^tgtg^mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, 
 
 PLAYS 
 
 SECOND SERIES 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 
 
 JUSTICE 
 
 MHMNHMMMMBMHMHMHMM 
 
 JOHN 
 GALSWORTHY 
 
GIFT or 
 Mrs. Eva M. Stone 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 VILLA RUBEIN AND OTHER 
 
 STORIES 
 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 THE MAN OF PROPERTY 
 THE COUNTRY HOME 
 FRATERNITY 
 THE PATRICIAN 
 THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY 
 
 A COMMENTARY 
 A MOTLEY 
 
 PLAYS: FIRST SERIES 
 and Separately 
 
 THE SILVER BOX 
 
 JOY 
 
 STRIFE 
 
 PLAYS: SECOND SERIES 
 
 and Separately 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 
 JUSTICE 
 
 THE PIGEON 
 
PLAYS 
 
 SECOND SERIES 
 BY 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
PLAYS 
 
 SECOND SERIES 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 
 JUSTICE 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1913 
 
Copyright, 1912. by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 
 
 Copyright, 1911, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 JUSTICE 
 
 Copyright, 1910, by 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 Copyright, 1913, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 a 
 
 Quo 
 •1& 
 
 5. 
 
 ^ THE ELDEST SON 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 The order of these plays follows the chronology of their 
 writing, not that of their production. "The Eldest 
 Son" was written — first of the three — in the early 
 months of 1909. Accidents, happy and unhappy, have 
 prevented its performance earlier than November, 1912. 
 
THE ELDEST SON 
 A DOMESTIC DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 
 
PERSONS OF THE PLAY 
 
 Sir William Cheshire, a baronet 
 
 Lady Cheshire, his wife 
 
 Bill, their eldest son 
 
 Harold, their second son 
 
 Ronald Keith (in the Lancers), their son-in-law 
 
 Christine (his wife), their eldest daughter 
 
 Dot, their second daughter 
 
 Joan, their third daughter 
 
 Mabel Lanfarne, their guest 
 
 The Reverend John Latter, engaged to Joan 
 
 Old Studdenham, the head-keeper 
 
 Freda Studdenham, the lady's-maid 
 
 Young Dunning, the under-keeper 
 
 Rose Taylor, a village girl 
 
 Jackson, the butler 
 
 Charles, a footman 
 
 TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 
 8 at the Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. 
 
 SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. 
 
 ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. 
 
 ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. 
 
 A night elapses between Acts I. and II. 
 
> • 
 
 ACT I . ;....• 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled 
 hall, with an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak 
 staircase. The dining-room, draxoing-room, billiard- 
 room, all open into it; and under the staircase a 
 door leads to the servarits' 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 build, rather bull-necked, with 
 grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, whose choleric 
 autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He speaks 
 before he reaches the bottom. 
 
 Sir William. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are 
 they for ? 
 
 Freda. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. 
 Keith, Sir William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for 
 their first evening. 
 
 3 
 
4 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 Sir William. Capital. [Passing on towards the 
 drawing -room] Your father coming up to-night? 
 
 Fk^i.a, 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 drawing-room; and Freda 
 stands restlessly tapping her foot against the 
 bottom stair. With a flutter of skirts Chris- 
 tine Keith comes rapidly down. She is a 
 nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a 
 low-necked dress. 
 
 Christine. Hullo, Freda! How are you? 
 
 Freda. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine — 
 Mrs. Keith, I mean. My lady told me to give you 
 these. 
 
 Christine. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How 
 sweet of mother! 
 
 Freda. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for 
 Miss Lanfarne. My lady thought white would suit her 
 better. 
 
 Christine. They suit you in that black dress. 
 
 [Freda lowers the roses quickly. 
 What do you think of Joan's engagement ? 
 
 Freda. It's very nice for her. 
 
 Christine. I say, Freda, have they been going hard 
 at rehearsals? 
 
sc. i THE ELDEST SON 5 
 
 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 many 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 slmvly down, a weathered 
 firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids 
 half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a 
 horseman. 
 
 Keith. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, 
 your father 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, Cap- 
 tain 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 ? 
 
6 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 Christine. [Moving with her husband towards the 
 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, old girl. 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 heaven, 
 
 and a drawing-room. He passes Freda with a 
 
 formal little nod. Harold, a fresh-cheeked, 
 
 cheery-looking youth, comes down, three steps 
 
 at a time. 
 
 Harold. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. 
 
 Let's have 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 I " And Joan comes down screw- 
 ing her head back. She is pretty and small, 
 with large clinging eyes. 
 Joan. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, 
 Dot! 
 
 Freda. Quite, Miss Joan. 
 
 Dot's face, like a full moon, appears over the 
 upper banisters. She too comes running down, 
 a frank figure, with the face of a rebel. 
 
sc.i THE ELDEST SON 7 
 
 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, Ma- 
 bel Lanfarne, a tall girl with a rather charm- 
 ing Irish face, comes slowly down . And at sigh t 
 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 Lantfarxe, giving 
 Freda a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to the 
 drawing-room. Left alone without the roses, 
 Freda still lingers. At the slamming of a door 
 above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back 
 against the stairs. Bill runs down, and comes 
 on her suddenly. He is a tall, good-looking 
 
8 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 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 expression at 
 once gentle, and ironic. They move across the 
 hall towards the dining-room. 
 
 Sir William. Ah! Bill. 
 
 Mabel. How do you do ? 
 
 Keith. How are you, old chap? 
 
 Dot. [gloomily] Do you know your part ? 
 
 Harold. Hallo, old man! 
 
 Christine gives her brother a flying kiss. Joan 
 and Latter pause and look at him shyly with- 
 out speech. 
 
sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 9 
 
 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 to- 
 wards 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 ? 
 
 Joan and Mabel have ceased talking, and listen, 
 still at the fire. 
 
10 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 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 the 
 fire.] 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. 
 
 Dot. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick> 
 perhaps. 
 
 Joan. Dot! 
 
sen THE ELDEST SON 11 
 
 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 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
12 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 directly after breakfast; from "Eccles enters breath- 
 less" 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 ad- 
 vanced. [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 fol- 
 lows 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. 
 
 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 ? 
 
sc ii THE ELDEST SON 13 
 
 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! 
 
 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 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 princi- 
 ples take you. 
 
14 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 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, laugh- 
 ter, and the click of billiard balls, clipped off by 
 the sudden closing of the door. 
 Keith. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a par- 
 son 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 '11 make him. 
 
 The butler Jackson has entered from the door 
 under the stairs followed by the keeper Stud- 
 denham, a man between fifty and sixty, in a 
 full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, 
 and gaiters; he has a steady self-respecting weath- 
 ered face, with blue eyes and a short grey beard, 
 which has obviously once been red. 
 Keith. Hullo! Studdenham! 
 
 Studdenham. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', 
 Captain Keith. 
 
 Jackson. Sir William still in the dining-room with 
 Mr. Bill, sir? 
 
sc ii THE ELDEST SON 15 
 
 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 icith 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 many her? 
 
 Studdenham. He does that. 
 
 Sir William. That won't do, you know. What rea- 
 son does he give? 
 
 Studdenham. Won't say other than that he don't 
 want no more to do with her. 
 
 Sir William. God bless me! 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. 
 
16 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 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 
 jvishes, Studdenham? 
 
 Studdenham. Shows a spirit, my lady — says she'U 
 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 un- 
 written law in these matters. They're perfectly well 
 aware that when there are consequences, they have to 
 take them. 
 
 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 re- 
 mains 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? 
 
 Sin William. [Hesitating] Yes — yes. I'll see him. 
 
 Studdenham. Good-night to you, my lady. 
 
sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 17 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Freda's not looking well, Studden- 
 
 ham. 
 
 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 with- 
 out reference to it] Two hundred and fifty-three pheas- 
 ants, 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 Warn- 
 
 ham's spinney 
 
 Studdenham. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir 
 William; that four-year-old he du look a handful! 
 
 Sir William. [With a sharp look] You know well 
 enough what I mean. 
 
 Studdenham. [Unmoved] Shall I send young Dun- 
 ning, Sir William ? 
 
 Sir William gives a short, sharp nod, and Stud- 
 denham 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 
 
18 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
sc ii THE ELDEST SON 19 
 
 Sir William. Well, now go along and take a day to 
 think it over. 
 
 Bill, who 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, fum- 
 bles, 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 bill- 
 iard-room door is flung open. Mabel Lan- 
 farne 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 conscien- 
 tious. 
 
 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." 
 
20 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 Bill. Really? Hadn't noticed. 
 
 Mabel. Have you been taking lessons in conversa- 
 tion? 
 
 Bill. Don't think so. 
 
 Mabel. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! 
 
 Bill. Miss Lanfarne! 
 
 Mabel. What's the matter with you? Aren't you 
 rather queer, considering that I don't bite, and was 
 rather a pal! 
 
 Bill. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. 
 
 Then seeing that his mother has come in from the 
 billiard-room, he sits down at the writing-table. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. 
 Won't you play too, Bill, and try and stop Bonny, 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 sons 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. 
 
sc. n THE ELDEST SON 21 
 
 Bill. She's all right, I daresay. 
 
 He looks round as if to show his mother that he 
 wishes to be left alone. But Lady Cheshire, 
 having seen that he is about to look at her, is 
 not looking at him. 
 Lady Cheshire. I'm afraid your father's been talk- 
 ing 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 
 
 Bill. He is. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. I wish I could 
 
 Bill. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! 
 Lady Cheshire. It seems almost a pity that you 
 told him. 
 
 Bill. He wrote and asked me point blank what I 
 
 owed. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a 
 
 carnal 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 be- 
 fore. I can't help spending money, I never shall be 
 able, unless I go to the Colonie , or something of the 
 kind. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Don't talk like that, dear! 
 
 Bill. I would, for two straws! 
 
 Lady Cheshire. It's only because your father thinks 
 such a lot 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. 
 
22 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 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 we did that. It was in- 
 considerate, perhaps. 
 
 Bill. Yes, you'd better have left me out. 
 Lady Cheshire. But why are you so — Only a 
 little fuss about money! 
 Bill. Ye-es. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. You're not keeping anything from 
 me, are you ? 
 
 Bill. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliber- 
 ately to the writing things, and takes up a pen] I must 
 write these letters, please. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you 
 will tell me, won't you ? 
 
 Bill. There's nothing whatever. 
 
 He suddenly gets up and walks about. 
 Lady Cheshire, too, moves over to the fireplace, 
 and after an uneasy look at him, turns to the 
 fire. Then, as if trying to switch off his mood, 
 she changes the subject abruptly. 
 Lady Cheshire. Isn't it a pity about young Dun- 
 ning ? I'm so sorry for Rose Taylor. 
 
 There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase 
 Freda has entered, and seeing only Bill, ad- 
 vances to speak to him. 
 
sc. n THE ELDEST SON 23 
 
 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 f re] It seems 
 dreadful to force him. I do so believe in people doing 
 things of their own accord. [Then seeing Freda stand- 
 ing 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 
 drawing-room. 
 Lady Cheshire. Yes, yes. 
 
 Sir William. [Genially] Can you give me another 
 five minutes, Bill ? [Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll 
 come directly, my dear. 
 
 Freda, with a look at Bill, has gone back whence 
 
 she came; and Lady Cheshire goes reluctantly 
 
 away into the billiard-room. 
 
 Sir William. I shall give young Dunning short 
 
 shrift. [He moves over to the fireplace 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. 
 
24 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 Sir William. [Drily] We will put it that way. [A 
 pause] At the present moment you owe, as I under- 
 stand it, eleven hundred pounds. 
 
 Bill. About that. 
 
 Sir William. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a prop- 
 osition to make. 
 
 Bill. Won't it do to-morrow, sir ? 
 
 Sir William. "To-morrow" appears to be your 
 motto in life. 
 
 Bill. Thanks! 
 
 Sir William. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [Bill 
 looks at him 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 advantage 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 bargain. 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 get in your 
 three days a week, next season. You can take Rocketer 
 and that four-year-old — he's well up to your weight, 
 
sc n THE ELDEST SON 25 
 
 fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want 
 one other. And if Miss — if your wife means to hunt 
 
 Bill. You've chosen my wife, then? 
 
 Sir William. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've 
 some girl 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 something. 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 hun- 
 dred 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 genialty] 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. 
 
26 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 Bill. Why don't you say outright that you want me 
 to marry Mabel Lanfarne? 
 
 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 ofcholer] You young . . . 
 [He checks himself and stands glaring at Bill, who 
 glares back at him] 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? 
 
sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 27 
 
 Sir William. You deliberately refuse! Go away, 
 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for 
 
 two months. 
 
 Sir William. What! [Hesitating] Well— we must 
 
 talk it over again. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Come to the billiard-room, both of 
 
 you! Bill, 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 d/)or is closed, Bill 
 looks into tne drawing-room, then opens the door 
 under the stairs; and backing away towards the 
 writing-table, sits down there, and takes up a 
 pen. Freda who has evidently been waiting, 
 comes in and stands by the table. 
 
 Bill. I say, this is dangerous, you know. 
 
 Freda. Yes— but I must. 
 
 Bill. Well, then— [With natural recklessness] Aren't 
 
 you going to kiss me ? 
 
 Without moving she looks at him with a sod of 
 miserable inquiry. 
 Bill. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight 
 
 Freda. Quite— long enough— for you to have forgot- 
 ten. 
 
 Bill. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. 
 
 Freda. No? 
 
 Bill. What's the matter with you, Freda? 
 
28 THE ELDEST SON act i 
 
 Freda. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. 
 
 Bill. [Jumpi?ig up] How d'you mean ? 
 
 Freda. I've got something for you. [She takes a 
 diamond ring out of her dress and holds it oid 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 Lanf arne 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 many 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. Whatl 
 
 Freda. / can keep a secret. 
 
sc ii THE ELDEST SON 29 
 
 Bill. Do you mean this ? [She bows 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 mantel- 
 piece. 
 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 over- 
 looks the park under a sou-westerly sky. A piano 
 stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's 
 correspondence is scattered on a writing-table. Doors 
 opposite each other lead to the maid's workroom, and 
 to a corridor. Lady Cheshire is standing in the 
 middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, which 
 Freda is holding out. 
 Lady Cheshire. Well, Freda, suppose you just give 
 it up! 
 
 Freda. I don't like to be beaten. 
 Lady Cheshire. You're not to worry over your 
 work. And by the way, I promised your father to 
 make you eat more. [Freda smiles. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. It's all very well to smile. You 
 want bracing up. Now don't be naughty. I shall 
 give you a tonic. And I think you had better put that 
 cloak away. 
 
 Freda. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. 
 Lady Cheshire. [Sitting doicn at her writing-table] 
 Very well. 
 
 Freda goes out into her workroom, as Jackson 
 comes in from the corridor. 
 31 
 
32 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 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 advice. Your engagement with Dunning's 
 broken off, isn't it? 
 
 Rose. Yes — but I've told him he's got to marry me. 
 Lady Cheshire. I see! And you think that'll be 
 the wisest thing? 
 
 Rose. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. 
 Lady Cheshire. I do hope you're a little fond of 
 him still. 
 
 Rose. I'm not. He don't deserve it. 
 Lady Cheshire. And — do you think he's quite lost 
 his affection for you ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
acth THE ELDEST SON 33 
 
 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 curtsey] 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 Cheshhie. [With a little lift of her eyebrows— 
 gently] Yes, yes — I see. 
 
 Rose. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meet- 
 ing 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 
 out. And Dot, with a book of "Caste" in 
 her hand, arranges tJie 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 
 
34 THE ELDEST SON act u 
 
 waste-paper basket doivn, 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 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. 
 
acth THE ELDEST SON 35 
 
 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 
 some that don't count much. 
 Joan. Freda, how horrible! 
 
 Dot. [Dropping 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! [.4s 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; 
 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 the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a band- 
 box. 
 
 Harold. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, 
 you know, you feel such a fool. 
 
36 THE ELDEST SON act ii 
 
 Dot. [With her bandbox — gloomily] You'll feel more 
 of a fool when you have begun. [To Bill, who is star- 
 ing 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 bal- 
 ance of the scene, but I do want to be clear about the 
 spirit. What is the spirit ? 
 
 Dot. [With gloom] Rollicking! 
 
 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. 
 
act ii THE ELDEST SON 37 
 
 Jackson. [To Christine] Studdenham says, M'm, if 
 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 arid 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. [Mo ling 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. [With a sudden 
 change of voice] What was the matter with you last 
 night? [Softly] Won't you tell me? 
 
 Bill. Nothing to tell. 
 
 M\bel. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. 
 
 Bill. [Almost succumbing to her voice — then sullenly] 
 Worried, I suppose. 
 
38 THE ELDEST SON act 11 
 
 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 overturning 
 people on the journey. 
 
 Bill. Hadn't you better be a little careful ? 
 Mabel. And never to see the hedge until they're 
 stuck in it. And then straight from that hedge into the 
 opposite one. 
 
 Bill. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morn- 
 ing 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 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 
 
act n THE ELDEST SON 39 
 
 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, Mon- 
 sieur le taureau! 
 
 She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and 
 slips through, leaving Bill to turn, following 
 the direction of her eyes, and see Freda with 
 the cldak 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. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes 
 her head] Abuse me — say something! Don't look like 
 that! 
 
 Freda. Were you ever really fond of me ? 
 Bill. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your 
 hands. 
 
 She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, 
 and covers her face. 
 
40 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 Bill. [Clenching hisjists] 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 re- 
 garding 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, her- 
 self 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. 
 
 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. 
 
acth THE ELDEST SON 41 
 
 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. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. The reasons against such an en- 
 gagement 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 ■ 
 
42 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
act ii THE ELDEST SON 43 
 
 Bill. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, 
 or mean woman ? 
 
 Bill. Mother! 
 
 Lady Cheshire. It's all your life — and — your fath- 
 er'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're en- 
 gaged, 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. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [Baffled, but wiconvinced] Do you 
 mean that your love for her has been iust what it might 
 have been for a lady ? 
 
 Bill. [Bitterly] Why not? 
 
44 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 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 sentimen- 
 tal — for people brought up as we are to have dif- 
 ferent 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. I know all that, thanks. 
 
 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. [After a struggle] It's no good. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. It's not fair to her. It can only 
 end in her misery. 
 
 Bill. Leave that to me, please. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [With an almost angry vehemence] 
 Only the 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 ? 
 
acth THE ELDEST SON 45 
 
 Bill. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any 
 more. [He goes out into the workroom. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. What in God's name shall I do ? 
 In her distress she walks up and down the room, 
 then goes to the workroom door, and opens it. 
 Lady Cheshire. Come in here, please, Freda. 
 
 After a second's pause, Freda, white and trem- 
 bling, appears in the doorway, followed by Bill. 
 Lady Cheshire. No, Bill. I want to speak to her 
 
 alone. 
 
 Bill does not move. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. 
 Bill hesitates; then shrugging his slwulders, he 
 touches Freda's arms, and goes back into the 
 workroom, closing tJie 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 ivalks 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 get the worst of 
 these things. That's natural. But it's not only you— 
 is it ? Does any one guess ? 
 
 Freda. No. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Not even your father? [Freda 
 shakes her head] There's nothing more dreadful than 
 for a woman to hang like a stone round a man's neck. 
 How far has it gone ? Tell me! 
 
46 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 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 steeliness] Does he love you now? 
 
 Freda. That's not fair — it's not fair. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, 
 women are not. 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 rap- 
 idly] 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 
 
actii THE ELDEST SON 47 
 
 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 posi- 
 tion ? [She throws up her head. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. What! 
 
 Freda. Yes. Just like Rose. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [In a loiv, 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 who has come in from tlie 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! 
 
48 THE ELDEST SON act ii 
 
 Bill. Waiting won't cure it! 
 
 The door from the corridor is thrown open; Chris- 
 tine and Dot run in with their copies of the 
 play in their hands; seeing that something is 
 wrong, they stand still. After a look at his 
 mother, Bill turns abruptly, and goes back into 
 the workroom. Lady Cheshire moves towards 
 the window. 
 Joan. [Following her sisters] The car's round. 
 What's the matter? 
 Dot. Shut up! 
 
 Sir William's voice is heard from the corridor 
 calling "Dorothy!" As Lady Cheshire, pass- 
 ing her handkerchief over her face, turns round,, 
 he enters. He is in full hunting dress: well- 
 weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. 
 Sir William. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, 
 genially] Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to Freda 
 holding out his gloved 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. 
 
act ii THE ELDEST SON 49 
 
 Christine. Mother! What ? 
 
 But Lady Cheshire waves the question aside, 
 passes her daughter, and goes out into the cor- 
 ridor. 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. [7m a hard voice] Mother ought to have 
 
 told us. 
 
 Joan. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good, 
 
 Dot. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water- 
 kitten! 
 
 Christine. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I 
 wish 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 
 
50 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 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 girls are silent, with 
 their eyes fixed on their books, 
 Mabel. The silent company. 
 
 Dot. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for 
 to-day. 
 
 Mabel. What's the matter? 
 Christine. Oh! nothing. 
 Dot. Something's happened. 
 
 Mabel. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad 
 enough for me 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. 
 
act ii THE ELDEST SON 51 
 
 Bill. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lan- 
 farne, 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! 
 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 out- 
 side. 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. 
 
52 THE ELDEST SON act n 
 
 Studdenham. This fellow's the best, Miss Dot. 
 [He protrudes 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. 
 
 Dot. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. 
 
 Studdenham. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow 
 you like a woman. You can't shake 'em off anyhow. 
 [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] My girl, she'd set 
 her heart on him, but she'll just have to do without. 
 
 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 turns to the door. To the Puppy] 
 Ah! would you! Try in' 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 laugh. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
ACT III 
 
 It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the 
 smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered 
 by old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs 
 encircle a high-fender ed hearth, in which afire is 
 burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across 
 mullioned windows; but electric light is burning. 
 There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard- 
 room , the other to a corridor. Bill is pacing up and 
 down; Harold, at the fireplace, stand* 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 tough meet— [softly] as the 
 tiger said when he ate the man. 
 
 Bill. By Jove! You're the only person I 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. 
 Bill. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy 
 to say things. 
 
 Harold. No, old man. 
 
 Bill. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you 
 wouldn't think it! 
 
 Harold. My dear old chap! 
 
 53 
 
54 THE ELDEST SON act hi 
 
 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 faces 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! 
 
 As Latter appears from the billiard-room, he 
 goes hurriedly out. 
 
 Latter. Was that Bill? 
 
 Harold. Yes. 
 
 Latter. Well? 
 
act in THE ELDEST SON 55 
 
 Harold. [Pacing up and down in his tarn] Rat in a 
 cage is a fool 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 ec- 
 centric 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 be- 
 haved disgracefully. 
 
 Harold. [Warmly] Well! There are thousands of 
 fellows who'd never dream of sticking to the girl, con- 
 sidering 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. 
 
56 THE ELDEST SON act in 
 
 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 to- 
 bacco. 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 begin- 
 ning? 
 
 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! 
 
 As he speaks Christine and Keith come in 
 from the billiard-room. He is still in splashed 
 hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weath- 
 ered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette 
 and sinks into an armchair. Behind them Dot 
 and Joan have come stealing in. 
 
Acxm THE ELDEST SON 57 
 
 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 con- 
 sciousness 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 Jo ax, slowly emits smoke; and 
 Latter passing his arm through Joan's, draws 
 her away icith him into the billiard- room. 
 Keith. Dot? 
 
 Dot. I 'm not a squeamy squirrel. 
 Keith. Anybody seen the girl since? 
 Dot. Yes. 
 Harold. Well? 
 Dot. She's just sitting there. 
 Christine. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. 
 Dot. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one 
 
 could only feel ! 
 
 Keith. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. 
 Dot. Music! Squeaks! Lgh! The whole thing's like 
 a concertina, and some one jigging it! 
 
 They all turn as the door opens, and a Footman 
 enters icith a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and 
 soda water. In dead silence the Footman puts 
 the tray down. 
 
58 THE ELDEST SON act in 
 
 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 
 marry her. She's got to stand the racket. But your 
 Dad will have a tough job to take up that position. 
 
 Dot. Awfully funny! 
 
 Christine. What on earth d'you mean, Dot ? 
 
 Dot. Morality in one eye, and your title in the 
 other! 
 
 Christine. Rubbish! 
 
 Harold. You're all reckoning without your Bill. 
 
 Keith. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no 
 mortal power can help the title going down, if Bill 
 
 chooses to be such a 
 
 [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss. 
 
ACT m THE ELDEST SON 59 
 
 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 many 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! 
 
 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 
 
60 THE ELDEST SON act hi 
 
 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. 
 
 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 way. What do you 
 think in your heart, mother ? 
 
 Dot. Leave mother alone! 
 
 Christine. It must be faced, now or never. 
 
 Dot. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect ? 
 
 Christine. We shall be the laughing-stock of the 
 whole county. Oh! mother do speak to her! You 
 
acthi THE ELDEST SON 61 
 
 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 at things so, when he gets his head down. Oh! 
 do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! 
 
 Lady Cheshire. [Painfully] There are things one 
 can't do. 
 
 Christine. But it's Bill! I know you can make her 
 give him up, 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 you 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 phys- 
 ical pain. 
 
62 THE ELDEST SON act m 
 
 Christine. [Softly] Mother! 
 
 Lady Cheshire suddenly rises, looking towards 
 the billiard-room door, listening. They all fol- 
 low her eyes. She sits down again, passing her 
 hand over her lips, as Sir William enters. His 
 hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim 
 and set. He walks to the fire 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. 
 
 Sir William. [After staring angrily, makes her a 
 slight boic] 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 mantelpiece 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! 
 
act in THE ELDEST SON 63 
 
 Sir William. I am Hying to think. I understand 
 that you've known this— piece of news since this morn- 
 ing. 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. [Racing 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 icallcs up and dawn] My family 
 goes back to the thirteenth century. Nowadays they 
 laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh at 
 everything— thev even laugh at the word lady— I mar- 
 ried yon, 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 not prepared to 
 sit down and wait for it. By Gad ! I am not. [With sud, 
 den fierceness] 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 chil- 
 dren 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 madness. 
 
 I'll stop it. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. But the thing we can't stop. 
 
64 THE ELDEST SON act m 
 
 Sir William. Provision must be made. 
 
 Lady Cheshire. The unwritten law! 
 
 Sir William. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she 
 
 is alluding to] You're thinking of young — young 
 
 [SJwrtly] 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 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 every- 
 body 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 be- 
 fore. As to that other matter — it's soon forgotten — con- 
 stantly 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. 
 
ACTm THE ELDEST SON 65 
 
 Lady Cheshire. I did before I knew what was in 
 front of her — I said all I could. I can't go again now. 
 I can't do it, Bill. 
 
 Sir William. What are you going to do, then — fold 
 your hands? [Then as Lady Cheshire makes a move- 
 ment 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 fire] 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. 
 
 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've tried; I [putting her hand to 
 her throat] can't get it out. 
 
 Sir William. [Staring at her] You won't go to her ? 
 It's the only chance. [Lvdy Cheshire turns away. 
 
 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. I'll do it myself. 
 
 With a look back at him Lady Cheshire goes 
 out into the corridor. 
 
 Sir William. This is a nice end to my day! 
 
 He takes a small china cup from off the mantel- 
 piece; it breaks with the pressure of his hand, 
 
66 THE ELDEST SON act hi 
 
 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 down. 
 Sir William. This is a sad business. 
 Freda. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. 
 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 the fire. 
 I sent for you — to — ask — [quickly] How old are you ? 
 Freda. Twenty-two. 
 
 Sir William. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to 
 — sanction such a mad idea as a marriage ? 
 Freda. I don't expect anything. 
 Sir William. You know — you haven't earned the 
 right to be considered. 
 Freda. Not yet! 
 
 Sir William. What! That oughtn't to help you! 
 On the contrary. Now brace yourself up, and listen 
 to me! 
 
 She stands waiting to hear her sentence. Sir 
 William looks at her; and his glance gradu- 
 ally wavers. 
 
act in THE ELDEST SON 67 
 
 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- 
 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 
 sentence] Your mother and I have spoken of this — ca- 
 lamity. I imagine that even you have some dim percep- 
 tion 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. 
 
68 THE ELDEST SON act hi 
 
 Lady Cheshire. Oh! Bill! Without love — without 
 anything! 
 
 Bill. All right, mother! [To Sir William] You've 
 mistaken your man, sir. Because I'm a rotter in one 
 way, I'm not necessarily a rotter in all. You put the 
 butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head yesterday, 
 you put the other end to mine to-day. W 7 ell! [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 circumstances. 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 con- 
 sideration is due to me. This is a disaster which I never 
 
act in THE ELDEST SON 69 
 
 expected to have to face. It is a matter which I natu- 
 rally can never hope to forget. I shall cany this down 
 to my death. We shall all of us do that. 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 philosophy is not equal to that. To coun- 
 tenance 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! Evenin', 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! 
 
70 THE ELDEST SON act hi 
 
 Bill. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news 
 for you, Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. 
 We're to be married 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, Stud- 
 denham. 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 good- 
 ness 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 his 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 — 'twouldn't be very easy. Did I understand him 
 to say that he offers her marriage ? 
 Sir William. You did. 
 
act in THE ELDEST SON 71 
 
 Studdenham. [Into his beard] Well— that's some- 
 thing! [Moving his 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 hor- 
 ror] Don't, Studdenham! Please! 
 Studdenham. WTiat's that, m'lady ? 
 Lady Cheshire. [Under her breath] Your— your — 
 hands. 
 
 While Studdenham is still staring at her, Freda 
 
 is seen standing in the doorway, like a black 
 
 ghost. 
 
 Studdenham. Come here! You! [Freda moves a 
 
 few steps towards 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 
 
72 THE ELDEST SON act hi 
 
 clear me mind a bit — I don't see it plain at all. [With- 
 out 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 anything, 
 Sir William? 
 
 Sir William. The facts are all before you. 
 
 Studdenham. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady ? 
 
 [Lady Cheshire is silent. 
 
 Studdenham. [Stammering] My girl was — was good 
 enough for any man. It's not for him that's — that's — 
 to look down on her. [To Freda] You hear the hand- 
 some offer that's been made you? Well? [Freda 
 moistens her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If 
 nobody's to speak a word, we won't get much for- 
 rarder. 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 sud- 
 denly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his fore- 
 head] Infernal fires they make up here! 
 
 Lady Cheshire, who is again shivering desper- 
 ately, as if with intense cold, makes a violent 
 attempt to control her shuddering. 
 
act in THE ELDEST SON 73 
 
 Studdenham. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got 
 to be paid for. [To Freda] Speak up, now. 
 
 Freda turns slowly and looks up at Sir William; 
 he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth. 
 Her eyes travel on to Lady Cheshire, who 
 faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as 
 if she were going to faint. The girVs 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 W T illiam! 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 charity mar- 
 riage in my family. 
 
 Sir William. Steady, Studdenham! 
 Studdenham. If the young gentleman has tired of 
 her in three months, as a blind man can see by the 
 looks of him — she's not for him! 
 
 Bill. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to 
 
 her. 
 
 Studdenham. Keep back, there ? [He takes hold of 
 Freda, and looks around him] Well! She's not the 
 first this has happened to since the world began, 
 
74 THE ELDEST SON act m 
 
 an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come 
 away! 
 
 Taking Freda by the shoulders, he guides her 
 towards the door. 
 
 Sir William. D n it, Studdenham ! Give us 
 
 credit for something! 
 
 Studdenham. [Turning — his face and eyes lighted up 
 by a sort of smiling snarl] Ah ! I do that, Sir William. 
 But there's things that can't be undone! 
 
 [He follows Freda out. 
 As the door closes, Sir William's calm gives way. 
 He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, 
 as though exhausted, into a chair by the fi re. 
 Bill, following Freda and Studdenham, has 
 stopped at the shut door. Lady Cheshire 
 moves swiftly close to him. The door of the 
 billiard-room is opened, and Dot appears. With 
 a glance round, she crosses quickly to her mother. 
 Dot. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! 
 
 [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. 
 
THE LITTLE DREAM 
 
 AN ALLEGORY IN SIX SCENES 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Seelchen, a mountain girl 
 Lamond, a climber 
 Felsman, a guide 
 
 CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM 
 
 The Great Horn J 
 
 The Cow Horn > mountains 
 
 The Wine Horn ) 
 
 The Edelweiss 
 
 The Alpenrose 
 
 The Gentian 
 
 The Mountain Dandelion 
 
 ■flowers 
 
 VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM 
 
 Cowbells 
 Mountain Air 
 Far View of Italy 
 Distant Flume of Steam 
 Things in Books 
 Moth Children 
 Three Dancing Youths 
 Three Dancing Girls 
 The Forms of Workers 
 
 The Form of what is madb 
 
 by WORK 
 Death by Slumber 
 Death by Drowning 
 Flower Children 
 Goatherd 
 Goat Boys 
 Goat God 
 The Forms of Sleep 
 
SCENE I 
 
 It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene 
 is a room in a mountain hut, furnished only with 
 a table, benches, and a low broad window seat. 
 Through this window three rocky 'peaks are seen by 
 the light of a moon, which is slowly whitening the last 
 hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. Seelchen, 
 a mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a 
 folk-song, and putting away in a cupboard freshly 
 washed soup-bowls and glasses. She is dressed in 
 a tight- fitting black velvet bodice, square-cut at the 
 neck, and partly filled in with a gay handkerchief, 
 coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the alpen- 
 rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; 
 alabaster beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her 
 throat; her stiffened, white linen sleeves finish at 
 the elbow; and her full well-worn skirt is of gentian 
 blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are crossed, 
 and turned round her head. As she puts away the 
 last bowl, there is a knock; and Lamond opens the 
 outer door. He is young, tanned, and good-looking, 
 dressed like a climber, and carries a plaid, a ruck- 
 sack, and an ice-axe. 
 
 Lamond. Good evening! 
 
 Seelchen. Good evening, gentle Sir! 
 
 3 
 
4 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. 
 
 Seelchen. All the beds are full — it is a pity. I 
 will call Mother. 
 
 Lamond. I've come to go up the Great Horn at 
 sunrise. 
 
 Seelchen. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is 
 impossible. 
 
 Lamond. I am going to try that. 
 
 Seelchen. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow 
 Horn. 
 
 Lamond. I have climbed them. 
 
 Seelchen. But he is so dangerous — it is perhaps — 
 death. 
 
 Lamond. Oh! that's all right ! One must take one's 
 chance. 
 
 Seelchen. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, 
 there is only Hans Felsman. 
 
 Lamond. The celebrated Felsman? 
 
 Seelchen. [Nodding; then looking at him with ad- 
 miration] 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. 
 
 Lamond. [Looking at her intently] Alas! 
 
 Seelchen. Are you from London ? Is it very big ? 
 
sc. i THE LITTLE DREAM 5 
 
 Lamond. Six million souls.. 
 
 Seelchen. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen 
 Cortina twice. 
 
 Lamond. Do you live here all the year ? 
 
 Seelchen. In winter in the valley. 
 
 Lamond. And don't you want to see the world ? 
 
 Seelchen. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls 
 softly] Hans! [Then pointing to another door] There 
 are seven German gentlemen asleep in there! 
 
 Lamond. Oh God! 
 
 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 the great English 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 dressed in Loden. 
 
 Seelchen. Hans! 
 
 Felsman. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me ? 
 
 Seelchen. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! 
 [Whispering to him] It is the celebrated London one. 
 
 Felsman. The Great Horn is not possible. 
 
 Lamond. You say that? And you're the famous 
 Felsman ? 
 
 Felsman. [Grimly] We start at dawn. 
 
 Seelchen. It is the first time for years' 
 
6 THE LITTLE DREAM sc i 
 
 Lamond. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the 
 window bench] Can I sleep here? 
 
 Seelchen. I will see; perhaps — 
 
 [She runs out up some stairs] 
 
 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 again with a lighted candle. 
 
 Seelchen. There is still one bed. This is too hard 
 for you. 
 
 Lamond. Oh! thanks; but that's all right. 
 
 Seelchen. To please me! 
 
 Lamond. May I ask your name ? 
 
 Seelchen. Seelchen. 
 
 Lamond. Little soul, that means — doesn't it? To 
 please you I would sleep with seven German gentlemen. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lamond. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. 
 
 Seelchen. 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 — 
 
sc. i THE LITTLE DREAM 7 
 
 Lamond. Misery. 
 
 Seelchen. But there is life. 
 
 Lamond. And there is death. 
 
 Seelchen. To-morrow, when you have climbed — ■ 
 will you not come back ? 
 
 Lamond. No. 
 
 Seelchen. You have all the world; and I have 
 nothing. 
 
 Lamond. Except Felsman, and the mountains. 
 
 Seelchen. It is not good to eat only bread. 
 
 Lamond. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat 
 you! 
 
 Seelchen. But I am not nice; I am full of big 
 wants — like the 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. O wise little soul! 
 
 Seelchen. No. I am not wise. In here it is always 
 aching. 
 
 Lamond. For the moon ? 
 
 Seelchen. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world 
 you will remember? 
 
 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 puis her face forward; and he kisses her 
 cheek, and, suddenly, her lips. Then as she 
 draws away. 
 
8 THE LITTLE DREAM sc . i 
 
 Lamond. I 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 up the stairs; 
 and Felsman waits for him to pass. 
 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 answer, but turning out the lamp, 
 
 goes into an inner room. 
 Seelchen sits gazing through the window at 
 the peaks bathed in full moonlight. Then, 
 drawing the blankets about her, she snuggles 
 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 tlie filmy coverings of a 
 dream. The wall of the hut has vanished; there is 
 nothing between her and the three mountains veiled 
 in miM, save a trough of darkness. Then as the 
 peaks of the mountains brighten, they are seen to 
 have great faces. 
 
 Seelchen. Oh! They have faces! 
 
 The face of The Wine Horn is the profile of 
 a beardless youth. The face of The Cow 
 Horn is that of a mountain shepherd, solemn, 
 and brown, with fierce black eyes, and a black 
 beard. Between them The Great Horn, 
 whose hair is of snow, has a high beardless 
 visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, 
 serene, without cruelty. Far down below the 
 faces of the peaks, above the trough of darkness, 
 are peeping out the four little heads of the 
 flowers of Edelweiss, and Gentian, Moun- 
 tain Dandelion, and Alpenrose; on their 
 heads are crowns, made of their several flowers, 
 9 
 
10 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n 
 
 all powdered with dewdrops; and when The 
 Flowers lift their child-faces little tinkling 
 bells ring. 
 All around the peaks there is nothing but blue 
 sky. 
 Edelweiss. [In a tiny voice] Would you ? Would 
 you? Would you ? Ah! ha! 
 
 Gentian, M. Dandelion, Alpenrose [With their 
 bells ringing enviously] Oo-oo-oo! 
 
 From behind the Cow Horn are heard the 
 voices of Cowbells and Mountain Air: 
 ' * Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink! ' ' 
 " Mountain air! Mountain air!" 
 
 From behind The Wine Horn rise the rival 
 voices of View of Italy, Flume of Steam, 
 and Things in Books: 
 "7 am Italy! Italy!" 
 "See me — steam in the distance!" 
 "O remember the things in books!" 
 
 And all call out together, very softly, with The 
 Flowers ringing their bells. Then far away 
 like an echo comes a sighing: 
 ** Mountain air! Mountain air!" 
 
 And suddenly the Peak of The Cow Horn 
 speaks in a voice as of one unaccustomed. 
 The Cow Horn. Amongst kine and my black-brown 
 sheep I live; I am silence, and monotony; I am the 
 solemn hills. I am fierceness, and the mountain wind; 
 clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in ray eyes, love 
 me alone! 
 
sc. n THE LITTLE DREAM 11 
 
 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 lowing of the 
 kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running 
 of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts sim- 
 ple, and blood hot, strength huge — the cloak of gravity. 
 Seelchen. Yes, yes! I want him. He is strong! 
 The voices of Cowbells and Mountain Air 
 cry out together: 
 * * Clinkel-clinkl Clinkel-clinkl 
 "Mountain air! Mountain air!*' 
 The Cow Horn. Little soul! Hold to me! Love 
 me! Live with me under the stars! 
 
 Seelchen. [Beloiv her breath] I am afraid. 
 
 And suddenly the Peak of The Wine Horn 
 speaks in a youth* s voice. 
 The Wine Horn. I am the will o' the wisp that 
 dances thro' the streets; I am the cooing dbve of 
 Towns, 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 one too long; for 
 I am nimbler than your heifers playing in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
12 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n 
 
 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! 
 
 The voices of View of Italy, Flume of Steam, 
 and Things in Books are heard calling out 
 together: 
 "I am Italy, Italy!" 
 "See me — steam in the distance!" 
 "0 remember, remember!" 
 The Wine Horn. Love me, little soul! I paint life 
 fifty colours. I make a thousand pretty things! I 
 twine about your heart! 
 Seelchen. He is honey! 
 
 The Flowers ring their bells jealously and cry: 
 "Bitter! Bitter!" 
 The Cow Horn. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake 
 thee with the crystal air. 
 
 The voices of Cowbells and Mountain Air 
 sing out far away: 
 
sc n THE LITTLE DREAM 13 
 
 " Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink! " 
 "Mountain air! Mountain air!" 
 
 And The Flowers laugh happily. 
 The Wine Horn. Come with me, Seelchen! My 
 fan, Variety, shall wake you! 
 
 The voices of View of Italy, Flume of Steam, 
 and Things in Books chant softly: 
 
 "I am Italy! Italy!" 
 
 "See me — steam in the distance!" 
 
 "0 remember, remember!" 
 
 And The Flowers moan. 
 Seelchen. [In grief] My heart! It is torn! 
 The Wine Horn. With me, little soul, you shall race 
 in the streets, and peep at all secrets. W T e will hold 
 hands, and fly like the thistle-down. 
 
 M. Dandelion. My puff-balls fly faster! 
 The Wine Horn. I will show you the sea. 
 Gentian. My blue is deeper! 
 The Wine Horn. I will shower on you blushes. 
 Alpenrose. I can blush redder! 
 The Wine Horn. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! 
 Silk! Velvet! 
 
 Edelweiss. I am softer than velvet! 
 The Wine Horn. [Proudly] My wonderful rags ! 
 The Flowers. [Moaning] Of those we have none. 
 Seelchen. He has all things. 
 
 The Cow Horn. Mine are the clouds with the dark 
 silvered wings; mine are the rocks on fire with the sun; 
 and the dewdrops cooler than pearls. Away from my 
 
14 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n 
 
 breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, little 
 soul. 
 
 The Wine Horn. The dark Clove is my fragrance ! 
 The Flowers ring eagerly, and turning up their 
 faces, cry: 
 "We too, smell sweet." 
 
 But the voices of View of Italy, Flume op 
 Steam, and Things in Books cry out: 
 
 "7 am Italy! Italy!" 
 
 "See me — steam in the distance!" 
 
 "0 remember, remember!" 
 
 Seelchen. [Distracted] Oh! it is hard! 
 The Cow Horn. I will never desert thee. 
 The Wine Horn. A hundred times I will desert 
 you, a hundred times come back, and kiss you. 
 Seelchen. Whispering] Peace for my heart! 
 The Cow Horn. With me thou shalt lie on the 
 warm wild thyme. 
 
 The Flowers laugh happily. 
 The Wine Horn. With me you shall lie on a bed 
 of dove's feathers. 
 
 The Flowers moan. 
 The Wine Horn. J will give you old wine. 
 The Cow Horn. I will give thee new milk. 
 The Wine Horn. Hear my song! 
 
 From far away comes the sound as of man- 
 dolins. 
 Seelchen. [Clasping her breast] My heart — it is 
 leaving me! 
 
SC. II 
 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 15 
 
 The Cow Horn. Hear my song! 
 
 From the distance floats the piping of a Shep- 
 herd's reed. 
 
 Seelchen. [Curving her hand at her ears] The pip- 
 ing! Ah! 
 
 The Cow Horn. Stay with me, Seelchen! 
 
 The Wine Horn. Come with me, Seelchen! 
 
 The Cow Horn. I give thee certainty! 
 
 The Wine Horn. I give you chance! 
 
 The Cow Horn. I give thee peace. 
 
 The Wine Horn. I give you change. 
 
 The Cow Horn. I give thee stillness. 
 
 The Wine Horn. I give you voice. 
 
 The Cow Horn. I give thee one love. 
 
 The Wine Horn. I give you many. 
 
 Seelchen. [As i) the words were torn from her heart] 
 Both, both— I will love! 
 
 And suddenly the Peak of The Great Horn speaks. 
 
 The Great Horn. 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 shaU 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; a new-born 
 
16 THE LITTLE DREAM sen 
 
 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! 
 
 The Voices and The Flower-Bells peal out. 
 Seelchen, enraptured, stretches her arms to 
 embrace the sight and sound, but all fades 
 slowly into dark sleep. 
 
SCENE III 
 
 The dark scene again becomes glamorous. Seelchen io 
 seen with her hand stretched out towards the Piazza 
 of a little town, with a plane tree on one side, a 
 wall on the other, and from the open doorway of 
 an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs 
 a full golden moon. Against the wall, under the 
 glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the face of 
 The Wine Horn, in a crimson cloak, thrumming 
 a mandolin, and singing: 
 
 "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.'' 9 
 From the Inn comes a burst of laughter t and the 
 sound of dancing. 
 Seelchen. [Whispering] It is the big world ! 
 
 The Yoidh of The Wine Horn sings on: 
 "Pretty grey moth, 
 Where the strange candles shine, 
 Seeking for warmth, so desperate— 
 17 
 
18 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. in 
 
 Ah! fluttering dove 
 
 I bid thee win — 
 
 Striking my dark mandolin — 
 
 The crimson flame of love.** 
 
 Seelchbn. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are 
 dancing! 
 
 As She speaks, from either side come moth- 
 children, meeting and fluttering up the path 
 of light to the Inn doorway; then wheel- 
 ing aside, they form again, and again flutter 
 forward. 
 
 Seelchen. [Holding out her hands] They are real — 
 Their wings are windy. 
 
 The Youth of The Wine Horn sings on: 
 "Lips of my song, 
 To the white maiden* s heart 
 Go ye, and whisper, passionate, 
 These words that burn — 
 ' O listening one! 
 Love that flieth past is gone 
 Nor ever may return!**' 
 Seelchen runs towards him — but the light 
 above him fades; he has become shadow. She 
 turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children 
 — but they vanish before her. At the door of 
 the Inn stands Lamond in a dark cloak. 
 Seelchen. It is youl 
 
 Lamond. Without my little soul I am cold. Comet 
 [He holds out his arms to her] 
 
sc. m THE LITTLE DREAM 19 
 
 Seelchen. Shall I be safe ? 
 
 Lamond. What is safety? Are you safe in your 
 mountains ? 
 
 Seelchen. Where am I, here ? 
 Lamond. The Town. 
 
 Smiling he points to the doorway. And silent 
 as shadows there come dancing out, two by 
 two, two girls and two youths. The first 
 girl is dressed in white satin and ]ewels; and 
 the first youth in black velvet. The second 
 girl is in rags, and a shawl; and the second 
 youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance 
 gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. 
 
 Seelchen. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance 
 together. Do they never change partners ? 
 
 Lamond. How could they, little one? Those are 
 rich, these poor. But see! 
 
 A Corybantic Couple come dancing forth. 
 The girl has bare limbs, a flame-coloured 
 shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the 
 youth wears a panther-shin. They pursue 
 not only each other, but the other girls and 
 youths. For a moment all is a furious med- 
 ley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into 
 the Inn, and the first two couples are left, 
 slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from each 
 other as before. 
 
 Seelchen. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like 
 that? 
 
20 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. in 
 
 The Youth of The Wine Horn appears again 
 beneath the lamp. He strikes a loud chord; 
 then as Seelchen moves towards that sound 
 the lamp goes out; there is again only blue 
 shadow; but the couples have disappeared 
 into the Inn, and the doorway has grown 
 dark. 
 
 Seelchen. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let 
 me see. 
 
 Lamond. Will you not come, then, little soul ? 
 Seelchen. Always to dance ? 
 Lamond. Not so! 
 
 The Shutters of the houses are suddenly 
 thrown wide. In a lighted room on one side 
 of the Inn are seen hvo pale men and a 
 woman, amongst many clicking machines. 
 On the other side of the Inn, in a forge, are 
 visible two women and a man, but half 
 clothed, making chains. 
 
 Seelchen. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How 
 sad they look — all ! What are they making ? 
 
 In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines 
 out, and in it is seen a figure, visible only 
 from the waist up, clad in gold-cloth stud- 
 ded with jewels, with a flushed complacent 
 face, holding in one hand a glass of golden 
 wine. 
 
 Seelchen. It is beautiful. What is it ? 
 Lamond. Luxury. 
 
sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 21 
 
 Seelchen. What is it standing on ? I cannot see. 
 Unseen, The Wine Horn's mandolin twangs 
 out. 
 Lamond. For that do not look, little souL 
 Seelchen. Can it not walk ? [He shakes his head] 
 Is that all they make here with their sadness ? 
 
 But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters 
 jail over the houses; the door of the Inn grows 
 dark. 
 
 Lamond. What is it, then, you would have? Is it 
 learning? There are books here, that, piled on each 
 other, would reach to the stars! [But Seelchen shakes 
 her head] There is religion so deep that no man knows 
 what it means. [But Seelchen shakes her head] There 
 is religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a 
 handle. We have everything. 
 
 Seelchen. Is God here ? 
 
 Lamond. Who knows? Is God with your goats? 
 [But Seelchen shakes her head] What then do you 
 want? 
 
 Seelchen. Life. 
 
 The mandolin twangs out. 
 
 Lamond. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one 
 road to life — 
 
 Seelchen. Ah! but I do not love. 
 
 Lamond. When a feather flies, is it not loving the 
 wind — the unknown? W T hen the day brings not new 
 things, we are children of sorrow. If darkness and 
 light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To 
 
22 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. hi 
 
 live is to love, to love is to live — seeking for wonder. 
 [And as she draws nearer] See! To love is to peer over 
 the edge, and, spying the little grey flower, to climb 
 down! It has wings; 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, thistledown blown on the dark, and your 
 white hands will reach for it, and your honey breath 
 waft it, and never, never, shall you grasp that wanton 
 thing — but life shall be lovely. [His voice dies to a 
 whisper. He stretches out his arms] 
 
 Seelchen. [Touching his breast] I will come. 
 Lamond. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me! 
 Seelchen. I love! 
 
 The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a 
 moment is all glamorous; and they pass 
 through. Illumined by the glimmer of the 
 lamp the Youth of The Wine Horn is seen 
 again. And slowly to the chords of his man- 
 dolin he begins to sing: 
 
 " The windy hours through darkness fly — 
 Canst hear them, little heart ? 
 New loves are born, and old loves die y 
 And kissing lips must part. 
 
sc. m THE LITTLE DREAM 23 
 
 The dusky bees of passing years — 
 Canst see them, soul of mine — 
 From flower and flower supping tears, 
 And pale sweet honey wine ? 
 
 [His voice grows strange and passionate] 
 
 O flame that treads the marsh of time, 
 
 Flitting for ever low, 
 
 Where, through the black enchanted slime, 
 
 We, desperate, following go — 
 
 Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! 
 
 Into dark air above, 
 
 The golden gipsy thins away — 
 
 So has it been with love!" 
 
 While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and 
 dies. It falls dark, save for the glimmer of 
 the lamp beneath which he stands. But as 
 his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, 
 the lamp goes out — The Wine Horn becomes 
 shadow. Then from the doorway of the Inn, 
 in the 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. 
 
 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 door- 
 way of the Inn. 
 
U THE LITTLE DREAM sc. in 
 
 Lamond. Little soul! 
 Seelchen. You! Always you! 
 Lamond. I have new wonders. 
 Seelchen. [Mournfully] No. 
 
 Lamond. I swear it! You have not tired of me, 
 that am never the same ? It 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, against the plane 
 tree is seen the Shepherd of The Cow Horn, 
 standing wrapped in his mountain cloak. 
 
 Lamond. What is it? 
 
 Seelchen. He! 
 
 Lamond. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I 
 have shown you the marvels of my town — the gay, the 
 bitter wonders. We have known life. If with you I 
 may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are 
 iweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning! 
 
 The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim 
 doorway of the Inn come forth the shadowy 
 
sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 25 
 
 forms, Death by Slumber, and Death by 
 Drowning, who to a ghostly twanging of 
 mandolins dance slowly towards Seelchen, 
 stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance 
 away. 
 
 Seelchen. [Following] Yes. They are good and 
 sweet. 
 
 While she moves towards the Inn, Lamond's 
 face becomes transfigured with joy. But just 
 as she reaches the doorway, there is a distant 
 chiming of bells and blowing of 'pipes, and 
 the Shepherd of The Cow Horn sings: 
 
 " To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar 
 Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads 
 Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, 
 And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. 
 To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned 
 With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; 
 To the silent sky, and the wistful sound 
 Of the rosy dawns — my daughter, come!" 
 
 While He sings, the sun has risen; and Seel- 
 chen has turned, with parted lips, and hands 
 stretched out; and the forms of death have 
 vanished. 
 
 Seelchen. I come. 
 
 Lamond. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I 
 then die, like a gnat when the sun goes down ? With- 
 out you I am nothing. 
 
26 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. m 
 
 Seelchen. [Releasing herself] Poor heart — I am 
 gone ! 
 
 Lamond. It is dark. [He covers his face with his 
 cloak]. 
 
 Then as Seelchen reaches the Shepherd of The 
 Cow Horn, there is blown a long note of a 
 pipe; the scene falls back; and there rises 
 a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, 
 and Flower Bells, and Pipes, 
 
SCENE IV 
 
 The scene sloivly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. 
 Seelchen stands on a green alp, with all around, 
 nothing but blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is 
 lying on her back. On a low rock sits a brown- 
 faced Goatherd blowing on a pipe, and the four 
 Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey- 
 white, and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their 
 bells are ringing, as they pelt each other with 
 flowers of their own colours; and each in turn, 
 wheeling, flings one flower at Seelchen, who puts 
 them to her lips and eyes. 
 Seelchen. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] 
 Goatherd! 
 
 But The Flowers encircle him; and when they 
 
 wheel away he has vanished. She turns to 
 
 The Flowers, but they too vanish. The 
 
 veils of mist are rising. 
 
 Seelchen. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning 
 
 once more to 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. iv 
 
 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 of wind. 
 
 Seelchen. To freeze me. 
 
 Felsman. The silence. 
 
 The noise of the wind dies away. 
 
 Seelchen. Yes, it is lonely. 
 
 Felsman. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee. 
 
 And to a ringing of their bells, The Flowers 
 come dancing; till, one by one, they cease, and 
 sink down, nodding, falling asleep. 
 
 Seelchen. See! Even they grow sleepy here! 
 Felsman. I will call the goats to wake them. 
 
 The Goatherd is seen again sitting upright 
 on his rock and piping. And there come 
 four little brown, wild-eyed, nuked Boys, with 
 
so. iv THE LITTLE DREAM 29 
 
 Goafs legs and feet, who dance gravely in 
 and out of The Sleeping Flowers; and The 
 Flowers wake, spring up, and fly. Till 
 each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, 
 and The Goatherd has ceased to pipe, and 
 lies motionless again on his rock. 
 Felsman. Love me! 
 Seelchen. Thou art rude! 
 Felsman. Love me! 
 Seelchen. Thou art grim! 
 
 Felsman. Aye, I have no silver tongue. Listen! 
 This is my voice. [Sweeping his arm round all the still 
 alp] It is quiet. From dawn to the first star all is fast. 
 [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 The Goatherd is lying] See! Nothing 
 moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But The 
 Goatherd 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 / then no one ? 
 Seelchen. Thou? 
 
 [The scene darkens with evening] 
 
30 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. iv 
 
 See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already. 
 
 There come the female shadow forms of Sleep, 
 in grey cobweb garments, waving their arms 
 
 drowsily, wheeling round her. 
 Seelchen. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep! 
 
 Smiling, she holds out her arms to Felsman. 
 He takes her swaying form. They vanish, 
 encircled by the forms of Sleep. It is dark, 
 save for the light of the thin horned moon 
 suddenly grown bright. Then on his rock, 
 to a faint piping The Goatherd sings: 
 
 "My goat, my little speckled one, 
 My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling, 
 Let moon and wind and golden sun 
 And stars beyond all telling 
 Make, every day, a sweeter grass, 
 And multiply thy leaping! 
 And may the mountain foxes pass 
 And never scent thee sleeping! 
 Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far 9 
 And let me find sweet water! 
 No hawk, nor udder-seeking jar 
 Come near thee, little daughter! 
 May fiery rocks defend, at noon, 
 Thy tender feet from slipping! 
 Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon— 
 Great Master, Goat-God — skipping!" 
 
 There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-God 
 Pan; and with a long wail of the pipe The 
 
sc. iv THE LITTLE DREAM 31 
 
 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 is on me. 
 Felsman. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I 
 too dull? 
 
 Seelchen. I do not regret. 
 
 The Youth of The Wine Horn is seen sud- 
 denly standing opposite the motionless Shep- 
 herd of The Cow Horn; and his mandolin 
 twangs out. 
 Felsman. The cursed music of the Town! Is it 
 back to him thou wilt go? [Groping for sight of the 
 hated figure] I cannot see. 
 
32 THE LITTLE DREAM S c iv 
 
 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's pipe, The Cow 
 Horn stretches forth his hand to her. The 
 mandolin twangs out, and The Wine Horn 
 holds out his hand. She stands unmoving. 
 Seelchen. Companions, I must go. In a moment 
 it will be dawn. 
 
 In silence The Cow Horn and The Wine 
 Horn cover their faces. The false dawn dies. 
 It falls quite dark. 
 
SCENE V 
 
 Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of 
 The Great Horn, and streams forth on Seelchen. 
 To either 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 flame, thou restless fever 
 Burning all things, regretting none; 
 The winds of fate are stilled for ever — 
 Thy little generous life is done, 
 And all its wistful wanderings cease! 
 Thou traveller to the tideless sea, 
 Where light and dark, and change and peace, 
 Are One— Come, little soul, to Mystery! 
 Seelchen, falling on her knees, bows her head 
 to the ground. The glow slowly fades till the 
 scene is black. 
 
 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 be- 
 side 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 ! 
 
 Through the open door, the first flush of dawn 
 shows in the sky. There is a sound of goat- 
 bells passing. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
JUSTICE 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
PERSONS OF THE PLAY 
 
 James How ) 7 . ., 
 
 „ T , . > solicitors 
 
 Walter How, his son ) 
 
 Robert Cokeson, their managing clerk 
 
 William Falder, their junior clerk 
 
 Sweedle, 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 
 
 Moaney \ 
 
 Clipton > convicts 
 
 O 'Clear y / 
 
 Ruth Honeywill, a woman 
 
 A Number of Barristers, Solicitors, Spectators, 
 
 Ushers, Reporters, Jurymen, Warders, and 
 
 Prisoners 
 
 TIME: The Present. 
 
 ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. 
 
 July. 
 ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. 
 
 ACT HI. A prison. December. 
 
 SCENE I. The Governor's office. 
 SCENE II. A corridor. 
 SCENE III. A cell. 
 
 ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. 
 March, two years later. 
 
CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION 
 
 AT THE 
 
 DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 
 
 James How 
 
 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 
 
 Mr. Sydney Valentine 
 Mr. Charles Maude 
 Mr. Edmund Gwenn 
 Mr. Dennis Eadie 
 Mr. George Hersee 
 Mr. Leslie Carter 
 Mr. C. E. Vernon 
 Mr. Dion Boucicault 
 Mr. Oscar Adye 
 Mr. Charles Bryant 
 Mr. Grendon Bentley 
 Mr. Hubert Harben 
 Mr. Lewis Casson 
 Mr. Frederick Lloyd 
 Mr. Robert Pateman 
 Mr. O. P. Heggie 
 Mr. Whitford Kane 
 Miss Edyth Olive 
 
ACT I 
 
 The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of 
 James and Walter How, on a July morning. 
 The room is old-fashioned, furnished with well-worn 
 mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and 
 estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them 
 are close together in the centre of a wall. One of 
 these two doors leads to the outer office, which is 
 only divided from the managing clerk's room by a 
 partition of wood and clear glass; and when the 
 door into this outer office is opened there can be 
 seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone 
 stairway of the building. The other of these two 
 centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The 
 third door is that leading to the partners room. 
 
 The managing clerk, Cokeson, is sitting at his table 
 adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring 
 their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, 
 wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, 
 and an honest, pug-dog face. He is dressed in a 
 well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt 
 trousers. 
 
 Cokeson. And five's twelve, and three— fifteen, 
 nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one— and carry 
 
 1 
 
2 JUSTICE act i 
 
 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. [With grumpy expectation] And carry 
 one. 
 
 Sweedle. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. 
 Cokeson. 
 
 Cokeson. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty- 
 nine — and carry two. Sent him to Morris's. What 
 name? 
 
 Sweedle. Honeywill. 
 
 Cokeson. What's his business? 
 
 Sweedle. It's a woman. 
 
 Cokeson. A lady ? 
 
 Sweedle. No, a person. 
 
 Cokeson. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to 
 Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book. 
 
 Sweedle. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, 
 please ? 
 
 Ruth Honeywill comes in. She is a tall 
 woman, twenty -six years old, unpreten- 
 tiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, 
 and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She 
 stands very still, having a natural dignity of 
 pose and gesture. 
 
*cr i JUSTICE 3 
 
 Sweedle goes out into the partners* room, with 
 the pass-book. 
 
 Cokesox. [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 narroics her dark eyes and gives him a 
 honeyed look. 
 
 Cokesox. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. 
 Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never 
 do! 
 
 Ruth. No, sir. 
 
 Cokesox. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here 
 you are wanting to see a junior clerk! 
 
 Ruth. Yes, sir; I must see him. 
 
 Cokesox. [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. 
 
 Cokesox. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? 
 
 Ruth. No, sir. 
 
 Cokesox. [In real embarrassment] I don't know 
 what to saw It's no affair of the office. 
 
 Ruth. But what am I to do ? 
 
 Cokesox. Dear me! I can't tell you that. 
 
4 JUSTICE act i 
 
 Sweedle comes back. He crosses to the outer 
 office and passes through into it, with a 
 quizzical look at Cokeson, carefully leaving 
 the door an inch or two open. 
 
 Cokeson. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, 
 you know, 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! 
 
 Sweedle. Here is Falder. 
 
 Falder has entered through the outer office. 
 He is a pale, good-looking young man, 
 with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves 
 towards the door of the clerks' office, and 
 stands there irresolute. 
 
 Cokeson. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not 
 regular. 
 
 Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into 
 the partners' room. 
 
act i JUSTICE 5 
 
 Ruth. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink 
 again, Will. He tried to cut my 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 icith tragic intensity] 
 Ruth! 
 
 Ruth. You're not afraid of going, are you ? 
 
 Falder. Have you got your things, and the chil- 
 dren's ? 
 
 Ruth. Had to leave them, for fear of waking 
 Honeywill, 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. [As 
 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 is too late. Here's seven pounds. 
 Booking office— 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what 
 you are to me, Ruth ! 
 
6 JUSTICE act i 
 
 Ruth. Kiss me! 
 
 They cling together passionately, then fly apart 
 just as Cokeson re-enters the room. Ruth 
 turns and goes out through the outer office. 
 Cokeson advances deliberately to his chair 
 and seats himself. 
 Cokeson. This isn't right, Falder. 
 Falder. It shan't occur again, sir. 
 Cokeson. It's an improper use of these premises. 
 Falder. Yes, sir. 
 
 Cokeson. You quite understand — the party was 
 in some distress; and, having children with her, I 
 allowed my feelings [He opens a drawer and pro- 
 duces 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. Walter 
 comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis 
 had in hand before he left ? 
 
 Falder. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir — 
 for good. 
 
 Cokeson. It's over a week since Davis went. Now 
 it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work 
 for private life. I shan'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 heady 
 and is just settling down to write, when 
 
act i JUSTICE 7 
 
 Walter How comes in through the outer 
 office. He is a rather refined-looking man 
 of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apolo- 
 getic voice. 
 
 Walter. Good-morning, Cokeson. 
 
 Cokeson. Morning, Mr. Walter. 
 
 Walter. My father here ? 
 
 Cokeson. [Always with 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 were 
 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 of 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. 
 
 As he speaks James How comes in from the 
 partners* room. He is a shortish man, with 
 white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair y 
 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 in- 
 structions. [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. 
 James. Tick the pounds in the counterfoils. Five, 
 fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, 
 eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. Tally ? 
 
 Walter. [Nodding] Can't understand. Made sure 
 it was over four hundred. 
 
 James. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the 
 
act i JUSTICE 9 
 
 cheque-book and cons the counterfoils] What's this 
 ninety ? 
 
 Walter. W r ho 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 brought it 
 
10 JUSTICE act i 
 
 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 pass-book from 
 Walter. 
 
 Walter. Afraid not. 
 
 Cokeson. [Having seen for himself] It's funny. 
 
 James. You gave it to Davis, and Davis sailed for 
 Australia 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 deliberate 
 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 ? 
 
A.CT 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 
 Cokeson, who is disconsolately rubbing the 
 knees of his trousers. 
 
 James. Well, Cokeson! There's something in char- 
 acter, 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-es! [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. [Confide?itially] 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 minute. 
 
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 loiv 
 voice] She's popped up again, sir — something she 
 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. [As 
 if it were a liver] Seemed in perfect order. 
 
act i JUSTICE 13 
 
 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 jolly 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 will do it. 
 
 Cowley. I should remember the person's face — 
 quite a youth. 
 
 Cokeson. I don't think we shall be able to show 
 him to you, as 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. Cokeson, 
 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 Falder's name, to say nothing of yours. 
 
 Cokeson. [With some dignity] That'll look after 
 
14 JUSTICE act i 
 
 itself, sir. He's been upset once this morning; I 
 don't want him startled again. 
 
 James. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon 
 niceness over a thing like this — too serious. Just 
 talk to Mr. Cowley. 
 
 He opens the door of Falder's room. 
 James. Bring in the papers in Boulter's lease, will 
 you, Falder? 
 
 Cokeson. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs ? 
 The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does 
 not answer. 
 Cokeson. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog 
 pup you could spare me, I suppose ? 
 
 At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, 
 and he turns to see Falder standing in the 
 doorway, with his eyes fixed on Cowley, 
 like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a 
 snake. 
 Falder. [Advancing with the papers] Here they 
 are, sir! 
 
 James. [Taking them] Thank you. 
 Falder. Do you want me, sir ? 
 James. No, thanks! 
 
 Falder turns and goes back into his own 
 room. As he shuts the door James gives the 
 cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier 
 nods. 
 James. Sure ? This isn't as we suspected. 
 Cowley. Quite. He knew me. I suppose he can't 
 slip out of that room ? 
 
Acrl JUSTICE 15 
 
 Cokeson. [Gloomily] There's only the window— a 
 whole floor and a basement. 
 
 The door of Falder's room is quietly opened, 
 and Falder, with his hat in his hand, moves 
 towards the door of the outer office. 
 
 James. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder? 
 Falder. To have my lunch, sir. 
 James. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want 
 to speak to you 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 puts 
 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 aits down in his chair, as though 
 it were the only place left in the morass of his 
 feelings. 
 W T alter. 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 Fal- 
 der's door; hoarsely] Step in here a minute. 
 
 Falder comes in. 
 
 Falder. [Impassively] Ye9, 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 to 
 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 because 
 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, who has come close to his father, says 
 something to him in a low voice. 
 
 James. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, 
 was he ? 
 
 Cokeson. [Anxious to be of assistance to the young 
 man, and 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? 
 
 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 swift imploring look, goes back 
 into his room. There is silence. 
 
 James. About as bad a case as there could be. 
 
 Cokeson. To break the law like that — in here! 
 
 Walter. What's to be done ? 
 
 James. Nothing for it. Prosecute. 
 
 Walter. It's his first offence. 
 
 James. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of 
 that. Too neat a piece of swindling altogether. 
 
 Cokeson. I shouldn't be surprised if he was 
 tempted. 
 
 James. Life's one long temptation, Cokeson. 
 
 Cokeson. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh 
 
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 mast 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 is. 
 
 James. Equally out of the question to send him 
 out amongst people who've no knowledge of his char- 
 acter. 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! We 
 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'U 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 ex- 
 cuse 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, sir. 
 
 Cokeson. Put it down! 
 
 While Sweedle is putting it down on Coke- 
 son's table, the detective, Wister, enters the 
 outer office, and, finding no one there, comes 
 to the inner doorway. He is a square f 
 medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a ser- 
 viceable blue serge suit and strong boots. 
 
22 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. 
 
 James motions with his hand. At that sign of 
 hardness, Falder becomes rigid. Then, 
 turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's 
 grip. Jam*es follows, stiff and erect. Swee- 
 dle, 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 ? 
 
ACT I 
 
 JUSTICE 23 
 
 There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief 
 and mops the sweat from his face. Going 
 back blindly to his table, sits down, and 
 stares blankly at his lunch. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
ACT II 
 
 1 Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon- 
 crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, 
 and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is 
 Falder, with a warder on either side of him, placed 
 there for 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 Crown, is a dried, yellowish 
 man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost 
 to the colour of his face. Hector Frome, the 
 counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean- 
 shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, 
 having already given their evidence, are James and 
 Walter How, and Cowley, the cashier. Wister, 
 the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. 
 
 Cleaver. That is the case for the Crown, me lud! 
 
 Gathering his robes together, he sits down. 
 
 Frome. [Rising and bowing to the Judge] If it please 
 
 your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not 
 
 going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered 
 
 25 
 
26 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT II 
 
 this cheque, but I am going to put before 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 27 
 
 Judge. Very well. 
 
 Frome. In these circumstances, what alternatives 
 were left to her? She could either go on living with 
 this drunkard, in terror of 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 protection from the 
 violence of such a man; and even ti 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 without 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 were con- 
 stantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse 
 
28 JUSTICE 
 
 act n 
 
 for another, and those who are never likely to be 
 faced by such a situation possibly have the right to 
 hold up their hands — as 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 cir- 
 cumstances 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 irresponsi- 
 bility — 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 is summoned into court, and goes into 
 the witness-box, holding his hat before him. 
 The oath is administered to him. 
 
 Frome. What is your name ? 
 
 Cokeson. Robert Cokeson. 
 
 Frome. Are you managing clerk to the firm of 
 solicitors who employ the prisoner? 
 
 Cokeson. Ye-es. 
 
 Frome. How long had the prisoner been in their 
 employ ? 
 
act ii JUSTICE 29 
 
 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 
 little 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 his 
 honesty ? 
 
 Cokeson. No! To have dishonesty in our office, 
 that'd never do. 
 
 Frome. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, 
 Mr. Cokeson. 
 
 Cokeson. Every man of business knows that 
 honesty's the sign 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 of 
 July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. 
 What have you to say about his demeanour that 
 morning ? 
 
30 JUSTICE act ii 
 
 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 >s — he was jumpy 
 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 ? 
 
 Cokeson. I did. 
 
 Frome. What was that ? 
 
 Cokeson. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like 
 a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your 
 collar's unbuttoned." 
 
ACT n 
 
 JUSTICE 31 
 
 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 oc- 
 casion ? 
 
 Cokeson. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to 
 trouble them about 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 his hand to his ear] I'm a little 
 deaf. 
 
 Frome. W T as there anything in the course of that 
 morning — I mean before the discovery — that caught 
 your attention ? 
 
 Cokeson. Ye-es — a woman. 
 
32 JUSTICE act ii 
 
 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 Judge. What are ? What were ? 
 
 Cokeson. Her children. They were outside. 
 
 The Judge. How do you know ? 
 
 Cokeson. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I 
 
acth JUSTICE 33 
 
 shall have to tell you what I was told— and that'd 
 
 never do. 
 
 The Judge. [Smiting] The office-boy made a state- 
 ment. 
 
 Cokeson. Egg-zactly. 
 
 Frome. 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 remem- 
 
 ber? 
 
 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 
 
 said that ? 
 
 Cokeson. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you 
 
 like to have said to you. 
 
 Frome. [.4 little impatiently] Did Falder come in 
 while she was there? [Cokeson nods] And she saw 
 him, and went away ? 
 
 Cokeson. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't 
 
 see her go. 
 
 Frome. Well, is she there now ? 
 Cokeson. [With an indulgent smile] No! 
 Frome. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down. 
 Cleaver. [Rising] You say that on the morning of 
 
34 JUSTICE act n 
 
 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 you 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, who has opened his 
 mouth to reply, is left gaping. 
 
 Frome. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him 
 in that dishevelled state before ? 
 
act ii JUSTICE 35 
 
 Cokeson. No! He was always clean and quiet. 
 
 Frome. That will do, thank you. 
 
 Cokeson turns blandly to the Judge, as though 
 to rebuke counsel for not remembering that 
 the Judge might icish to have a chance; 
 arriving at the conclusion that he is to be 
 asked nothing further, he turns and descends 
 from the box, and sits down next to James 
 and Walter. 
 
 Frome. Ruth Honeywill. 
 
 Ruth comes into court, and takes her stand 
 stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn. 
 Frome. What is your name, please ? 
 Ruth. Ruth Honeywill. 
 Frome. How old are you ? 
 Ruth. Twenty-six. 
 
 Frome. You are a married woman, living with your 
 husband ? A 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, sir. 
 
 Frome. You know the prisoner? 
 
 Ruth. [Looking at him] Yes. 
 
 Frome. What was the nature of your relations with 
 
 him? 
 
 Ruth. We were friends. 
 The Judge. Friends ? 
 
36 JUSTICE act ii 
 
 Ruth. [Simply] Lovers, sir. 
 
 The Judge. [Sharply] In what sense do you use 
 that word ? 
 
 Ruth. We love each other. 
 
 The Judge. Yes, but 
 
 Ruth. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship — not 
 yet. 
 
 The Judge. Not yet! H'm! [He looks from Ruth 
 to Falder] Well! 
 
 Frome. What is your husband ? 
 
 Ruth. Traveller. 
 
 Frome. And what was the nature of your married 
 life? 
 
 Ruth. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking 
 about. 
 
 Frome. Did he ill-treat you, or what ? 
 
 Ruth. Ever since my first was born. 
 
 Frome. In what way? 
 
 Ruth. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways. 
 
 The Judge. I am afraid I must stop this, you know. 
 
 Ruth. [Pointing to Falder] He offered to take me 
 out of it, sir. We were going to South America. 
 
 Frome. [Hastily] Yes, quite — and what prevented 
 you? 
 
 Ruth. I was outside his office when he was taken 
 away. It nearly broke my heart. 
 
 Frome. You knew, then, that he had been arrested ? 
 
 Ruth. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, 
 and [pointing to Cokeson] that gentleman told me all 
 about it. 
 
act ii JUSTICE 37 
 
 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 hap- 
 pened? 
 
 Ruth. Yes. I wish I never had. 
 
 Frome. It upset him ? 
 
 Ruth. Dreadfully. 
 
 Frome. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque? 
 
 Ruth. Never. 
 
 Frome. Did he ever give you any money? 
 
 Ruth. Yes. 
 
 Frome. When was that? 
 Ruth. On Saturday. 
 Frome. The 8th? 
 
38 JUSTICE act n 
 
 Ruth. To buy an outfit for me and the children, 
 and get all ready to start. 
 
 Frome. Did that surprise you, or not ? 
 
 Ruth. What, sir? 
 
 Frome. That he had money to give you. 
 
 Ruth. Yes, because on the morning when my 
 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. 
 
 Frome. 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. 
 
 Frome. As if something unusual had happened to 
 him? 
 
 Ruth. Yes. 
 
 Frome. Painful, or pleasant, or what ? 
 
 Ruth. Like a fate hanging over him. 
 
 Frome. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the pris- 
 oner very much ? 
 
 Ruth. [Bowing her head] Yes. 
 
 Frome. And had he a very great affection for you ? 
 
 Ruth. [Looking at Falder] Yes, sir. 
 
 Frome. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think 
 that your danger and unhappiness would seriously 
 affect his balance, his control over his actions ? 
 
act ii JUSTICE 39 
 
 Ruth. Yes. 
 
 Frome. His reason, even ? 
 
 Ruth. For a moment like, I think it would. 
 
 Feome. Was he very much upset that Friday morn- 
 ing, 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 witness-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 ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Ruth. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied 
 him to keep things nice. 
 
 The Judge. Until you met the prisoner — was 
 that it ? 
 
40 JUSTICE acth 
 
 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] I — I do. It's the only thing in 
 my life now. 
 
 The Judge. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, 
 please. 
 
 Ruth looks at Falder, then passes quietly 
 down and takes her seat among the witnesses. 
 
 Frome. I call the prisoner, my lord. 
 
 Falder leaves the dock; goes into the witness- 
 box, and is duly sworn. 
 
 Frome. What is your name ? 
 
 Falder. William Falder. 
 
 Frome. And age? 
 
 Falder. Twenty-three. 
 
 Frome. You are not married ? 
 
 Falder shakes his head. 
 
 Frome. How long have you known the last witness ? 
 
 Falder. Six months. 
 
 Frome. Is her account of the relationship between 
 you a correct one? 
 
 Falder. Yes. 
 
 Frome. You became devotedly attached to her, 
 however ? 
 
 Falder. Yes. 
 
 The Judge. Though you knew she was a married 
 woman ? 
 
 Falder. I couldn't help it, your lordship. 
 
 The Judge. Couldn't help it ? 
 
Acrn JUSTICE 41 
 
 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 bows 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 and 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 you'd seen it, 
 having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt 
 the same, I know. 
 
 Frome. 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 
 
42 JUSTICE act ii 
 
 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 thinking 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. 
 
 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? 
 
ACT II 
 
 JUSTICE 43 
 
 Falder. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, be- 
 cause 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 sits doicn, 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 
 t y and the nought were so like the rest of the hand- 
 writing as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? 
 
 Falder. It was an accident. 
 
 Cleaver. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't 
 it ? On which day did you alter the counterfoil ? 
 
 Falder. [Hanging his head] On the ^Yednesday 
 morning. 
 
 Cleaver. Was that an accident too ? 
 
 Falder. [Faintly] No. 
 
 Cleaver. To do that you had to watch your oppor- 
 tunity, I suppose ? 
 
44 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT II 
 
 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 
 just 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
act ii JUSTICE 45 
 
 Frome. 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 low] No, my lord. I had no means 
 of knowing. 
 
 The Judge. That disposes of your point, Mr. 
 Frome. 
 
 [Frome botes 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. 
 
 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. 
 
46 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT II 
 
 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 back to 
 his seat in the dock. 
 
 Frome. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship 
 — Gentlemen of the Jury, — My friend in cross-examina- 
 tion 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 evi- 
 dence has not already convinced you that the prisoner 
 
JUSTICE 47 
 
 committed this act in a moment when to all practical 
 intents and purposes he was not responsible 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 
 palpitating life which, believe me-whatever my friend 
 may say-always lies behind the commission of a crime. 
 Now gentlemen, we live in a highly civilized 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 thmk 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 at- 
 tached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a 
 strong face ; but neither has he a vicious 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 
 
48 JUSTICE act ii 
 
 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. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man 
 could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped 
 with truth. You have seen the great affection (legiti- 
 mate 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 such distress can make in 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 impossibility of chang- 
 ing 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 
 
ACT II 
 
 JUSTICE 49 
 
 door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never 
 again quite lets a man go — the 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 com- 
 mitted the prime act from which these subsequent acts 
 arose; no — they are merely evidence of the weak char- 
 acter 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 criminal type, he will, as all experi- 
 ence 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 itself. Is this young man to be 
 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 irre- 
 trievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved 
 now. Imprison bim as a criminal, and I affirm to you 
 
50 JUSTICE Acrn 
 
 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 
 
 Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a 
 
 spot that seems to give him satisfaction, 
 
 slides them every now and then towards 
 
 the jury. 
 
 Cleaver. 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 alternative would 
 
 have been to plead guilty. Now, gentlemen, if the 
 
act ii JUSTICE 51 
 
 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 
 t his— er— peculiar plea, which has enabled him to 
 show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box- 
 to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. I com- 
 pliment 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 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 mo- 
 ment 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, gen- 
 tlemen, 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 
 obviouslv, therefore, was not mad when he received it, 
 
52 JUSTICE act n 
 
 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 your own 
 opinion of its value. My friend has adopted this way 
 of saying a great deal to you — and very eloquently — 
 on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. I 
 might point out, however, that the offence with which the 
 prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to 
 our law; 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, unfortu- 
 nately, bound to record. 
 
 Letting his eyes travel from the Judge and 
 the jury to Frome, he sits doivn. 
 The Judge. [Bending a little towards the jury, and 
 speaking in a business-like voice] Gentlemen, you 
 have 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 pris- 
 
act ii JUSTICE 53 
 
 oner. The defence set up is that he was not in a re- 
 sponsible 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. In reviewing the testimony as 
 to his mental condition you must bear in mind very 
 carefully the evidence 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 premeditation 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 of 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 that the jury are doubtful whether to retire 
 
54 JUSTICE act ii 
 
 or no, adds:] You may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to 
 do so. 
 
 The jury retire by a door behind the Judge. 
 The Judge bends over his notes. Falder, 
 leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his 
 solicitor, pointing down at Ruth. The so- 
 licitor 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 of these 
 proceedings. Your lordship will understand 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, 
 
ACT II 
 
 JUSTICE 55 
 
 who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on 
 Falder] I'll consider your application. It must de- 
 pend. 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. 
 As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and 
 file back into the box. 
 
 Clerk of Assize. Gentlemen, are you agreed on 
 your verdict ? 
 
 Foreman. We are. 
 
 Clerk of Assize. Is it Guilty, or Guilty but 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, 
 
56 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT II 
 
 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, consulting 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 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 indictment of the march of Justice, which he prac- 
 tically 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 deterring others from follow- 
 ing your example. On the other hand, I have to bear 
 in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto 
 
ACT II 
 
 JUSTICE 57 
 
 borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe 
 your evidence and 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 
 determining factors 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; there can be no 
 possible excuse 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 ef- 
 fect 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, how- 
 ever I might wish, I am not able to justify to my con- 
 science a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to 
 
58 JUSTICE act n 
 
 morality. It is vitiated ab initio, and would, if success- 
 ful, free you for the completion of this immoral 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 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 pow- 
 ers I have in your favour. You will go to penal servi- 
 tude for three years. 
 
 Falder, who throughout the Judge's speech 
 
 has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall 
 
 forward on his breast. Ruth starts up 
 
 from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. 
 
 There is a bustle in court. 
 
 The Judge. [Speaking to the reporters] Gentlemen 
 
 of the Press, I think that the name of the female witness 
 
 should not be reported. 
 
 The reporters bote their acquiescence. 
 The Judge. [ToHuTH,ivho 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. 
 
act n JUSTICE 59 
 
 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 
 
 i prison. A plainly furnished room, with two large 
 barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise 
 yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with 
 arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single 
 fie at a distance of four yards from each other, 
 walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked 
 on the concrete floor of the yard. Two warders m 
 blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are 
 stationed amongst them. The room has distempered 
 walls, a bookcase wiih numerous official-looking 
 books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of 
 the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with 
 documents. It is Christmas Eve. 
 
 The Governor, a neat, grave-looking man, wiih a trim, 
 fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled 
 hair, receding from the temples, is standing close 
 to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw 
 made out of a piece of metal The hand in which 
 he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. 
 The chief warder, Wooder, a tall, thin, military- 
 61 
 
62 JUSTICE act in 
 
 looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and 
 melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright 
 two paces from him. 
 
 The Governor. [With a faint, abstracted smile] 
 Queer-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 
 when there's one of these tries at escape going on. 
 
bo. i JUSTICE 63 
 
 It makes them restive — there's a regular 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 
 like 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, 
 with a pecidiarly steady, tight-lipped face 
 and sloio, cultured speech. 
 The Governor. [Holding up the saw] Seen this, 
 Miller? 
 The Chaplain. Useful-looking specimen. 
 The Governor. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes 
 to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number 
 of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on 
 them] That'll do, thanks, Mr. Wooder. 
 
 Wooder. [Saluting] Thank you, sir. [He goes out. 
 The Governor. Account for the state of the men 
 last day or two, Miller? Seems going through the 
 whole place. 
 
 The Chaplain. No. I don't know of anything. 
 The Governor. By the way, will you dine with 
 us on Christmas Day? 
 
 The Chaplain. To-morrow. Thanks very much. 
 
64 JUSTICE act in 
 
 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 muoh 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 law. 
 
 The Governor. [Receiving the card — with a faint 
 smile] What do you want to see me about, sir ? 
 
sc. i JUSTICE 65 
 
 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. 
 "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. 
 
 The Governor. [With faint amusement] Ring the 
 bell — would you, Miller? [To Cokeson] You'd 
 like to hear what the doctor says about him, per- 
 haps. 
 
66 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT III 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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-il-fo. 
 It's a sad story. 
 
 The Chaplain. If it wasn't for drink and women, 
 sir, this prison might be closed. 
 
 Cokeson. [Looking at the Chaplain over his spec- 
 tacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, 
 special. He had hopes they'd have let her come 
 
sc. i JUSTICE 67 
 
 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 con- 
 solation to him. But after a month she came to me— 
 I dont 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 to persuade her not to. 
 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 want 
 things to be pleasant for him. 
 
68 JUSTICE act in 
 
 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 dont 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 of sudden 
 dogged hostility] I keep dogs. 
 
 The Chaplain. Indeed? 
 
 Cokeson. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut 
 one of them up 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 
 have had a little more experience than yourself to know 
 what is best for prisoners. 
 
 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 
 
sc. : JUSTICE 69 
 
 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 is 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 
 them, sir. I am speaking from my special stand- 
 point. 
 
 Cokeson. [Turning beicildered to the Governor] 
 I dont 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. 
 
70 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT III 
 
 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 the tJiree officials do not look at 
 each other t but their faces wear peculiar 
 expressions. 
 
 The Chaplain. Our friend seems to think that 
 prison is a hospital. 
 
 Cokeson. [Returning suddenly with an apologetic air] 
 There's just one little thing. This woman — I sup- 
 pose I mustn't ask you to let him see her. It'd be 
 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 al- 
 lowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict 
 prison. 
 
JUSTICE 71 
 
 Cokeson. I see. [Rather coldly] Sorry to have 
 troubled you. [^ 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 his 
 table and takes up a pen. 
 The curtain falls. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Part of the ground corridor of the prison. The walls 
 are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe 
 of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, 
 and above this line are whitewashed. The floor is 
 of blackened stones. Daylight is filtering through a 
 heavily barred window at the end. The doors of 
 four cells are visible. Each cell door has a little 
 round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered 
 by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords 
 a view of the cell. On the wall, close to each cell 
 door, hangs a little square board with the prisoners 
 name, number, and record. 
 Overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor 
 
 and second-floor corridors. 
 The Warder Instructor, a bearded man in blue 
 uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, 
 is just emerging from one of the cells. 
 
n JUSTICE 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Instructor. [Speaking from the door into the cell] 
 I'll have another bit for you when that's finished. 
 
 O'Cleary. [Unseen — in an Irish voice] Little doubt 
 o' that, sirr. 
 
 Instructor. [Gossiping] Well, you'd rather have 
 it than nothing, I s'pose. 
 
 O'Cleary. An' that's the blessed truth. 
 
 Sounds are heard oj a cell door being closed and 
 locked, and of approaching footsteps. 
 Instructor. [In a sharp, changed voice] Look alive 
 over it! 
 
 He shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. 
 The Governor comes walking down the 
 corridor, followed by Wooder. 
 The Governor. Anything to report ? 
 Instructor. [Saluting] Q 3007 [he points to a 
 cell] is behind with his work, sir. He'll lose marks 
 to-day. 
 
 The Governor nods and' passes on to the end 
 cell. The Instructor goes away. 
 The Governor. Thi^ is our maker of saws, isn't 
 it? 
 
 He takes the saw from his pocket as Wooder 
 throws open the door of the cell. The convict 
 Moaney is seen lying on his bed, athivart 
 the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and 
 stands in the middle of the cell. He is a 
 raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, 
 with outstanding bafs ears and fierce, 
 staring, steel-coloured eyes. 
 
JUSTICE 73 
 
 Wooder. Cap off! [Moaney removes his cap] 
 0ut here! [Moaney comes to the door. 
 
 The Governor. [Beckoning him out into the corri- 
 dor, and holding up the saw-with the manner of an 
 officer speaking to a private] Anything to say about this, 
 my man? [Moaney is sUeni] Come! 
 Moaney. It passed the time. 
 
 The Governor. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough 
 to do, eh? 
 
 Moaney. It don't occupy your mind. 
 The Governor. [Tapping the saw] You might find 
 a better way than this. 
 
 Moaney. [Sullenly] Well! What way? I must 
 keep 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 thai 
 the Governor is listening ivith 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 makm' 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 
 
74 JUSTICE 
 
 act in 
 
 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. 
 The Governor looks after him and shakes 
 his head as Wooder closes and locks the 
 cell door. 
 The Governor. Open Clipton's cell. 
 
 Wooder opens the door of Clipton's cell. 
 Clipton is sitting on a stool just inside the 
 door, at work on a pair of trousers. He is 
 a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost 
 shaven head, and smouldering little dark 
 eyes behind smoked spectacles. He gets up 
 
SC. II 
 
 JUSTICE 15 
 
 and stands motionless in the doorway, 'peer- 
 ing at his visitors. 
 The Governor. [Beckoning] Come out here a min- 
 ute, CHpton. 
 
 Clipton, with a sort of dreadful quietness, 
 comes into the corridor, the needle and thread 
 in his hand. The Governor signs to 
 Wooder, who goes into the cell and inspects 
 it carefully. 
 The Governor. How are your eyes ? 
 Clipton. I don't complain of them. I don't see 
 the 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 
 be 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. 
 
76 JUSTICE act in 
 
 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, 
 who 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- 
 faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, 
 flexible mouth, and little holes under his 
 high cheek-bones. 
 The Governor. Where's the joke, O'Cleary ? 
 O'Cleary. The joke, your honour? I've not seen 
 one for a long time. 
 
 The Governor. Banging on your door ? 
 O'Cleary. Oh! that! 
 The Governor. It's womanish. 
 O'Cleary. An' it's that I'm becoming this two 
 months past. 
 The Governor. Anything to complain of? 
 O'Cleary. No, sirr. 
 
 The Governor. You're an old hand; you ought to 
 know better. 
 
 O'Cleary. Yes, I've been through it all. 
 
JUSTICE 77 
 
 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 
 
 to talk. 
 
 O'Cleary. [With a look of profound meaning] Not 
 
 with my mouth. 
 
 The Governor. Well, then ? 
 
 O'Cleary. But it's the great conversation I'd have. 
 
 The Governor. [With a smile] Well, no more 
 conversation on 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 his 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. 
 
78 JUSTICE act m 
 
 Wooder salutes and goes away 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 opens 
 the cell door. Falder, who is standing 
 against it, lurches forward. 
 The Governor. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: 
 can't you settle down, Falder ? 
 
 Falder. [In a breathless voice] Yes, sir. 
 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 ? 
 
sc. n JUSTICE 79 
 
 Falder. They're used to it. 
 
 The Governor. They all had to go through it 
 once for the first time, just as you're doing now. 
 
 Falder. Yes, sir, I shall get to be like them in 
 time, I suppose. 
 
 The Governor. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! 
 That rests 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 ? 
 
 Falder. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his 
 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 Gover- 
 nor pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and 
 walks towards the window. 
 
80 JUSTICE act in 
 
 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 roy 
 opinion. 
 
 The Governor. [To himself] Queer, that! 
 Wooder. Beg pardon, sir? 
 The Governor. Christmas! 
 
 He turns towards the window, leaving Wooder 
 looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. 
 Wooder. [Suddenly] Do you think we make show 
 enough, sir ? If you'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 
 
sc. in JUSTICE 81 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 closely. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Falder's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad 
 by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded 
 ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. 
 The barred window of opaque glass, ivith a ventila- 
 tor, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the 
 
82 JUSTICE act in 
 
 middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. 
 In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled 
 up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above 
 them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is 
 a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in 
 a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair- 
 brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another 
 corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on 
 end. There is a dark ventilator under the window, 
 and another over the door. Falder's work (a 
 shirt to which he is putting buttonholes) is hung to a 
 nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which 
 the novel " Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down 
 in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about 
 a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. 
 There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes 
 beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under 
 the window. 
 
 In fast-failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen 
 standing motionless, with his head inclined towards 
 the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the 
 door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He 
 stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder 
 to hear something, any little thing that is going on 
 outside. He springs suddenly upright — as if at a 
 sound — and remains perfectly motionless. Then, 
 with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands 
 looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch 
 or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness 
 
sc. in JUSTICE 83 
 
 that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then 
 turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving 
 his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops 
 again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of 
 his hands against it icith his fingers spread out, leans 
 his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, 
 presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, 
 tracing his way with his finger along the top line 
 of the distemper that runs round the wall. He 
 stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of 
 one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very 
 nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand 
 with a clatter — the only sound that has broken the 
 silence — and he stands staring intently at the wall 
 where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white 
 in the darkness — he seems to be seeing somebody or 
 something there. There is a sharp tap and click; 
 the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned 
 up. The cell is brightly lighted. Falder is seen 
 gasping for breath. 
 
 A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on 
 thick metal, is suddenly audible. Falder shrinks 
 back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the 
 sound grows, as though some great tumbril were 
 rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to 
 hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch 
 nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling 
 from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder's 
 hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already 
 
84 JUSTICE act in 
 
 pined in this beating, and the sound sivells till it 
 seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly 
 raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he 
 flings himself at his door, and beats on it. 
 
 The curtain fuics. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 The scene is again Cokeson's room, at a jew minutes to 
 ten of a March morning, two years later. The doors 
 are all open. Sweedle, now blessed with a sprout- 
 ing moustache, is getting the offices ready. He 
 arranges papers on Cokeson's table; then goes to a 
 covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at him- 
 self in tht mirror. While he is gazing his fill 
 Ruth Honeywill comes in through the outer 
 office and stands in the doorway. There seems a 
 hind of exultation and excitement behind her ha- 
 bitual impassivity. 
 
 Sweedle. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the 
 lid of the washstand 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. W hy, 
 it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing 
 you. [Xervously] What have you been doing with 
 yourself ? 
 
 Ruth. [Sardonically] Living. 
 
 Sweedle. [Impressed] If you want to see him 
 [he points to Cokeson's chair], hell be here directly 
 —never misses— not much. [Delicately] I hope our 
 
 85 
 
86 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 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 a chanst. 
 And, / say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. 
 They've forgot what human nature's like. Whereas 
 we know. 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 shakes his 
 head in the plenitude of wisdom] Why, only the other 
 
 day the governor 
 
 But Cokeson has come in through the outer 
 office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly 
 greyer. 
 
 Cokeson. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! 
 it's you! [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 Honeywill, after all. 
 
 Cokeson. You haven't done anything rash, I hope. 
 I should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. 
 
 Ruth. I've kept the children with me. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 87 
 
 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 fierceness] 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 for 
 you. I don't like to be snubby. 
 
 Ruth. I can't bear his being like that. 
 
 Cokeson. [Scanning her not unprosperous figure] I 
 know his relations aren't very forthy about him. Per- 
 haps you can do something for him, till he finds his 
 feet. 
 
 Ruth. Not now. I could have — but not now. 
 
 Cokeson. I don't understand. 
 
 Ruth. [Proudly] I've seen him again — that's all 
 over. 
 
 Cokeson. [Staring at her — disturbed] I'm a family 
 man — I don't want to hear anything unpleasant. 
 Excuse me — I'm very busy. 
 
 Ruth. I'd have gone home to my people in the 
 country long ago, but they've never got over me marry- 
 
88 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 ing 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 shrug] 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. 
 
 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. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 89 
 
 Cokeson. [With fearful curiosity] Why, what hap- 
 pened then ? 
 
 Ruth. [With a laugh] My employer happened 
 then — he's happened ever since. 
 
 Cokeson. Dear! Oh dear! I never came across a 
 thing like this. 
 
 Ruth. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But 
 I've done with that. [Suddenly her lips begin to 
 quiver, and she hides them with the 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! W r hat a horrible position! 
 
 Ruth. If he could only get here — where there's 
 nothing to find out about him! 
 
 Cokeson. We can't have anything derogative to the 
 firm. 
 
 Ruth. I've no one else to go to. 
 
 Cokeson. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't 
 think they'll 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. 
 
 Cokeson. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done 
 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. 
 
90 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 Cokeson. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not 
 sanguine. Now tell him that I don't want him till 
 I see how things are. Leave your address ? [Repeat- 
 ing 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 
 large ivhite cotton handkerchief] What a business! 
 Then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. 
 Sweedle answers it] 
 
 Cokeson. Was that young Richards coming here 
 to-day after the clerk's place ? 
 
 Sweedle. Yes. 
 
 Cokeson. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want 
 to see him yet. 
 
 Sweedle. What shall I tell him, sir? 
 
 Cokeson. [With asperity] Invent something. Use 
 your brains. Don't stump him off altogether. 
 
 Sweedle. Shall I tell him that we've got illness, 
 sir? 
 
 Cokeson. No! Nothing untrue. Say I'm not here 
 to-day. 
 
 Sweedle. Yes, sir. Keep him hankering? 
 
 Cokeson. Exactly. And look here. You remem- 
 ber Falder? I may be having him round to see me. 
 Now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a 
 similar position. 
 
 Sweedle. I naturally should do. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 91 
 
 Cokeson. That's right. When a man's down 
 never hit 'im. 'Tisn't necessary. Give him a hand 
 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 icorn 
 
 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 ivipes his forehead] 
 
 I don't blame her. She's anxious. 
 
 Falder timidly takes Cokeson's hand and 
 glances towards the partners' door. 
 Cokeson. No— not yet! Sit down! [Falder sits 
 in the chair at 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. 
 
92 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 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! 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! 
 
 Falder. I had one small job after that, but it 
 didn't last. 
 
 Cokeson. How was that ? 
 
 Falder. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. 
 The fact is, 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. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 JUSTICE 93 
 
 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 bows his 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. 
 
 Falder. 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 hand, 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." 
 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. 
 
94 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 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. 
 
 Falder. 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] 
 I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you. 
 
 Falder is suddenly still, as if brooding over 
 his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. 
 
 Cokeson. You must give them credit for the best 
 intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you 
 harm, I'm sure. 
 
 Falder. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody 
 wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. 
 
 This feeling [He stares round him, as though at 
 
 something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden 
 impersonality] I know it is. 
 
 Cokeson. [Horribly disturbed] There's nothing there ! 
 
act iv JUSTICE 95 
 
 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, takes 
 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 
 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. 
 
 James. Is that so, Cokeson ? 
 
 Cokeson. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. 
 Now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. 
 There is a young fellow applying, but I'm keeping 
 him in the air. 
 
96 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 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 ser ^itive — quite natural. 
 Seems to fancy everybody's dow 1 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. 
 
 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 ? 
 
act iv JUSTICE 97 
 
 COKESON. 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. 
 
 Walter. [To James, in a low voice, while Cokeson 
 is summoning Falder] His whole future may depend 
 on what we do, dad. 
 
 Falder comes in. He has pidled 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 
 
98 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 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 sooner 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 sure 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, sir, so I found. 
 
 James. My good fellow, don't forget that you be- 
 gan it. 
 
 Falder. I never wanted to do wrong. 
 
 James. Perhaps not. But you did. 
 
 Falder. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] 
 It's 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 inten- 
 sity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. 
 
 James. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, 
 and look to the future. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 JUSTICE 99 
 
 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 no 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. 
 
 During this and what follows Cokeson be- 
 comes 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 stiffens 
 himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! 
 
100 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 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! 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 sure. 
 
 Cokeson. [Breaking in, as Walter hesitates, and is 
 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 down into the 
 street. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 101 
 
 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. 
 
 Cokeson. [In a low fluster to James and Walter] 
 No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she 
 ought to ha' been, while this 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 
 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. Honey will. [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- 
 son turns to his table, bending over his 
 
102 JUSTICE 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 papers as though the burden of the situation 
 were forcing him back into his accustomed 
 groove. 
 James. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [Sweedle 
 shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because 
 there are certain facts to 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. 
 
 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. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 103 
 
 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 look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Cokesox. [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. [.4 little huskily] That's right, that's 
 right ! 
 
 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. [He 
 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 
 
104 JUSTICE ACT IV 
 
 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' 1 room and moves tow- 
 ards 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 9 room. 
 With a brusque movement he follows, seiz- 
 ing her by the shoulder just inside the door- 
 way. Cokeson shuts the door. 
 James. [Pointing to the outer office] Get rid of that, 
 whoever it is. 
 
 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. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 105 
 
 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. 
 
 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 vou want him you must find him without us. 
 
 As he speaks his eye falls on Falder's cap, 
 
 still lying on the table, and his face contracts. 
 
 Wister. [Noting the gesture— quietly] Very good, 
 
 sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the 
 
 terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering 
 
 a convict 
 
106 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 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 clerics* door. Ruth's voice 
 is heard: "Oh, do!" and Falder's: "J 
 can't!" There is a little pause; then, with 
 sharp fright, Ruth says: "Who's that?" 
 Wister has gone in. 
 
 The three men look aghast at the door. 
 Wister. [From within] Keep back, please! 
 
 He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted 
 in Falder's. The latter gives a white, 
 staring look at the three men. 
 
 Walter. Let him go this time, for God's sake! 
 Wister. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. 
 Falder. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! 
 
 Flinging a look back at Ruth, he throws up his 
 head, and goes out through the outer office, 
 half dragging Wister after him. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 107 
 
 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 
 
 descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull 
 
 thud, a faint "My God!" in Wistbb's voice. 
 
 James. What's that ? 
 
 Sweedle dashes forward. The door swings 
 to behind him. There is dead silence. 
 W t alter. [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 has 
 
 dragged forward. 
 
 Cokeson. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong 
 
 sherry. [They try to force the sherry between her lips. 
 
 There is the sound of feet, and they scop 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 hushed voices. 
 
108 JUSTICE act iv 
 
 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 outerofpce] An ambulance! 
 Wister goes out. On Ruth's face an expres- 
 sion of fear and horror has been seen grow- 
 ing, as if she dared not turn towards the 
 voices. She now rises and steals towards 
 them. 
 
 Walter. [Turning suddenly] Look! 
 
 The three men shrink back out of her way, one 
 by one, into Cokeson's room. Ruth drops 
 on her knees by the body. 
 
 Ruth. [In a whisper] What is it ? He's not breath- 
 ing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! 
 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. 
 
act iv JUSTICE 109 
 
 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 
 would to a lost dog. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
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 (J6057sl0)476 — A-32 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
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 Ml 1454 9 
 
 Ser. 2. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY