Plays

"00

PLAYS: SECOND SERIES

BY
JOHN GALSWORTHY

BY THE SAME AUTHOR
VILLA RUBEIN: AND OTHER

STORIES

THE ISLAND PHARISEES
THE MAN OP PROPERTY
THE COUNTRY HOUSE
FRATERNITY
THE PATRICIAN
THE DARK FLOWER
THE FREELANDS

A COMMENTARY

A MOTLEY

THE INN OP TRANQUILLITY

A SHEAF

MOODS, SONGS AND
DOGGERELS

MEMORIES (ILLUSTRATED)

PLAYS

PIR8T (THE SILVER BOX
J JOY

SERIES |STRIPE

Sitnnsm (THE ELDEST SON

;„" \ THE LITTLE DREAM
SERIES (JUSTICE

( THE FUGITIVE
THE PIGEON

AND SEPARATELY

A BIT O' LOVE

PLAYS : SECOND SERIES

THE ELDEST SON
THE LITTLE DREAM
JUSTICE

BY

JOHN GALSWORTHY

37. /c

LONDON
DUCKWORTH AND CO.

HENRIETTA ST. COVENT GARDEN

All applications respecting amateur performances of

John Galsworthy's plays must be made to

MESSRS. SAMUEL FRENCH LIMITED

26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET

STRAND LONDON

All other applications to the Author's Agents

MESSRS. CURTIS BROWN LIMITED

6 HENRIETTA STREET

COVENT GARDEN

LONDON

First published 1912
Third Impression 1916

PRINTED AT

THE COMPLETE PRESS
WEST NORWOOD, LONDON

THE ELDEST SON

A DOMESTIC DRAMA IN THREE ACTS

BY THE SAME AU1HOR
VILLA RUBEIN : AND OTHER

STORIES

THE ISLAND PHARISEES
THE MAN OF PROPERTY
THE COUNTRY HOUSE
FRATERNITY
THE PATRICIAN
THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY

A COMMENTARY
A MOTLEY

PLAYS

(THE SILVER BOX

VOL. I -! JOY

^STRIFE

(JUSTICE

VOL. II-{ LITTLE DREAM
^ELDEST SON

AND SEPARATELY

THE PIGEON

AUTHOR'S NOTE

" The Eldest Son " was written in the
early months of 1909- Accidents happy
and unhappy have prevented its performance
earlier than November 1912.

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet

LADY CHESHIEE, his wife

BILL, their eldest son

HAROLD, t/wir second son

RONALD KEITH (in the Lancers), their son in-law

CHRISTINE (his wife), t'leir eldest daughter

DOT, tfoir second daughter

JOAN, their third daughter

MABEL LANPARNE, their guest

THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan

OLD STUDDENHAM, the /lead-keeper

FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid

YOUNG DUNNING, the under-Tteeper

ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl

JACKSON, t/ie butler

CHARLES, a footman

TIME ; The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8,
at t/tc Cheshire? country house, in one of the shires.

ACT I., SCENE I. The hall; before dinner

SCENE II. The hall ; after dinner.
A CT II. Lady Cfteshire's morning room ; after breakfast.
ACT III. The smoking room ; tea-time.

A night elapses between Acts I. and II.

ACT I

SCENE I

The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall,
with an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak
staircase. The dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-
room, all open into it; and under the staircase a
door leads to the servants' quarters. In a huge fire-
place a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins
on the floor, horns on the walls ; and a writing-table
against the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA
STUDDENHAM, a pretty, pale girl with dark eyes, in
the black dress of a lady's-maid, is standing at the
foot of the staircase with a bunch of white roses in
one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other.
A door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in
evening dress, comes downstairs. He is perhaps
fifty- eight, of strong bidld, rather bull-necked, with
grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, whose choleric
autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He speaks
before he reaches the bottom.

SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda ! Nice roses. Who are
they for ?

FREDA. My lady told rue to give the yellow to
5

6 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

Mrs. Keith, Sir William, and the white to Miss
Lanfarne, for their first evening.

SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the
drawing-room] Your father coming up to-night ?
FREDA. Yes.

SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I
specially want to see him here after dinner, will you ?
FREDA, Yes, Sir William.

SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring
the game-book in, if he's got it.

He goes out into the drarving-room ; and FREDA
stands restlessly tapping her foot against the
bottom stair. With a flutter of skirts
CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down.
She is a nice-looking^ fresh-coloured young
woman in a low-necked dress.
CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda ! How are you ?
FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine — Mrs.
Keith, I mean. My lady told me to give you these.
CHRISTINE. [ Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How
sweet of mother !

FREDA. [In a quick toneless voice] The others are for
Miss Lanfarne. My lady thought white would suit
her better.

CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress.

[FREDA lowers the roses quickly.
What do you think of Joan's engagement ?
FJIEDA. It's very nice for her.
CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going
hard at rehearsals ?

sc. i THE ELDEST SON 7

FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross,
stage-managing.

CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks
awfully for unpacking. Any news ?

FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-
keeper, Dunning, won't marry Rose Taylor, after all.

CHRISTINE. What a shame ! But I say that's
serious. I thought there was — she was — I mean

FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say.

CHRISTINE. Too bad ! [Pinning the roses] D'you
know if Mr. Bill's come ?

FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-
forty.

RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered
Jirm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eye-
lids half drawn over his keen eyes, and the
air of a horseman.

KEITH. Hallo ! Roses in December. I say, Freda,
your father missed a wigging this morning when they
drew blank at Warnham's spinney. Where's that
litter of little foxes ?

FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows,
Captain Keith.

KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration ? Or thin
air ? What ?

CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox
Ronny. He's been here since the flood.

KEITH, There's more ways of killing a cat — eh,
Freda?

CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the

8 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

drawing-room] Young Dunning won't marry that girl,
Ronny.

KEITH. Phew ! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then !
Sir William'll never keep a servant who's made a
scandal in the village. Bill come ?

As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER
in a clergyman's evening dress, comes sedately
downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man,
with something in him, as it were, both of
jLjtoUU* *£ heaven, and a drawing-room. He passes
FREDA with a formal little nod. HAROLD,
a fresh-cheeked, cheery -looking youth, comes
down, three steps at a time.

HAROLD. Hallo, Freda ! Patience on the monu-
ment. Let's have a sniff ! For Miss Lanfarne ?
Bill come down yet ?
FREDA. No, Mr. Harold.

HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows
LATTER into the drawing-room. There is
the sound of a scuffle above, and a voice
crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN
comes down screwing her head back. She is
pretty and small, with large clinging eyes.
JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda ? That beast,
Dot!

FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan.

DOT'S face, like a full moon, appears over the
upper banisters. She too comes running
down, a frank Jigure, with the face of a
rebel.

sc. i THE ELDEST SON 9

DOT. You little being !

JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-room, is overtaken
at the door] Oh ! Dot ! You're pinching !

As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL
LANFARNE, a tall girl with a rather charming
Irish face, comes slowly down. And at sight
of her FREDA'S whole figure becomes set and
meaning-full.

FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady.

MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry\
How sweet ! [Fastening the roses] And how are you,
Freda ?

FREDA. Very well, thank you.

MABEL. And your father ? Hope he's going to
let me come out with the guns again.

FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure.

MABEL. Ye-es ! I haven't forgotten his face —
last time.

FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to
stand with than Mr. Harold, or Captain Keith ?

MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day.

FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do
their best.

A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE giving
FREDA a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to
the drawing-room. Left alone without the
roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming
of a door above, and hasty footsteps, she
shrinks back against the stairs. BILL runs

10 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

down, and conies on her suddenly. He is a
tall, good-looking edition of his father, with
the same stubborn look of veiled choler.

BILL. Freda ! [And as she shrinks still further back]
What's the matter? [Then at some sound he looks
round uneasily and draws away from her] Aren't you
glad to see me ?

FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill.
After dinner.

BILL. Mister ?

She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And
BILL, who stands frowning and looking after
her, recovers himself sharply as the drawing-
room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and
Miss LANFARNE come forth, followed by
KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER,
and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and
talking. By herself, behind them, comes
LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking woman
of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an ex-
pression at once gentle and ironic. They
move across the hall towards the dining-room.

SIR WILLIAM. Ah ! Bill.

MABEL. How do you do ?

KEITH. How are you, old chap ?

DOT. [gloomily] Do you know your part ?

HAROLD. Hallo, old man !

CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss.
JOAN and LATTER pause and look at him
shyly without speech.

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 11

BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN'S shoulder] Good
luck, you two ! Well mother ?

LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy ! Nice to see
you at last. What a long time !

She draws his arm through hers, and they move
towards the dining-room.

The curtain falls.
The curtain rises again at once.

SCENE II

CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE,
and JOAN, are returning to the hall after dinner.

CHRISTINE, [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about
young Dunning and Rose Taylor ?

LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear.

CHRISTINE. But can't they be

DOT. Ah ! ah-h ! [CHRISTINE and her mother are
silent, .] My child, I'm not the young person.

CHRISTINE. No, of course not — only — [nodding
towards JOAN and MABEL].

DOT. Look here ! This is just an instance of what
I hate.

LADY CHESHIRE. My dear ? Another one ?

DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you
don't understand, because you know you do.

CHRISTINE. Instance ? Of what ?

12 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen,
still at the fire.

DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want
them to marry, if he's tired of her ?

CHRISTINE. [Ironically] Well ! If your imagination
doesn't carry you as far as that !

DOT. When people marry, do you believe they
ought to be in love with each other ?

CHRISTINE. [With a shrug] That's not the point

DOT. Oh ? Were you in love with Ronny ?

CHRISTINE. Don't be idiotic !

DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't
been?

CHRISTINE. Of course not !

JOAN. Dot ! You are !

DOT. Hallo ! my little snipe !

LADY CHESHIRE. Dot, dear !

DOT. Don't shut me up, mother ! [To JOAN.]
Are you in love with John ? [JOAN turns hurriedly to
thejire.] Would you be going to marry him if you
were not ?

CHRISTINE. You are a brute, Dot.

DOT. Is Mabel in love with — whoever she is in
love with ?

MABEL. And I wonder who that is.

DOT. Well, would you marry him if you
weren't ?

MABEL. No, I would not.

DOT. Now, mother ; did you love father ?

CHRISTINE. Dot, you really are awful.

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 13

DOT. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too
thick, perhaps.

JOAN. Dot !

DOT. Well, mother, did you — I mean quite calmly ?

LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, quite calmly.

DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't ?
[LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head] Then we're all
agreed !

MABEL. Except yourself.

DOT. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might
think himself lucky if I married him.

MABEL. Indeed, and I'm not so sure.

DOT. [Making a face at her] What I was going
to

LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd
better not ?

DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say>
but what I do say is — Why the devil

LADY CHESHIRE. Quite so, Dot !

DOT. [A little disconcerted.] If they're tired of
each other, they ought not to marry, and if father's
going to make them

CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least.\
It's for the sake of the

DOT. Out with it, Old Sweetness ! The approaching j y
infant ! God bless it !

There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and
LATTER are seen coming from the dining-
room.

LATTER. That must be so, Ronny.

14 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

KEITH. No, John ; not a bit of it !

LATTER. You don't think !

KEITH. Good Gad, who wants to think after
dinner !

DOT. Come on! Let's play Pool. [She turns at
the billiard-room door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-
morrow is directly after breakfast; from "Eccles
enters breathless " to the end.

MABEL. Whatever made you choose " Caste," Dot ?
You know it's awfully difficult.

DOT. Because it's the only play that's not too
advanced.

[The girls all go into the billiard-room.

LADY CHESHIRE. Where's Bill, Ronny ?

KEITH. [With a grimace'] I rather think Sir William
and he are in Committee of Supply — Mem-Sahib.

LADY CHESHIRE. Oh !

She looks -uneasily at the dining-room ; then
follows the girls out.

LATTER. [In the tone of one resuming an argument]
There can't be two opinions about it, Ronny. Young
Dunning's refusal is simply indefensible.

KEITH. I don't agree a bit, John.

LATTER. Of course, if you won't listen.

KEITH. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear
chap. We've had the whole thing over twice at least.

LATTER. My point is this

KEITH. [Regarding LATTER quizzically with his half-
closed eyes] I know — I know — but the point is, how
far your point is simply professional

sc, ii THE ELDEST SON 15

LATTER. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to
right her again. There's no answer to that.

KEITH. It all depends.

LATTER. That's rank opportunism.

KEITH. Rats ! Look here — Oh ! hang it, John, one
can't argue this out with a parson.

LATTER. [Frigidly] Why not ?

HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room]
Pull devil, pull baker !

KEITH. Shut up, Harold !

LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even
of the Army.

KEITH. Exactly, but what is the game ?

LATTER. What else can it be in this case ?

KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You
can't help it — line of country laid down for you.
All drag-huntin' ! What !

LATTER. [ With concentration] Look here 1

HAROLD. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a
horse's head] ( Come hup, I say, you hugly beast ! '

KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me,
old chap. You don't see where you'd land us all.
[He smokes calmly]

LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise ?
From precisely this sort of thing of young Dunning's.

KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought,
John. I admit that I don't like a fellow's leavin' a
girl in the lurch; but I don't see the use in drawin'
hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em.
Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the

16 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

girl up together, willy-nilly, to save appearances, and
ten to one but there'll be the deuce to pay in a year's
time. You can take a horse to the water, you can't
make him drink.

LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with
you.

HAROLD. Good old John !

LATTER. At all events we know where your
principles take you.

KEITH. [Rather dangerously] Where, please ?
[HAROLD turns up his eyes, and points downwards] Dry
up, Harold !

LATTER. Did you ever hear the story of Faust ?
KEITH. Now look here, John ; with all due respect
to your cloth, and all the politeness in the world, you
may go to — blazes.

LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny — of all the rude

boors [He turns towards the billiard-room.

KEITH. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap.

LATTER passes out. There comes a mingled
sound through the opened door, of female
voices, laughter, and the click of billiard
balls, clipped off by tht sudden closing of
the door.

KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a
parson puts one's back up ! Because you know I
agree with him really ; young Dunning ought to play
the game ; and I hope Sir William'll make him.

The butler JACKSON has entered from the door
under the stairs followed by the keeper

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 17

STUDUKNHAM, a man between fifty and sixty,
in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord
breeches, and gaiters ; he has a steady self-
respecting weathered face, with blue eyes and
a short grey beard, which has obviously once
been red.

KEITH. Hullo ! Studdenham !

STUDDENHAM. [Touching his forehead] Evening
Captain Keith.

JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with
Mr. Bill, sir?

HAROLD. [ With a grimace] He is, Jackson.

JACKSON goes out to the dining-room.

KEITH. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham ?

STUDDENHAM. No, sir. Only birds. We'll be
doin' the spinneys and the home covert while you're
down.

KEITH. I say, talkin' of spinneys

He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD
into the billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters
from the dining-room, applying a gold tooth-
pick to his front teeth.

SIR WILLIAM. Ah ! Studdenham. Bad business
this, about young Dunning !

STUDDENHAM. Yes, Sir William,

SIR WILLIAM. He definitely refuses to marry her ?

STUDDENHAM. He does that,

SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What
reason does he give ?

18 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

STUDDENHAM. Won't say other than that he don't
want no more to do with her.

SIR WILLIAM. God bless nie ! That's not a reason.
I can't have a keeper of mine playing fast and loose
in the village like this. [Turning to LADY CHESHIRE,
who has come in from the billiard -room] That affair of
young Dunning' s, my dear.

LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studden-
ham. The poor girl !

STUDDENHAM. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling
she's not his equal, now, my lady.

LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has
made her his superior.

SIR WILLIAM. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I
was just telling Studdenham the fellow must set the
matter straight. We can't have open scandals in
the village. If he wants to keep his place he must
marry her at once.

LADY CHESHIRE. [To her husband in a low voice] Is
it right to force them ? Do you know what the girl
wishes, Studdenham ?

STUDDENHAM. Shows a spirit, my lady — says she'll
have him — willin' or not.

LADY CHESHIRE. A spirit? I see. If they marry
like that they're sure to be miserable.

SIR WILLIAM. What ! Doesn't follow at all. Besides,
my dear, you ought to know by this time, there's an
unwritten law in these matters. They're perfectly
well aware that when there are consequences, they
have to take them.

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 19

STUDDENHAM. Some o* these young people, my
lady, they don't put two and two together no more
than an old cock pheasant.

SIR WILLIAM. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he
remains obstinate, he'll have to go; he'll get no
character, Studdenham. Let him know what I've
said. I like the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't
want to lose him. But this sort of thing I won't
have. He must toe the mark or take himself off.
Is he up here to-night ? ~]

STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William.
Will you have him in ?

SIR WILLIAM. [Hesitating] Yes — yes. I'll see him.

STUDDENHAM. Good-night to you. my lady.

LADY CHESHIRE. Freda's not looking well,
Studdenham,

STUDDENHAM. She's a bit pernickitty with her food,
that's where it is.

LADY CHESHIRE. I must try and make her eat.

SIR WILLIAM. Oh ! Studdenham. We'll shoot the
home covert first. What did we get last year ?

STUDDENHAM. [Producing the game-book ; but without
reference to it] Two hundred and fifty -three pheasants,
eleven hares, fifty-two rabbits, three woodcock,
sundry.

SIR WILLIAM. Sundry ? Didn't include a fox did it ?
[Gravely] I was seriously upset this morning at
Warnham's spinney

STUDDENHAM. \Very gravely] You don't say, Sir
William ; that four-year old he du look a handful !

20 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well
enough what I mean.

STUDDENHAM. [Unmoved] Shall I send young
Dunning, Sir William ?

SIR WILLLIAM gives a short, sharp nod, and
STUDDENHAM retires by the door under the
stairs.

SIR WILLIAM. Old fox !

. LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be too hard on Dunning.
He's very young.

SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't
understand young fellows, how should you ?

LADY CHESHIRE. [ With her faint irony] A husband
and two sons not counting. [Then as the door under

the stairs is opened] Bill, now do

SIR WILLIAM. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply]
Come in !

LADY CHESHIRE retires to the billiard-room.
She gives a look back and a half smile at
young DUNNING, a fair young man dressed
in brown cords and leggings, and holding his
cap in his hand ; then, goes out.
SIR WILLIAM. Evenin', Dunning.
DUNNING. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William.
SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want
to see you about ?
DUNNING. Yes, Sir.

SIR WILLIAM. The thing's in your hands. Take it or
leave it. I don't put pressure on you. I simply
won't have this sort of thing on my estate.

sc. n THE ELDEST SON 21

DUNNING. I'd like to say, Sir William, that she —
[He stops\.

SIR WILLIAM. Yes, I daresay — Six of one and half a
dozen of the other. Can't go into that.
DUNNING. No, Sir William.

SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your
first place. If you leave here you'll get no character.
DUNNING. I never meant any harm, sir.
SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom
of the country.

DUNNING. Yes, Sir William, but

SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you
leaped. I'm not forcing you. If you refuse you must
go, that's all.

DUNNING. Yes, Sir William.

SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day
to think it over.

BILL, rvho has sauntered moodily from the
dining-room, stands by the stairs listening.
Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his
hand to his forelock.

DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns,
fumbles, and turns again] My old mother's dependent

on me

SIR WILLIAM. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say.

[DUNNING goes sadly away under the stairs.

SIR WILLIAM. [Following] And look here ! Just

understand this [He too goes out.

BILL, lighting a cigarette, has approached the
writing-table. He looks very glum. The

22 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

billiard-room door is flung open. MABEL
LANFARNE appears, and makes him a little
curtsey.

MABEL. Against my will I am bidden to bring you
in to pool.

BILL. Sorry ! I've got letters.

MABEL. You seem to have become very con
scientious.

BILL. Oh ! I don't know.

MABEL. Do you remember the last day of the
covert shooting ?

BILL. I do.

MABEL, [suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Stud-
denham's grown !

BILL. Has she ?

MABEL. " She walks in beauty."

BILL. Really ? Hadn't noticed.

MABEL. Have you been taking lessons in con-
versation ?

BILL. Don't think so.

MABEL. Oh ! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire !

BILL. Miss Lanfarne !

MABEL. What's the matter with you ? Aren't you
rather queer, considering that I don't bite, and teas
rather a pal !

BILL. [Stolidly] I'm sorry.

Then seeing that his mother has come in from
the billiard-room, he sits down at the writing-
table

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 93

LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue.
Won't you play too, Bill, and try and stop Ronny,
he's too terrible ?

BILL. Thanks. I've got these letters.

MABEL taking the cue passes back into the
billiard-room, whence comes out the sound of
talk and laughter.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind
her son's chair.} Anything wrong, darling ?

BILL. Nothing, thanks. [Suddenly.] I say, I wish
you hadn't asked that girl here.

LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel ! Why ? She's wanted
for rehearsals. I thought you got on so well with
her last Christmas.

BILL. [With a sort of sullen exasperation.] A year
ago.

LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your
father ; personally I must say I think she's rather
nice and Irish.

BILL. She's all right, I daresay.

He looks round as if to show his mother that
he tvishes be to left alone. But LADY
CHESHIRE, having seen that he is about to
look at her, is not looking at him.
LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been
talking to you, Bill.
BILL. He has.

LADY CHESHIRE. Debts ? Do try and make allow-
ances. [With a faint smile] Of course he is a
little

24 THE ELDEST SON ACT T

BILL. He is.

LADY CHESHIRE. I wish 7 could

BILL. Oh, Lord ! Don't you get mixed up in
it!

LADY CHESHIRE. It seems almost a pity that you
told him.

BILL. He wrote and asked me point blank what I
owed.

LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in
a casual voice] I happen to have a little money
Bill I think it would be simpler if

BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that
before. I can't help spending money, I never shall
be able, unless I go to the Colonies, or something of
the kind.

LADY CHESHIRE. Don't talk like that !

BILL. I mould, for two straws !

LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father
thinks such a lot of the place, and the name, and
your career. The Cheshires are all like that.
They've been here so long ; they're all — root.

BILL. Deuced funny business my career will be, I
expect !

LADY CHESHIRE. [Fluttering, but restraining herself
lest he should see] But, Bill, why must you spend
more than your allowance ?

BILL. Why — anything ? I didn't make myself.

LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid tve did that. It mas
inconsiderate, perhaps.

BILL. Yes, you'd better have left me out.

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 25

LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so — Only a
little fuss about money !
BILL. Ye-es.

LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from
me, are you ?

BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very de-
liberately to the writing things, and takes up a peri\ I
must write these letters, please.

LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble,
you will tell me, won't you ?

BILL. There's nothing whatever.

He suddenly gets up and walks about.
LADY CHESHIRE, too, moves over to thejireplace,
and after an uneasy look at him, turns to the
fire. Then, as if trying to switch off his
mood, she changes the subject abruptly.
LADY CHESHIRE. Isn't it a pity about young
Dunning ? I'm so sorry for Rose Taylor.

There Is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase
FREDA has entered, and seeing only BILL,
advances to speak to him.

BILL. [Suddenly] Oh ! well, you can't help these
things in the country.

As he speaks, FREDA stops dead, perceiving
that he is not alone ; BILL, too, catching sight
of her, starts.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Still speaking to the fire] It seems
dreadful to force him. I do so believe in people
doing things of their own accord. [Then seeing FREDA

26 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

standing so uncertainly' by the stairs] Do you want me,
Freda ?

FREDA. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I— begin

it?

At this moment SIR WILLIAM enters from the

dramng-room.
LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, yes.

SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another
five minutes, Bill? [Pointing to the billiard-room]
We'll come directly, my dear.

FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back
whence she came; and LADY CHESHIRE
goes reluctantly away into the billiard-
room.

SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short
shrift. [He moves over to the Jireplace and divides his
coat-tails] Now, about you, Bill ! I don't want to
bully you the moment you come down, but you
know, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice.
Shan't pay them this time unless I see a disposition
to change your mode of life. [A pause] You get
your extravagance from your mother. She's very
queer — [A pause] — All the Winterleghs are like
that about money.

BILL. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what
you mean.

SIR WILLIAM. [Drily] We will put it that way.
[A pause] At the present moment you owe, as I
understand it. eleven hundred pounds.
BILL. About that.

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 27

SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a
proposition to make.

BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir ?

SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your
motto in life.

BILL. Thanks!

SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it too to-day.
[BILL looks at him in silence]. It's time you took your
position seriously, instead of hanging about town,
racing, and playing polo, and what not.

BILL. Go ahead !

At something dangerous in his voice, SIR
WILLIAM modifies his attitude.

SIR WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I
can't suppose anything so rational and to your ad-
vantage will appeal to you, but [drily] I mention it.
Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for the/
division ; you can have the Dower House and fifteen
hundred a year, and I'll pay your debts into the bar-
gain. If you're elected I'll make it two thousand.
Plenty of time to work up the constituency before
we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpet-bagger
against you ; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll
be odd if you don't manage to put in your three days
a week, next season. You can take Rocketer and
that four-year-old — he's well up to your weight,
fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only
want one other. And if Miss — if your wife means
to hunt

BILL. You've chosen my wife, then ?

28 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

SIR WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've
some girl in your mind.

BILL. Ah!

SIR WILLIAM. Used not to be unnatural at your
age. I married your mother at twenty-eight. Here
you are, eldest son of a family that stands for some-
thing. The more I see of the times the more I'm
convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to
buckle to, and save the landmarks left. Unless
we're true to our caste, and prepared to work for it,
the landed classes are going to go under to this
infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's
very serious. We're threatened in a hundred ways.
If you mean business, you'll want a wife. When I
came into the property I should have been lost
without your mother.

BILL. I thought this was coming.

SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain geniality] My dear
fellow, I don't want to put a pistol to your head.
You've had a slack rein so far. I've never objected
to your sowing a few wild oats — so long as you — er
— [Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden
movement]. Short of that — at all events, I've not
inquired into your affairs. I can only judge by the
— er — pecuniary evidence you've been good enough
to afford me from time to time. I imagine you've
lived like a good many young men in your position —
I'm not blaming you, but there's a time for all things.

BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want
me to marry Mabel Lanfarne ?

sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 29

SIR WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good
family — got a little money — rides well. Isn't she
good-looking enough for you, or what ?

BILL. Quite, thanks.

SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that
you and she were on good terms.

BILL. Please don't drag mother into it.

SIR WILLIAM, [with dangerous politeness] Perhaps
you'll be good enough to state your objections.

BILL. Must we go on with this ?

SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything
for me before ; I expect you to pay attention now. I've
no wish to dragoon you into this particular marriage.
If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry a girl
you're fond of.

BILL. I refuse.

SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look
out for. [ With a sudden rush of choler] You young
. , . [He checks himself and stands glaring at BILL,
who glares back at hini\ This means, I suppose,
that you've got some entanglement or other.

BILL. Suppose what you like, sir.

SIR WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the black-
guard

BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning.

Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has
come back from the billiard-room.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it ?

SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse ! Go away,
Dorothy.

SO THE ELDEST SON ACT i

LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for
two months.

SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well — we must
talk it over again.

LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both
of you ! Bill, do finish those letters !

With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM
toward the billiard-room, and glances back at
BILL before going out, but he has turned to
the writing-table. When the door is closed,
BILL looks into the drawing-room, then opens
the door tinder the stairs ; and backing away
towards the writing-table, sits down there,
and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evi-
dently been waiting, comes in and stands by
the table.

BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know.
FREDA. Yes — but I must.

BILL. Well, then — [With natural recklessness] Aren't
you going to kiss me ?

Without moving she looks at him with a sort of

miserable inquiry.

BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight
weeks ?

FREDA. Quite — long enough — for you to have
forgotten.

BILL. Forgotten ! I don't forget people so soon.
FREDA. No ?

BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda ?
FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was.

jc. n THE ELDEST SON 31

BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean ?

FHEDA. I've got something for you. [She lakes a
diamond ring out of her dress and holds it out to him']
I've not worn it since Cromer.

BILL. Now, look here

FREDA. I've had my holiday ; I shan't get another
in a hurry.

BILL. Freda!

FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's
all you really loved me in.

BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear

FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need
never know about me.

BILL. So that's it ! I've told you a dozen times
— nothing's changed.

FREDA looks at him and smiles.

BILL. Oh ! very well ! If you will make yourself
miserable.

FREDA. Everybody will be pleased.

BILL. At what ?

FREDA. When you marry her.

BILL. This is too bad.

FREDA. It's what always happens — even when it's
not a gentleman.

BILL. That's enough !

FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the
village. You needn't be afraid I'll say anything
when — it comes. That's what I had to tell you.

BILL. What!

FREDA. / can keep a secret.

32 THE ELDEST SON ACT i

BILL. Do you mean this ?

[She boms her head.

BILL. Good God '

FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine.
Like the puppies when they hold them up by their
tails. [ With a sudden break in her voice] Oh ! Bill !

BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands'] Freda!
[He breaks away from her towards the fire~\ Good God !
She stands looking at him, then quietly slips
away by the door under the staircase. BILL
turns to speak to her, and sees that she has
gone. He walks up to the fireplace, and
grips the mantelpiece.
BILL. By Jove! This is !

The curtain falls.

ACT II

The scene is LADY CHESHIRE'S morning room, at ten
o'clock on the following day. It is a pretty room,
with white panelled walls, and chrysanthemums
and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow window
overlooks the park under a sou -westerly sky. A
piano stands open ; a /ire is burning ; and the
morning's correspondence is scattered on a writing-
table. Doors opposite each other lead to the maid's
workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is
standing in the middle of the room, looking at an
opera cloak, which FREDA is holding out.
LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just
give it up !

FREDA. I don't like to be beaten.
LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your
work. And by the way, I promised your father to
make you eat more.

[FREDA smiles.

LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You
want bracing up. Now don't be naughty. I shall
give you a tonic. And I think you had better put
that cloak away.

FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady,
33 c

34 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting down at her writing-table]
Very well.

FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON

comes in from the corridor.

JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young
woman from the village, says you wanted to see
her.

LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor ? Ask her to come
in. Oh ! and Jackson the car for the meet please at
half-past ten.

JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY
CHESHIRE rises with marked signs of nervous-
ness, which she has only just suppressed,
when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl,
comes in and stands waiting by the door.
LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in !

[ROSE advances perhaps a couple of steps.
LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like
to ask my ad vice. Your engagement Vith Dunning's
broken off, isn't it ?

ROSE. Yes — but I've told him he's got to marry
me.

LADY CHESHIRE. I see ! And you think that'll be
the wisest thing ?

ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to.
LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of
him still.

ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it.
LADY CHESHIRE. And — do you think he's quite
lost his affection for you ?

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 35

ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as
he's done. He's after that — that — He didn't ought
to treat me as if I was dead.

LADY CHESHIRE. No, no — of course. But you will
think it all well over, won't you ?

ROSE. I've a-got nothing to think over, except what
I know of.

LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both to marry in that
spirit ! You know it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her
face] I'm always ready to help you.

ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtesy] Thank you,
my lady, but I think he ought to marry me. I've
told him he ought.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted
to say. It's a question of your self-respect ; I can't
give you any real advice. But just remember that if
you want a friend

ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so'ard, really. I only
want him to do what's right by me.

LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrows —
gently] Yes, yes — I see.

ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like
meeting the servants.

LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out
another way.

As they reach the door, DOT comes in.

DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this
room for the mouldy rehearsal, Mother ?

LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here.
Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her

36 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

out. And DOT, with a book of " Caste " in
her hand, arranges the room according to a
diagram.

DOT. Chair — chair — table — chair — Dash ! Table —
piano — fire — window ! [Producing a pocket comb]
Comb for Eccles. Cradle? — Cradle — [She viciously
dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool
into it] Brat ! [Then reading from the book gloomily]
" Enter Eccles breathless. Esther and Polly rise —
Esther puts on lid of bandbox." Bandbox !

Searching for something to represent a bandbox,
she opens the workroom door.

DOT. Freda?

FREDA comes in.

DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You
seem awfully down.

[FREDA does not answer.

DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop
lately.

FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot.

DOT. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic ?

FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet.

DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a
sudden warm impulse] What is it, Freda ?

FREDA. Nothing.

DOT. [Switching off on a different line of thought]
Are you very busy this morning ?

FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady.

DOT. Oh ! that can wait. I may have to get you

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 37

in to prompt, if I can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily]
They stray so. Would you mind ?

FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad,, Miss Dot.
DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see —
what did I want ?

JOAN has come in.

JOAN. Look here, Dot ; about the baby in this scene.
I'm sure I ought to make more of it.

DOT. Romantic little beast ! [She plucks the footstool
out by one ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try !

JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really
going to have for the baby ? I can't rehearse with
that thing. Can't you suggest something, Freda ?

FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are I
some that don't count much.
.JOAN. Freda, how horrible !

DOT. [Droppimg the footstool back into the basket]
You'll just put up with what you're given.

Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE come

in, FREDA turns abruptly and goes out.
DOT. Buck up ! Where are Bill and Harold ? [ To
JOAN] Go and find them, mouse-cat.

But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are
already in the doorway. They come in, and
LATTER, stumbling over the waste-paper
basket, takes it up to improve its position.
DOT. Drop that cradle, John ! [As he picks the foot
stool out of it] Leave the baby in ! Now then ! Bill
you enter there ! [She points to the workroom door
where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the piano;

38 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

while HAROLD goes to the window] John ! get off the
stage ! Now then, " Eccles enters breathless, Esther
and Polly rise." Wait a minute. I know now. [She
opens Ike workroom door] Freda, I wanted a band-
box.

HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse,
you know, you feel such a fool.

DOT. [With her bandbox — gloomily] You'll feel
more of a fool when you have berun. [To BILL,
who is staring into the workroom] Shut the door.
Now.

BILL shuts the door.

LATTER. [Advancing] Look here ! I want to clear
up a point of psychology before we start.

DOT. Good Lord !

LATTER. When I bring in the milk — ought I to
bring it in seriously — as if I were accustomed — I
mean, I maintain that if I'm

JOAN. Oh ! John, but I don't think it's meant that
you should

DOT. Shut up ! Go back, John ! Blow the milk !
Begin, begin, begin ! Bill !

LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But
I think you underrate the importance of my entrance
altogether.

MABEL. Oh ! no, Mr, Latter !

LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the
balance of the scene, but I do want to be clear about
the spirit. What is the spirit ?

DOT. [With gloom] Rollicking!

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 39

LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a
great risk with this play, if we rollick.

DOT. Shall we ? Now look here !

MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire !

BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on !

DOT. [ Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin ! At last!
But JACKSON has come in.

JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, M'm, it
the young ladies want to see the spaniel pups, he's
brought 'em round.

JOAN. [Starting up] Oh ! come on, John !

[She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER.

DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You !

[CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past.

DOT. [Despairingly] First pick ! [Tearing her hair]
Pigs ! Devils ! [She rushes after them.

BILL and MABEL are left alone.

MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the
spaniel pups ?

BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of
the workroom door] Can't keep a dog in town. You
can have one, if you like. The breeding's all right.

MABEL. Sixth pick?

BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They
only fancy they want 'em.

MABEL. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped
behind her] You know, you remind me awfully of
your father. Except that you're not nearly so polite.
I don't understand you English — lords of the soil.
The way you have of disposing of your females. k[ With

40 THE ELDEST SON ACT u

a sudden change of voice] What was the matter with
you last night ? [Softly] Won't you tell me ?

BILL. Nothing to tell.

MABEL. Ah ! no, Mr. Bill.

BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice — then sullenly]
Worried, I suppose.

MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it ?

BILL. Don't chaff me, please.

MABEL. You really are rather formidable.

BILL. Thanks.

MABEL. But, you know, I love to cross a field where
there's a bull.

BILL. Really ! Very interesting.

MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing
at a time. [She moves back as he advances] And over-
turning people on the journey.

BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful ?

MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're
stuck in it. And then straight from that hedge into
the opposite one.

BILL, [savagely] What makes you bait me this
morning of all mornings ?

MABEL. The beautiful morning ! [Suddenly] It must
be dull for poor Freda working in there with all this
fun going on ?

BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it ?

MABEL. To go back to you, now — Mr. Cheshire.

BILL. No.

MABEL. You always make me feel so Irish. Is it
because you're so English, d'you think ? Ah ! I can

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 41

see him moving his ears. Now he's pawing the
ground — He's started !
BILL. Miss Lanfarne !

MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing

him on with her eyes and smile] You can't help coming

after me ! [Then with a sudden change to a sort of stern

gravity'] Can you ? You'll feel that when I've gone.

They stand quite still, looking into each other's

eyes and FREDA, who has opened the door of

the workroom stares at them.

MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu,
Montieur le taureau !

She puts her hand behind her, opens the door,
and slips through, leaving BILL to turn,
following the direction of her eyet, and see
FREDA with the cloak still in her hand.
BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept
all night.
FREDA. No?
BILL. Have you been thinking it over ?

[FREDA gives a bitter little laugh.
BILL. Don't ! We must make a plan. I'll get you
away. I won't let you suffer. I swear I won't.
FREDA. That will be clever.

BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such
a mess.

FREDA. I shall be — all — right, thank you.
BILL. Youmust think me a blackguard. [She shakes
her head] Abuse me — say something ! Don't look like
that !

42 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me ?
BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your
hands.

She looks at him, then drags her hands from his,

and covers her face.

BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here ! I'll prove it.
[Then as she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and
clings to him] There, there !

There is a click of a door handle. They start
away from each other, and see LADY
CHESHIRE regarding them.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon.
She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted
intrusion, but suddenly turning, stands, with
lips pressed together, waiting.
LADY CHESHIRE. Yes?

FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns

and confronts his mother.
BILL. Don't say anything against her !
LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails — then
to FREDA] Please — go !

BILL. [Taking FREDA'S arm] No.

LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation,

herself moves towards the door.
BILL. Stop, mother !
LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not.
BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though
from a blow] It's a d — d shame !
LADY CHESHIRE. It is.

ACT n THE ELDEST SON 43

BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you
think. I'm engaged to be married to her.

[FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I —
don't — think — I — quite — understand.

BILL. [ With the brutality of his mortification] What I
said was plain enough.

LADY CHESHIRE. Bill !

BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her.

LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true?

[FREDA gulps and remains silent.

BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me,
mother.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table]
Give me a chair, please.

[BiLL gives her a chair.

LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too.
FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her
face away.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now !

BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me.

LADY CHESHIRE. When ?

BILL. In the summer.

LADY CHESHIRE. Ah !

BILL. It wasn't her fault.

LADY CHESHIRE. No ?

BILL. [ With a sort of menace] Mother !

LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used
to the idea. You say that you — are engaged ?

BILL. Yes.

44 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an
engagement have occurred to you, I suppose ? [ With
a sudden change of tone] Bill ! what does it mean ?

BILL. If you think she's trapped me into this

LADY CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she
has been trapped. I think nothing. I understand
nothing.

BILL. [Grimly'] Good !

LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this — engagement
lasted ?

BILL. [After a silence] Two months.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is — this is quite
impossible.

BILL. You'll find it isn't.

LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery.

BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in
there, Freda.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love
with her ?

FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers

a sob.
• BILL. Of course I am.

FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE
rises suddenly, forced by the intense feeling
she has been keeping in hand.

LADY CHESHIRE. Bill ! Oh, Bill ! What does it all
mean ? [BILL, looking from side to side, only shrugs his
shoulders] You are not in love with her now. It's no
good telling me you are.

BILL. I am.

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 45

LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would
speak if you were.

BILL. She's in love with me.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so.

BILL. 1 mean to see that nobody runs her down.

LADY CHESHIRE. [ With difficulty] Bill ! Am I a hard,
or mean woman ?

BILL. Mother !

LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life — and — your
father's — and — all of us. I want to understand — I
must understand. Have you realised what an awful
thing this would be for us all ? It's quite impossible
that it should go on.

BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor,
as it is. She and I'll take good care not to be in the
way.

LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything !

BILL. I have.

LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill.

BILL. What's the good of these questions ?

LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away — I see !

BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We'r^
engaged, we shall be married quietly, and — and — go
to Canada.

LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that
to tell you'd be in love with her now.

BILL. I've told you that I am.

LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I
know — I know there's more behind.
BILL. There — is — nothing.

46 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled) but unconvinced.] Do you
mean that your love for her has been just what it
might have been for a lady ?

BILL. [Bitterly] Why not ?

LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so
as a rule.

BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls
say a word against Freda. This isn't the moment to
begin, please.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end
in wretchedness. You haven't a taste or tradition in
common. You don't know what marriage is. Day
after day, year after year. It's no use being senti-
mental— for people brought up as we are, to have
different manners is worse than to have different
souls. Besides, it's poverty. Your father will never
forgive you, and I've practically nothing. What can
you do ? You have no profession. How are you

going to stand it; with a woman who ? It's

the little things.

BILL. 1 know all that, thanks.

v LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been
through it. Marriage is hard enough when people
are of the same class. \With a sudden movement
towards him] Oh ! my dear — before it's too late !

BILL. \Ajler a struggle] It's no good.

LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only
end in her misery.

BILL. Leave that to me, please.

LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence]

ACT n THE ELDEST SON 47

Only the very finest can do such things. And you
— don't even know what trouble's like.
BILL. Drop it, please, mother.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are
you acting of your own free will ?

BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any
more. '\He goes out into the workroom.

LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do ?
In her distress she stands quite still, then goes to

the workroom door, and opens it.
LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda.

After a second's pause, FREDA, white and
trembling, appears in the doorway, followed
by BILL.

LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to
her alone.

BILL does not move.

LADY CHESHIRE, [/ci/y] I must ask you to leave us.

BILL hesitates ; then shrugging his shoulders,

he touches FREDA'S arms, and goes back into

the workroom, closing the door. There is

silence.

LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about ?
FREDA. I don't know, my lady.
LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call
me that again, whatever happens. [She walks to the
window, and speaks from there] I know well enough
how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry.
But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her
hand to her breast] Yes, I know. Women always

48 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

get^the worst of these things. That's natural. But
it's not only you — is it ? Does any one guess ?

FREDA. No.

LADY CHBSHIHE. Not even your father ? [FREDA
shakes her head] There's nothing more dreadful than
fora woman to hang like a stone round a man's neck.
How far has it gone ? Tell me !

FREDA. I can't.

LADY CHESHIRE. Come !

FREDA. I — won't.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give
him away ? Both of you the same. What's the use
of that with me ? Look at me ! Wasn't he with you
when you went for your holiday this summer ?

FREDA. He's — always — behaved — like — a — gentle-
man.

LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man — you mean !

FREDA. It hasn't been his fault ! I love him so.
LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to
walk up and down the room. Then stopping,
she looks intently at FREDA.

LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you.
It's simple madness ! It can't, and shan't go on.

FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I
am — somebody.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of
rights with a sudden steeUness] Does he love you
now ?

FREDA. That's not fair — it's not fair.

LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder,

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 49

Freda, women are not. If you've lost him it's been
your own fault.

FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only
four months.

LADY CHESHIRE [Looking down, and speaking rapidly]
Listen to me. I love my son, but I know him — I
know all his kind of man. I've lived with one for
thirty years. I know the way their senses work.
When they want a thing they must have it, and
then — they're sorry.

FREDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry.

LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you
both over everything ? . . . You know it isn't.

FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like
that.

LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there'd be no
trouble before either of you. You'll make him hate
you.

FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him
happy — out there.

LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to
say all the things you must know. I only ask you to
try and put yourself in our position.

FREDA. Ah, yes !

LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than
to think I'm purely selfish.

FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my
position ? [She throws up her head.

LADY CHESHIRE. What !

FREDA, Yes. Just like Rose.

D

50 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh !
There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up
to her, she looks straight into FREDA'S
eyes.

FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes — it's the truth.
[Then to Bill rvho has come in from the workroom, she
gasps out] I never meant to tell.
BILL. Well, are you satisfied ?
LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible !
BILL. The Governor had better know.
LADY CHESHIRE; Oh ! no ; not yet !
BILL. Waiting won't cure it !

The door from the corridor is thrown open ;
CHRISTINE and DOT run in with their copies of
the play in their hands ; seeing that something
is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his
mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back
into the workroom. LADY CHESHIRE moves
towards the window.

JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round.
What's the matter ?
DOT. Shut up !

SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the conidor
calling "Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE,
passing her handkerchief over her face, turns
round, he enters. He is in full hunting
dress : well-weathered pink, buckskins, and
mahogany tops.

SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters,
genially] Rehearsin' ? What ! [He goes up to FREDA

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 51

holding out his gloved right hand] Button that for me,
Freda, would you ? It's a bit stiff !

FREDA buttons the glove : LADY CHESHIRE and

the girls watching in hypnotic silence.
SIR WILLIAM. Thank you ! " Balmy as May " ; scent
ought to be first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-
bye, my dear ! Sampson's Gorse — best day of the
whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish you
were comin' out, Joan.

He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his
footsteps and the chink of his spurs die
away, FREDA turns and rushes into the
workroom.

CHRISTINE. Mother ! What ?

But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside,
passes her daughter, and goes out into the
corrida?'. The sound of a motor-car is
heard.

JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started ! —
—Chris ! What is it ? Dot ?
DOT. Bill, and her !
JOAN. But what ?

DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows ! Go away, you're
not fit for this.
JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit.
DOT. I think not.
JOAN. Chris ?

CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have
told us.
JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good.

52 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

DOT. Call yourself in love, you — milky kitten !

CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything ! I
wish Ronny hadn't gone.

JOAN. Shall I fetch John ?

DOT. John !

CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows.

JOAN. He went out with Studdenham.

DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers.
Rose-leaves and humbug ! That awful old man !

JOAN. Dot !

CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that !

DOT. Well, he is ! And Bill will be just like him
at fifty ! Heaven help Freda, whatever she's done !
I'd sooner be a private in a German regiment than a
woman.

JOAN. Dot, you're awful !

DOT. You — mouse-hearted — linnet !

CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women !

DOT. You're married and out of it ; and Ronny's
not one of these terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who
has opened the door] Looking for John ? No good, my
dear ; lath and plaster.

JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper\
Here's Mabel !

DOT. Heavens, and the waters under the earth !

CHRISTINE. If we only knew !

As MABEL comes in, the three girh are silent,
with their eyes faced on their books.

MABEL. The silent company.

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 53

DOT. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it
for to-day.

MABEL. What's the matter ?
CHRISTINE. Oh ! nothing.
DOT. Something's happened.

MABEL. Really ! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad
enough for me to go ?

CHRISTINE. Oh ! no, Mabel !

DOT. [Sardonically"] I should think very likely.

While she is looking from face to face, BILL
comes in from the workroom. He starts to
walk across the room, but stops, and looks
stolidly at the four girls.

BILL. Exactly ! Fact of the matter is, Miss
Lanfarne, I'm engaged to my mother's maid.

No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL
LANFARNE goes towards him, holding out her
hand. BILL does not take her hand, but
bows. Then after a swift glance at the
girls' faces MABEL goes out into the corridor,
and the three girls are left staring at their
brother,
BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know.

[He, too, goes out into the corridor.
CHRISTINE. Great heavens !
JOAN. How awful !

CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as
that.

JOAN. Oh ! Chris ! Something must be done !

54 THE ELDEST SON ACT n

DOT. [Suddenly to herself] Ha ! When Father went
up to have his glove buttoned !

There is a sound, JACKSON has come in from

the corridor.

JACKSON. [To DOT] If you please, Miss, Studden-
ham's brought up the other two pups. He's just
outside. Will you kindly take a look at them, he
says ?

There is silence.
DOT [Suddenly] We can't.
CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson.
JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait,
M'm?

DOT shakes her head violently. But STUDDEN-
HAM is seen already standing in the doorway,
with a spaniel puppy in either side-pocket.
He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting
behind him.

STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss Dot.
[He protmdes the right-hand pocket] I was keeping
him for my girl — a proper breedy one — takes after
his father.

The girls stare at him in silence.
DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see.
STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here.
They're rather bold yet,

CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course.
STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss
Dot ? The other's got a white chest ; she's a lady.
[He protrudes the left-hand pocket.

ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 55

DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenharu; thanks, thanks
awfully,

STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures ; follow
you like a woman. You can't shake 'em off anyhow.
[He protrudes the right-hand pocket] My girl, she'd set
her heart on him, but she'll just have to* do without. J

DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh ! no, I can't take
it away from her.

STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind ! That's
settled, then. [He ttirns to the door. To the PUPPY]
Ah ! would you ! Tryin' to wriggle out of it ! \
Regular young limb !

[He goes out, followed by JACKSON.

CHRISTINE. How ghastly !

DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand]
" Caste ! "

[She gives vent to a short sharp laught

The curtain falls.

ACT III

It is Jive o'clock of the same day. The scene is the
smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by
old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs
encircle a high-fendered hearth, in which a fire is
burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across
mullioned windows; but electric light is burning.
There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard-
room, the other to a coiridor. BILL, is pacing up
and down ; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking
at him with commiseration.

BILL. What's the time ?

HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if
that's any consolation. Always a good meet —
[sojlly] as the tiger said when he ate the man.

BILL. By Jove! You're the only person 1 can
stand, within a mile of me, Harold.

HAROLD. Old boy ! Do you seriously think you're
going to make it any better by marrying her ?

[Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.

HAROLD. Well, then ?

BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it
easy to say things.

HAROLD. No, old man.

57

58 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though
you wouldn't think it !

HAROLD. My dear old chap !

BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one
could have done, I suppose — one's own mother's
maid ; we've known her since she was so high. I
see it now that — I've got over the attack.

HAROLD. But, heavens ! if you're no longer keen
on her, Bill ! Do apply your reason, old boy.

There is silence; while BILL again paces up

and down.
BILL. If you think I care two straws about the

morality of the thing

HAROLD. Oh ! my dear old man ! Of course not !
BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d — d
skunk, if I leave her in the lurch, with everybody
knowing. Try it yourself; you'd soon see !
HAROLD. Poor old chap !

BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it.
And she's a soft little thing. Why I ever made such
a sickening ass of myself, I can't think. I never

meant

HAROLD. No, I know ! But, don't do anything
rash, Bill ; keep your head, old man !

BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did
clear out of the country. [The sound of cannoning
billiard balls is heard] Who's that knocking the balls
about ?

HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases.

BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that !

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 59

As LATTER appears from the biltiard-room, he
goes hurriedly out.

LATTER. Was that Bill ?

HAROLD. Yes.

LATTER. Well ?

HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his lurn\ Cat on
hot bricks is nothing to him. This is the sort of
thing you read of in books, John ! What price your
argument with Ronny now ? Well, it's not too late
for you luckily.

LATTER. What do you mean ?

HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this
eccentric family !

LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold.

HAROLD. Good !

LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters.

HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people
staying here ! Poor mother ! John, I feel awfully bad
about this. If something isn't done, pretty mess I
shall be in.

LATTER. How ?

HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts
Bill off, it'll all come to me.

LATTER. Oh !

HAROLD. Poor old Bill ! I say, the play ! Nemesis !
What ? Moral ! Caste don't matter. Got us fairly
on the hop.

LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's
behaved disgracefully.

HAROLD, [Warmly] Well ! There are thousands of

60 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

fellows who'd never dream of sticking to the girl,
considering what it means.

LATTER. Perfectly disgusting !

HAROLD. Hang you, John ! Haven't you any
human sympathy ? Don't you know how these things
come about ? It's like a spark in a straw -yard.

LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into
straw-yards unless one's an idiot, or worse.

HAROLD. H'm ! [ With a grin] You're not allowed
tobacco. In the good old days no one would have
thought anything of this. My great-grandfather

LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather.

HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men
I know who've been through this same business,
and got off scot-free ; and now because Bill's going
to play the game, it'll smash him up.

LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the
beginning ?

HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a
thing like this happens, all you can do is to cry out ;
Why didn't he — ? Why didn't she—? What's to be
done— that's the point !

LATTER. Of course he'll have to

HAROLD. Ha !

LATTER. What do you mean by — that ?

HAROLD. Look here, John ! You feel in your bones
that a marriage'll be hopeless, just as I do, knowing
Bill and the girl and everything ! Now don't you ?

LATTER. The whole thing is — is most unfortunate.

HAROLD. By Jove ! I should think it was !

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 61

As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH come In from
the billiard-room. He is still in splashed
hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally
weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a
cigarette, and sinks into an armchair. Behind
them DOT and JOAN have come stealing in.
CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny.
JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful.
HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old
man ?

KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten
minutes.

DOT. Mabel's going. {They all stir, as if at fresh
consciousness of discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely,
and sent herself a telegram.
HAROLD. Phew!

DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had
happened !

HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny.

KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke ; and
LATTER passing his arm through JOAN'S,
draws her away with him into the billiard-
room.

KEITH. Dot ?

DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel.
KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since ?
DOT. Yes.
HAROLD. Well?
DOT. She's just sitting there.
CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing.

62 1-H.b; JSlJJlfiST SUIN ACT III

DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If
one could only feel !

KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us.

DOT. Music ! Squeaks ' Ugh ! The whole thing's
like a concertina, and some one jigging it !

They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN
enters with a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons,
and soda water. In dead silence the FOOT-
MAN puts the tray down.

HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run,
Ronny ? [As KEITH nods'] What point ?

KEITH. Eight mile.

FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir ?

KEITH. No, thanks, Charles !

In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out,
and they all look after him.

HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad ! That's a
squeeze of it ! .

KEITH. What's our line of country to be ?

CHRISTINE. All depends on father.

KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the
deep sea, as it strikes me.

CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of
course.

KEITH. H'm ! Hard case ! Man who reads family
prayers, and lessons on Sunday forbids son to

CHRISTINE. Ronny !

KEITH. Great Scott ! I'm not saying Bill ought to
many her. She's got to stand the racket. But
your Dad will have a tough job to take up that position.

ACT III i tUL .ft.LilJ.ba 1 »UIN OO

DOT. Awfully funny !

CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot ?

DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other !

CHRISTINE. Rubbish !

HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill.

KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no
mortal power can help the title going down, if Bill

chooses to be such a

[He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.

HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have ;
nor would any of you girls, I should think

CHRISTINE AND DOT. Of course not !

KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm\ Hardly the point,
is it ?

DOT. If it wasn't for mother ! Freda's just as much
of a lady as most girls. Why shouldn't he marry
her, and go to Canada ? It's what he's really fit for.

HAROLD. Steady on, Dot !

DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament ! That's
what he'll come to, if he stays here — jolly for the
country !

CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical ! We must find a way
of stopping Bill.

DOT. Me cynical !

CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny !
KEITH. No earthly ! The only hope is in the girl.
DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her !
HAROLD. I say ! What price young Dunning ! Right
about face ! Poor old Dad !

CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold !

64 THE ELDEST SON ACT m

DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than
most relations by marriage !
KEITH. Thanks !

CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous — monstrous ! It's fan-
tastic !

HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse
going round. He's in !

They turn from listening to the sound, to see
LADY CHESHIRE coming from the billiard-
room. She is very pale. They all rise and
DOT puts an arm round her ; while KEITH
pushes forward his chair. JOAN and
LATTER too have come stealing back.
LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny ! [She sits down.
DOT. Mother, you're shivering ! Shall I get you a
fur?

LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear !
DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling !
LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort
of a run, Ronny ?

KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's
Dyke, good straight line.

LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse ?
KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's
all. [Putting his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up,
Mem-Sahib !

CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to
father ? Ronny thinks it all depends on her. Can't
you use your influence ?

[LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head.

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 65

CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate.

DOT. Shut up, Chris ! Of course mother can't.
We simply couldn't beg her to let us off!

CHRISTINE. There must be some Avay. What do
you think in your heart, mother ?

DOT. Leave mother alone !

CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never.

DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-
respect ?

CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the
•whole county. Oh ! mother do speak to her ! You
know it'll be misery for both of them. [LADY
CHESHIRE bows her head\ Well, then ?

[LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head.

CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake ?

DOT. Chris !

CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill
again, mother ! We ought all to go on our knees
to him.

LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now.

HAROLD. Poor old Bill !

CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us !
That wretched girl !

LADY CHESHIRE. Chris !

CHRISTINE. There are limits.

LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control.

CHRISTINE. No, mother ! I can't — I never shall —
Something must be done ! You know what Bill is.
He rushes his fences so, when he gets his head down.
Oh ! do try ! It's only fair to her, and all of us '

E

66 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one
can't do.

CHRISTINE. But it's Bill ! I know you can make
her give him up, if you'll only say all you can. And,
after all, what's coming won't affect her as if she'd
been a lady. Only yon can do it, mother. Do back
me up, all of you ! It's the only way !

Hypnotised by their private longing for what
CHRISTINE has been urging they have all
fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who
looks from face to face, and moves her hands
as if in physical pain.
CHRISTINE [Softly] Mother!

LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards
the billiard-room door, listening. They all
follow her eyes. She sits down again?
passing her hand over her lips, as SIR
WILLIAM enters. His hunting clothes are
splashed; his face very grim and set. He
walks to thejire without a glance at any one,,
and stands looking down into it. Very quietly,
every one but LADY CHESHIRE steals away.
LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done ?
SIR WILLIAM. You there !
LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense !
SIR WILLIAM. The fool ! My God ! Dorothy ! I
didn't think I had a blackguard for a son, who was a
fool into the bargain.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard
he would not be what you call a fool.

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 67

SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a
slight bow] Very well !

LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be
harsh. It's all too terrible.

SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear.

She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the
fire.

SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face
to face with a thing like this. [Gripping the mantel-
piece so hard that his hands and arms are seen shaking]
You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. Be
good enough in turn not to take his part against me.

LADY CHESHIRE. Bill !

SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand
that you've known this — piece of news since this
morning. I've known it ten minutes. Give me a
little time, please. [Then, after a silence'] Where's the
girl?

LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom.

SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in
God's name is he about ?

LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him ?

SIR WILLIAM. Nothing — by a miracle. [He breaks
away from the fire and walks up and domi] My family
goes back to the thirteenth century. Nowadays
they laugh at that ! I don't ! Nowadays they laugh
at everything — they even laugh at the word lady — 1
married you, and I don't. . . . Married his mother's
maid ! By George ! Dorothy ! I don't know what
we've done to deserve this ; it's a death blow ! I'm

68 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad !
I am not. [ With sudden Jicrceness] There are plenty
in these days who'll be glad enough for this to

happen; plenty of these d d Socialists and

Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they
haven't the bowels to see's a — tragedy. I say it
would be a tragedy; for you, and me, and all of us.
You and I were brought up, and we've brought the
children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and
habits. A man's past — his traditions — he can't get
rid of them. They're — they're himself ! [Suddenly]
It shan't go on.

LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it ?
SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of mad-
ness. I'll stop it.

LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop.

SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made.

LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law !

SIR WILLIAM. What ! [Suddenly perceiving what she

ii alluding to] You're thinking of young — young

[Shortly] I don't see the connection.

LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's
trying to do what's loyal — and we — his father and

mother !

SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son
ruin his life. I must think this out.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried
that — it doesn't help.

SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the
estate, had the run of the house — brought up with

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 69

money earned from me — nothing but kindness from
all of us ; she's broken the common rules of gratitude
and decency — she lured him on, I haven't a doubt !

LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose.

SIR WILLIAM. What ! It's ruin. We've always
been here. Who the deuce are we if we leave this
place ? D'you think we could stay ? Go out and
meet everybody just as if nothing had happened ?
Good-bye to any prestige, political, social, or anything !
This is the sort of business nothing can get over. I've
seen it before. As to that other matter — it's soon
forgotten — constantly happening — Why, my own
grandfather !

LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help ?

SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence — suddenly]
You must go to the girl. She's soft. She'll never
hold out against you.

LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in
front of her — I said all I could. I can't go again now.
How can I, Bill ?

SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then —
fold your hands ? [Then as LADY CHESHIRE makes a
movement of distress.] If he marries her, I've done
with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to
exist. The title — I can't help. My God ! Does
that meet your wishes ?

LADY CHESHIRE. [ With sudden jire] You've no right
to put such an alternative to me. I'd give ten years
of my life to prevent this marriage. I'll go to Bill.
I'll beg him on my knees.

70 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl ?
She deserves no consideration. It's not a question of

morality. Morality be d d !

LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect.
SIR WILLIAM. What ! You're his mother !
LADY CHESHIRE. I have been to her; I've tried; I
[putting her hand to her throat] couldn't get it out.
SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her\ You won't ?
LADY CHESHIRE. I can't, Bill. It seems so — cad-
dish, so mean.

SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married
life, Dorothy, I've never known you set yourself up
against me. I resent this, I warn you — I resent it-.
Send the girl to me.

With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes

oui into the corridor.
SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day !

He takes a small china cup from off the mantel-
piece ; it breaks with the pressure of his hand,
and falls into the fireplace. While he stands
looking at it blankly, there is a knock.
SIR WILLIAM. Come in !

FREDA enters from the corridor.
SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to
come, in order that — [pointing to chair] You may sit
down.

But though she advances two or three steps, she

does not sit dotvn.

SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business.
FRKDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William.

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 71

SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of
feeling before him] I — er— are you attached to my
son ?

FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes.

SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do
this.

[He turns away from her and speaks to ihejire.

I sent for you — to — ask — [quickly] How old are
you?

FREDA. Twenty-two.

SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me
to — sanction such a mad idea as a marriage f

FREDA. I don't expect anything.

SIR WILLIAM. You know — you haven't earned the
right to be considered.

FREDA. Not yet !

SIR WILLIAM. What ! That oughtn't to help you !
On the contrary. Now brace yourself up, and listen
to me !

She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR
WILLIAM looks at her ; and his glance
gradually wavers.

SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son.
He's behaved like a scamp.

FREDA. Oh ! no !

SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same
time — What made you forget yourself ? You've no
excuse, you know.

FREDA. No.

SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Con-

72 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

found it ! To expect me to — It's intolerable ! Do
you know where my son is ?

FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room
with my lady.

SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted
to — to put it to you — as a — as a — what ! [Seeing her
stand so absolutely motionless, looking at him, he turns
abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] I'll speak
to him first. Come in here, please ! [To FREDA] Go
in, and wait !

LADY CHESHIRE and BILL come in, and FREDA
passing them, goes into the billiard-room to
wait.

SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each
senience] Your mother and I have spoken of this —
calamity. I imagine that even you have some dim
perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell
you this : If you do this mad thing, you fend for
yourself. You'll receive nothing from me now or
hereafter. I consider that only due to the position
our family has always held here. Your brother will
take your place. We shall get on as best we can
without you. [There is a dead silence, till he adds
sharply] Well!

BILL. I shall marry her.

LADY CHESHIRE. Oh ! Bill ! Without love — with-
out anything !

BILL. All right, mother ! [To SIR WILLIAM] You've
mistaken your man, sir. Because I'm a rotter in* one
way, I'm not necessarily a rotter in all. You put the

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 73

butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head yesterday,
you put the other end to mine to-day. Well ! [He
turns round to go out] Let the d — d thing off !

LADY CHESHIRE. Bill !

BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her
in the lurch.

SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I
have not attempted to persuade you to.

BILL. No ! you've chucked me out. I don't see
what else you could have done under the circum-
stances. It's quite all right. But if you wanted me
to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way
to work, that's all ; neither you nor I are very good
at seeing consequences.

SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position ?

BILL. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it.

SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have
none — not the faintest, brought up as you've been.

BILL. I. didn't bring myself up.

SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled
anger, to which his son responds] You — ungrateful
young dog !

LADY CHESHIRE. How can you — both ?

[They drop their eyes, and stand silent.

SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am
speaking under the stress of very great pain — some
consideration is due to me. This is a disaster which I
never expected to have to face. It is a matter which
I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall cany
this down to my death. We shall all of us do that.

74 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

I have had the misfortune all my life to believe in
our position here — to believe that we counted for
something — that the country wanted us. I have
tried to do my duty by that position. I find in one
moment that it is gone — smoke — gone. My philo-
sophy is not equal to that. To countenance this
marriage would be unnatural.

BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this —
I don't see any other way out. It's a bad business

for me, father, as well as for you

He stops seeing that JACKSON has come in, and
is standing there waiting.

JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir
William ? It's about young Dunning.

After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM
nods, and the butler withdraws.

BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told.

SIR WILLIAM. He shall be.

STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to
them all with a comprehensive gesture.

STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evening
Sir William !

STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the
young man's to do the proper thing. Asked me to
let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up next
Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all
three in turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE
is shivering'] Beg pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like
a leaf !

BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 75

for you, Studdenham ; I'm engaged to your daughter.
We're to be married at once.

STUDDENHAM. I — don't — understand you — sir.

BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly ; but I mean
to put it straight.

STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say — my
daughter ?

SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters,
Studdenham. It's a thunderbolt — young Dunning's
case over again.

STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's —
You've — ! I must see my daughter. Have the
goodness to send for her, m'lady.

LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and
calls : " FREDA, come here, please."

STUDDENHAM. [to SIR WILLIAM] You tell me that
my daughter's in the position of that girl owing to
your son ? Men ha' been shot for less.

BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham
— you're welcome.

STUDDENHAM. [Averting Ids eyes from BILL at the sheer
idiocy of this sequel to his words] I've been in your
service five and twenty years, Sir William ; but
this is man to man — this is '

SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham.

STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger]
No — t' wouldn't be very easy. Did I understand him
to say that he offers her marriage ?

SIR WILLIAM You did.

STUDDENHAM [Into his beard] Well — that's some-

76 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

thing ! [Moving Ms hands as if wringing the neck of a
bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights o' this.

SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've, all your work cut
out for you, Studdenham.

Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious
wringing movement with his hands.

LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of
horror] Don't, Studdenham ! Please !

STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady ?

LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your — your —
hands.

While STUDDENHAM is still stating at her,
FREDA is seen standing in the doorway,
like a black ghost.

STUDDENHAM. Come here ! You ! [FREDA moves a
few steps towards her father] When did you start this ?

FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father.

LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her !

STUDDENHAM. Harsh ! [His eyes again move from
side to side as if pain and anger had bewildered them.
Then looking sideways at FREDA, but in a gentler voice]
And when did you tell him about — what's come to
you?

FREDA. Last night.

STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace'] You

young ! [He makes a convulsive movement of one

hand ; then, in the silence, seems to lose grip of his
thoughts, and puts his hand up to his head] I want to
clear me mind a bit — I don't see it plain at all.

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 77

[Without looking at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an
offer of marriage ?

BILL. I've made it, I stick to it.

STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want
time to get the pith o' this. You don't say any-
thing, Sir William ?

SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you.

STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady ?

[LADY CHESHIRE is silent.

STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was — was good
enough for any man. It's not for him that's — that's
— to look down on her. [To FREDA] You hear the
handsome offer that's been made you ? Well ? [FREDA
moistens her lips and fries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's
to speak a word, we won't get much forrarder. I'd
like for you to say what's in your mind, Sir William.

SIR WILLIAM. I — If my son marries her he'll
have to make his own way.

STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to
that.

SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studden-
ham. It appears to rest with your daughter. [He
suddenly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his
forehead] Infernal fires they make up here !

LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering des-
perately, as if with intense cold, makes a
violent attempt to control her shuddering.

STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's
got to be paid for. [To FREDA] Speak up, now.

78 THE ELDEST SON ACT in

FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM ;
he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth.
Her eyes travel on to LADY CHESHIRE, who
faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as
if she were going to faint. The girl's gaze
passes on to BILL, standing rigid, with his
jaw set.

FREDA. I want — [Then flinging her arm up over her
eyes, she turns from him] No !
SIR WILLIAM. Ah !

At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM,
whose eyes have been following his daughter s,
moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all his emotion
turned into sheer angry pride.

STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William ! We
want none of you ! She'll not force herself where
she's not welcome. She may ha' slipped her good
name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have no
chanty marriage in my family.

SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham !
STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired
of her in three months, as a blind man can see by the
looks of him — she's not for him !

BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up
to her.

STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there ? [He takes hold of

I FREDA, and looks around him] WTell ! She's not the

f first this has happened to since the world began, an'

she won't be the last. Come away," now, come

away !

ACT in THE ELDEST SON 79

Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her
towards the door.

SIR WILLIAM. D n it, Studdenham ! Give us

credit for something !

STUDDENHAM. [Turning — his face and eyes lighted
up by a sort of smiling snarl] Ah ! I do that, Sir
William. But there's things that can't be undone !

[He follows FREDA oul

As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S calm gives
way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks
heavily, as though exhausted, into a chair by
thejire. BILL, following FREDA and STUD-
DEXHAM, has stopped at the shut door.
LADY CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him.
The door of the billiard-room is opened, and
DOT appears. With a glance round, she
crosses quickly to her mother.
DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother !

[Almost whispering] Where's Freda ? Is it Has

she really had the pluck ?

LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for " Yes,"
goes out into the billiard-room. DOT clasps
her hands together, and standing there in the
middle of the room, looks from her brother
to her father, from her father to her brother.
A quaint little pitying smile comes on her
lips. She gives a faint shrug of her
shoulders.

The curtain falls.

PRINTED BY

BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD
AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS
TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN

LONDON

JUSTICE

A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS

THE WORKS OF
JOHN GALSWORTHY

NOVELS

VILLA RUBEIN : AND OTHER STORIES
THE ISLAND PHARISEES
THE MAN OF PROPERTY
THE COUNTRY HOUSE
FRATERNITY
THE PATRICIAN
THE DARK FLOWER
THE FREELANDS
BEYOND

STUDIES
A COMMENTARY
A MOTLEY

THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY
THE LITTLE MAN
A SHEAF : VOL. I

POEMS
MOODS, SONGS AND DOGGERELS

PLATS

Vot. ONB: THE SILVER Box
FOY
STKIFB

VOL. Two: THE ELDEST Sou
THE LITTLE DREAM
JUSTICE

VOL. THREE: THE FraiiiTB
THE PIGEON
THH MOB

And separately
A BIT 0* LOVE

PERSONS OF THE PLAY
JAMES How

\ solicitors
U

WALTER How, his »onj

ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk

WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk

SWBEDLE, their office-boy

WISTER, a detective

COWLEY, a cashier

MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge

HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate

HECTOR FROME, a young advocate

CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor

THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain

EDWARD CLEMENTS, a prison doctor

WoODER, a chief warder

MOANBY 1

CLIPTON I convicts

O'CLEARYj

RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman

A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITORS, SPECTATORS,

USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND

PRISONERS

TIME : The present.

ACT 1. The office of James and Walter How. Morning.
July.

ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October.
A CT III. A prison. December.

SCENE I. The Governor's office.

SCENE II. A corridor.

SCENE III. A cell.

ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning.
March, two years later.

CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION

AT TH«

DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910

James How

Walter How

Cokeson

Falder

The Office-boy

The Detective

The Cashier

The Judge

The Old Advocate

The Young Advocate

The Prison Governor

The Prison Chaplain

The Prison Doctor

Wooder

Moaney

Clipton

O'Cleary

Ruth Honeywill

MB. SYDNEY VALENTINE

MB. CHARLES HAUDK

MB. EDMUND GWENN

MR. DENNIS EADIB

MB. GEORGE HERSKE

MB. LESLIE CARTBB

Ma. C. E. VEBNON

MB. DION BOCOIOAULT

MB. OSOAB ADTB

MB. CHARLES BRYANT

Mr. QBENDOM BBNTLBY

MB. HUBERT HARDEN

MB. LEWIS CASSON

MB. FREDERICK LLOYD

MB. ROBBBT PAT EUAN

MB. O. P. HEOQIB

UB. WHITFORD KANB

Miss EDTTH Ouvi

ACT I

Tie scene it the managing clerk's room, at the offices of
JAMES AND WALTER How, on a July morning.
The room is old-fashioned, furnished with well-mom
mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and
estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them
are close together in the centre of a walL One of
these two doors leads to the outer office, which it
only divided from the managing cleric's room by a
partition of wood and clear glass; and when the
door into this outer office if opened there can be
seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone
stairway of the building. The other of these two
centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room.
The third door is that leading to the partners' room.

The managing clerk, COKESON, if sitting at his table
adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring
their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty,
wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head,
and an honest, pug-dogface. He is dressed in a well-
worn black frock-coat and pepper and-salt trousers,

COKESON. And five's twelve, and three — fifteen,
nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one — and

f JUSTICE

carry four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring]
Five, seven, ^ twelve/ seventeen,^ twenty-four and
nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one.

He again makes a tick. The outer office
door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-
boy, appears, closing the door behind him.
He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky
hair.

COKESON. \Wiih grumpy expectation] And carry
one.

SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder,
Mr. Cokeson.

COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-
nine — and carry two. Semthim to Morris's. What
name ?

SWEEDLE. Honeywill.
COKESON. What's his business ?
SWEEDLE. It's a woman.
COKESON. A lady?
SWEEDLE. No, a person.

COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to
Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book.

SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in,
please ?

RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She ts a tall
woman, twenty-six years old, unpreten-
tiously dressed, with black hair and eyet,
and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She
ttands very still, having a natural dignity of
pose and gesture.

ACTI JUSTICE 9

SWEEOLE goes out into the partners' room with
the pass-book.

COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young
man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business,
please.

RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and
with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal
matter, sir.

COKESON. We don't allow private callers here.
Will you leave a message ?

RUTH. I'd rather see him, please.

She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a
honeyed look.

COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules.
Suppose I had my friends here to see me ! It'd never
do!

RUTH. No, sir.

COKUON. [A little taken aback'] Exactly ! And
here you are wanting to see & junior clerk !

RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him.

COKESON. [Turning full round to her with a sort of
outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go
to his private address.

RUTH. He's not there.

COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to th«
party ?

RUTH. No, sir.

COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know
what to say. It's no affair of the office.

RUTH. But what am I to do >

4 JUSTICE ACT i

COKESON. Dear me ! I can't tell you that.

SWEEDLE comet back. He crosses to the outet
office and passes through into it, with a
quizzical look at COKESON, carefully leaving
the door an inch or two open.

COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do,
you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the
partners came in !

An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard

from the outer door of the outer office.
SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some chil-
dren outside here.

RUTH. They're mine, please.
SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check ?
RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step
towards COKESON.

COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office
hours ; we're a clerk short as it is.
RUTH. It's a matter of life and death.
COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death 1
SWEEDLE. Here is Falder.

FALDER has entered through the outer office.
He is a pale, good-looking young man,
with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves
towards the door of the clerks' office, a<td
stands there irresolute.

COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not
regular.

Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into
the partners1 room

Act I. JUSTICE 5

RUTH. [In a Ion, hurried voice] He's on the drink
again, Will. He tried to cut ray throat last night.
I came out with the children before he was awake.
I went round to you

FALDER. I've changed my digs.

RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night ?

FALDER, I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45
at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget
we're man and wife ! [Looking at her with tragic
intensity] Ruth !

RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you ?

FALDER. Have you got y*ur things, and the
children's ?

RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking
Honey will, all but one bag. I can't go near home
again.

FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for
nothing. How much must you have ?

RUTH. Six pounds — I could do with that, I think.

FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [Ai
if to himself] When I get out there I mean to forget
it all.

RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed
me than take you against your will.

FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go.
I don't care ; I'll have you.

RUTH. You've just to say ; it's not too late.

FALDER. It if too late. Here's seven pounds.
Booking office — 1 1 .45 to-night. If you weren't what
you are to me, Ruth 1

6 JUSTICE ACT i

RUTH. Kiss me !

They cling together vassionalc'y then Jly apart
just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH
turns and goes out through the outer office.
COKRSON advances deliberately to his chair
and seats himself.

COKESON. This i»n't right, Falder.
FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir.
COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises.
FALDER. Yes, sir.

COKESON. You quite understand — the party was
in some distress ; and, having children with her, I

allowed my feelings [He opens a drawer and

produces from it a tract] Just take this ! " Purity in
the Home." It's a well-written thing.

FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression]
Thank you, sir.

COKESON. And look here,Falder, before Mr. Waltei
comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis
had in hand before he left ?

FALDIR. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir —
for good.

COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now
it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work
for private life. I shan't mention about the party

having called, but

FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir.

COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER
has gone out ; then shakes his head, and is just
tettling do*m to write, when WALTER How

ACT i JUSTICE 7

comes in through the outer office. He is
a rather refined- looking man of thirty-Jive,
rvith a pleasant, almost apologetic voice.

WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson.

COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter.

WALTER. My father here ?

COKESON. [Always rvith a certain patronage as to a
young man who might be doing better] Mr. James has
been here since eleven o'clock.

WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the
Guildhall.

COKESON. [Looking at him as though this mere
exactly what was to be expected] Have you now —
ye-es. This lease of Boulter's — am I to send it to
counsel ?

WALTER. What does my father say ?

COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him.

WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful.

COKESON. It's such a little thing — hardly worth
the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself.

WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the re-
sponsibility.

COKESON. [With an indescribable air oj compassion]
Just as you like. This " right-of-way " case — we've
got 'em on the deeds.

WALTER. I know ; but the intention was obviously
to exclude that bit of common ground.

COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're
the right side of the law.

WALTER, I don't like it.

8 JUSTICE ACT i

COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] We shan't want
to set ourselves up against the law. Your father
wouldn't waste his time doing that.

At he speaks JAMES How comes in from the
partners' room. He is a shortish man, with
white sid e whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd
eyes, and gold pince-nez.

JAMES. Morning, Walter.

WALTER. How are you, father?

COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in
his hand as though deprecating their size] I'll just take
Boulter's lease in to young Falder to draft the
instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.

WALTER. About that right-of-way case ?

JAMES. Oh, well, we must go forward there. I
thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance
was over four hundred.

WALTER. So it is.

JAMES. [Holding out the pass-book to his son] Three
— five — one, no recent cheques. Just get me out
the cheque-book.

WALTER goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer,
and produces a cheque-book.

JAMBS. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five,
fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety,
eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally ?

WALTER. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure
it was over four hundred.

JAMBS. Give me the cheque-book [He takes the

ACT i JUSTICE 9

cheque-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this
ninety ?

WALTER. Who drew it?

JAMES. You.

WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's
the day I went down to look over the Trenton Estate
— last Friday week ; I came back on the Tuesday,
you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I
drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and
my expenses. It just covered all but half a crown

JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque.
[He sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of
the pass-book] Seems all right. There's no nine here.
This is bad. Who cashed that nine-pound cheque ?

WALTER. [Puzzled and pained] Let's see ! I was
finishing Mrs. Reddy's will — only just had time ; yes
— I gave it to Cokeson.

JAMES. Look at that t y : that yours ?

WALTER. [After consideration] My y's curl back a
little ; this doesn't.

JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room]
We must ask him. Just come here and carry your
mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you remember cashing a
cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week — the day he
went to Trenton ?

COKESON. Ye-es. Nine pounds.

JAMES. Look at this. [Handing him the cheque.

COKESON. No ! Nine pounds. My lunch was just
coming in ; and of course I like it hot ; I gave the
cheque to Davis to run round to the bank He

10 JUSTICE ACT i

brought it back, all gold — you remember, Mr. Walter,
you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a
certain contemptuous compassion] Here, let me see.
You've got the wrong cheque.

He takes cheque-book and passbook from
WALTER.

WALTER. Afraid not.

COKESON. [Having seen for himself] It's funny.

JAMES. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for
Australia on Monday. Looks black, Cokeson.

COKESON. [Puzzled and upset] Why this'd be a
felony ! No, no ! there's some mistake.

JAMES. I hope so.

COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort
in the office the twenty-nine years I've been here.

JAMES. [Looking at cheque and counterfoil] This is a
very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to
leave space after your figures, Walter.

WALTER. [Vexed] Yes, I know — I was in such a
tearing hurry that afternoon.

COKESON. [Suddenly] This has upset me.

JAMES. The counterfoil altered too — very delibe-
rate piece of swindling. What was Davis's ship ?

WALTER. City of Rangoon,

JAMES. We ought to wire and have him arrested
at Naples ; he can't be there yet.

COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young
man. Dear, oh dear ! In this office !

WALTER Shall I go to the bank and ask the
cashier ?

ACT i JUSTICE 11

JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring
up Scotland Yard.

WALTER. Really?

He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces
the room. He stops and looks at COKEBON
who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of hit
trousers.

JAMES. Well, Cokeson! There'i something in
character, isn't there ?

COKESON. [Looking at him over his spectacles] I don't
quite take you, sir.

JAMES. Your story would sound d d thin to

any one who didn't know you.

COKESON. Ye-ei ! [He laughs. Then with sudden
gravity] I'm sorry for that young man. I feel it as
if it was my own son, Mr. James.

JAMES. A nasty business !

COKESON. It unsettles you. All goes on regular,
and then a thing like this happens. Shan't relish
my lunch to-day.

JAMES. As bad as that, Cokeson ?

COKESON. It makes you think. [Confidentially} He
must have had temptation.

JAMES. Not so fast. We haven't convicted him
yet.

COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary
than had this happen. [He broods.

JAMES. I hope that fellow will hurry up.

COKESON [Keeping things pleasant for the cashier] It
isn't fifty yards. Mr. James He won't be a minut*.

12 JUSTICE ACT i

JAMES. The idea of dishonesty about this office —
it hits me hard, Cokeson.

He goes towards the door of the partners' room.

SWEEDLE. [Entering quietly, to COKESON in a Ion
voice] She's popped up again, sir — something shf
forgot to say to Falder.

COKESON. [Roused from his abstraction] Eh ? Im-
possible. Send her away !

JAMES. What's that ?

COKESON. Nothing, Mr. James. A private matter.
Here, I'll come myself. [He goes into the outer office
as JAMES passes into the partners' room] Now, you
really mustn't — we can't have anybody just now.

RUTH. Not for a minute, sir ?

COKESON. Reely ! Reely ! I can't have it. If
you want him, wait about ; he'll be going out for his
lunch directly.

RUTH. Yes, sir.

WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH
as she leaves the outer office.

COKESON. [To the cashier, who resembles a sedentary
dragoon] Good-morning. [To WALTER] Your father's
in there.

WALTER crosses and goes into the partners'
room.

COKESON. It's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter,
Mr. Cowley. I'm quite ashamed to have to trouble
you.

COWLEY. I remember the cheque quite well. [A.*
tf it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order.

ACT i JUSTICE 19

COKESON. Sit down, won't you ? I'm not a sensitive
man, but a thing like this about the place — it's not
nice. I like people to be open and joHy together. |

COWLEY. Quite so.

COKESON. [Buttonholing him, and glancing towards the
partners' room] Of course he's a young man. I've
told him about it before now — leaving space after his
figures, but he mill do it.

COWLEY. I should remember the person's face —
quite a youth.

COKESON. I don't think we shall be able to show
him to you, as a matter of fact.

JAMES and WALTER have come back from the
partners' room.

JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley. You've seen
my son and myself, you've seen Mr. Cokeson, and
you've seen Sweedle, my office-boy. It was none of
us, I take it.

The cashier shakes his head with a smile.

JAMES. Be so good as to sit there. Cokesou ,
engage Mr. Cowley in conversation, will you ?

He goes towards FALDER'S room.

COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James.

JAMES. Well?

COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man
in there, do you ? He's a nervous young feller.

JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up,
Cokeson, for the sake of raider's name, to say
nothing of yours.

COKESON. [With some dignity] That'll look after

14 JUSTICE ACT f

itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning ; 1
don't want him startled again.

JAMES. It's a matter of form ; but I can't stand
upon niceness over a thing like this — too serious.
Just talk to Mr. Cowley.

He opens the door of F ALDER'S room
JAMES. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will
you, Falder ?

COKESON. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs ?
The cashier, with his eyesjixed on the door, does

not answer.

COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog
pup you could spare me, I suppose ?

At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops t
and he turns to see FALDER standing in the
doorway, with his eyes faed on COWLEY,
like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a
snake.

FALDER. [Advancing with the papers] Here they
are, sir '

JAMES. [Taking them] Thank you.
FALDER. Do you want me, sir ?
JAMEI. No, thanks !

FALDER turns and goes back intr his own room.
As he shuts the door JAMES giv€s the cashier an
interrogative look, and the cashier nods.
/AMES. Sure ? This isn't as we suspected.
COWLKY. Quite. He knew me- I suppose he can't
•lip out of that room 'f

icr i JUSTICE 15

COKESON. [Gloomily] There's only the window — a
whole floor and a basement.

The door of FALDKR'S room is quietly opened,
and FALDIR, nith his hat in his hand, movet
towards the door of the outer office.

JAMES. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder ?

FALDER. To have my lunch, sir.

JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you ? I want
to speak to you about this lease.

FALDER. Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.

COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the
young man who cashed the cheque. It was the last
cheque I handled that morning before my lunch.
These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He putt
a slip of paper on the table ; then, brushing his hat round]
Good-morning !

JAMES. Good-morning, Mr. Cowley !

COWLEY. [To COKESON] Good-morning.

COKESON. [With stupefaction] Good -morning.

The cashier goes out through the outer office.
COKESON sits down in his chair, as though it
were the only place left in the morass of his
feelings.

WALTER. What are you going to do ?

JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and
the counterfoil.

COKESON. I don't understand. I thought young
Davis

JAMES. We shall see.

16 JUSTICE ACT i

WALTER. One moment, father : have you thought
it out ?

JAMES. Call him in '

COKESON. [Rising with difficulty and opening FALDER' »
door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute.

FALDER comes in.

FALDER. [Impassively] Yes, sir ?

JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held
out] You know this cheque, Falder ?

FALDER. No, sir.

JAMES. Look at it. You cashed it last Friday week.

FALDER, Oh ! yes, sir ; that one — Davis gave it me.

JAMES. I know. And you gave Davis the cash ?

FALDER. Yes, sir.

JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it
exactly like this ?

FALDER. Yes, I think so, sir.

JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that
cheque for nine pounds ?

FALDER. No, sir — ninety.

JAMES. Nine, Falder.

FALDER. [Faintly] I don't understand, sir.

JAMES. The suggestion, of course, is that the cheque
was altered ; whether by you or Davis is the question

FALDER. I — I

COKESON. Take your time, take your time.

FALDER. [Regaining his impassivity] Not by me, sir.

JAMES. The cheque was handed to Cokeson by
Mr. Walter at one o'clock ; we know that because
Mr. Cokeson's lunch had just arrived.

ACT i JUSTICE 17

COKESON. I couldn't leave it.

JAMES. Exactly ; he therefore gave the cheque U
Davis. It was cashed by you at 1.15. We know
that because the cashier recollects it for the last
cheque he handled before his lunch.

FALDER. Yes, sir, Davis gave it to me becaus<
some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon.

JAMES. [Puzzled] You accuse Davis, then ?

FALDER. I don't know, sir — it's very funny.

WALTER, mho has come close to his father, sayt
something to him in a low voice.

JAMES. Davis was not here again after that
Saturday, was he ?

COKESON. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young
man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once
more] No, he sailed on the Monday.

JAMES. Was he, Falder ?

FALDER. [Very faintly] No, sir.

JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for
the fact that this nought was added to the nine in
the counterfoil on or after Tuesday f

COKESON. [Surprised] How's that ?

FALDER gives a sort of lurch ; he tries to pull
himself together, but he has gone all to
pieces.

JAMES. [Very grimly] Out, I'm afraid, Cokeson.
The cheque-book remained in Mr. Walter's pocket
till he came back from Trenton on Tuesday morning.
In the face of this, Falder, do you still deny that
you altered both cheque and counterfoil ?

18 JUSTICE ACT i

FALDER. No, sir — no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I
did it.

COKESON. [Succumbing to his feelings] Dear, dear !
what a thing to do '

FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I
didn't know what I was doing.

COKESON. However such a thing could have come
into your head !

FALDER. [Grasping at the words] I can't think,
sir, really ! It was just a minute of madness.

JAMES. A long minute, Falder. [Tapping the
counterfoil] Four days at least.

FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done
till afterwards, and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh !
sir, look over it ! I'll pay the money back — I will, I
promise.

JAMES. Go into your room.

FALDER, with a trvift imploring look, goes back
into his room. There is silence.

JAMES. About as bad a case as there could be.

COKESON. To break the law like that — in here !

WALTER. What's to be done ?

JAMES. Nothing for it. Prosecute.

WALTER. It's his first offence.

JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of
that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether.

COKESON. I shouldn't be surprised if he was
tempted.

JAMES. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson.

COKEION. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh

ACT i JUSTICE 19

and the devil, Mr. James. There was a woman come
to see him this morning.

WALTER. The woman we passed as we came in
just now. Is it his wife ?

COKESON. No, no relation. [Restraining what in
jollier circumstances would have been a wink] A married
person, though.

WALTER. How do you know ?

COKESON. Brought her children. [Scandalised']
There they were outside the office.

JAMES. A real bad egg. ~

WALTER. I should like to give him a chance.

JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he
went to work — counting on our suspecting young
Davis if the matter came to light. It was the merest
accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket.

WALTER. It must have been the temptation of a
moment. He hadn't time.

JAMES. A man doesn't succumb like that in a
moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. He's
rotten ; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his
hands off when there's money about.

WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before.

JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots
of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with
them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've
got a blind spot.

WALTER. It's penal servitude.

COKESON. They're nahsty places — prisons.

JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible

20 JUSTICE ACT i

to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in
this office — honesty's the sine qua non.

COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it w.

JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him
out amongst people who've no knowledge of his
character. One must think of society.

WALTER. But to brand him like this ?

JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd
give him another chance. It's far from that. He
has dissolute habits.

COKESON. I didn't say that — extenuating circum-
stances.

JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the
most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers,
and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's
not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know
what is.

WALTER. For the sake of his future, though.

JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one
would ever prosecute.

WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it.

COKESON. That's rather ex parte, Mr. Walter '
fWe must have protection.

JAMES. This is degenerating into talk.

He moves towards the partners' room.

WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father.
^ JAMES. You ask too much of me.

WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there
was on him.

JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is

ACT i JUSTICE 21

going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or
no pressure ; if he isn't nothing'll make him.

WALTER. He'll never do it again.

COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk
with him. We don't want to be hard on the young
man.

JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my
mind. [He passes into the partners' room.

COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must
excuse your father. I don't want to go against your
father; if he thinks it right/

WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson ! why don't you
back me up ? You know you feel

COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what
I feel.

WALTER. We shall regret it.

COKESON. He must have known what he was
doing.

WALTER. [Bitterly] " The quality of mercy is not
strained."

COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come,
Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible.

SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, iir.

COKESON. Put it down !

JVhile SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON'S
table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer
office, and, Jinding no one theret comes to the
inner doorway. He is a square, medittm-
rized man, clean-shaved, in a strvictobl*
serge suit and strong boot*.

*2 JUSTICE ACT i

WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir.
Detective-Sergeant Wister.

WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my
father.

He goes into the partners' room. JAMES

enters.

JAMES. Morning ! [In answer to an appealing
gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry ; I'd stop short of
this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE,
wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr.
Falder.

As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective,
in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his
hand out and grasps his arm.
FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh ! no, — oh ! no !
WISTER. Come, come, there's a good lad.
JAMES. I charge him with felony.
FALDER. Oh, sir ! There's some one — I did it for
her. Let me be till to-morrow.

TAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of
hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turn-
ing, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip.
JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE,
rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues
them through the outer office into the corridor.
When they have all disappeared COKESON
spins completely round and makes a rush for
the outer office.

COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here ! Here ! What are we
doing ?

JUSTICE 23

There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief
and mops the sweat from his face. Going
back blindly to his table, he sits down, and
stares blankly at his lunch.

The curtain falls.

ACT II

A Court of Juttice, on a foggy October afternoon —
crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers,
and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock if
FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed
therefor his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to
and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting
exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the
clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and
indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the
counsel for the Cronm, is a dried, yellowish man,
of more than middle age, in a nig morn almost to the
colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel
for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean-shaved,
in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having
already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER
How, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detec-
tive, is just leaving the witness-box.

CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud '
Gathering his robes together, he sits doom.

FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it
please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury.
I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner
altered this cheque, but I am going to put before

26 JUSTICE ACT ii

you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to
submit that you would not be justified in finding that
he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am
going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a
moment of aberration, amounting to temporary
insanity, caused by the violent distress under which
he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only
twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a
woman from whom you will learn the events that
led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips
the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more
tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the
prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading
a miserable existence with a husband who habitually
ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of
her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either
right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with
a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue
her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying any-
thing of the sort. But we all know the power of the
passion of love ; and I would ask you to remember,
gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married
to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power
to get rid of him ; for, as you know, another offence
besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to
obtain a divorce ; and of this offence it does not
appear that her husband is guilty.

JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome ?

FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely — I shall be
able to show your lordship that directly.

ACT n JUSTICE *7

JUDGE. Very well.

FROME. In these circumstances, what alternative*
were left to her ? She could either go on living with
this drunkard, in terror of her life ; or she could
apply to the Court for a separation order. Well,
gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me
that this would have given her very insufficient pro-
tection from the violence of such a man ; and even if
effectual would very likely have reduced her either
to the workhouse or the streets — for it's not easy,
as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman with-
out means of livelihood to support herself and her
children without resorting either to the Poor Law
or — to speak quite plainly — to the sale of her
body.

JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome.

FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my
lord.

JUDGE. Let us hope so.

FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark — and this is what
I have been leading up to — this woman will tell you,
and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted
with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on
himself, knowing the feeling with which she had
inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by
going with him to a new country, where they would
both be unknown, and might pass as husband and
wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr.
Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution ;
but, as a fact, the minds of both of them wer*

*8 JUSTICE ACT n

constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no
excuse for another, and those who are never likely to
be faced by such a situation possibly have the right
to hold up their hands — a* to that I prefer to say
nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen,
of this part of the prisoner's story — whatever opinion
you form of the right of these two young people
under such circumstances to take the law into their
own hands — the fact remains that this young woman
in her distress, and this young man, little more than
a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did
conceive this — if you like — reprehensible design of
going away together. Now, for that, of course, they
required money, and — they had none. As to the
actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which
this cheque was altered, the events on which I
rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility — I
shall allow those events to speak for themselves,
through the lips of my witnesses. Robert Cokeson.
[He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper,
and waits]

COKESON i'j summoned into court, and goes into
the witness-box, holding his hat before him.
The oath is administered to him.

FROME. What is your name ?
COKESON. Robert Cokeson.

FROME. Are you managing clerk eo the firm of
solicitors who employ the prisoner ?
COKESON. Ye-e*.

ACT n JUSTICE 29

FROME. How long had the prisoner been in theii
employ ?

COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there — all
but seventeen days.

FROME. Had you him under your eye all that
time ?

COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays.

FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you
have to say about his general character during those
two years.

COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a
Uttle surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-
spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him —
quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me
when he did a thing like that.

FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect hit
honesty ?

COKESON. No ' To have dishonesty in our office,
that'd never do.

FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that,
Mr. Cokeson.

COKESON, Every man of business knows that
honesty's the sign qua non.

FROME. Do you give him a good character all
round, or do you not ?

COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We
were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this
happened. Quite upset me.

FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th ot
July, the morning on which the cheque was altered.

80 JUSTICE ACIH

What have you to say about his demeanour that
morning ?

COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't
think he was quite compos when he did it.

THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he
was insane ?

COKESON. Not compos.

THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please.

FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson.

COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion
— [looking at the JUDGE] — such as it is — he was
'umpy at the time. The jury will understand
my meaning.

FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that
conclusion ?

COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in
from the restaurant, a chop and a potato — saves
time. That day it happened to come just as Mr.
Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it
hot ; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed
the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to
get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and
down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological
Gardens, Falder."

FROME. Do you remember what he answered ?

COKESON. Ye-es : " I wish to God it were ! "
Struck me as funny.

FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar r

COKESON. I did.

FBOME. What was that

ACT n JUSTICE 51

COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like
i young man to be neat. I said to him : " Your
collar's unbuttoned."

FROME. And what did he answer ?

COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice.

THE JUDGE. Stared at you ? Isn't that a very
common practice ?

COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I
can't explain my meaning — it was funny.

FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes
before ?

COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to
the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in
our profession.

THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that
occasion?

COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't . like to
trouble them without prime facey evidence.

FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on
your mind ?

COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told
you the same.

FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that
we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the
morning on which the discovery of the forgery was
made? That would be the 18th. Did anything
happen that morning ?

COKESON. [With hit hand to his ear] I'm a little
deaf.

FROME. Was there anything in the course of that

32 JUSTICE ACT n

morning — I mean before the discovery — that caught
your attention f

COKESON. Ye-es — a woman.

THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome?

FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind
In which the prisoner committed this act, my
lord.

THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was
long after the act.

FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my
contention.

THE JUDGE. Well !

FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she
came to the office ?

COKESON. Ye-es.

FROME. What for ?

COKESON. Asked to see young Falder ; he was out
at the moment.

FROME. Did you see her ?

COKESON. I did.

FROME. Did she come alone ?

COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me
in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-
boy told me.

FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so

COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of " You are
young — leave it to me "] But I think we can get round
it. In answer to a question put to her by a third
party the woman said to me : " They're mine, sir."

THE JUDG». What are ? What were ?

ACT n JUSTICE 83

COKESON. Her children. They were outside.

THE JUDGE. How do you know ?

COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I
shall have to tell you what I was told — and that'd
never do.

THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a
statement.

COKESON. Egg-zactly.

FKOME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is
this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder,
did the woman say anything that you specially
remember ?

COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to
complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir.

FROME. Or did she not ?

COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have
led me to the answer.

FROME. [ With an irritated smile] Will you tell the
jury what it was ?

COKESON. " It's a matter of life and death."

FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman
•aid that ?

COKESON. [Nodding] It's not th« sort of thing you
like to have said to you.

FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in
while she was there ? [COKEION nods] And she saw
him, and went away ?

COKESON. Ah I there I can't follow you. I didn't
see her go.

FROME. Well, is she there now ?

«4 JUSTICE ACT ii

COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No !

FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.

CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of
the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir,
what precisely do you mean by that word ?

COKESON. [Indulgently'] I want you to understand.
Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master ? He
was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes.

CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes.
You called them " funny." What are we to under-
stand by that ? Strange, or what ?

COKESON. Ye-es, funny.

CLEAVER. [Sharply"] Yes, sir, but what may be
funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury.
Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what ?

COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give
you the word, and you want me to give you another.

CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does " funny " mean
mad?

COKESON. Not mad, fun

CLEAVER. Very well ! Now yoa say he had his
collar unbuttoned ? Was it a hot day ?

COKESON. Ye-es ; I think it was.

CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called
his attention to it ?

COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did.

CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted in-
sanity ?

He sits down. COKESON, mho has opened hu
mouth to reply, is left gaping.

ACT n JUSTICE «6

FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him
in that dishevelled state before ?

COKESON. No ! He was altvays clean and quiet.

FROME. That will do, thank you.

COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though
to rebuke counsel for not remembering that
the JUDGE might wish to have a chance;
arriving at the conclusion that he is to be
asked nothing further, he turns and descends
from the box, and sits down next to JAMES
and WALTER.

FROME. Ruth Honeywill.

RUTH comes into court, and lakes her stand
stoically in the witness-box. She is v/twn.

FROME. What is your name, please ?

RUTH. Ruth Honeywill.

FROME. How old are you ?

RUTH. Twenty-six.

FROME. You are a married woman, living with your
husband ? A little louder.

RUTH. No, sir ; not since July.

FROME. Have you any children ?

RUTH. Yes, sir, two.

FROME. Are they living with you ?

RUTH. Yes, gir.

FROME. You know the prisoner ?

RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes.

FROME. What was the nature of your relations with
him ? y-

RUTH. We were friends.

86 JUSTICE ACT n

THB JUDGE. Friends ?

ROTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir.

THB JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use
that word ?

RUTH. We love each other.

THE JUDGE. Yes, but

RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship— not
yet.

THE JUDGE. Not yet ! H'm! [He looks from RUTH
to FALDER] Well !

FROME. What is your husband ?

RUTH. Traveller.

FROME. And what was the nature of your married
life?

RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking
about.

FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what ?

RUTH. Ever since my first was born.

FROME. In what way ?

RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways.

THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know.

RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me
out of it, sir. We were going to South America.

FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite — and what prevented
you?

RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken
away. It nearly broke my heart.

FROME. You knew, then, that he had been
arrested ?

ROTH. Yes, sir. I called at bis office afterwards,

ACT n JUSTICE 87

and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all
about it.

FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of
Friday, July 7th ?

RUTH. Yes.

FROME. Why?

RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that
morning.

THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you !

RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord.

FROME. With his hands, or ?

RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from
him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight
o'clock.

THE JUDGE. In the morning ? Your husband was
not under the influence of liquor then ?

RUTH. It wasn't always that.

FROME. In what condition were you ?

RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was
torn, and I was half choking.

FROME. Did you tell your friend what had
happened ?

RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had.

FROME. It upset him ?

RUTH. Dreadfully.

FROME. Did he ever spei k to you about a cheque ?

RUTH. Never.

FROME, Did he ever give you any money ?

RUTH. Yes.

FROME. When was that ?

88 JUSTICE ACT n

RUTH. On Saturday.

FROM*. The 8th ?

RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children,
and get all ready to start.

FROMB. Did that surprise you, or not ?

RUTH. What, sir ?

FROME. That he had money to give you.

RUTH. Yes, because on the morning when mj
husband nearly killed me my friend cried because
he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me
afterwards he'd come into a windfall.

FROMB. And when did you last see him ?

RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was
the day we were to have started.

FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well,
did you see him at all between the Friday and that
morning ? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then ?

RUTH. Dumb-like — sometimes he didn't seem
able to say a word.

FROMB. As if something unusual had happened to
him ?

RUTH. Yes.

FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what ?

RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him.

FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the
defendant very much ?

RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes.

FROME. And had he a very great affection for
you?

RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir

ACT ii JUSTICE 39

FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think
that your danger and unhappiness would seriously
affect his balance, his control over his actions ?

RUTH. Yes.

FROME. His reason, even ?

RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would.

FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday
morning, or was he fairly calm ?

RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to
let him go from me.

FROME. Do you still love him ?

RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined
himself for me.

FROME. Thank you.

He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright
in the rvitnest-box.

CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice.] When you left
him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would
not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose ?

RUTH. No, sir.

CLEAVER. Thank you ; I've no further questions to
ask you.

RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I
would have done the same for him ; I would indeed.

THE JUDGE. Please, please ! You say your married
life is an unhappy one ? Faults on both sides f

RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I
don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like
that.

THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him ?

40 JUSTICE ACTH

RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied
him to keep things nice.

THK JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner — was
that it ?

RUTH. No ; even after that

THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to
me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner.

RUTH. [Hesitating] 1 — I do. It's the only thing
in my life now.

THB JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step
down, please.

Ruth looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down
and takes her seat among the witnesses.

FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord.

FALDER leaves the dock ; goes into the tvitnest-
bo.r, and is duly srvorn.

FROME. What is your name ?

FALDER. William Falder ?

FROME. And age ?

FALDER. Twenty-three.

FROME. You are not married ?

FALDER shakes his head.

FROME. How long have you known the last
witness ?

FALDER. Six months.

FROME. Is her account of the relationship between
you a correct one ?

FALDER. Yes.

FROME. You became devotedly attached to her,
however ?

n JUSTICE 41

FALDER. Yes.

THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married
woman ?

FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship.

THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it ?

FALDER. I didn't seem able to,

The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders.

FROME. How did you come to know her ?

FALDER. Through my married sister.

FROME. Did you know whether she was happy
with her husband?

FALDER. It was trouble all the time.

FROME. You knew her husband ?

FALDER. Only through her — he's a brute.

THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of
a person not present.

FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To
FALDER] You admit altering this cheque ?

FALDER borvs his head.

FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning
of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what
happened.

FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my
breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn,
and she was gasping »nd couldn't seem to get her
breath at all ; there were the marks of his fingers
round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the
blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened
me, and then when she told me, I felt — I felt — well
• — it was too much for me ! [Hardening suddenly} If

42 JUSTICE ACT ii

you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had,
you'd have felt the same, I know.

FROMB. Yes ?

FALDER. When she left me — because I had to go
to the office — I was out of my senses for fear that
he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I
couldn't work — all the morning I was like that —
simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't
think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving.
When Davis — the other clerk — gave me the cheque
— he said : " It'll do you good, Will, to have a run
with this. You seem half off your chump this
morning." Then when I had it in my hand — I don't
know how it came, but it just flashed across me that
if I put the t y and the nought there would be the
money to get her away. It just came and went — I
never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to
his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did
till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under
the rail. I remember his saying " Gold or notes ? "
Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when
I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a 'bus ; I
wanted to throw the money away ; but it seemed I
was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of
course the tickets I took for the passage and the little
I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was
obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep think-
ing over and over however it was I came to do it, and
how I can't have it all again to do differently '

FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him.

ACT n JUSTICE 45

FROME. How far is it from your office to the
bank ?

FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir.

FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch
to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do
you say it must have been ?

FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir,
because I ran all the way.

FROME. During those four minutes you say you
remember nothing ?

FALDER. No, sir ; only that I ran.

FROME. Not even adding the t y and the nought ?

FALDER. No, sir. I don't really.

FROME fits down, and CLEAVER rises.

CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you ?

FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the
bank.

CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the
cheque ?

FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir.

CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which
my friend is casting over the case, is this anything
but an ordinary forgery ? Come.

FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning
sir.

CLEAVER. Now, now ! You don't deny that the
ty and the nought were so like the rest of the
handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier ?

FALDER. It was an accident.

CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident,

44 JUSTICE ACT ii

wasn't it ? On which day did you alter the counter-
foil ?

FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday
morning.

CLEAVER. Was that an accident too ?

FALDKR. [Faintly] No.

CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your oppor-
tunity, I suppose ?

FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes.

CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering
under great excitement when you did that ?

FALDER. I was haunted.

CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out ?

FALDER. [Very low] Yes.

THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only
thing for you to do was to confess to your employers,
and restore the money ?

FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence.

CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete
your design of taking this woman away ?

FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that,
to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might
iust as well have chucked myself into the river.

CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about
to leave England — didn't it occur to you when you
altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him ?

FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought
of it afterwards.

CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what
you'd done ?

ACT n JUSTICE 45

FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got
out there — I would have repaid the money.

THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent
fellow clerk might have been prosecuted.

FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your
lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think
they'd find it out so soon.

FROMX. I might remind your lordship that as Mr.
Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till
after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been
made only one day later Falder himself would have
left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and
not to Davis, from the beginning.

THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner
knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not
on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that
Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis
had sailed ?

FALDER. I — I — thought — he

THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth — yes or no !

FALDER. [Very loni] No, my lord. I had no
means of knowing.

THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr.
Frome. [FROME borvs to the JUDGE.

CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever
attacked you before ?

FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir.

CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go
back to your work that afternoon ?

FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back.

46 JUSTICE ACT ii

CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits
were sufficiently keen for you to remember that ?
And you still persist in saying you don't remember
altering this cheque. [He sits down.

FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never
have had the courage.

FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before
going back ?

FALDER. I never ate a thing all day ; and at night
I couldn't sleep.

FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed
between Davis's going out and your cashing the
cheque : do you say that you recollect nothing during
those four minutes ?

FALDER. {After a moment] I remember thinking of
Mr. Cokeson's face.

FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face ! Had that any
connection with what you were doing ?

FALDER. No, sir.

FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran
out?

FALDER. Yes, and while I was running.

FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said :
" Will you have gold or notes ? "

FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to
myself — and it was too late.

FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for
the defence, my lord.

The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes bade to
to feat in the dock.

ACT ii JUSTICE 47

FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your Lord-
ship— Gentlemen of the Jury, — My friend in cross-
examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the
defence which has been set up in this case, and I am
free to admit that nothing I can say will move you,
if the evidence has not already convinced you that
the prisoner committed this act in a moment when
to all practical intents and purposes he was not re-
sponsible for his actions ; a moment of such mental
and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional
agitation under which he had been suffering, as to
amount to temporary madness. My friend has
alluded to the " romantic glamour " with which I
have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I
have done nothing of the kind. I have merely
shown you the background of " life " — that palpitat-
ing life which, believe me — whatever my friend may
say — always lies behind the commission of a crime.
Now, gentlemen, we live in a highly civilised age,
and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very
strange way, even when we have no personal interest
in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a
woman whom we love — what then ? Just think of
what your own feelings would have been, each of
you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him.
Well ! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say
bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity
marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was
devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him I
He has not a strong face ; but neither has he a vicious

48 JUSTICE ACT n

face. He is just the sort of man who would easily
become the prey of his emotions. You have heard
the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at
the word "funny" — / think it better describes the
peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to
breaking-point than any other word which could
have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that
his mental irresponsibility was more than a flash of
darkness, in which all sense of proportion became
lost ; but I do contend, that, just as a man who
destroys himself at such a moment may be, and
often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the
crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does,
commit other crimes while in this irresponsible
condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of
criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit
that this is a plea which might well be abused. It
is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case
in which there is every reason to give the benefit of
the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what
he thought of during those four fatal minutes.
What was his answer ? "I thought of Mr. Coke-
son's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an
answer like that ; it is absolutely stamped with truth.
You have seen the great affection (legitimate or not)
existing between him and this woman, who came here
to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It
is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the
morning when he committed this act. We well
know what terrible havoc guch distress can make ia

ACT ii JUSTICE 49

weak and highly nervous people. It was all the
work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death
follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold
up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there
is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossi-
bility of changing what you have done. Once this
cheque was altered and presented, the work of four
minutes — four mad minutes — the rest has been
silence. But in those four minutes the boy before
you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into
that great cage which never again quite lets a man
go — ^he cage of the Law. His further acts, his
failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil,
his preparations for flight, are all evidence — not of
deliberate and guilty intention when he committed
the prime act from which these subsequent acts
arose ; no — they are merely evidence of the weak
character which is clearly enough his misfortune.
But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born
with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like
the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for
want of that human insight which sees them as they
are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner
be found guilty, and treated as though he were a
mminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in
all probability become one. I beg you not to return
a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and
brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine
that, when some one has once given it the starting
push, rolls on of ztself. Is this young man to be

D

50 JUSTICE ACT ii

ground to pieces under this machine for an act
which at the worst was one of weakness ? Is he to
become a member of the luckless crews that man
those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons ? Is that
to be his voyage — from which so few return ? Or is
he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one
who has gone a little astray, but who will come back ?
I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man !
For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and
irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be
saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm
to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face
nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible
ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the
suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times
heavier already. He has lain in prison under this
charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever
to forget that ? Imagine the anguish of his mind
during that time. He has had his punishment,
gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the
chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began
when it was decided to prosecute him. We are
now already at the second stage. If you permit
it to go on to the third I would not give — that
for him.

He holds up finger and thumb in the form of a

circle, drops his hand, and sits down.
The jury stir, and consult each other's faces ;
then they turn towards the counsel for the
£ronm, who rises, and, Jixing his eyes on *

ACT n JUSTICE 51

tpot that seems to give him satisfaction,
slides them every notv and then towards
thejury.

CLEATER. May it please your Lordship. [Rising on
his toes] Gentlemen of the Jury, — The facts in
this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my
friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that I don't
propose to waste the time of the Court by taking
you over the evidence. The plea is one of temporary
insanity. Well, gentlemen, I daresay it is clearer to
me than it is to you why this rather — what shall we call
it ? — bizarre defence has been set up. The alterna-
tive would have been to plead guilty. Now, gentle-
men, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend
would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his
lordship. Instead of that, he has gone into the
byways and hedges and found this — er — peculiar
plea, which has enabled him to show you the pro-
verbial woman, to put her in the box — to give, in
fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I compliment
my friend ; I think it highly ingenious of him. By
these means, he has — to a certain extent — got round
the Law. He has brought the whole story of
motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a
way that he would not otherwise have been able to
do. But when you have once grasped that fact,
gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [With
good-humoured contempt] For look at this plea of
insanity; we can't put it lower than that. You
have heard the woman. She has every reason to

52 JUSTICE ACT ii

favour the prisoner, but what did she say ? She
said that the prisoner was not insane when she
left him in the morning. If he were going out of
his mind through distress, that was obviously the
moment when insanity would have shown itself.
You have heard the managing clerk, another witness
for the defence. With some difficulty I elicited
from him the admission that the prisoner, though
jumpy (a word that he seemed to think you would
understand, gentlemen, and I'm sure I hope you
do), was not mad when the cheque was handed to
Davis. I agree with my friend that it's unfortunate
that we have not got Davis here, but the prisoner
has told you the words with which Davis in turn
handed him the cheque ; he obviously ^herefore, was
not mad when he received it, or he would not have
remembered those words. The cashier has told you
that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed
it. We have therefore the plea that a man who is
sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen
minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the
consequences of a crime, call himself insane between
those points of time. Really, gentlemen, this is so
peculiar a proposition that I am not disposed to
weary you with further argument. You will form
vour own opinion of its value. My friend has
tdopted this way of saying a great deal to you —
uid very eloquently — on the score of youth, tempta-
tion, and the like. I might point out, however,
that the offence with which the prisoner is charged

ACT n JUSTICE 53

is one of the most serious known to our lav ; and
there are certain features in this case, such as the
suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent
fellow clerk, and his relations with this married
woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach
too much importance to such pleading. I ask you,
in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which,
in the circumstances, I regard you as, unfortunately,
bound to record.

Letting his eyes travel from the JUDGE and

the jury to FROME, he sits down.
THE JUDGE. [Bending a tittle towards the jury, and
speaking in a businesslike voice] Gentlemen, you
Jiave heard the evidence, and the comments on it.
My only business is to make clear to you the issues
you have to try. The facts are admitted, so far as
the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the
prisoner. The defence set up is that he was not
in a responsible condition when he committed the
crime. Well, you have heard the prisoner's story,
and the evidence of the other witnesses — so far as
it bears on the point of insanity. If you think that
what you have heard establishes the fact that the
prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you
will find him guilty but insane. If, on the other
hand, you conclude from what you have seen and
heard that the prisoner was sane — and nothing short
of insanity will count — you will find him guilty. IQ
reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition
you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence

54 JUSTICE ACT n

as to his demeanour and conduct both before and
after the act of forgery — the evidence of the
prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness — er
— Cokeson, and — er — of the cashier. And in regard
to that I especially direct your attention to the
prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the
t y and the nought did come into his mind at the
moment when the cheque was handed to him ; and
also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his
subsequent conduct generally. The bearing of all
this on the question of premeditation (and pre-
meditation will imply sanity) is very obvious. You
must not allow any considerations of age or tempta-
tion to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict
Before you can come to a verdict guilty but insane,
you must be well and thoroughly convinced that
the condition of his mind was such as would have
qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum.
[He pauses ; then, seeing thai the jury are doubtful
whether to retire or no, adds :] You may retire, gentle-
men, if you wish to do so.

The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE.

The JUDGE bends over his notes. F ALDER,

leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his

solicitor, pointing down at RUTH. The

solicitor in turn speaks to FROME.

FROME. [Rising] My lord. The prisoner is very

anxious that I should ask you if your lordship

would kindly request the reporters not to disclose

the name of the woman witness in the Press reports

ACT ii JUSTICE 55

of these proceedings. Your lordship will under-
stand that the consequences might be extremely
serious to her.

THE JUDGE. [Pointedly — with the suspicion of a smile]
Well, Mr. Frome, you deliberately took this course
which involved bringing her here.

FROME. [With an ironic bow] If your lordship
thinks I could have brought out the full facts in any
other way ?

THE JUDGE. H'm ! Well.

FROME. There is very real danger to her, your
lordship.

THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for
all that.

FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I
can assure your lordship that I am not exaggerating.

THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain
with me that the name of a witness should ever be
suppressed. [ With a glance at FALDER, who is gripping
and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH,
who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes foed on
FALDER] I'll consider your application. It must
depend. I have to remember that she may have
come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's
behalf.

FROME. Your lordship, I really

THE JUDGE. Yes, yes — I don't suggest anything of
the sort, Mr. Frome. Leave it at that for the moment.
At he finishes speaking, the jury return, and
file, back into the box.

56 JUSTICE ACT H

CLERK OF ASSIZE, Gentlemen, are you agreed on
your verdict ?

FOREMAN. We are.

CLERK OF ASSIZE. Is it Guilty, or Guilty, but in-
sane ?

FOREMAN. Guilty.

The JUDGE nods ; then, gathering up his notes,
sits looking at FALDER, who stands motion-
less.

FROME. [Rising] If your lordship would allow me
to address you in mitigation of sentence. I don't
know if your lordship thinks I can add anything to
what I have said to the jury on the score of the
prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he
acted.

THE JUDGE. I don't think you can, Mr. Frome.

FROME. If your lordship says so — I do most
earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost
weight to my plea. [He sits down.

THE JUDGE. [To the Clerk] Call upon him.

THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand con-
victed of felony. Have you anything to say for
yourself why the Court should not give you judgment
according to Law ? [FALDER shakes his head.

THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given
fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly
found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses ; then, consult-
ing his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that
you were not responsible for your actions at the
moment of committing this crime. There is no

ACT ii JUSTICE 57

doubt, I think, that this was a device to bring out at
first hand the nature of the temptation to which you
succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel
was in reality making an appeal for mercy. The
setting up of this defence of course enabled him to
put in some evidence that might weigh in that
direction. Whether he was well advised to do so is
another matter. He claimed that you should be
treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. And
this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a
passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indict-
ment of the march of Justice, which he practically
accused of confirming and completing the process of
criminality. Now, in considering how far I should
allow weight to his appeal, I have a number of
factors to take into account. I have to consider on
the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the
deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the
counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent
man — and that, to my mind, is a very grave point —
and finally I have to consider the necessity of deter-
ring others from following your example. On the
other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are
young, that you have hitherto borne a good character,
that you were, if I am to believe your evidence
»nd that of your witnesses, in a state of some
emotional excitement when you committed this
crime. I have every wish, consistently with my
duty — not only to you, but to the community, to treat
you with leniency. And this brings me to what are the

58 JUSTICE ACT ii

determining tactors in my mind in my consideration
of your case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office —
that is a very serious element in this case ; no possible
excuse can be made for you on the ground that you
were not fully conversant with the nature of the
crime you were committing and the penalties that
attach to it. It is said, however, that you were
carried away by your emotions. The story has been
told here to-day of your relations with this — er —
Mrs. Honeywill ; on that story both the defence and
the plea for mercy were in effect based. Now what
is that story ? It is that you, a young man, and she
a young woman unhappily married, had formed an
attachment, which you both say — with what truth I
am unable to gauge — had not yet resulted in
immoral relations, but which you both admit was
about to result in such relationship. Your counsel
has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground
that the woman is in what he describes, I think, as
" a hopeless position." As to that I can express no
opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is
patent that you committed this crime with the view
of furthering an immoral design. Now, however I
might wish, I am not able to justify to my conscience
a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to
morality. It is vitiated ab initio, and would, if
successful, free you for the completion of this im-
moral project Your counsel has made an attempt
to trace your offence back to what he seems to
suggest is a defect in the marriage law ; he has made
an attempt also to show that to punish you with

ACTII JUSTICE 59

further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not
follow him in these flights. The Law, is what it is—
a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of
which rests on another. I am concerned only with
its administration. The crime you have committed
is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance
with my duty to society to exercise the powers I
have in your favour. You will go to penal servitude
for three years. \

FALDER, tvko throughout the JUDGE'S speech hat
looked at him steadily, lets his head fall
forward on his breast. RUTH starts up
from her seat as he is taken out by the
warders. There is a bustle in court.
THE JUDGE. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen
of the Press, I think that the name of the female
witness should not be reported.

[The reporters bow their acquiescence.
THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who is staring in the direction
in which FALDER has disappeared] Do you understand,
your name will not be mentioned ?

COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking
to you.

RUTH turns, stares at the JUDGE, and turns

away.

THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the
next case.

CLERK OF ASSIZE. [To a warder] Put up John
Booley.

To cries of " Witnesses in the case of Booley "
The curtain falls.

ACT III

SCENE I

A pnson. A plainly furnished room, with tmo large
barred windows, overlooking the prisoners exercise
yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with
arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single
Jile at a distance of four yards from each other,
walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on
the concrete Jloor of the yard. Two warders in blue
uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed
amongst them. The room has distempered walls,
a bookcase with numerous official-looking books,
a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the
prison on *he wall a writing-table covered with
documents. It is Christmas Eve.

The GOVERNOR, a neat, gravg- looking man, with a trim,
fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled
hair, receding from the temples, is standing close
to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough sato
made out of a piece of metal. The hand in which
he holds it is gloved, for two Jingers are missing.
The chief warder, WOODER, a tall, thin, military-
looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and
61

62 JUSTICE ACT in

melancholy) monkey-like eyes, stands very upright
trvo paces from him.

THE GOVERNOR. [With a faint, abstracted smile]
Queer-looking affair, Mr. Wooder ! Where did you
find it ?

WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come
across such a thing for two years now.

THE GOVERNOR. [With curiosity] Had he any set
plan?

WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that
much. [He holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of
an inch apart]

THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon.
What's his name ? Moaney ! An old hand, I
think ?

WOODER. Yes, sir — fourth spell of penal. You'd
think an old lag like him would have had more sense
by now. [With pitying contempt] Occupied his mind,
he said. Breaking in and breaking out — that's all
they think about.

THE GOVERNOR. Who's next him ?

WOODER. O'Cleary, sir.

THE GOVERNOR. The Irishman.

WOODER. Next him again there's that young fellow,
Falder — star class — and next him old Clipton.

THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes ! " The philosopher." I
want to see him about his eyes.

WOODER. Curious thing, sir : they seem to know
vhen there's one of th**e tries at escape going on.

s»c. i JUSTICE 63

It makes them restive — there's a regulai wave going
through them just now.

THE GOVERNOR. [Meditatively] Odd things —
those waves. [Turning to look at the prisoners exercising]
Seem quiet enough out here !

WOODER. That Irishman, O'Cleary, began banging
on his door this morning. Little thing like that's
quite enough to upset the whole lot. They're just
Jike dumb animals at times.

THE GOVERNOR. I've seen it with horses before
thunder — it'll run right through cavalry lines.

The prison CHAPLAIN has entered. He is a
dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress,
nrith a peculiarly steady, light-lipped face
and slow, cultured speech.

THE GOVERNOR. [Holding up the saw] Seen this,
Miller ?

THE CHAPLAIN. Useful-looking specimen.

THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh 1 [He goes
to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number
of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on
ihem] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder.

WOODER. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out.

THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men
last day or two, Miller ? Seems going through the
whole place.

THE CHAPLAIN. No. I don't know of anything.

THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dme with
us on Christmas Day ?

THE CHAPLAIN. To-morrow. Thanks very much.

64 JUSTICE ACT ui

THE GOVERNOR. Worries me to feel the men dis-
contented. [Gazing at the saw] Have to punish this
poor devil. Can't help liking a man who tries to
escape. [He places the saw in his pocket and locks the
cupboard again]

THE CHAPLAIN. Extraordinary perverted will-
power— some of them. Nothing to be done till it's
broken.

THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm
afraid. Ground too hard for golf ?

WOODER comes in again.

WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007
asks to speak to you, sir. I told him it wasn't
usual.

THE GOVERNOR. What about ?
WOODER. Shall I put him off, sir ?
THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see
him. Don't go, Miller.

WOODER motions to some one without, and as

the visitor comes in withdraws.
The visitor is COKESON, who is attired in a thick
overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and
carries a top hat.

COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been
talking to the young man.

THE GOVERNOR. We have a good many here.
COKESON. Name of Falder, forgery. [Producing a
card, and handing it to the GOVERNOR] Firm of
James and Walter How. Well known in the

•c. i JUSTICE 65

THE GOVERNOR. [Receiving the card — with a faint
smile] What do you want to see me about, sir ?

COKESON. [Suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise]
Why ! what- a sight !

THE GOVERNOR. Yes, we have that privilege from
here ; my office is being done up. [Sitting down at his
table] Now, please !

COKESON. [Dragging his eyes with difficulty from the
window] I wanted to say a word to you ; I shan't keep
you long. [Confidentially] Fact is, I oughtn't to be
here by rights. His sister came to me — he's got no
father and mother — and she was in some distress.
u My husband won't let me go and see him," she
said ; " says he's disgraced the family. And his other
sister," she said, "is an invalid." And she asked
me to come. Well, I take an interest in him. He
was our junior — I go to the same chapel — and I
didn't like to refuse. And what I wanted to tell
you was, he seems lonely here.

THE GOVERNOR. Not unnaturally.

COKESON. I'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. I see
a lot of them about working together.

THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The
convicts serve their three months here in separate
confinement, sir.

COKESON. But we don't want to be unreasonable.
He's quite downhearted. I wanted to ask you to
let him run about with the others.

1 ac GOVERNOR. [ With faint amusement] Ring the
bell — would jron. Miller. [To COKESON] You'd

66 JUSTICE ACT in

like to hear what the doctor says about him.
perhaps.

THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not
accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir.

COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite
a young fellow. I said to him : " Before a month's
up," I said, " you'll be out and about with the others ;
it'll be a nice change for you." " A month ! " he
said — like that ! " Come ! " I said, " we mustn't
exaggerate. What's a month ? Why, it's nothing ! "
"A day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking
and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside.
I can't help it," he said; " I try — but I'm built that
way, Mr. Cokeson." And he held his hand up to
his face. I could see the tears trickling through his
fingers. It wasn't nice.

THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large,
rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? Not Church of
\England, I think ?

f COKESON. No.

THE CHAPLAIN. I know.
THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask
the doctor to be good enough to come here for a
minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes out] Let's see,
he's not married ?

COKESON. No. [Confidentially] But there's a party
he's very much attached to, not altogether com-ii-fo.
It's a sad story.

THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women,
sir, this prison might be closed.

•c. i JUSTICE 67

COKBSON. [Looking at the CHAPLAIN over his tpec-
tacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that,
special. He had hopes they'd have let her come
and see him, but they haven't. Of course he asked
me questions. I did my best, but I couldn't tell the
poor young fellow a lie, with him in here — seemed
like hitting him. But I'm afraid it's made him
worse.

THE GOVERNOR. What was this news then ?

COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty,
spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him.
Fact is, she was going away with our young friend.
It's not nice — but I've looked over it. Well, when
he was put in here she said she'd earn her living
apart, and wait for him to come out That was a
great consolation to him. But after a month she
came to me — I don't know her personally — and she
said : " I can't earn the children's living, let alone
my own — I've got no friends. I'm obliged to keep
out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to
know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she
said. And she has lost flesh. " I'll have to go in
the workhouse ! " It's a painful story. I said to
her : " No," I said, " not that ! I've got a wife an'
family, but sooner than you should do that I'll
spare you a little myself." " Really," she said — she's
a nice creature — " I don't like to take it from you
I think I'd better go back to my husband." Well,
I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller — drinks — but I
didn't like *o persuade her not to.

68 JUSTICE ACT ra

THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no.

COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now ; it's upset the
poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to
say was : He's got his three years to serve. I nan
things to be pleasant for him.

THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The
Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid.

COKESON, But I can't help thinking that to shut
him up there by himself 11 turn him silly. And
nobody wants that, I s'pose, I don't like to see a
man cry.

THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to
give way like that.

COKESON. [Looking at him — in a tone oftudden dogged
hostility] I keep dogs.

THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed ?,

COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't
shut one of them up all by himself, month after
month, not if he'd bit me all over.

THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not
a dog ; he has a sense of right and wrong.

COKESON. But that's not the way to make him
feel it.

THE CHAPLAIN. Ah ! there I'm afraid we must differ.

COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat
'em with kindness they'll do anything for you ; but
to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage.

THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who
nave had a little more experience than yourself to
know what is best for prisoners.

•c. i JUSTICE 69

COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller,
I've watched him for years. He's eurotic — got no
stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm
thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut
up by himself, without a cat to keep him company,
it'll do him harm. I said to him : " Where do you
feel it ? " "I can't tell you, Mr. Cokeson," he said,
"but sometimes I could beat my head against the
wall." It's not nice.

During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He
u a medium-sized, rather good-looking man,
with a quick eye. He stands leaning against
the window.

THE GOVERNOR. This gentleman thinks the sepa-
rate is telling on Q 3007 — Falder, young thin fellow,
star class. What do you say, Doctor Clements ?

THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing
him any harm.

COKESON. But he's told me.

THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can
always tell. He's lost no weight since he's been
here.

COKESON. It's his state of mind I'm speaking of.

THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's
nervous, rather melancholy. I don't see signs of
anything more. I'm watching him carefully.

COKESON. [Nonplussed] I'm glad to hear you say
that.

THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this
period that we are able to make some impression on

70 JUSTICE ACT m

them, sir. I am speaking from my special stand-
point.

COKESON. [Turning bewildered to the GOVERNOR]
I don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him
this news, I do feel it's awkward.

THE GOVERNOR. I'll make a point of seeing him
to-day.

COKESON. I'm much obliged to you. I thought
perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it.

THE GOVERNOR. [Rather sharply] If any sign of
injury to his health shows itself his case will be
reported at once. That's fully provided for.

[He rises.

COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course,
what you don't see doesn't trouble you ; but having
seen him, I don't want to have him on my mind.

THE GOVERNOR. I think you may safely leave it to
us, sir.

COKESON. [Mollified and Apologetic] I thought

you'd understand me. I'm a plain man — never set

myself up against authority. [Expanding to the

CHAPLAIN] Nothing personal meant. Good-morning.

As he goes out Ike three officials do not look at

each other, but their faces wear peculiar

expressions.

THE CHAPLAIN. Our friend deems to think that
prison is a hospital.

COKESON. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air]
There's just one little thing. This woman — I sup-
pose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be

•c. ii JUSTICE 71

a rare treat for them both. He's thinking about her
all the time. Of course she's not his wife. But he's
quite safe in here. They're a pitiful couple. You
couldn't make an exception ?

THE GOVERNOR. [Wearily] As you say, my dear
sir, I couldn't make an exception; he won't be
allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to Q
convict prison.

COKESON. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have
troubled you. [He again goes out.

THE CHAPLAIN, [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain
man indeed, poor fellow. Come and have some
lunch, Clements ?

He and the DOCTOR go out talking.
The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at hit
table and takes up a pen.

The curtain falls.

SCENE II

Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The mails
are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe
of deeper green about the height of a mans shoulder,
and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is
of blackened stones. Daylight is Jittering through a
heavily barred window at the end. The doors of
four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little
round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered

n JUSTICE ACT m

by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords
a view of the cell. On the wall, close to each, cell
door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's
name, number, and record.

Overhead can be seen the iron structures of thejlrst-jloor
and second-Jloor corridors.

The WARDER INSTRUCTOR, a bearded man in blue
uniform, nrith an apron, and some dangling keys,
is just emerging from one of the cells.

INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell]
I'll have another bit for you when that's finished.

O'CLKARY. [Unseen — in an Irish voice] Little doubt
o' that, sirr.

INSTRUCTOR. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have
it than nothing, I s'pose.

O'CLEARY. An' that's the blessed truth.

Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and

locked, and of approaching footsteps.
INSTRUCTOR. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive
over it !

He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention.
The GOVERNOR comet walking down the corridor,

followed by WOODER.
THE GOVERNOR. Anything to report ?
INSTRUCTOR. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a
;ell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose markt
to-day.

The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end
cell. The INSTRUCTOR goes away.

«c. tt JUSTICE 73

THE GOVERNOR. This is our maker of saws,
isn't it ?

He takes the tan from his pocket as WOODER
throws open the door of the cell. The convict
MOANEY is teen lying on his bed, athwart
the cell, ivith his cap on. He springs up and
stands in the middle of the cell. He is a
ran-boned fellow, about Jifly-six years old,
with outstanding bat's ears and fierce,
staring, steel-coloured eyes.

WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap]
Out here ! [MOANEY comes to the door.

THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor,
and holding up the tarn — with the manner of an officer
speaking to a private] Anything to say about this,
my man ? [ M OANEY is silent] Come !
MOANEY. It passed the time.

THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough
to do, eh ?

MOANEY. It don't occupy your mind.
THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find
K better way than this.

MOANEY. [Sullenly] Well ! What way ? I must
jteep my hand in against the time I get out. What's
the good of anything else to me at my time of life ?
[ With a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms]
Ye know that, sir. I'll be in again within a year or
two, after I've done this lot. I don't want to disgrace
meself when I'm out. You've got your pride keeping
the prison smart; well, I've got mine. [Seeing that

74 JUSTICE ACT m

the GOVERNOR is listening with interest, he goes on,
pointing to the saw] I must be doin' a little o' this.
It's no harm to any one. I was five weeks makin'
that saw — a bit of all right it is, too ; now I'll get
cells, I suppose, or seven days' bread and water.
You can't help it, sir, I know that — I quite put
meself in your place.

THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass
it over will you give me your word not to try it on
again ? Think ! [He goes into the cell, walks to the end
of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars]

THE GOVERNOR. [Returning] Well?

MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another
six weeks to do in here, alone. I can't do it and
think o' nothing. I must have something to interest
me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but I
can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to
deceive a gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another
four hours' steady work would have done it.

THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then ? Caught,
brought back, punishment. Five weeks' hard work
to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they
put a new bar to your window. Is it worth it,
Moaney ?

MOANEY. [With a sort of fierceness] Yes, it is.

THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh,
well ! Two days' cells — bread and water.

MOANEY. Thank 'e, sir.

He turns quickly like an animal and slips into
his cell.

sc. IT JUSTICE 75

The GOVERNOR lookt after him and shakes
his head as WOODER closes and locks the
cell door,

THE GOVERNOR. CJpen Clipton's cell.

WOODER opens the door of CLIPTON'S cell.
CLIPTON is sitting on a stool just inside the
door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is
a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost
shaven head, and smouldering little dark
eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up
and stands motionless in the doorway, peer-
ing at his visitors.

THE GOVERNOR. \Beckoning\ Come out here a
minute, Clipton.

CLIPTON, with a sort of dreadful quietness,
comes into the corridor, the needle and thread
in his hand. The GOVERNOR signs to
WOODER, who goes into the cell and inspect*
it carefully.

THE GOVERNOR. How are your eyes ?

CLIPTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see
wie sun here. [He makes a stealthy movement, protruding
his neck a little] There's just one thing, Mr. Governor,
as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd ask the
cove next door here to keep a bit quieter.

THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want
any tales, Clipton.

CLIPTON. He keeps me awake. I don't know who

76 JUSTICE ACT ra

he is. [With contempt] One of this star class, I
expect. Oughtn't to be here with us.

THE GOVERNOR. [Quietly] Quite right, Clipton.
He'll be moved when there's a cell vacant.

CLIPTON. He knocks about like a wild beast in
the early morning. I'm not used to it — stops me
getting my sleep out. In the evening too. It's
not fair, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me.
Sleep's the comfort I've got here ; I'm entitled to
take it out full.

WOODER comes out of the cell, and instantly, as
though extinguished, CLIPTON moves with
stealthy suddenness back into his cell.

WOODER. All right, sir.

The GOVERNOR nods. The door is closed and
locked.

THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on
his door this morning ?

WOODER. [Going towards O'CLEARY'S cell] This one,
sir ; O'Cleary.

He lifts the disc and glances through the peep-
hole.

THE GOVERNOR. Open.

WOODER throws open the door. O'CLEARY,
tvko is seated at a little table by the door as
if listening, springs up and stands at atten-
tion Just inside the doorway. He is a broad-
Jaced, middle- aged man, with a wide, t/tin.

•c. n JUSTICE 77

flexible, mouth, and little holes under hit
high cheek-bones.

THB GOVERNOR. Where's the joke, O'Cleary ?

O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour ? I've not seen
one for a long time.

THE GOVERNOR. Banging on your door ?

O'CLKARY. Oh! that!

THE GOVERNOR. It's womanish.

O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two
months past.

THE GOVERNOR. Anything to complain of?

O'CLEARY. No, sirr.

THE GOVERNOR. You're an old hand ; you ought to
know better.

O'CLEARY. Yes, I've been through it all.

THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next
door ; you'll upset him.

O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't
always be the same steady man.

THE GOVERNOR. Work all right ?

O'CLEARY. [Taking up a rush mat he is making]
Oh ! I can do it on me head. It's the miserablest
stuff — don't take the brains of a mouse. [Working
his mouth] It's here I feel it — the want of a little
noise — a terrible little wud ease me.

THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if
you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed
v> talk.

O'CLIARY. [With a look of profound meaning] Not
with my mouth.

78 JUSTICE ACT in

THE GOVERNOR. Well, then ?

O'CLEARY. But it's the great conversation I'd
«iave.

THE GOVERNOR. [With a smile] Well, no more
conversation on your door.

O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit
to repeat meself.

THE GOVERNOR. [Turning] Good-night.

O'CLEARY. Good-night, your honour.

He turns into hit cell. THE GOVERNOR shuts
the door.

THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't
help liking the poor blackguard.

WOODER. He's an amiable man, sir.

THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask
the doctor to come here, Mr. Wooder.

WOODER salutes and goes arvay down the
corridor.

The GOVERNOR goes to the door of FALDER'S
cell. He raises his uninjured hand to un-
cover the peep-hole ; but, without uncovering
it, shakes his head and drops his hand ; then,
after scrutinising the record board, he opent
the cell door. FALDER, who is standing
against it, lurches forward, with a gasp.

THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me .
can't you settle down, Falder ?

FALDER. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir.

sc. ii JUSTICE 79

THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean ? It's no
good running your head against a stone wall, is it ?

FALDER. No, sir.

THE GOVERNOR. Well, come.

FALDER. I try, sir.

THE GOVERNOR. Can't you sleep ?

FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and
getting up's the worst time.

THE GOVERNOR. How's that ?

FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't
know, sir. I was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble]
Everything seems to get such a size then. I feel
I'll never get out as long as I live.

THE GOVERNOR. That's morbid, my lad. Pull
yourself together.

FALDER. [ With an equally sudden dogged resentment]
Yes — I've got to

THE GOVERNOR. Think of all these other fellows ?

FALDER. They're used to it.

THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it
once for the first time, just as you're doing now.

FALDER. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in
time, I suppose.

THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'ra ! Well !
That rests with you. Now, come. Set your mind
to it, like a good fellow. You're still quite young.
A man can make himself what he likes.

FALDER. [Wistfully] Yes, sir.

THE GOVERNOR. Take a good hold of yourself. Do
you read ?

80 JUSTICE ACT m

FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging hit
head] I know it's no good ; but I can't help think-
ing of what's going on outside. In my cell I can't
see out at all. It's thick glass, sir.

THE GOVERNOR. You've had a visitor. Bad news ?
FALDER. Yes.

THE GOVERNOR. You mustn't think about it.
FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help
it, sir ?

He suddenly becomes motionless as WOODER
and the DOCTOR approach. The GOVERNOR
motions to him to go back into his cell.

FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my
head, sir. [He goes back into his cell.

THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and
see him, Clements.

The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR
pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and
walks towards the window.

WOODER. [Following] Sorry you should be troubled
like this, sir. Very contented lot of men, on the
whole.

THE GOVERNOR. [Shortly] You think so ?

WOODER. Yes, sir. It's Christmas doing it, in my
opinion.

THE GOVERNOR. [To himself] Queer, that I

WOODER. Beg pardon, sir ?

THE GOVERNOR. Christmas '

•c. n JUSTICE 81

He turns towards the window, leaving WOODER
looking at him with a sort of pained
anxiety.

WOODER. [Suddenly] Do you think we make
show enough, sir ? If you'd like us to have more
holly ?

THE GOVERNOR. Not at all, Mr. Wooder.

WOODER. Very good, sir.

The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER'S cell,
and the GOVERNOR beckons to him.

THE GOVERNOR. Well ?

THE DOCTOR. I can't make anything much of him.
He's nervous, of course.

THE GOVERNOR. Is there any sort of case to report ?
Quite frankly, Doctor.

THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separate's
doing him any good ; but then I could say the same
of a lot of them — they'd get on better in the shops,
there's no doubt.

THE GOVERNOR. You mean you'd have to recom-
mend others ?

THE DOCTOR. A dozen at least. It's on his nerves.
There's nothing tangible. That fellow there [point-
ing to O'CLEARY'S cell], for instance — feels it just as
much, in his way. If I once get away from physical
facts — I shan't know where I am. Conscientiously,
sir, I don't know how to differentiate him. He
hasn't lost weight. Nothing wrong with his eyes.
His pulse is good. Talks all right.

THE GOVERNOR. It doesn't amount to melancholia?

9

82 JUSTICE ACT m

THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on
him if you like ; but if. I do I ought to report on
others.

THE GOVERNOR I see. [Looking towards FALDER'S
cell] The poor devil must just stick it then.

As he says this he looks absently at WOODER.
WOODER. Beg pardon, sir ?

For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns

on his heel, and walks away.
There is a sound as of beating on metal.
THE GOVERNOR. [Stopping] Mr. Wooder ?
WOODER. Banging on his door, sir. I thought we
should have more of that.

He hurries forward, passing the GOVERNOR, who
follows slowly.

The curtain Jails.

SCENE III

FALDER'S cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad
by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded
ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks
The barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator,

•c. in JUSTICE 83

it high up in the middle of the end wall. In the
middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door
In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled
up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above
them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is
a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in
a symmetrical pyramid ; there are also a black hair
brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another
corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on
end. There is a dark ventilator under the window,
and another ovei the door. FALDER'S work (a
shirt to which he is putting buttonholes) is hung to a
nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which
the novel " Lorna Doone " lies open. Low down
in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about
afoot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall.
There it also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes
beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under
the window.

Tn fast-failing daylight, FALDBR, in his stockings, is seen
standing motionless, with his head inclined towards
the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the
door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He
stops at the door. He is trying harder aud harder
to hear something, any little thing that is going on
outside. He springs suddenly upright — as if at a
sound — and remains perfectly motionless. Then,
with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands
looking at it, with his head down ; he does a stitch
or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness

84 JUSTICE ACT in

that each stitch is, as it mere, a coming to life. Then,

turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his

head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops

again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of

his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans

his forehead against the iron. Turning from it

presently, he moves slowly back towards the window

tracing his way with his finger along the top line

of the distemper that runs round the walls. He

stops under the window, and, picking up the lid

of one of the tins, peers into it, as if trying to

make a companion of his own face. It has grown

very nearly dark. Suddenly the Ud falls out of

his hand with a clatter — the only sound that has

broken the silence — and he stands staring intently

at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging

rather white in the darkness — he seems to be seeing

somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap

and click ; the cell light behind the glass screen has

been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted.

FALDER is seen gasping for breath.

A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on

thick metal, is suddenly audible. FALDER shrink

back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the

sound grows, as though some great tumbril were

rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to

hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch

nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling

from cell to cell, draws closer and closer ; FALDER'

hands are teen moving as if his spirit had already

ac. in JUSTICE 85

joined in this beating, and the tound smells till it
seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly
roues his clenched Jists. Panting violently, he
flings himself at his door, and beats on it.

The curtain fall*.

\

ACT IV

The scene it again COKESON'S room, at a fen minutes to
ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors
are all open. S WEEDLK, now blessed with a sprouting
moustache, if getting the offices ready. He arranges
papers on COKESON'S table ; then goes to a covered
masks land, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the
mirror. While he is gazing his Jill Ruth Honeynrill
comes in through the outer office and stands in tht
doorway. There seems a kind of exultation and
excitement behind her habitual impassivity.

SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the
lid of the tvashstand with a bang] Hello ! It's
you !

RUTH. Yes.

SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't
waste their time hurrying down in the morning.
Why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure
of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been
doing with yourself?

RUTH. [Sardonically] Living.

SWEEDLE. [Impressed] If you want to see him
[he points to COKESON'S chair], he'll be here directly
87

88 JUSTICE ACT iv

— never misses — not much. [Delicately] 1 hope our
friend's back from the country. His time's been up
these three months, if I remember. [RUTH nods] I
was awful sorry about that. The governor made a
mistake — if you ask me.

RUTH. He did.

SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him *
chanst. And, / say, the judge ought to ha' let
him go after that. They've forgot what human
nature's like. Whereas we know.

• • . . -jX*l" la ^

RUTH gives him a honeyed smile.

SWEEDLE. They come down on you like a cartload
of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't
swell up again they complain of it. I know 'em —
seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [He shake*
his head in the plenitude of rvisdom] Why, only the

other day the governor

But COKESON has come in through the outet
office; brisk with east nnnd, and decidedly
greyer.

COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why !
it's you ! [Then motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing
the door] Quite a stranger ! Must be two years.
D'you want to see me ? I can give you a minute.
Sit down ! Family well ?

RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was.

COKESON. [Eyeing her askance] I hope things are
more comfortable at home.

RUTH. I couldn't stay with Honey will, after
all.

ACT i> JUSTICE 89

COKESON. You haven't done anything rash, I hope.
[ should be sorry if you'd done anything rash.

RUTH. I've kept the children with me.

COKESON. [Beginning to feel that things are not so
jolly as he had hoped] Well, I'm glad to have seen
you. You've not heard from the young man, I sup-
pose, since he came out ?

RUTH. Yes, I ran across him yesterday.

COKESON. I hope he's well.

RUTH. [With sudden Jierceness] He can't get any-
thing to do. It's dreadful to see him. He's just
skin and bone.

COKESON. [ With genuine concern] Dear me ! I'm
sorry to hear that. [On his guard again] Didn't
they find him a place when his time was up ?

RUTH. He was only there three weeks. It got out

COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do foi
you. I don't like to be snubby.

RUTH. I can't bear his being like that.

COKESON. [Scanning her not unprosperous Jlgure\ I
know his relations aren't very forthy about him.
Perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds
his feet.

RUTH. Not now. I could have — but not no*».

COKESON. I don't understand.

RUTH. [Proudly] I've seen him again — that's all
over.

COKESON. [Staring at her — disturbed] I'm a family
man — I don't want to hear anything unpleasant,
Excuse me — I'm very busy.

90 JUSTICE ACT IT

RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the
country long ago, but they've never got over me
marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise, Mr.
Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see,
when I married him. I thought the world of him,
of course ... he used to come travelling to our farm.

COKESON. [Regretfully] I did hope you'd have got
on better, after you saw me.

RUTH. He used me worse than ever. He couldn't
break my nerve, but I lost my health ; and then he
began knocking the children about. ... I couldn't
stand that. I wouldn't go back now, if he were
dying.

COKESON. [Who has risen and is shifting about as
though dodging a stream of lava] We mustn't be violent,
must we ?

RUTH. [Smouldering] A man that can't behave
better than that [There is silence.

COKESON. [Fascinated in spite of himself] Then there
you were ! And what did you do then ?

RUTH. [With a shntg] Tried the same as when
I left him before . . . making skirts . . . cheap
things. It was the best I could get, but I never
made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own
cotton and working all day ; I hardly ever got to bed
till past twelve. I kept at it for nine months.
[Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that ; I wasn't made
for it. I'd rather die.

COKESON. My dear woman ! We mustn't talk like
that.

ACT IT JUSTICE 91

RUTH. It was starvation for the children too— after
what they'd always had. I soon got not to care. I
used to be too tired. [She is silent.

COKKSON. [ With fearful curiosity] Why, what hap-
pened then ?

RUTH. [With a laugh] My employer happened
then — he's happened ever since.

COKKSON. Dear ! Oh dear I I never came across a
thing like this.

RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But
I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to
quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand]
I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It
was just a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We
went in there and sat down, and he told me all
about himself. Oh ! Mr. Cokeson, give him another
chance.

COKESON. [Greatly disturbed] Then you've both lost
your livings ! What a horrible position !

RUTH. If he could only get here — where there'*
nothing to find out about him !

COKKSON. We can't have anything derogative to
the firm.

RUTH. I've no one else to go to.

COKKSON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't
think they'll take him, under the circumstances.
I don't really.

RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in
the street. [She points to the window.

COKMON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done

92 JUSTICE ACT IT

that until he's sent for. [Then softening at the look on
her face] We've got a vacancy, as it happens, but I
can't promise anything.

RUTH. It would be the saving of him.

COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not
sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him here
till I see how things are. Leave your address?
[Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street ? [He notes it on
blotting-paper] Good-morning.

RUTH. Thank you.

She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak,
but does not, and goes away.

COKESON. [ Wiping his head and forehead with a largt
white cotton handkerchief] What a business ! [Then,
looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. S WEED L*
answers it]

COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here
to-day after the clerk's place ?

SWEEDLB. Yes.

COKESON. Well, keep him in the air ; I don't want
to see him yet.

SWEEDLE. What shall I tell him, sir ?

COKESON. [With asperity] Invent something. Use
your brains. Don't stump him off altogether.

SWEEDLK. Shall I tell him that we've got illness,
air? ,

COKMON. Nol Nothing untrue. Say I'm not heit
to-day.

SWEEDLE. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering?

COKESON. Exactly. And look here. You remember

ACT IT JUSTICE 93

Falder? I may be having him round to see me.
Now, treat him like you'd Tiave him treat you in a
limilar position.

SWEEDLE. I naturally should do.
COKESON. That's right. When a man's down
never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a ham1
up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you in life.
It's sound policy.

SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take
him on again, sir ?

COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the
sound of some one having entered the outer office] Who's
there ?

SWEEDLE. [Going to the door and looking] It's
Falder, sir.

COKESON. [ Vexed] Dear me ! That's very naughty

of her. Tell him to call again. I don't want

He breaks off as FALDER comes in. FALDER
is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown
more restless. His clothes are very worn
and loose.

SWEEDLE, nodding cheerfully, withdraws.

COKESON. Glad to see you. You're rather previous.
[Trying to keep things pleasant] Shake hands! She's
striking while the iron's hot. [He wipes his forehead]
I don't blame her. She's anxious.

FALDER timidly takes COKESON'S hand ana

glances towards the partners' door.
COKESON. No — not yet ! Sit down ! [FALDER sit*

94 JUSTICE ACT nr

in the chair at the side of COKESON'S table, on which he
places his cap] Now you are here I'd like you to
give me a little account of yourself. [Looking at
him over his spectacles] How's your health ?

FALDER. I'm alive, Mr. Cokeson.

COKESON. [Preoccupied] I'm glad to hear that.
About this matter. I don't like doing anything out
of the ordinary ; it's not my habit. I'm a plain man,
and I want everything smooth and straight. But I
promised your friend to speak to the partners, and I
always keep my word.

FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've
paid for that job a thousand times and more. I
have, sir. No one knows. They say I weighed
more when I came out than when I went in. They
couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here
[he touches his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. Till
last night I'd have thought there was nothing in
here at all.

COKESON. [Concerned] You've not got heart
disease ?

FALDER. Oh 1 they passed me sound enough.

COKESON. But they got you a place, didn't
they?

FALDER. Yes; very good people, knew all about
it — very kind to me. I thought I was going to get
on first rate. But one day, all of a sudden, the other
clerks got wind of it. ... I couldn't stick it, Mr.
Cokeson, I couldn't, sir.

COKESON. Easy, my dear fellow, easy .

ACT IT JUSTICE 95

FALOER. I had one small job after that, but it
didn't last.

COKKSON. How was that ?

F ALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson.
The fact is, I seem to be struggling against a thing)
that's all round me. I can't explain it : it's as if I
was in a net ; as fast as I cut it here, it grows up .
there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about
references; but what are you to do? You must
have them. And that made me afraid, and I left.
In fact, I'm — I'm afraid all the time now.

He borvs fas head and leans dejectedly silent
over the table.

COKESON. I feel for you — I do really. Aren't your
sisters going to do anything for you ?

FALDER. One's in consumption. And the
other

COKESON. Ye . . . es. She told me her husband
wasn't quite pleased with you.

FALOER. When I went there — they were at
supper — my sister wanted to give me a kiss — I
know. But he just looked at her, and said : " What
have you come for ? " Well, I pocketed my pride
and I said : " Aren't you going to give me your
band, Jim ? Cis is, I know," I said. " Look here ! "
he said, " that's all very well, but we'd better come
to an understanding. I've been expecting you, and
I've made up my mind. I'll give you fifteen pounds
to go to Canada with." " I see," I said — "good
riddance ! No, thanks ; keep your fifteen pounds."

96 JUSTICE ACT iv

Friendship's a queer thing when you've been where
I have.

COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen
pound from me ? [Flustered, as FALDER regards him
with a queer smile] Quite without prejudice ; I meant
it kindly.

FALDER. I'm not allowed- to leave the country.

COKESON. Oh ! ye ... es — ticket-of-leave ? You
aren't looking the thing.

FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this
week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But
meeting her — I feel a different man this morning.
I've often thought the being fond of her's the best
thing about me ; it's sacred, somehow — and yet it
did for me. That's queer, isn't it ?

COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you.

FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson.
Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it
doesn't do to associate with criminals '

COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself
names. That never did a man any good. Put a face
on it.

FALDKR. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir,
when you're independent. Try it when you're down
like me. They talk about giving you your deserts.
Well, I think I've had just a bit over.

COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] 1
hope they haven't made a Socialist of you.

FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over hit
past self ; he utters a peculiar

ACT iv JUSTICE 97

COKESON. You must give them credit for the best
intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you
harm, I'm sure.

FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody
idshes you harm, but they down you all the same

This feeling [He stares round him, as though ai

something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden
impersonality] I know it is.

COKESON. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing
there ! We must try and take it quiet. I'm sure
I've often had you in my prayers. Now leave it to
me. I'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're
jolly. [As he speaks the two partners come in.

COKESON. [Rather disconcerted, but trying to put them
all at ease] I didn't expect you quite so soon. I've
just been having a talk with this young man. I
think you'll remember him.

JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How
are you, Falder ?

WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly]
Very glad to see you again, Falder.

FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, taket
the hand] Thank you, sir.

COKESON. Just a word, Mr. James. [To FALDER,
pointing to the clerks' office] You might go in there a
minute. You know your way. Our junior won't be
coming this morning. His wife's just had a little
family.

FALDER goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office.

COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all

0

98 JUSTICE ACT n

about it. He's quite penitent. But there's a pre
judice against him. And you're not seeing him to
advantage this morning ; he's under-nourished. It's
very trying to go without your dinner.

JAMBS. Is that so, Cokeson ?

COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his
lesson. Now tve know all about him, and we want a
clerk. There is a young fellow applying, but I'm
keeping him in the air.

JAMES. A gaol-bird in the office, Cokeson? I
don't see it.

WALTER. "The rolling of the chariot- wheels of
Justice ! " I've never got that out of my head.

JAMES. I've nothing to reproach myself with in this
affair. What's he been doing since he came out ?

COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he
hasn't kept them. He's sensitive — quite natural.
Seems to fancy everybody's down on him.

JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow — never did
from the first. "Weak character "'s written all over
him.

WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up.

JAMES. He brought it all on himself.

WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't
quite hold in these days.

JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold
it for all that, my boy.

WALTER. For oneself, yes — not for other people,
thanks.

JAMES. Well ! I don't want to be hard.

ACT IT JUSTICE 99

COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems
to see something [spreading his arms] round him.
Tisn't healthy.

JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up
with ? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside
as we came in.

COKESON. That ! Well, I can't keep anything from
you. He has met her.

JAMES. Is she with her husband ?

COKISON. No.

JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose ?

COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found
jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge.
'Tisn't my business.

JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage
him, Cokeson.

COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps.
I've had the party here this morning.

JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear
boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether !

COKESON. The two things together make it very
awkward for you — I see that.

WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what
we have to do with his private life.

JAMES. No, no ! He must make a clean sheet of
it, or he can't come here.

WALTER. Poor devil !

COKESON. Will you have him in? [And as JAMES
nods] I think I can get him to see reason.

JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, Cokeson,

100 JUSTICE ACT iv

WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON it
summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend
«m what we do, dad.

FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself
together, and presents a steady front.

JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want
to give you another chance ; but there are two things
I must say to you. In the first place : It's no good
coming here as a victim. If you've any notion
that you've been unjustly treated — get rid of it.
You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope
to go scot-free. If society didn't take care of itself,
nobody would — the sooaer you realise that the better.

FALDER. Yes, sir ; but — may I say something ?

JAMES. Well?

FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in
prison. [He stops.

COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm surc\you did.

FALDER. There were all sorts there. -And what I
mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the
first time, and put under somebody that could look
after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of
us would ever have got there.

JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very
grave doubts of that, Falder.

FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sh so I
found.

JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you
began it.

I never wanted to do wrong.

ACT iv JUSTICE 101

JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did.

FALDER. [ With all the bitterness of his past suffering]
It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up]
That is, I mean, I'm not what I was.

JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder.

COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James.

FALDER. [Throwing over his caution from the intensity
of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson.

JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder,
and look to the future.

FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't
understand what prison is. It's here it gets you.

He grips his chest,

COKESON. [In a whisper to James] I told you he
wanted nourishment.

WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass
away. Time's merciful.

FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir.

JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what
you've got to do is to put all the past behind you
and build yourself up a steady reputation. And
that brings me to the second thing. This woman
you were mixed up with — you must give us your
word, you know, to have done with that. There's
wo chance of your keeping straight if you're going to
begin your future with such a relationship.

FALDER. [Looking from one to the other with a hunted
expression] But sir ... but sir ... it's the one
thing I looked forward to all that time. And she
too ... I couldn't find her before last night.

JUSTICE ACT it

During this and what follows COKESON becomes
more and more uneasy.

JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see
for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to
close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of
your resolve to keep straight, and you can come
back — not otherwise.

FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffent
himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't ! Oh,
sir 1 I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's
all I've got.

JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm.
It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No
good can come of this connection. It was the cause
of all your disaster.

FALDER. But, sir, it means — having gone through
all that — getting broken up — my nerves are in an
awful state — for nothing. I did it for her.

JAMES. Come 1 If she's anything of a woman
she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag
you down further. If there were a prospect of
your being able to marry her — it might be another
thing.

FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't
get rid of him — she would have if she could.
That's been the whole trouble from the beginning.
[Looking suddenly at WALTER] ... If anybody
would help her ! It's only money wanted now, I'm
•ure.

COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and u

ACT iv JUSTICE 105

about to speak] I don't think we need consider that
— it's rather far-fetched.

FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have
given her full cause since ; she could prove that he
drove her to leave him.

WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder,
if it can be managed.
FALDER. Oh, sir !

He goes to the window and looks doom into the

street.

COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr.
Walter. I have my reasons.

FALDER. [From the window] She's down there,
sir. Will you see her ? I can beckon to her from
here.

WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to

JAMES.
JAMES. [ With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come.

FALDER beckons from the window.
COKCSON. [In a low JLuster to JAMES and WALTER]
No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she
ought to ha' been, while this young man's been
away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how
to swindle the Law.

FALDER has come from the window. The
three men look at him in a sort of awed
silence,

FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some
change — looking from one to the other] There's been
nothing between us, sir, to prevent it. ... What I

104 JUSTICE ACT iv

said at the trial was true. And last night we only
just sat in the Park.

SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office.

COKESON. What is it ?

SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honeywill. [There is silence.

JAMES. Show her in.

RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically
with FALDER on one side and the three
men on the other. No one speaks. COKE-

V^^

SON turns to his table, bending over his
papers as though the burden of the situation
mere forcing him back into his accustomed
groove.

JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE
shuts the door] We've asked you to come up
because there are certain facts to be faced in this
matter. I understand you have only just met
Falder again.

RUTH. Yes — only yesterday.

JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very
sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here
if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at
RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage,
ma'am.

RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to
twist her hands in front of her as though
prescient of disaster.

FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say
that he'll help us to get you a divorce.

ACT iv JUSTICE 105

RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and
WALTER.

JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder.

FALDER. But, sir !

JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're
fond of him.

RUTH. Yes, sir ; I love him.

She looks miserably at FALDER.

JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way,
do you ?

RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him.

JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will
be to give him up.

FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up.
You can get a divorce. There's been nothing
between us, has there ?

RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head — without looking
at him] No.

FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if
you'll only help us — we promise.

JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly,
don't you ? You see what I mean ?

RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes.

COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman.

JAMES. The situation is impossible.

RUTH. Must I, sir ?

JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to
you, ma'am. His future is in your hands.

RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him.

JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right !

106 JUSTICE ACT iv

FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to

give me up — after all this ? There's something

[Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly
there's been nothing between us.

JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be
as plucky as she is.

FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [Ht
stares at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still ; his face
and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him]

What is it? You've not been

WALTER. Father !

JAMES. [Hurriedly] There, there! That'll do,
that'll do ! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't
let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all.
FALDER. [As if he has not heard] Ruth ?

RUTH looks at him ; and FALDER covers his face

with his hands. There is silence.
COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there.
[To RUTH] Go in here. ' You'll feel better by yourself
for a minute.

He points to the clerks' room and moves towards
the outer office. FALDER does not move.
RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks
back from the touch. She turns and goes
miserably into the clerks' room. With 0
brusque movement he follows, seizing her
by the shoulder just inside the doorway.
COKESON shuts the door.

JAMES. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that,
whoever it is.

ACT iv JUSTICE 107

SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice]
Detective-Sergeant Wister.

The detective enters, and closes the door behind
him.

WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you
had here, two years and a half ago. I arrested him
in this room.

JAMES. What about him ?

WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his where-
abouts from you. [There is an awkward silence.

COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're
not responsible for his movements ; you know
that.

JAMES. What do you want with him ?

WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four
weeks.

WALTER. How d'you mean ?

WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another
six months, sir.

WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police
.till then?

WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps
every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir,
even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've
just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining em-
ployment with a forged reference. What with the
two things together — we must have him.

Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON
steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring
steadily at the detective.

108 JUSTICE Act it

COKESON. [Expansively] We're very busy at the
moment. If you could make it convenient to call
again we might be able to tell you then.

JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but
I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing.
If you want him you must find him without us.

As he speaks his eye Jails on FALDER'S cap,

still lying on the table, and his face contracts.

WISTER. [Noting the gesture — quietly] Very good,

sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken

the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and

sheltering a convict

JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come
here and ask questions which it's not my business to
answer.

WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then,
gentlemen.

COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the
information. You quite understand, don't you ?
Good-morning !

WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to
the door of the outer office he goes to the
door of the clerks' room.
COKESON. The other door . . . the other door !

WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTH'S voice is
heard : " Oh, do ! " and FALDER'S : " /
can't ! " There is a little pause ; then, with
tharp fright, RUTH says : " Who's that f "
WISTER has gone in.

The three men look aghast at the door

ACT iv JUSTICE 109

WISTER. [From within] Keep back, please !

He comes swiftly out with his arm twistea
in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white,
staring look at the three men.
WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake !
WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir.
FALDER. [ With a queer, desperate laugh] Good !

Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up hit
head, and goes out through the outer office,
half dragging WISTER after him.
WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll
go on for ever now.

SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer
door. There are sounds of footsteps descend-
ing the stone stairs ; suddenly a dull thud, a
faint " My God ! " in WISTER'S voice.
JAMES. What's that ?

SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to

behind him. There is dead silence.
WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The
woman — she's fainting !

He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH

from the doorway of the clerks' room.
COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear ! There,
there !

WALTER. Have you any brandy ?
COKESON. I've got sherry.
WALTER. Get it, then. Quick !

He places RUTH in a chair —which JAMES ht&
dragged forward.

110 JUSTICE ACT iv

COKESON. [ With skerry] Here ! It's good strong

sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips.

There is the sound of feet, and they stop to

listen.
The outer door is reopened — WISTER and

SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden.
JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it ?

They lay the burden down in the outer office, out
of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round it,
speaking in husked voices.
WISTER. He jumped — neck's broken.
WALTER. Good God !

WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could
give me the slip like that. And what was it — just a
few months !

WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all ?
JAMES. What a desperate thing ! [Then, in a voice
unlike his own] Run for a doctor — you ! [SWEEDLE
rushes from the outer office] An ambulance !

WISTER goes out. On RUTH'S face an expres-
sion of fear and horror has been seen growing,
as if she dared not turn towards the voices.
She now rises and steals towards them.
WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look !

The three men shrink back out of her may, one
by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops
on her knees by the body.

RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it? He's not
breathing. [She crouches over him] My dear ! My
pretty !

ACT iv JUSTICE 111

In the outer office doorway the figures of men

are seen standing.

RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no ! No, no !
He's dead ! [The figures of the men shrink back.

COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice]
There, there, poor dear woman !

At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at

him.

COKESON. No one'll touch him now ! Never again !
He's safe with gentle Jesus !

RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the
doorway staring at COKESON, who, bending
humbly before her, holds out his hand as one
»ould to a lost dog.

PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS
WEST NORWOOD

THE LITTLE DREAM

AN ALLEGORY IN SIX SCENES

THE WORKS OF
JOHN GALSWORTHY

NOVELS

VILLA RUBEIN : AND OTHER STORIES
THE ISLAND PHARISEES
THE MAN OF PROPERTY
THE COUNTRY HOUSE
FRATERNITY
THE PATRICIAN
THE DARK FLOWER
THE FREELANDS
BEYOND

STUDIES
A COMMENTARY
A MOTLEY

THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY
THE LITTLE MAN
A SHEAF: VOL. I

POEMS
MOODS, SONGS AND DOGGERELS

PLAYS

VOL. ONE: THE SILVER Box
JOT
STRIFE
Vol. Two: THE ELDEST SON

THE LITTLE DREAM
JUSTICE

VOL. TEHEE: THE FUGITIVE
THE PIGEON
TBS MOB

And separately
A BIT Of LOVB

CHARACTERS

BEELCHEN, a mountain girl
LAMOND, a climber
FKLSMAN, a guide

CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM

THE GREAT HORN "|

THE Cow HORN \-mountains

THE WINE HORN J

THE EDELWEISS

THE ALPENROSE , fiomrs

THE GENTIAN

THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION

FIGURES IN THE DREAM

MOTH CHILDREN FLOWER CHILDREN

DANCING LIGHTS GOATHERD

DEATH BY SLUMBER GOAT-BOYS

DEATH BY DROWNING THE FORMS or SLEEP

The music for this play, arranged eithei
for orchestra or piano, has been composed

BY
WOLFGANG VON BARTELS.

SCENE I

It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene
is a room in a mountain hut, furnished only
with a dresser and a low broad window seat.
Through this window three rocky peaks are seen by
the light of a moon, which is slowly whitening the
last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning.
SEELCHEN, a mountain girl, eighteen years old, is
humming a folk-song, and putting away in a cup-
board freshly washed soup-bowls and glasses. She
is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice,
square-cut at the neck, and partly filed in with a
gay handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and
golden, like the alpenrose, the gentian, and the
mountain dandelion ; alabaster beads, pale as edel-
weiss, are round her throat; her stiffened, white
linen sleeves finish at the elbow ; and her full well-
worn skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits
of her hair are crossed, and turned round her head.
As she puts away the last bowl, there is a knock ;
and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is young,
tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber,
and carries a plaid, a rucksack, and an ice-axe.

LA&OND. Good evening !

Good evening, gentle Sir!
7

8 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. I

LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I
fear.

SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here ?

LAMOND. Please.

SEELOHEN. All the beds are full — it is a pity. I
will call Mother.

LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at
sunrise.

SEELCHEN. [.4 wed] The Great Horn ! But he is
mpossible.

LAMOND. I am going to try that.

SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow
Horn.

LAMOND. I have climbed them.

SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous — it is perhaps —
death.

LAMOND. Oh ! that's all right ! One must take
one's chance.

SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For
guide, there is only Hans Felsman.

LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman ?

SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with
admiration] Are you that Herr Lamond who has
climbed all our little mountains this year ?

LAMOND. All but that big fellow.

SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not
wait a day for father's foot ?

LAMOND. Ah ! no. I must go back home to-
morrow.

SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry.

sc. I THE LITTLE DREAM 9

LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas !

SEELCHEN. Are you from a great city ? Is it very
big?

LIMOXD. Six million souls.

SEELCHEN. Oh ! [After a little pause] I have seen
Cortina twice.

LAMOND. Do you live here all the year ?

SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley.

LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world ?

SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls
softly] Hans ! [Then pointing to another door] There
are seven German gentlemen asleep in there !

LAMOND. Oh God I

SEELCHEN. Please ! They are here to see the sun-
rise. [She picks up a little book that has dropped from
LAMOND'S pocket] I have read several books.

LAMOND. This is by a great poet. Do you never
make poetry here, and dream dreams, among your
mountains ?

SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See ! It is
the full moon.

While they stand at the window looking at the
moon, there enters a lean, well-built,
taciturn young man drtssed in Loden.

SEELCHEN. Hans !

FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes
me?

SEELCHEN. [.4 wed] The Great Horn for to-morrow.
[Whispering to him] It is the celebrated city one.

FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible.

10 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. i

LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous
Felsman ?

FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn.

SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years !

LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the
window bench] Can I sleep here ?

SEELCHEN. I will see ! [She runs out]

FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and
spreading them on the window seat] So !

As he goes out into the air, SEELCHEN comes
slipping in againt

SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard
for you.

LAMOND. Oh ! thanks ; but that's all right.

SEELCHEN. To please me !

LAMOND. May I ask your name ?

SEELCHEN. Seelchen.

LAMOND. Little soul, that means — doesn't it ? To
please you I would sleep with seven German gentle-
men.

SEELCHEN. Oh ! no ; it is not necessary.

LAMOND. [With a grave bow] At your service, then.

[He prepares to go]

SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World,
where you come from ?

LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here ; but
when I'm here I would be there.

SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me —
but / am always here.

sc. i THE LITTLE DREAM 11

LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in
towns.

SEELOHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly]
In the towns there are theatres, and there is beautiful
fine work, and — dancing, and — churches — and trains
— and all the things in books — and

LAMOND. Misery.

SEELCHEN. But there is life.

LAMOND. And there is death,

SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed —
will you not come back ?

LAMOND. No.

SEELOHEN. You have all the world ; and I thave
nothing.

LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains.

SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread.

LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat
you I

SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big
wants — like the cheese with holes.

LAMOND. I shall come again.

SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains
left to climb. And if it is not exciting, you do not
care.

LAMOND. 0 wise little soul !

SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always
aching.

LAMOND. For the moon?

SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big
world you will remember ?

12 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. i

LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the
big world so sweet as this.

SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself.
LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good night ?

She puts her face forward ; and he kisses her
cheek, and, suddenly, her lips. Then as she
draws away.

LAMOND [ am sorry, little soul.
SEELCHEN. " That's all right ! "
LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Good
night !

SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good night !
FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them]
It is cold — it will be fine.

LAMOND, still looking back, goes ; and FELSMAN

waits for him to pose.

SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for
him here, I thought.

He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down,

then bends and kisses her hungrily*
SEELCHEN. Art thou angry ?

He does not answert but turning out the lamp,

goes into an inner room.

SEELCHEN sits gating through the window at
the peaks bathed in full moonlight. Then,
drawing the blankets about her, she snuggles
down on the window seat.

SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me —
both. [She sleeps]

The scene falls quite dark.

SCENE II

The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn, SEELCHEN is
still lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing
her face and hands from the blankets, changing the
swathings of deep sleep for the filmy coverings of a
dream. The wall of the hut has vanished ; there is
nothing between her and the three dark mist-veiled
mountains save a trough of black space.
Close to SEELCHEN, on the edge of the trough of dark
space that divides her from the mountains, are four
little flower figures, EDELWEISS and GENTIAN,
MOUNTAIN DANDELION aud ALPENKOSE, peering up
at her through the darkness. On their heads are
crowns of their several flowers, all powdered with
dewdrops which ring like little bells.
SEELCHEN. Oh ! They have faces !

All around the peaks there is nothing but almost

blue-black sky. The peaks brighten.
EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice\ Would you ? Would
you ? Would you ? Ah ! ha !

GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their
bells ringing enviously] Oo-oo-oo !

And suddenly the Peak of THE Cow HORN

speaks in a voice as of one unaccustomed.
THE Cow HORN. I am the mountains. Amongst
and my black-brown sheep I live ; I am silence,
k 13

14 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n

and monotony ; I am the solemn hills. I am fierce-
ness, and the mountain wind ; clean pasture, and wild
rest. Look in my eyes, love me alone !

SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn ! He is
speaking — for Felsman and the mountains. It is the
half of my heart !

THE FLOWERS laugh happily.

THE Cow HORN. I stalk the eternal hills — I drink
the mountain snows. My eyes are the colour of
burned wine ; in them lives melancholy. The low-
ing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks,
the running of the torrents ; no other talk know I.
Thoughts simple, and blood hot, strength huge — the
cloak of gravity.

SEELCHEN. Yes, yes, I want him. He is strong !

THE Cow HORN. Little soul ! Hold to me ! Love
me ! Live with me under the stars !

SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid.

And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN
speaks in a youth'* voice.

THE WINK HORN. I am the town — the will-o'-the-
wisp that dances through the streets ; I am the cooing
dove, from the plane-trees' and the chestnuts' shade.
From day to day all changes, where I burn my
incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces
I dwell, and passionate dark alleys. The life of men
in crowds is mine— of lamplight in the streets at
dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves, and never

sc. n THE LITTLE DREAM 15

one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers
playing in the sunshine.

THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry :
"We know them/"

THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth
and death of pleasure; and the rattling of swift
wheels. I hear the hungry oaths of men ; and love
kisses in the airless night. Without me, little soul,
you starve and die.

SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and
the big world of the Town. It pulls my heart.

THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number
the flowers in your meadows ; they fly more swiftly
than your eagles on the wind. I drink the wine of
aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I
never dull 1

SEELCHEN. I am afraid.

THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul ! I paint
life fifty colours. I make a thousand pretty things !
I twine about your heart !

SEELCHEN. He is honey !

THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry :
" Bitter ' Sitter I "

THE Cow HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen ! I wake
thee with the crystal air

THE FLOWERS laugh happily.

16 THE LITTLE DREAM 8C. n

THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen ! My
fan, Variety, shall wake you !

THE FLOWERS moan.

SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart ! It is torn !

THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall
race in the streets, and peep at all secrets. We will
hold hands, and fly like the thistle-down.

M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster 1

THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea.

GENTIAN. My blue is deeper !

THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes.

ALPENROSE. I can blush redder !

THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen ! My Jewels !
Silk ! Velvet !

EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet !

THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags !

THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none.

SEELCHEN. He has all things.

THE Cow HORN. Mine are the clouds with the dark
silvered wings ; mine are the rocks on fire with the
sun; and the dewdrops cooler than pearls. Away
from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt
droop, little soul.

THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance !

SEELCHEN. [Distracted'] Oh ! it is hard !

THE Cow HORN. / will never desert thee.

THE WINE HORN. A hundred times 7 will desert
you, a hundred times come back, and kiss you.

SEELCHEN. [ Whispering] Peace for my heart !

sc. ii THE LITTLE DREAM 17

THE Cow HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the
warm wild thyme.

THE FLOWERS laugh happily.

THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed

of dove's feathers.

\

THE FLOWERS moan.

T.HE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine.
THE Cow HORN. / will give thee new milk.
THE WINE HORN. Hear my song !

From far away comes a sound as of mandolins

SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart — it is
leaving me !

THE Cow HORN. Hear my song !

from the distance floats tJie piping of a,
Shepherd's reed.

SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The
piping I Ah !

THE Cow HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen !
THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen !
THE Cow HORN, I give thee certainty !
THE WINE HORN. I give you chance !
THE Cow HORN. I give thee peace.
THE WINE HORN. I give you change.
THE Cow HORN. I give thee stillness.
THE WINE HORN. I give you voice.
THE Cow HORN. I give thee one love.
THE WINE HORN. I give you many.

18

THE LITTLE DREAM

sc. ii

SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart]
Both, both— I will love !
And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks.

THE GREAT HORNI And both thou shalt love, little
(Soul ! Thou shalt lie on the hills with Silence ; and
dance in the cities with Knowledge. Both shall
possess thee! The sun and the moon on the
mountains shall burn thee ; the lamps of the Town
singe thy wings, small Moth ! Each shall seem all
the world to thee, each shall seem as thy grave !
Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the
other. But be not afraid ! For the life of a man is
for all loves in turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then
sailing out into the blue ; a tune caught in a hush,
then whispering on j a new-born babe, half courage
and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change,
Quietude. Chance, Certainty. The One, The Many.
Burn on — thou pretty flame, trying to eat the world !
Thou shalt come to me at last, my little soul !

SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to

embrace the sight and sound, but all fades

slowly into dark sleep.

SCENE III

The dark scene again becomes glamorous under a night
sky. SEELCHEN is standing with her hand
stretched out towards the gateway of a Town from
which is streaming a pathway of light. On one
side of the gate stands the glowing figure of a
youth. On the other side of the gateway is a
cloaked statue in shadow. Above the centre of the
gateway is a dimly seen sphynx-like stone head.

The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings :

" Little star soul
Through the frost fields of night
Roaming alone, disconsolate —
From out the cold
I call thee in —
Striking my dark mandolin —
Beneath this moon of gold " -

SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Is it the Town — the big
world ?

The Youth O/THE"WINE HORN sings on:

" Pretty grey moth,
Where the strange candles shine,
Seeking for warmth, so desperate —
19

20 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. m

Ah ! fluttering dove

I bid thee win —

Striking my dark mandolin —

The crimson ftame of love"

SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the gateway] In
there it is warm and light !

As she speaks, from either side come moth-
children, meeting and fluttering up the path
of light to the gateway; then wheeling
aside, they form again, and again flutter
forward.

SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real —
Their wings are windy.

They rush past her and vanish into the Town.

The Youth O/THE WINE HORN sings on ;

" Lips of my song,
To the white maiden's heart
Go ye, and whisper, passionate
These words that burn —
' 0 listening one 1
Love thatflieth past is gone
Nor ever may return I ' '

SEELCHEN runs towards him — but the glou>
around him fades, he has become shadow.
There in the gateway stands LAMOND in a
dark cloak.
SEELCHEN. It is you I

sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 21

LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come !
\He holds out his arms to her]
SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe ?

LAMOND. What is safety ? Are you safe in your
mountains ?

SEELCHEN. Where am I, here ?
LAMOND. The Town.

Smiling, he points to the gateway. There come
dancing out all the firefly lights of the
streets.

SEELCHEN. [Whispering] What are they ?
LAMOND. The lights, little one — street lights. The
lamps — the gold of life !

SEELCHEN. Are they always so bright ?

The Youth of THE WINE HORN is again illumined.
He strikes a loud chord ; then, as SEELCHEN
moves towards that soundt the glow dies;
there is again only blue shadow, and all the
firefly lights have vanished through the
gateway.

SEELCHEN. Is he laughing at me ?

LAMOND. Come!

SEELCHEN. I am afraid !

LAMOND. Of what is new ? Would you know but
one-half of the moon ? Ah ! Little Soul will you
live for ever with your goats — when I can show you
such wonders ?

SEELCHEN. Are they good ?

LAMOND. They are everything.

22 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. in

SEELCHEN. [Creeping a little nearer to the gateway]
It is so strange and bright in the Town ! Is it not
dark in there too ?

LAMOND. I will keep the darkness from you with
love.

SEELCHEN. Oh ! but I do not love.

LAMOND. Child ! To love is to live — seeking for
wonder. When a feather flies is it not loving the
wind, the unknown ? If darkness and light did not
change, could we breathe ? [And as she draws nearer]
To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the little
grey flower, to climb down ! It has wings 5 it has
flown — again you must climb ; it shivers, 'tis but air
in your hand — you must crawl, you must cling, you
must leap, and still it is there and not there — for the
grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its wings
is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining,
your cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be
panting. — Ah! little heart! [The scene falls darker]
And when the night comes — there it is still, thistle-
down blown on the dark, and your white hands will
reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never,
never, shall you grasp it — but life shall be lovely.
[His voice dies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms]
Come to my Town ! — Come !

SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come.

LAMOND. [Drawing her to the gateway] Love me !

SEELCHEN. I love !

The mandolin twangs out; they pass through
into the Town. Illumined in his crimson

sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 23

glow the Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen
again. And slowly to the chords of his
mandolin he begins to sing :

41 T\« windy hours through darkness fty—
Canst hear them, little heart ?
New loves are born, and old loves die,
And kissing lips must part.
The dusky bees of passing years —
Canst see them, soul of mine —
From flower and flower supping tears,
And pale sweet honey wine 1

[His voice grows strange and passionate]

0 flame that treads the marsh of time,

Flitting for ever low,

Where, through the black enchanted slime,

We, desperate, following go —

Untimely fire, we bid thee stay 1

Into dark air above,

The golden gipsy thins away —

So has it been with love ! "

While he is singing it falls dark, save for the
glow around him. As his song ends he
fades away, and the dawn breaks. Then
from the dark gateway of the Town, in the
chill grey light, SEELCHEN comes forth. She
is pale, as if wan with living ; her eyes like
pitch against the powdery whiteness of her
face.

24 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. in

SEELCHEN. My heart is old.

But as she speaks from far away is heard a
faint chiming of COWBELLS / and while
she stands listening, LAMOND appears in
the gateway of the Town.

LAMOND. Little soul !

SEELCHEN. You ! Always you !

LAMOND. I have new wonders. [SEELCHEN shakes her
head.] I swear it. You have not tired of me, who am
never the same. That cannot be.

SEELCHEN. Listen!

The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again.

LAMOND. [Jealously.] The music of dull sleep !
Has life, then, with me been sorrow ?

SEELCHEN. I do not regret.

LAMOND. Come!

SEELCHEN. [Pointing to her breast.] The bird is tired
with flying. [Touching her lips.] The flowers have no
dew.

LAMOND. Would you leave me ?

SEELCHEN. See!

There, in a streak of the dawn, close to the gate-
way, but pointing away from the Town, the
dim cloaked statue has turned into the
Shepherd of THE Cow HOEN.

LAMOND. What is it ?
SEELCHEN. My mountains!

LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast.] Do
not go ! Do not go ! I have given you the marvels

sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 25

of my Town. I will give you more ! [But SEELCHEN
turns from him.] If with you I may no longer live,
then together let us die ! See ! Here are sweet

Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning !

•
from the dim gateway of the Town come forth

the shadowy forms, DEATH BY SLUMBER
and DEATH BY DROWNING, who dance slowly
towards SEELCHEN, stand smiling at her,
and as slowly dance away.

SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and
sweet.

While she moves again towards the Town
LAMOND'S face becomes transfigured with
joy. But just as she reaches the gateway
there is heard again the distant chime of
COWBELLS, and the sound of the blowing
of pipes ; ike Shepherd of THE Cow HORN
sings :

" To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar
Of the falling rock ; to the flowery meads
Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar,
And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds.
To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned
With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam ;
To the silent sky, and the wistful sound
Of the rosy dawns — my daughter, come I "

While he sings, the sun has risen ; and SEELCHEN
has turned, with parted lips, and hands

26 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. in

stretched out ; and the Forms of Death have
vanished back into the Town.

SEELCHEN. I come.

LAMOND. [Clasping her knees'] Little soul ! Must I
then die, like a gnat when the sun goes down ?
Without you I am nothing.

SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself] Poor heart — I am
gone!

LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his
cloak, in the gateway of the Town.]

Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE
Cow HOEN, there is blown a long note of a
pipe ; the scene falls black ; and there rises
afar, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells,
and Flower-Bells, and Pipes.

SCENE IV

The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of
dawn. SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with, all
around, nothing but blue sky. A slip of a crescent
moon is lying on her back. On a low rock sits a
brown-faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the
four FLOWER-CHILDREN are dancing in their shifts
of grey-white, and blue, rose-pink, and burnt gold.
Their bells are ringing, as they pelt each other with
flowers of their own colours ; and each in turn,
wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who \puts
them to her lips and eyes.

SEELCHEN. The dew ! [She moves towards the rock.]
Goatherd !

But THE FLOWERS encircle hei ; and when they
wheel away he has vanished^ She turns to
THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The
veils of mist are rising.

SEELCHEN. Gone ! [She rubs her eyes ; then turning
once more to the rock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with
his arms folded] Thou!

FELSMAN. So thou hast come— like a sick heifer to
be healed. Was it good in the Town — that kept
thee so long ?

SEELCHEN. I do not regret.
27

28 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. rv

FELSMAN. Why then return ?

SEELCHEN. I was tired.

FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me !

SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep
me?

FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus.

SEELCHEN. I have known Change — I am no timid
maid,

FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine
eyes are hollow — thou art white-faced.

SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou
here that shall keep me ?

FELSMAN. The sun.

SEELCHEN. To burn me.

FELSMAN. The air.

There is a faint wailing oj wind.

SEELCHEN. To freeze me.
FELSMAN. The silence. "

The noise of the wind dies away.
SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely.
FELSMAN. The flowers shall dance to thee.

And to a ringing of their bells, THE FLOWERS
come dancing ; till, one by one, they cease,
and sink down, nodding, falling asleep.

SEELCHEN. See ! Even they grow sleepy here !
FELSMAN. The goats shall wake them.

THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on
his rock and piping. And there come four

sc. iv THE LITTLE DREAM 29

little brown, 'wild-eyed, naked Boys, with
Goat1 s legs andjeet, who dance gravely in
and out of the sleeping FLOWERS ; and THE
FLC WE s wake, spring up, and fly ; titt
each Goat, catching his flower, has vanished,
and THE GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and
lies motionless again on his rock*

FELSMAN. Love me !

SEELCHEN. Thou art rude 1

FELSMAN. Love me !

SEELCHEN. Thou art grim !

FELSMAN. Aye, I have no silver tongue. Listen I
This is my voice ! [Sweeping his arm round all the
still alp] From dawn to the first star all is quiet.
[Laying his hand on her heart] And the wings of the
bird shall be still.

SEELCHEN, [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce.
In them I see the wild beasts crouching. In them
I see the distance. Are they always fierce ?

FELSMAN. Never — to look on thee, my flower.

SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands'] Thy hands are
rough to pluck flowers. [She breaks away from him — to
the rock where THK GOATHERD is lying] See ! Nothing
moves The very day stands still. Boy! [But THE
GOATHEAD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the
blue. [Passionately] Boy\ He will not answer me.
No one will answer me here.

FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am / no one ?

[The scene darkens with evening]

30 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. iv

SEELCHEN. See ! Sleep has stolen the day ! It is
night already.

There come the Jemale shadow-forms of SLEEP,
in grey cobweb garments, waving their arms
drowsily, wheeling round her.

SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? My lover Sleep! My
lover— Rest !

/Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN.
He takes her swaying form. They vanish,
encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It is dark,
save for the light of the thin-horned moon
suddenly grown bright. Then on his rock,
to a faint piping THE GOATHERD sings :

" My goat, my little speckled onet
My yellow eyed, sweet-smelling,
Let moon and wind and golden sun
And stars beyond all tellin
Make, every day, a sweeter grass,
And multiply thy leaping !
And may the "mountain foxes pass
And never scent thee sleeping I
Oh ! let my pipe be clear and far.
And let me find sweet water I
No hawk, nor udder-seeking jar
Come near thee, little daughter I
May fiery rocks defend, at noon,
Thy tender feet from slipping !
Oh I hear my prayer beneath the moon—
Great Master, Goat-God — skipping ! "

sc. iv THE LITTLE DREAM 31

With a long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD
BOY is silent. Then the moon fades, and
all is black ; till, in the faint grisly light
of the false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is
seen rising from the side of the sleeping
FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone ;
but by the rock stands the Shepherd of THE
Cow HORN in his cloak.

SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit
is hungry. [Then as she sees the Shepherd of THE Cow
HORN standing there] I know thee now — Life of the
earth — the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the taste
of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and
gone by. [She moves away]

FELSMAN. [ Waking] "Where wouldst thou go ?

SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world.

FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt
not leave me !

But against her smiling gesture he struggles as
though against solidity.

SEELCHEN. Friend ! The time has come.
FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude ? Was I
too dull ?

SEELCHEN. I do not regret, but I must go.

The Youth O/THE WINE HORN is seen suddenly
standing opposite the motionless Shepherd of
THE Cow HORN ; and his mandolin twangs

out.

o

32 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. iv

FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town. Is it
to him thou wilt return ? [Groping for sight of the
hated figure] I cannot see.

SEELCHEN. Fear not ! I go ever onward.

FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the
rocks ! "Without thee love is dead, and I must die.

SEELCHEN. Poor heart ! I am gone.

FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold.

At the blowing of the Shepherd^ pipe, THE Cow
HORN stretches forth his hand to her. The
mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE HORN
holds out his hand. She stands unmoving.

SEELCHEN. Companions, I must go. In a moment
it will be dawn.

In silence THE Cow HORN and THE WINE
HORN cover their faces. The false dawn
dies. It falls quite dark.

SCENE V

Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy peak of
THE GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN.
No other peak is visible, but to either side of that
path of light, like shadows, THE Cow HORN and
THE WINE HORN stand with cloaked heads.

SEELCHEN. Great One ! I come !

The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a
far-away voice, growing, with the light,
clearer and stronger :

Wandering Jlame, thou restless fever

Burning all things, regretting none ;

The winds of fate are stilled for ever —

Thy little generous life is done,

And all its wistful wonderings cease I

Thou traveller to the tideless sea,

Where light and dark, and change and peace.

Are One — Come, little soul, to MYSTERY !

SEELCHEN, falling on her knees, bows her head
to the ground. The glow slowly fades till
the scene is black.
33

SCENE VI

Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the
false dawn filtering through the , window of the
mountain hut, LAMOND and FELSMAN are seen
standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her
asleep on the window seat.

FELSMAN. [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a
moment it will be dawn.

[She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring.]
LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming.

FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on
her face. Then the two men move stealthily
towards the door, and, as she speaks, pass
out.

SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her
hands with ecstasy] Great One, I come! [Waking, she
looks around, and struggles to her feet] My little dream 1
Through the open door, the first Hush of dawn
shows in the sky. There is a sound of goat-
bells passing.

THE CUKTAJN FALLS

»t- AMI*

PR

6013

A5A19

1916

Ser.2

Galsworthy, John
Plays

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