we are all responsible. Show
them that if they don't wish their girls to go
through what Mary Ann has suffered they must
not lie or quibble to spare themselves. If they
do there will be a grave in their lives too.
Never let them forget this little grave. While
their daughters are still young tell them to put
their arms round them and let them know what
it means to be a woman. . . . Help me to let
innocence remain in their homes by thrusting
out ignorance and to keep their children modest
by permitting themselves no false modesty.
You and I must never let any woman in this
village forget our little grave. [Collins ap-
pears at window with a large bunch of lilies.']

Collins. Lilies, sir.

Harry [goes to window, takes lilies, nods to
Collins, who disappears, and returns with them
to Mrs. Lemmins']. Till twelve o'clock.

Mrs. L. [rising]. Thank you, sir.

Harry. Take these.

Mrs. L. Yus, sir.

Harry. God bless you. [He goes to door,
opens it and stands there. Mrs. L. smothers
a sob and as she goes out she bobs to Harry.
Harry shuts the door and comes down stage.
Archie appears R. of window. His head is

ACT IV 121

hent down and is hurrying past. Harry makes
a dash at the window and catches the boy by
the arm.]

Harry. Where are you going?

Archie {^shouting']. Let me go.

Harry. I won't let you go.

Archie. Let me go I tell you.

Harry. Come into my room.

Archie. I won't.

Harry. I order you into my room. [The
boy instinctively obeys.]

Harry. Stand up. Look at me.

Archie [bursting out]. Let me go. You
don't believe in me. You. I can't live over
that.

Harry. I do believe in you, old man. . . .
I do. I believe every word that you said.
You behaved like a gentleman and a man of
honour and I thank you. Forgive me.
[Archie peers up into Harry's face, gives a
great sob and puts his hands over his face.
Flings himself into a chair and bursts out cry-
ing. Harry goes to door and locks it, goes to
the window and shuts it, crosses to the boy and
stands over him.]

Harry. Old fellow, I did you a great in-
justice. I am as bad as the others with whom
you've been. You are a better man than I am,
Archie Graham. I will take a lesson from you.

122 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

Archie. For God's sake don't say that.

Harry. It is our fault. Not Effie's and not
yours that you were put to the test. You've
won. Please forgive me.

Archie [springing up and giving his hands to
HarryJ. Oh ... sir! [Harry puts his arms
round the boy's shoulders and pats them, holds
him at arm's length and looks at him. As his
right hand goes down to grasp the boy's left
hand, it comes into contact with something hard
in the boy's pocket.']

Harry [recoiling']. What's that thing in
your pocket?

Archie. Nothing. It ... it doesn't mat-
ter now.

Harry [frightfully agitated]. Give it to
me.

Archie. I'd rather not. Don't ask me for
it.

Harry [holding out a shaking hand]. Give
it to me I tell you. [Archie hesitates, puts his
hand in his pocket and brings out a pistol.
Harry springs forward, catches the boy by the
wrist and takes the pistol from his hand.]

Harry [hoarsely]. You were going ... to
use this . . .

Archie. You didn't believe me. I'd worked
for nothing.

ACT IV 123

Harry. Oh, my God. I might have killed
this boy.

Archie. Oh, please . . . I . . .

Harry [holds the pistol out in the palm of his
hand and looks at it; in a low voice.] Sit down.
[Archie sits at desk C. Harry stands very still
for a moment. He looks old and worn.]

Harry. I am going to make a confession to
you that I've made to no other living man or
woman. You wring it out of me by what
you've done for me, and for my wife, and
EfEe. . . . Do you remember my saying the
first day you came here that I hoped I should
never have to tell you why I went into the
Church ?

Archie. Yes, but don't, please . . .

Harry. I must, because I want you to know
how sorry I am for judging and disbelieving you,
and because I want to remind myself of that
other time when God drew me up and showed
me that If a man is without mercy he is not fit
to be a son of his father. [He goes to his desk
and sits down, putting the revolver in front of
him.] You once called me splendid. I was
so splendid a fellow at Oxford, with my cricket
blue, my presidency of the union, my popu-
larity, my admiring set, my career gleaming
ahead, that I didn't believe in God, I believed

124 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

only in myself. I was so splendid that I passed
judgments on my fellows and had no mercy for
weakness and broken words. • / was not weak.
I never broke my word. ... I had a friend,
a Jonathan, whom I loved and trusted. We
were together at Eton, in the same college
at Oxford. We rose together, step by step,
in work and out of it. There was one other
person besides myself, in whom I believed. It
was this friend. . . . We were both poor men,
soldiers' sons. Our fathers deprived them-
selves of their few luxuries to send us to Ox-
ford. They were men who looked to us to
do well, but, above all, to keep their names
bright. We were both to be barristers. We
had our eyes on Parliament. Ambition was
our fetish. We backed ourselves to win. . . .
It was the custom of our fathers to pay into
our bank all the money it was necessary for us
to have for the year. In the Michaelmas
term of our third year my friend came to me
and told me that his father was in temporary
need of money. He asked me to lend him,
to pass on to his father, all the money I had to
see me through my third year. It would be
returned in a fortnight. I believed in this man
and without a moment's hesitation, wrote the
cheque. . . . The fortnight came to an end.
The money was not returned. I let another

ACT IV 125

fortnight go by and needed money. I was
forced to remind my friend of his guarantee.
. . . He confessed, brokenly and with shame,
that his father had neither needed the money
nor had it. The story was a He. He, him-
self, had needed the money to pay racing debts,
thinking that he could get it from an old uncle
to pay me back. But the uncle had been bled
before. He refused to be bled again. ... I
knew that my father could give me no more.
I saw all my chances ruined, all that I worked
for gone for nothing. The one way of my
remaining at Oxford, my forlorn hope, was to
tell my friend's father of his son's treachery,
and leave it to him to make it good. . . . He
lived In Scotland. I got permission from the
authorities to go to Scotland on urgent business.
I left my friend, mercilessly, well knowing that
the germ of suicide was in his brain. . . . Be-
tween London and Rugby there was a frightful
accident. Three men in my carriage were
killed. I lay for an hour unhurt, pinned down
with wreckage. ... In that long, waiting hour
God came to me — and when I returned hot
speed to Oxford and rushed to my friend's
room, I found him lying face downwards on
the floor with a bullet through his brain. [He
gives a sob. His head bends low.'\ I gave
up my career and became a servant of God.

126 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE

[There is a pause. Archie stretches out his
hand to lay it on Harry's. But he is unable
to do so and gets up quietly and bends over the
humbled man.']

Archie. Oh, sir, I , . .

Harry [^looking up]. You remember what
I said just now about foundation stones ?

Archie. Yes. I shall always remember
that.

Harry. I've laid mine twice and both times
the building has fallen about my ears. I shall
never build a Westminster Abbey. [He takes
up the pistol.] Lend me this . . . thing, will
you?

Archie. If you want it, I . . .

Harry. It will be of infinite use to me. I
will keep it [he goes to desk, opens a drawer
and drops it in, locking the drawer] as a re-
minder. [He turns.] When I marry you and
EfEe . . .

Archie. Marry? . . . Will you?

Harry. I shall be proud, old man.

Archie. Oh, I'll work so hard to deserve
this, sir.

Harry. Of course you will, and when I
marry you and EfEe we will throw that pistol
away. Before that time comes we will both
work hard to earn the right to do so. [Mrs.
P. and Effie stop in front of window. They

ACT IV 127

are arm in arm and both carry roses. Mrs. P.
taps. Archie springs forward and opens win-
dow.]

Mrs. P. We are going to give these to
Mary Ann's baby, dearest.

Harry. Thank you. [^Mrs. P. stretches
out her hand to Archie. He darts forward and
bows over it. She smiles at him and leads Effie
of R. The gong sounds loudly.]

Archie \_turning~\. Ah!

Harry. Yes. God's in His Heaven. . . .
I wonder what's for breakfast ! iHarry walks
to the boy, takes his arm and they go of to-
gether.]

[Curtain.]